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MRS. BARNARD PIERCE
MRS. CARL HAESSLER
MRS. HOWARD LUCE







GEORGE BELL & SONS.
New Edition, with a New Biographical Supplement of upwards
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WEBSTER'S COMPLETE DICTIONTARY
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Ä have brought it to its present con- C. H. WHEELER. Containing:–1. A. List
dition. S ------ -- 4.- T....sº “- «
- s S. s & of Prefixes, Terminations, and Formative
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names referring to the Angelology and De- Containing all Words, Phrases, Proverbs,
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B0HN'S STANDARD LIBRARY.
SCHLEGELS DRAMATIC LITERATURE.
“ Were I to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under
every variety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerful-
ness to me during life, and a shield against its ills, however things might
go amiss and the world frown upon me, it would be a taste for reading........
Give a man this taste, and the means of gratifying it, and you can hardly
fail of making him a happy man; unless, indeed, you put into his hands a
most perverse selection of books. You place him in contact with the best
society in every period of history,–with the wisest, the wittiest, the ten-
derest, the bravest, and the purest characters who have adorned humanity.
You make him a denizen of all nations, a contemporary of all ages. The
world has been created for him.”–SIR JoHN HERscHEL. Address on
the opening of the Eton Library, 1833.
. . .ae）（ *-*=- - ~~


LECTURES
ON
DRAMATIC ART AND LITERATURE,
BY
AUGUST wILHELM SCHLEGEL.
-smsmem-ºn-a-m-a
TRANSLATED
BY JOHN BLACK, EsQ.
LATE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLLE.
REVISED, ACCORDING TO THE LAST GERMAN EDITION,
By THE REV? A. J. W. MORRISON, M.A.
LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1883.

LONDON -
FRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

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C O N T EN T S.
PAGF.
Preface of the Translator ü . . . I.
Author's Preface ……..…..…..……...... . 4.
Memoir of the Life of Augustus William Schlegel................................ 7
LECTURE I.
Introduction–Spirit of True Criticism–Difference of Taste between
the Ancients and Moderns–Classical and Romantic Poetry and
Art–Division of Dramatic Literature; the Ancients, their Imita-
tors, and the Romantic Poets.........
LECTURE II.
Definition of the Drama-View of the Theatres of all Nations–The-
atrical Effect-Importance of the Stage-Principal Species of the
Drama º B s d | º | S & B s sº º s & s s sº
LECTURE III.
Essence of Tragedy and Comedy-Earnestness and Sport–How far
it is possible to become acquainted with the Ancients without
knowing Original Languages–Winkelmann .
LECTURE IV.
Structure of the Stage among the Greeks–Their Acting–Use of
Masks–False comparison of Ancient Tragedy to the Opera-Tra-
gical Lyric Poetry.…............. A . .
LECTURE V.
Essence of the Greek Tragedies–Ideality of the Representation–
Idea of Fate–Source of the Pleasure derived from Tragical Repre-
sentations–Import of the Chorus–The materials of Greek Tragedy
derived from Mythology–Comparison with the Plastic Arts ....….
LECTURE VI.
Progress of the Tragic Artamong the Greeks–Various styles of Tragic
Art–AEschylus–Connexion in a Trilogy of AEschylus–His re-
maining Works..................... d .
LECTURE VII.
Life and Political Character of Sophocles–Character of his different
Tragedies ……….………...…………… W K 9 d & dºk
17
39
43
52
66
78
96
F1 CONTENTS.
PA GE
LECTURE VIII.
Euripides – His Merits and Defects – Decline of Tragic Poetry
ºrough him……….…..……. 1 1 1
LECTURE IX.
Comparison between the Choephorae of AEschylus, the Electra of
Sophocles, and that of Euripides ................ sº s
LECTURE X.
Character of the remaining Works of Euripides – The Satirical
Drama-Alexandrian Tragic Poets …..............…...............….............
UECTURE XI.
The Old Comedy proved to be completely a contrast to Tragedy–
Parody – Ideality of Comedy the reverse of that of Tragedy–
Mirthful Caprice – Allegoric and Political Signification – The
Chorus and its Parabases a B & M º
LECTURE XI.
Aristophanes–His Character as an Artist–Description and Character
of his remaining Works–A Scene, translated from the Acharnae,
by way of Appendix.……...........…..…….
LECTURE XIII.
Whether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species–Origin of the
New Comedy – A mixed species–Its prosaic character –Whe-
ther versification is essential to Comedy-Subordinate kinds –
Pieces of Character, and of Intrigue–The Comic of observation,
of self-consciousness, and arbitrary Comic-Morality of Comedy
LECTURE XIV.
Plautus and Terence as Imitators of the Greeks, here examined and
characterized in the absence of the Originals they copied–Motives
of the Athenian Comedy from Manners and Society–Portrait-Sta-
tues of two Comedians.…..…..………..……….....…..……...…...:::::::::::
LECTURE XV.
Roman Theatre-Native kinds: Atellane Fables, Mimes, Comoedia
Togata-Greek Tragedytransplanted to Rome–Tragic Authors of a
former Epoch, and of the Augustan Age–Idea of a National Roman
Tragedy–Causes of the want of success of the Romans in Tragedy
–Seneca .......... * * * es - da es s* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * es sº es s a ss a e n so s • • • • as a es ss « . . . . . « «s
LECTURE XVI.
The Italians–Pastoral Dramas of Tasso and Guarini-Small progress
in Tragedy–Metastasio and Alfieri–Character of both–Comedies
of Ariosto, Aretin, Porta – Improvisatore Masks–Goldoni-Gozzi
-Latest state ..:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::.…..................
122
134
188
200
CONTENTS.
vii
PAGE
LECTURE XVII.
Antiquities of the French Stage-Influence of Aristotle and the Imi-
tation of the Ancients–Investigation of the Three Unities-What
is Unity of Action ?–Unity of Time-Was it observed by the
Greeks ?–Unity of Place as connected with it ................................
LECTURE XVIII.
Mischief resulting to the French Stage from too narrow Interpreta-
tion of the Rules of Unity–Influence of these rules on French
Tragedy–Manner of treating Mythological and Historical Materials
–Idea of Tragical Digmity–Observation of Conventional Rules-
False System of Expositions .... us sº sº S s . . . ss da - sº dº
LECTURE XIX.
Use at first made of the Spanish Theatre by the French-General
Character of Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire-Review of the prin-
cipal Works of Corneille and of Racine–Thomas Corneille and
Grebillon … á a = 4.
LECTURE XX.
Voltaire-Tragedies on Greek Subjects: CEdipe, Merope, Oreste–
Tragedies on Roman Subjects: Brute, Morte de César, Catiline,
Le Triumvirat–Earlier Pieces: Zaire, Alzire, Mahomet, Semi-
ramis, and Tancred.....
LECTURE XXI.
French Comedy-Molière-Criticism of his Works–Scarron, Bour-
sault, Regnard; Comedies in the Time of the Regency; Marivaux
and Destouches; Piron and Gresset–Later Attempts–The Heroic
Opera: Quinault-Operettes and Vaudevilles–Diderot's attempted
Change of the Theatre-The Weeping Drama-Beaumarchais–
Melo-Dramas–Merits and Defects of the Histrionic Art................
LECTURE XXII.
Comparison of the English and Spanish Theatres–Spirit of the Ro-
mantic Drama-Shakspeare–His Age and the Circumstances of his
Life . a es sa s • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •a es - « • • • • • •se see a se se« see so esse sº see a ss es sº sed
LECTURE XXIII.
Ignorance or Learning of Shakspeare-Costume as observed by Shak-
speare, and how far necessary, or may be dispensed with, in the
Drama-Shakspeare the greatest drawer of Character-Vindication
of the genuineness of his pathos–Play on Words–Moral Delicacy
–Irony–Mixture of the Tragic and Comic-The part of the Fool
or Clown-Shakspeare's Language and Versification ....................
LECTURE XXIV.
Criticisms on Shakspeare's Comedies....
LECTURE XXV.
Criticisms on Shakspeare's Tragedies.…
232
2
7
5
295
304
338
viii CONTENTS.
PAGFT
LECTURE XXVI.
Criticisms on Shakspeare's Historical Dramas ........ 414
LECTURE XXVII.
Two Periods of the English Theatre: the first the most important–
The first Conformation of the Stage, and its Advantages–State of
the Histrionic Art in Shakspeare's Time-Antiquities of Dramatic
Literature–Lilly, Marlow, Heywood–Ben Jonson; Criticism of
his Works–Masques–Beaumont and Fletcher–General Charac-
terization of these Poets, and Remarks on some of their Pieces–
Massinger and other Contemporaries of Charles I. ................... ..... 446
LECTURE XXVIII.
Closing of the Stage by the Puritans–Revival of the Stage under
Charles II.–Depravity of Taste and Morals–Dryden, Otway, and
others-Characterization of the Comic Poets from Wycherley and
Congreve to the Middle of the Eighteenth Century–Tragedies of
the same Period–Rowe-Addison's Cato–Later Pieces–Familiar
Tragedy: Lillo–Garrick-Latest State 475
LECTURE XXIX.
Spanish Theatre-Its three Periods: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Cal-
deron-Spirit of the Spanish Poetry in general–Influence of the
National History on it-Form, and various Species of the Spanish
Drama-Decline since the beginning of the Eighteenth Century .... 488
LECTURE XXX.
Origin of the German Theatre-Hans Sachs–Gryphius–The Age of
Gottsched–Wretched Imitation of the French-Lessing, Goethe,
and Schiller-Review of their Works–Their Influence on Chival-
rous Dramas, Affecting Dramas, and Family Pictures–Prospect
for Futurity ......................... s «g ..., 506
PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR.
THE Lectures of A. W. SCHLEGEL on Dramatic Poetry have
obtained high celebrity on the Continent, and been much
alluded to of late in several publications in this country. The
boldness of his attacks on rules which are considered as sacred
by the French critics, and on works of which the French
nation in general have long been proud, called forth a more
than ordinary degree of indignation against his work in
France. It was amusing enough to observe the hostility car-
ried on against him in the Parisian Journals. The writers in
these Journals found it much easier to condemn M. SCHLEGEL
than to refute him: they allowed that what he said was very
ingenious, and had a great appearance of truth; but still they
said it was not truth. They never, however, as far as I could
observe, thought proper to grapple with him, to point out
anything unfounded in his premises, or illogical in the con-
clusions which he drew from them; they generally confined
themselves to mere assertions, or to minute and unimportant
observations by which the real question was in no manner
affected.
In this country the work will no doubt meet with a very
different reception. Here we have no want of scholars to
appreciate the value of his views of the ancient drama; and it
will be no disadvantage to him, in our eyes, that he has been
unsparing in his attack on the literature of our enemies. It
will hardly fail to astonish us, however, to find a stranger
better acquainted with the brightest poetical ornament of this
country than any of ourselves; and that the admiration of
the English nation for Shakspeare should first obtain a truly
enlightened interpreter in a critic of Germany.
A
2 TRANSLATOR's PREFACE.
It is not for me, however, to enlarge on the merits of a
work which has already obtained so high a reputation. I
shall better consult my own advantage in giving a short ex-
tract from the animated account of M. SCHLEGEL's Lectures
in the late work on Germany by Madame de Staël:–
“ W. SCHLEGEL has given a course of Dramatic Literature
at Vienna, which comprises every thing remarkable that has
been composed for the theatre, from the time of the Grecians
to our own days. It is not a barren nomenclature of the
works of the various authors: he seizes the spirit of their
different sorts of literature with all the imagination of a poet.
We are sensible that to produce such consequences extra-
ordinary studies are required: but learning is not perceived in
this work, except by his perfect knowledge of the chefs-d'oeuvre
of composition. In a few pages we reap the fruit of the
labour of a whole life; every opinion formed by the author,
every epithet given to the writers of whom he speaks, is
beautiful and just, concise and animated. He has found the
art of treating the finest pieces of poetry as so many wonders
of nature, and of painting them in lively colours, which do
not injure the justness of the outline; for we cannot repeat
too often, that imagination, far from being an enemy to
truth, brings it forward more than any other faculty of the
mind; and all those who depend upon it as an excuse for
indefinite terms or exaggerated expressions, are at least as
destitute of poetry as of good sense.
“ An analysis of the principles on which both Tragedy and
Comedy are founded, is treated in this course with much depth
of philosophy. This kind of merit is often found among the
German writers; but SCHLEGEL has no equal in the art of
inspiring his own admiration; in general, he shows himself
attached to a simple taste, sometimes bordering on rusticity;
but he deviates from his usual opinions in favour of the inha-
bitants of the South. Their play on words is not the object of
his censure; he detests the affectation which owes its existence
TRANSLAToR's PREFACE. 3
to the spirit of society: but that which is excited by the
luxury of imagination pleases him, in poetry, as the profusion
of colours and perfumes would do in nature. SCHLEGEL, after
having acquired a great reputation by his translation of
Shakspeare, became also enamoured of Calderon, but with a
very different sort of attachment from that with which Shak-
speare had inspired him; for while the English author is deep
and gloomy in his knowledge of the human heart, the Spanish
poet gives himself up with pleasure and delight to the beauty
of life, to the sincerity of faith, and to all the brilliancy of
those virtues which derive their colouring from the sunshine
of the soul.
“ I was at Vienna when W. SCHLEGEL gave his public
course of Lectures I expected only good sense and instruc-
tion, where the object was merely to convey information: I
was astonished to hear a critic as eloquent as an orator, and
who, far from falling upon defects, which are the eternal
food of mean and little jealousy, sought only the means of
reviving a creative genius.”
Thus far Madame de Staël. In taking upon me to become the
interpreter.of a work of this description to my countrymen, I
am aware that I have incurred no slight degree of responsi-
bility. How I have executed my task it is not for me to
speak, but for the reader to judge. This much, however, I
will say,–that. I have always endeavoured to discover the
true meaning of the author, and that I believe I have seldom
mistaken it. Those who are best acquainted with the
psychological riches of the German language, will be the most
disposed to look on my labour with an eye of indulgence.
AUT HOR'S PREFA CE.
FRoM the size of the present work, it will not be expected
that it should contain either a course of Dramatic Literature
bibliographically complete, or a history of the theatre com-
piled with antiquarian accuracy. Of books containing dry
accounts and lists of names there are already enough. My
purpose was to give a general view, and to develope those
ideas which ought to guide us in our estimate of the value of
the dramatic productions of various ages and nations.
The greatest part of the following Lectures, with the ex-
ception of a few observations of a secondary nature, the sug-
gestion of the moment, were delivered orally as they now
appear in print. The only alteration consists in a more com-
modious distribution, and here and there in additions, where
the iimits of the time prevented me from handling many
matters with uniform minuteness. This may afford a compen-
sation for the animation of oral delivery which sometimes
throws a veil over deficiencies of expression, and always
exeites a certain degree of expectation.
I delivered these Lectures, in the spring of 1808, at Vienna,
to a brilliant audience of nearly three hundred individuals of
both sexes. The inhabitants of Vienna have long been in
the habit of refuting the injurious descriptions which many
writers of the North of Germany have given of that capital,
by the kindest reception of all learned men and artists
belonging to these regions, and by the most disinterested zeal
for the credit of our national literature, a zeal which a just
sensibility has not been able to cool. I found here the cor-
diality of better times united with that amiable animation of
AUTHOR's PREFACE. 5
the South, which is often denied to our German seriousness,
and the universal diffusion of a keen taste for intellectual
amusement. To this circumstance alone I must attribute it
that not a few of the men who hold the most important
places at court, in the state, and in the army, artists and
1iterary men of merit, women of the choicestsocial cultivation,
paid lue not merely an occasional visit, but devoted to me an
uninterrupted attention.
Withjoy I seize this fresh opportunity of laying my grati-
tude at the feet of the benignant monarch wno, in the permis-
sion to deliver these Lectures communicated to me by way
of distinction immediately from his own hand, gave me an
honourable testimony of his gracious confidence, which I as a
foreigner who had not the happiness to be born under his
sceptre, and merely felt myself bound as a German and a
citizen of the world to wish him every blessing and prosperity,
could not possibly have merited.
Many enlightened patrons and zealous promoters of every-
thing good and becoming have merited my gratitude for the
assistance which they gave to my undertaking, and the en-
couragement which they afforded me during its execution.
The whole of my auditors rendered my labour extremely
agreeable by their indulgence, their attentive participation,
and their readiness to distinguish, in a feeling mariner, every
passage which seemed worthy of their applause.
It was a flattering moment, which I shall never forget,
when, in the last hour, after I had called up recollections of
the old German renown sacred to every one possessed of true
patriotic sentiment, and when the minds of my auditors were
thus more solemnly attuned, I was at last obliged to take my
ieave powerfully agitated by the reflection that our recent
relation, founded on a common love for a nobler mental cul-
tivation, would be so soon dissolved, and that I should never
again see those together who were then assembled around
me. A general emotion was perceptible, excited by so much
G AUTHOR's PREFACE
that I could not say, but respecting which our hearts under-
stood each other. In the mental dominion of thought and
poetry, inaccessible to worldly power, the Germans, who are
separated in so many ways from each other, still feel their
unity: and in this feeling, whose interpreter the writer and
orator must be, amidst our clouded prospects we may still
cherish the elevating presage of the great and immortal call-
ing of our people, who from time immemorial have remained
unmixed in their present habitations.
GENEVA, February, 1809.
OBSERVATION PREFIXED To PART OF THE WORK
PRINTED IN 181 J.
THE declaration in the Preface that these Lectures were,
with some additions, printed as they were delivered, is in so
far to be corrected, that the additions in the second part are
much more considerable than in the first. The restriction, in
point of time in the oral delivery, compelled me to leave more
gaps in the last half than in the first. The part respecting
Shakspeare and the English theatre, in particular, has been
almost altogether re-written. I have been prevented, partly
by the want of leisure and partly by the limits of the work,
from treating of the Spanish theatre with that fuiness which
its importance deserves.
M EM O I R
OF
"I' H E LI T ERA R Y LIF E
OF
AUGUSTUS WTILIAM WON SCHLEGEI.
AUGUSTUs WILLIAMI VoN SCHLEGEL, the author of the follow-
ing Lectures, was, with his no-less distinguished brother,
Frederick, the son of John Adolph Schlegel, a native of
Saxony, and descended from a noble family. Holding a
high appointment in the Lutheran church, Adolph Schlegel
distinguished himself as a religious poet, and was the
friend and associate of Rabener, Gellert, and Klopstock.
Celebrated for his eloquence in the pulpit, and strictly dili-
gent in the performance of his religious duties, he died in
1792, leaving an example to his children which no doubt had
a happy influence on them.
Of these, the seventh, Augustus William, was born in Ha-
nover, September 5th, 1767. In his early childhood, he
evinced a genuine susceptibility for all that was good and
noble; and this early promise of a generous and virtuous
disposition was carefully nurtured by the religious instruction
of his mother, an amiable and highly-gifted woman. Of this
parent's pious and judicious teaching, Augustus William had
to the end of his days a grateful remembrance, and he che-
rished for her throughout life a sincere and affectionate esteem,
whose ardour neither time nor distance could diminish. The
8 THE LITERARY LIFE OF
filial affection of her favourite son soothed the declining years
of his mother, and lightened the anxieties with which the
critical and troubled state of the times alarmed her old age.
His further education was carried on by a private tutor, who
prepared him for the grammar-school at Hanover, where he
was distinguished both for his unremitting application, to
which he often sacrificed the hours of leisure and recreation,
and for the early display of a natural gift for language, which
enabled him immediately on the close of his academic career
to accept a tutorial appointment, which demanded of its
holder a knowledge not only of the classics but also of English
and French. He also displayed at a very early age a talent
for poetry, and some of his juvenile extempore effusions were
remarkable for their easy versification and rhythmical flow.
In his eighteenth year he was called upon to deliver in the
Lyceum of his native city, the anniversary oration in honour
of a royal birthday. His address on this occasion excited an
extraordinary sensation both by the graceful elegance of the
style and the interest of the matter, written in hexameters.
It embraced a short history of poetry in Germany, and was
relieved and animated with many judicious and striking
illustrations from the earliest Teutonic poets.
He now proceeded to the University of Göttingen as a
student of theology, which science, however, he shortly aban-
doned for the more congenial one of philology. The pro-
priety of this charge he amply attested by his Essay on the
Geography of Homer, which displayed both an intelligent
and comprehensive study of this difficult branch of classical
archaeology. -
At Göttingen he lived in the closest intimacy with Heyne,
for whose Virgil, in 1788 he completed an index; he also
became acquainted with the celebrated Michaelis. It was
here too that he formed the friendship of Bürger, to whose
Academie der Schönen Redekünste, he contributed his Ariadne,
AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL. 9
and an essay on Dante. The kindred genius of Bürger fa-
vourably influenced his own mind and tastes, and moved him
to make the first known attempt to naturalize the Italian
sonnet in Germany.
Towards the end of his university career he combined his
own studies with the private instruction of a rich young
Englishman, born in the East Indies, and at the close of it
accepted the post of tutor to the only son of Herr Muilmann,
the celebrated Banker of Amsterdam. In this situation he
gained universal respect and esteem, but after three years he
quitted it to enter upon a wider sphere of literary activity.
On his return to his native country he was elected Professor
in the University of Jena. Schlegel's residence in this place,
which may truly be called the classic soil of German litera-
ture, as it gained him the acquaintance of his eminent con-
temporaries Schiller and Goethe, marks a decisive epoch in the
formation of his intellectual character. At this date he con-
tributed largely to the Horen, and also to Schiller's Musen-
Almanach, and down to 1799 was one of the most fertile
writers in the Allgemeinen Literatur-Zeitung of Jena. It
was here, also, that he commenced his translations of Shak-
speare, (9vols., Berlin, 1797–1810) which produced a salutary
effect on the taste and judgment of his countrymen, and also
on Dramatic Art and theatrical representation in Germany.
Notwithstanding the favourable reception of this work he
subsequently abandoned it, and on the publication of a new
edition, in 1825, he cheerfully consigned to Tieck the revision
of his own labours, and the completion of the yet untrans-
lated pieces.
Continuing attached to the University of Jena, where the
dignity of Professorship was associated with that of Member
of the Council, he now commenced a course of lectures
on AEsthetics, and joined his brother Frederick in the
editorship of the Athenaeum, (3 vols., Berlin, 1796–1800) an
10 THE LITERARY LIFE OF
AEsthetico-critical journal, intended, while observing a rigor-
ous but an impartial spirit of criticism, to discover and foster
every grain of a truly vital development of mind. It was
also during his residence at Jena that he published the first
edition of his Poems, among which the religious pieces and
the Sonnets on Art were greatly admired and had many imita-
tors. To the latter years of his residence at Jena, which may
be called the political portion of Schlegel's literary career,
belongs the Gate of Honour for the Stage-President Von-
Kotzebue, (Ehrenpforte fur den Theater Präsidenten von
Kotzebue, 1800) an ill-natured and much-censured satire in
reply to Kotzebue's attack, entitled the Hyperborean Ass
(Hyperboreischen Esee). At this time he also collected seve-
ral of his own and brother Frederick's earlier and occa-
sional contributions to various periodicals, and these, together
with the hitherto unpublished dissertations on Bürger's works,
make up the Characteristiken u Kritiken (2 vols., Koenigsberg,
1801). Shortly afterwards he undertook with Tieck the
editorship of Musen-Almanach for 1802. The two brothers
were now leading a truly scientific and poetic life, associating
and co-operating with many minds of a kindred spirit, who
gathered round Tieck and Novalis as their centre.
His marriage with the daughter of Michaelis was not a.
happy one, and was quickly followed by a separation, upon
which Schlegel proceeded to Berlin. In this city, towards
the end of 1802, he delivered his Lectures on the Present
State of Literature and the Fine Arts, which were afterwards
printed in the Europa, under his brother's editorship. The
publication in 1803 of his Ion, a drama, in imitation of the
ancients, but as a composition unmarked by any peculiar
display of vigour, led to an interesting argument between him-
self, Bernhardi, and Schilling. This discussion, which ex-
tended from its original subject to Euripides and Dramatic
Representation in general, was carried on in the Journal for
AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL- I 1
the Polite World (Zeitung fur die elegante Welt) which
Schlegel supported by his advice and contributions. In this
periodical he also entered the lists in opposition to Kotzebue
and Merkel in the Freimüthige (The Liberal), and the merits
of the so-called modern school and its leaders, was the sub-
ject of a paper war, waged with the bitterest acrimony of
controversy, which did not scruple to employ the sharpest
weapons of personal abuse and ridicule.
At this date.Schlegel was engaged upon his Spanish Thea-
tre, (2 vols, Berlin, 1803–1809). In the execution of this work,
much was naturally demanded of the translator of Shak-
Speare, nor did he disappoint the general expectator, although
he had here far greater difficulties to contend with. Not.con-
tent with merely giving a faithful interpretation of his author's
meaning, he laid down and strictly“observed the law of adher-
ing rigorously to all the measures, rhythms, and assonances of
the original. These two excellent translations, in each of which
he has brought to bear both the great command of his own,
and a wonderful quickness in catching the spirit of a foreign,
language, have earned for Schiegel the foremost place among
successful and able translators, while his Flowers of Italian,
Spanish, and Portuguese Poetry (Blumensträusse d. Ital. Span.
u. Portug. Poesie, Berlin, 1804), furnish another proof both
of his skill in this pursuit and of the extent of his acquaint-
ance with European literature. Moreover, the merit of having
by these translations made Shakspeare and Calderon more
widely known and better appreciated in Germany"would, in
default of any other claim, alone entitle him to take high
rank in thesannals of modern literature. -
But a new and more important career was now open to
him by his introduction to Madame de Staël. Making a tour
in Germany, this distinguished woman arrived at Berlin in
1805, and desirous of acquainting herself more thoroughly
with German literature she selected Schlegel to direct her
12 TEIE LITERARY LIFE OF
studies of it, and at the same time confided to his charge the
completion of her children's education. Quitting Berlin he
accompanied this lady on her travels through Italy and
France, and afterwards repaired with her to her paternal seat
at Coppet, on the Lake of Geneva, which now became for
some time his fixed abode. It was here that in 1807 he
wrote in French his Parallel between the Phaedra of Eurº-
pides and the Phédré of Racine, which produced a lively
sensation in the literary circles of Paris. This city had pecu-
liar attractions for Schlegel, both in its invaluable literary
stores and its re-union of men of letters, among whom his own
views and opinions found many enthusiastic admirers and par-
tisans, notwithstanding that in his critical analysis of Racine's
Phédre he had presumed to attack what Frenchmen deemed
the chiefest glory of their literature, and had mortified their
national vanity in its most sensitive point.
In the spring of 1808 he visited Vienna, and there read to
a brilliant audience his Lectures on Dramatic Art and Litera-
zure, which, on their publication, were hailed throughout
Europe with marked approbation, and which will, unques-
tionably, transmit his name to the latest posterity. His
object in these Lectures is both to take a rapid survey of
«dramatic productions of different ages and nations, and to
develope and determine the general ideas by which their true
artistic value must be judged. In his travels with Madame de
Staël he was introduced to the present King, then the Crown
Prince, of Bavaria, who bestowed on him many marks of his
respect and esteem, and about this time he took a part in the
German Museum (Deutsche Museum), of his brother Fre-
derick, contributing some learned and profound dissertations
on the Lay of the Wibelungen. In 1812, when the subjugated
South no longer afforded an asylum to the liberal-minded
De Staël, with whose personal fortunes he felt himself insepa-
rably linked by that deep feeling of esteem and friendship
AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL- 13.
which speaks so touchingly and pathetically in some o his
later poems, he accompanied that lady on a visit to Stock-
holm, where he formed the acquaintance of the Crown Prince.
The great political events of this period were not without
their effect on Schlegel's mind, and in 1813 he came forward
as a political writer, when his powerful pen was not without
its effect in rousing the German mind from the torpor into
which it had sunk beneath the victorious military despotism
of France. But he was called upon to take a more active
part in the measures of these stirring times, and in this year
entered the service of the Crown Prince of Sweden, as secre-
tary and counsellor at headquarters. For this Prince he had
a great personal regard, and estimated highly both his virtues
as a man and his talents as a general. The services he ren-
dered the Swedish Prince were duly appreciated and rewarded,
among other marks of distinction by a patent of nobility, in
virtue of which he prefixed the “ Von” to his paternal name
of Schlegel. The Emperor Alexander, of whose religious ele-
vation of character he always spoke with admiration, also
honoured him with his intimacy and many tokens of esteem.
Upon the fall of Napoleon he returned to Coppet with
Madame de Staël, and in 1815 published a second volume of
his Poetical Works, (Heildelberg, 1811–1815, 2nd edit.,
2 vols., 1820). These are characterized not merely by the
brilliancy and purity of the language, but also by the var
riety and richness of the imagery. Among these the Arion,
Pygmalion, and Der Heilige Lucas (St. Luke) the Sonnets,
and the sublime elegy, Rhine, dedicated to Madame de Staël,
deserve especial mention, and give him a just claim to a poet's
GTOWIl.
On the death of his friend and patroness in 1819, he
accepted the offer of a professors chair in Bonn, where he
marrieda daughter of Professor Paulus. This union, as shor-
lived as the first, was followed by a separation in 1820. "
14 TEIE "LITERARY LIFE OF
his new position of academic tutor, while he diligently pro-
moted the study of the fine arts and sciences, both of the
Ancient and the Moderns, he applied himself with peculiar
ardour to Oriental literature, and particularly to the Sanscrit.
As a fruit of these studies, he published his Indian Library,
(2 vols, Bonn, 1820–26); he also set up a press for printing
the great Sanscrit work, the Rämájana (Bonn, 1825). He also
edited the Sanscrittext, with a Latin translation, of the Bhaga-
vad-Gita, an episode of the great Indian Epos, the Maháb-
härata (Bonn, 1829). About this period his Oriental studies
took him to France, and afterwards to England, where, in
London and in the college libraries of Oxford and Cambridge,
and the East India College at Hailesbury, he carefully exa-
mined the various collections of Oriental MSS. On his return
he was appointed Superintendent of the Museum of Antiqui-
ties, and in 1827 delivered at Berlin a course of Lectures on
the Theory and History of the Fine Arts, (Berlin, 1827).
These were followed by his Criticisms, (Berlin, 1828), and
his Reflexion sur l'Etude des Langues Asiatiques, addressed to
Sir James Mackintosh. Being accused of a secret leaning to
Roman Catholicism, (Kryptocatholicisme,) he ably defended
himself in a reply entitled Explication de quelques Mal-en-
tendus, (Berlin, 1828.)
A. W. Von Schlegel, besides being a Member of the Legion
of Honour, was invested with the decorations of several other
Orders. He wrote French with as much facility as his native
language, and many French journals were proud to number
him among their contributors. He also assisted Madame de
Staël in her celebrated work De l'Allemagne, and superin-
tended the publication-of her posthumous Considérations sur
la Revolution Française.
After this long career of successful literary activity, A.
W. Von Schlegel died at Bonn, 12 May, 1845. His death
was thus noticed in the Athenaeum:–
AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL- 1#
“This illustrious writer was, in conjunction with his brother
Frederick, as most European readers well know, the founder
of the modern romantic school of German literature, and as
a critic fought many a hard battle for his faith. The clear-
ness of his insight into poetical and dramatic truth, English-
men will always be apt to estimate by the fact that it pro-
cured for himself and for his countrymen the freedom of
Shakspeare's enchanted world, and the taste of all the mar-
vellous things that, like the treasures of Aladdin's garden,
are fruit and gem at once upon itsimmortal boughs:–French-
men will not readily forget that he disparaged Molière. The
merit of Schlegel's dramatic criticism ought not, however, to
be thus limited. Englishmenthemselves are deeply indebted
to him. His Lectures, translated by Black, excited great
interest here when first published, some thirty years since,
and have worthily taken a permanent place in our libraries."
His collection of books, which was rather extensive, and
rich in Oriental, especially Sanscrit literature, was sold by
auction in Bonn, December, 1845. It appears by a chrono-
logical list prefixed to the catalogue, that reckoning both his
separate publications and those contributed to periodicals, his
printed works number no fewer than 126. Besides these he
leftmany unpublished manuscripts, which, says the Athenaeum,
“he bequeathed to the celebrated archaeologist, Welcker, pro-
fessor at the Royal University of Bonn, with a request that
he would cause them to be published.” sº







WL.
DRAMATIC LITERATURE.
LECTURE I.
Introduction–Spirit of True Criticism–Difference of Taste between the
Ancients and Moderns–Classical and Romantic Poetry and Art–Divi-
sion of Dramatic Literature; the Ancients, their Imitators, and the
Romantic Poets.
THE object of the present series of Lectures will be to combine
the theory of Dramatic Art with its history, and to bring
before my auditors at once its principles and its models.
It belongs to the general philosophical theory of poetry, and
the other fine arts, to establish the fundamental laws of the
beautiful. Every art, on the other hand, has its own special
theory, designed to teach the imits, the difficulties, and the
means by which it must be regulated in its attempt to realize
those laws. For this purpose, certain scientific investigations
are indispensable to the artist, although they have but little
attraction for those whose admiration of art is confined to
the enjoyment of the actual productions of distinguished
minds. The general theory, on the other hand, seeks to
analyze that essential faculty of human nature-the sense of
the beautiful, which at once calls the fine arts into existence,
and accounts for the satisfaction which arises from the con-
templation of them ; and also points out the relation which
subsists between this and all other sentient and cognizant
faculties of man. To the man of thought and speculation,
„herefore, it is of the highest importance, but by itself alone
it is quite inadequate to guide and direct the essays and prac-
tice of art.
Now, the history of the fine arts informs us what has been,
* ? B
18 SPIRIT OF TRUE CRITICISM.
and the theory teaches what ought to be accomplished by
them. But without some intermediate and connecting link,
both would remain independent and separate from one and
other, and each by itself, inadequate and defective. This
connecting link is furnished by criticism, which both eluci-
dates the history of the arts, and makes the theory fruitful.
The comparing together, and judging of the existing produc-
tions of the human mind, necessarily throws light upon the
conditions which are indispensable to the creation of original
and masterly works of art. -
Ordinarily, indeed, men entertain a very erroneous notion
ot criticism, and understand by it nothing more than a certain
shrewdness in detecting and exposing the faults of a work of
art. As I have devoted the greater part of my life to this pur-
suit, I may be excused if, by way of preface, I seek to lay
before my auditors my own ideas of the true genius of criticism.
We see numbers of men, and even whole nations, so
fettered by the conventions of education and habits of life,
that, even in the appreciation of the fine arts, they cannot
shake them off. Nothing to them appears natural, appro-
priate, or beautiful, which is alien to their own language,
manners, and social relations. With this exclusive mode of
seeing and feeling, it is no doubt possible to attain, by means
of cultivation, to great nicety of discrimination within the
narrow circle to which it limits and circumscribes them. But
no man can be a true critic or connoisseur without univer-
sality of mind, without that flexibility which enables him,
by renouncing all personal predilections and blind habits, to
adapt himself to the peculiarities of other ages and nations–
to feel them, as it were, from their proper central point, and,
what ennobles human nature, to recognise and duly appreciate
whatever is beautiful and grand under the external accessories
which were necessary to its embodying, even though occa-
sionally they may seem to disguise and distort it. There is
no monopoly of poetry for particular ages and nations; and
consequently that despotism in taste, which would seek to
invest with universal authority the rules which at first, per-
haps, were but arbitrarily advanced, is but a vain and empty
pretension. Poetry, taken in its widest acceptation, as the
power of creating what is beautiful, and representing it to
the eye or the ear, is a universal gift of Heaven, being shared
APPLICATION TO PoETRY AND THE FINE ARTs. 19
to a certain extent even by those whom we call barbarians
and savages. Internal excellence is alone decisive, and
where this exists, we must not allow ourselves to be repelled
by the external appearance. Everything must be traced up
to the root of human nature: if it has sprung from thence, it
has an undoubted worth of its own; butif, without possessing
a living germ, it is merely externally attached thereto, it will
never thrive nor acquire a proper growth. Many productions
which appear at first sight dazzling phenomena in the pro-
vince of the fine arts, and which as a whole have been
honoured with the appellation of works of a golden age, re-
semble the mimic gardens of children: impatient to witness
the work of their hands, they break off here and there
branches and flowers, and plant them in the earth; every-
thing at first assumes a noble appearance: the childish
gardener struts proudly up and down among his showy beds,
till the rootless plants begin to droop, and hang their
withered leaves and blossoms, and nothing soon remains but
the bare twigs, while the dark forest, on which no art or care
was ever bestowed, and which towered up towards heaven
long before human remembrance, bears every blast unshaken,
and fills the solitary beholder with religious awe.
Let us now apply the idea which we have been developing,
of the universality of true criticism, to the history of poetry
and the fine arts. This, like the so-called universal history,
we generally limit (even though beyond this range there
may be much that is both remarkable and worth knowing)
to whatever has had a nearer or more remote influence on the
present civilisation of Europe: consequently, to the works of
the Greeks and Romans, and of those of the modern European
nations, who first and chiefly distinguished themselves in art
and literature. It is well known that, three centuries and
a-half ago, the study of ancient literature received a new life,
by the diffusion of the Grecian language (for the Latin never
became extinct); the classical authors were brought to light,
and rendered universally accessible by means of the press;
and the monuments of ancient art were diligently disinterred
and preserved. All this powerfully excited the human mind,
and formed a decided epoch in the history of human civilisa-
tion; its manifold effects have extended to our times, and will
yet extend to an incalculable series of ages. But the study
T2 2
20 DANTE–ARIOSTO–TASSO–CAMOENs,
of the ancients was forthwith most fatally perverted. The
learned, who were chiefly in the possession of this knowledge,
and who were incapable of distinguishing themselvesby works
of their own, claimed for the ancients an unlimited authority,
and with great appearance of reason, since they are models in
their kind. Maintaining that nothing could be hoped for the
human mind but from an imitation of antiquity, in the works
of the moderns they only valued what resembled, or seemed
to bear a resemblance to, those of the ancients. Everything
2lse they rejected as barbarous and unnatural. With the
great poets and artists it was quite otherwise. However
strong their enthusiasm for the ancients, and however deter-
mined their purpose of entering into competition with them,
they were compelled by their independence and originality of
mind, to strike out a path of their own, and to impress upon
their productions the stamp of their own genius. Such was
the case with Dante among the Italians, the father of modern
poetry; acknowledging Virgil for his master, he has pro-
duced a work which, of all others, most differs from the
AEneid, and in our opinion far excels its pretended model in
power, truth, compass, and profundity. It was the same
afterwards with Ariosto, who has most unaccountably been
compared tö Homer, for nothing can be more unlike. So in
art with Michael Angelo and Raphael, who had no doubt
deeply studied the antique. When we ground our judgment
of modern painters merely on their greater or less resemblance
to the ancients, we must necessarily be unjust towards them,
as Winkelmann undoubtedly has in the case of Raphael. As
the poets for the most part had their share of scholarship, it
gave rise to a curious struggle between their natural inclina-
tion and their imaginary duty. When they sacrificed to the
latter, they were praised by the learned ; but by yielding to
the former, they became the favourites of the people. What
preserves the heroic poems of a Tasso and a Camoëns to this
day alive in the hearts and on the lips of their countrymen, is
Dy no means their imperfect resemblance to Virgil, or even
to Homer, but in Tasso the tender feeling of chivalrous love
and honour, and in Camoëns the glowing inspiration of heroic
patriotism.
Those very ages, nations, and ranks, who felt least the want
of a poetry of their own, were the most assiduous in their imita-
Til FIR IMITATION OF THE ANCIENTS. 2
tion of the ancients; accordingly, its results are but dull school
exercises, which at best excite a frigid admiration. But in
the fine arts, mere imitation is always fruitless; even what
we borrow from others, to assume a true poetical shape, must,
as it were, be born again within us. Of what avail is all
foreign imitation ? Art cannot exist without nature, and man
can give nothing to his fellow-men but himself.
Genuine successors and true rivals of the ancients, who, by
virtue of congenial talents and cultivation have walked in
their path and worked in their spirit, have ever been as rare
as their mechanical spiritless copyists are common. Seduced
by the form, the great body of critics have been but too in-
dulgent to these servile imitators. These were held up as
correct modern classics, while the great truly living and
popular poets, whose reputation was a part of their nations'
glory, and to whose sublimity it was impossible to be altoge-
ther blind, were at best but tolerated as rude and wild natural
geniuses. But the unqualified separation of genius and taste
on which such a judgment proceeds, is altogether untenable.
Genius is the almost unconscious choice of the highest
degree of excellence, and, consequently, it is taste in its
highest activity.
In this state, nearly, matters continued till a period not far
back, when several inquiring minds, chiefly Germans, endea-
voured to clear up the misconception, and to give the ancients
their due, without being insensible to the merits of the
moderns, although of a totally different kind. The apparent
contradiction did not intimidate them. The groundwork of
human nature is no doubt everywhere the same ; but in all
our investigations, we may observe that, throughout the whole
range of nature, there is no elementary power so simple, but
that it is capable of dividing and diverging into opposite
directions. The whole play of vital motion hinges on har-
mony and contrast. Why, then, should not this phenomenon
recur on a grander scale in the history of man ? In this idea
we have perhaps discovered the true key to the ancient and
modern history of poetry and the fine arts. Those who
adopted it, gave to the peculiar spirit of modern art, as con-
trasted with the antique or classical, the name of romantic.
The term is certainly not inappropriate; the word is derived
from romance–the name originally given to the languages
22 CLASSICAL AND ROMARTIC POETRY AND ART.
which were formed from the mixture of the Latin and the old .
Teutonic dialects, in the same manner as modern civilisation
is the fruit of the heterogeneous union of the peculiarities
of the northern nations and the fragments of antiquity;
whereas the civilisation of the ancients was much more of
a piece.
The distinction which we have just stated can hardly fail
to appear well founded, if it can be shown, so far as our
knowledge of antiquity extends, that the same contrast in the
labours of the ancients and moderns runs symmetrically, I
might almost say systematically, throughout every branch of
art–that it is as evident in music and the plastic arts as in
poetry. This is a problem which, in its full extent, still
remains to be demonstrated, though, on particular por-
tions of it, many excellent observations have been advanced
already.
Among the foreign authors who wrote before this school
can be said to have been formed in Germany, we may men-
tion Rousseau, who acknowledged the contrast in music, and
showed that rhythm and melody were the prevailing prin-
ciples of ancient, as harmony is that of modern music. In
his prejudices against harmony, however, we cannot at all
concur. On the subject of the arts of design an ingenious
observation was made by Hemsterhuys, that the ancient
painters were perhaps too much of sculptors, and the mo-
dern sculptors too much of painters. This is the exact
point of difference; for, as I shall distinctly show in the
sequel, the spirit of ancient art and poetry is plastic, but that
of the moderns picturesque. M
By an example taken from another art, that of architec-
ture, I shall endeavour to illustrate what I mean by this
contrast. Throughout the Middle Ages there prevailed, and
in the latter centuries of that aera, was carried to perfection,
a style of architecture, which has been called Gothic, but
ought really to have been termed old German. When, on
the general revival of classical antiquity, the imitation of
Grecian architecture became prevalent, and but too frequently
without a due regard to the difference of climate and manners
or to the purpose of the building, the zealots of this new taste,
passing a sweeping sentence of condemnation on the Gothic,
reprobated it as tasteless, gloomy, and barbarous. This was
GRECIAN AND GOTHIC STYLES OF ARCHITECTURE. 23
in some degree pardonable in the Italians, among whom a
love for ancient architecture, cherished by hereditary remains
of classical edifices, and the similarity of their climate to that
of the Greeks and Romans, might, in some sort, be said to be
innate. But we Northerns are not so easily to be talked out
of the powerful, solemn impressions which seize upon the
mind at entering a. Gothic cathedral. We feel, on the con-
trary, a strong desire to investigate and to justify the source
of this impression. A very slight attention will convince us,
that the Gothic architecture displays not only an extraordi-
nary degree of mechanical skill, but also a marvellous power
of invention; and, on a closer examination, we recognize its
profound significance, and perceive that as well as the Grecian
it constitutes in itself a complete and finished system.
To the application –The Pantheon is not more differenf
from Westminster Abbey or the church of St. Stephen a
Vienna, than the structure of a tragedy of Sophocles from a
drama of Shakspeare. The comparison between these won-
derful productions of poetry and architecture might be carried
still farcher. But does our admiration of the one compel us
to depreciate the other? May we not admit that each is
great and admirable in its kind, although the one is, and
is meant to be, different from the other? The experiment is
worth attempting. We will quarrel with no man for his pre-
dilection either for the Grecian or the Gothic. The world 1s
wide, and affords room for a great diversity of objects. Nar-
row and blindly adopted prepossessions will never constitute
a genuine critic or connoisseur, who ought, on the contrary, to
possess the power of dwelling with liberal impartiality on the
most discrepant views, renouncing the while all personal incli-
nations.
For our present object, thejustification, namely, of the grand
division which we lay down in the history of art, and accord-
ing to which we conceive ourselves equally warranted in
establishing the same division in dramatic literature, it might
be sufficient merely to have stated this contrast between the
ancient, or classical, and the romantic. But as there are ex-
clusive admirers of the ancients, who never cease asserting
that all deviation from them is merely the whim of a new
school of critics, who, expressing themselves in language full
of mystery, cautiously avoid conveying their sentiments in 2.
24 THE GREEKS–THEIR MENTAL CULTURF.
tangible shape, I shall endeavour to explain the origin and
spirit of the romantic, and then leave the world to judge if
the use of the word, and of the idea which it is intended to
convey, be thereby justified.
The mental culture of the Greeks was a finished education
in the school of Nature. Of a beautiful and noble race,
endowed with susceptible senses and a cheerful spirit under a
mild sky, they lived and bloomed in the full health of exist-
ence; and, favoured by a rare combination of circumstances,
accomplished all that the finite nature of man is capable of
The whole of their art and poetry is the expression of a con-
sciousness of this larmony of all their faculties. They
invented the poetry of joy. -r
Their religion was the deification of the powers of nature
and of the earthly life: but this worship, which, among other
nations, clouded the imagination with hideous shapes, and
hardened the heart to cruelty, assumed, among the Greeks,
a mild, a grand, and a dignified form. Superstition, too often
the tyrant of the human faculties, seemed to have here con-
tributed to their freest development. It cherished the arts
by which it was adorned, and its idols became the models of
ideal beauty.
But however highly the Greeks may have succeeded in the
Beautiful, and even in the Moral, we cannot concede any
higher character to their civilisation than that of a refined
and ennobled sensuality. Of course this must be understood
generally. The conjectures of a few philosophers, and the
irradiations of poetical inspiration, constitute an occasional
exception. Man can never altogether turn aside his thoughts
from infinity, and some obscure recollections will always
remind him of the home he has lost; but we are now speak-
ing of the predominant tendency of his endeavours.
Religion is the root of human existence. Were it possible
for man to renounce all religion, including that which is un-
conscious, independent of the will, he would become a mere
surface without any internal substance. When this centre is
disturbed, the whole system of the mental faculties and
feelings takes a new shape.
And this is what has actually taken place in modern
Europe through the introduction of Christianity. This sub-
lime and beneficent religion has regenerated the ancient
THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 25
world from its state of exhaustion and debasement; it is
the guiding principle in the history of modern nations, and
even at this day, when many suppose they have shaken off
its authority, they still find themselves much more influenced
by it in their views of human affairs than they themselves are
HNWZ, TG.
After Christianity, the character of Europe has, since the
commencement of the Middle Ages, been chiefly influenced
by the Germanic race of northern conquerors, who infused
new life and vigour into a degenerated people. The stern
nature of the North drives man back within himself; and
what is lost in the free sportive development of the senses,
must, in noble dispositions, be compensated by earnestness of
mind. Hence the honest cordiality with which Christianity
was welcomed by all the Teutonic tribes, so that among no
other race of men has it penetrated more deeply into the
inner man, displayed more powerful effects, or become more
interwoven with all human feelings and sensibilities.
The rough, but honest heroism of the northern conquerors,
by its admixture with the sentiments of Christianity, gave
rise to chivalry, of which the object was, by vows which
should be looked upon as sacred, to guard the practice of arms
from every rude and ungenerous abuse of force into which it
was so likely to sink.
With the virtues of chivalry was associated a new and
purer spirit of love, an inspired homage for genuine female
worth, which was now revered as the acmè of human excel-
lence, and, maintained by religion itself under the image of
a virgin mother, infused into all hearts a mysterious sense of
the purity of love.
As Christianity did not, like the heathen worship, rest
satisfied with certain external acts, but claimed an authority
over the whole inward man and the most hidden movement.
of the heart ; the feeling of moral independence took refuge
in the domain of honour, a worldly morality, as it were, which
subsisting alongside of, was often at variance with that of
religion, but yet in so far resembling it that it never calcu-
lated consequences, but consecrated unconditionally certain
principles of action, which like the articles of faith, were
elevated far beyond the investigation of a casuistical reasoning.
Chivalry, love, and honour, together with religion itself,
26 SENSUALITY OF THE GREEKS.
are the subjects of that poetry of nature which poured itself
out in the Middle Ages with incredible fulness, and preceded
the more artistic cultivation of the romantic spirit. This age
had also its mythology, consisting of chivalrous tales and
legends; but its wonders and its heroism were the very
reverse of those of the ancient mythology.
Several inquirers who, in other respects, entertain the same
conception of the peculiarities of the moderns, and trace them
to the same source that we do, have placed the essence of the
northern poetry in melancholy ; and to this, when properly
understood, we have nothing to object. -
Among the Greeks human nature was in itself all-sufficient;
it was conscious of no defects, and aspired to no higher perfec-
tion than that which it could actually attain by the exercise
of its own energies. We, however, are taught by superior
wisdom that man, through a grievous transgression, forfeited
the place for which he was originally destined; and that the
sole destination of his earthly existence is to struggle to regain
his lost position, which, if left to his own strength, he can
never accomplish. The old religion of the senses sought ho
higher possession than outward and perishable blessings; and
immortality, so far as it was believed, stood shadow-like in
the obscure distance, a faint dream of this sunny waking
life. The very reverse of all this is the case with the Chris-
tian view: everything finite and mortal is lost in the con-
templation of infinity; life has become shadow and darkness,
and the first day of our real existence dawns in the world
beyond the grave. Such a religion must waken the vague
foreboding, which slumbers in every feeling heart, into a dis-
tinct consciousness that the happiness after which we are
here striving is unattainable; that no external object can ever
entirely fill our souls; and that all earthly enjoyment is but
a fleeting and momentary illusion. When the soul, resting
as it were under the willows of exile“, breathes out its long-
ing for its distant home, what else but melancholy can be
the key-note of its songs? Hence the poetry of the ancients
was the poetry of enjoyment, and ours is that of desire: the
* Trauerweiden der verbannung, literally the weeping willows of
banishment, an allusion, as every reader must know, to the 137th Psalm.
Linnaeus, from this Psalm, calls the weeping willow Salix Babylonica.–
TRANs.
ANCIENT AND MODERN ART AND POETRY. 27
former has its foundation in the scene which is present, while
the latter hovers betwixt recollection and hope. Let me not
be understood as affirming that everything flows in one
unvarying strain of wailing and complaint, and that the voice
of melancholy is always loudly heard. As the austerity of
tragedy was not incompatible with the joyous views of the
Greeks, so that romantic poetry whose origin I have been
describing, can assume every tone, even that of the liveliest
joy; but still it will always, in some indescribable way, bear
traces of the source from which it originated. The feeling of
the moderns is, upon the whole, more inward, their fancy more
incorporeal, and their thoughts more contemplative. In
nature, it is true, the boundaries of objects run more into
one another, and things are not so distinctly separated as
we must exhibit them in order to convey distinct notions of
them.
The Grecian ideal of human nature was perfect unison and
proportion between all the powers,–a natural harmony.
The moderns, on the contrary, have arrived at the conscious-
ness of an internal discord which renders such an ideal impos-
sible ; and hence the endeavour of their poetry is to reconcile
these two worlds between which we find ourselves divided,
and to blend them indissolubly together. The impressions of
the senses are to be hallowed, as it were, by a mysterious con-
nexion with higher feelings; and the soul, on the other hand,
embodies its forebodings, or indescribable intuitions of infinity,
in types and symbols borrowed from the visible world.
In Grecian art and poetry we find an original and uncon-
scious unity of form and matter; in the modern, so far as it
has remained true to its own spirit, we observe a keen struggle
to unite the two, as being naturally in opposition to each
other. The Grecian executed what it proposed in the utmost
perfection; but the modern can only do justice to its endea-
vours after what is infinite by approximation; and, from a
certain appearance of imperfection, is in greater danger of not
being duly appreciated.
It would lead us too far, if in the separate arts of architec-
ture, music, and painting (for the moderns have never had a
sculpture of their own), we should endeavour to point out the
distinctions which we have here announced, to show the con-
trast observable in the character of the same arts among the
28 THE GREEK DRAMATISTs–THEIR IMITAToRs.
ancients and moderns, and at the same time to demonstrate
the kindred aim of both.
Neither can we here enter into a more particular considera-
tion of the different kinds and forms of romantic poetry in
general, but must return to our more immediate subject,
which is dramatic art and literature. The division of this,
as of the other departments of art, into the antique and the
romantic, at once points out to us the course which we have
to pursue.
We shall begin with the ancients; then proceed to their
imitators, their genuine or supposed successors among the
moderns; and lastly, we shall consider those poets of later
times, who, either disregarding the classical models, or pur-
Ä deviating from them, have struck out a path for them-
SG1VGS.
Of the ancient dramatists, the Greeks alone are of any im-
Portance. In this branch of art the Romans were at first mere
translators of the Greeks, and afterwards imitators, and not
always very successful ones. Besides, of their dramatic
labours very little has been preserved. Among modern nations
an endeavour to restore the ancient stage, and, where possible,
to improve it, has been shown in a very lively manner by the
Italians and the French. In other nations, also, attempts of
the same kind, more or less earnest, have at times, especially of
late, been made in tragedy; for in comedy, the form under
which it appears in Plautus and Terence has certainly been
more generally prevalent. Of all studied imitations of the
ancient tragedy the French is the most brilliant essay, has
acquired the greatest renown, and consequently deserves the
most attentive consideration. After the French come the
modern Italians; viz., Metastasio and Alfieri. The romantic
drama, which, strictly speaking, can neither be called tragedy
nor comedy in the sense of the ancients, is indigenous only to
England and Spain. In both it began to flourish at the same
time, somewhat more than two hundred years ago, being
brought to perfection by Shakspeare in the former country,
and in the latter by Lope de Vega.
The German stage is the last of all, and has been influenced
in the greatest variety of ways by all those which preceded it.
It will be most appropriate, therefore, to enter upon its cou-
aideration last of all. By this course we shall be better
THE ROMANTIC POETS. 29.
enabled to judge of the directions which it has hitherto taken,
and to point out the prospects which are still open to it.
When I promise to go through the history of the Greek and
Roman, of the Italian and French, and of the English and
Spanish theatres, in the few hours which are dedicated to these
Lectures, I wish it to be understood that I can only enter into
such an account of them as will comprehend their most essen-
tial peculiarities under general points of view. Although I
confine myself to a single domain of poetry, still the mass of
materials comprehended within it is too extensive to be taken
in by the eye at once, and this would be the case were I even
to limit myself to one of its subordinate departments. We
might read ourselves to death with farces. In the ordinary
histories of literature the poets of one language, and one
description, are enumerated in succession, without any further
discrimination, like the Assyrian and Egyptian kings in the
old universal histories. There are persons who have an un-
conquerable passion for the titles of books, and we wiilingly
concede to them the privilege of increasing their number by
books on the titles of books. It is much the same thing, how-
ever, as in the history of a war to give the name of every
soldier who fought in the ranks of the hostile armies. It is
usual, however, to speak only of the generals, and those who
may have performed actions of distinction. In like manner
the battles of the human mind, if I may use the expression,
have been won by a few intellectual heroes. The history of
the development of art and its various forms may be therefore
exhibited in the characters of a number, by no means consider-
able, of elevated and creative minds.
30 DEFINITION OF TEIE DRAMA.
LECTURE II.
Definition of the Drama-View of the Theatres of all Nations–Theatrical
Effect–Importance of the Stage-Principal Species of the Drama.
BEFoRE, however, entering upon such a history as we have
now described, it will be necessary to examine what is meant
by dramatic, theatrica, tragic, and comic.
What is dramatic ? To many the answer will seem very
easy: where various persons are introduced conversing toge-
ther, and the poet does not speak in his own person. This
is, however, merely the first external foundation of the form;
and that is dialogue. But the characters may express thoughts
and sentiments without operating any change on each other,
and so leave the minds of both in exactly the same state in
which they were at the commencement; in such a case, however
interesting the conversation may be, it cannot be said to
possess a dramatic interest. I shall make this clear by allud-
ing to a more tranquil species of dialogue, not adapted for the
stage, the philosophic. When, in Plato, Socrates asks the
conceited sophist Hippias, what is the meaning of the beauti-
ful, the latter is at once ready with a superficial answer, but
is afterwards compelled by the ironical objections of Socrates
to give up his former definition, and to grope about him for
other ideas, till, ashamed at last and irritated at the superiority
of the sage who has convicted him of his ignorance, he is forced
to quit the field: this dialogue is not merely philosophically
instructive, but arrests the attention like a drama, in miniature.
And justly, therefore, has this lively movement in the thoughts,
this stretch of expectation for the issue, in a word, the dramatic
cast of the dialogues of Plato, been always celebrated.
From this we may conceive wherein consists the great
charm of dramatic poetry. Action is the true enjoyment of
life, nay, life itself. Mere passive enjoyments may Jull us
into a state of listless complacency, but even then, if pos-
sessed of the least internal activity, we cannot avoid being
soon wearied. The great bulk of mankind merely from their
ART OF THE DRAMATIC POET. 3.
situation in life, or from their incapacity for extrordinary exer-
tions, are confined within a narrow circle of insignificant opera-
tions. Their days flow on in succession under the sleepy rule of
custom, their life advances by an insensible progress, and the
bursting torrent of the first passions of youth soon settles
into a stagnant marsh. From the discontent which this
occasions they are compelled to have recourse to all sorts of
diversions, which uniformly consist in a species of occupation
that may be renounced at pleasure, and though a struggle
with difficulties, yet with difficulties that are easily sur-
mounted. But of all diversions the theatre is undoubtedly
the most entertaining. Here we may see others act even
when we cannot act to any great purpose ourselves. The
highest object of human activity is man, and in the drama
we see men, measuring their powers with each other, as in-
tellectual and moral beings, either as friends or foes, influencing
each other by their opinions, sentiments, and passions, and
decisively determining their reciprocal relations and circum–
stances. The art of the poet accordingly consists in separating
from the fable whatever does not essentially belong to it,
whatever, in the daily necessities of real life, and the petty
occupations to which they give rise, interrupts the progress of
important actions, and concentrating within a narrow space a
number of events calculated to attract the minds of the
hearers and to fill them with attention and expectation. In
this manner he gives us a renovated picture of life ; a com-
pendium of whatever is moving and progressive in human
existence.
But this is not all. Even in a lively oral narration, it is not
unusual to introduce persons in conversation with each other,
and to give a corresponding variety to the tone and the ex-
pression. But the gaps, which these conversations leave in
the story, the narrator fills up in his own name with a
description of the accompanying circumstances, and other
particulars. The dramatic poet must renounce all such
expedients; but for this he is richly recompensed in the
following invention. He requires each of the characters in
his story to be personated by a living individual; that
this individual should, in sex, age, and figure, meet as near
as may be the prevalent conceptions of his fictitious ori-
ginal, nay, assume his entire personality; that every speech
32 INVENTION OF THE DRAMATIC AR T.
should be delivered in a suitable tone of voice, and ac-
companied by appropriate action and gesture; and that
those external circumstances should be added which are
necessary to give the hearers a clear idea of what is going
forward. Moreover, these representatives of the creatures
of his imagination must appear in the costume belonging to
their assumed rank, and to their age and country; partly
for the sake of greater resemblance, and partly because,
even in dress, there is something characteristic. Lastly, he
must see them placed in a locality, which, in some degree,
resembles that where, according to his fable, the action took
place, because this also contributes to the resemblance : he
places them, i. e., on a scene. All this brings us to the idea.
of the theatre. It is evident that the very form of dramatie
poetry, that is, the exhibition of an action by dialogue
without the aid of narrative, implies the theatre as its neces-
sary complement. We allow that there are dramatic works
which were not originally designed for the stage, and not cal-
culated to produce any great effect there, which nevertheless
afford great pleasure in the perusal. I am, however, very
much inclined to doubt whether they would produce the same
strong impressicn, with which they affect us, upon a person
who had never seen or heard a description of a theatre. In
reading dramatic works, we are accustomed ourselves to
supply the representation.
The invention of dramatic art, and of the theatre, seems a
very obvious and natural one. Man has a great disposition
to mimicry; when he enters vividly into the situation, senti-
ments, and passions of others, he involuntarily puts on a resem-
blance to them in his gestures. Children are perpetually going
out of themselves; it is one of their chief amusements to repre-
sent those grown people whom they have had an opportunity
of observing, or whatever strikes their fancy; and with the
happy pliancy of their imagination, they can exhibit all the
characteristics of any dignity they may choose to assume, be
it that of a father, a schoolmaster, or a king. But one step
more was requisite for the invention of the drama, namely,
to separate and extract the mimetic elements from the sepa-
rate parts of social life, and to present them to itself again
collectively in one mass; yet in many nations it has not been
taken. In the very minute description of ancient Egyp.
VIEW OE THE THEATRES OE A LL NATIONS. 33
given by Herodotus and otherwriters, I do not recollect ob-
serving the smallest trace of it. The Etruscans, on the con-
trary, who in many respects resembled the Egyptians, had
theatrical representations; and what is singular enough,
the Etruscan name for an actor histrio, is preservedin living
languages even to the present day. The Arabians and Per-
sians, though possessed of a rich poetical literature, are
unacquainted with the drama. It was the same with Europe
in the Middle Ages. On the introduction of Christianity, the
plays handed down from the Greeks and Romans were set
aside, partly because they had reference to heathen ideas, and
partly because they had degenerated into the most shameless
immorality; nor were they again revived till after the lapse
of nearly a thousand years. Even in the fourteenth century,
in that complete picture which Boccacio gives us of the exist-
ing frame of society, we do not find the smallest trace of plays.
In place of them they had simply their conteurs, menestriers,
jongleurs. On the other hand we are by no means entitled to
assume that the invention of the drama, was made once for all
in the world, to be afterwards borrowed by one people from an-
other. The English circumnavigators tell us, that among the
islanders of the South Seas, who in every mental qualifica-
tion and acquirement are at the lowest grade of civilization,
they yet observed a rude drama in which a common incident
in life was imitated for the sake of diversion. And to pass
to the other extremity of the world, among the Indians,
whose social institutions and mental cultivation descend un-
questionably from a remote antiquity, plays were known long
before they could have experienced any foreign influence. It
haslately been made known to Europe that they possess a rich
dramatic literature, which goes backward through nearly two
thousand years. The only specimen of their plays (nataks)
hitherto known to us in the delightful Sakontala, which, not-
withstanding the foreign colouring ofits native climate, bears
in its general structure such a striking resemblance to our
own romantic drama, that we might be inclined to suspect we
owe this resemblance to the predilection for Shakspeare en-
tertained by the English translator (Sir William Jones), if his
fidelity were not attested by other learned orientalists. The
drama, indeed, seems to have been a favourite amusement of
the Native Princes; and to owe to this circumstance that
C
E4 TIIIE STAGE INDIA –CHINA –ROME–GREECE-
tone of refined society which prevails in it. Uggargini
(Oude ) is specially named as a seat of this art. Under the
Mahommedan rulers it naturally fell into decay: the national
tongue was strange to them, Persian being the language of
the court; and moreover, the mythology which was so inti-
mately interwoven with poetry was irreconcilable with their
religious notions. Generally, indeed, we know of no Mahom-
medan nation that has accomplished any thing in dramatic
poetry, or even had any notion of it. The Chinese again have
their standing national theatre, standing perhaps in every
sense of the word; and I do not doubt, that in the establish-
ment of arbitrary rules, and the delicate observance of insig-
nificant conventionalities, they leave the most correct Euro-
peans very far behind them. When the new European stage
sprung up in the fifteenth century, with its allegorical and
religious pieces called Moralities and Mysteries, its rise was
uninfluenced by the ancient dramatists, who did not come
into circulation till some time afterwards. In those rude
beginnings lay the germ of the romantic drama, as a peculiar
invention.
In this wide diffusion of theatrical entertainments, the
great difference in dramatic talent which subsists between
nations equally distinguished for intellect, is something remark-
able; so that theatrical talent would seem to be a peculiar
quality, essentially distinct from the poetical gift in general.
We do not wonder at the contrast in this respect between the
Greeks and the Romans, for the Greeks were altogether a
nation of artists, and the Romans a practical people. Among
the latter the fine arts were introduced as a corrupting article
of luxury, both betokening and accelerating the degeneracy
of the times. They carried this luxury so far with respect to
the theatre itself, that the perfection in essentials was sacri-
ficed to the accessories of embellishment. Even among the
Greeks dramatic talent, was far from universal. The theatre
was invented in Athens, and in Athens alone was it brought
to perfection. The Doric dramas of Epicharmus form only a
slight exception to the truth of this remark. All the great
creative dramatists of the Greeks were born in Attica, and
formed their style in Athens. Widely as the Grecian race
was spread, successfully as everywhere almost it cultivated
the fine arts, yet beyond the bounds of Attica it was content
TDIE STAGE: SPAIN–PORTUGAL–ITALY–GERMANY. 35
to admire, without venturing to rival, the productions of the
Athenian stage.
Equally remarkable is the difference in this respect be-
tween the Spaniards and their neighhours the Portuguese,
though related to them both by descent and by language.
The Spaniards possess a dramatic literature of inexhaustible
wealth; in fertility their dramatists resemble the Greeks,
among whom more than a hundred pieces can frequently be
assigned by name to a single author. Whatever judgment
may be pronounced on them in other respects, the praise of
invention has never yet been denied to them, their claim to
this has in fact been but too well established, since Italian,
French, and English writers have all availed themselves of
the ingenious inventions of the Spaniards, and often without
acknowledging the source from which they derived them.
The Portuguese, on the other hand, while in the other
branches of poetry they rival the Spaniards, have in this
department accomplished hardly anything, and have never
even possessed a national theatre; visited from time to time
by strolling players from Spain, they chose rather to listen
to a foreign dialect, which, without previous study, they could
not perfectly understand, than to invent, or even to translate
and imitate, for themselves.
Of the many talents for art and literature displayed by
the Italians, the dramatic is by no means pre-eminent, and
this defect they seem to have inherited from the Romans, in
the same manner as their great talent for mimicry and buf-
foonery goes back to the most ancient times. The extempo-
rary compositions called Fabulae A tellanae, the only original
and national form of the Roman drama, in respect of plan,
were not perhaps more perfect than the so-called Commedia
dell' Arte, in which, the parts being fixed and invariable, the
dialogue is extemporised by masked actors. In the ancient
Saturnalia we have probably the germ of the present carnival,
which is entirely an Italian invention. The Opera and the
Ballet were also tho isve"tion of the Italians: two species of
theatrical amusement, in which the dramatic interest is
entirely subordinate to music and dancing.
If the German mind has not develoved itself in the drama
with the same fulness and ease as in other departments of lite-
rature, this defect is perhaps to be accounted for by the pecu-
C 2
Z6 THEATRTCAL EFFECT.
liar character of the nation. The Germans are a speculative
people; in other words, they wish to discover by reflection
and meditation, the principle of whatever they engage in. On
that very account they are not sufficiently practical; for if
we wish to act with skill and determination, we must make
up our minds that we have somehow or other become masters
of our subject, and not be perpetually recurring to an exami-
nation of the theory on which it rests; we must, as it were,
have settled down and contented ourselves with a certain
partial apprehension of the idea. But now in the invention
and conduct of a drama, the practical spirit must prevail: the
dramatic poet is not allowed to dream away under his inspi-
ration, he must take the straightest road to his end; but the
Germans are only too apt to lose sight of the object in
the course of their way to it. Besides, in the drama, the
nationality does usually, nay, must show itself in the most
marked manner, and the national character of the Germans is
modest and retiring: it loves not to make a noisy display of
itself; and the noble endeavour to become acquainted with,
and to appropriate to itself whatever is excellent in others,
is not seldom accompanied with an undervaluing of its
own worth. For these reasons the German stage has
often, in form and matter, been more than duly affected
by foreign influence. Not indeed that the Germans propose
to themselves no higher object than the mere passive repeti-
tion of the Grecian, the French, the Spanish, or the English
theatre; but, as it appears to me, they are in search of a more
perfect form, which, excluding all that is merely local or tem-
porary, may combine whatever is truly poetical in all these
theatres. In the matter, however, the German national fea-
tures ought certainly to predominate.
After this rapid sketch of what may be called the map of
dramatic literature, we return to the examination of its fun-
damental ideas. Since, as we have already shown, visible
representation is essential to the very form of the drama; a.
dramatic work may always be regarded from a double point
of view,–how far it is poetical, and how far it is theatrical.
The two are by no means inseparable. Let not, however, the
expression poetical be misunderstood: I am not now speaking
of the versification and the ornaments of language; these,
wº nen not animated by some higher excellence, are the least
AUTHORS AND PLAYERS : THEIR SELF-LOVE. 37
effective on the stage; but I speak of the poetry in the spirit
and design of a piece; and this may exist in as high a degree
when the drama, is written in prose as in verse. What is it,
then, that makes a drama, poetical ? The very same, assur-
edly, that makes other works so. It must in the first
place be a connected whole, complete and satisfactory within
itself. But this is merely the negative definition of a work
of art, by which it is distinguished from the phenomena ot
nature, which run into each other, and do not possess in them-
selves a complete and independent existence. To be poetical
it is necessary that a composition should be a mirror of ideas,
that is, thoughts and feelings which in their character are
necessary and eternally true, and soar above this earthly life,
and also that it should exhibit them embodied before us.
What the ideas are, which in this view are essential to
the different departments of the drama, will hereafter be the
subject of our investigation. We shall also, on the other hand,
show that without them a drama becomes altogether prosaic
and empirical, that is to say, patched together by the under-
standing out of the observations it has gathered from literal
reality.
But how does a dramatic work become theatrical, or fitted
to appear with advantage on the stage ? In single instances
it is often difficult to determine whether a work possesses
such a property or not. It is indeed frequently the subject of
great controversy, especially when ühe self-love of authors and
actors comes into collision; each shifts the blame of failure
on the other, and those who advocate the cause of the author
appeal to an imaginary perfection of the histrionic art, and
complain of the insufficiency of the existing means for its
realization. But in general the answer to this question is by
no means so difficult. The object proposed is to produce an
impression on an assembled multitude, to rivet their attention,
and to excite their interest and sympathy. In this respect the
poet's occupation coincides with that of the orator. How then
does the latter attain his end? By perspicuity, rapidity, and
energy. Whatever exceeds the ordinary measure of patience
or comprehension he must diligently avoid. Moreover, when a.
number of men are assembled together, they mutually distract
each other's attention whenever their eyes and ears are not
dirawn to a common object without and beyond themselves.
Z8 ART OF THE DRAMATIC POET,
Hence the dramatic poet, as well as the orator, must from
the very commencement, by strong impressions, transport his
hearers out of themselves, and, as it were, take bodily pos-
session of their attention. There is a species of poetry which
gently stirs a mind attuned to solitary contemplation, as soft
breezes elicit melody from the AEolian harp. However excel-
lent this poetry may be in itself, without some other accom-
paniments its tones would be lost on the stage. The melting
harmonica is not calculated to regulate the march of an army,
and kindle its military enthusiasm. For this we must have
piercing instruments, but above all a strongly-marked rhythm,
to quicken the pulsation and give a more rapid movement to
the animal spirits. The grand repuisite in a drama, is to make
this rhythm perceptible in the onward progress of the action.
When this has once been effected, the poet may all the sooner
halt in his rapid career, and indulge the bent of his own
genius. There arepoints, when the most elaborate and polished
style, the most enthusiastic lyrics, the most profound thoughts
and remote allusions, the smartest coruscations of wit, and the
most dazzling flights of a sportive or ethereal fancy, are all in
their place, and when the willing audience, even those who
cannot entirely comprehend them, follow the whole with
a greedy ear, like music in unison with their feelings. Here
the poet's great art lies in availing himself of the effect of
contrasts, which enable him at one time to produce calm
repose, profound contemplation, and even the self-abandoned
indifference of exhaustion, or at another, the most tumultuous
emotions, the most violent storm of the passions. With respect
to theatrical fitness, however, it must not be forgotten that
much must always depend on the capacities and humours of
the audience, and, consequently, on the national character in
general, and the particular degree of mental culture. Of all
kinds of poetry the dramatic is, in a certain sense, the most
secular; for, issuing from the stillness of an inspired mind, it
yet fears not to exhibit itself in the midst of the noise and
tumult of social life. The dramatic poet is, more than any
other, obliged to court external favour and loud applause.
But of course it is only in appearance that he thus lowers
himself to his hearers; while, in reality, he is elevating them
to himself.
In thus producing an impression on an assembled multitude
DRAMATIC INSPIRATION–EFFECT. 39
the following circumstance deserves to be weighed, in order
to ascertain the whole amount of its importance. In ordinary
intercourse men exhibit only the outward man to each other.
They are withheld by mistrust or indifference from allowing
others to look into what passes within them; and to speak
with any thing like emotion or agitation of that which is
nearest our heart is considered unsuitable to the tone of
polished society. The orator and the dramatist find means
to break through these barriers of conventional reserve.
While they transport their hearers into such lively emo-
tions that the outward signs thereof break forth involun-
tarily, every man perceives those around him to be affected
in the same manner and degree, and those who before were
strangers to one another, become in a moment intimately
acquainted. The tears which the dramatist or the orator
compels them to shed for calumniated innocence or dying
heroism, make friends and brothers of them all. Almost
inconceivable is the power of a visible communion of numbers
to give intensity to those feelings of the heart which usually
retire into privacy, or only open themselves to the con-
fidence of friendship. The faith in the validity of such
emotions becomes irrefragable from its diffusion; we feel
ourselves strong among so many associates, and all hearts
and minds flow together in one great and irresistible stream.
On this very account the privilege of influencing an assem-
bled crowd is exposed to most dangerous abuses. As one
may disinterestedly animate them, for the noblest and best
of purposes, so another may entangle them in the deceit-
ful meshes of sophistry, and dazzle them by the glare of a
false magnanimity, whose vainglorious crimes may be painted
as virtues and even as sacrifices. Beneath the delightful
charms of oratory and poetry, the poison steals imperceptibly
into ear and heart. Above all others must the comic poet
(seeing that his very occupation keeps him always on the
slippery brink of this precipice,) take heed, lest he afford an
opportunity for the lower and baser parts of human nature
to display themselves without restraint. When the sense of
shame which ordinarily keeps these baser propensities within
the bounds of decency, is once weakened by the sight of others
participation in them, our inherent sympathy with what is
vile will soon break out into the most unbridled licentiousness.
40 SPIRIT AND GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A DRAMA.
The powerful nature of such an engine for either good or
bad purposes has in all times justly drawn the attention of
the legislature to the drama. Many regulations have been
devised by different governments, to render it subservient to
their views and to guard against its abuse. The great diffi-
culty is to combine such a degree of freedom as is necessary for
the production of works of excellence, with the precautions
demanded by the customs and institutions of the different states.
In Athens the theatre enjoyed up to its maturity, under the pa-
tronage of religion, almost unlimited freedom, and the public
moralitypreserved it for a time from degeneracy. The comedies
of Aristophanes, which with our views and habits appear to us
so intolerably licentious, and in which the senate and the people
itself are unmercifully turned to ridicule, were the seal of
Athenian freedom. To meet this abuse, Plato, who lived in the
very same Athens, and either witnessed or foresaw the decline
of art, proposed the entire banishment of dramatic poets from
his ideal republic. Few states, however, have conceived it
necessary to subscribe to this severe sentence of condemnation;
but few also have thought proper to leave the theatre to
itself without any superintendence. In many Christian coun-
tries the dramatic art has been honoured by being made sub-
servient to religion, in the popular treatment and exhibition
of religious subjects; and in Spain more especially compe-
tition in this department has given birth to many works which
neither devotion nor poetry will disown. In other states and
under other circumstances this has been thought both objec-
tionable and inexpedient. Wherever, however, the subse-
quent responsibility of the poet and actor has been thought
insufficient, and it has been deemed advisable to submit every
piece before its appearance on the stage to a previous censor-
ship, it has been generally found to fail in the very point
which is of the greatest importance: namely, the spirit and
general impression of a play. From the nature of the dra-
matic art, the poet must put into the mouths of his characters
much of which he does not himself approve, while with respect
to his own sentiments he claims to be judged by the spiritand
connexion of the whole. It may again happen that a piece is
perfectly inoffensive in its single speeches, and defies all cen-
sorship, while as a whole it is calculated to produce the
most pernicious effect. We have in our own times seen but
CHAR MS OF THIE VORAMA. A 1
too many plays favourably received throughout Europe, over-
flowing with ebullitions of good-heartedness and traits of mag-
nanimity, and in which, notwithstanding, a keener eye cannot
fail to detect the hidden purpose of the writer to sap the
foundations of moral principle, and the veneration for what-
ever ought to be held sacred by man; while all this senti-
mentality is only to bribe to his purpose the effeminate soft-
heartedness of his contemporaries“. On the other hand, if
any person were to undertake the moral vindication of poor
Aristophanes, who has such a bad name, and whose licentious-
ness in particular passages, is to our ideas quite intolerable,
he will find good grounds for his defence in the general object
of his pieces, in which he at least displays the sentiments of a
patriotic citizen.
The purport of these observations is to evince the import-
ance of the subject we are considering. The theatre, where
many arts are combined to produce a magical effect; where
the most lofty and profound poetry has for its interpreter the
most finished action, which is at once eloquence and an ani-
mated picture; while architecture contributes her splendid
decorations, and painting her perspective illusions, and the
aid of music is called in to attune the mind, or to heighten by
its strains the emotions which already agitate it; the theatre,
in short, where the whole of the social and artistic enlighten-
ment, which a nation possesses, the fruit of many centuries
of continued exertion, are brought into play within the repre-
sentation of a few short hours, has an extraordinary charm
for every age, sex, and rank, and has ever been the favourite
amusement of every cultivated people. Here, princes, states-
men, and generals, behold the great events of past times,
similar to those in which they themselves are called upon to
act, laid open in their inmost springs and motives; here, too,
the philosopher finds subject for profoundestreflection on the
nature and constitution of man; with curious eye the artist
follows the groups which pass rapidly before him, and
from them impresses on his fancy the germ of many a future
picture; the susceptible youth opens his heart to every ele-
Lating feeling; age becomes young again in recollection;
even childhood sits with anxious expectation before the gaudy
The author it is supposed alludes to Kotzebue.–TRANs-
42 CIIARMS OF THE DRAMA .
curtain, which is soon to be drawn up with ts rustling
Sound, and to display to it so many unknown wonders: all
alike are diverted, all exhilarated, and all feel themselves for
a time raised above the daily cares, the troubles, and the
Sorrows of life. As the drama, with the arts which are sub-
servient to it, may, from neglect and the mutual contempt of
artists and the public, so far degenerate, as to become nothing
better than a trivial and stupid amusement, and even a
downright waste of time, we conceive that we are attempting
Something more than a passing entertainment, if we propose
to enter on a consideration of the works produced by the
most distinguished nations in their most brilliant periods, and
to institute an inquiry into the means of ennobling and per-
ſecting so important an azt.
PRINC1PAL SPECIES OF THE DRAMA. 43
LECTURE III.
Essence of Tragedy and Comedy-Earnestness and Sport–How far it
is possible to become acquainted with the Ancients without knowing
Original Languages–Winkelmann.
THE importance of our subject is, I think, fully proved. Let
us now enter upon a brief consideration of the two kinds into.
which all dramatic poetry is divided, the tragic and comic,
and examine the meaning and import of each.
The three principal kinds of poetryin general are the epic,
the lyric, and the dramatic. All the other subordinate
species are either derived from these, or formed by com-
bination from them. If we would consider these three leading
kinds in their purity, we must go back to the forms in which
they appeared among the Greeks. For the theory of poeti-
cal art is most conveniently illustrated by the history of Gre-
cian poetry; for the latter is well entitled to the appellation
of systematical, since it furnishes for every independent idea
derived from experience the most distinct and precise manifes-
tation.
It is singular that epic and lyric poetry admit not of any
such precise division into two opposite species, as the dramatic
does. The ludicrous epopee has, it is true, been styled a
peculiar species, but it is only an accidental variety, a mere
parody of the epos, and consists in applying its solemn staid-
ness of development, which seems only suitable to great objects,
to trifling and insignificant events. In lyric poetry there are
only intervals and gradations between the song, the ode, and
the elegy, but no proper contrast.
The spirit of epic poetry, as we recognise it in its father,
Homer, is clear self-possession. The epos is the calm quiet
representation of an action in progress. The poet relates
joyful as well as mournful events, but he relates them with
equanimity, and considers them as already past, and at a
certain remoteness from our minds. «.
The lyric poem is the musical expression of mental emo-
i4 ESSENCE OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.
tions by language. The essence of musical feeling consists
in this, that we endeavour with complacency to dwell on, and
even to perpetuate in our souls, a joyful or painful emotion.
The feeling must consequently be already so far mitigated
as not to impel us by the desire of its pleasure or the dread
of its pain, to tear ourselves from it, but such as to allow
us, unconcerned at the fluctuations of feeling which time
produces, to dwell upon and be absorbed in a single moment
of existence.
The dramatic poet, as well as the epic, represents external
events, but he represents them as real and present. In common
with the lyric poet he also claims our mental participation, but
not in the same calm composedness; the feeling of joy and sor-
row which the dramatist excites is more immediate and vehe-
ment. He calls forth all the emotions which the sight of similar
deeds and fortunes of living men would elicit, and it is only
the total sum of the impression which he produces that he
ultimately resolves these conflicting emotions into a harmonious
tone of feeling. As he stands in such close proximity to real
Rife, and endeavours to endue his own imaginary creations with
vitality, the equanimity of the epic poet would in him be in-
difference; he must decidedly take part with one or other of
the leading views of human life, and constrain his audience
also to participate in the same feeling.
To employ simpler and more intelligible language: the
tragic and comic bear the same relation to one another as
earnest and sport. Every man, from his own experience, is
acquainted with both these states of mind; but to determine
their essence and their source would demand deep philosophi-
cal investigation. Both, indeed, bear the stamp of our com-
imon nature; but earnestness belongs more to its moral, and
mirth to its animal part. The creatures destitute of reason
are incapable either of earnest or of sport. Animals seem
indeed at times to labour as if they were earnestly intent upon
some aim, and as if they made the present moment subordinate
to the future; at other times they seem to sport, that is, they
give themselves up without object or purpose to the pleasure
of existence: but they do not possess consciousness, which alone
can entitle these two conditions to the names of earnest and
sport. Man alone, of all the animals with which we are
acquainted, is capable of looking back towards the past, and
TRAGIC POETRY-ITS ORIGIN. 45
forward into futurity; and he has to purchase the enjoyment
of this noble privilege at a dear rate. Earnestness, in the
most extensive signification, is the direction of our mental
powers to some aim. But as soon as we begin to call ourselves
to account for our actions, reason compels us to fix this aim
higher and higher, till we come at last to the highest end of
our existence: and here that longing for the infinite which is
inherent in our being, is baffled by the limits of our finite exist-
ence. All that we do, all that we effect, is vain and perish-
able; death stands everywhere in the background, and to it
every well or ill-spent moment brings us nearer and closer;
and even when a man has been so singularly fortunate as to
reach the utmost term of life without any grievous calamity,
the inevitable doom still awaits him to leave or to be left by all
that is most dear to him on earth. There is no bond of love
without a separation, no enjoyment without the grief of losing
it. When, however, we contemplate the relations of our ex-
istence to the extreme limit of possibilities: when we reflect
on its entire dependence on a chain of causes and effects,
stretching beyond our ken: when we consider how weak and
helpless, and doomed to struggle against the enormous powers
of nature, and conflicting appetites, we are cast on the shores
of an unknown world, as it were, shipwrecked at our very
birth; how we are subject to all kinds of errors and deceptions,
any one of which may be our ruin; that in our passions we
cherish an enemy in our bosoms; how every moment demands
from us, in the name of the most sacred duties, the sacrifice of
our dearestinclinations, and how at one blow we may be robbed
of all that we have acquired with much toil and difficulty; that
with every accession to our stores, the risk of loss is propor-
tionately increased, and we are only the more exposed to the
malice of hostile fortune: when we think upon all this, every
heart which is not dead to feeling must be overpowered by an
inexpressible melancholy, for which there is no other counter-
poise than the consciousness of a vocation transcending the
limits of this earthly life. This is the tragic tone of mind;
and when the thought of the possible issues out of the mindas
a living reality, when this tone pervadesandanimates a visible
representation of the most striking instances of violent revolu-
tions in a man's fortunes, either prostrating his mental energies
or calling forth the most heroic endurance-then the resultis
46 THIE COMIC TONE : SPORT.
Z'ragc Poetry. We thus see how this kind of poetry has its
foundation in our nature, while to a certain extent we have
also answered the question, why we are fond of such mourn-
ful representations, and even find something consoling and
elevating in them ? This tone of mind we have described is
inseparable from strong feeling; and although poetry cannot
remove these internal dissonances, she must at least endeavour
to effect an ideal reconciliation of them.
As earnestness, in the highest degree, is the essence of
tragic representation; so issport of the comic. The disposi-
tion to mirth is a forgetfulness of all gloomy considerations in
the pleasant feeling of present happiness. We are then in-
clined to view everything in a sportive light, and to allow
nothing to disturb or ruffle our minds. The imperfections
and the irregularities of men are no longer an object of dislike
and compassion, but serve, by their strange inconsistencies, to
entertain the understanding and to amuse the fancy. The
comic poet must therefore carefully abstain from whatever is
calculated to excite moral indignation at the conduct, or sym-
pathy with the situations of his personages, because this would
inevitably bring us back again into earnestness. Hemust paint
their irregularities as springing out of the predominance of the
animal part of their nature, and the incidents which befal
them as merely ludicrous distresses, which will be attended
with no fatal consequences. This is uniformly what takes
place in what we call Comedy, in which, however, there is
still a mixture of seriousness, as I shall show in the sequel.
The oldest comedy of the Greeks was, however, entirely
sportive, and in that respect formed the most complete con-
trast to their tragedy. Not only were the characters and
situations of individuals worked up into a comic picture of
real life, but the whole frame of society, the constitution,
nature, and the gods, were all fantastically painted in the most
ridiculous and laughable colours.
When we have formed in this manner a pure idea of the
tragic and comic, as exhibited to us in Grecian examples, we
shall then be enabled to analyze the various corruptions of
both, which the moderns have invented, to discriminate their
incongruous additions, and to separate their several ingre-
dients.
In the history of poetry and the fine arts among the Greeks,
STUDY OF THE GRECIAN LANGUAGE. 47
their development was subject to an invariable law. Every-
thing heterogeneous was first excluded, and then all homo-
geneous elements were combined, and each being perfected in
itself, at last elevated into an independent and harmonious
unity. Hence with them each species is confined within its
natural boundaries, and the different styles distinctly marked.
In beginning, therefore, with the history of the Grecian art
and poetry, we are not merely observing the order of time,
but also the order of ideas.
In the case of the majority of my hearers, I can hardly
presume upon a direct acquaintance with the Greeks, derived
from the study of their poetical works in the original lan-
guage. Translations in prose, or even in verse, in which
they are but dressed up again in the modern taste, can afford
no true idea of the Grecian drama. True and faithful trans-
lations, which endeavour in expression and versification to
rise to the height of the original, have as yet been attempted
only in Germany. But although our language is extremely
flexible, and in many respects resembling the Greek, it is after
all a battle with unequal weapons; and stiffness and harshness
not unfrequently take the place of the easy sweetness of the
Greek. But we are even far from having yet done all that can
perhaps be accomplished: I know of no translation of a Greek
tragedian deserving of unqualified praise. But even suppos-
ing the translation as perfect as possible, and deviating very
slightly from the original, the reader who is unacquainted
with the other works of the Greeks, will be perpetually dis-
turbed by the foreign nature of the subject, by national pecu-
diarities and numerous allusions (which cannot be understood
without some scholarship), and thus unable to comprehend
particular parts, he will be prevented from forming a clear
idea of the whole. So long as we have to struggle with diffi-
culties it is impossible to have any true enjoyment of a work of
art. To feel the ancients as we ought, we must have become
in some degree one of themselves, and breathed as it were
the Grecian air.
What is the best means of becoming imbued with the spirit
of the Greeks, without a knowledge of their language? I
answer without hesitation,–the study of the antique; and if
this is not always possible through the originals, yet, by
means of casts, it is to a certain extent within the power of

48 TRANSLATIONS–STUDY OF THE ANTIQUE.
every man. These models of the human form require ne
interpretation; their elevated character is imperishable, and
will always be recognized through all vicissitudes of time,
and in every region under heaven, wherever there exists a
noble race of men akin to the Grecian (as the European un-
doubtedly is), and wherever the unkindness of nature has
not degraded the human features too much below the pure
standard, and, by habituating them to their own deformity,
rendered them insensible to genuine corporeal beauty. Re-
specting the inimitable perfection of the antique in its few
remains of a first-rate character, there is but One voice
throughout the whole of civilized Europe; and if ever their
merit was called in question, it was in times when the modern
arts of design had sunk to the lowest depths of mannerism.
Not only all intelligent artists, but all men of any degree of
taste, bow with enthusiastic adoration before the masterly
productions of ancient sculpture.
The best guide to conduct us to this sanctuary of the beau-
tiful, with deep and thoughtful contemplation, is the History
of Art by our immortal Winkelmann. In the description
of particular works it no doubt leaves much to be desired;
nay, it even abounds in grave errors, but no man has so deeply
penetrated into the innermost spirit of Grecian art. Winkel-
mann transformed himself completely into an ancient, and
seemingly lived in his own century, unmoved by its spirit
and influences.
The immediate subject of his work is the plastic arts, but it
contains also many important hints concerning other branches
of Grecian civilisation, and is very useful as a preparation for
the understanding of their poetry, and especially their dramatic
poetry. As the latter was designed for visible representation
before spectators, whose eye must have been as difficult to
please on the stage as elsewhere, we have no better means of
feeling the whole dignity of their tragic exhibitions, and of
giving it a sort of theatrical animation, than to keep these
forms of gods and heroes ever present to our fancy. The
assertion may appear somewhat strange at present, but I
hope in the sequel to demonstrate its justice: it is only before
„he groupes of Niobe or Laocoon that we first enter into the
spirit of the tragedies of Sophocles.
We are yet in want of a work in which the entire poetie,
FRENCH CRITICISM. 49
artistic, scientific, and social culture of the Greeks should be
painted as one grand and harmonious whole, as a true work of
nature, prevaded by the most wondrous symmetry and propor-
tion of the parts, and traced through its connected development
in the same spirit which Winkelmann has executed in the part
which he attempted. An attempt has indeed been made in
a popular work, which is in everybody's hands, I mean the
Zºravels of the Younger Amacharsis. This book is valuable for
its learning, and may be very useful in diffusing a knowledge
of antiquities; but, without censuring the error of the dress
in which it is exhibited, it betrays more good-will to do
justice to the Greeks, than ability to enter deeply into their
spirit. In this respect the work is in many points superficial,
and even disfigured with modern views. It is not the travels
of a young Scythian, but of an old Parisian.
The superior excellence of the Greeks in the fine arts, as I
have already said, is the most universally acknowledged.
An enthusiasm for their literature is in a great measure con-
fined to the English and Germans, among whom also the
study of the Grecian language is the most zealously prosecuted.
It is singular that the French critics of all others, they
who so zealously acknowledge the remains of the theoretical
writings of the ancients on literature, Aristotle, Horace,
Quinctilian, &c., as infallible standards of taste, should yet
distinguish themselves by the contemptuous and irreverent
manner in which they speak of their poetical compositions,
and especially of their dramatic literature. Look, for instance,
into a book very much read,–La Harpe's Cours de Littérature.
It contains many acute remarks on the French Theatre; but
whoever should think to learn the Greeks from it must
be very ill advised: the author was as deficient in a solid
knowledge of their literature as in a sense for appreciating it.
Voltaire, also, often speaks most unwarrantably on this sub-
ject: he elevates or lowers them at the suggestions of his
caprice, or according to the purpose of the moment to pro-
duce such or such an effect on the mind of the public.
I remember too to have read a cursory critique of Metas-
tasio's on the Greek tragedians, in which he treats them like
so many school-boys. Racine is much more modest, and
cannot be in any manner charged with this sort of pre-
sumption: even because he was the best acquainted of all of
I)
50 THE GRECIAN DRAMA,
them with the Greeks. It is easy to see into the motives of
these hostile critics. Their national and personal vanity
has much to do with the matter; conceiting themselves that
they have far surpassed the ancients, they venture to commit
such observations to the public, knowing that the works of
the ancient poets have come down to us in a dead language,
accessible only to the learned, without the animating accom-
paniment of recitation, music, ideal and truly plastic imper-
sonation, and scenic pomp; all which, in every respect worthy
of the poetry, was on the Athenian stage combined in such
wonderful harmony, that if only it could be represented to
our eye and ear, it would at once strike dumb the whole herd
of these noisy and interested critics. The ancient statues
require no commentary; they speak for themselves, and
everything like competition on the part of a modern artist
would be regarded as ridiculous pretension. In respect of
the theatre, they lay great stress on the infancy of the art;
and because these poets lived two thousand years before us,
they conclude that we must have made great progress since.
In this way poor AEschylus especially is got rid of. But in
sober truth, if this was the infancy of dramatic art, it was
the infancy of a Hercules, who strangled serpents in his
Cradle. n
I have already expressed my opinion on that blind par-
tiality for the ancients, which regards their excellence as a
frigid faultlessness, and which exhibits them as models, in
such a way as to put a stop to everything like improvement,
and reduce us to abandon the exercise of art as altogether
fruitless. I, for my part, am disposed to believe that poetry,
as the fervid expression of our whole being, must assume new
and peculiar forms in different ages. Nevertheless, I cherish
an enthusiastic veneration for the Greeks, as a people endowed,
by the peculiar favour of Nature, with the most perfect genius
for art; in the consciousness of which, they gave to all the
nations with which they were acquainted, compared with
themselves, the appellation of barbarians,–an appellation in
the use of which they were in some degree justified. I would
Iot wish to imitate certain travellers, who, on returning from
a country which their readers cannot easily visit, give such
exaggerated accounts of it, and relate so many marvels, as to
hazard their own character for veracity. I shall rather en-
TRAGEDY-OLD AND NEW COMEDY. 5
deavour to characterize them as they appear to me after
sedulous and repeated study, without concealing their defects,
and to bring a living picture of the Grecian stage before the
eyes of my hearers.
We shall treat first of the Tragedy of the Greeks, then of
their Old Comedy, and lastly of the Wew Comedy which arose
out of it. º
The same theatrical accompaniments were common to all
the three kinds. We must, therefore, give a short preliminary
view of the theatre, its architecture and decorations, that we
may have a distinct idea of their representation.
The histrionic art of the ancients had also many peculiar-
ities: the use of masks, for example, although these were
quite different in tragedy and comedy; in the former, ideal,
and in the latter, at least in the Old Comedy, somewhat cari-
catured.
In tragedy, we shall first consider what constituted its most
distinctive peculiarity among the ancients: the ideality of the
representation, the prevailing idea of destiny, and the chorus;
and we shall lastly treat of their mythology, as the materials
of tragic poetry. We shall then proceed to characterize, in
the three tragedians of whom alone entire works still remain,
the different styles–that is, the necessary epochs in the his-
tory of the tragic art.
D ?
52 STRUCTURE OF THE GRECIAN STAGE.
LECTURE IV.
Structure of the Stage among the Greeks–Their Acting–Use of Masks –
False comparison of Ancient Tragedy to the Opera-Tragical Lyric
Poetry.
WHEN we hear the word “theatre,” we naturally think of
what with us bears the same name; and yet nothing can be
more different from our theatre, in its entire structure, than
that of the Greeks. If in reading the Grecian pieces we
associate our own stage with them, the light in which we
shall view them must be false in every respect.
The leading authority on this subject, and one, too, whose
statements are mathematically accurate, is Vitruvius, who
also distinctly points out the great difference between the
Greek and Roman theatres. But these and similar passages
of the ancient writers have been most incorrectly interpreted
by architects unacquainted with the ancient dramatists*; and
philologists, in their turn, from ignorance of architecture,
have also egregiously erred. The ancient dramatists are
still, therefore, greatly in want of that illustration which a
right understanding of their scenic arrangements is calculated
to throw upon them. In many tragedies I think that. I have
a tolerably clear notion of the matter; but others, again, pre-
sent difficulties which are not easily solved. But it is in
figuring the representation of Aristophanes comedies that I
find myself most at a loss: the ingenious poet must have
brought his wonderful inventions before the eyes of his audi-
ence in a manner equally bold and astonishing. Even Bar-
thélemy's description of the Grecian stage is not a little con-
fused, and his subjoined plan extremely incorrect; where he
attempts to describe the acting of a play, the Antigone or the
Ajax, for instance, he goes altogether wrong. For this
* We have a remarkable instance of this in the pretended ancient
theatre of Palladio, at Vicenza. Herculaneum, it is true, had not then
been discovered; and it is difficult to understand the ruins of the ancient
theatre without having seen a complete one.
THEATRES OF TFIE GREEKS. 53
reason the following explanation will appear the less super-
fluous“.
The theatres of the Greeks were quite open above, and
their dramas were always acted in day, and beneath the
canopy of heaven. The Romans, indeed, at an after period,
may have screened the audience, by an awning, from the sun;
but luxury was scarcely ever carried so far by the Greeks. Such
a state of things appears very uncomfortable to us; but the
Greeks had nothing of effeminacy about them; and we must
not forget, too, the mildness of their climate. When a storm
or a shower came on, the play was of course interrupted,
and the spectators sought shelter in the lofty colonnade
which ran behind their seats ; but they were willing rather
to put up with such occasional inconveniences, than, by
shutting themselves up in a close and crowded house, en-
tirely to forfeit the sunny brightness of a religious solem-
nity–for such, in fact, their plays were†. To have covered
in the scene itself, and imprisoned gods and heroes in a
dark and gloomy apartment, artificially lighted up, would
have appeared still more ridiculous to them. An action
which so gloriously attested their affinity with heaven, could
fitly be exhibited only beneath the free heaven, and, as it
were, under the very eyes of the gods, for whom, according to
Seneca, the sight of a brave man struggling with adversity is
a suitable spectacle. With respect to the supposed inconve-
nience, which, according to the assertion of many modern
critics, hence accrued, compelling the poets always to lay the
scene of their pieces out of doors, and consequently often
forcing them to violate probability, it was very little felt by
Tragedy and the Older Comedy. The Greeks, like many
southern nations of the present day, lived much more in the
* I am partly indebted for them to the elucidations of a learned archi-
tect, M. Genelli, of Berlin, author of the ingenious Letters on Vitruvius.
We have compared several Greek tragedies with our interpretation of
Vitruvius’s description, and endeavoured to figure to ourselves the manner
in which they were represented; and I afterwards found our ideas con-
firmed by an examination of the theatre of Herculaneum, and the two very
small ones at Pompeii.
† They carefully made choice of a beautiful situation. The theatre at
Tauromenium, at present Taormino, in Sicily, of which the ruins are still
visible, was, according to Munter’s description, situated in such a manner
that the audience had a view of Etna over the back-ground of the theatre.
54 THEATRES OF THE ANCIENTS.
open air than we do, and transacted many things in public
places which with us usually take place within doors.
Besides, the theatre did not represent the street, but a front
area belonging to the house, where the altar stood on which
sacrifices were offered to the household gods. Here, there-
fore, the women, notwithstanding the retired life they led
among the Greeks, even those who were unmarried, might
appear without any impropriety. Neither was it impossible
for them, if necessary, to give a view of the interior of the
house; and this was effected, as we shall presently see, by
means of the Encyclema.
But the principal ground of this practice was that pub-
licity which, according to the republican notion of the Greeks,
was essential to all grave and important transactions. This
was signified by the presence of the chorus, whose presence
during many secret transactions has been judged of according
to rules of propriety inapplicable to the country, and so most
undeservedly censured.
The theatres of the ancients were, in comparison with the
small scale of ours, of colossal magnitude, partly for the sake
of containing the whole of the people, with the concourse of
strangers who flocked to the festivals, and partly to corres-
pond with the majesty of the dramas represented in them,
which required to be seen at a respectful distance. The seats
of the spectators were formed by ascending steps which rose
round the semicircle of the orchestra, (called by us the pii,)
so that all could see with equal convenience. The diminution
of effect by distance was counteracted to the eye and ear by
artificial contrivances consisting in the employment of masks,
and of an apparatus for increasing the loudness of the voice,
and of the cothurnus to give additional stature. Vitruvius
speaks also of vehicles of sound, distributed throughout the
building ; but commentators are much at variance with
respect to their nature. In general it may be assumed, that
the theatres of the ancients were constructed on excellent
acoustic principles.
Even the lowest tier of the amphitheatre was raised con-
siderably above the orchestra, and opposite to it was the
stage, at an equal degree of elevation. The hollow semicircle
of the orchestra was unoccupied by spectators, and was designed
for another purpose. However, it was otherwise with the
SCENIC DECORATIONS- 55
Romans, though indeed the arrangement of their theatres
does not at present concern us.
The stage consisted of a strip which stretched from one
end of the building to the other, and of which the depth bore
little proportion to this breadth. This was called the logeum,
in Latin pulpitum, and the middle of it was the usual place
for the persons who spoke. Behind this middle part, the
scene went inwards in a quadrangular form, with less depth,
however, than breadth. The space thus enclosed was called
the proscenium. The front of the logeum towards the or-
chestra, was ornamented with pilasters and small statues
between them. The stage, erected on a foundation of stone-
work, was a wooden platform resting on rafters. The sur-
rounding appurtenances of the stage, together with the rooms
required for the machinery, were also of wood. The wall of
the building, directly opposite to the seats of the spectators,
was raised to a level with the uppermost tier.
The scenic decoration was contrived in such a manner, that
the principal and nearest object covered the background, and
the prospects of distance were given at the two sides; the
very reverse of the mode adopted by us. The latter arrange-
ment had also its rules: on the left, was the town to which
the palace, temple, or whatever occupied the middle, belonged;
on the right, the open country, landscape, mountains, sea-
coast, &c. The side-scenes were composed of triangles which
turned on a pivot beneath ; and in this manner the change of
scene was effected. According to an observation on Virgil,
by Servius, the change of scene was partly produced by
revolving, and partly by withdrawing. The former applies
to the lateral decorations, and the latter to the middle of the
background. The partition in the middle opened, disap-
peared at both sides, and exhibited to view a new picture.
But all the parts of the scene were not always changed at
the same time. In the back or central scene, it is probable,
that much which with us is only painted was given bodily.
If this represented a palace or temple, there was usually in
the proscenium an altar, which in the performance answered
a number of purposes.
The decoration was for the most part architectural, but
occasionally also a painted landscape, as of Caucasus in the
Prometheus, or in the Philoctetes, of the desert island of

56 SCENIC ARRANGEMENT.
Lemnos, and the rocks with its cavern. From a passage of
Plato it is clear, that the Greeks carried the illusions of
theatrical perspective much farther than, judging from some
wretched landscapes discovered in Herculaneum, we should
be disposed to allow.
In the back wall of the stage there was one main entrance,
and two side doors. It has been maintained, that from them
it might be discovered whether an actor played a principal or
under part, as in the first case he came in by the main
entrance, but in the second, entered from either of the sides.
But this should be understood with the proviso, that this
must have varied according to the nature of the piece. As
the middle scene was generally a palace, in which the prin-
cipal characters generally of royal descent resided, they
naturally came on the stage through the great door, while
the servants dwelt in the wings. But besides these three
entrances, which were directly opposite to the spectators,
and were real doors, with appropriate architectural decora-
tions, there were also four side entrances, to which the
naume of doors cannot properly apply: two, namely, on the
stage on the right and the left, towards the inner angles of the
proscenium, and two farther oft in the orchestra, also right
and left. The latter were intended properly for the chorus,
but were likewise not unfrequently used by the actors, who
in such cases ascended to the stage by one or other of the
double flight of steps which ran from the orchestra to the
middle of the logeum. The entering from the right or the
left of itself indicated the place from which the dramatic per-
sonages must be supposed to come. The situation of these
entrances serves to explain many passages in the ancient
dNamas, where the persons standing in the middle see some
one advancing, long before he approaches them.
Somewhere beneath the seats of the spectators, a flight of
stairs was constructed, which was called the Charonic, and
by which, unseen by the audience, the shadows of the de-
parted, ascended into the orchestra, and thence to the stage.
The furthermost brink of the logeum must sometimes have
represented the sea shore. Moreover the Greeks in general
skilfully availed themselves even of extra-scenic matters, and
made them subservient to the stage effect. Thus, I doubt not,
but that in the Eumenides the spectators were twice addressed
STAGE MACHINERY. - 57
es an assembled people; first, as the Greeks invited by the
Pythoness to consult the oracle; and a second time as the
Athenian multitude, when Pallas, by the herald, commands
silence during the trial about to commence. So too the
frequent appeals to heaven were undoubtedly addressed to
the real heaven; and when Electra on her first appearance
exclaims: “O holy light, and thou air co-expansive with
earth!“ she probably turned towards the actual sun ascend-
ing in the heavens. The whole of this procedure is highly
leserving of praise; and though modern critics have censured
the mixture of reality and imitation, as destructive of thea-
trical illusion, this only proves that they have misunderstood
the essence of the illusion which a work of art aims at pro-
ducing. If we are to be truly deceived by a picture, that is,
if we are to believe in the reality of the object which we see,
we must not perceive its limits, but look at it through an
opening; the frame at once declares it for a picture. Now
in stage-scenery we cannot avoid the use of architectural con-
trivances, productive of the same effect on dramatic repre-
sentation as frames on pictures. It is consequently much
better not to attempt to disguise this fact, but leaving this
kind of illusion for those cases where it can be advan-
tageously employed, to take it as a permitted licence occa-
sionally to step out of the limits of mere scenic decoration.
It was, generally speaking, a principle of the Greeks, with
respect to stage imitation, either to require a perfect repre-
sentation, and where this could not be accomplished, to be
satisfied with merely symbolical allusions.
The machinery for the descent of gods through the air, or
the withdrawing of men from the earth, was placed aloft
behind the walls of the two sides of the scene, and con-
sequently removed from the sight of the spectators. Even in
the time of AEschylus, great use was already made of it, as in
the Prometheus he not only brings Oceanus through the air
on a griffin, but also in a winged chariot introduces the whole
choir of ocean nymphs, at least fifteen in number. There
were also hollow places beneath the stage into which, when
necessary, the personages could disappear, and contrivances
for thunder and lightning, for the apparent fall or burning of
a house, &c.
To the hindmost wall of the scene an upper story could be
58 THE CHORUSES,
added; whenever, for instance, it was wished to represent a
tower with a wide prospect, or the like. Behind the great
middle entrance there was a space for the Exostra, a
machine of a semicircular form, and covered above, which
represented the objects contained in it as in a house. This
was used for grand strokes of theatrical effect, as we may see
from many pieces. On such occasions the folding-doors of
the entrance would naturally be open, or the curtain which
covered it withdrawn.
A stage curtain, which, we clearly see from a description of
Ovid, was not dropped, but drawn upwards, is mentioned both
by Greek and Roman writers, and the Latin appellation,
aulaeum, is even borrowed from the Greeks. I suspect, how-
ever, that the curtain was not much used at first on the Attic
stage. In the pieces of AEschylus and Sophocles, the scene is
evidently empty at the opening as well as the conclusion, and
seems therefore to have required no preparation which needed
to be shut out from the view of the spectators. However, in
many of the pieces of Euripides, and perhaps also in the
(Edipus Tyrannus, the stage is filled from the very first, and
presents a standing group which could not well have beent
assembled under the very eyes of the spectators. It must,
besides, be remembered, that it was only the comparatively
small proscenium, and not the logeum, which was covered by
the curtain which disappeared through a narrow opening
between two of the boards of the flooring, being wound up on
a roller beneath the stage.
The entrances of the chorus were beneath in the orchestra,
in which it generally remained, and in which also it performed
its solemn dance, moving backwards and forwards during the
choral songs. In the front of the orchestra, opposite to the
middle of the scene, there was an elevation with steps,
resembling an altar, as high as the stage, which was called
the Thymele. This was the station of the chorus when it did
not sing, but merely looked on as an interested spectator of
the action. At such times the choragus, or leader of the
chorus, took his station on the top of the thymele, to see what
was passing on the stage, and to converse with the characters
there present. For though the choral song was common to
the whole, yet when it took part in the dialogue, one usually
spoke for all the rest ; and hence we may account for the
USE OF MASKS. H9.
shifting from thou to ye in addressing them. The thymele
was situated in the very centre of the building; all the mea-
surements were made from it, and the semicircle of the
amphitheatre was described round it as the centre. It was,
therefore, an excellent contrivance to place the chorus, who
were the ideal representatives of the spectators, in the very
spot where all the radii converged.
The tragical imitation of the ancients was altogether ideal
and rhythmical; and informing a judgment of it, we must
always keep this in view. It was ideal, in so far as it aimed
at the highest grace and dignity; and rhythmical, insomuch as
the gestures and inflections of voice were more solemnly mea-
sured than in real life. As the statuary of the Greeks, setting
out, with almost scientific strictness, with the most general
conception, sought to embody it again in various general
characters which were gradually invested with the charms of
life, so that the individual was the last thing to which they
descended ; in like manner in the mimetic art, they began
with the idea (the delineation of persons with heroical
grandeur, more than human dignity, and ideal beauty), then
passed to character, and made passion the last of all ; which,
in the collision with the requisitions of either of the others,
was forced to give way. Fidelity of representation was less
their object than beauty; with us it is exactly the reverse.
On this principle, the use of masks, which appears astonishing
to us, was not only justifiable, but absolutely essential; far
from considering them as a makeshift, the Greeks would cer-
tainly, and with justice too, have looked upon it as a make-
shift to be obliged to allow a player with vulgar, ignoble,
or strongly marked features, to represent an Apollo or a.
Hercules; nay, rather they would have deemed it downright
profanation. How little is it in the power of the most
finished actor to change the character of his features ! How
prejudicial must this be to the expression of passion, as all
passion is tinged more or less strongly by the character. Nor
is there any need to have recourse to the conjecture that they
changed the masks in the different scenes, for the purpose of
exhibiting a greater degree of joy or sorrow. I call it conjec-
ture, though Barthélemy, in his A nacharsis, considers it a
settled point. He cites no authorities, and I do not recollect.
any. For the expedient would by no means have been suffi-
60 PLAY OF THE FEATURES-
cient, as the passions often change in the same scene, and this
has reduced modern critics to suppose, that the masks ex-
hibited different appearances on the two sides; and that now
this, now that side was turned towards the spectators, accord-
ing to circumstances. Voltaire, in his Essay on the Tragedy
of the Ancients and Moderns, prefixed to Semiramis, has
actually gone this length. Amidst a multitude of supposed
improprieties which he heaps together to confound the admirers
of ancient tragedy, he urges the following: Aucume nation
(that is to say, excepting the Greeks) ne fait paraitre ses
acteurs sur des espèces d'échasses, le visage couvert d'un masque,
qui exprime la douleur d'un côté et la joie de l'autre. After
a conscientious inquiry into the authorities for an assertion so
very improbable, and yet so boldly made, I can only find one
passage in Quinctilian, lib. xi. cap. 3, and an allusion of Pla-
tonius still more vague. (Vide Aristoph. ed. Küster. prolegom.
p. x.) Both passages refer only to the new comedy, and only
amount to this, that in some characters the Ä WEPG
dissimilar. As to the intention of this, I shall say a word or
two hereafter, when I come to consider the new Greek comedy.
Voltaire, however, is without excuse, as the mention of the
cothurnus leaves no doubt that he alluded to tragic masks.
But his error had probably no such learned origin. In most
cases, it would be a fruitless task to trace the source of his
mistakes. The whole description of the Greek tragedy, as
well as that of the cothurnus in particular, is worthy of the
man whose knowledge of antiquity was such, that in his
Essay on Tragedy, prefixed to Brutus, he boasts of having
introduced the Roman Senate on the stage in red mantles.
No; the countenance remained from beginning to end the
very same, as we may see from the ancient masks cut out in
stone. For the expression of passion, the glances of the eye,
the motion of the arms and hands, the attitudes, and, lastly,
the tones of the voice, remained there. We complain of the
ioss of the play of the features, without reflecting, that at
such a great distance, its effect would have been altogether
lost.
We are not now inquiring whether, without the use of
masks, it may not be possible to attain a higher degree of
separate excellence in the mimetic art. This we would very
willingly allow. Cicero, it is true, speaks of the expression,
FROM OF THE MASKS. 6
the Softness, and delicacy of the acting of Roscius, in the
same terms that a modern critic would apply to Garrick or
Schröder. But I will not lay any stress on the acting of this
celebrated player, the excellence of which has become pro-
verbial, because it appears from a passage in Cicero that he
frequently played without a mask, and that this was preferred
by his contemporaries. I doubt, however, whether this was ever
the case among the Greeks. But the same writer relates, that
actors in general, for the sake of acquiring the most perfect
purity and flexibility of voice (and not merely the musical
voice, otherwise the example would not have been applicable
to the orator), submitted to such a course of uninterrupted
exercises, as our modern players, even the French, who of all
follow the strictest training, would consider a most intolerable
oppression. For the display of dexterity in the mimetic art,
without the accompaniment of words, was carried by the
ancients in their pantomimes, to a degree of perfection
quite unknown to the moderns. In tragedy, however, the
great object in the art was the due subordination of every
element; the whole was to appear animated by one and the
same spirit, and hence, not merely the poetry, but the musical
accompaniment, the scenical decoration, and training of the
actors, all issued from the poet. The player was a mere in-
strument in his hands, and his merit consisted in the accuracy
with which he filled his part, and by no means in arbitrary
bravura, or ostentatious display of his own skill.
As from the nature of their writing materials, they had not
a facility of making many copies, the parts were learnt from
the repeated recitation of the poet, and the chorus was exer-
cised in the same manner. This was called teaching a play..
As the poet was also a musician, and for the most part a.
player likewise, this must have greatly contributed to the
perfection of the performance.
We may safely allow that the task of the modern player,
who must change his person without concealing it, is much
more difficult ; but this difficulty affords no just criterion for
deciding which of the two the preference must be awarded,
as a skilful representation of the noble and the beautiful.
As the features of the player acquired a more decided ex-
pression from the mask, as his voice was strengthened by a
contrivance attached to the mask, so the cothurnus, consisting
62 COSTUME–PICTGRESQUE GROUPING.
of several soles of considerable thickness, as may be seen in
the ancient statues of Melpomene, raised his figure consider-
ably above the usual standard. The female parts were also
played by men, as the voice and general carriage of women
would have been inadequate to the energy of tragic heroines.
The forms of the masks“, and the whole appearance of the
tragic figures, we may easily suppose, were sufficiently beau-
tiful and dignified. We should do well to have the ancient
sculpture always present to our minds; and the most accurate
conception, perhaps, that we can possibly have, is to imagine
them so many statues in the grand style endowed with life
and motion. But, as in sculpture, they were fond of dispens-
ing as much as possible with dress, for the sake of exhibiting
the more essential beauty of the figure ; on the stage they
would endeavour, from an opposite principle, to clothe as
much as they could well do, both from a regard to decency,
and because the actual forms of the body would not corres-
* We have obtained a knowledge of them from the imitations in stone
which have come down to us. They display both beauty and variety. That
great variety must have taken place in the tragical department (in the comic
we can have no doubt about the matter) is evident from the rich store of
technical expressions in the Greek language, for every gradation of the age,
and character of masks. See the Onomasticon of Jul. Pollux. In the
marble masks, however, we can neither see the thinness of the mass from
which the real masks were executed, the more delicate colouring, nor the
exquisite mechanism of the fittings. The abundance of excellent work-
men possessed by Athens, in everything which had a reference to the
plastic arts, will warrant the conjecture that they were in this respect in-
imitable. Those who have seen the masks of wax in the grand style, which
in some degree contain the whole head, lately contrived at the Roman car-
nival, may form to themselves a pretty good idea of the theatrical masks of
the ancients. They imitate life, even to its movements, in a mostmasterly
manner, and at such a distance as that from which the ancient players were
seen, the deception is most perfect. They always contain the white of the
eye, as we see it in the ancient masks, and the person covered sees merely
through the aperture left for the iris. The ancients must sometimes have
gone still farther, and contrived also am iris for the masks, according to
the anecdote of the singer Thamyris, who, in a piece which was probably
of Sophocles, made his appearance with a black eye. Even accidental
circumstances were imitated; for instance, the cheeks of Tyro, streaming
blood from the cruel conduct of his stepmother. The head from the mask
must no doubt have appeared somewhat large for the rest of the figure;
but this disproportion, in tragedy at least, would not be perceived from
The elevation of the cothurnus.
ANCIENT TRAGEDY AND OPERA. 63
pond sufficiently with the beauty of the countenance. They
would also exhibit their divinities, which in sculpture we
always observe either entirely naked, or only half covered, in
a complete dress. They had recourse to a number of means
for giving a suitable strength to the forms of the limbs,
and thus restoring proportion to the increased height of the
layer.
P The great breadth of the theatre in proportion to its depth
must have given to the grouping of the figures the simple and
distinct order of the bas-relief. We moderns prefer on the
stage, as elsewhere, groups of a picturesque description, with
figures more closely crowded together, and partly concealing
one another, and partly retiring into the distance; but the
ancients were so little fond of foreshortening, that even in their
painting they generally avoided it. Their movement kept time
with the rhythmus of the declamation, and in this accom-
paniment the utmost grace and beauty were aimed at. The
poetical conception required a certain degree of repose in the
action, and the keeping together certain masses, so as to ex-
hibit a succession of Statuesque situations, and it is not impro-
bable that the player remained for some time motionless in
one attitude. But we are not to suppose from this, that the
Greeks were contented with a cold and feeble representation
of the passions. How could we reconcile such a supposition
with the fact, that whole lines of their tragedies are fre-
quently dedicated to inarticulate exclamations of pain, with
which we have nothing to correspond in any of our modern
languages?
It has been often conjectured that the delivery of their
dialogue resembled the modern recitative. For such a conjec-
ture there is no other foundation than the fact that the Greek,
like almost all southern languages, was pronounced with a
greater musical inflexion than ours of the North. In other
respects their tragic declamation must, I conceive, have been
altogether unlike recitative, being both much more measured,
and also far removed from its studied and artificial modu-
lation.
So, again, the ancient tragedy, because it was accompanied
with music and dancing*, has also been frequently compared
* Even Barthélemy falls into this error in a note to the 70th Chapter
of Anacharsis.
64 ESSENCE OF THE OPERA.
with the opera. But this comparison betrays an utter ignorance
of the spirit of classical antiquity. Their dancing and music
had nothing but the name in common with ours. In tragedy
the primary object was the poetry, and everything else was
strictly and truly subordinate to it. But in the opera the
poetry is merely an accessory, the means of connecting the
different parts together; and it is almost lost amidst its many
and more favoured accompaniments. The best prescription
for the composition of an opera is, take a rapid poetical sketch
and then fill up and colour the outlines by the other arts.
This anarchy of the arts, where music, dancing, and decor-
ation are seeking to outvie each other by the profuse display
of their most dazzling charms, constitutes the very essence of
the opera. What sort of opera-music would it be, which
should set the words to a mere rhythmical accompaniment of
the simplest modulations? The fantastic magic of the opera
consists altogether in the revelry of emulation between the
different means, and in the medley of their profusion. This
charm would at once be destroyed by any approximation to
the severity of the ancient taste in any one point, even in that
of the costume; for the contrast would render the variety in
all the other departments even the more insupportable. Gay,
tinselled, spangled draperies suit best to the opera; and hence
many things which have been censured as unnatural, such as
exhibiting heroes warbling and trilling in the excess of de-
spondency, are perfectly justifiable. This fairy world is not
peopled by real men, but by a singular kind of singing crea-
tures. Neither is it any disadvantage that the opera is
brought before us in a language which we do not generally
understand; the words are altogether lost in the music, and
the language which is most harmonious and musical, and
contains the greatest number of open vowels for the airs, and
distinct accents for recitative, is therefore the best. It would
be as incongruous to attempt to give to the opera the simplicity
of the Grecian Tragedy, as it is absurd to think of comparing
them together.
In the syllabic composition, which then at least prevailed
universally in Grecian music, the solemn choral song, of
which we may form to ourselves some idea from our artless
national airs, and more especially from our church-tunes, had
no other instrumental accompaniment than a single flute,
TRAGICAL LYRIC POETRY. 65
which was such as not in the slightest degree to impair the
distinctness of the words. Otherwise it must have increased .
the difficulty of the choruses and lyricalsongs, which, in gene-
ral, are the part which we find it the hardest to understand of
the ancient tragedy, and as it must also have been for con-
temporary auditors. They abound in the most involved con-
structions, the most unusual expressions, and the boldest
images and recondite allusions. Why then should the poets
have lavishedsuch labour and art upon them, if it were all to be
lost in the delivery? Such a display of ornament without an
object would have been very unlike Grecian ways of thinking.
In the syllabic measures of their tragedies, there generally
prevails a highly finished regularity, but by no means a stiff
symmetrical uniformity. Besides the infinite variety of the
lyrical strophes, which the poet invented for each occasion,
they have also a measure to suit the transition in the tone of
mind from the dialogue to the lyric, the anapest; and two for
the dialogue itself, one of which, by far the most usual, the
iambic trimeter, denoted the regular progress of the action,
and the other, the trochaic tetrameter, was expressive of the
impetuousness of passion. It would lead us too far into the
depths of metrical science, were we to venture at present on
a more minute account of the structure and significance of
these measures. I merely wished to make this remark, as so
much has been said of the simplicity of the ancient tragedy,
which, no doubt, exists in the general plan, at least in the
two oldest poets; whereas in the execution and details the
richest variety of poetical ornament is employed. Of course
it must be evident that the utmost accuracy in the delivery
of the different modes of versification was expected from the
player, as the delicacy of the Grecian ear would not excuse,
even in an orator, the false quantity of a single Syllable.
66 ESSENCE OF GREEK TRAGEDY.
LECTURE V.
Essence of the Greek Tragedies–Ideality of the Representation-dea of
Fate–Source of the Pleasure derived from Tragical Representations-
Import of the Chorus–The materials of Greek Tragedy derived from
Mythology–Comparison with the Plastic Arts.
WE come now to the essence of Greek tragedy. That in
conception it was ideal, is universally allowed; this, however,
must not be understood as implying that all its characters
were depicted as morally perfect. In such a case what
room could here be for that contrast and collision which the
very plot of a drama, requires–They have their weaknesses,
errörs, and even crimes, but the manners are always elevated
above reality, and every person is invested with as high a
portion of dignity as was compatible with his part in the
action. But this is not all. The ideality of the represen-
tation chiefly consisted in the elevation of everything in it
to a higher sphere. Tragic poetry wished to separate the
image of humanity which it presented to us, from the level of
nature to which man is in reality chained down, like a slave
of the soil. How was this to be accomplished? By exhibit-
ing to us an image hovering in the air? But this would have
been incompatible with the law of gravitation and with the
earthly materials of which our bodies are framed. Frequently,
what is praised in art as ideal is really nothing more. But
this would give us nothing more than airy evanescent shadows
incapable of making any durable impression on the mind.
The Greeks, however, in their artistic creations, succeeded
most perfectly, in combining the ideal with the real, or, to
drop school terms, an elevation more than human with all the
truth of life, and in investing the manifestation of an idea
with energetic corporeity. They did not allow their figures
to flit about without consistency in empty space, but they
fixed the statue of humanity on the eternal and immovable
basis of moral liberty; and that it might stand there un-
shaken, formed it of stone or brass, or some more massive
UNFATHOMABLE POWER OF DESTINY. 67
substance than the bodies of living men, making an impression
by its very weight, and from its very elevation and magnifi-
cence only the more completely subject to the laws of gravity.
Inward liberty and external necessity are the two poles or
the tragic world. It is only by contrast with its opposite
that each of these ideas is brought into full manifestation.
As the feeling of an internal power of self-determination
elevates the man above the unlimited dominion of impulse
and the instincts of nature; in a word, absolves him from
nature's guardianship, so the necessity, which alongside of
her he must recognize, is no mere natural necessity, but one
lying beyond the world of sense in the abyss of infinitude;
consequently it exhibits itself as the unfathomable power of
Destiny. Hence this power extends also to the world of
gods: for the Grecian gods are mere powers of nature; and
although immeasurably higher than mortal man, yet, com-
pared with infinitude, they are on an equal footing with himself.
In Homer and in the tragedians, the gods are introduced in a
manner altogether different. In the former their appearance
is arbitrary and accidental, and communicate to the epic
poem no higher interest than the charm of the wonderful.
But in Tragedy the gods either come forward as the servants
óf destiny, and mediate executors of its degrees; or else
approve themselves godlike only by asserting their liberty of
action, and entering upon the same struggles with fate which
man himself has to encounter.
This is the essence of the tragical in the sense of the
ancients. We are accustomed to give to all terrible or sor-
rowful events the appellation of tragic, and it is certain that
such events are selected in preference by Tragedy, though a
melancholy conclusion is by no means indispensably neces-
sary; and several ancient tragedies, viz., the Eumenides, Phi-
loctetes, and in some degree also the (Edipus Coloneus, without
mentioning many of the pieces of Euripides, have a happy
and cheerful termination.
But why does Tragedy select subjects so awfully repugnant
to the wishes and the wants of our sensuous nature ? This
question has often been asked, and seldom satisfactorily an-
swered. Some have said that the pleasure of such represen-
tations arises from the comparison we make between the
Calmness and tranquillity of our own situation, and the
E 2
68 ON TRAGICAL REPRESENTATIONS.
storms and perplexities to which the victims of passion are
exposed. But when we take a warm interest in the persons
of a tragedy, we cease to think of ourselves; and when this
is not the case, it is the best of all proofs that we take but a
feeble interest in the exhibited story, and that the tragedy
has failed in its effect. Others again have had recourse to a
supposed feeling for moral improvement, which is gratified by
the view of poetical justice in the reward of the good and the
punishment of the wicked. But he for whom the aspect
of such dreadful examples could really be wholesome, must
be conscious of a base feeling of depression, very far removed
from genuine morality, and would experience humiliation
rather than elevation of mind. Besides, poetical justice is by
no means indispensable to a good tragedy; it may end with
the suffering of the just and the triumph of the wicked, if
only the balance be preserved in the spectator's own con-
sciousness by the prospect of futurity. Little does it mend
the matter to say with Aristotle, that the object of tragedy
is to purify the passions by pity and terror. In the first
place commentators have never been able to agree as to the
meaning of this proposition, and have had recourse to the
most forced explanations of it. Look, for instance, into the
Dramaturgie of Lessing. Lessing gives a new explanation
of his own, and fancies he has found in Aristotle a poetical
Euclid. But mathematical demonstrations are liable to no
misconception, and geometrical evidence may well be sup-
posed inapplicable to the theory of the fine arts. Supposing,
however, that tragedy does operate this moral cure in us, still
she does so by the painful feelings of terror and compassion:
and it remains to be proved how it is that we take a pleasure
in subjecting ourselves to such an operation.
Others have been pleased to say that we are attracted to
theatrical representations from the want of some violent agi-
tation to rouse us out of the torpor of our every-day life.
Such a craving does exist; I have already acknowledged the
existence of this want, when speaking of the attractions of
the drama; but to it we must equally attribute the fights of
wild beasts among the Romans, nay, even the combats of
the gladiators. But must we, less indurated, and more in-
clined to tender feelings, require demi-gods and heroes to
descend, like so many desperate gladiators, into the bloody
SOURCE OF PLEASURE DERIVED FROM TRAGEDY. G9
arena of the tragic stage, in order to agitate our nerves by
the spectacle of their sufferings? No: it is not the sight of
suffering which constitutes the charm of a tragedy, or even of
the games of the circus, or of the fight of wild beasts. In
the latter we see a display of activity, strength, and courage;
splendid qualities these, and related to the mental and moral
powers of man. The satisfaction, therefore, which we derive
from the representation, in a good tragedy, of powerful situ-
ations and overwhelming sorrows, must be ascribed either
to the feeling of the dignity of human nature, excited in us
dy such grand instances of it as are therein displayed, or to the
trace of a higher order of things, impressed on the apparently
irregular course of events, and mysteriously revealed in them;
or perhaps to both these causes conjointly.
The true reason, therefore, why tragedy need not shun even
the harshest subject is, that a spiritual and invisible power can
only be measured by the opposition which it encounters from
some external force capable of being appreciated by the senses.
The moral freedom of man, therefore, can only be displayed
in a conflict with his sensuous impulses: so long as no higher
call summons it to action, it is either actually dormant within
him, or appears to slumber, since otherwise it does but me-
chanically fulfil its part as a mere power of nature. It is
only amidst difficulties and struggles that the moral part of
man's nature avouches itself. If therefore, we must explain
the distinctive aim of tragedy by way of theory, we would
give it thus: that to establish the claims of the mind to a
divine origin, its earthly existence must be disregarded as
vain and insignificant, all sorrows endured and all difficulties
OVG l'COM1E. -
With respect to everything connected with this point, I
refer my hearers to the Section on the Sublime in Kant's
Criticism of the Judgment (Kritik der Urtheilskraft), to the
complete perfection of which nothing is wanting but a more
definite idea of the tragedy of the ancients, with which he
does not seem to have been very well acquainted.
I come now to another peculiarity which distinguishes the
tragedy of the ancients from ours, I mean the Chorus. We
must consider it as a personified reflection on the action
which is going on; the incorporation into the representation
itself of the sentiments of the poet, as the spokesman of the


70 THE CIIORUS ITS NATIONAL SIGNIFICATION.
whole human race. This is its general poetical character;
and that is all that here concerns us, and that character is by
no means affected by the circumstance that the Chorus had a
local origin in the feasts of Bacchus, and that, moreover, it
always retained among the Greeks a peculiar national sig-
nification; publicity being, as we have already said, according
to their republican notions, essential to the completeness of
every important transaction. If in their compositions they
reverted to the heroic ages, in which monarchical polity was
yet in force, they nevertheless gave a certain republican cast
to the families of their heroes, by carrying on the action in
presence either of the elders of the people, or of other persons
who represented some correspondent rank or position in the
social body. This publicity does not, it is true, quite corre-
spond with Homer's picture of the manners of the heroic age;
but both costume and mythology were handled by dramatic
poetry with the same spirit of independence and conscious
liberty.
These thoughts, then, and these modes of feeling led to the
introduction of the Chorus, which, in order not to interfere
with the appearance of reality which the whole ought to
possess, must adjust itself to the ever-varying requisitions of
the exhibited stories. Whatever it might be and do in each
particular piece, it represented in general, first the common
mind of the nation, and then the general sympathy of all
mankind. In a word, the Chorus is the ideal spectator. It
mitigates the impression of a heart-rending or moving story,
while it conveys to the actual spectator a lyrical and musical
expression of his own emotions, and elevates him to the
region of contemplation.
Modern critics have never known what to make of the
Chorus; and this is the less to be wondered at, as Aristotle
affords no satisfactory solution of the matter. Its office is
better painted by Horace, who ascribes to it a general expres-
sion of moral sympathy, exhortation, instruction, and warn-
ing. But the critics in question have either believed that its
chief object was to prevent the stage from ever being alto-
gether empty, whereas in truth the stage was not at all the
proper place for the Chorus; or else they have censured it as
a superfluous and cumbersome appendage, expressing their
astonishment at the alleged absurdity of carrying on Secret

-
MATERIALS OF GREEK TRAGEDY. 7 .
transactions in the presence of assembled multitudes. The
have also considered it as the principal reason with the GÄ
tragedians for the strict observance of the unity of place, as
it could not be changed without the removal of the Chorus;
an act, which could not have been done without some avail-
able pretext. Or lastly, they have believed that the Chorus
owed its continuance from the first origin of Tragedy merely
to accident; and as it is plain that in Euripides, the last of
the three great tragic poets, the choral songs have frequently
little or no connexion with the fable, and are nothing better
than a mere episodical ornament, they therefore conclude
that the Greeks had only to take one more step in the pro-
gress of dramatic art, to explode the Chorus altogether. To
refute these superficial conjectures, it is only necessary to
observe that Sophocles wrote a Treatise on the Chorus, in
prose, in opposition to the principles of some other poets; and
that, far from following blindly the practice which he found
established, like an intelligent artist he was able to assign
reasons for his own doings.
Modern poets of the first rank have often, since the revival
of the study of the ancients, attempted to introduce the Chorus
in their own pieces, for the most part without a correct, and
always without a vivid idea of its real import. They seem
to have forgotten that we have neither suitable singing or
dancing, nor, as our theatres are constructed, any convenient
place for it. On these accounts it is hardly likely to become
naturalized with us.
The Greek tragedy, in its pure and unaltered state, will
always for our theatres remain an exotic plant, which we can
hardly hope to cultivate with any success, even in the hot-house
of learned art and criticism. The Grecian mythology, which
furnishes the materials of ancient tragedy, is as foreign to
the minds and imaginations of most of the spectators, as its
form and manner of representation. But to endeavour to
force into that form materials of a wholly different nature,
an historical one, for example, to assume that form, must
always be a most unprofitable and hopeless attempt.
I have called mythology the chief materials of tragedy.
We know, indeed, of two historical tragedies by Grecian
authors; the Capture of Miletus, of Phrynichus, and the Per-
sians, of AEschylus, a piece which still exists; but these sin-
72 GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY.
gular exceptions both belong to an epoch when the art had
not attained its full maturity, and among so many hundred
examples of a different description, only serve to establish
more strongly the truth of the rule. The sentence passed by
the Athenians on Phrynichus, in which they condemned him
to a pecuniary fine because he had painfully agitated them by
representing on the stage a contemporary calamity, which with
due caution they might, perhaps, have avoided; howeyerhard
and arbitrary it may appear in a judicial point of view, displays,
however, a correct feeling of the proprieties and limits of art.
Oppressed by the consciousness of the proximity and reality
of the represented story, the mind cannot retain that repose
and self-possession which are necessary for the reception of
pure tragical impressions. The heroic fables, on the other
hand, came to view at a certain remoteness; and surrounded
with a certain halo of the marvellous. The marvellous pos-
sesses the advantage that it can, in some measure, be at once
believed and disbelieved: believed in so far as it is supported
by its connexion with other opinions; disbelieved while we
never take such an immediate interest in it as we do in what
wears the hue of the every-day life of our own experience.
The Grecian mythology was a web of national and local tra-
ditions, held in equal honour as a sequence of religion, and as
an introduction to history; everywhere preserved in full
vitality among the people by ceremonies and monuments,
already elaborated for the requirements of art and the higher
species of poctry by the diversified manner in which it has
been handled, and by the numerous epic or merely mythical
poets. The tragedians had only, therefore, to engraft one
species of poetry on another. Certain postulates, and those
invariably serviceable to the air of dignity and grandeur, and
the removing of all meanness of idea, were conceded to them
at the very outset. Everything, down to the very errors and
weaknesses of that departed race of heroes who claimed their
descent from the gods, was ennobled by the sanctity of legend.
Those heroes were painted as beings endowed with more than
human strength; but, so far from possessing unerring virtue
and wisdom, they were even depicted as under the dominion
of furious and unbridled passions. It was an age of wild
effervescence; the hand of social order had not as yet brought
the soil of morality into cultivation, and it yielded at the

THE ATTIC POET–ATEIENS. 73
same time the most beneficent and poisonous productions, with
the fresh luxuriant fulness of prolific nature. Here the
occurrence of the monstrous and horrible did not necessarily
indicate that degradation and corruption out of which alone,
under the development of law and order, they could arise, and
which, in such a state of things, make them fill us with sen-
timents of horror and aversion. The guilty beings of the
fable are, if we may be allowed the expression, exempt from
human jurisdiction, and amenable to a higher tribunal alone.
Some, indeed, have advanced the opinion, that the Greeks, as
zealous republicans, took a particular pleasure in witnessing
the representation of the outrages and consequent calamities
of the different royal families, and are almost disposed to con-
sider the ancient tragedy in general as a satire on monarchical
government. Such a party-view, however, would have dead-
ened the sympathy of the audience, and consequentlydestroyed
the effect which it was the aim of the tragedy to produce.
Besides, it must be remarked that the royal families, whose
crimes and consequent sufferings afforded the most abundant
materials for affecting tragical pictures, were the Pelopidae of
Mycenae, and the Labdacidae of Thebes, families who had
nothing to do with the political history of the Athenians,
for whom the pieces were composed. We do not see that the
Attic poets ever endeavoured to exhibit the ancient kings of
their country in an odious light; on the contrary, they always
hold up their national hero, Theseus, for public admiration,
as a model of justice and moderation, the champion of the op-
pressed, the first lawgiver, and even as the founder of liberty.
It was also one of their favourite modes of flattering the peo-
ple, to show to them Athens, even in the heroic ages, as distin-
guished above all the other states of Greece, for obedience to
the laws, for humanity, and acknowledgment of the national
rights of the Hellenes. That universal revolution, by which
the independent kingdoms of ancient Greece were converted
into a community of small free states, had separated the
heroic age from the age of social cultivation, by a wide inter-
val, beyond which a few families only attempted to trace
their genealogy. This was extremely advantageous for the
ideal elevation of the characters of Greek tragedy, as few
human things will admit of a very close inspection without
betraying some imperfections. To the very different relations
74 THE GREEK TRAGEDIANS.
of the age in which those heroes lived, the standard of mere
civil and domestic morality is not applicable, and to judge of
them the feeling must go back to the primary ingredients of
human nature. Before the existence of constitutions,–when
as yet the notions of law and right were undeveloped,–the
sovereigns were their own lawgivers, in a world which as yet
was dependent on them; and the fullest scope was thus given
to the energetic will, either for good or for evil. Moreover,
an age of hereditary kingdom naturally exhibited more strik-
ing instances of sudden changes of fortune than the later
times of political equality. It was in this respect that the
high rank of the principal characters was essential, or at least
favourable to tragic impressiveness; and not, as some mo-
derns have pretended, because the changing fortunes of such
persons exercise a material influence on the happiness or
misery of numbers, and therefore they alone are sufficiently
important to interest us in their behalf; nor, again, because
internal elevation of sentiment must be clothed with external
dignity, to call forth our respect and admiration. The
Greek tragedians paint the downfall of kingly houses without
any reference to its effects on the condition of the people ;
they show us the man in the king, and, far from veiling their
heroes from our sight by their purple mantles, they allow us
to look, through their vain splendour, into a bosom torn and
harrowed with grief and passion. That the main essential
was not so much the regal dignity as the heroic costume, is
evident from those tragedies of the moderns which have been
written under different circumstances indeed, but still upon
this supposed principle: such, I mean, as under the existence
of monarchy have taken their subject from kings and courts.
From the existing reality they dare not draw, for nothing
is less suitable for tragedy than a court and a court life.
Wherever, therefore, they do not paint an ideal kingdom,
with the manners of some remote age, they invariably
fall into stiffness and formality, which are much more fatal
to boldness of character, and to depth of pathos, than the
monotonous and equable relations of private life.
A few mythological fables alone seem originally marked
out for tragedy: such, for example, as the long-continued
alternation of crime, revenge, and curses, which we witness in
the house of Atreus. When we examine the names of the
COMIPARISON WITH THE PLASTIC ART. 75
pieces which are lost, we have great difficulty in conceiving
how the mythological fables (such, at least, as they are known
to us,) could have furnished sufficient materials for the com-
pass of an entire tragedy. It is true, the poets, in the various
editions of the same story, had a great latitude of selection;
and this very fluctuation of tradition justified them in going
still farther, and making considerable alterations in the cir-
cumstances of an event, so that the inventions employed for
this purpose in one piece sometimes contradict the story as
given by the same poetin another. We must, however, prin-
pally explain the prolific capability of mythology, for the pur-
poses of tragedy, by the principle which we observe in opera-
tion throughout the history of Grecian mind and art; that,
namely, the tendency which predominated for the time, as-
similated everything else to itself. As the heroic legend with
all its manifold discrepancies was easily developed into the
tranquil fulness and light variety of epic poetry, so after-
wards it readily responded to the demands which the tragic
writers made upon it for earnestness, energy, and compression;
and whatever in this sifting process of transformation fell out
as inapplicable to tragedy, afforded materials for a sort of
half sportive, though still ideal representation, in the subor-
dinate species called the satirical drama. -,
I hope I shall be forgiven, if I attempt to illustrate the
above reflections on the essence of Ancient Tragedy, by
a comparison borrowed from the plastic arts, which will,
I trust, be found somewhat more than a mere fanciful resem-
blance.
The Homeric epic is, in poetry, what bas-relief is in sculp-
ture, and tragedy the distinct isolated group.
The poetry of Homer, Sprung from the soil of legend, is
not yet wholly detached from it, even as the figures of a bas-
relief adhere to an extraneous backing of the original block.
These figures are but slightly raised, and in the epic poem
all is painted as past and remote. In bas-relief the figures
are usually in profile, and in the epos all are characterized
in the simplest manner in relief; they are not grouped together,
but follow one another; so Homer's heroes advance, one by
one, in succession before us. It has been remarked that the
Iliad is not definitively closed, but that we are left to suppose
something both to precede and to follow it. The bas-relief
76 " THE HOMERIC POETRY.
is equally without limit, and may be continued ad infini-
tum, either from before or behind, on which account the
ancients preferred for it such subjects as admitted of an inde-
finite extension, sacrificial processions, dances, and lines of
combatants, &c. Hence they also exhibited bas-reliefs on
curved surfaces, such as vases, or the frieze of a rotunda,
where, by the curvature, the two ends are withdrawn from
our sight, and where, while we advance, one object appears as
another disappears. Reading Homer is very much like such
a circuit; the present object alone arresting our attention, we
lose sight of that which precedes, and do not concern ourselves
about what is to follow. s s
. But in the distinct outstanding group, and in Tragedy,
sculpture and poetry alike bring before our eyes an inde-
pendent and definite whole. To distinguish it from natural
reality, the former places it on a base as on an ideal ground,
detaching from it as much as possible all foreign and acci-
dental accessories, that the eye may rest wholly on the essen-
tial objects, the figures themselves. These figures the sculptor
works out with their whole body and contour, and as he
rejects the illusion of colours, announces by the solidity and
uniformity of the mass in which they are constructed, a crea-
tion of no perishable existence, but endowed with a higher
power of endurance.
Beauty is the aim of sculpture, and repose is most advan-
tageous for the display of beauty. Repose alone, therefore,
is suitable to the single figure. But a number of figures can
only be combined together into unity, . e., grouped by an
action. The group represents beauty in motion, and its aim
is to combine both in the highest degree of perfection. This
ean be effected eyen while portraying the most violent bodily
or mental anguish, if only the artist finds means so to temper
the expression by some trait of manly resistance, calm
grandeur, or inherent sweetness, that, with all the most
moving truth, the lineaments of beauty shall yet be undefaced.
The observation of Winkelmann on this subject is inimitable.
He says, that “beauty with the ancients was the tongue on
the balance of expression," and in this sense the groups of
Niobe and Laocoön are master-pieces; the one in the sublime
and severe ; the other in the studied and ornamental style.
The comparison with ancient tragedy is the more apposite
GROUPS OF NIOBE AND LAOCoöN. 77
here, as we know that both AEschylus and Sophocles produced
a Niobe, and that Sophocles was also the author of a Lao-
coön. In the group of the Laocoön the efforts of the body in
enduring, and of the mind in resisting, are balanced in admi-
rable equipoise. The children calling for help, tender objects
of compassion, not of admiration, recal our eyes to the father,
who seems to be in vain uplifting his eyes to the gods. The
wreathed serpents represent to us that inevitable destiny
which often involves all the parties of an action in one com-
mon ruin. And yet the beauty of proportion, the agreeable
flow of the outline, are not lost in this violent struggle; and
a representation, the most appalling to the senses, is yet
managed with forbearance, while a mnd breath of graceful-
ness is diffused over the whole.
In the group of Niobe there is the same perfect mixture
of terror and pity. The upturned looks of the mother, and
the mouth half open in supplication, seem yet to accuse the invi-
sible wrath of heaven. The daughter, clinging in the agonies
of death to the bosom of her mother, in her childish innocence
has no fear but for herself: the innate impulse of self-preser-
vation was never more tenderly and affectingly expressed.
On the other hand, can there be a more beautiful image of
self-devoting, heroic magnanimity than Niobe, as she bends
forward to receive, if possible, in her own body the deadly
shaft? Pride and defiance dissolve in the depths of maternal
love. The more than earthly dignity of the features are the
less marred by the agony, as under the rapid accumulation of
blow upon blow she seems, as in the deeply significant fable,
already petrifying into the stony torpor. But before this
figure, thus twice struck into stone, and yet so full of life and
soul,–before this stony terminus of the limits of human en-
durance, the spectator melts into tears.
Amidall the agitating emotions which these groups give rise
to, there is still a something in their aspect which attracts the
mind and gives rise to manifoldcontemplation; so the ancient
tragedy leads us forward to the highest reflections involved in
the very sphere of things it sets before us–reflections on the
nature and the inexplicable mystery of man's being.
78 TRAGIC ART AMIONG THE GREEKS.
LECTURE VI.
Progress of the Tragic Art among the Greeks–Various styles of Tragic
Art–AEschylus–Connexion in a Trilogy of AEschylus–His remain-
ing Works.
OF the inexhaustible stores possessed by the Greeks in the
department of tragedy, which the public competition at the
Athenian festivals called into being (as the rival poets always
contended for a prize), very little indeed has come down
to us. We only possess works of three of their numerous
tragedians, AEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, and of these
but a few in proportion to the whole number of their compo-
sitions. The extant dramas are such as were selected by the
Alexandrian critics as the foundation for the study of the
older Grecian literature, not because they alone were deserv-
ing of estimation, but because they afforded the best illustra-
tion of the various styles of tragic art. Of each of the two
older poets, we have seven pieces remaining; in these, how-
ever, we have, according to the testimony of the ancients,
several of their most distinguished productions. Of Euripides
we have a much greater number, and we might well exchange
many of them for other works which are now lost; for exam-
ple, for the satirical dramas of Achaeus, ÄEschylus, and Sopho-
cles, or, for the sake of comparison with AEschylus, for some
of Phrynichus' pieces, or of Agathon's, whom Plato describes
as effeminate, but sweet and affecting, and who was a con-
temporary of Euripides, though somewhat his junior.
Leaving to antiquarians to sift the stories about the waggon
of the strolling Thespis, the contests for the prize of a
he-goat, from which the name of tragedy is said to be
derived, and the lees of wine with which the first improvisa-
tory actors smeared over their visages, from which rude
beginnings, it is pretended, AEschylus, by one gigantic stride,
gave to tragedy that dignified form under which it appears in
AESCHY LUS : THE CREATOR OF TRAGEDY. 79
his works, we shall proceed immediately to the consideration
of the poets themselves. AG,
The tragic style of AEschylus (I use the word “ style” in
the sense it receives in sculpture, and not in the exclusive sig-
nification of the manner of writing,) is grand, severe, and not
unfrequently hard: that of Sophocles is marked by the most
finished symmetry and harmonious gracefulness: that of Eu-
ripides is soft and luxuriant; overflowing in his easy copious-
ness, he often sacrifices the general effect to brilliant passages.
The analogies which the undisturbed development of the
fine arts among the Greeks everywhere furnishes, will enable
us, throughout to compare the epochs of tragic art with those
of sculpture. AEschylus is the Phidias of Tragedy, Sopho-
cles her Polycletus, and Euripides her Lysippus. Phidias
formed sublime images of the gods, but lent them an ex-
trinsic magnificence of material, and surrounded Cheir ma-
jestic repose with images of the most violent struggles in
strong relief. Polycletus carried his art to perfection of pro-
portion, and hence one of his statues was called the Standard
of Beauty. Lysippus distinguished himself by the fire of his
works; but in his time Sculpture had deviated from its origi-
nal destination, and was much more desirous of expressing
the charm of motion and life than of adhering to ideality
of form.
AEschylus is to be considered as the creator of Tragedy: in
full panoply she sprung from his head, like Pallas from the
head of Jupiter. He clad her with dignity, and gave her an
appropriate stage; he was the inventor of Scenic pomp, and
not only instructed the chorus in singing and dancing, but
appeared himself as an actor. He was the first that expanded
the dialogue, and set limits to the lyrical part of tragedy,
which, however, still occupies too much space in his pieces.
His characters are sketched with a - few bold and strong
touches. His plots are simple in the extreme: he did not
understand the art of enriching and varying an action, and of
giving a measured march and progress to the complication
and dénouement. Hence his action often stands still; a cir-
cumstance which becomes yet more apparent, from the undue
extension of his choral songs. But all his poetry evinces a
sublime and earnest mind. Terror is his element, and not the
softer affections, he holds up a head of Medusa before the
F=>=------
80 HIS EIEROIC GENIUS AND CHARACTER.
petrified spectators. In his handling Destiny appears au-
stere in the extreme; she hovers over the heads of mortals in
all her gloomy majesty. The cothurnus of AEschylus has,
as it were, the weight of iron: gigantic figures stalk in
upon it. It seems as if it required an effort for him to con-
descend to paint mere men; he is ever bringing in gods, but
especially the Titans, those elder divinities who typify the
gloomy powers of primaeval nature, and who had been driven
long ago into Tartarus before the presence of a new and
better order of things. He endeavours to swell out his lan-
guage to a gigantic sublimity, corresponding to the vast
dimensions of his personages Hence he abounds in harsh
compounds and over-strained epithets, and the lyrical parts
of his pieces are often, from their involved construction, ex-
tremely obscure. In the singular strangeness of his images and
expressions he resembles Dante and Shakspeare. Yet in
these images there is no want of that terrific grace which
almost all the writers of antiquity commend in AEschylus.
AEschylus flourished in the very freshness and vigour of
Grecian freedom, and a proud sense of the glorious struggle
by which it was won, seems to have animated him and his
poetry. He had been an eye-witness of the greatest and
most glorious event in the history of Greece, the overthrow
and annihilation of the Persian hosts under Darius and Xerxes,
and had fought with distinguished bravery in the memorable
battles of Marathon and Salamis. In the Persiams he has, in
an indirect manner, sung the triumph which he contributed
to obtain, while he paints the downfall of the Persian ascend-
ancy, and the ignominious return of the despot, with difficulty
escaping with his life, to his royal residence. The battle of
Salamis he describes in the most vivid and glowing colours.
Through the whole of this piece, and the Seven before Thebes,
there gushes forth a warlike vein ; the personal inclination of
the poet for a soldier's life, shines throughout with the most
dazzling lustre. It was well remarked by Gorgias, the
sophist, that Mars, instead of Bacchus, had inspired this last
drama; for Bacchus, and not Apollo, was the tutelary deity
of tragic poets, which, on a first view of the matter, appears
somewhat singular, but then we must recollect that Bacchus
was not merely the god of wine and joy, but also the god of
all higher kinds of inspiration.
TRILOGY OF AESCHYLUS. 81
Among the remaining pieces of AEschylus, we have what is
highly deserving of our attention–a complete Trilogy. The
antiquarian account of the trilogies is this: that in the more
early times the poet did not contend for the prize with a
single piece, but with three, which, however, were not always
2onnected together in their subjects, and that to these was added
a fourth,–namely, a satiric drama. All were acted in one day,
one after another. The idea which, in relation to the tragic
art, we must form of the trilogy, is this: a tragedy cannot
be indefinitely lengthened and continued, like the Homeric
Epos for instance, to which whole rhapsodies have been ap-
pended; tragedy is too independent and complete within
itself for this; nevertheless, several tragedies may be con-
nected together in one great cycle by means of a common
destiny running through the actions of all. Hence the re-
striction to the number three admits of a satisfactory expla-
nation. It is the thesis, the antithesis, and the synthesis.
The advantage of this conjunction was that, by the considera-
tion of the connected fables, a more complete gratification was
furnished than could possibly be obtained from a single action.
The subjects of the three tragedies might be separated by a
wide interval of time, or follow close upon one another.
The three pieces which form the trilogy of AEschylus, are
the Agamemnon, the Choephorae or, we should call it, Electra,
and the Eumenides or Furies. The subject of the first is the
murder of Agamemnon by Clytemnestra, on his return from
Troy. In the second, Orestes avenges his father by killing
his mother: facto pius et sceleratus eodem. This deed, al-
though enjoined by the most powerful motives, is, however,
repugnant to the natural and moral order of things. Orestes,
as a prince, was, it is true, called upon to exercise justice, even
on the members of his own family ; but we behold him here
under the necessity of stealing iñ disguise into the dwelling of
the tyrannical usurper of his throne, and of going to work
like an assassin. The memory of his father pleads his excuse;
but however much Clytemnestra may have deserved her
death, the voice of blood cries from within. This conflict of
natural duties is represented in the Eumenides in the form of
a contention among the gods, some of whom approve of the
deed of Orestes, while others persecute him, till at last Di-
vine Wisdom, in the person of Minerva, balances the opposite
F
&2 THE TRILOGY, ONE DRARIA.
claims, establishes peace, and puts an end to the long series of
crime and punishment which have desolated the royal house
of Atreus.
A considerable interval takes place between the period of
the first and second pieces, during which Orestes grows up to
manhood. The second and third are connected together
immediately in order of time. Upon the murder of his
mother, Orestes flees forthwith to Delphi, where we find him
at the commencement of the Eumenides.
In each of the two first pieces, there is a visible reference
to the one which follows. In Agamemnon, Cassandra and the
chorus, at the close, predict to the haughty Clytemnestra and
her paramour, AEgisthus, the punishment which awaits them
at the hands of Orestes. In the Choephorae, Orestes, upon the
execution of the deed of retribution, finds that all peace is
gone: the furies of his mother begin to persecute him, and he
announces his resolution of taking refuge in Delphi.
The connexion is therefore evident throughout; and we
may consider the three pieces, which were connected together
even in the representation, as so many acts of one great and
entire drama. I mention this as a preliminary justification of
the practice of Shakspeare and other modern poets, to con-
nect together in one representation a larger circle of human
destinies, as we can produce to the critics who object to this
the supposed example of the ancients.
In Agamemnon, it was the intention of AEschylus to exhibit
to us a sudden fall from the highest pinnacle of prosperity
and renown into the abyss of ruin. The prince, the hero,
the general of the combined forces of the Greeks, in the very
moment of success and the glorious achievement of the
destruction of Troy, the fame of which is to be re-echoed from
the mouths of the greatest poets of all ages, in the very act of
crossing the threshold of his home, after which he had so long
sighed, and amidst the fearless security of preparations for a
festival, is butchered, according to the expression of Homer,
“ like an ox in the stall,” slain by his faithless wife, his throne
nsurped by her worthless seducer, and his children consigned
to banishment or to hopeless Servitude.
With the view of giving greater effect to this dreadful
reverse of fortune, the poet endeavours to throw a greater
splendour over the destruction of Troy. He has done this in
DESCRIPTION AND DEVELOPMENT. 83
the first half of the piece in a manner peculiar to himself,
which, however singular, must be allowed to be impressive in
the extreme, and well fitted to lay fast hold of the imagina-
tion. It is of importance to Clytemnestra that she should not
be surprised by the sudden arrival of her husband; she has
therefore arranged an uninterrupted series of signal fires from
Troy to Mycenae, to announce to her that great event. The
piece commences with the speech of a watchman, who sup-
plicates the gods for a deliverance from his labours, as
for ten long years he has been exposed to the cold dews of
night, has witnessed the changeful course of the stars, while
looking in vain for the expected signal; at the same time he
sighs in secret over the corruption which reigns within the
royal house. At this moment he sees the long-wished-for
beacon blazing up, and hastens to announce it to his mistress.
A chorus of aged persons appears, and in their songs they go
through the whole history of the Trojan War, through all its
eventful fluctuations of fortune, from its origin, and recount all
the prophecies relating to it, and the sacrifice of Iphigenia, by
which the sailing of the Greeks was purchased. Clytemnestra
explains to the chorus the joyful cause of the sacrifice which
she orders; and the herald Talthybius immediately makes his
appearance, who, as an eye-witness, relates the drama. of the
conquered and plundered city, consigned as a prey to the
flames, the joy of the victors, and the glory of their leader.
With reluctance, as if unwilling to check their congratulatory
prayers, he recounts to them the subsequent misfortunes of the
Greeks, their dispersion, and the shipwreck suffered by many
of them, an immediate symptom of the wrath of the gods. It
is obvioüs how little the unity of time was observed by the
poet,–how much, on the contrary, he avails himself of the
Prerogative of his mental dominion over the powers of nature,
to give wings to the circling hours in their course towards the
«lreadful goal. Agamemnon now arrives, borne in a sort of
triumphal car; and seated on another, laden with booty,
follows Cassandra, his prisoner of war, and concubine also,
according to the customary privilege of heroes. Clytemnestra
greets him with hypocritical joy and veneration; she orders
her slaves to cover the ground with the most costly embroi-
deries of purple, that it might not be touched by the foot of
the conqueror. Agamemnon, with wise moderation, refuses to
F 2
84 AGAMEMNON.
accept an honour due only to the gods; at last he yields to her
solicitations, and enters the palace. The chorus then begins to
utter its dark forebodings. Clytemnestra returns to allure,
by friendly speeches, Cassandra also to destruction. The
latter is silent and unmoved, but the queen is hardly gone,
when, seized with prophetic furor, she breaks out into the
most confused and obscure lamentations, but presently unfolds
her prophecies more distinctly to the chorus; in spirit she
beholds all the enormities which have been perpetrated within
that house–the repast of Thyestes, which the sun refused
to look upon; the ghosts of the mangled children appear
to her on the battlements of the palace. She also sees the
death which is preparing for her lord; and, though shuddering
at the reek of death, as if seized with madness, she rushes into
the house to meet her own inevitable doom, while from
behind the scene we hear the groans of the dying Agamem-
non. The palace opens; Clytemnestra stands beside the
body of her king and husband; like an insolent criminal, she
not only confesses the deed, but boasts of and justifies it, as a
Fighteous requital for Agamemnon's sacrifice of Iphigenia to
his own ambition. Her jealousy of Cassandra, and criminal
connexion with the worthless AEgisthus, who does not appear
till after the completion of the murder and towards the con-
clusion of the piece, are motives which she hardly touches on,
and throws entirely into the background. This was necessary
to preserve the dignity of the subject; for, indeed, Clytem-
nestra could not with propriety have been portrayed as a
frail seduced woman-she must appear with the features of
that heroic age, so rich in bloody catastrophes, in which all
passions were violent, and men, both in good and evil, sur.
passed the ordinary standard of later and more degenerated
ages. What is more revolting–what proves a deeper de-
generacy of human nature, than horrid crimes conceived in
the bosom of cowardly effeminacy? If such crimes are to be
portrayed by the poet, he must neither seek to palliate them.
nor to mitigate our horror and aversion of them. Moreover,
by bringing the sacrifice of Iphigenia thus immediately before
us, the poet has succeeded in lessening the indignation which
otherwise the foul and painful fate of Agamemnon is calcu-
lated to awaken. He cannot be pronounced wholly innocent;
a former crime recoils on his own head: besides, according to
TIE EUMENIDES. S5
the religious idea of the ancients, an old curse hung over his
house. AEgisthus, the author of his destruction, is a son of
that very Thyestes on whom his father Atreus took such an
unnatural revenge; and this fateful connexion is vividy
brought before our minds by the chorus, and more especially
by the prophecies of Cassandra
I pass over the subsequent piece of the Choephorae for the
present; I shall speak of it when I come to institute a com-
parison between the manner in which the three poets have
handled the same subject.
The fable of the Eumenides is, as I have already said, the
justification of Orestes, and his absolution from bloodguilti-
ness: it is a trial, but a trial where the accusers and the
defenders and the presiding judges are gods. And the
manner in which the subject is treated corresponds with its
majesty and importance. The scene itself brought before the
eyes of the Greeks all the highest objects of veneration that
they acknowledged.
It opens in front of the celebrated temple at Delphi, which
occupies the background; the aged Pythia enters in sacer-
dotal pomp, addresses her prayers to all the gods who at any
time presided, or still preside, over the oracle, harangues the
assembled people (represented by the actual audience), and
goes into the temple to seat herself on the tripod. She returns
full of consternation, and describes what she has seen in the
temple: a man, stained with blood, supplicating protection,
surrounded by sleeping women with snaky hair; she then
makes her exit by the same entrance as she came in by.
Apollo now appears with Orestes, who is in a traveller's garb,
and carries a sword and olive-branch in his hands. He
promises him his farther protection, enjoins him to flee to
Athens, and commends him to the care of the present but
invisible Mercury, to whose safeguard travellers, and espe-
cially those who were under the necessity of journeying by
stealth, were usually consigned.
Orestes goes off at the side which was supposed to lead to
foreign lands; Apollo re-enters his temple, which remains
open, and the Furies are seen in the interior, sleeping on
the benches. Clytemnestras ghost now ascends by the
charonic stairs, and, passing through the orchestra, appears On
the stage. We are not to imagine it a haggard skeleton, but
86 THE EUMENIDES.
a figure with the appearance of life, though paler, with the
wound still open in her breast, and shrouded in ethereal-
coloured vestments. She calls on the Furies, in the language
of vehement reproach, and then disappears, probably through
a trap-door. The Furies awake, and not finding Orestes,
they dance in wild commotion round the stage, while they
sing the choral song. Apollo again comes out of the temple,
and drives them away, as profaning his sanctuary. We may
imagine him appearing with the sublime displeasure of the
Apollo of the Vatican, with bow and quiver, but also clad
with tunic and chlamys. -
The scene now changes; but as the Greeks on such occa-
sions were fond of going the shortest way to work, the back-
ground probably remained unchanged, and was now supposed
to represent the temple of Minerva, on the Areopagus, while
the lateral decorations were converted into Athens and its
surrounding landscape. Orestes now enters, as from foreign
land, and, as a suppliant, embraces the statue of Pallas stand-
ing before the temple. The chorus (who, according to the
poet's own description, were clothed in black, with purple
girdles, and serpents in their hair, in masks having perhaps
something of the terrific beauty of Medusa-heads, and marking
too their great age on the principles of sculpture) follows
close on his steps, but for the rest of the piece remains below
in the orchestra. The Furies had at first behaved themselves
like beasts of prey, furious at the escape of their booty, but
now, hymning with tranquil dignity the high and terrible
office they had among mortals, they claim the head of
Orestes, as forfeited to them, and devote it with mysterious
charms to endless torment. At the intercession of the suppli-
ant, Pallas, the warrior-virgin, appears in a chariot drawn by
four horses. She inquires the cause of his invocation, and
listens with calm dignity to the mutual complaints of Orestes
and his adversaries, and, at the solicitation of the two parties,
finally undertakes, after due reflection, the office of umpire.
The assembled judges take their seats on the steps of the
temple-the herald commands silence among the people by
sound of trumpet, just as in a real trial. Apollo advances to
advocate the cause of his suppliant, the Furies in vain protest
against his interference, and the arguments for and against
the deed are debated between them in short speeches. The
RETROSPECTIVE VIEW OF THE TRILOGY. 87
judges cast their ballots into the urn, Pallas throws in a white
one; all is wrought up to the highest pitch of expectation;
Orestes, in agony of suspense, exclaims to his protector-
O Phoebus Apollo, how will the cause be decided?
The Furies on the other hand:
O Night, black Mother, seest thou these doings?
Upon counting the black and white pebbles, they are found
equal in number, and the accused, therefore, by the decision of
Pallas, is acquitted. He breaks out into joyful thanksgiving,
while the Furies on the other hand declaim against the over-
bearing arrogance of these younger gods, who take such liber-
ties with those of Titanic race. Pallas bears their rage with
equanimity, addresses them in the language of kindness, and
even of veneration; and these so indomitable beings are unable
to withstand the charms of her mild eloquence. They promise
to bless the land which is under her tutelary protection, while
on her part Pallas assigns them a sanctuary in the Attic do-
main, where they are to be called the Eumenides, thatis, “ the
Benevolent Goddesses.” The whole ends with a solemn pro-
cession round the theatre, with hymns of blessing, while bands
of children, women, and old men, in purple robes and with
torches in their hands, accompany the Furies in their exit.
Let us now take a retrospective view of the whole trilogy.
In the Agamemnon we have a predominance of free-will both
in the plan and execution of the deed: the principal character
is a great criminal, and the piece ends with the revolting im-
pressions produced by the sight of triumphant tyranny and
crime. I have already pointed out the allusions it contains to
a preceding destiny.
The deed committed in the Choephora is partly enjoined by
Apollo as the appointment of fate, and partly originates in
natural motives: Orestes desire of avenging his father, and
his brotherly love for the oppressed Electra. It is only after
the execution of the deed that the struggle between the most
sacred feelings becomes manifest, and here again the sym-
pathies of the spectators are excited without being fully
appeased.
From its very commencement, the Eumenides stands on the
very summit of tragical elevation: all the past is here, as it
–Y--------
88 PREGINANT MEANING OF THE WEIOLE.
were, concentrated into a focus. Orestes has become the mere
passive instrument of fate; and free agency is transferred to
the more elevated sphere of the gods. Pallas is properly the
principal character. That opposition between the most sacred
relations, which often occurs in life as a problem not to be
solved by man, is here represented as a contention in the
world of the gods.
And this brings me to the pregnant meaning of the whole.
The ancient mythology is in general symbolical, although not
allegorical; for the two are certainly distinct. Allegory is
the personification of an idea, a poetic story invented solely
with such a view; but that is symbolical which, created by the
imagination for other purposes, or possessing an independent
reality of its own, is at the same time easily susceptible of an
emblematical explanation; and even of itself suggests it.
The Titans in general symbolize the dark and mysterious
powers of primaeval nature and mind; the younger gods, what-
soever enters more immediately within the circle of conscious-
ness. The former are more nearly allied to original chaos,
the latter belong to a world already reduced to order. The
Furies denote the dreadful powers of conscience, in so far as it
rests on obscure feelings and forebodings, and yields to no
principles of reason. In vain Orestes dwells on the just mo-
tives which urged him to the deed, the cry of blood still sounds
in his ear. Apollo is the god of youth, of the noble ebullition
of passionate indignation, of bold and daring action. Accord-
ingly this deed was commanded by him. Pallas is thoughtful
wisdom, justice, and moderation, which alone can allay the
conflict of reason and passion.
Even the sleep of the Furies in the temple is symbolical ;
for only in the sanctuary, in the bosom of religion, can the
fugitive find rest from the torments of conscience. Scarcely,
however, has he ventured forth again into the world, when the
image of his murdered mother appears, and again awakes them.
The very speech of Clytemnestra betrays its symbolical im-
port, as much as the attributes of the Furies, the serpents, and
their sucking of blood. The same may be said of Apollo's
aversion for them ; in fact, this symbolical character runs
through the whole. The equal cogency of the motives for and
against the deed is denoted by the equally divided votes of
the judges. And if at last a Sanctuary within the Athenian

AESCHYLUs, A PYTHAGOREAN, 89
territory is offered to the softened Furies, this is as much as to
say that reason is not everywhere to enforce its principles
against involuntary instinct, that there are in the human mind
certain boundaries which are not to be passed, and all contact
with which even every person possessed of a true sentiment of
reverence will cautiously avoid, if he would preserve peace
within.
So much for the deep philosophical meaning which we need
not wonder to find in this poet, who, according to the testimony
of Cicero, was a Pythagorean. AEschylus had also political
views. Foremost of these was the design of rendering Athens
illustrious. Delphi was the religious centre of Greece, and yet
how far it is thrown into the shade by him! It can shelter
Orestes, indeed, from the first onset of persecution, but not
afford him a complete liberation; this is reserved for the land
of law and humanity. But, a further, and in truth, his principal
object was to recommend as essential to the welfare of Athens
the Areopagus“, an uncorruptible yet mild tribunal, in which
the white ballot of Pallas given in favour of the accused is an
invention which does honour to the humanity of the Athenians.
The poet shows how a portentous series of crimes led to an
institution fraught with blessings to humanity.
But it will be asked, are not extrinsic aims of this kind
prejudicial to the pure poetical impressions which the compo-
sition ought to produce? Most undoubtedly, if pursued in the
manner in which other poets, and especially Euripides, have
* I do not find that this aim has ever been expressly ascribed to
AEschylus by any ancient writer. It is, however, too plain to be mis-
taken, and is revealed especially in the speech of Pallas, beginning with
the 680th verse. It agrees, moreover, with the account, that in the very
year when the piece was represented, (Olymp. lxxx. 1.) a certain Ephialtes
excited the people against the Areopagus, which was the best guardian of
the old and more austere constitution, and kept democratic extravagance
in check. This Ephialtes was murdered one night by an unknown hand.
AEschylus received the first prize in the theatrical games, but we know
that he left Athens immediately afterwards, and passed his remaining
years in Sicily. It is possible that, although the theatrical judges did him
justice, he might be held in aversion by the populace, and that this in-
duced him, without any express sentence of banishment, to leave his native
city. The story of the sight of the terrible chorus of Furies having
thrown children into mortal convulsions, and caused women to miscarry,
appears to be fabulous. A poet would hardly have been crowned, who
had been the occasion of profaning the festival by such occurrences.
90 TEIE OIRESTEIA : ITS SUBLIME CONCEPTION.
followed them out. But in AEschylus the aim is subservient
to the poetry, rather than the poetry to the aim. He does
not lower himself to a circumscribed reality, but, on the con-
trary, elevates it to a higher sphere, and connects it with the
most sublime conceptions.
In the Oresteia (for so the trilogy or three connected pieces
was called,) we certainly possess one of the sublimest poems
that ever was conceived by the imagination of man, and, pro-
bably, the ripest and most perfect of all the productions of his
genius. The date of the composition of them confirms this
supposition: for AEschylus was at least sixty years of age
when he brought these dramas on the stage, the last with
which he ever competed for the prize at Athens. But, in-
deed, every one of his pieces that has come down to us, is
remarkable either for displaying some peculiar property of
the poet, or, as indicative of the step in art at which he stood
at the date of its composition.
I am disposed to consider the Suppliants one of his more
early works. It probably belonged to a trilogy, and stood
between two other tragedies on the same subject, the names of
which are still preserved, namely the Egyptians and the
Danaidae. The first, we may suppose, described the flight of
the Danaidae from Egypt to avoid the detested marriage with
their cousins; the second depicts the protection which they
sought and obtained in Argos; while the third would contain
the murder of the husbands who were forced upon them. We
are disposed to view the two first pieces as single acts, intro-
ductory to the tragical action which properly commences in the
last. But the tragedy of the Suppliants, while it is complete in
itself, and forms a whole, is yet, when viewed in this position,
defective, since it is altogether without reference to or connexion
with what precedes and what follows. In the Suppliants the
chorus not only takes a part in the action, as in the Eume-
nides, but it is even the principal character that attracts and
commands our interest. This cast of the tragedy is neither
favourable for the display of peculiarity of character, nor the
exciting emotion by the play of powerful passions; or, to
speak in the language of Grecian art, it is unfavourable both
to ethos and to pathos. The chorus has but one voice and
one soul: to have marked the disposition common to fifty
young women (for the chorus of Danaidae certainly amountec
THE SUPPLIANTS-EGYPTIANS–DANAID ZE. 91.
to this number) by any exclusive peculiarities, would have
been absurd in the very nature of things: over and above the
common features of humanity such a multitude could only be
painted with those common to their sex, their age, and, per-
haps, those of their nation. In respect to the last, the inten-
tion of AEschylus is more conspicuous than his success: he lays
a great stress on the foreign descent of the Danaidae, but this
he does but assert of them, without allowing the foreign cha-
racter to be discovered in their words and discourse. Ths
sentiments, resolutions, and actions of a multitude, and yet
manifested with such uniformity, and conceived and executed
like the movements of a regular army, have scarcely the ap-
pearance of proceeding freely and directly from the inmost
being. And, on the other hand, we take a much stronger
interest in the situations and fortunes of a single individual
with whose whole character we have become intimately ac-
quainted, than in a multitude of uniformly repeated impres-
sions massed as it were together. We have more than reason
to doubt whether AEschylus treated the fable of the third
piece in such a way that Hypermnestra, the only one of
the Danaidae who is allowed to form an exception from the
rest, became, with her compassion or her love, the principal
object of the dramatic interest: here, again, probably, his
chief object was by expressing, in majestic choral songs, thgº
complaints, the wishes, the cares, and supplications of the
whole sisterhood, to exhibita kind of social solemnity of action
and suffering.
In the same manner, in the Seven before Thebes, the king
and the messenger, whose speeches occupy the greatest part
of the piece, speak more in virtue of their office than as inter-
preters of their own personal feelings. The description of the
assault with which the city is threatened, and of the seven
leaders who, like heaven-storming giants, have sworn its de-
struction, and who, in the emblems borne on their shields, dis-
play their arrogance, is an epic subject clothed in the pomp of
tragedy. This long and ascending series of preparation is
every way worthy the one agitating moment at which Eteo-
cles, who has hitherto displayed the utmost degree of pru-
dence and firmness, and stationed, at each gate, a patriotic
hero to confront each of the insolent foes; when the seventh
is described to him as no other than Polynices, the author of
§)2 THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES-ZESCHY LUS.
the whole threatened calamity, hurried away by the Erinnys
of a father's curse, insists on becoming himself his antagonist,
and, notwithstanding all the entreaties of the chorus, with the
clear consciousness of inevitable death, rushes headlong to the
fratricidal strife. War, in itself, is no subject for tragedy,
and the poet hurries us rapidly from the ominous preparation
to the fatal moment of decision: the city is saved, the two
competitors for the throne fall by each other’s hands, and the
whole is closed by their funeral dirge, sung conjointly by the
sisters and a chorus of Theban virgins. It is worthy of remark,
that Antigone's determination to inter her brother, notwith-
standing the prohibition with which Sophocles opens his own
piece, which he names after her, is interwoven with the con-
clusion of this play, a circumstance which, as in the case
of the Choephorae, immediately connects it with a new and
further development of the tragic story.
I wish I could persuade myself that AEschylus composed the
Persians to comply with the wish of Hiero, King of Syracuse,
who was desirous vividly to realize the great events of the
Persian war. Such is the substance of one tradition; but
according to another, the piece had been previously exhibited
in Athens. We have already alluded to this drama, which,
both in point of choice of subject, and the manner of handling
it, is undoubtedly the most imperfect of all the tragedies of
this poet that we possess. Scarcely has the vision of Atossa
raised our expectation in the commencement, when the whole
catastrophe immediately opens on us with the arrival of the
first messenger, and no further progress is even imaginable.
But although not a legitimate drama, we may still consider it
as a proud triumphal hymn of liberty, clothed in soft and un-
ceasing lamentations of kindred and subjects over the fallen
majesty of the ambitious despot. With great judgment, both
here and in the Seven before Thebes, the poet describes the
issue of the war, not as accidental, which is almost always the
case in Homer, but (for in tragedy there is no place for acci-
dent,) as the result of overweening infatuation on the one
hand, and wise moderation on the other.
The Prometheus Bound held also a middle place between
two others–the Fire-bringing Prometheus and the Prome-
theus Unbound, if we dare reckon the first, which, without
question, was a satiric drama, a part of a trilogy. A con-
THE PERSIANS-THE BOUND PROMETHEUS. 93.
siderable fragment of the Prometheus Unbound has been pre-
served to us in a Latin translation by Attius.
The Prometheus Bound is the representation of constancy
under suffering, and that the never-ending suffering of a god.
Exiled in its scene to a naked rock on the shore of the
earth-encircling ocean, this drama, still embraces the world,
the Olympus of the gods, and the earth, the abode of
mortals; all as yet scarcely reposing in security above the
dread abyss of the dark primaeval powers–the Titans. The
idea of a self-devoting divinity has been mysteriously incul-
cated in many religions, in dim foreboding of the true; here,
however, it appears in most fearful contrast to the consolations
of Revelation. For Prometheus does not suffer from any
understanding with the power which rules the world, but in
atonement for his disobedience to that power, and his disobe-
dience consists in nothing but the attempt to give perfection
to the human race. He is thus an image of human nature
itself; endowed with an unblessed foresight and riveted to a
narrow existence, without a friend or ally, and with nothing
to oppose to the combined and inexorable powers of nature,
but an unshaken will and the consciousness of her own lofty
aspirations. The other productions of the Greek Tragedians
are so many tragedies; but this I might say is Tragedy her-
self: her purest spirit revealed with all the annihilating and
overpowering force of its first, and as yet unmitigated, aus-
teritv.
Fre is little of external action in this piece. Prometheus
merely suffers and resolves from the beginning to the end;
and his sufferings and resolutions are always the same. But
the poet has, in a masterly manner, contrived to introduce
variety and progress into that which in itself was deter-
minately fixed, and has in the objects with which he has
surrounded him, given us a scale for the measurement of the
matchless power of his sublime Titan. First the silence of
Prometheus, while he is chained down under the harsh in-
spection of Strength and Force, whose threats serve only to
excite a useless compassion in Vulcan, who is nevertheless
forced to carry them into execution; then his solitary com-
plainings, the arrival of the womanly tender ocean nymphs,
whose kind but disheartening sympathy stimulates him to give
freer vent to his feelings, to relate the causes of his fall, and
L)4 DRAMAS OF AESCHYLUS GENERALLY.
to reveal the future, though with prudent reserve he reveals
it only in part; the visit of the ancient Oceanus, a kindred
god of the Titanian race, who, under the pretext of a zealous
attachment to his cause, counsels submission to Jupiter, and
is therefore dismissed with proud contempt; next comes Io, the
frenzy-driven wanderer, a victim of the same tyranny as Pro-
metheus himself suffers under: to her he predicts the wander-
ings to which she is still doomed, and the fate which at last
awaits her, which, in some degree, is connected with his own,
as from her blood, after the lapse of many ages, his deliverer
is to spring; then the appearance of Mercury, as the mes-
senger of the universal tyrant, who, with haughty menaces,
commands him to disclose the secret which is to ensure the
safety of Jupiter's throne against all the malice of fate and
fortune; and, lastly, before Prometheus has well declared his
refusal, the yawning of the earth, which, amidst thunder and
lightning, storms and earthquake, engulfs both him and the
rock to which he is chained in the abyss of the nether world.
The triumph of subjection was never perhaps more gloriously
celebrated, and we have difficulty in conceiving how the poet
in the Prometheus Unbound could have sustained himself on
the same height of elevation.
In the dramas of AEschylus we have one of many examples
that, in art as well as in nature, gigantic productions precede
those that evince regularity of proportion, which again in
their turn decline gradually into littleness and insignificance,
and that poetry in her earliest appearance attaches itself
closely to the sanctities of religion, whatever may be the
form which the latter assumes among the various races
of men.
A saying of the poet, which has been recorded, proves that
he endeavoured to maintain this elevation, and purposely
avoided all artificial polish, which might lower him from
this godlike sublimity. His brothers urged him to write a
new Paean. He answered: “The old one of Tynnichus is
the best, and his compared with this, fare as the new statues
do beside the old; for the latter, with all their simplicity, are
considered divine; while the new, with all the care bestowed
on their execution, are indeed admired, but bear much less
of the impression of divinity." In religion, as in everything
else, he carried his boldness to the utmost limits; and thus hé
CHARACTER OF STYLE. 9.
even came to be accused of having in one of his pieces dis-
closed the Eleusinean mysteries, and was only acquitted on
the intercession of his brother Aminias, who bared in sight
of the judges the wounds which he had received in the battle
of Salamis. He perhaps believed that in the communication
of the poetic feeling was contained the initiation into the
mysteries, and that nothing was in this way revealed to any
one who was not worthy of it.
In AEschylus the tragic style is as yet imperfect, and not
unfrequently runs into either unmixed epic or lyric. It is
often abrupt, irregular, and harsh. To compose more regular
and skilful tragedies than those of AEschylus was by no
means difficult; but in the more than mortal grandeur which
he displayed, it was impossible that he should ever be sur-
passed; and even Sophocles, his younger and more fortunate
rival, did not in this respect equal him. The latter, in speak-
ing of AEschylus, gave a proof that he was himself a thought-
ful artist: “AEschylus does what is right without knowing
it." These few simple words exhaust the whole of what wo
understand by the phrase, powerful genius working uncou-
sciously.

96 SOPHOCLES : HIS BIRTE-YOUTH.
LECTURE VII.
Life and Political Character of Sophocles–Character of his differei
Tragedies.
THE birth of Sophocles was nearly at an equal distance
between that of his predecessor and that of Euripides, so that
he was about half a life-time from each: but on this point all
the authorities do not coincide. He was, however, during the
greatest part of his life the contemporary of both. He
frequently contended for the ivy-wreath of tragedy with
AEschylus, and he outlived Euripides, who, however, also
attained to a good old age. To speak in the spirit of the
ancient religion, it seems that a beneficent Providence wished
in this individual to evince to the human race the dignity
and blessedness of its lot, by endowing him with every
divine gift, with all that can adorn and elevate the mind and
the heart, and crowning him with every imaginable blessing
of this life. Descended from rich and honourable parents,
and born a free citizen of the most enlightened state of
Greece;–there were birth, necessary condition, and founda-
tion. Beauty of person and of mind, and the uninterruped
enjoyment of both in the utmost perfection, to the extreme
term of human existence; a most choice and finished educa-
tion in gymnastics and the musical arts, the former so im-
portant in the development of the bodily powers, and the
latter in the communication of harmony; the sweet bloom of
youth, and the ripefruit of age; the possession of and unbroken
enjoyment of poetry and art, and the exercise of serene
wisdom; love and respect among his fellow citizens, renown
abroad, and the countenance and favour of the gods: these
are the general features of the life of this pious and virtuous
poet. It would seem as if the gods, to whom, and to Bacchus
in particular, as the giver of all joy, and the civilizer of the
human race, he devoted himself at an early age by the com-
LIFE AND POLITICAL CHARACTER. 97
position of tragical dramas for his festivals, had wished to
confer immortality on him, so long did they delay the hour
of his death; but as this could not be, they loosened him
from life as gently as was possible, that he might imper-
ceptibly change one immortality for another, the long dura-
tion of his earthly existence for the imperishable vitality of
his name. When a youth of sixteen, he was selected, on
account of his beauty, to dance (playing the while, after the
Greek manner, on the lyre) at the head of the chorus of youths
who, after the battle of Salamis (in which AEschylus fought,
and which he has so nobly described), executed the Paean
round the trophy erected on that occasion. Thus then the
beautiful season of his youthful bloom coincided with the
most glorious epoch of the Athenian people. He held the
rank of general as colleague with Pericles and Thucydides,
and, when arrived at a more advanced age, was elected to
the priesthood of a native hero. In his twenty-fifth year he
began to exhibit tragedies; twenty times was he victorious:
he often gained the second place, but never was he ranked
so low as in the third. In this career he proceeded with in-
creasing success till he had passed his ninetieth year; and
some of his greatest works were even the fruit of a still later
period. There is a story of an accusation being brought
against him by one or more of his elder sons, of having
become childish from age, and of being incapable of managing
his own affairs. An alleged partiality for a grandson by a
second wife is said to have been the motive of the charge.
In his defence he contented himself with reading to his judges
his (Edipus at Colonos, which he had then just composed (or,
according to others, only the magnificent chorus in it, wherein
he sings the praises of Colonos, his birth-place,) and the
astonished judges, without farther consultation, conducted
him in triumph to his house. If it be true that the second
(Edipus was written at so late an age, as from its mature
serenity and total freedom from the impetuosity and violence
of youth we have good reason to conclude that it actually
was, it affords us a pleasing picture of an old age at once
amiable and venerable. Although the varying accounts
of his death have a fabulous look, they all coincide in this,
and alike convey this same purport, that he departed life
without a struggle, while employed in his art, or something
G
98 SOPHGCLES COMPARED WITH ZESCHYLUS.
connected with it, and that, like an old swan of Apollo, he
breathed out his life in song. The story also of the Lacede-
monian general, who having entrenched the burying-ground
of the poet's ancestors, and being twice warned by Bacchus
in a vision to allow Sophocles to be there interred, dispatched
a herald to the Athenians on the subject, I consideras true,
as well as a number of other circumstances, which serve to
set in a strong light the illustrious reverence in which his
name was held. In calling him virtuous and pious, I used
the words in his own sense; for although his works breathe
the real character of ancient grandeur, gracefulness, and
simplicity, he, of all the Grecian poets, is also the one
whose feelings bear the strongest affinity to the spirit of our
religion.
One gift alone was denied to him by nature: a voice
attuned to song. He could only call forth and direct the har-
monious effusions of other voices; he was therefore compelled
to depart from the hitherto established practice for the poet to
act a part in his own pieces. Once only did he make his
appearance on the stage in the character of the blind singer
Thamyris (a very characteristic trait) playing on the cithara.
As AEschylus, who raised tragic poetry from its rude
beginnings to the dignity of the Cothurnus, was his prede-
cessor; the historical relation in which he stood to him
enabled Sophocles to profit by the essays of that original
master, so that AEschylus appears as the rough designer, and
Sophocles as the finisher and successor. The more artificial
construction of Sophocles dramas is easily perceived: the
greater limitation of the chorus in proportion to the dialogue,
the smoother polish of the rhythm, and the purer Attic
diction, the introduction of a greater number of charac-
ters, the richer complication of the fable, the multiplication
of incidents, a higher degree of development, the more
tranquildwelling upon all the momenta of the action, and
the more striking theatrical effect allowed to decisive ones,
the more perfect rounding off of the whole, even considered
from a merely external point of view. But he excelled
AEschylus in something still more essential, and proved him-
self deserving of the good fortune of having such a preceptor,
and of being allowed to enter into competition in the same
field with him.: I mean the harmonious perfection of his
SOPHOCLES : FERTILITY OF HIS MIND. 9J.
mind, which enabled him spontaneously to satisfy every
requisition of the laws of beauty, a mind whose free impulse
was accompanied by the most clear consciousness. Tosur-
pass ÄEschylus in boldness of conception was perhaps impos-
sible: I am inclined, however, to believe that is only because
of his wisdom and moderation that Sophocles appears less
bold, since he always goes to work with the greatest energy,
and perhaps with even a more sustained earnestness, like a
man who knows the extent of his powers, and is determined,
when he does not exceed them, to stand up with the greater
confidence for his rights”. As AEschylus delights in trans-
porting us to the convulsions of the primary world of the
Titans, Sophocles, on the other hand, never avails himself of
divine interposition except where it is absolutely necessary;
he formed men, according to the general confession of anti-
quity, better, that is, not more moral and exempt from error,
but more beautiful and noble than they really are; and while
he took everything in the most human sense, he was at the
Same time open to its higher significance. According to all
appearance he was also more temperate than AEschylus in his
use of scenic ornaments; displaying perhaps more of taste
and chastened beauty, but not attempting the same colossal
magnificence.
To characterize the native sweetness and gracefulness so
eminent in this poet, the ancients gave him the appellation of
the Attic bee. Whoever is thoroughly imbued with the feel-
ing of this peculiarity may flatter himself that a sense for
ancient art has arisen within him; for the affected sentimen-
* This idea has been so happily expressed by the greatest genius per-
haps of the last century, that the translator hopes he will be forgiven for
here transcribing the passage: “I can truly say that, poor and unknown
as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my
works, as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their
favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders both in
a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily
guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know myself, had
been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone; I balanced
myself with others; I watched every means of information to sce how
much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet; I studied assiduously
nature's design in my formation–where the lights and shades in my cha-
racter were intended.”– Letter from Burns to Dr. Moore, in Currie'
Life.–TRANs.
G 2
100 SOPHTOCLES: HIS TRAGEDIES–PECULIAR EXCELLENCIEs.
tality of the present day, far from coinciding with the ancients
in this opinion, would in the tragedies of Sophocles, both in
respect of the representation of bodily sufferings, and in the
sentiments and structure, find much that is insupportably
a UStere.
When we consider the great fertility of Sophocles, for
according to some he wrote a hundred and thirty pieces (of
which, however, seventeen were pronounced spurious by
Aristophanes the grammarian), and eighty according to the
most moderate account, little, it must be owned, has come
down to us, for we have only seven of them. Chance, how-
ever, has so far favoured us, that in these seven pieces we find
several which were held by the ancients as his greatest works,
the Antigone, for example, the Electra, and the two on the
subject of CEdipus; and these have also come down to us
tolerably free from mutilation and corruption in their text.
The CEdipus Tyrannus, and the Philoctetes, have been gene-
rally, but without good reason, preferred by modern critics to
all the others: the first on account of the artifice of the
plot, in which the dreadful catastrophe, which so powerfully
excites the curiosity (a rare case in the Greek tragedies),
is inevitably brought about by a succession of connected
causes; the latter on account of the masterly display of
character, the beautiful contrast observable in those of
the three leading personages, and the simple structure of
the piece, in which, with so few persons, everything pro-
ceeds from the truest and most adequate motives. But
the whole of the tragedies of Sophocles are separately re-
splendent with peculiar excellencies. In A ntigone we have
the purest display of feminine heroism ; in Ajax the sense of
manly honour in its full force; in the Trachiniae (or, as we
should rather name it, the Dying Hercules), the female levity
of Dejanira is beautifully atoned for by her death, and the
sufferings of Hercules are portrayed with suitable dignity;
Electra is distinguished by energy and pathos; in (Edipus
Coloneus there prevails a mild and gentle emotion, and over
the whole piece is diffused the sweetest gracefulness. I will
not undertake to weigh the respective merits of these pieces
against each other: but I own I entertain a singular predi-
lection for the last of them, because it appears to me the
sost expressive of the personal feelings of the poet himself.
SOPEIOCLES : ANALYSIS OF GEDIPUS 10
As this piece was written for the very purpose of throwing a
lustre on Athens, and his own birth-place more particularly,
he appears to have laboured on it with a special love and
affection.
Ajax and Antigone are usually the least understood. We
cannot conceive how these pieces should run on so long after
what we usually call the catastrophe. On this subject I shall
hereafter offer a remark or two.
Of all the fables of ancient mythology in which fate is
made to play a conspicuous part, the story of CEdipus is per-
haps the most ingenious; but still many others, as, for in-
stance, that of Niobe, which, without any complication of
incidents, simply exhibit on a scale of colossal dimensions
both of human arrogance, and its impending punishment
from the gods, appear to me to be conceived in a grander
style. The very intrigue which is involved in that of
CEdipus detracts from its loftiness of character. Intrigue in
the dramatic sense is a complication arising from the crossing
of purposes and events, and this is found in a high degree in
the fate of CEdipus, as all that is done by his parents or him-
self in order to evade the predicted horrors, serves only to
bring them on the more surely. But that which gives so
grand and terrible a character to this drama, is the circum-
stance which, however, is for the most part overlooked ; that
to the very CEdipus who solved the riddle of the Sphinx
relating to human life, his own life should remain so long an
inextricable riddle, to be so awfully cleared up, when all was
irretrievably lost. A striking picture of the arrogant pre-
tension of human wisdom, which is ever right enough in its
general principles, but does not enable the possessor to make
the proper application to himself.
Notwithstanding the severe conclusion of the first CEdipus
we are so far reconciled to it by the violence, suspicion, and
haughtiness in the character of CEdipus, that our feelings do
not absolutely revolt at so horrible a fate. For this end, it
was necessary thus far to sacrifice the character of OEdipus,
who, however, raises himself in our estimation by his fatherly
care and heroic zeal for the welfare of his people, that occa-
sion him, by his honest search for the author of the crime, to
accelerate his own destruction. It was also necessary, for
the sake of contrast with his future misery, to exhibit him in
102 ANALYSIS OF GEDIPUS CONTINUED
his treatment of Tiresias and Creon, in all the haughtiness of
regal dignity. And, indeed, all his earlier proceedings evince,
in some measure, the same suspiciousness and violence of
character; the former, in his refusing to be quieted by the
assurances of Polybos, when taunted with being a suppositious
child, and the latter, in his bloody quarrel with Laius. The
latter character he seems to have inherited from both his
parents. The arrogant levity of Jocasta, which induces her to
deride the oracle as not confirmed by the event, the penalty
of which she is so soon afterwards to inflict upon herself,
was not indeed inherited by her son; he is, on the contrary,
conspicuous throughout for the purity of his intentions; and
his care and anxiety to escape from the predicted crime,
added naturally to the poignancy of his despair, when he
found that he had nevertheless been overtaken by it. Awful
'ndeed is his blindness in not perceiving the truth when it
Was, as it were, brought directly home to him; as, for instance,
when he puts the question to Jocasta, How did Laius look?
and she answers he had become gray-haired, otherwise in
appearance he was not unlike CEdipus. This is also another
feature of her levity, that she should not have been struck
with the resemblance to her husband, a circumstance that
might have led her to recognize him as her son. Thus a.
close analysis of the piece will evince the utmost propriety
and significance of every portion of it. As, however, it is
customary to extol the correctness of Sophocles, and to boast
more especially of the strict observance of probability which
prevails throughout this (Edipus, I must here remark that
this very piece is a proof how, on this subject, the ancient
artists followed very different principles from those of modern
critics. For, according to our way of thinking, nothing could
be more improbable than that OEdipus should, so long, have
forborne to inquire into the circumstances of the death of
Laius, and that the scars on his feet, and even the name
which he bore, should never have excited the curiosity of
Jocasta, &c. But the ancients did not produce their works
of art for calculating and prosaic understandings; and an
improbability which, to be found out, required dissection, and
did not exist within the matters of the representation itself,
was to them none at all.
The diversity of character of AEschylus and Sophocles is
SOPEHOCLES–AESCHYLUS- 103
nowhere more conspicuous than in the Eumenides and the
TEdipus Coloneus, as both these pieces were composed with
the same alm. This aim was to glorify Athens as the Sacred
abode of law and humanity, on whose soil the crimes of the
hero families of other countries might, by a higher mediation,
be at last propitiated; while an ever-during prosperity was
predicted to the Athenian people. The patriotic and liberty-
breathing AEschylus has recourse to a judicial, and the pious
Sophocles to a religious, procedure; even the consecration of
CEdipus in death. Bent down by the consciousness of inevit-
able crimes, and lengthened misery, his honour is, as it
were, cleared up by the gods themselves, as if desirous of
showing that, in the terrible example which they made of
him, they had no intention of visiting him in particular, but
merely wished to give a solemn lesson to the whole human
race. Sophocles, to whom the whole of life was one continued
worship of the gods, delighted to throw all possible honour
on its last moments as if a more solemn festival; and asso-
ciated it with emotions very different from what the thought
of mortality is in general calculated to excite. That the
tortured and exhausted CEdipus should at last find peace and
repose in the grove of the Furies, in the very spot from which
all other mortals fled with aversion and horror, he whose
misfortune consisted in having done a deed at which all men
shudder, unconsciously and without warning of any inward
feeling; in this there is a profound and mysterious meaning.
AEschylus has given us in the person of Pallas a more
majestic representation of the Attic cultivation, prudence,
moderation, mildness, and magnanimity; but Sophocles, who
delighted to draw all that is godlike within the sphere of
humanity, has, in his Theseus, given a more delicate develop-
ment of all these same things. Whoever is desirous of gaining
an accurate idea of Grecian heroism, as contrasted with the
Barbarian, would do well to consider this character with
attention.
In ÄEschylus, before the victim of persecution can be
delivered, and the land can participate in blessings, the
infernal horror of the Furies congeals the spectator's blood,
and makes his hair stand on end, and the whole rancour of
these goddesses of rage is exhausted: after this the transi-
tion to their peaceful retreat is the more wonderful; thG
1 04 SOPEIOCLES : ANTIGONE-–HIS PORTRAITURE.
whole human race seems, as it were, delivered from their
power. In Sophocles, however, they do not ever appear, but
are kept altogether in the background; and they are never
mentioned by their own name, but always alluded to by some
softening euphemism. But this very obscurity, so exactly befit-
ting these daughters of night, and the very distance at which
they are kept, are calculated to excite a silent horror in which
the bodily senses have no part. The clothing the grove of the
Furies with all the charms of a southern spring completes
the sweetness of the poem; and were I to select from his own
tragedies an emblem of the poetry of Sophocles, I should
describe it as a sacred grove of the dark goddesses of fate, in
which the laurel, the olive, and the vine, are always green,
and the song of the nightingale is for ever heard.
Two of the pieces of Sophocles refer, to what in the Greek
way of thinking, are the sacred rights of the dead, and the
solemn importance of burial; in Antigone the whole of the
action hinges on this, and in Ajax it forms the only satisfac-
tory conclusion of the piece.
The ideal of the female character in Antigone is charac-
terized by great austerity, and it is sufficient of itself to put
an end to all the seductive representations of Grecian soft-
ness, which of late have been so universally current. Her
indignation at Ismene's refusal to take part in her daring
resolution; the manner in which she afterwards repulses
Ismene, when repenting of her former weakness, she begs to
be allowed to share her heroic sister's death, borders on harsh-
ness; both her silence, and then her invectives against Creon,
by which she provokes him to execute his tyrannical threats,
display the immovable energy of manly courage. The poet
has, however, discovered the secret of painting the loving heart
of woman in a single line, when to the assertion of Creon,
that Polynices was an enemy to his country, she replies:
My love shall go with thine, but not my hate*.
* This is the version of Franklin, but it does not conveythe meaning of
the original, and I am not aware that the English language is sufficiently
flexible to admit of an exact translation. The German, which, though far
inferior to the Greek in harmony, is little behind in flexibility, has in this
respect great advantage over the English; and Schlegel's“ nicht mitzu-
hassen, mitzulieben bin ich da,” represents exactly Oürot orvveX6etv äAAà
arvuqb Aetv ebvv.-TRANs.
SOPHOCLES ANTIGONE–CREON. 105
Moreover, she puts a constraint on her feelings only so long
"s by giving vent to them, she might make her firmness of
purpose 2ppear equivocal. When, however, she is being led
forth to inevitable death, she pours forth her soul in the ten-
derest and most touching wailings over her hard and untimely
fate, and does not hesitate, she, the modest virgin, to mourn
the loss of nuptials, and the unenjoyed bliss of marriage.
Yet she never in a single syllable betrays any inclination for
Haemon, and does not even mention the name of that amiable
youth*. After such heroic determination, to have shown
that any tie still bound her to existence, would have been a
weakness; but to relinquish without one sorrowful regret
those common enjoyments with which the gods have enriched
this life, would have ill accorded with her devout sanctity of
mind.
On a first view the chorus in Antigone may appear weak,
acceding, as it does, at once, without opposition to the tyran-
nical commands of Creon, and without even attempting to
make the slightest representation in behalf of the young
heroine. But to exhibit the determination and the deed of
Antigone in their full glory, it was necessary that they should
stand out quite alone, and that she should have no stay or
support. Moreover, the very submissiveness of the chorus
increases our impression of the irresistible nature of the royal
commands. So, too, was it necessary for it to mingle with
its concluding addresses to Antigone the most painful recol-
lections, that she might drain the full cup of earthly sorrows.
The case is very different in Electra, where the chorus appro-
priately takes an interest in the fate of the two principal
characters, and encourages them in the execution of their
design, as the moral feelings are divided as to its legitimacy,
whereas there is no such conflict in Antigone's case, who had
nothing to deter her from her purpose but mere external
fears.
After the fulfilment of the deed, and the infliction of its
penalties, the arrogance of Creon still remains to be corrected,
and the death of Antigone to be avenged; nothing less than
* Barthelemy asserts the contrary; but the line to which he refers, ac-
cording to the more correct mauuscripts, and even according to the context,
belongs to Ismene.
106 SOPHOCLES. AJAX.
the destruction of his whole family, and his own despair,
could be a sufficient atonement for the sacrifice of a life so
costly. We have therefore the king's wife, who had not
even been named before, brought at last on the stage, that
she may hear the misfortunes of her family, and put an end
to her own existence. To Grecian feelings it would have
been impossible to consider the poem as properly concluding
with the death of Antigone, without its penal retribution.
The case is the same in Ajax. His arrogance, which was
punished with a degrading madness, is atoned for by the deep
shame which at length drives him even to self-murder. The
persecution of the unfortunate man must not, however, be
carried farther; when, therefore, it is in contemplation to
dishonour his very corpse by the refusal of interment, even.
Ulysses interferes. He owes the honours of burial to that
Ulysses whom in life he had looked upon as his mortal enemy,
and to whom, in the dreadful introductory scene, Pallas shows,
in the example of the delirious Ajax, the nothingness of
man. Thus Ulysses appears as the personification of moder-
ation, which, if it had been possessed by Ajax, would have
prevented his fall.
Self-murder is of frequent occurrence in ancient mythology,
Rt least as adapted to tragedy; but it generally takes place,
„f not in a state of insanity, yet in a state of agitation, after
some sudden calamity which leaves no room for consideration.
Sich self-murders as those of Jocasta, Haemon, Eurydice, and
lastly of Dejanira, appear merely in the light of a subordinate
appendage in the tragical pictures of Sophocles; but the
suicide of Ajax is a cool determination, a free action, and of
sufficient importance to become the principal subject of the
piece. It is not the last fatal crisis of a slow mental malady,
as is so often the case in these more effeminate modern times;
still less is it that more theoretical disgust of life, founded on
a conviction of its worthlessness, which induced so many of
the later Romans, on Epicurean as well as Stoical principles,
to put an end to their existence. It is not through an
unmanly despondency that Ajax is unfaithful to his Ä
heroism. His delirium is over, as well as his first comfortless
feelings upon awaking from it; and it is not till after the
complete return of consciousness, and when he has had time
to measure the depth of the abyss into which, by a divine
SOPHOCLES : PHILOCTETES. 107
destiny, his overweening haughtiness has plunged him, when
he contemplates his situation, and feels it ruined beyond
remedy:–his honour wounded by the refusal of the arms of
Achilles; and the outburst of his vindictive rage wasted in
his infatuation on defenceless flocks; himself, after a long and
reproachless heroic career, a source of amusement to his ene-
mies, an object of derision and abomination to the Greeks, and
to his honoured father,–should he thus return to him–a,
disgrace: after reviewing all this, he decides agreeably to his
own motto, “gloriously to live or gloriously todie," that the
latter course alone remains open to him. Even the dissimu-
lation,–the first, perhaps, that he ever practised, by which,
to prevent the execution of his purpose from being disturbed,
he pacifies his comrades, must be considered as the fruit of
greatness of soul. He appoints Teucer guardian to his infant
boy, the future consolation of his own bereaved parents; and,
like Cato, dies not before he has arranged the concerns of all
who belong to him. As Antigone in her womanly tender-
ness, so even he in his wild manner, seems in his last speech
to feel the majesty of that light of the sun from which he is
departing for ever. His rude courage disdains compassion,
and therefore excites it the more powerfully. What a picture
of awaking from the tumult of passion, when the tent opens
and in the midst of the slaughtered herds hesits on the ground
bewailing himself!
As Ajax, in the feeling of inextinguishable shame, forms
the violent resolution of throwing away life, Philoctetes, on
the other hand, bears its wearisome load during long years of
misery with the most enduring patience. If Ajaxis honoured
by his despair, Philoctetes is equally ennobled by his con-
stancy. When the instinct of self-preservation comes into
collision with no moral impulse, it naturally exhibits itself
in all its strength. Nature has armed with this instinct
whatever is possessed of the breath of life, and the vigour
with which every hostile attack on existence is repelled is
the strongest proof of its excellence. In the presence, it is
true, of that band of men by which he had been abandoned,
and if he must depend on their superior power, Philoctetes
would no more have wished for life than did Ajax. But he is
alone with nature; he quails not before the frightful aspect
which she exhibits to him, and stillclings even to the maternal
108 SOPHOCLES: PHILOCTETES.
bosom of the all-nourishing earth. Exiled on a desert island,
tortured by an incurable wound, solitary and helpless as he
is, his bow procures him food from the birds of the forest, the
rock yields him soothing herbs, the fountain supplies a fresh
beverage, his cave affords him a cool shelter in summer, in
winter he is warmed by the mid-day sun, or a fire of kindled
boughs; even the raging attacks of his pain at length exhaust
themselves, and leave him in a refreshing sleep. Alas! it is
the artificial refinements, the oppressive burden of a relaxing
and deadening superfluity which render man indifferent to the
value of life: when it is stripped of all foreign appendages,
though borne down with sufferings so that the naked existence
alone remains, still will its sweetness flow from the heart at
every pulse through all the veins. Miserable man ! ten long
years has he struggled; and yet he still lives, and clings to
life and hope. What force of truth is therein allthis! What,
however, most moves us in behalf of Philoctetes is, that he,
who by an abuse of power had been cast out from society,
when it again approaches him is exposed by it to a second
and still more dangerous evil, that of falsehood. The anxiety
excited in the mind of the spectator lest Philoctetes should
be deprived of his last means of subsistence, his bow, would
be too painful, did he not from the beginning entertain a sus-
picion that the open-hearted and straight-forward Neopto-
lemus will not be able to maintain to the end the character
which, so much against his will, he has assumed. Not without
reason after this deception does Philoctetes turn away from
mankind to those inanimate companions to which the instinc-
tive craving for society had attached him. He calls on the
island and its volcanoes to witness this fresh wrong; he
believes that his beloved bow feels pain in being taken from
him; and at length he takes a melancholy leave of his hos-
pitable cavern, the fountains and the wave-washed cliffs, from
which he so often looked in vain upon the ocean: so inclined
to love is the uncorrupted mind of man.
Respecting the bodily sufferings of Philoctetes and the
manner of representing them, Lessing has in his Laocoön
declared himself against Winkelmann, and Herder again has
in the Silva Critica (Kritische Wälder) contradicted Lessing.
Both the two last writers have made many excellent observa-
tions on the piece, although we must allow with Herder, that
SOPHOCLES: TIE TRACHINIAE. 109
Winkelmann was correct in affirming that the Philoctetes of
Sophocles, like Laocoön in the celebrated group, suffers with
the suppressed agony of an heroic soul never altogether over-
come by his pain.
The Trachiniae appears to me so very inferior to the other
pieces of Sophocles which have reached us, that I could wish
there were some warrant for supposing that this tragedy was
composed in the age, indeed, and in the school of Sophocles,
perhaps by his son Iophon, and that it was by mistake attri-
buted to the father. There is much both in the structure and
plan, and in the style of the piece, calculated to excite sus-
picion; and many critics have remarked that the introductory
soliloquy of Dejanira, which is wholly uncalled-for, is very
unlike the general character of Sophocles prologues: and
although this poet's usual rules of art are observed on the
whole, yet it is very superficially ; no where can we discern
in it the profound mind of Sophocles. But as no writer
of antiquity appears to have doubted its authenticity, while
Cicero even quotes from it the complaint of Hercules, as from
an indisputable work of Sophocles, we are compelled to con-
tent ourselves with the remark, that in this one instance the
tragedian has failed to reach his usual elevation.
This brings us to the consideration of a general question,
which, in the examination of the works of Euripides, will still
more particularly engage the attention of the critic: how far,
namely, the invention and execution of a drama, must belong to
one man to entitle him to pass for its author. Dramatic litera-
ture affords numerous examples of plays composed by several
persons conjointly. It is well known that Euripides, in the
details and execution of his pieces, availed himself of the
assistance of a learned servant, Cephisophon; and he perhaps
also consulted with him respecting his plots. It appears,
moreover, certain that in Athens schools of dramatic art had
at this date been formed; such, indeed, as usually arise when
poetical talents are, by public competition, called abundantly
and actively into exercise: schools of art which contain scho-
lars of such excellence and of such kindred genius, that the
master may confide to them a part of the execution, and even
the plan, and yet allow the whole to pass under his name-
without any disparagement to his fame. Such were the
schools of painting of the sixteenth century, and every one
10 SCHOOLS OF DRAMATIC ART ,
knows what a remarkable degree of critical acumen is neces-
sary to discover in many of Raphael's pictures how much
really belongs to his own pencil. Sophocles had educated
his son Iophon to the tragic art, and might therefore easily
receive assistance from him in the actual labour of compo-
sition, especially as it was necessary that the tragedies that
were to compete for the prize should be ready and got by
heart by a certain day. On the other hand, he might also
execute occasional passages for works originally designed by
the son; and the pieces of this description, in which the hand
of the master was perceptible, would be naturally attributed
to the more celebrated naine.
LUTRIPLDESI : HIS MERITS AND DEFECTS. I
LECTURE VIII.
Euripides-IIis Merits and Defects–Decline of Tragic Poetry
through him.
WHEN we consider Euripides by himself, without any com-
parison with his predecessors, when we single out some of his
better pieces, and particular passages in others, we cannot
refuse to him an extraordinary meed of praise. But on the
other hand, when we take him in his connexion with the his-
tory of art, when we look at each of his pieces as a whole,
and again at the general scope of his labours, as revealed to
us in the works which have come down to us, we are forced
to censure him severely on many accounts. Offew writers
can so much good and evil be said with truth. He was a man
of boundless ingenuity and most versatile talents; but he
either wanted the lofty earnestness of purpose, or the severe
ärtistic wisdom, which we reverence in AEschylus and Sopho-
cles, to regulate the luxuriance of his certainly splendid and
amiable qualities. His constant aim is to please, he cares not
by what means; hence is he so unequal: frequently he has
passages of overpowering beauty, but at other times he sinks
into downright mediocrity. With all his faults he possesses
an admirable ease, and a certain insinuating charm.
These preliminary observations I have judged necessary,
since otherwise, on account of what follows, it might be
objected to me that I am at variance with myself, having
lately, in a short French essay, endeavoured to show the supe-
riority of a piece of Euripides to Racine's imitation of it.
There I fixed my attention on a single drama, and that one of
the poet's best; but here I consider everything from the most
general points of view, and relatively to the highest requi-
sitions of art; and that my enthusiasm for ancient tragedy
may not appear blind and extravagant, I must justify it by
a keen examination into the traces of its degeneracy and
decline.
11 2 EURIPIDES: HIS ERRORS CONSIDERED.
We may compare perfection in art and poetry to the sum-
mit of a steep mountain, on which an uprolled load cannot
long maintain its position, but immediately rolls down again
the other side irresistibly. It descends according to the laws
of gravity with quickness and ease, and one can calmly look
on while it is descending; for the mass follows its natural
tendency, while the laborious ascent is, in some degree, a
painful spectacle. Hence it is, for example, that the paintings
which belong to the age of declining art are much more
pleasing to the unlearned eye, than those which preceded the
period of its perfection. The genuine connoisseur, on the
contrary, will hold the pictures of a Zuccheri and others, who
gave the tone when the great schools of the sixteenth century
were degenerating into empty and superficial mannerism, to
be in real and essential worth, far inferior to the works of a
Mantegna, Perugino, and their contemporaries. Or let us
suppose the perfection of art a. focus: at equal distances on
either side, the collected rays occupy equal spaces, but on this
side they converge towards a common effect; whereas, on the
other they diverge, till at last they are totally lost.
We have, besides, a particular reason for censuring without
reserve the errors of this poet; the fact, namely, that our
own age is infected with the same faults with those which
procured for Euripides so much favour, if not esteem, among
his contemporaries. In our times we have been doomed to
witness a number of plays which, though in matter and form
they are far inferior to those of Euripides, bear yet in so far
a resemblance to them, that while they seduce the feelings
and corrupt the judgment, by means of weakly, and some-
times even tender, emotions, their general tendency is to pro-
duce a downright moral licentiousness.
What I shall say on this subject will not, for the most
part, possess even the attraction of novelty. Although the
moderns, attracted either by the greater affinity of his views
with their own sentiments, or led astray by an ill-understood
opinion of Aristotle, have not unfrequently preferred Euri-
pides to his two predecessors, and have unquestionably read,
admired, and imitated him much more; it admits of being
shown, however, that many of the ancients, and some even of
the contemporaries of Euripides, held the same opinion of him
as myself. In Anacharsis we find this mixture of praise and

EURIPIDES CENSURED BY SOPHOCLES. 1 13
censure at least alluded to, though the author softens every-
thing for the sake of his object of showing the productions of
the Greeks, in every department, under the most favourable
light.
Ä possess some cutting sayings of Sophocles respecting
Euripides, though he was so far from being actuated by
anything like the jealousy of authorship, that he mourned his
death, and, in a piece which he exhibited shortly after, he did
not allow his actors the usual ornament of the wreath. The
charge which Plato brings against the tragic poets, as tending
to give men entirely up to the dominion of the passions, and
to render them effeminate, by putting extravagant lamenta-
tions in the mouths of their heroes, may, I think, be justly
referred to Euripides alone; for, with respect to his pre-
decessors, the injustice of it would have been universally
apparent. The derisive attacks of Aristophanes are well
known, though not sufficiently understood and appreciated.
Aristotle bestows on him many a severe censºre, and when
he calls Euripides “the most tragic poet,” be by no means
ascribes to him the greatest perfection in the tragic art in
general, but merely alludes to the moving effect which is pro-
duced by unfortunate catastrophes ; for he immediately adds,
“although he does not well arrange the rest.” Lastly, the
Scholiast on Euripides contains many concise and stringent
criticisms on particular pieces, among which perhaps are
preserved the opinions of Alexandrian critics–those critics
who reckoned among them that Aristarchus, who, for the
solidity and acuteness of his critical powers, has had his
name transmitted to posterity as the proverbial designation of
a judge of art.
In Euripides we find the essence of the ancient tragedy no
longer pure and unmixed; its characteristical features are
already in part defaced. We have already placed this
essence in the prevailing idea of Destiny, in the Ideality of the
composition, and in the significance of the Chorus.
Euripides inherited, it is true, the idea of Destiny from his
predecessors, and the belief of it was inculcated ºn him by the
tragic usage; but yet in him fate is seldom the invisible spirit
of the whole composition, the fundamental thought of the
tragic world. We have seen that this idea may be exhibited
under severer or milder aspects; that the midnight terrors of
E
114 EURIP IDES . DRCLINE OF TRAGIC POETRY.
destiny may, in the courses of a whole trilogy, brighten into
indications of a wise and beneficent Providence Euripides,
however, has drawn it down from the region of the infinite;
and with him inevitable necessity not unfrequently degene-
rates into the caprice of chance. Accordingly, he can no
longer apply it to its proper purpose, namely, by contrast
with it, to heighten the moral liberty of man. How few of
his pieces turn upon a steadfast resistance to the decrees of
fate, or an equally heroic Submission to them ! His cha-
racters generally suffer because they must, and not because
ühey will, -
The mutual subordination, between character and passion
and ideal elevation, which we find observed in the same order
in Sophocles, and in the sculpture of Greece, Euripides has
completely reversed. Passion with him is the first thing; his
next care is for character, and when these endeavours leave
him still further scope, he occasionally seeks to lay on a touch
of grandeur and dignity, but more frequently a display of
amiableness.
It has been already admitted that the persons in tragedy
ought not to be all alike faultless, as there would then be no
opposition among them, and consequently no room for a com-
plication of plot. But (as Aristotle observes) Euripides has,
without any necessity, frequently painted his characters in
the blackest colours, as, for example, his Menelaus in Orestes.
The traditions indeed, sanctioned by popular belief, warranted
him in attributing great crimes to many of the old heroes, but
he has also palmed upon them many base and paltry traits of his
own arbitrary invention. It was by no means the object of
Euripides to represent the race of heroes as towering in their
majestic stature above the men of his own age; he rather
endeavours to fill up, or to build over the chasm that yawned
between hiscontemporaries and that wondrous olden world, and
/ to come upon the gods and heroes in their undress, a surprise
of which no greatness, it is said, can stand the test. He intro-
duces his spectators to a sort of familiar acquaintance with
them; he does not draw the supernatural and fabulous into
the circle of humanity (a proceeding which we praised in
Sophocles), but within the limits of the imperfect individuality.
This is the meaning of Sophocles, when he said that “he drew
men such as they ought to be, Euripides such as they are.“
EURIPIDEs: HIs CHORUSEs. l l 5
Not that his own personages are always represented as irre-
proachable models; his expression referred merely to idea
elevation and sweetness of character and manners. It seems
as if Euripides took a pleasure in being able perpetually to
remind his spectators–“ See ! those beings were men, subject
to the very same weaknesses, acting from the same motives
as yourselves, and even as the meanest among you."
Accordingly, he takes delight in depicting the defects
and moral failings of his characters ; nay, he often make
them disclose them for themselves in the most naive con-
fession. They are frequently not merely undignified, but
they even boast of their imperfections as that which ought
to be.
The Chorus with him is for the most part an unessential
Ornament; its songs are frequently wholly episodical, without
reference to the action, and more distinguished for brilliancy
than for sublimity and true inspiration. “The Chorus," says
Aristotle, “ must be considered as one of the actors, and as a
part of the whole ; it must co-operate in the action– not as
Euripides, but as Sophocles manages it.” The older comedians
enjoyed the privilege of allowing the Chorus occasionally to
address the spectators in its own name ; this was called a
Parabasis, and, as I shall afterwards show, was in accordance
with the spirit of comedy. Although the practice is by no
means tragical, it was, however, according to Julius Pollux,
frequently adopted by Euripides in his tragedies, who so
far forgot himself on some of these occasions, that in the
Danaidae, for instance, the chorus, which consisted offemales,
made use of grammatical inflections which belonged only to
the male sex.
This poet has thus at once destroyed the internal essence of
tragedy, and sinned against the laws of beauty and proportion
in its external structure. He generally sacrifices the whole
to the parts, and in these again he is more ambitious of foreign
attractions, than of genuine poetic beauty. W
, In the accompanying music, he adopted all the innovations
invented by Timotheus, and chose those melodies which were
most in unison with the effeminacy of his own poetry. He
proceeded in the same manner with his metres; his versifica-
tion is luxuriant, and runs into anomaly. The same diluted
and-effeminate character would, on a more prog inVesti-
d TH
«---
6 EURIPIDES: HIS PHILOSOPHICAL DOCTRINES.
gation, be unquestionably found in the rhythms of his choral
songs likewise.
On all occasions he lays on, even to overloading, those
merely corporeal charms which Winkelmann calls a “flattery
of the gross external senses;" whatever is exciting, striking
–in a word, all that produces a vivid effect, though without
true worth for the mind and the feelings. He labours for
effect to a degree which cannot be allowed even to the
dramatic poet. For example, he hardly ever omits an oppor-
unity of throwing his characters into a sudden and useless
terror; his old men are everlastingly bemoaning the infir-
mities of age, and, in particular, are made to crawl with
trembling limbs, and sighing at the fatigue, up the ascent
from the orchestra to the stage, which frequently represented
the slope of a hill. He is always endeavouring to move, and
for the sake of emotion, he not only violates probability, but
even sacrifices the coherence of the piece. He is strong in his
pictures of misfortune; but he often claims our compassion
not for inward agony of the soul, nor for pain which the
sufferer endures with manly fortitude, but for mere bodily
Ä He is fond of reducing his heroes to the con-
dition of beggars, of making them suffer hunger and want,
and bringing them on the stage with all the outward signs of
it, and clad in rags and tatters, for which Aristophanes, in
his Acharnians, has so humorously taken him to task.
Euripides was a frequenter of the schools of the philo-
sophers (he had been a scholar of Anaxagoras, and not, as
many have erroneously stated, of Socrates, with whom he was
KT only connected by social intercourse): and accordingly he
indulges his vanity in introducing philosophical doctrines on
all occasions; in my opinion, in a very imperfect manner, as
we should not be able to understand these doctrines from his
statements of them, if we were not previously acquainted
with them. He thinks it too vulgar a thing to believe in the
gods after the simple manner of the people, and he therefore
seizes every opportunity of interspersing something of the
allegorical interpretation of them, and carefully gives his
spectators to understand that the sincerity of his own belief was
very problematical. We may distinguish in him a twofold
character : the poet, whose productions were consecrated to a
religious solemnity, who stood under the protection of religion,
EURIPIDES : BIIS JUSTIFICATION OF PERJURY. 117
and who, therefore, on his part, was bound to honour it; and
the sophist, with his philosophical dicta, who endeavoured º
insinuate his sceptical opinions and doubts into the fabulous
marvels of religion, from which he derived the subjects of his
pieces. But while he is shaking the ground-works of religion,
he at the same time acts the moralist; and, for the sake of
popularity, he applies to the heroic life and the heroic ages
maxims which could only apply to the social relations of his
owntimes. He throws oüt amültitude of moralapophthegms,
many of which he often repeats, and which are mostly trite,
and not seldom fundamentally false. With all this parade of
morality, the aim of his pieces, the general impression which
they are calculated to produce is sometimes extremely immoral.
A pleasant anecdote is told of his having put into the mouth of
Bellerophon a silly eulogium on wealth, in which he declares
it to be preferable to all domestic happiness, and ends with
observing, “ If Aphrodite (who bore the epithet golden) be
indeed glittering as gold, she well deserves the love of
mortals:” which so offended the spectators, that they raised
a great outcry, and would have stoned both actor and poet, ,
but Euripides sprang forward, aud called out, “ Wait only
till the end–he will be requited accordingly !” In like
manner he defended himself against the objection that his
Ixion expressed himself in too disgusting and abominable
language, by observing that the piece concluded with his
being broken on the wheel. But even this plea that the re- iz
presented villany is requited by the final retribution of poetical - - -*
“ustice, is not available in defence of all his tragedies. In Ä „ /“
the wicked escape altogether untouched. Lying and other
infamous practices are openly protected, especially when he
can manage to palm them upon a supposed noble motive. He
has also perfectly at command the seductive sophistry of the
passions, which can lend a plausible appearance to everything.
The following verse in justification of perjury, and in which
the reservatio memtalis of the casuists seems to be substantially
expressed, is well known:
The tongue swore, but the mind was unsworn.
Taken in its context, this verse, on account of which he was
so often ridiculed by Aristophanes, may, indeed, bejustified;
but the formula is, nevertheless, bad, on account of the pos-
118 EURIPIDES : HIS HATRED OF WOMEN
sible abuse of its application. Another verse of Euripides:
“For a kingdom it is worth while to commit injustice, but in
"other cases it is well to be Just,“ was frequently in the
mouth of Caesar, with the like intention of making a bad use
of it.
Euripides was frequently condemned even by the ancients
for his seductive invitations to the enjoyment of sensual love.
Every one must be disgusted when Hecuba, in order to
induce Agamemnon to punish Polymestor, reminds him of the
pleasures which he has enjoyed in the arms of Cassandra, his
captive, and, therefore, by the laws of the heroic ages his concu-
bine: she would purchase revenge for a murdered son with
the acknowledged and permitted degradation of a living
daughter. He was the first to make the unbridled passion of
ab Medea, and the unnatural love of a Phaedra, the main sub-
ject of his dramas, whereas from the manners of the ancients,
we may easily conceive why love, which among them was
much less dignified by tender feelings than among ourselves,
should hold only a subordinate place in the older trage-
dies. With all the importance which he has assigned to his
- female characters, he is notorious for his hatred of women;
and it is impossible to deny that he abounds in passages
descanting on the frailties of the female sex, and the superior
excellence of the male; together with many maxims of house-
hold wisdom: with all which he was evidently endeavouring
to pay court to the men, who formed, if not the whole, cer-
tainly the most considerable portion of his audience. A cut-
ting saying and an epigram of Sophocles, on this subject, have
been preserved, in which he accounts for the (pretended) mis-
ogyny of Euripides by his experience of their seductibility in
the course of his own illicit amours. In the manner in which
women are painted by Euripides, we may observe, upon the
- whole, much sensibility even for the more noble graces of
female modesty, but no genuine esteem.
The substantial freedom in treating the fables, which was
One of the prerogatives of the tragic art, is frequently carried
by Euripides to the extreme of licence. It is well known,
that the fables of Hyginus, which differ so essentially from
those generally received, were partly extracted from his
pieces. As he frequently rejected all the incidents which
were generally known, and to which the people were accus-
EURIPIDES: HIS PROLOGUES–ENDLESS SPEECIIES. 1 ] 9
tomed, he was reduced to the necessity of explaining in a pro-
logue the situation of things in his drama, and the course
which they were to take. Lessing, in his Dramaturgie, has
hazarded the singular opinion that it is a proof of an advance
in the dramatic art, that Euripides should have trusted wholly
to the effect of situations, without calculating on the excite-
ment of curiosity. For my part I cannot see why, amidst
the impressions which a dramatic poem produces, the uncer-
tainty of expectation should not be allowed a legitimate
place. The objection that a piece will only please in this
respect for the first time, because on an acquaintance with it
we know the result beforehand, may be easily answered: if
the representation be truly energetic, it will always rivet
the attention of the spectator in such a manner that he will
forget what he already knew, and be again excited to the
same stretch of expectation. Moreover, these prologues give
to the openings of Euripides' plays a very uniform and mono-
tonous appearance: nothing can have a more awkward effect
than for a person to come forward and say, I am so and so; this
and that has already happened, and what is next to come is
as follows. It resembles the labels in the mouths of the
figures in old paintings, which nothing but the great simplicity
of style in ancient times can excuse. But then all the rest
ought to correspond, which is by no means the case with
Euripides, whose characters always speak in the newest mode
of the day. Both in his prologues and dénouements he is
very lavish of unmeaning appearances of the gods, who are
only elevated above men by the machine in which they are
suspended, and who might certainly well be spared.
The practice of the earlier tragedians, to combine all in
large masses, and to exhibit repose and motion in distinctly-
marked contrast, was carried by him to an unwarrantable
extreme. If for the sake of giving animation to the dialogue
hispredecessors occasionally employed an alternation of single-
line speeches, in which question and answer, objection and
retort, fly about like arrows from side to side, Euripides
makes so immoderate and arbitrary use of this poetical device
that very frequently one-half of his lines might be left out
without detriment to the sense. At another time he pours
himself out in endless speeches, where he sets himself to shew
off his rhetorical powers in ingenious arguments, or in pathetic
.
120 EURIPIDES : LOOSENESS OF HIS STYLE.
appeals. Many of his scenes have altogether the appearance
of a lawsuit, where two persons, as the parties in the litiga-
tion, (with sometimes a third for a judge,) do not confine
themselves to the matter in hand, but expatiate in a wide
field, accusing their adversaries or defending themselves with
all the adroitness of practised advocates, and not unfrequently
with all the windings and subterfuges of pettifogging syco-
phants. In this way the poet endeavoured to make his
poetry entertaining to the Athenians, by its resemblance to
their favourite daily occupation of conducting, deciding, or
at least listening to lawsuits. On this account Quinctilian
expressly recommends him to the young orator, and with
great justice, as capable of furnishing him with more instruc-
tion than the older tragedians. But such a recommendation
it is evident is little to his credit; for eloquence may, no
doubt, have its place in the drama, when it is consistent with
the character and the object of the supposed speaker, yet to
allow rhetoric to usurp the place of the simple and spontane-
ous expression of the feelings, is anything but poetical.
The style of Euripides is upon the whole too loose, although
he has many happy images and ingenious turns: he has
neither the dignity and energy of AEschylus, nor the chasto
sweetness of Sophocles. In his expressions he frequently
affects the singular and the uncommon, but presently relapses
into the ordinary; the tone of the discourse often sounds very
familiar, and descends from the elevation of the cothurnus to
the level ground. In this respect, as well as in the attempt
(which frequently borders only too closely on the ludicrous)
to paint certain characteristic peculiarities, (for instance, the
awkward carriage of the Bacchus-stricken Pentheus in his
female attire, the gluttony of Hercules, and his boisterous
demands on the hospitality of Admetus,) Euripides was a
precursor of the new comedy, to which he had an evident
inclination, as he frequently paints, under the names of the
heroic ages, the men and manners of his own times. Hence
Menander expressed a most marked admiration for him, and
proclaimed himself his scholar; and we have a fragment of
Philemon, which displays such an extravagant admiration,
that it hardly appears to have been seriously meant. “ If
the dead,” he either himself Says, or makes one of his cha-
racters to say, “ had indeed any Sensation, as some people
EURIPIDES : HIS MERITS CONSIDERED. I 21
think they have, I would hang myself for the sake of seeing
Euripides."–With this adoration of the later comic authors,
the opinion of Aristophanes, his contemporary, forms a strik-
ing contrast. Aristophanes persecutes him bitterly and un-
ceasingly; he seems almost ordained to be his perpetual
scourge, that none of his moral or poetical extravagances
might go unpunished. Although as a comic poet Aristo-
phanesis, generally Speaking, in the relation of a parodist Y
to the tragedians, yet he never attacks Sophocles, and even
where he lays hold of ZEschylus, on that side of his character
which certainly may excite a smile, his reverence for him is
still visible, and he takes every opportunity of contrasting his
gigantic grandeur with the petty refinements of Euripides.
With infinite cleverness and inexhaustible flow of wit, he
has exposed the sophistical subtilty, the rhetorical and philo-
sophical pretensions, the immoral and seductive effeminacy,
and the excitations to undisguised sensuality of Euripides.
As, however, modern critics have generally looked upon Aris-
tophanes as no better than a writer of extravagant and
libellous farces, and had no notion of eliciting the serious
truths which he veiled beneath his merry disguises, it is no
wonder if they have paid but little attention to his opinion.
But with all this we must never forget that Euripides was
still a Greek, and the contemporary of many of the greatest
names of Greece in politics, philosophy, history, and the
fine arts. If, when compared with his predecessors, he must
rank far below them, he appears in his turn great when
placed by the side of many of the moderns. He has a par-
ticular strength in portraying the aberrations of a soul dis-
eased, misguided, and franticly abandoned to its passions.
He is admirable where the subject calls chiefly for emotion,
and makes no higher requisitions; and he is still more so
where pathos and moral beauty are united. Few of his
pieces are without passages of the most ravishing beauty. It
is by no means my intention to deny him the possession of the
most astonishing talents; I have onlystated that these talents
were not united with a mind in which the austerity of moral
Principles, and the sanctity of religious feelings, were held in
the highest honour. *
I 22 EUREPIDES : TEIE CHOEPHORAE OF AESCHY LUS.
LECTURE IX.
Comparison between the Choephora of AEschylus, the Electra of Sophocles.
and that of Euripides.
THE relation in which Euripides stood to his two great pre-
decessors, may be set in the clearest light by a comparison
between their three pieces which we fortunately still possess,
on the same subject, namely, the avenging murder of Clytem-
nestra by her son Orestes.
The scene of the Choephorae of Zschylus is laid in front of
the royal palace; the tomb of Agamemnon appears on the
stage. Orestes appears at the sepulchre, with his faithful
Pylades, and opens the play (which is unfortunately some-
what mutilated at the commencement) with a prayer to Mer-
cury, and with an invocation to his father, in which he
promises to avenge him, and to whom he consecrates a lock of
his hair. He sees a female train in mourning weeds issuing
from the palace, to bring a libation to the grave; and, as he
thinks he recognises his sister among them, he steps aside
with Pylades in order to observe them unperceived. The
chorus, which consists of captive Trojan virgins, in a speech,
accompanied with mournful gestures, reveals the occasion of
their coming, namely, a fearful dream of Clytemnestra; it
adds its own dark forebodings of an impending retribution of
the bloody crime, and bewails its lot in being obliged to serve
unrighteous masters. Electra, demands of the chorus whether
she shall fulfil the commission of her hostile mother, or pour
out their offerings in silence; and then, in compliance with
their advice, she also offers up a prayer to the subterranean
Mercury and to the soul of her father, in her own name and
that of the absent Orestes, that he may appear as the avenger.
While pouring out the offering she joins the chorus in lamen-
tations for the departed hero. Presently, finding a lock of
hair resembling her own in colour, and seeing footsteps near
the grave she conjectures that her brother has been there;
EURIPIDES THE CHOEPHORAE OF AESCHY LUS. 123
and when she is almost frantic with joy at the thought,
Orestes steps forward and discovers himself. He completely
overcomes her doubts by exhibiting a garmentwoven by her
own hand: they give themselves up to their joy; he addresses
a prayer to Jupiter, and makes known how Apollo, under the
most dreadful threats of persecution by his father's Furies, has
called on him to destroy the authors of his death in the same
manner as they had destroyed him, namely, by guile and cun-
ning. Now follow odes of the chorus and Electra; partly
consisting of prayers to her father's shade and the subterra-
nean divinities, and partly recapitulating all the motives for
the deed, especially those derived from the death of Agamem-
mon. Orestes inquires into the vision which induced Clytem-
nestra to offer the libation, and is informed that she dreamt
that she had given her breast to a dragon in her son's cradle,
and suckled it with her blood. He hereupon resolves to
become this dragon, and announces his intention of stealing
into the house, disguised as a stranger, and attacking both her
and AEgisthus by surprise. With this view he withdraws
along with Pylades. The subject of the next choral hymnis
the boundless audacity of mankind in general, and especially
of women in the gratification of their unlawful passions, which
it confirms by terrible examples from mythic story, and
descants upon the avenging justice which is sure to overtake
them at last. Orestes, in the guise of a stranger, returns with
Pylades, and desires admission into the palace. Clytemnestra,
comes out, and being informed by him of the death of Orestes,
at which tidings Electra assumes a feigned grief, she invites
him to enter and partake of their hospitality. After a short
prayer of the chorus, the nurse comes and mourns for her
foster-child; the chorus inspires her with a hope that he yet
lives, and advises her to contrive to bring AEgisthus, for whom
Clytemnestra has sent her, not with, but without his body
guard. As the critical moment draws near, the chorus proffers
prayers to Jupiter and Mercury for the success of the plot.
AEgisthus enters into conversation with the messenger; he
can hardly allow himself to believe the joyful news of the
death of Orestes, and hastens into the house for the purpose
of ascertaining the truth, from whence, after a short prayer of
the chorus, we hear the cries of the murdered. A servant
rushes out, and to warn Clytemnestra gives the alarm at the
24 EURIPIDES THE ELECTRA OF SOPHOCLES.
door of the women's apartment. She hears it, comes forward,
and calls for an axe to defend herself; but as Orestes instan-
taneously rushes on her with the bloody sword, her courage
fails her, and, most affectingly, she holds up to him the breast
at which she had suckled him Hesitating in his purpose, he
asks the counsel of Pylades, who in a few lines exhorts him
by the most cogent reasons to persist; after a brief dialogue
of accusation and defence, he pursues her into the house to
slay her beside the body of AEgisthus. In a solemn odethe
chorus exults in the consummated retribution. The doors of
the palace are thrown open, and disclose in the chamber the
two dead bodies laid side by side on one bed. Orestes orders
the servants to unfold the garment in whose capacious folds
his father was muffled when he was slain, that it may be seen
by all; the chorus recognise on it the stains of blood, and
mourn afresh the murder of Agamemnon. Orestes, feeling
his mind already becoming confused, seizes the first moment
to justify his acts, and having declared his intention of repair-
ing to Delphi to purify himself from his blood-guiltiness, flies
in terror from the furies of his mother, whom the chorus does
not perceive, but conceives to be a mere phantom of his ima-
gination, but who, nevertheless, will no longer allow him any
repose. The chorus concludes with a reflection on the scene
of murder thrice-repeated in the royal palace since the repast
of Thyestes.
The scene of the Electra of Sophocles is also laid before the
palace, but does not contain the grave of Agamemnon. At
break of day Pylades, Orestes, and the guardian slave who had
been his preserver on that bloody day, enter the stage as just
arriving from a foreign country. The keeper who acts as his
guide commences with a description of his native city, and he
is answered by Orestes, who recounts the commission given
him by Apollo, and the manner in which he intends to carry
it into execution, after which the young man puts up a.
prayer to his domestic gods and to the house of his fathers.
Electra is heard complaining within; Orestes is desirous of
greeting her without delay, but the old man leads him away
to offer a sacrifice at the grave of his father. Electra, then
appears, and pours out her sorrow in a pathetic address to
heaven, and in a prayer to the infernal deities her unconquer-
able desire of revenge. The chorus, which consists of native
EURIPIDES : THE ELECTRA OF SOPHIOCLES. 125
virgins, endeavours to console her; and, interchanging hymn
and speech with the chorus, Electra discloses her unabatable
sorrow, the contumely and oppression under which she suffers,
and her hopelessness occasioned by the many delays of Orestes,
notwithstanding her frequent exhortations; and she turns a
deaf ear to all the grounds of consolation which the chorus can
suggest. Chrysothemis, Clytemnestra's younger, more sub-
missive, and favourite daughter, approaches with an offering
which she is to carry to the grave of her father. Their
difference of sentiment leads to an altercation between the two
sisters, during which Chrysothemis informs Electra that AEgis-
thus, now absent in the country, has determined to adopt the
most severe measures with her, whom, however, she sets at
defiance. She then learns from her sister that Clytemnestra
has had a dream that Agamemnon had come to life again,
and had planted his sceptre in the floor of the house, and it
had grown up into a tree that overshadowed the whole land;
that, alarmed at this vision, she had commissioned Chryso-
themis to carry an oblation to his grave. Electra counsels
her not to execute the commands of her wicked mother, but
to put up a prayer for herself and her sister, and for the
return of Orestes as the avenger of his father; she then adds
to the oblation her own girdle and a lock of her hair.
Chrysothemis goes off, promising obedience to her wishes.
The chorus augurs from the dream, that retribution is at hand,
and traces back the crimes committed in this house to the
primalsin of Pelops. Clytemnestra rebukes her daughter, with
whom, however, probably under the influence of the dream, she
is milder than usual; she defends her murder of Agamemnon,
Electra condemns her for it, but without violent altercation.
Upon this Clytemnestra, standing at the altar in front of the
house, proffers a prayer to Apollo for health and long life,
and a secret one for the death of her son. The guardian of
Orestes arrives, and, in the character of a messenger from a
Phocian friend, announces the death of Orestes, and minutely
enumerates all the circumstances which attended his being
killed in a chariot-race at the Pythian games. Clytemnestra,
although visited for a moment with a mother's feelings, can
scarce conceal her triumphant joy, and invites the messenger
to partake of the hospitality of her house. Electra, in touch-
ing speeches and hymns, gives herself up to grief; the chorus
1 26 EURIPIDES: THE ELECTRA OF SOPHOCLES.
in vain endeavours to console her. Chrysothemis returns
from the grave, full of joy in the assurance that Orestes is
near; for she has found his lock of hair, his drink-offering
and wreaths of flowers. This serves but to renew the despair
of Electra, who recounts to her sister the gloomy tidings
which have just arrived, and exhorts her, now that all other
hope is at an end, to join with her in the daring deed of put-
ting AEgisthus to death: a proposal which Chrysothemis, not
possessing the necessary courage, rejects as foolish, and after
a violent altercation she re-enters the house. The chorus
bewails Electra, now left utterly desolate. Orestes returns with
Pylades and several servants bearing an urn with the pre-
tended ashes of the deceased youth. Electra begs it of them,
and laments over it in the most affecting language, which
agitates Orestes to such a degree that he can no longer
conceal himself; after some preparation he discloses himself
to her, and confirms the announcement by producing the seal-
ring of their father. She gives vent in speech and song to
her unbounded joy, till the old attendant of Orestes comes
out and reprimands them both for their want of consideration.
Electra with some difficulty recognizes in him the faithful
servant to whom she had entrusted the care of Orestes, and
expresses her gratitude to him. At the suggestion of the old
man, Orestes and Pylades accompany him with all speed into
the house, in order to surprise Clytemnestra while she is stil
alone. Electra offers up a prayer to Apollo in their behalf;
the choral ode announces the moment of retribution. From
within the house 1s heard the shrieks of the affrighted Cly-
temnestra, her short prayer, her cry of agony under the
death-blow. Electra from without stimulates Orestes to
complete the deed, and he comes out with bloody hands.
Warned however by the chorus of the approach of Egisthus,
he hastily re-enters the house in order to take him by sur-
prise. AEgisthus inquires into the story of Orestes death,
and from the ambiguous language of Electra is led to believe
that his corpse is in the palace. He commands all the gates
to be thrown oper, immediately, for the purpose of con-
vincing those of the people who yielded reluctant obedience
to his sovereignty, that they had no longer any hopes
In Orestes. The middle entrance opens, and discloses in
the interior of the palace a body lying on the bed, but
EURIPIDES . HIS ELECTRA- 127
closely covered over: Orestes stands beside the body, and
invites AEgisthus to uncover it; he suddenly beholds the
bloody corpse of Clytemnestra, and concludes himself lost
and without hope. He requests to be allowed to speak, but
this is prevented by Electra. Orestes constrains him to enter
the house, that he may kill him on the very spot where his
own father had been murdered. v,
The scene of the Electra of Euripides is not in Mycenae, in
the open country, but on the borders of Argolis, and before a
solitary and miserable cottage. The owner, an old peasant,
comes out and in a prologue tells the audience how matters
stand in the royal house, with this addition, however, to the
incidents related in the two plays already considered, that
not content to treat Electra with ignominy, and to leave her
in a state of celibacy, they had forced her to marry beneath
her rank, and to accept of himself for a husband: the motives
he assigns for this proceeding are singular enough; he declares,
however, that he has too much respect for her to reduce her
to the humiliation of becoming in reality his wife.–They
live therefore in virgin wedlock. Electra comes forth before
it is yet daybreak bearing upon her head, which is close
shorn in servile fashion, a pitcher to fetch water: her
husband entreats her not to trouble herself with such unac-
customed labours, but she will not be withheld from the dis-
charge of her household duties; and the two depart, he to his
work in the field and she upon her errand. Orestes now
enters with Pylades, and, in a speech to him, states that he
has already sacrificed at his father's grave, but that not
daring to enter the city, he wishes to find his sister, who, he
is aware, is married and dwells somewhere near on the
frontiers, that he may learn from her the posture of affairs.
He sees Electra approach with the water-pitcher, and retires.
She breaks out into an ode bewailing her own fate and
that of her father. Hereupon the chorus, consisting of rustic
virgins, makes its appearance, and exhorts her to take a part
in a festival of Juno, which she, however, depressed in spirit,
pointing to her tattered garments, declines. The chorus offer
to supply her with festal ornaments, but she still refuses.
She perceives Orestes and Pylades in their hiding-place,
takes them for robbers, and hastens to escape into the house;
when Orestes steps forward and prevents her, she imagines
= ===–=-------- ------ - z - - * *-«
T 28 EURIPIDES - HTS ELECTRA.
he intends to murder her; he Temoves her fears, and gives
her assurances that her brother is still alive. On this he
inquires into her situation, and the spectators are again
treated with a repetition of all the circumstances. Orestes
still forbears to disclose himself, and promising merely to
carry any message from Electra to her brother, testifies, as
a stranger, his sympathy in her situation. The chorus seizes
this opportunity of gratifying its curiosity about the fatal
events of the city; and Electra, after describing her own
misery, depicts the wantonness and arrogance of her mother
and AEgisthus, who, she says, leaps in contempt upon Aga-
memnon's grave, and throws stones at it. The peasant
returns from his work, and thinks it rather indecorous in his
wife to be gossiping with young men, but when he hears that
they have brought news of Orestes, he invites them in a
friendly manner into his house. Orestes, on witnessing the
behaviour of the worthy man, makes the reflection that the
most estimable people are frequently to be found in low sta-
tions, and in lowly garb. Electra upbraids her husband for
inviting them, knowing as he must that they had nothing in
the house to entertain them with; he is of opinion that the
strangers will be satisfied with what he has, that a good house-
wife can always make the most of things, and that they have
at least enough for one day. She dispatches him to Orestes'
old keeper and preserver who lives hard by them, to bid him
come and bring something with him to entertain the strangers,
and the peasant departs muttering wise saws about riches
and moderation. The chorus bursting out into an ode on the
expedition of the Greeks against Troy, describes at great
length the figures wrought on the shield which Achilles
received from Thetis, and concludes with expresing a wish
that Clytemnestra may be punished for her wickedness.
The old guardian, who with no small difficulty ascends the
hill towards the house, brings Electra a lamb, a cheese, and a
skin of wine; he then begins to weep, not failing of course to
wipe his eyes with his tattered garments. In reply to the
questions of Electra he states, that at the grave of Agamem-
non he found traces of an oblation and a lock of hair; from
which circumstance he conjectured that Orestes had been
there. We have then an allusion to the means which AEschy-
lus had employed to bring about the recognition, namely, the
EURIPIDES : HIS ELECTRA 1 29
resemblance of the hair, the prints of feet, as well as thc
homespun-robe, with a condemnation of them as insufficient
and absurd. The probability of this part of the drama of
AEschylus may, perhaps, admit of being cleared up, at all
events one is ready to overlook it; but an express reference
like this to another author's treatment of the same subject, is
the most annoying interruption and the most fatal to genuine
poetry that can possibly be conceived. The guests come
out; the old man attentively considers Orestes, recognizes him,
and convinces Electra that he is her brother by a scar On his
eyebrow, which he received from a fall (this is the superb in- (
vention, which he substitutes for that of AEschylus), Orestes
and Electra embrace during a short choral ode, and abandon
themselves to their joy. In a long dialogue, Orestes, the old
slave, and Electra, form their plans. The old man informs
them that AEgisthus is at present in the country sacrificing
to the Nymphs, and Orestes resolves to steal there as a
guest, and to fall on him by surprise. Clytemnestra, from a
dread of unpleasant remarks, has not accompanied him ; and
Electra undertakes to entice her mother to them by a false
message of her being in child-bed. The brother and sister
now join in prayers to the gods and their father's shade, for a
successful issue of their designs. Electra declares that she
will put an end to her existence if they should miscarry, and.
for that purpose, she will keep a sword in readiness. The
old tutor departs with Orestes to conduct him to AEgisthus,
and to repair afterwards to Clytemnestra. The chorus sings
of the Golden Ram, which Thyestes, by the assistance of the
faithless wife of Atreus, was enabled to carry off from him,
and the repast furnished with the flesh of his own children,
with which he was punished in return; at the sight of which
the sun turned aside from his course; a circumstance, how-
ever, which the chorus very sapiently adds, that it was very
much inclined to call in question. From a distance is heard
a noise of tumult and groans; Electra fears that her brother
has been overcome, and is on the point of killing herself.
But at the moment a messenger arrives, who gives a long-
winded account of the death of AEgisthus, and interlards it
with many a joke. Amidst the rejoicings of the chorus,
Electra, fetches a wreath and crowns her brother, who holds in
his hands the head of AEgisthus by the hair. This head sle
II
130 EURIPIDES : HIS ELECTRA-
upbraids in a long speech with its follies and crimes, and
among other things says to it, it is neyer well to marry a
woman with whom one has previously lived in illicit inter-
course; that it is an unseemly thing when a woman obtains
the mastery in a family, &c. Clytemnestra is now seen
approaching; Orestes begins to have scruples of conscience as
to his purpose of murdering a mother, and the authority of
the oracle, but yields to the persuasions of Electra, and agrees
to do the deed within the house. The queen arrives, drawn
in a chariot sumptuously hung with tapestry, and surrounded
by Trojan slaves; Electra makes an offer to assist her in
alighting, which, however, is declined. Clytemnestra then
alleges the sacrifice of Iphigenia as a justification of her own
conduct towards Agamemnon, and calls even upon her daugh-
ter to state her reasons in condemnation, that an opportunity
may be given to the latter of delivering a subtle, captious
harangue, in which, among other things, she reproaches her
mother with having, during the absence of Agamemnon, sat
before her mirror, and studied her toilette too much. With
all this Clytemnestra is not provoked, even though her daugh-
ter does not hesitate to declare her intention of putting her to
death if ever it should be in her power; she makes inquiries
about her daughter’s supposed confinement, and enters the hut
to prepare the necessary sacrifice of purification. Electra
accompanies her with a sarcastic speech. On this the chorus
begins an ode on retribution: the shrieks of the murdered
woman are heard within the house, and the brother and sister
come out stained with her blood. They are full of repentance
and despair at the deed which they have committed; increase
their remorse by repeating the pitiable words and gestures of
their dying parent. Orestes determines on flight into foreign
lands, while Electra asks, “Who will now take me in mar-
riage?” Castor and Pollux, their uncles, appear in the air,
abuse Apollo on account of his oracle, command Orestes, in
order to save himself from the Furies, to submit to the sentence
of the Areopagus, and conclude with predicting a number of
events which are yet to happen to him. They then enjoin a
marriage between Electra and Pylades; who are to take her
first husband with them to Phocis, and there richly to pro-
vide for him. After a further outburst of sorrow, the brother
and sister take leave of one another for life, and the piece
concludes. «-
EURIPIDES : AESCHYLUS AND SOPHIOCLES––COMPARISON. 131
We easily perceive that AEschylus has viewed the subject
in its most terrible aspect, and drawn it within that domain of
the gloomy divinities, whose recesses he so loves to haunt.
The grave of Agamemnon is the murky gloom from which
retributive vengeance issues; his discontented shade, the soul
of the whole poem. The obvious external defect, that the
action lingers too long at the same point, without any sen-
sible progress, appears, on reflection, a true internal perfec-
tion: it is the stillness of expectation before a deep storm
or an earthquake. It is true the prayers are repeated, but
their very accumulation heightens the impression of a great
unheard-of purpose, for which human powers and motives by
themselves are insufficient. In the murder of Clytemnestra,
and her heart-rending appeals, the poet, without disguising
her guilt, has gone to the very verge of what was allowable
in awakening our sympathy with her sufferings. The crime
which is to be punished is kept in view from the very first by
the grave, and, at the conclusion, it is brought still nearer to
our minds by the unfolding the fatal garment: thus, Agamem-
non, after being fully avenged, is, as it were, murdered again
before the mental eye. The flight of Orestes betrays no un-
dignified weakness or repentance; it is merely the inevitable
tribute which he must pay to offended nature.
It is only necessary to notice in general terms the admirable
management of the subject by Sophocles. What a beautiful
introduction has he made to precede the queen's mission to
thegrave, with which AEschylus begins at once! With what
polished ornament has he embellished it throughout, for ex-
ample, with the description of the games! With what nice
judgment does he husband the pathos of Electra; first, gene-
ral lamentations, then hopes derived from the dream, their
annihilation by the news of Orestes death, the new hopes
suggested by Chrysothemis only to be rejected, and lastly
her mourning over the urn. Electras heroism is finely set
off by the contrast with her more submissive sister. The poet
has given quite a new turn to the subject by making Electra
the chief object of interest. A noble pair has the poet here
given us; the sister endued with unshaken constancy in true
and noble sentiments, and the invincible heroism of endurance;
the brother prompt and vigorous in all the energy of youth.
To this he skilfully opposes circumspection and experience
I 2
132 EURIPIDES : HIS ELECTRA-
in the old man, while the fact that Sophocles as well as
AEschylus has left Pylades silent, is a proof how carefully
ancient art disdained all unnecessary surplusage.
But what more especially characterizes the tragedy of
Sophocles, is the heavenly serenity beside a subject so ter-
rific, the fresh air of life and youth which breathes through
the whole. The bright divinity of Apollo, who enjoined the
deed, seems to shed his influence over it; even the break of
day, in the opening scene, is significant. The grave and the
world of shadows, are kept in the background: what in
AEschylus is effected by the spirit of the murdered monarch,
proceeds here from the heart of the still living Electra, which
is endowed with an equal capacity for inextinguishable hatred
or ardent love. The disposition to avoid everything dark
and ominous, is remarkable even in the very first speech of
Orestes, where he says he feels no concern at being thought
dead, so long as he knows himself to be alive, and in the
full enjoyment of health and strength. He is not beset with
misgivings or stings of consciencé either before or after the
deed, so that the determination is more steadily maintained
by Sophocles than in AEschylus; and the appalling scene with
AEgisthus, and the reserving him for an ignominious death to
the very close of the piece, is more austere and solemn than
anything in the older drama. Clytemnestras dreams furnish
the most striking token of the relation which the two poets
bear to each other: both are equally appropriate, significant,
and ominous; that of AEschylus is grander, but appalling to
the senses; that of Sophocles, in its very fearfulness, majes-
tically beautiful.
The piece of Euripides is a singular example of poetic, or
rather unpoetic obliquity; we should never have done were
we to attempt to point out all its absurdities and contradic-
tions. Why, for instance, does Orestes fruitlessly torment
- his sister by maintaining his incognito so long The poet,
too, makes it a light matter to throw aside whatever stands
in his way, as in the case of the peasant, of whom, after his
departure to summon the old keeper, we have no farther
account. Partly for the sake of appearing original, and
partly from an idea that to make Orestes kill the king and
gueen in the middle of their capital would be inconsistent
with probability, Euripides has involved himself in stil
EURIPIDES - HIS ELECTRA- 1 33
greater improbabilities. Whatever there is of the tragica
in his drama, is not his own, but belongs either to the fable, to
his predecessors, or to tradition. In his hands, at least, it
has ceased to be tragedy, but is lowered into “ a family pic-
ture,” in the modern signification of the word. The effect
attempted to be produced by the poverty of Electra is pitiful /
in the extreme; the poet has betrayed his secret in the com-
placent display which she makes of her misery. All the
preparations for the crowning act are marked by levity, and
a want of internal conviction: it is a gratuitous torture of
our feelings to make AEgisthºus display a good-natured hos-
pitality, and Clytemnestra a maternal sympathy with her
daughter, merely to excite our compassion in their behalf; the
deed is no sooner executed, but its effect is obliterated by the
most despicable repentance, a repentance which arises from uo
moral feeling, but from a merely animal revulsion. I shall
say nothing of his abuse of the oracle of Delphi. As it
destroys the very basis of the whole drama, I cannot see why
Euripides should have written it, except to provide a fortu-
nate marriage for Electra, and to reward the peasant for his
continency. I could wish that the wedding of Pylades had
been celebrated on the stage, and that a good round sum of
money had been paid to the peasant on the spot; then every-
thing would have ended to the satisfaction of the spectators
as in an ordinary comedy.
Not, however, to be unjust, I must admit that the Electra
is perhaps the very worst of Euripides pieces. Was it the
rage for novelty which led him here into such faults? He
was truly to be pitied for having been preceded in the treat-
ment of this same subject by two such men as Sophocles and
AEschylus. But what compelled him to measure his powers
with theirs, and to write an Electra at all?

1 34 EURIPIDES - IIIS REMAINING WORKS.
LECTURE X.
Character of the remaining Works of Euripides–The Satirical Drama-
Alexandrian Tragic Poets.
OF the plays of Euripides, which have come down to us in
great number, we can only give a very short and general
aCCOunt.
On the score of beautiful morality, there is none of them,
perhaps, so deserving of praise as the Alcestis. Her reso-
lution to die, and the farewell which she takes of her husband
and children, are depicted with the most overpowering pa-
thos. The poet's forbearance, in not allowing the heroine to
speak on her return from the infernal world, lest he might
draw aside the mysterious veil which shrouds the condition of
the dead, is deserving of high praise. Admetus, it is true,
and more especially his father, sink too much in our esteem
from their selfish love of life; and Hercules appears, at first,
blunt even to rudeness, afterwards more noble and worthy of
himself, and at last jovial, when, for the sake of the joke, he
introduces to Admetus his veiled wife as a new bride.
Iphigenia in Aulis is a subject peculiarly suited to the
tastes and powers of Euripides; the object here is to excite a
tender emotion for the innocent and child-like simplicity of
the heroine: but Iphigenia is still very far from being an
Antigone. Aristotle has already remarked that the charac-
ter is not well sustained throughout. “ Iphigenia imploring,"
he says, “ has no resemblance to Iphigenia afterwards yield-
ing herself up a willing sacrifice."
Jon is also one of his most delightful pieces, on account of
the picture of innocence and priestly sanctity in the boy
whose name it bears. In the course of the plot, it is true,
there are not a few improbabilities, makeshifts, and repeti-
tions; and the catastrophe, produced by a falsehood, in which
both gods and men unite against Xuthus, can hardly be satis-
factory to our feelings.

EURIPIDES EIIS MEDEA. 1 35
As delineations of female passion, and of the aberrations of
a mind diseased, Phaedra and Medea have been justly praised.
The play in which the former is introduced dazzles us by the
sublime and beautiful heroism of Hippolytus; and it is also
deserving of the highest commendation on account of the ob-
servance of propriety and moral strictness, in so critical a
subject. This, however, is not so much the merit of the poet
himself as of the delicacy of his contemporaries; for the Hip-
polytus which we possess, according to the scholiast, is an im-
provement upon an earlier one, in which there was much that
was offensive and reprehensible”.
The opening of the Medea is admirable; her desperate
situation is, by the conversation between her nurse and the
keeper of her children, and her own wailings behind the
scene, depicted with most touching effect. As soon, however,
as she makes her appearance, the poet takes care to cool our
Smotion by the number of general and commonplace reflec-
tions which he puts into her mouth. Lower does she sink in
the scene with AEgeus, where, meditating a terrible revenge
on Jason, she first secures a place of refuge, and seems almost
on the point of bespeaking a new connection. This is very
unlike the daring criminal who has reduced the powers of
nature to minister to her ungovernable passions, and speeds
from land to land like a desolating meteor;–the Medea who,
abandoned by all the world, was still sufficient for herself.
Nothing but a wish to humour Athenian antiquities could
have induced Euripides to adopt this cold interpolation of his
story. With this exception he has, in the most vivid colours,
painted, in one and the same person, the mighty enchantress,
and the woman weak only from the social position of her sex:
As it is, we are keenly affected by the struggles of maternal
tenderness in the midst of her preparations for the cruel deed.
Moreover, she announces her deadly purpose much too soon
and too distinctly, instead of brooding awhile over the first.
* The learned and acute Brunck, without citing any authority, or the
coincidence of fragments in corroboration, says that Seneca in his Hip-
polytus, followed the plan of the earlier play of Euripides, called the Veiled
Hippolytus. How far this is mere conjecture I cannot say, but at any
rate I should be inclined to doubt whether Euripides, even in the censured
drama, admitted the scene of the declaration of love, which Racine, hoW-
ever, in his Phaedra, has not hesitated to adopt from Seneca.
136 EURIPIDES: HIS TROADES.
confused, dark suggestion of it. When she does put it in
execution, her thirst of revenge on Jason might, we should
have thought, have been sufficiently slaked by the horrible
death of his young wife and her father; and the new motive,
namely, that Jason, as she pretends, would infallibly murder
the children, and therefore she must anticipate him, will by
no means bear examination. For she could as easily have
saved the living children with herself as have carried off their
dead bodies in the dragon-chariot. Still this may, perhaps,
be justified by the perturbation of mind into which she was
plunged by the crime she had perpetrated.
Perhaps it was such pictures of universal sorrow, of the fall
of flourishing families and states from the greatest glory to
the lowest misery, nay, to entire annihilation, as Euripides
has sketched in the Troades, that gained for him, from Ari-
stotle, the title of the most tragic of poets. The concluding
scene, where the captive ladies, allotted as slaves to different
masters, leave Troy in flames behind them, and proceed
towards the ships, is truly grand. It is impossible, however,
for a piece to have less action, in the energetical sense of
the word: it is a series of situations and events, which have
no other connexion than that of a common Origin in the cap-
ture of Troy, but in no respect have they a common aim. The
accumulation of helpless suffering, against which the will and
sentiment even are not allowed to revolt, at last wearies us,
and exhausts our compassion. The greater the struggle to
avert a calamity, the deeper the impression it makes when it
bursts forth after all. But when so little concern is shown, as
is here the case with Astyanax, for the speech of Talthybius
prevents even the slightest attempt to save him, the spectator
soon acquiesces in the result. In this way Euripides fre-
quently fails. In the ceaseless demands which this play makes
on our compassion, the pathos is not duly economized and
brought to a climax: for instance, Andromache's lament over
her livingson is much more heart-rending than that of He-
cuba for her dead one. The effect of the latter is, however,
aided by the sight of the little corpse lying on Hector's shield.
Indeed, in the composition of this piece the poet has evidently
reckoned much on ocular effect: thus, for the sake of contrast
with the captive ladies, Helen appears splendidly dressed,
Andromache is mounted on a car laden with spoils; and I
EURIPIDES : BIIS MAD HERCULES–PHOENISSAE. 137
doubt not but that at the conclusion the entire scene was in
flames. The trial of Helen painfully interrupts the train of
our sympathies, by an idle altercation which ends in nothing;
for in spite of the accusations of Hecuba, Menelaus abides by
the resolution which he had previously formed. The defence
of Helen is about as entertaining as Isocrates sophisticaleulo-
gium of her.
Euripides was not content with making Hecuba roll in the ---
dust with covered head, and whine a whole piece through; he
has also introduced her in another tragedy which bears her
name, as the standing representative of suffering and woe.
The two actions of this piece, the sacrifice of Polyxena, and ?
the revenge on Polymestor, on account of the murder of Poly-
dorus, have nothing in common with each other but their con-
nexion with Hecuba. The first half possesses great beauties
of that particular kind in which Euripides is pre-eminently
successful: pictures of tender youth, female inngcence, and ÄT
noble resignation to an early and violent death. A human
sacrifice, that triumph of barbarian superstition, is represented
as executed, suffered, and looked upon, with that Hellenism
of feeling which so early effected the abolition of such sacri-
fices among the Greeks. But the second half most revoltingly
effaces these soft impressions. It is made up of the revenge-
ful artifices of Hecuba, the blind avarice of Polymestor, and
the paltry policy of Agamemnon, who, not daring himself to
call the Thracian king to account, nevertheless beguiles him
into the hands of the captive women. Neither is it very con-
sistent that Hecuba, advanced in years, bereft of strength, and
overwhelmed with sorrow, should nevertheless display so much
presence of mind in the execution of revenge, and such a
command of tongue in her accusation and derision of Ä
mestOr.
We have another example of two distinct and separate
actions in the same tragedy, the Mad Hercules. The first is
the distress of his family during his absence, and their deliver-
ance by his return; the second, his remorse at having in
a sudden frenzy murdered his wife and children. The one
action follows, but by no means arises out of the other.
The Phoenissae is rich in tragic incidents, in the common
acceptation of the word: the son of Creon, to save his native
city, precipitates himself from the walls; Eteocles and Poly-
138 EURTPIDES : ORESTES–IPFIIGENIA.,
nices perish by each other’s hands; over their dead bodios.
Jocasta falls by her own hand; the Argives who have made
war upon Thebes are destroyed in battle; Polynices remains
uninterred; and lastly, CEdipus and Antigone are driven into
exile. After this enumeration of the incidents, the Scholiast
aptly notices the arbitrary manner in which the poet has pro-
ceeded. “This drama," says he, “ is beautiful in theatrical
effect, even because it is full of incidents totally foreign to the
proper action. Antigone looking down from the walls has
nothing to do with the action, and Polynices enters the town
under the safe-conduct of a truce, without any effect being
thereby produced. After all the rest the banished CEdipus
and a wordy ode are tacked on, being equally to no purpose.“
This is a severe criticism, but it is just.
Not more lenient is the Scholiast on Orestes: “ This piece,"
he says, “ is one of those which produce a great effect on the
stage, but with respect to characters it is extremely bad; for,
with the exception of Pylades, all the rest are good for no-
thing." Moreover, “Its catastrophe is more suitable to comedy
than tragedy.” This drama begins, indeed, in the most agitating
manner. Orestes, after the murder of his mother, is represented
lying on his bed, afflicted with anguish of soul and madness;
Electra, sits at his feet, and she and the chorus remain in
trembling expectation of his awaking. Afterwards, however,
everything takes a perverse turn, and ends with the most
violent strokes of stage effect.
The Iphigenia in Tauris, in which the fate of Orestes is
still further followed out, is less wild and extravagant, but in
the representation both of character or passion, it seldom rises
above mediocrity. The mutual recognition between brother
and sister, after such adventures and actions, as that Iphigenia,
who had herself once trembled before the bloody altar, was on
the point of devoting her brother to a similar fate, produces no
more than a transient emotion. The flight of Orestes and his
sister is not highly calculated to excite our interest: the arti-
fice by which Iphigenia brings it about is readily credited by
Thoas, who does not attempt to make any opposition till both
are safe, and then he is appeased by one of the ordinary divine
interpositions. This device has been so used and abused by
Euripides, that in nine out of his eighteen tragedies, a divinity
descends to unravel the complicated knot.
EURIPIDES : HERACLIDAE–SUPPLICES. 139
In Andromache Orestes makes his appearance for the fourth
time. The Scholiast, in whose opinion we may, we think,
generally recognize the sentiments of the most important of
ancient critics, declares this to be a very second-rate play, in
which single scenes alone are deserving of any praise. Of
those on which Racine has based his free imitations, this
is unquestionably the very worst, and therefore the French
critics have an easy game to play in their endeavours to
depreciate the Grecian predecessor, from whom Racine has
in fact derived little more than the first suggestion of his
tragedy.
The Bacchae represents the infectious and tumultuous en-
thusiasm of the worship of Bacchus, with great sensuous
power and vividness of conception. The obstinate unbelief
of Pentheus, his infatuation, and terrible punishment by the
hands of his own mother, form a bold picture. The effect on
the stage must have been extraordinary. Imagine, only, a
chorus with flying and dishevelled hair and dress, tambourines,
cymbals, &c., in their hands, like the Bacchants we see on
bas-reliefs, bursting impetuously into the orchestra, and exe-
cuting their inspired dances amidst tumultuous music,–a,
circumstance, altogether unusual, as the choral odes were
generally sung and danced at a solemn step, and with no
other accompaniment than a flute. Here the luxuriance of
ornament, which Euripides everywhere affects, was for once
appropriate. When, therefore, several of the modern critics
assign to this piece a very low rank, they seem to me not to
know what they themselves would wish. In the composition
of this piece, I cannot help admiring a harmony and unity,
which we seldom meet with in Euripides, as well as absti-
nence from every foreign matter, so that all the motives and
effects flow from one source, and concur towards a common
end. After the Hippolytus, I should be inclined to assign to
this play the first place among all the extant works of Euri-
pides.
The Heraclidae and the Supplices are mere occasonal trage-
dies, . e., owing their existence to some temporary incident
or excitement, and they must have been indebted for their
success to nothing else but their flattery of the Athenians.
They celebrate two ancient heroic deeds of Athens, on which
the paneygrists, amongst the rest Isocrates, who always
I 40 EURIPIDES EIERA CLID ÄE-–SUPPLICES,
mixed up the fabulous witn the historical, lay astonishing
stress: the protection they are said to have afforded to the
children of Hercules, the ancestors of the Lacedaemonian
kings, from the persecution of Eurystheus, and their going
to war with Thebes on behalf of Adrastus, king of Argos,
and forcing the Thebans to give the rites of burial to the
Seven Chieftains and their host. The Supplices was, as
we know, represented during the Peloponnesian war, after the
conclusion of a treaty between the Argives and the Lacedae-
monians; and was intended to remind the Argives of their
ancient obligation to Athens, and to show how little they
could hope to prosper in the war against the Athenians. The
Heraclidae was undoubtedly written with a similar view in
respect to Lacedaemon. Of the two pieces, however, which
are both cast in the same mould, the Female Suppliants,
so called from the mothers of the fallen heroes, is by far the
richest in poetical merit; the Heraclidae appears, as it were,
but a faint impression of the other. In the former piece, it
is true, Theseus appears at first in a somewhat unamiable
light, upbraiding, as he does, the unfortunate Adrastus with
his errors at such great length, and perhaps with so little
justice, before he condescends to assist him; again the dispu-
tation between Theseus and the Argive herald, as to the
superiority of a monarchical or a democratical constitution,
ought in justice to be banished from the stage to the rheto-
rical schools; while the moral eulogium of Adrastus over the
fallen heroes is, at least, very much out of place. I am con-
vinced that Euripides was here drawing the characters of
particular Athenian generals, who had fallen in some battle
or other. But even in this case the passage cannot be justified
in a dramatic point of view; however, without such an object,
it would have been silly and ridiculous in describing those
heroes of the age of Hercules, (a Capaneus, for instance, who
set even heaven itself at defiance,) to have launched out into
the praise of their civic virtues. How apt Euripides was
to wander from his subject in allusions to perfectly extraneous
matters, and sometimes even to himself, we may see from
a speech of Adrastus, who most impertinently is made to say,
“It is not fair that the poet, while he delights others
with his works, should himself suffer inconvenience.” How-
ever, the funeral lamentations and the swan-like song of
EURIP IDES : HELEN. 14
Evadne are affectingly beautiful, although she is so unex-
pectedly introduced into the drama. Literally, indeed, may
we say of her, that she jumps into the play, for without even
being mentioned before she suddenly appears first of all on
the rock, from which she throws herself on the burning pile
of Capaneus.
The Heraclidae is a very poor piece; its conclusion is sin-
gularly bald. We hear nothing more of the self-sacrifice of
Macaria, after it is over: as the determination seems to have
cost herself no struggle, it makes as little impression upon
others. The Athenian king, Demophon, does not return
again; neither does Iolaus, the companion of Hercules and
guardian of his children, whose youth is so wonderfully
renewed. Hyllus, the noble-minded Heraclide, never even
makes his appearance; and nobody at last remains but
Alcmene, who keeps up a bitter altercation with Eurystheus.
Euripides seems to have taken a particular pleasure in draw-
ing such implacable and rancorous old women: twice has he
exhibited Hecuba in this light, pitting her against Helen and
Polymestor. In general, we may observe the constant re-
currence of the same artifice and motives is a sure symptom
of mannerism. We have in the works of this poet three
instances of women offered in sacrifice, which are moving from
their perfect resignation: Iphigenia, Polyxena, and Macaria;
the voluntary deaths of Alceste and Evadne belong in some
sort also to this class. Suppliants are in like manner a.
favourite subject with him, because they oppress the spectator
with apprehension lest they should be torn by force from
the sanctuary of the altar. I have already noticed his lavish
introduction of deities towards the conclusion.
The merriest of all tragedies is Helen, a marvellous
drama, full of wonderful adventures and appearances, which
are evidently better suited to comedy. The invention on
which it is founded is, that Helen remained concealed in
Egypt (so far went the assertion of the ÄEgyptian priests),
while Paris carried off an airy phantom in her likeness, for
which the Greeks and Trojans fought for ten long years.
By this contrivance the virtue of the heroine is saved, and
Menelaus, (to make good the ridicule of Aristophanes on the
beggary of Euripides heroes,) appears in rags as a beggar,
and in nowise dissatisfied with his condition. But this man-
142 EURTPIDES : RHIESUS–CYCLOPS.
ner of improving mythology bears a resemblance to the Tales
of the Thousand and One Wights.
Modern philologists have dedicated voluminous treatises, to
prove the spuriousness of Rhesus, the subject of which is taken
from the eleventh book of the Iliad. Their opinion is, that
the piece contains such a number of improbabilities and con-
tradictions, that it is altogether unworthy of Euripides. But
this is by no means a legitimate conclusion. Do not the
faults which they censure unavoidably follow from the
selection of an intractable subject, so very inconvenient as a
nightly enterprise? The question respecting the genuineness
of any work, turns not so much on its merits or demerits, as
rather on the resemblance of its style and peculiarities to
those of the pretended author. The few words of the Scho-
liast amount to a very different opinion: “Some have con-
sidered this drama, to be spurious, and not the work of
Euripides, because it bears many traces of the style of Sopho-
cles. But it is inscribed in the Didascaliae as his, and its
accuracy with respect to the phenomena of the starry heaven
betrays the hand of Euripides.“ I think I understand what
is here meant by the style of Sophocles, but it is rather in
detached scenes, than in the general plan, that I at all discern
it. Hence, if the piece is to be taken from Euripides, I
should be disposed to attribute it to some eclectic imitator, but
one of the school of Sophocles rather than of that of Euri-
pides, and who lived only a little later than both. This
I infer from the familiarity of many of the scenes, for tragedy
at this time was fast sinking into the domestic tragedy.
whereas, at a still later period, the Alexandrian age, it fell
into an opposite error of bombast.
The Cyclops is a satiric drama. This is a mixed and lower
species of tragic poetry, as we have already in passing
asserted. The want of some relaxation for the mind, after
the engrossing severity of tragedy, appears to have given rise
to the satiric drama, as indeed to the after-piece in general.
The satiric drama, never possessed an independent existence;
it was thrown in by way of an appendage to several tragedies,
and to judge from that we know of it, was always consider-
ably shorter than the others. In external form it resembled
Tragedy, and the materials were in like manner mythological.
The distinctive mark was a chorus consisting of satyrs, who
EURIPIDES : ANCIEN T DRAMA CONCLUDED. 143
accompanied with lively songs, gestures, and movements,
such heroic adventures as were of a more cheerful hue,
(many in the Odyssey for instance; for here, also, as in many
other respects, the germ is to be found in Homer,) or, at
least, could be made to wear such an appearance. The
proximate cause of this species of drama, was derived from
the festivals of Bacchus, where satyr-masks was a common
disguise. In mythological stories with which Bacchus had
noconcern, these constant attendants of his were, no doubt,
in some sort arbitrarily introduced, but still not without a
degree of propriety. As nature, in her original freedom, ap-
peared to the fancy of the Greeks to teen everywhere with
wonderful productions, they could with propriety people
with these sylvan beings the wild landscapes, remote from
polished cities, where the scene was usually laid, and enliven
them with their wild animalfrolics. The composition of demi-
god with demi-beast formed an amusing contrast. We have
an example in the Cyclops of the manner in which the poets
proceeded in such subjects. It is not unentertaining, though
the subject-matter is for the most part contained in the Odys-
sey; only the pranks of Silenus and his band are occasionally
a little coarse. We must confess that, in our eyes, the great
merit of this piece is its rarity, being the only extant speci-
men of its class which we possess. In the satiric dramas
AEschylus must, without doubt, have displayed moreboldness
and meaning in his mirth; as, for instance, when he intro-
duced Prometheus bringing down fire from heaven to rude
and stupid man; while Sophocles, to judge from the few frag-
ments we have, must have been more elegant and moral,
as when he introduced the goddesses contending for the prize
of beauty, or Nausicaa offering protection to the shipwrecked
Ulysses. It is a striking feature of the easy unconstrained
character of life among the Greeks, of its gladsome joyousness
of disposition, which knew nothing of a starched and stately
dignity, but artist-like admired aptness and gracefulness,
even in the most insignificant trifles, that in this drama, called
Wausicaa, or “The Washerwomen,” in which, after Homer,
the princess at the end of the washing, amuses herself at
a game of ball with her maids, Sophocles himself played at
ball, and by his grace in this exercise acquired much ap-
plause. The great poet, the respected Athenian citizen, the
144 TILE ALEXANDRIAN SCEIOLARS.
man who had already perhaps been a General, appeared
publicly in woman's clothes, and as, on account of the feeble-
ness of his voice, he could not play the leading part of Nau-
sicaa, took perhaps the mute under part of a maid, for the
sake of giving to the representation of his piece the slight,
ornament of bodily agility.
The history of ancient tragedy ends with Euripides,
although there were a number of still later tragedians; Aga-
thon, for instance, whom Aristophanes describes as fragrant
with ointment and crowned with flowers, and in whose mouth
Plato, in his Symposium, puts a discourse in the taste of the
sophist Gorgias, full of the most exquisite ornaments and
empty tautological antitheses. He was the first to abandon
mythology, as furnishing the natural materials of tragedy, and
occasionally wrote pieces with purely fictitious names, (this is
worthy of notice, as forming a transition towards the new
comedy,) one of which was called the Flower, and was pro-
bably therefore neither seriously affecting nor terrible, but in
the style of the idyl, and pleasing.
The Alexandrian scholars, among their other lucubrations,
attempted also the composition of tragedies; but if we are to
iudge of them from the only piece which has come down to
us, the Alexandra of Lycophron, which consists of an endiess
monologue, full of prophecy, and overladen with obscure
mythology, these productions of a subtle dilettantism must
have been extremely inanimate and untheatrical, and every
way devoid of interest. The creative powers of the Greeks
were, in this department, so completely exhausted, that they
were forced to content themselves with the repetition of tho
works of their ancient masters.
THE OLD COMEDY 145
VP- Re*
LECTURE XI.
The Old Comedy proved to be completely a contrast to Tragedy –
Parody–Ideality of Comedy the reverse of that of Tragedy–Mirthful
Caprice–Allegoric and Political Signification-The Chorus and its
Parabases.
WE now leave Tragic Poetry to occupy ourselves with an
entirely opposite species, the Old Comedy. Striking as this
diversity is, we shall, however, commence with pointing out a
certain symmetry in the contrast and certain relations between
them, which have a tendency to exhibit the essential charac-
ter of both in a clearer light. In forming a judgment of the
Old Comedy, we must banish every idea of what is called
Comedy by the moderns, and what went by the same name
among the Greeks themselves at a later period. These two
species of Comedy differ from each other, not only in acci-
dental peculiarities, (such as the introduction in the old of
real names and characters,) but essentially and diametrically.
We must also guard against entertaining such a notion of the
Old Comedy as would lead us to regard it as the rude begin-
nings of the more finished and cultivated comedy of a subse-
quent age“, an idea which many, from the unbridled licen-
tiousness of the old comic writers, have been led to entertain.
On the contrary the former is the genuine poetic species; but
the New Comedy, as I shall show in due course, is its decline
into prose and reality.
We shall form the best idea of the Old Comedy, by con-
* This is the purport of the section of Barthelemy in the Anacharsis
on the Old Comedy: one of the poorest and most erroneous parts of his
work. With the pitiful presumption of ignorance, Voltaire pronounced a
sweeping condemnation of Aristophanes, (in other places, and in his Philo-
sophical Dictionary under Art. Athée), and the modern French critics have
for the most part followed his example. We may, however, find the founda-
tion of all the erroneous opinions of the moderns on this subject, and the
same prosaical mode of viewing it, in Plutarch’s parallel between Aristo-
phanes and Menander.
K
1 46 PARODY–TRAGEDY–COMEDY.
sidering it as the direct opposite of Tragedy. This was pro-
bably the meaning of the assertion of Socrates, which is given
by Plato towards the end of his Symposium. . He tells us that,
after the other guests were dispersed or had fallen asleep,
Socrates was left awake with Aristophanes and Agathon, and
that while he drank with them out of a large cup, he forced
them to confess, however unwillingly, that it is the business
of one and the same man to be equally master of tragic and
comic composition, and that the tragic poet is, in virtue of
his art, comic poet also. This was not only repugnant to the
general opinion, which wholly separated the two kinds of
talent, but also to all experience, inasmuch as no tragic poet
had ever attempted to shine in Comedy, nor conversely; his
remark, therefore, can only have been meant to apply to the
inmost essence of the things. Thus at another time, the
Platonic Socrates says, on the subject of comic imitation:
“All opposites can be fully understood only by and through
each other; consequently we can only know what is serious
by knowing also what is laughable and ludicrous.“ If the
divine Plato by working out tnat dialogue had been pleased
to communicate his own, or his master's thoughts, respecting
these two kinds of poetry, we should have been spared the
necessity of the following investigation.
One aspect of the relation of comic to tragic poetry may
be comprehended under the idea of parody. This parody,
however, is one infinitely more powerful than that of the
mock heroic poem, as the subject parodied, by means of
scenic representation, acquired quite another kind of reality
and presence in the mind, from what the epopée did, which
relating the transactions of a distant age, retired, as it were,
with them into the remote oldentime. The comic parody was
brought out when the thing parodied was fresh in recollection,
and as the representation took place on the same stage where
the spectators were accustomed to see its serious original,
this circumstance must have greatly contributed to heighten
the effect of it. Moreover, not merely single scenes,
but the very form of tragic composition was parodied, and
doubtless the parody extended not only to the poetry, but
also to the music and dancing, to the acting itself, and
the scenic decoration. Nay, even where the drama, trod
in the footsteps of the plastic arts, it was still the subject
THE NEW COMEDY–THE OLD COMEDY. 147
of comic parody, as the ideal figures of deities were evidently
transformed into caricatures*. Now the more immediately
the productions of all these arts fall within the observance öf
the external senses, and, above, all the more the Greeks,
in their popular festivals, religious ceremonies, and solemn
processions, were accustomed to, and familiar with, the
noble style which was the native element of tragic repre-
sentation, so much the more irresistibly ludicrous must have
been the effect of that general parody of the arts, which it
was the object of Comedy to exhibit.
But this idea does not exhaust the essential character of
Comedy; for parody always supposes a reference to the sub-
ject which is parodied, and a necessary dependence on it.
The Old Comedy, however, as a species of poetry, is as inde-
pendent and original as Tragedy itself; it stands on the same
elevation with it, that is, it extends just as far beyond the
limits of reality into the domains of free creative fancy.
Tragedy is the highest earnestness of poetry; Comedy
altogether sportive. Now earnestness, as I observed in the
Introduction, consists in the direction of the mental powers to
an aim or purpose, and the limitation of their activity to that
object. Its opposite, therefore, consists in the apparent want
of aim, and freedom from all restraint in the exercise of the
mental powers; and it is therefore the more perfect, the more
unreservedly it goes to work, and the more lively the
appearance there is of purposeless fun and unrestrained cap-
rice. Wit and raillery may be employed in a sportive
manner, but they are also both of them compatible with the
severest earnestness, as is proved by the example of the later
Roman satires and the ancient Iambic poetry of the Greeks,
where these means were employed for the expression of indig-
nation and hatred.
The New Comedy, it is true, represents what is amusing in
character, and in the contrast of situations and combinations;
and it is the more comic the more it is distinguished by a
want of aim : cross purposes, mistakes, the vain efforts of
ridiculous passion, and especially if all this ends at last in
nothing; but still, with all this mirth, the form of the repre-
* As an example of this, I may allude to the well-known vase-figures,
where Mercury and Jupiter, about to ascend by a ladder into Alcmene's
chamber, are represented as comic masks.
K 2
1 48 IDEALITY OF COMEDY–IDEALITY OF TRAGEDY
sentation itself is serious, and regularly tied down to a certain
aim, In the Old Comedy the form was sportive, and a seem-
ing aimlessness reigned throughout; the whole poem was one
big jest, which again contained within itself a world of sepa-
rate jests, of which each occupied its own place, without
appearing to trouble itself about the rest. In tragedy,
if I may be allowed to make my meaning plain by a
comparison, the monarchical constitution prevails, but a
monarchy without despotism, such as it was in the heroic
times of the Greeks: everything yields a willing obedience to
the dignity of the heroic sceptre. Comedy, on the other
hand, is the democracy of poetry, and is more inclined even
to the confusion of anarchy than to any circumscription of
the general liberty of its mental powers and purposes, and
even of its separate thoughts, sallies, and allusions.
Whatever is dignified, noble, and grand in human nature,
admits only of a serious aud earnest representation; for
whoever attempts to represent it, feels himself, as it were, in
the presence of a superior being, and is consequently awed
and restrained by it. The comic poet, therefore, must divest
his characters of all such qualities; he must place himself
without the sphere of them; nay, even deny altogether their
existence, and form an ideal of human nature the direct oppo-
site of that of the tragedians, namely, as the odious and base.
But as the tragic ideal is not a collective model of all possible
virtues, so neither does this converse ideality consist in an
aggregation, nowhere to be found in real life, of all moral
enormities and marks of degeneracy, but rather in a depen-
dence on the animal part of human nature, in that want of
freedom and independence, that want of coherence, those
inconsistencies of the inward man, in which all folly and
infatuation originate.
The earnest ideal consists of the unity and harmonious
blending of the sensual man with the mental, such as may be
most clearly recognised in Sculpture, where the perfection of
form is merely a symbol of mental perfection and the loftiest
moral ideas, and where the body is wholly pervaded by soul,
and spiritualized even to a glorious transfiguration. The
merry or ludicrous ideal, on the other hand, consists in the
perfect harmony and unison of the higher part of our nature,
with the animal as the ruling principle. Reason and
ALLEGORICAL AND POLITICAL SIGNIFICATION. 149
anderstanding are represented as the voluntary slaves of the
SGDSGS.
Hence we shall find that the very principle of Comedy
necessarily occasioned that which in Aristophanes has given
so much offence ; namely, his frequent allusions to the base
necessities of the body, the wanton pictures of animal desire,
which, in spite of all the restraints imposed on it by morality
and decency, is always breaking loose before one can be aware
of it. If we reflect a moment, we shall find that even in the
present day, on our own stage, the infallible and inexhaust-
ible source of the ludicrous is the same ungovernable impulses
of sensuality in collision with higher duties; or cowardice,
childish vanity, loquacity, gulosity, laziness, &c. Hence, in
the weakness of old age, amorousness is the more laughable,
as it is plain that it is not mere animal instinct, but that
reason has only served to extend the dominion of the senses
beyond their proper limits. In drunkenness, too, the real
man places himself, in some degree, in the condition of the
comic ideal.
The fact that the Old Comedy introduced living characters
on the stage, by name and with all circumstantiality, must not
mislead us to infer that they actually did represent certain
definite individuals. For such historical characters in the Old
Comedy have always an allegorical signification, and represent
a class; and as their features were caricatures in the masks,
so, in like manner, were their characters in the representation.
But still this constant allusion to a proximate reality, which
not only allowed the poet, in the character of the chorus, to
converse with the public in a general way, but also to point
the finger at certain individual spectators, was essential to this
species of poetry. As Tragedy delights in harmonious unity,
Comedy flourishes in a chaotic exuberance; it seeks out the
most motley contrasts, and the unceasing play of cross pur-
poses. It works up, therefore, the most singular, unheard-of,
and even impossible incidents, with allusions to the well-
known and special circumstances of the immediate locality
and time.
The comic poet, as well as the tragic, transports his
characters into an ideal element: not, however, into a world
subjected to necessity, but one where the caprice of inventive
wit rules without check or restraint, and where all the laws
1 50 THE COMIC CHORTIS-
of reality are suspended. He is at liberty, therefore, toinvent
an action as arbitrary and fantastic as possible; it may even
be unconnected and unreal, if only it be calculated to place a
circle of comic incidents and characters in the most glaring
light. In this last respect, the work should, nay, must, have
a leading aim, or it will otherwise be in want of keeping;
and in this view also the comedies of Aristophanes may
be considered as perfectly systematical. But then, to pre-
serve the comic inspiration, this aim must be made a matter
of diversion, and be concealed beneath a medley of all sorts
of out-of-the-way matters. Comedy at its first commencement,
namely, under the hands of its Doric founder, Epicharmus,
borrowed its materials chiefly from the mythical world. Even
in its maturity, to judge from the titles of many lost plays of
Aristophanes and his contemporaries, it does not seem to have
renounced this choice altogether, as at a later period, in the
interval between the old and new comedy, it returned, for
particular reasons, with a natural predilection to mythology.
But as the contrast between the matter and form is here in its
proper place, and nothing can be more thoroughly opposite to
the ludicrous form of exhibition than the most important and
serious concerns of men, public life and the state naturally
became the peculiar subject-matter of the Old Comedy. It is,
therefore, altogether political; and private and family life,
beyond which the new never soars, was only introduced occa-
sionally and indirectly, in so far as it might have a reference
to public life. The Chorus is therefore essential to it, as
being in some sort a representation of the public: it must by
no means be considered as a mere accidental property, to
be accounted for by the local origin of the Old Comedy; we
may assign its existence to a more substantial reason-its
necessity for a complete parody of the tragic form. It con-
tributes also to the expression of that festal gladness of which
Comedy was the most unrestrained effusion, for in all the
national and religious festivals of the Greeks, choral songs,
accompanied by dancing, were performed. The comic chorus
transforms itself occasionally into such an expression of public
joy, as, for instance, when the women who celebrate the
Thesmophoriae in the piece that bears that name, in the midst
of the most amusing drolleries, begin to chant their melodious
hymn, just as in a real festival, in honour of the presiding

TTS PARABASIS. I 51

gods. At these times we meet with such a display of sub-
lime lyric poetry, that the passages may be transplanted into
tragedy without any change or alteration whatever. There
is, however, this deviation from the tragic model, that there
are frequently, in the same comedy, several choruses which
sometimes are present together, singing in response, or at
other times come on alternately and drop off without the least
general reference to each other. The most remarkable pecu-
liarity, however, of the comic chorus is the Parabasis, an
address to the spectators by the chorus, in the name, and as
the representative of the poet, but having no connexion with
the Ä of the piece. Sometimes he enlarges on his own
merits, and ridicules the pretensions of his rivals; at other
times, availing himself of his right as an Athenian citizen, to
speak on public affairs in every assembly of the people, he
brings forward serious or ludicrous motions for the common
good. The Parabasis must, strictly speaking, be considered
as incongruous with the essence of dramatic representation;
for in the drama, the poet should always be behind his
dramatic personages, who again ought to speak and act as if
they were alone, and to take no perceptible notice of the
spectators. Such intermixtures, therefore, destroy all tragic
impression, but to the comic tone these intentional interrup-
tions or intermezzos are welcome, even though they be in
themselves more serious than the subject of the representation,
because we are at such times unwilling to submit to the con-
straint of a mental occupation which must perforce be kept
up, for then it would assume the appearance of a task or obli-
gation. The Parabasis may partly have owed its invention
to the circumstance of the comic poets not having such ample
materials as the tragic, for filling up the intervals of the
action when the stage was empty, by sympathising and en-
thusiastic odes. But it is, moreover, consistent with the
essence of the Old Comedy, where not merely the subject, but
the whole manner of treating it was sportive and jocular.
The unlimited dominion of mirth and fun manifests itself
even in this, that the dramatic form itself is not seriously
adhered to, and that its laws are often suspended ; just as in
a droll disguise the masquerader sometimes ventures to lay
aside the mask. The practice of throwing out allusions and
hints to the pit is retained even in the comedy of the present
152 AIM AND OBJECT OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.
day, and is often found to be attended with great success,
although unconditionally reprobated by many critics. I shall
afterwards examine how far, and in what departments of
comedy, these allusions are admissible.
To sum up in a few words the aim and object of Tragedy
and Comedy, we may observe, that as Tragedy, by painful
emotions, elevates us to the most dignified views of humanity,
being, in the words of Plato, “ the imitation of the most beau-
tiful and most excellent life;" Comedy, on the other hand, by
its jocose and depreciatory view of all things, calls forth the
most petulant hilarity.
ARISTOPHANEs : HIS CHARACTER AS AN ARTIST. 153
LECTURE XII.
Aristophanes–His Character as an Artist–Description and Character cf
his remaining Works–A Scene, translated from the Acharnae, by way
of Appendix.
OF the Old Comedy but one writer has come down to us,
and we cannot, therefore, in forming an estimate of his
merits, enforce it by a comparison with other masters. Aris-
tophanes had many predecessors, Magnes, Cratinus, Crates,
and others; he was indeed one of the latest of this school, for
he outlived the Old Comedy. We have no reason, however,
to believe that we witness in him its decline, as we do that of
Tragedy in the case of the last tragedian; in all probability
the Old Comedy was still rising in perfection, and he himself
one of its most finished authors. It was very different with
the Cld Comedy and with Tragedy; the latter died a natural,
and the former a violent death. Tragedy ceased to exist,
because that species of poetry seemed to be exhausted, because
it was abandoned, and because no one was now able to rise to
the pitch of itselevation. Comedy was deprived by the hand
of power of that unrestrained freedom which was necessary
to its existence. Horace, in a few words, informs us of this
catastrophe: “After these (Thespis and AEschylus) followed
the Old Comedy, not without great merit; but its freedom
degenerated into licentiousness, and into a violence which
deserved to be checked by law. The law was enacted, and
the Chorus sunk into disgraceful silence as soon as it was
deprived of the right to injure*.” Towards the end of the Pe-
loponnesian war, when a few individuals, in violation of the
constitution, had assumed the supreme authority in Athens, a
law was enacted, giving every person attacked by comic
* Successit vetus his comedia, non sine multä
Laude, sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim
Dignam lege regi: lex est accepta: chorusque
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.
154 ARISTOPHANES * MIDDLE COMEDY–ORIGIN.
poets a remedy by law. Moreover, the introduction of real
persons on the stage, or the use of such masks as borea
resemblance to their features, &c., was prohibited. This gave
rise to what is called the Middle Comedy. The form still con-
tinued much the same; and the representation, if not per-
fectly allegorical, was nevertheless a parody. But the essence
was taken away, and this species must have become insipid
when it could no longer be seasoned by the salt of personal
ridicule. Its whole attraction consisted in idealizing jocularly
the reality that came nearest home to every one of the spec-
tators, that is, in representing it under the light of the most
preposterous perversity; and how was it possible now to lash
even the general mismanagement of the state-affairs, if no
offence was to be given to individuals ? I cannot, therefore,
agree with Horace in his opinion that the abuse gave rise to
the restriction. The Old Comedy flourished together with
Athenian liberty; and both were oppressed under the same
circumstances, and by the same persons. So far were the
calumnies of Aristophanes from having been the occasion of
the death of Socrates, as, without a knowledge of history,
many persons have thought proper to assert (for the Clouds
were composed a great number of years before), that it was
the very same revolutionary despotism that reduced to
silence alike the sportive censure of Aristophanes, and also
punished with death the graver animadversions of the incor-
ruptible Socrates. Neither do we see that the persecuting
jokes of Aristophanes were in any way detrimental to Euri-
pides: the free people of Athens beheld alike with admiration
the tragedies of the one, and their parody by the other, re-
presented on the same stage; they allowed every variety of
talent to flourish undisturbed in the enjoyment of equal rights.
Never did a sovereign, for such was the Athenian people,
listen more good-humouredly to the most unwelcome truths,
and even allow itself to be openly laughed at. And even if
the abuses in the public administration were not by these
means corrected, still it was a grand point that this unsparing
exposure of them was tolerated. Besides, Aristophanes always
shows himself a zealous patriot; the powerful demagogues
whom he attacks are the same persons that the grave Thucy-
dides describes as so pernicious. In the midst of civil war,
which destroyed for ever the prosperity of Greece, he was
ARISTOPHANES : HIS REPULSIVENESS CONSIDERED. 155
ever counselling peace, and everywhere recommended the
simplicity and austerity of the ancient manners. So much for
the political import of the Old Comedy.
But Aristophanes, I hear it said, was an immoral buffoon.
Yes, among other things, he was that also; and we are by no
means disposed to justify the man who, with such great
talents, could yet sink so very low, whether it was to gratify
his own coarse propensities, or from a supposed necessity of
winning the favour of the populace, that he might be able to
tell them bold and unpleasant truths. We know at least that
he boasts of having been much more sparing than his rivals
in the use of obscene jests, to gain the laughter of the mob,
and of having, in this respect, carried his art to perfec-
tion. Not to be unjust towards him, we must judge of all
that appears so repulsive to us, not by modern ideas, but by
the opinions of his own age and nation. On certain subjects
the morals of the ancients were very different from ours, and
of a much freer character. This arose from the very nature
of their religion, which was a real worship of Nature, and had
sanctioned many public customs grossly injurious to decency.
Besides, from the very retired manner in which the women
lived*, while the men were almost constantly together, the
* This brings us to the consideration of the question so much agitated
by antiquaries, whether the Grecian women were present at the represen-
tation of plays in general, and more especially of comedies. With respect
to tragedy, I think the question must be answered in the affirmative, since
the story about the Eumenides of AEschylus could not have been invented
with any degree of propriety, had women never visited the theatre. More-
over, there is a passage in Plato (De Leg., lib. ii. p. 658, D.), in which
he mentions the predilection educated women evince for tragical com-
position. Lastly, Julius Pollux, among the technical expressions belong-
ing to the theatre, mentions the Greek word for a spectatress. But in the
case of the old comedy, I should be inclined to think that they were not
present. However, its indecency alone does not appear to be a decisive
proof. Even in the religious festivals the eyes of the women must have
been exposed to sights of gross indecency. But in the numerous ad-
dresses of Aristophanes to the spectators, even where he distinguishes
them according to their respective ages and otherwise, we never observe
any mention of spectatresses, and the poet would hardly have omitted the
opportunity which this afforded him for some witticism or joke. The only
passage with which I am acquainted, whence any conclusion may be
drawn in favour of the presence of women, is Pax, v. 963–967. But
still it remains doubtful, and I recommend it to the consideration of the
critic.–AUTHoR.
156 ARISTOPHANES: PLATO'S TESTIMONY
language of conversation contracted a certain coarseness, as is
always the case under similar circumstances. In modern
Europe, since the origin of chivalry, women have given the
tone to social life, and to the respectful homage which we
yield to them, we owe the prevalence of a nobler morality in
conversation, in the fine arts, and in poetry. Besides, the
ancient comic writers, who took the world as they found it,
had before their eyes a very great degree of corruption of
morals. .
The most honourable testimony in favour of Aristophanes
is that of the sage Plato, who in an epigram says, that the
Graces chose his soul for their abode, who was constantly
reading him, and transmitted the Clouds, (this very play, in
which, with the meshes of the sophists, philosophy itself, and
even his master Socrates, was attacked), to Dionysius the
elder, with the remark, that from it he would be best able to
understand the state of things at Athens. He could hardly
mean merely that the play was a proof of the unbridled
democratic freedom which prevailed in Athens; but must
have intended it as an acknowledgment of the poet's pro-
found knowledge of the world, and his insight into the whole
machinery of the civil constitution. Plato has also admirably
characterised him in his Symposium, where he puts into his
mouth a speech on love, which Aristophanes, far from every
thing like high enthusiasm, considers merely in a sensual
view. His description of it is, however, equally bold and
Ingenious.
We might apply to the pieces of Aristophanes the motto of
a pleasant and acute adventurer in Goéthe: “ Mad, but
clever.” In them we are best enabled to conceive why the
Dramatic Art in general was consecrated to Bacchus: it is
the intoxication of poetry, the Bacchanalia of fun. This
faculty will at times assert its rights as well as others; and
hence several nations have set apart certain festivals, such as
Saturnalia, Carnivals, &c., in which the people may give
themselves altogether up to frolicsome follies, that when once
the fit is over, they may for the rest of the year remain quiet,
and apply themselves to serious business. The Old Comedy is
a general masquerade of the world, during which much passes
that is not authorised by the ordinary rules of propriety; but
during which much also that is diverting, witty, and even in-
ARISTOPHANEs: STRUCTURE OF HIS VERSIFICATION. 157
strrative, is manifested, which would never be heard of with-
out ohis momentary breaking up of the barricades of precision.
However vulgar and even corrupt Aristophanes may have
been in his own personal propensities, and however offensive
his jokes are to good manners and good taste, we cannot deny
to him, both in the general plan and execution of his poems,
the praise of carefulness, and the masterly skill of a finished
artist. His language is extremely polished, the purest Atti-
cism reigns in it throughout, and with the greatest dexterity
he adapts it to every tone, from the most familiar dialogue up
to the high elevation of the Dithyrambic ode. We cannot
doubt that he would have been eminently successful in grave
poetry, when we see how at times with capricious wantonness
he lavishes it only to destroy at the next moment the impres-
sion he has made. The elegant choice of the language becomes
only the more attractive from the contrast in which it is occa-
sionally displayed by him; for he not only indulges at times
in the rudest expressions of the people, the different dialects,
and even in the broken Greek of barbarians, but he extends
the same arbitrary power which he exercised over nature and
human affairs, to language itself, and by composition, allusion
to names of persons, or imitation of particular sounds, coins
the strangest words imaginable. The structure of his versifi-
cation is not less artificial than that of the tragedians; he uses
the same forms, but differently modified: his object is ease
and variety, instead of gravity and dignity; but amidst all
this apparent irregularity, he still adheres with great accuracy
to the laws of metrical composition. As Aristophanes, in the
exercise of his separate but infinitely varied and versatile art,
appears to me to have displayed the richest development of
almost every poetical talent, so also whenever I read his
works I am no less astonished at the extraordinary capacity
of his hearers, which the very nature of them presupposes.
We might, indeed, expect from the citizens of a popular
government an intimate acquaintance with the history and
constitution of their country, with public events and trans-
actions, with the personal circumstance of all their contempo-
raries of any note or consequence. But besides all this, Aris-
tophanes required of his auditory a cultivated poetical taste;
to understand his parodies, they must have almost every word.
of the tragical master-pieces by heart. And what quick-
I 58 ARISTOPHANES : THE ATHENIANS.
ness of perception was requisite to catch in passing the light-
est and most covert irony, the most unexpected sallies and
strangest allusions, which are frequently denoted by the mere
twisting of a syllable! We may boldly affirm, that notwith-
standing all the explanations which have come down to us–
notwithstanding the accumulation of learning which has been
spent upon it, one-half of the wit of Aristophanesis altogether
lost to the moderns. Nothing but the incredible acuteness
and vivacity of the Athenian intellect could make it conceiv-
able that these comedies which, with all their farcical drol-
leries, do, nevertheless, all the while bear upon the most grave
interests of human life, could ever have formed a source of
popular amusement. We may envy the poet who could
reckon on so clever and accomplished a public; but this was
in truth a very dangerous advantage. Spectators whose
understandings were so quick, would not be easily pleased.
Thus Aristophanes complains of the too fastidious taste of the
Athenians, with whom the most admired of his predecessors
were immediately out of favour as soon as the slightest trace
of a falling off in their mental powers was perceivable. On
the other hand, he allows that the other Greeks could not
bear the slightest comparison with them in a knowledge of
the Dramatic Art. Even genius in this department strove to
excel at Athens, and here, too, the competition was confined
within the narrow period of a few festivals, during which the
people always expected to see something new, of which there
was always a plentiful supply. The prizes (on which all
depended, there being no other means of gaining publicity)
were distributed after a single representation. We may easily
imagine, therefore, the state of perfection to which this would
be carried under the directing care of the poet. If we also
take into consideration the high state of the co-operating
arts, the utmost distinctness of delivery (both in speaking and
singing) of the most finished poetry, as well as the magnifi-
cence and vast size of the theatre, we shall then have some
idea of a theatrical treat, the like of which has never since
been offered to the world.
Although, among the remaining works of Aristophanes, we
have several of his earliest pieces, they all bear the stamp of
equal maturity. He had, in fact, been long labouring in
Silence to perfect himself in the exercise of an art which he
„RISTOPHANES - CEIARA-TER OF HIS WORKS. 159
conceived to be of all others the most difficult; nay, from
diffidence in his own power, (or, to use his own words, like a
young girl who consigns to the care of others the child of her
secret love,) he even brought out his earliest pieces under
others names. He appeared for the first time without this
disguise with the Knights, and here he displayed the un-
daunted resolution of a comedian, by an open assault on po-
pular opinion. His object was nothing less than the overthrow
of Cleon, who, after the death of Pericles, was at the head
of all state affairs, a promoter of war, and a worthless man
of very ordinary abilities, but at the same time the idol of an
infatuated people. The only opponents of Cleon were the
rich proprietors, who constituted the class of horsemen or
knights: these Aristophanes in the strongest manner made of
his party, by forming the chorus of them. He had the pru-
dence never to name Cleon, though he portrayed him in such
a way that it was impossible to mistake him. Yet such was
the dread entertained of Cleon and his faction, that no mask-
maker would venture to execute his likeness: the poet, there-
fore, resolved to act the part himself, merely painting his face.
We may easily imagine the storms and tumults which this
representation must have excited among the assembled crowd;
however, the bold and well-concerted efforts of the poet were
crowned with success: his piece gained the prize. He was
proud of this feat of theatrical heroism, and often alludes
with a feeling of satisfaction to the Herculean valour with
which he first combated the mighty monster. No one of his
plays, perhaps, is more historical and political; and its rhe-
torical power in exciting our indignation is almost irresistible:
it is a true dramatic Philippic. However, in point of amuse-
ment and invention, it does not appear to me the most for-
tunate. The thought of the serious danger which he was
incurring may possibly have disposed him to a more serious
tone than was suitable to comedy, or stung, perhaps, by the
persecution he had already suffered from Cleon, he may, per-
haps, have vented his rage in too Archilochean a style. When
the storm of cutting invective has somewhat spent itself, we
have then several droll scenes, such us that where the two
demagogues, the leather-dealer (that is, Cleon) and the
Sausage-seller, vie with each other by adulation, by oracle-
quoting, and by dainty tit-bits, to gain the favour of Demos,
160 ARISTOPHANES : HIS PIAYS OF PEACE.
a personification of the people, who has become childish
through age, a scene humorous in the highest degree; and
the piece ends with a triumphal rejoicing, which may almost
be said to be affecting, when the scene changes from the Pnyx,
the place where the people assembled, to the majestic Propy-
laea, when Demos, who has been wonderfully restored to a
second youth, comes forward in the garb of an ancient
Athenian, and shows that with his youthful vigour, he has
also recovered the olden sentiments of the days of Mara-
thon.
With the exception of this attack on Cleon, and with the
exception also of the attacks on Euripides, whom he seems to
have pursued with the most unrelenting perseverance, the
other pieces of Aristophanes are not so exclusively pointed
against individuals. They have always a general, and for
the most part a very important aim, which the poet, with all
his turnings, digressions, and odd medleys, never loses sight
of The Peace, the Acharna, and the Lysistrata, with many
turns, still all recommend peace; and one object of the Eccle-
siazusae, or Women in Parliament, of the Thesmophoriazusae, o2-
Women keeping the Festival of the Thesmophorice, and of Lysis-
trata, is to throw ridicule on the relations and the manners of
the female sex. In the Clouds he laughs at the metaphysics
of the Sophists, in the Wasps at the mania of the Athenians for
hearing and determining law-suits; the subject of the Frogs
is the decline of the tragic art, and Plutus is an allegory on
the unjust distribution of wealth. The Birds are, of all his
pieces, the one of which the aim is the least apparent, and it
is on that very account one of the most diverting.
Peace begins in the most spirited and lively manner; the
peace-loving Trygaeus rides on a dung-beetle to heaven in the
manner of Bellerophon; Wax, a desolating giant, with his com-
rade Riot, alone, in place of all the other gods, inhabits Olym-
pus, and there pounds the cities of men in a great mortar, mak-
ing use of the most celebrated generals for pestles. The Goddess
Peace lies buried in a deep well, out of which she is hauled
up by ropes, through the united exertions of all the states of
Greece: all these ingenious and fanciful inventions are cal-
cuiated to produce the most ludicrous effect. Afterwards,
however, the play is not sustained at an equal elevation; no-
thing remains but to sacrifice, and to carouse in honour of the
ARISTOPHANES : HIS ACHARNAE. 16 I
recovered Goddess of Peace, when the importunate visits of
such persons as found their advantage in war form, indeed,
an entertainment pleasant enough, but by no means corres-
pondent to the expectations which the commencement gives
rise to. We have, in this piece, an additional example to
prove that the ancient comic writers not only changed the
decoration during the intervals, when the stage was empty,
but also while an actor was in sight. The scene changes
from Attica to Olympus, while Trygaeus is suspended in the
air on his beetle, and calls anxiously to the director of the
machinery to take care that he does not break his neck.
His descent into the orchestra afterwards denotes his return
to the earth. It was possible to overlook the liberties taken
by the tragedians, according as their subject might require it,
with the Unities of Place and Time, on which such ridiculous
stress has been laid by many of the moderns, but the bold
manner in which the old comic writer subjects these mere
externalities to his sportive caprice is so striking, that it must
enforce itself on the most short-sighted observers: and yet in
all the treatises on the constitution of the Greek stage, due
respect has never yet been paid to it.
The Acharnians, an earlier piece,” appears to me to possess
a much higher excellence than Peace, on account of the con-
tinual progress of the story, and the increasing drollery, which
at last ends in a downright Bacchanalian uproar. Dikaiopo-
lis, the honest citizen, enraged at the base artifices by which
the people are deluded, and by which they are induced to
reject all proposals for peace, sends an embassy to Lacedaemon,
and concludes a separate treaty for himself and his family. He
then retires to the country, and, in spite of all assaults, encloses
a piece of ground before his house, within which there is a
peaceful market for the people of the neighbouring states,
while the rest of the country is suffering from the calamities of
war. The blessings of peace are represented most temptingly
to hungry stomachs: the fat Boeotian brings his delicious eels
and poultry for sale, and nothing is thought of but feasting
and carousing. Lamachus, the celebrated general, who lives
* The Didascaliae place it in the year before the Knights. It is
therefore, the earliest of the extant pieces of Aristophanes, and the only
one of those which he brought out under a borrowed name, that has coms
down to us.
I.
62 ARISTOPHANES: LYSISTRATA–ECCLESIAzUsAE.
on the other side, is, in consequence of a sudden inroad of the
enemy, called away to defend the frontiers; Dikaiopolis, on
the other hand, is invited by his neighbours to a feast, where
every one brings his own scot. Preparations military and
preparations culinary are now carried on with equal industry
and alacrity; here they seize the lance, there the spit; here the
armour rings, there the wine-flagon; there they are feathering
helmets, here they are plucking thrushes. Shortly afterwards
Lamachus returns, Supported by two of his comrades, with a
broken head and a lame foot, and from the other side Dikaio-
polis is brought in drunk, and led by two good-natured dam-
sels. The lamentations of the one are perpetually mimicked
and ridiculed in the rejoicings of the other; and with this
contrast, which is carried to the very utmost limit, the play
ends.
Lysistrata is in such bad repute, that we must mention it
lightly and rapidly, just as we would tread over hot embers.
According to the story of the poet, the women have taken it
into their heads to compel their husbands, by a severe resolu-
tion, to make peace. Under the direction of a clever leader
they organize a conspiracy for this purpose throughout all
Greece, and at the same time gain possession in Athens of the
fortified Acropolis. The terrible plight the men are reduced
to by this separation gives rise to the most laughable scenes;
plenipotentiaries appear from the two hostile powers, and
peace is speedily concluded under the management of the sage
Lysistrata. Notwithstanding the mad indecencies which are
contained in the piece, its purpose, when stript of these, is
upon the whole very innocent: the longing for the enjoyment
of domestic joys, so often interrupted by the absence of the
husbands, is to be the means of putting an end to the
calamitous war by which Greece had so long been torn in
pieces. In particular, the honest bluntness of the Lacedaemo-
nians is inimitably portrayed.
The Ecclesiazusae is in like manner a picture of woman's
ascendency, but one much more depraved than the former.
In the dress of men the women steal into the public assembly,
and by means of the majority of voices which they have thus
surreptitiously obtained, they decree a new constitution, in
which there is to be a community of goods and of women.
This is a satire on the ideal republics of the philosophers, with
ARISTOPLIANES - THE TEIES MOPIIO RIAZUSÄE 63
similar laws; Protagoras had projected such before Plato
The comedy appears to me to labour under the very same fault
as the Peace: the introduction, the secret assembly of the
women, their rehearsal of their parts as men, the description
of the popular assembly, are all handled in the most masterly
manner; but towards the middle the action stands still.
Nothing remains but the representation of the perplexities and
confusion which arise from the different communities, especially
the community of women, and from the prescribed equality of
rights in love both for the old and ugly, and for the young
and beautiful. These perplexities are pleasant enough, but
they turn too much on a repetition of the samejoke. Generally
speaking, the old allegorical comedy is in its progress exposed
to the danger of sinking. When we begin with turning the
world upside down, the most wonderful incidents follow one
another as a matter of course, but they are apt to appear
petty and insignificant when compared with the decisive
strokes of fun in the commencement.
The Thesmophoriazusae has a proper intrigue, a knot which
is not loosed till the conclusion, and in this possesses therefore
a great advantage. Euripides, on account of the well-known
hatred of women displayed in his tragedies, is accused and
condemned at the festival of the Thesmophoriae, at which
women only were admitted. After a fruitless attempt to in-
duce the effeminate poet Agathon to undertake the hazardous
experiment, Euripides prevails on his brother-in-law, Mnesilo-
chus, who was somewhat advanced in years, to disguise him-
self as a woman, that under this assumed appearance he may
plead his cause. The manner in which he does this gives rise
to suspicions, and he is discovered to be a man; he flies to the
altar for refuge, and to secure himself still more from the im-
pending danger, he snatches a child from the arms of one of
the women, and threatens to kill it if they do not let him
alone. As he attempts to strangle it, it turns out to be a
leather wine-flask wrapped up like a child. Euripides now
appears in a number of different shapes to save his friend: at
one time he is Menelaus, who finds Helen again in Egypt; at
another time he is Echo, helping the chained Andromeda to
pour out her lamentations, and immediately after he appears
as Perseus, about to release her from the rock. At length h6
succeeds in rescuing Mnesilochus, who is fastened to a sort o

L 2
1 G+ ARISTOPIIAN ES : THIE CLOUI)S,
pillory, by assuming the character of a procuress and enticing
zway the officer of justice who has charge of him, a simple
barbarian, by the charms of a female flute-player. These
parodied scenes, composed almost entirely in the very words
of the tragedies, areinimitable. Whenever Euripides is intro-
duced, we may always, generally speaking, lay our account
with having the most ingenious and apposite ridicule; it seems
as if the mind of Aristophanes possessed a peculiar and specific
power of giving a comic turn to the poetry of this tragedian.
The Clouds is well known, but yet, for the most part, has
not been duly understood or appreciated. Its object is to
show that the fondness for philosophical subtleties had led to
a neglect of warlike exercises, that speculation only served to
shake the foundations of religion and morals, and that by the
arts of sophistry, every duty was rendered doubtful, and the
worse cause frequently came off victorious. The Clouds
themselves, as the chorus of the piece (for the poet converts
these substances into persons, and dresses them out strangely
enough), are an allegory on the metaphysical speculations
which do not rest on the ground of experience, but float about
without any definite shape or body, in the region of possibi-
lities. We may observe in general that it is one of the
peculiarities of the wit of Aristophanes to take a metaphor
literally, and to exhibit it in this light before the eyes of the
spectators. Of a man addicted to unintelligible reveries, it is
a common way of speaking to say that he is up in the clouds,
and accordingly Socrates makes his first appearance actually
descending from the air in a basket. Whether this applies
exactly to him is another question; but we have reason to
believe that the philosophy of Socrates was very ideal, and
that it was by no means so limited to popular and practical
matters as Xenophon would have us believe But why has
Aristophanes personified the sophistical metaphysics by the
venerable Socrates, who was himself a determined opponent of
the Sophists ? There was probably some personal grudge at
the bottom of this, and we do not attempt to justify it; but
the choice of the name by no means diminishes the merit of
ehe picture itself. Aristophanes declares this play to be the
most elaborate of all his works: but in such expressions we
are not always to take him exactly at his word. On all occa-
sions, and without the least hesitation, he lavishes up on him-

ARISTOPHANES - THE FROGS. 165
self the most extravagant praises; and this must be considered
a feature of the licence of comedy. However, the Clouds was
unfavourably received, and twice unsuccessfully competed for
the prize.
The Frogs, as we have already said, has for its subject the de
cline of Tragic Art. Euripides was dead, as well as Sophocles
and Agathon, and none but poets of the second rank were now
remaining. Bacchus misses Euripides, and determinesto bring
him back from the infernal world. In this he imitates Hercules,
but although furnished with that hero's lion-skin and club, in
sentiments he is very unlike him, and as a dastardly voluptuary
affords us much matter for laughter- Here we have a cha-
racteristic specimen of the audacity of Aristophanes: he does
not even spare the patron of his own art, in whose honour
this very play was exhibited. It was thought that the gods
understood a joke as well, if not better, than men. Bacchus
rows himself over the Acherusian lake, where the frogs
merrily greet him with their melodious croakings. The
proper chorus, however, consists of the shades of those initi-
ated in the Eleusinian mysteries, and odes of surpassing
beauty are put in their mouths. ÄEschylus had hitherto occu-
pied the tragic throne in the world below, but Euripides
wants to eject him. Pluto presides, but appoints Bacchus to
determine this great controversy; the two poets, the sub-
limely wrathful AEschylus, and the subtle and conceited Euri-
pides, stand opposite each other and deliver specimens of
their poetical powers; they sing, they declaim against each
other, and in all their peculiar traits are characterised in
masterly style. At last a balance is brought, on which each
lays a verse; but notwithstanding all the efforts of Euripides
to produce ponderous lines, those of AEschylus always make
the scale of his rival to kick the beann. At last the latter
becomes impatient of the contest, and proposes that Euripides
himself, with all his works, his wife, children, Cephisophon
and all, shall get into one scale, and he will only lay against
them in the other two verses. Bacchus in the mean time has
become a convert to the merits of AEschylus, and although he
had sworn to Euripides that he would take him back with
him from the lower world, he dismisses him with a parody of
one of his own verses in Hippolytus:
My tongue hath sworn, I however make choice of AEschylus.
166 ARISTOPHANES: THE WASPS-THE BIRDS,
AEschylus consequently returns to the living world, and resigns
the tragic throne in his absence to Sophocles.
The observation on the changes of place, which I made
when mentioning Peace, may be here repeated. The scene is
first at Thebes, of which both Bacchus and Hercules were
natives; afterwards the stage is changed, without its ever
being left by Bacchus, to the nether shore of the Acherusian
lake, which must have been represented by the sunken space
of the orchestra, and it was not tºll Bacchus landed at the
other end of the logeum that the scenery represented the
infernal world, with the palace of Pluto in the back-ground,
This is not a mere conjecture, it is expressly stated by the old
scholiast.
The Wasps is, in my opinion, the feeblest of Aristophanes'
plays. The subject is too limited, the folly it ridicules
appears a disease of too singular a description, without a suf-
ficient universality of application, and the action is too much
drawn out. The poet himself speaks this time in very
modest language of his means of entertainment, and does not
even promise us immoderate laughter.
On the other hand, the Birds transports us by one of the
boldest and richest inventions into the kingdom of the fantas-
tically wonderful, and delights us with a display of the
gayest hilarity: it is a joyous-winged and gay-plumed crea-
tion. I cannot concur with the old critic in thinking that we
have in this work a universal and undisguised satire on the
corruptions of the Athenian state, and of all human society.
It seems rather a harmless display of merry pranks, which
hit alike at gods and men without any particular object in
view. Whatever was remarkable about birds in natural his-
tory, in mythology, in the doctrine of divination, in the fables
of AEsop, or even in proverbial expressions, has been inge-
niously drawn to his purpose by the poet; who even goes
back to cosmogony, and shows that at first the raven-winged
Night laid a wind-egg, out of which the lovely Eros, with
golden pinions (without doubt a bird), soared aloft, and
thereupon gave birth to all things. Two fugitives of the
hnman race fall into the domain of the birds, who resolve to
revenge themselves on them for the numerous cruelties which
they have suffered: the two men contrive to save themselves
oy proving the pre-eminency of the birds over all other crea-
ARISTOPHANES - CRATINUS–-EUPOLIS, 167
tures, and they advise them to collect all their scattered
powers into one immense state; the wondrous city, Cloud-
cuckootown, is then built above the earth; all sorts of unbid-
den guests, priests, poets, soothsayers, geometers, lawyers,
sycophants, wish to nestle in the new state, but are driven
out; new gods are appointed, naturally enough, after the
image of the birds, as those of menbore a resemblance to man.
Olympus is walled up against the old gods, so that no odour
of sacrifices can reach them; in their emergency, they send an
embassy, consisting of the voracious Hercules, Neptune, who
swears according to the common formula, by Neptune, and
a Thracian god, who is not very familiar with Greek, but
speaks a sort of mixed jargon; they are, however, under the
necessity of submitting to any conditions they can get, and
the sovereignty of the world is left to the birds. However
much all this resembles a mere farcical fairy tale, it may be
said, however, to have a philosophical signification, in thus
taking a sort of bird's-eye view of all things, seeing that most
of our ideas are only true in a human point of view.
The old critics were of opinion that Cratinus was powerful
in that biting satire which makes its attack without disguise,
but that he was deficient in a pleasant humour, also that he
wanted the skill to develope a striking subject to the best
advantage, and to fill up his pieces with the necessary details.
Eupolis they tell us was agreeable in his jokes, and ingenious
in covert allusions, so that he never needed the assistance
of parabases to say whatever he wished, but that he was
deficient in satiric power. But Aristophanes, they add, by a
happy medium, united the excellencies of both, and that in
him we have satire and pleasantry combined in due proportion
and attractive manner. From these statements I conceive
myself justified in assuming that among the pieces of Aristo-
phanes, the Knights is the most in the style of Cratinus, and
the Birds in that of Eupolis; and that he had their respective
manners in view when he composed these pieces. For al-
though he boasts of his independent originality, and of his
never borrowing anything from others, it was hardly possible
that among such distinguished contemporary artists, all re-
ciprocal influence should be excluded. If this opinion be
well founded, we have to lament the loss of the works of
Cratinus, perhaps principally on account of the light they
--xrº----------
] G8 ARISTOPHANES: PLUTUS, HIS LAST COMEDY.
would have thrown on the manners of the times, and the
knowledge they might have afforded of the Athenian con-
stitution, while the loss of the works of Eupolis is to be
regretted, chiefly for the comic form in which they were
delivered.
Plutus was one of the earlier pieces of the poet, but as we
have it, it is one of his last works; for the first piece was
afterwards recast by him. In its essence it belongs to the Old
Comedy, but in the sparingness of personalsatire, and in the
mild tone which prevails throughout, we may trace an ap-
proximation to the Middle Comedy. The Old Comedy indeed
had not yet received its death-blow from a formal enactment,
but even at this date Aristophanes may have deemed it
prudent to avoid a full exercise of the democratic privilege of
comedy. It has even been said (perhaps without any foun-
dation, as the circumstance has been denied by others) that
Alcibiades ordered Eupolis to be drowned on account of a
piece which he had aimed at him. Dangers of this description
would repress the most ardent zeal of authorship: it is but
fair that those who seek to afford pleasure to their fellow-
citizens should at least be secure of their life
t39
A PPEND IX
TO THE
TWEL F TH LECTU RE.
As we do not, so far as I know, possess as yet a satisfactory
poetical translation of Aristophanes, and as the whole works
of this author must, for many reasons, ever remain untrans-
latable, I have been induced to lay before my readers the
scene in the Acharnians where Euripides makes his appear-
ance; not that this play does not contain many other scenes
of equal, if not superior merit, but because it relates to
the character of this tragedian as an artist, and is both free
from indecency, and, moreover, easily understood.
The Acharnians, country-people of Attica, who have greatly
suffered from the enemy, are highly enraged at Dikaiopolis
for concluding a peace with the Lacedaemönians, and deter-
mine to stone him. He undertakes to speak in defence of
the Lacedaemonians, standing the while behind a block, as he
is to lose his head if he does not succeed in convincing them.
In this ticklish predicament, he calls on Euripides, to lend
nim the tattered garments in which that poet's heroes were in
the habit of exciting commiseration. We must suppose the
house of the tragic poet to occupy the middle of the back
SCGI1G.
DIKAIoPoLIs.
*Tis time I pluck up all my courage then,
And pay a visit to Euripides.
Boy, boy!
CEPHIsoPHON.
Who’s there ?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Is Euripides within ?
170 APPENDIX TO THE TWELFTH LECTURE.
CEPHISOPHON.
Within, and not within: Can'st fathom that ?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
How within, yet not within ?
CEPHIsoPHoN.
'Tis true, old fello 7.
His mind is out collecting dainty verses“,
And not within. But he's himself aloft
Writing a tragedy.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Happy Euripides,
Whose servant here can give such witty answers.
Call him.
CEPHIsoPHoN.
t may not be.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
I say, you must though-–
For hence I will not budge, but knock the door down.
Euripides, Euripides, my darling !
Hear me, at least, if deaf to all besides.
'Tis Dikaiopolis of Chollis calls you.
EURIPIDEs.
I have not time.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
At least roll round.
EURIPIDES.
I can't §.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
You must.
EURIPIDES.
Well, I'll roll round. Come down I can’t; I'm busy.
DIKAIPOLIS.
Euripides!
EURIPIDEs.
What would’st thou with thy bawling.
* The Greek diminutive rüxx« is here correctly expressed by the
German verschen, but versicle would not be tolerated in English.–TRANs.
† Eögzrôoy–in the German Euripidelein.–TRANs,
A. technical expression from the Encyclema, which was thrust out.
§ Euripides appears in the upper story; but as in an altara, or sitting
in an open gallery.



APPENDIX TO THE TWELFTH LECTURE. 171
DIKAIoPoLIS
What! you compose aloft and not below.
No wonder if your muse's bantlings halt.
Again, those rags and cloak right tragical,
The very garb for sketching beggars in !
But sweet Euripides, a boon, I pray thee.
Give me the moving rags of some old play;
I've a long speech to make before the Chorus,
And if I falter, why the forfeit's death.
EURIPIDEs.
What rags will suit you? Those in which old CEneus,
That hapless wight, went through his bitter conflict?
DIKAIoPoLIs.
Not CEneus, no,–but one still sorrier.
EURIPIDEs.
Those of blind Phoenix ?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
No, not Phoenix either:
But another, more wretched still than Phoenix.
EURIPIDEs.
Whose sorry tatters can the fellow want?
"Tis Philoctetes' sure! You mean that beggar.
DIKAIoPoLIS.
No; but a person still more beggarly.
EURIPIDEs.
I have it. You want the sorry garments
Bellerophon, the lame man, used to wear.
DIKAIoPoLIS.
No,–not Bellerophon. Though the man I mean
Was lame, importunate, and bold of speech.
EURIPIDEs.
I know. 'Tis Telephus the Mysian.
DIKAIoPoLIs.
- Right.
Yes, Telephus: lend me his rags I pray you.
EURIPIDEs.
Ho, boy! Give him the rags of Telephus.
There lie they; just upon Thyestes' rags,
And under those of Ino.
CEPHISOPHoN.
Here ! take them.
172 APPENDIX TO THIE TWELFTH LECTURE,
DIKAIoPoLIs (putting them or).
Now Jove! who lookest on, and see'st through all*, Y
Your blessing, while thus wretchedly I garb me.
Pr'ythee, Euripides, a further boon,
It goes, I think, together with these rags:
The little Mysian bonnet for my head;
“ For sooth to-day I must put on the beggar,
And be still what I am, and yet not seem so†.”
The audience here may know me who I am,
But like poor fools the chorus stand unwitting,
While I trick them with my flowers of rhetoric.
EURIPIDEs.
A rare device, i'faith ! Take it and welcome.
DIKAIoPoLIs.
“ For thee, my blessing; for Telephus, my thoughts+.”
'Tis well; already, words flow thick and fast.
Oh ! I had near forgot–A beggar's staff, I pray.
EURIPIDEs.
Here, take one, and thyself too from these doors.
DIKAIOPOLIs.
(Aside.) See'st thou, my soul,–he'd drive thee from his door
Still lacking many things. Become at once
A supple, oily beggar. (Aloud.) Good Euripides,
Lend me a basket, pray;–though the bottom’s
Scorch'd, ’twill do.
EURIPIDEs.
Poor wretch! A basket? What's thy need on't ?
DIKAIoPoLIs.
No need beyond the simple wish to have it.
EU RIPIDEs.
You're getting troublesome. Come pack–be off.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
(Aside.) Faugh ! Faugh !
(Aloud.) May heaven prosper thee as–thy good mother.
EURIPIDEs.
Be off, I say!
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Not till thougrant’st my prayer.
Only a little cup with broken rim.
* Alluding to the holes in the mantle which he holds up to the light.
† These lines are from Euripides' tragedy of Telephus.
# An allusion (which a few lines lower is again repeated) to his mother
as a poor retailer of vegetables.
APPENDIX TO THE TWELFTH LECTURE. 173,
EURIPIDEs.
Take it and go; for know you're quite a plague.
DIKAIoPoLIs.
(Aside.) Knows he how great a pest he is himself?
(Aloud.) But, my Euripides ! my sweet! one thing more :
Give me a cracked pipkin stopped with sponge.
EURIPIDEs.
The man would rob me of a tragedy complete.
There–take it, and oegone.
DIKAroPoLIs.
Well! I am going.
Yet what to do ? One thing I lack, whose want
Undoes me. Good, sweet Euripides!
Grant me but this, I’ll ask no more, but go–
Some cabbage-leaves–a few just in my basket!
EURIPIDEs.
You'll ruin me. See there! A whole play's gone !
DIKAIoPoLIs (seemingly going off",
Nothing more now. I'm really off. I am, I own,
Abore, wanting in tact to please the great.
Woe’s me ! Was ever such a wretch Z Alas!
I have forgot the very chiefest thing of all.
Hear me, Euripides, my dear ! my darling.
Choicest ills betide me ! if e’er I ask
Aught more than this; but one–this one alone:
Throw me a pot-herb from thy mother's stock.
EURIPIDEs.
The fellow would insult me–shut the door.
(The Encyclema revolves, and Euripides and Cephisophon retire.)
DIKAIoPoLIs.
Soul of me, thou must go without a pot-herb !
Wist thou what conflict thou must soon contend in
To proffer speech and full defence for Sparta ?
Forward, my soul ! the barriers are before thee.
What, dost loiter ? hast not imbibed Euripides?
And yet I blame thee not. Courage, sad heart !
And forward, though it be to lay thy head
Upon the block. Rouse thee, and speak thy mind.
Forward there! forward again! bravely heart, bravely.

I 74 THE MIDDLE COMEDY,
LECTURE XIII.
Whether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species–Origin of the New
Comedy-A mixed species–Its prosaic character–Whether versifica-
tion is essential to Comedy-Subordinate kinds–Pieces of Character,
and of Intrigue-The Comic of observation, of self-consciousness, and
arbitrary Comic-Morality of Comedy-Plautus and Terence as imi-
tators of the Greeks here cited and characterised for want of the
Originals–Moral and social aim of the Attic Comedy-Statues of two
Comic Authors.
ANCIENT critics assume the cxistence of a Middle Comedy,
between the Old and the Wew. Its distinguishing character-
istics are variously described; by some its peculiarity is made
to consist in the abstinence from personal satire and intro-
duction of real characters, and by others in the abolition
of the chorus. But the introduction of real persons under their
true names was never an indispensable requisite. Indeed, in
several, even of Aristophanes' plays, we find characters in no
respect historical, but altogether fictitious, but bearing signifi-
cant names, after the manner of the New Comedy; while
personal satire is only occasionally employed. This right of
personal satire was no doubt, as I have already shown,
essential to the Old Comedy, and the loss of it incapacitated
the poets from throwing ridicule on public actions and affairs
of state. When accordingly they confined themselves to
private life, the chorus ceased at once to have any signifi-
cance. However, accidental circumstances accelerated its
abolition. To dress and train the choristers was an expensive
undertaking; now, as Comedy with the forfeiture of its poli-
tical privileges lost also its festal dignity, and was degraded
into a mere amusement, the poet no longer found any rich
patrons willing to take upon themselves the expense of fur-
nishing the chorus.
Platonius mentions a further characteristic of the Middle
Comedy. On account, he says, of the danger of alluding to
public affairs, the comic writers had turned all their satire
against serious poetry, whether epic or tragic, and sought to

WEIETHER, A. DISTINCT SPECIES. 175
expose 1ts absurdities and contradictions. As a specimen of
this kind he gives the AEolosikon, one of Aristophanes latest
works. This description coincides with the idea of parody,
which we placed foremost in our account of the Old Comedy.
Platonius adduces also another instance in the Ulysses of Crati-
nus, a burlesque of the Odyssey. But, in order of time, no play
of Cratinus could belong to the Middle Comedy; for his death
is mentioned by Aristophanes in his Peace. And as to the
drama of Eupolis, in which he described what we call an
Utopia, or Lubberly Land, what else was it but a parody of
the poetical legends of the golden age? But in Aristophanes,
not to mention his parodies of so many tragic scenes, are
not the Heaven-journey of Trygaeus, and the Hell-journey
of Bacchus, ludicrous imitations of the deeds of Bellerophon
and Hercules, sung in epic and tragic poetry ? In vain there-
fore should we seek in this restriction to parody any dis-
tinctive peculiarity of the so-called Middle Comedy. Frolic-
some caprice, and allegorical significance of composition are,
poetically considered, the only essential criteria of the Old
Comedy. In this class, therefore, we shall rank every work
where we find these qualities, in whatever times, and under
whatever circumstances, it may have been composed.
As the New Comedy arose out of a mere negation, the
abolition, viz., of the old political freedom, we may easily
conceive that there would be an interval of fluctuating, and
tentative efforts to supply its place, before a new comic form
could be developed and fully established. Hence there may
have been many kinds of the Middle Comedy, many inter-
wmediate gradations, between the Old and the New; and this is
the opinion of some men of learning. And, indeed, historically
considered, there appears good grounds for such a view; but
in an artistic point of view, a transition does not itself consti-
tute a species.
We proceed therefore at once to the New Comedy, or that
species of poetry which with us receives the appellation of
Comedy. We shall, I think, form a more correct notion of
it, if we consider it in its historical connexion, and from a
regard to its various ingredients explain it to be a mixed and
modified species, than we should were we to term it an ori-
ginal and pure species, as those do who either do not concern
themselves at all with the Old Comedy, or else regard it as


176 ORIGIN OF TEIE NEW COMEDY
nothing better than a mere rude commencement. Hence, the
infinite importance of Aristophanes, as we have in him a kind
of poetry of which there is no other example to be found in the
world.
The New Comedy may, in certain respects, be described as
the Old, tamed down; but in productions of genius, tameness
is not generally considered a merit. The loss incurred by
the prohibition of an unrestricted freedom of satire the new
comic writers endeavoured to compensate by a mixture of
earnestness borrowed from tragedy, both in the form of re-
presentation and the general structure, and also in the
impressions which they laboured to produce. We have seen
how, in its last epoch, tragic poetry descended from its ideal
elevation, and came nearer to common reality, both in the
characters and in the tone of the dialogue, but more especially
in its endeavour to convey practical instruction respecting
the conduct of civil and domestic life in all their several
requirements. This utilitarian turn in Euripides was the sub-
ject of Aristophanes' ironical commendation“. Euripides was
the precursor of the New Comedy; and all the poets of this
species particularly admired him, and acknowledged him as
their master.–The similarity of tone and spirit is even so
great between them, that moral maxims of Euripides have
been ascribed to Menander, and others of Menander to Euri-
pides. On the other hand, among the fragments of Menander,
we find topics of consolation which frequently rise to the
height of the true tragic tone.
New Comedy, therefore, is a mixture of earnestness and
mirth†. The poet no longer turns poetry and the world into
* The Frogs, v. 971–991.
† The original here is not susceptible of an exact translation into
English. Though the German language has this great advantage, that
there are few ideas which may not be expressed in it in words of Teutonic
origin, yet words derived from Greek and Latin are also occasionally used
indiscriminately with the Teutonic synonymes, for the sake of variety
or otherwise. Thus the generic word spiel (play), is formed into lustspiel
(comedy), trauerspiel (tragedy), sing-Spiel (opera), schauspiel (drama);
but the Germans also use tragaedie, komaedie, opera and drama. In the
text, the author proposes, for the sake of distinction, to give the name of
lustspiel to the New Comedy, to distinguish it from the old; but having
only the single term comedy in English, I must, in translating lustspiel,
make use of the two words, New Comedy.–TRANs. «


DIFFERENT KINDS AND GRADATIONS OF THE COMIC. 177
ridicule, he no longer abandons himself to an enthusiasm of
fun, but seeks the sportive element in the objects themselves;
he depicts in human characters, and situations whatever
occasions mirth, in a word, what is pleasant and laughable.
But the ridiculous must no longer come forward as the pure
creation of his own fancy, but must be yerisimilar, that is,
seem to be rea. Hence we must consider anew the above
described comic ideal of human nature under the restrictions
which this law of composition imposes, and determine accord-
ingly the different kinds and gradations of the Comic.
The highest tragic earnestness, as I have already shown,
runs ever into the infinite; and the subject of Tragedy (pro-
perly speaking) is the struggle between the outward finite
existence, and the inward infinite aspirations. The subdued
earnestness of the New Comedy, on the other hand, remains
always within the sphere of experience. The place of Destiny
is supplied by Chance, for the latter is the empirical concep-
tion of the former, as being that which lies beyond our power
or control. Ahd accordingly we actually find among the
fragments of the Comic Writers as many expressions about
Chance, as we in the tragediams about Destiny. To un-
conditional necessity, moral liberty could alone be opposed;
as for Chance, eery one must use his wits, and turn it to his
own profit as he best can. On this account, the whole morai
of the New Comedy, just like that of the Fable, is nothing
more than a theory of prudence. In this sense, an ancient
critic has, with nimitable brevity, given us the whole sum of
the matter: that Tragedy is a running away from, or making
an end of life; j its regulation.
The idea of the Old Comedy is a fantastic illusion, a plea-
sant dream, which at last, with the exception of the general
effect, allends in nothing. The New Comedy, on the other
hand, is earnest in its form. It rejects everything of a con-
tradictory nature, which might have the effect of destroying
the impressions of reality. It endeavours after strict cohe-
rence, and has, in common with Tragedy, a formal complica-
tion and dénouenäent of plot. Like Tragedy, too, it connects
together its incidents, as cause and effect, only that it adopts
the law of existence as it manifests itself in experience, with-
out any such reference as Tragedy assumes to an idea. As
the latter endeavours to satisfy our feelings at the close, in
M
t


178 TRUTTIFULNESS OF THE NEW COMEDY.
like manner the New Comedy endeavours to provide, at least,
an apparent point of rest for the understanding. This, I may
remark in passing, is by no means an easy task for the comic
writer: he must contrive at last skilfully and naturally to
get rid of the contradictions which with their complication and
intricacy have diverted us during the course of the action; if
he really smooths them all off by making his fools become
rational, or by reforming or punishing his villains, then there
is an end at once of everything like a pleasant and comical
impression.
Such were the comic and tragic ingredients of the New
Comedy, or Comedy in general. There is yét a third, how-
ever, which in itself is neither comic nor tragic, in short, not
even poetic. I allude to its portrait-like truthfulness. The
ideal and caricature, both in the plastic arts.and in dramatic
poetry, lay claim to no other truth than that which lies in
their significance: their individual beings evenare not intended
to appear real. Tragedy moves in an ideal, and the Old
Comedy in a fanciful or fantastical world. As the creative
power of the fancy was circumscribed in the New Comedy, it
became necessary to afford some equivalent td the understand-
ing, and this was furnished by the probability of the sub-
jects represented, of which it was to be the judge. I do not
mean the calculation of the rarity or frequency of the repre-
sented incidents (for without the liberty of depicting singu-
larities, even while keeping within the limits of every-da
life, comic amusement would be impossible), but all that is
here meant is the individual truth of the picture. The New
Comedy must be a true picture of the Ä of the day, and
its tone must be local and national; and even if we should see
comedies of other times, and other nations, brought upon the
stage, we shall still be able to trace and be pleased with this
resemblance. By portrait-like truthfulness I do not mean
that the comic characters must be altogether individual. The
most striking features of different individuals of a class may
be combined together in a certain completeness, provided they
are clothed with a sufficient degree of peculiarity to have an
individual life, and are not represented as examples of any
Partial and incomplete conception. But in so far as Comedy
depicts the constitution of social and domestic life in general,
it is a portrait; from this prosaic side it must be variously
i
i

vERsIFICATION, Is IT ESSENTIAL To CoMEDY ? 17.)
modified, according to time and place, while the comic
motives, in respect of their poetical principle, are always the
S3 M1G.
The ancients themselves acknowledged the New Comedy
to be a faithful picture of life. Full of this idea, the gram-
marian Aristophanes exclaimed in a somewhat affected, though
highly ingenious turn of expression: “O life and Menander!
which of you copied the other?" Horace informs us that
“ some doubted whether Comedy be a poem; because
neither in its subject nor in its language is there the same
impressive elevation which distinguishes other kinds of poetry,
while the composition is only distinguished from ordinary
discourse by the versification.” But it was urged by others,
that Comedy occasionally elevates hertone; for instance, when
an angry father reproaches a son for his extravagance.
This answer, however, is rejected by Horace as insufficient.
“ Would Pomponius," says he, with a sarcastic application,
“ hear milder reproaches if his father were living ?” To
answer the doubt, we must examine wherein Comedy goes
beyond individual reality. In the first place it is a simulated
whole, composed of congruous parts, agreeably to the scale of
art. Moreover, the subject represented is handled according
to the laws of theatrical exhibition; everything foreign and
incongruous is kept out, while all that is essential to the
matter in hand is hurried on with swifter progress than in
real life; over the whole, viz., the situations and characters,
a certain clearness and distinctness of appearance is thrown,
which the vague and indeterminate outlines of reality seldom
possess. Thus the form constitutes the poetic element of
Comedy, while its prosaic principle lies in the matter, in the
required assimilation to something individual and external.
We may now fitly proceed to the consideration of the much
mooted question, whether versification be essential to Comedy,
and whether a comedy written in prose is an imperfect produc-
tion. This question has been frequently answered in the affir-
mative on the authority of the ancients, who, it is true, had no
theatrical works in prose; this, however, may have ariser
from accidental circumstances, for example, the great extent of
their stage, in which verse, from its more emphatic delivery,
must have been better heard than prose. Moreover, these cri-
tics forget that the Mimes of Sophron, so much admired by
M 2
180 vERSIFICATION, Is IT ESSENTIAL To CoMEDY ?
Plato, were written in prose. And what were these Mimes? If
we may judge of them from the statement that some of the Idylls
of Theocritus wereimitations of them in hexameters, they were
pictures of real life, in which every appearance of poetry was
studiously avoided. This consists in the coherence and con-
nexion of a drama, which certainly is not found in these pieces;
they are merely so many detached scenes, in which one thing
succeeds another by chance, and without preparation, as the
particular hour of any working-day or holiday brought it
about. The want of dramatic interest was supplied by the
mimic element, that is, by the most accurate representation of
individual peculiarities in action and language, which arose
from nationality as modified by local circumstances, and from
sex, age, rank, occupations, and so forth.
Even in versified Comedy, the language must, in the choice
of words and phrases, differ in no respect, or at least in no
perceptible degree, from that of ordinary life; the licences of
poetical expression, which are indispensable in other depart-
ments of poetry, are here inadmissible. Not only must the
versification not interfere with the common, unconstrained, and
even careless tone of conversation, but it must also seem to be
itself unpremeditated. It must not by its lofty tone elevate
the characters as in Tragedy, where, along with the unusual
sublimity of the language, it becomes as it were a mental Co-
thurnus. In Comedy the verse must serve merely to give
greater lightness, spirit, and elegance to the dialogue.
Whether, therefore, a particular comedy ought to be versified
or not, must depend on the consideration whether it would be
more suitable to the subject in hand to give to the dialogue
this perfection of form, or to adopt into the comic imitation all
rhetorical and grammatical errors, and even physical imperfec-
tions of speech. The frequent production, however, of prose
comedies in modern times has not been owing so much to this
cause as to the ease and convenience of the author, and in
some degree also of the player. I would, however, recommend
to my countrymen, the Germans, the diligent use of verse,
and even of rhyme, in Comedy; for as our national Comedy is
yet to be formed, the whole composition, by the greater strict-
ness of the form, would gain in keeping and appearance, and
we should be enabled at the very outset toguard against many
important errors. We have not yet attained such a mastery
COMIC LITERATURE OF THE GREERS. I 81
in this matter as will allow us to abandon ourselves to an
agreeable negligence.
As we have pronounced the New Comedy to be a mixed
species, formed out of comic and tragic, poetic and prosaic
elements, it is evident that this species may comprise several
subordinate kinds, according to the preponderance of one or
other of the ingredients. If the poet plays in a sportive
humour with his own inventions, the result is a farce; if he
confines himself to the ludicrous in situations and characters,
carefully avoiding all admixture of serious matter, we have a
pure comedy (lustspiel); in proportion as earnestness prevails
in the scope of the whole composition, and in the sympathy
and moral judgment it gives rise to, the piece becomes what
is called Instructive or Sentimental Comedy; and there is only
another step to the familiar or domestic tragedy. Great stress
has often been laid on the two last mentioned species as inven-
tions entirely new, and of great importance, and peculiar
theories have been devised for them, &c. In the lacrymose
drama of Diderot, which was afterwards so much decried, the
failure consisted altogether in that which was new; the affec-
tation of nature, the pedantry of the domestic relations, and
the lavish use of pathos. Did we still possess the whole of the
comic literature of the Greeks, we should, without doubt, find in
it the models of all these species, with this difference, however,
that the clear head of the Greeks assuredly never allowed
them to fall into a chilling monotony, but that they arrayed
and tempered all in due proportion. Have not we, even
among the few pieces that remain to us, the Captives of Plau-
tus, which may be called a pathetic drama, the Step-Mother
of Terence, a true family picture; while the Amphitryo bor-
ders on the fantastic boldness of the Old Comedy, and the
Twin-Brothers (Menachmi) is a wild piece of intrigue ? Dowe
not find in allTerence'splays serious, impassioned, and touching
passages? We have only to call to mind the first scene of the
Heautontimorumenos. From our point of view we hope in
short to find a due place for all things. We see here no dis-
tinct species, but merely gradations in the tone of the composi-
tion, which are marked by transitions more or less perceptible.
Neither can we allow the common division into Plays Qf
Character and Plays of Intrigue, to pass without limitatio.
Agood comedy ought always to be both, otherwiseit will be defi-
182 PIECES OF CHARACTER.
zient either in body oranimation. Sometimes, however, the ons
and sometimes the other will, no doubt, preponderate. The
development of the comic characters requires situations to place
them in strong contrast, and these again can result from
nothing but that crossing of purposes and events, which, as I
have already shown, constitutes intrigue in the dramatic
sense. Everyone knows the meaning of intriguing in com-
mon life; namely, the leading others by cunning and dissimu-
lation, to further, without their knowledge and against their
will, our own hidden designs. In the drama, both these signi-
fications coincide, for the cunning of the one becomes a cross-
purpose for the other.
When the characters are only slightly sketched, so far
merelyas is necessary to account for the actions of the charac-
ters in this or that case; when also the incidents are so accu-
mulated, that little room is left for display of character; when
the plot is so wrought up, that the motley tangle of misun-
derstandings and embarrassments seems every moment on
the point of being loosened, and yet the knot is only drawn
tighter and tighter: such a composition may well be called a
Play of Intrigue. The French critics have made it fashion-
able to consider this kind of play much below the so-called
Play of Character, perhaps because they look too exclusively
to how much of a play may be retained by us and carried
home. It is true, the Piece of Intrigue, in some degree, ends
at last in nothing: but why should it not be occasionally
allowable to divert oneselfingeniously, without any ulterior
object? Certainly, a good comedy of this description requires
much inventive wit: besides the entertainment which we
derive from the display of such acuteness and ingenuity, the
wonderful tricks and contrivances which are practised possess
a great charm for the fancy, as the success of many a Spanish
piece proves.
To the Play of Intrigue it is objected, that it deviates from
the natural course of things, that it is improbable. We may
admit the former without however admitting the latter. The
poet, no doubt, exhibits before us what is unexpected, extra-
ordinary, and singular, even to incredibility; and often he
even sets out with a great improbability, as, for example, the
resemblance between two persons, or a disguise which is not
seen through; afterwards, however, all the incidents must
PIECES OF INTRIGUE 183
have the appearance of truth, and all the circumstances by
means of which the affair takes so marvellous a turn, must be
satisfactorily explained. As in respect to the events which
take place, the poet gives us but a light play of wit, we are
the more strict with him respecting the how by which they
are brought about.
In the comedies which aim more at delineation of character,
the dramatic personages must be skilfully grouped so as to
throw light on each other's character. This, however, is very
apt to degenerate into too systematic a method, each charac-
ter being regularly matched with its symmetrical opposite, and
thereby an unnatural appearance is given to the whole. Nor
are those comedies deserving of much praise, in which the
rest of the characters are introduced only, as it were, to allow
the principal one to go through all his different probations;
especially when that character consists of nothing but an
opinion, or a habit (for instance, L’Optimäste, Le Distrait), as
if an individual could thus be made up entirely of one single
peculiarity, and must not rather be on all sides variously
modified and affected. -
What was the sportive ideal of human nature in the Old
Comedy I have already shown. Now as the New Comedy
had to give to its representation a resemblance to a definite
reality, it could not indulge in such studied and arbitrary ex-
aggeration as the old did. It was, therefore, obliged to seek
for other sources of comic amusement, which lie nearer the
province of earnestness, and these it found in a more accurate
and thorough delineation of character.
In the characters of the New Comedy, either the Comic of
Observation or the Self-Conscious and Confessed Comic, will be
found to prevail. The former constitutes the more refined, or
what is called High Comedy, and the latter Low Comedy or
Farce.
But to explain myself more distinctly: there are laughable
peculiarities, follies, and obliquities, of which the possessor
himself is unconscious, or which, if he does at all perceive
them, he studiously endeavours to conceal, as being calculated
to injure him in the opinion of others. Such persons conse-
quently do not give themselves out for what they actually
are; their secret escapes from them unwittingly, or against
their will. Rightly, therefore, to portray such characters, the
184 THE SELF-CONSCIOUS COMIC.
poet must lend us his own peculiar talent for observation,
that we may fully understand them. His art consists in
making the character appear through slight hints and stolen
glimpses, and in so placing the spectator, that whatever deli-
cacy of observation it may require, he can hardly fail to see
through them.
There are other moral defects, which are beheld by their
possessor with a certain degree of satisfaction, and which he
even makes it a principle not to get rid of, but to cherish and
preserve. Of this kind is all that, without selfish pretensions,
or hostile inclinations, merely originates in the preponder-
ance of the animal being. This may, without doubt, be
united to a high degree of intellect, and when such a person
applies his mental powers to the consideration of his own
character, laughs at himself, confesses his failings or endea-
vours to reconcile others to them, by setting them in a droll
light, we have then an instance of the Self-Conscious Comic.
This species always supposes a certain inward duality of cha-
racter, and the superior half, which rallies and laughs at the
other, has in its tone and occupation a near affinity to the
comic poet himself. He occasionally delivers over his func-
tions entirely to this representative, allowing him studiously
to overcharge the picture which he draws of himself, and
to enter into a tacit understanding with the spectators, that
he and they are to turn the other characters into ridicule.
We have in this way the Comedy of Caprice, which generally
produces a powerful effect, however much critics may depre-
ciate it. In it the spirit of the Old Comedy is still at work.
The privileged merry-maker, who, under different names,
has appeared on almost all stages, whose part is at one time
a display of shrewd wit, and at another of coarse clownish-
ness, has inherited something of the licentious enthusiasm, but
without the rights and privileges of the free and unrestrained
writers of the Old Comedy. Could there be a stronger proof
that the Old Comedy, which we have described as the original
species, was not a mere Grecian peculiarity, but had its root
and principle in the very nature of things?
To keep the spectators in a mirthful tone of mind Comedy
must hold them as much as possible aloof from all moral
appreciation of its personages, and from all deep interest in
their fortunes, for in both these cases an entrance will infal-
MORALITY OF COMEDY . 185
libly be given to seriousness. How then does the poet avoid
agitating the moral feeling, when the actions he represents are
of such a nature as must give rise sometimes to disgust and
contempt, and sometimes to esteem and love? By always
keeping within the province of the understanding, he con-
trasts men with men as mere physical beings, just to measure
on each other their powers, of course their mental powers as
well as others, nay, even more especially. In this respect
Comedy bears a very near affinity to Fable: in the Fable
we have animals endowed with reason, and in Comedy we
have men serving their animal propensities with their under-
standing. By animal propensities I mean sensuality, or, in a
still more general sense, self-love. As heroism and self-sacri-
fice raise the character to a tragic elevation, so the true comic
personages are complete egotists. This must, however, be
understood with due limitation: we do not mean that Comedy
never portrays the social instincts, only that it invariably
represents them as originating in the natural endeavour after
our own happiness. Whenever the poet goes beyond this,
he leaves the comic tone. It is not his purpose to direct our
feelings to a sense of the dignity or meanness, the innocence
or corruption, the goodness or baseness of the acting person-
ages; but to show us whether they act stupidly or wisely,
adroitly or clumsily, with silliness or ability.
Examples will place the matter in the clearest light. We
possess an involuntary and immediate veneration for truth,
and this belongs to the innermost emotions of the moral sense.
A malignant lie, which threatens mischievous consequences,
fills us with the highest indignation, and belongs to Tragedy.
Why then are cunning and deceit admitted to be excellent as
comic motives, so long as they are used with no malicious
purpose, but merely to promote our self-love, to extricate ones-
self from a dilemma, or to gain some particular object, and
from which no dangerous consequences are to be dreaded? It
is because the deceiver having already withdrawn from the
sphere of morality, truth and untruth are in themselves indif-
ferent to him, and are only considered in the light of means;
and so we entertain ourselves merely with observing how
great an expenditure of shapness and ready-wittedness is
necessary to serve the turn of a character so little exalted.
Stillmoreamusing is it when the deceiver is caught in his own
186 EXAMPLES OF COMIC SITUATIONS.
snare; for instance, when he is to keep up a lie, but has a.
bad memory. On the other hand, the mistake of the deceived
party, when not seriously dangerous, is a comic situation, and
the more so in proportion as this error of the understanding
arises from previous abuse of the mental powers, from vanity,
folly, or obliquity. But above all when deceit and error cross
one another, and are by that means multiplied, the comic
situations produced are particularly excellent. For instance,
two men meet with the intention of deceiving one another;
each however is forewarned and on his guard, and so both go
away deceived only in respect to the success of their decep-
tion. Or again, one wishes to deceive another, but unwit-
tingly tells him the truth; the other person, however, being
suspicious, falls into the snare, mcrely from being over-much
on his guard. We might in this way compose a sort of comic
grammar, which should show how the separate motives are to
be entangled one with another, with continually increasing
effect, up to the most artificial complication. It might also
point out how that tangle of misunderstanding which con-
stitutes a Comedy of Intrigue is by no means so contemp-
tible a part of the comicart, as the advocates of the fine-spun
Comedy of Character are pleased to assert.
Aristotle describes the laughable as an imperfection, an
impropriety which is not productive of any essential harm.
Excellently said! for from the moment that we entertain a
real compassion for the characters, all mirthful feeling is at
an end. Comic misfortune must not go beyond an embarrass-
ment, which is to be set right at last, or at most, a deserved
humiliation. Of this description are corporeal means of
education applied to grown people, which our finer, or at
least more fastidious age, will not tolerate on the stage,
although Molière, Holberg, and other masters, have fre-
quently availed themselves of them. The comic effect arises
from our having herein a pretty obvious demonstration of the
mind's dependence on external things: we have, as it were,
motives assuming a palpable form. In Comedy these chas-
tisements hold the same place that violent deaths, met with
heroic magnanimity, do in Tragedy. Here the resolution re-
mains unshaken amid all the terrors of annihilation; the man
perishes but his principles survive; there the corporeal exist-
ence remains, but the sentiments suffer an instantaneous
change.

COMEDY REPROACHED WITH IMMORALITY. 187
As then Comedy must place the spectator in a point of
view altogether different from that of moral appreciation,
with what right can moralinstruction bedemanded of Comedy,
with what ground can it be expected? When we examine
more closely the moral apophthegms of the Greek comic
writers, we find that they are all of them maxims of expe-
rience. It is not, however, from experience that we gain a.
knowledge of our duties, of which conscience gives us an
immediate conviction; experience can only enlighten us with
respect to what is profitable or detrimental. The instruction
of Comedy does not turn on the dignity of the object proposed
but on the sufficiency of the means employed. It is, as has
been already said, the doctrine of prudence; the morality of
consequences and not of motives. Morality, in its genuine
acceptation, is essentially allied to the spirit of Tragedy.
Many philosophers have on this account reproached Comedy
with immorality, and among others, Rousseau, with much
eloquence, in his Epistle on the Drama. The aspect of the
actual course of things in the world is, no doubt, far from
edifying; it is not, however, held up in Comedy as a model
for imitation, but as a warning and admonition. In the doc-
trine of morals there is an applied or practical part: it may
be called the Art of Living. Whoever has no knowledge of
the world is perpetually in danger of making a wrong appli-
cation of moral principles to individual cases, and, so with
the very best intentions in the world, may occasion much
mischief both to himself and others. Comedy is intended to
sharpen our powers of discrimination, both of persons and
situations; to make us shrewder; and this is its true and only
possible morality.
So much for the determination of the general idea, which
must serve as our clue in the examination of the merits of the
individual poets.

88 THE NEW COMEDY OF THE GREEKS-
LECTURE XIV.
Plautus and Terence as Imitators of the Greeks, here examined and chs-
racterized in the absence of the Originals they copied–Motives of the
Athenian Comedy from Manners and Society–Portrait-Statues of two
Comedians. -
ON the little of the New Comedy of the Greeks that has
reached us, either in fragments or through the medium of Ro-
man imitations, all I have to say may be comprised in a few
words.
In this department Greek literature was extremely rich:
the mere list of the comic writers whose works are lost, and
of the names of their works, so far as they are known to us,
makes of itself no inconsiderable dictionary. Although the
New Comedy developed itself and flourished only in the short
interval between the end of the Peloponnesian war and the
first successors of Alexander the Great, yet the stock of
pieces amounted to thousands ; but time has made such havoc
in this superabundance of talented and ingenious works, that
nothing remains in the original but a number of detached
fragments, of which many are so disfigured as to be unintel-
ligible, and, in the Latin, about twenty translations or recasts
of Greek originals by Plautus, and six by Terence. Here is
a fitting task for the redintegrative labours of criticism, to put
together all the fragmentary traces which we possess, in order
to form from them something like a just estimate and cha-
racter of what is lost. The chief requisites in an undertaking
of this kind, I will take upon myself to point out. The frag-
ments and moral maxims of the comic writers are, in their
versification and language, distinguished by extreme purity,
elegance, and accuracy; moreover, the tone of society which
speaks in them breathes a certain Attic grace. The Latin
comic poets, on the other hand, are negligent in their versifi-
cation; they trouble themselves very little about syllabic
quantity, and the very idea of it is almost lost amidst their
many metrical licences Their language also, at least that
THE ROMAN WRITERS - PLAUTUS AND TERENCE. 189
of Plautus, is deficient in cultivation and polish. Several
iearned Romans, and Varro among others, have, it is true,
highly praised the style of this poet, but then we must make
the due distinction between philological and poetical appro-
bation. Plautus and Terence were among the most ancient
Roman writers, and belonged to an age when a book-language
had hardly yet an existence, and when every phrase was
caught up fresh from the life. This naive simplicity had
its peculiar charms for the later Romans of the age of learned
cultivation: it was, however, rather the gift of nature than
the fruit of poetical art. Horace set himself against this
excessive partiality, and asserted that Plautus and the other
comic poets threw off their pieces negligently, and wrote them
in the utmost haste, that they might be the sooner paid
for them. We may safely affirm, therefore, that in the
graces and elegances of execution, the Greek poets have
always lost in the Latin imitations. These we must, in ima-
gination, retranslate into the finished elegance which we per-
ceive in the Greek fragments. Moreover, Plautus and Te-
rence made many changes in the general plan, and these
could hardly be improvements. The former at times omitted
whole scenes and characters, and the latter made additions,
and occasionally ran two plays into one. Was this done
with an artistic design, and were they actually desirous of
excelling their Grecian predecessors in the structure of their
pieces? I doubt it. Plautus was perpetually running out
into diffuseness, and he was obliged to remedy in some other
way the lengthening which this gave to the original; the
imitations of Terence, on the other hand, from his lack of in-
vention, turned out somewhat meagre, and he filled up the
gaps with materials borrowed from other pieces. Even his
contemporaries reproached him with having falsified or cor-
rupted a number of Greek pieces, for the purpose of making
out of them a few Latin ones.
Plautus and Terence are generally mentioned as writers in
every respect original. In Romans this was perhaps pardon-
able: they possessed but little of the true poetic spirit, and
their poetical literature owed its origin, for the most part,
first to translation, then to free imitation, and finally to
appropriation and new modelling, of the Greek. With them,
therefore, a particular sort of adaptation passed for originality.

190 PLAUTUs AND TERENCE: THEIR CHARACTER.
Thus we find, from Terence's apologetic prologues, that they
had so lowered the notion of plagiarism, that he was accused
of it, because he had made use of matter which had been
already adapted from the Greek. As we cannot, therefore,
consider these writers in the light of creative artists, and
since consequently they are only important to us in so far as
we may by their means become acquainted with the shape of
the Greek New Comedy, I will here insert the few remarks I
have to make on their character and differences, and then
return to the Greek writers of the New Comedy.
Among the Grééks, poets and artists were at all times held
in honour and estimation; among the Romans, on the con-
trary, polite literature was at first cultivated by men of the
lowest rank, by needy foreigners, and even by slaves. Plau-
tus and Terence, who closely followed each other in time,
and whose lifetime belongs to the last years of the second
Punic war, and to the interval between the second and third,
were of the lowest rank: the former, at best a poor day
labourer, and the latter, a Carthaginian slave, and afterwards
a freed man. Their fortunes, however, were very different.
Plautus, when he was not employed in writing comedies, was
fain to hire himself out to do the work of a beast of burthen
in a mill; Terence was domesticated with the elder Scipio
and his bosom friend Laelius, who deigned to admit him to
such familiarity, that he fell under the honourable imputation
of being assisted in the composition of his pieces by these
noble Romans, and it was even said that they allowed their
own labours to pass under his name. The habits of their
lives are perceptible in their respective modes of writing: the
bold, coarse style of Plautus, and his famous jests, betray his
intercourse with the vulgar; in that of Terence, we discern
the traces of good society. They are further distinguished
by their choice of matter. Plautus generally inclines to the
farcical, to overwrought, and often disgusting drollery; Te-
rence prefers the more delicate shades of characterization, and,
avoiding everything like exaggeration, approaches the seri-
ously instructive and sentimental kind. Some of the pieces of
Plautus are taken from Diphilus and Philemon, but there
is reason to believe that he added a considerable degree
of coarseness to his originals; from whom he derived the
others is unknown, unless, perhaps, the assertion of Horace,

MENANDER: EPICUREAN PHILOSOPHY. 194
“It is said that Plautus took for his model the Sicilian Epi-
charmus,“ will warrant the conjecture that he borrowed the
Amphitryo, a piece which is quite different in kind from all
his others, and which he himself calls a Tragi-comedy, from
that old Doric comedian, who we know employed himself
chiefly on mythological subjects. Among the pieces of Te-
rence, whose copies, with the exception of certain changes of
the plan and structure, are probably much more faithful in
detail than those of the other, we find two from Apollodorus,
and the rest from Menander. Julius Caesar has honoured
Terence with some verses, in which he calls him a half Me-
nander, praising the smoothness of his style, and only lament-
ing that he has lost a certain comic vigour which marked his
original.
This naturally brings us back to the Grecian masters.
Diphilus, Philemon, Apollodorus, and Menander, are certainly
four of the most celebrated names among them. The palm,
for elegance, delicacy, and sweetness, is with one voice given
to Menander, although Philemon frequently carried off the
prize before him, probably because he studied more the taste
of the multitude, or because he availed himself of adscititious
means of popularity. This was at least insinuated by Men-
ander, who when he met his rival one day said to him, “Pray,
Philemon, dost thou not blush when thougainest a victory
over me?”
Menander flourished after the times of Alexander the Great,
and was the contemporary of Demetrius Phalereus. He was
instructed in philosophy by Theophrastus, but his own
opinions inclined him to that of Epicurus, and he boasted in
an epigram, “that if Themistocles freed his country from
slavery, Epicurus freed it from irrationality." He was fond
of the choicest sensual enjoyments: Phaedrus, in an unfinished
tale, describes him to us as even in bis exterior. an effeminate
voluptuary; and his amour with the courtesan Glycera is
notorious. The Epicurean philosophy, which placed the
supreme happiness of life in the benevolent affections, but
neither spurred men on to heroic action, nor excited any
sense of it in the mind, could hardly fail to be well received
among the Greeks, after the loss of their old and glorious
freedom: with their cheerful mild way of thinking, it was
admirably calculated to console them. It is perhaps the most
-- -- -- - - - - - -- -- .<- - - - . w - - - - - - - - - - - - «v. - - - - - - - -– – – – – – =--------
192 CONSTRUCTION OF THE STAGE-
suitable for the comic poet, as the stoical philosophy is for the
tragedian. The object of the comedian is merely to produce
mitigated impressions, and by no means to excite a strong
indignation at human frailties. On the other hand, we may
easily comprehend why the Greeks conceived a passion for the
New Comedy at the very period when they lost their freedom,
as it diverted them from sympathy with the course of human
affairs in general, and with political events, and absorbed
their attention wholly in domestic and personal concerns.
The Greciam theatre was originally formed for higher
walks of the drama; and we do not attempt to dissemble the
inconveniences and disadvantages which its structure must
have occasioned to Comedy. The frame was too large, and
the picture could not fill it. The Greek stage was open to
the heavens, and it exhibited little or nothing of the interior
of the houses*. The New Comedy was therefore under the
necessity of placing its scene in the street. This gave rise to
many inconveniences; thus people frequently come out of
their houses to tell their secrets to one another in public. It
is true, the poets were thus also saved the necessity of
changing the scene, by supposing that the families concerned
in the action lived in the same neighbourhood. It may be
urged in their justification, that the Greeks, like all other
southern nations, lived a good deal out of their small private
houses, in the open air. The chief disadvantage with which
this construction of the stage was attended, was the limitation
of the female parts. With that due observance of custom
which the essence of the New Comedy required, the exclusion
* * To serve this purpose recourse was had to the encyclema, which,
no doubt, in the commencement of the Clouds, exhibited Strepsiades and
his son sleeping on their beds. Moreover, Julius Pollux mentions among
the decorations of New Comedy, a sort of tent, hut, or shed, adjoining to
the middle edifice, with a doorway, originally a stable, but afterwards
applicable to many purposes. In the Sempstresses of Antiphanes, it re-
presented a sort of workshop. Here, or in the encyclema, entertainments
were given, which in the old comedies sometimes took place before the
eyes of the spectators. With the southern habits of the ancients, it was
not, perhaps, so unnatural to feast with open doors, as it would be in the
north of Europe. But no modern commentator has yet, so far as I know,
endeavoured to illustrate in a proper manner the theatrical arrangement of
the plays of Plautus and Terence. [See the Fourth Lecture, &c., and the
Appendix on the Scenic Arrangement of the Greek Theatre...]
MARRIAGE LAWS OF THE GREEKS. 193
of unmarried women and young maidens in general was an
inevitable consequence of the retired life of the female sex in
Greece. None appear but aged matrons, female slaves, or
girls of light reputation. Hence, besides the loss of many
agreeable situations, arose this further inconvenience, that
frequently the whole piece turns on a marriage with, or a
passion for, a young woman, who is never once seen.
Athens, where the fictitious, as well as the actual, scene
was generally placed, was the centre of a small territory, and
in no wise to be compared with our capital cities, either in
extent or population. Republican equality admitted of no
marked distinction of ranks; there was no proper nobility:
all were alike citizens, richer or poorer, and for the most part
had no other occupation than the management of their several
properties. Hence the Attic New Comedy could not well
admit of the contrasts arising from diversity of tone and mental
culture; it generally moves within a sort of middle rank,
and has something citizen-like, nay, if I may so say, some-
thing of the manners of a small town about it, which is not at
all to the taste of those who would have comedy to portray
the manners of a court, and the refinement or corruption of
monarchical capitals.
With respect to the intercourse between the two sexes, the
Greeks knew nothing of the gallantry of modern Europe, nor
the union of love with enthusiastic veneration. All was sen-
sual passion or marriage. The latter was, by the constitution
and manners of the Greeks, much more a matter of duty, or
an affair of convenience, than of inclination. The laws were
strict only in one point, the preservation of the pure national
extraction of the children, which alone was legitimate. The
right of citizenship was a great prerogative, and the more
valuable the smaller the number of citizens, which was not
allowed to increase beyond a certain point. Hence marriages
with foreign women were invalid. The society of a wife,
whom, in most cases, the husband had not even seen before
his marriage with her, and who passed her whole life within
the walls of her house, could not afford him much entertain-
ment; this was sought among women who had forfeited all
title to strict respect, and who were generally foreigners
without property, or freed slaves, and the like. With women
of this description the easy morality of the Greeks allowed of
N
194 CHARACTERS REPRESENTED–ANALYSIS.
the greatest license, especially to young unmarried men. The
ancient writers, therefore, of the New Comedy paint this
mode of life with much less disguise than we think decorous.
Their comedies, like all comedies in the world, frequently end
with marriages (it seems this catastrophe brings seriousness
along with it); but the marriage is often entered upon
merely as a means of propitiating a father incensed at the
irregularities of some illicit amour. It sometimes happens,
however, that the amour is changed into a lawful marriage by
means of a discovery that the supposed foreigner or slave is
by birth an Athenian citizen. It is worthy of remark, that
the fruitful mind of the very poet who carried the Old Comedy
to perfection, put forth also the first germ of the New.
Cocalus, the last piece which Aristophanes composed, con-
tained a seduction, a recognition, and all the leading circum-
stances which were afterwards employed by Menander in his
comic pieces. -
From what has been said, it is easy to overlook the whole
round of characters; nay, they are so few, and so perpetually
recur, that they may be almost allenumerated. The austere
and stingy, or the mild easy father, the latter not unfre-
quently under the dominion of his wife, and making com-
mon cause with his son against her; the housewife either
loving and sensible, or scolding and domineering, and pre-
suming on the accession she has brought to the family pro-
perty; the young man giddy and extravagant, but frank and
amiable, who even in a passion sensual at its commence-
ment is capable of true attachment; the girl of light cha-
racter, either thoroughly depraved, vain, cunning, and
selfish, or still good-hearted and susceptible of better feelings;
the simple and clownish, and the cunning slave who assists
his young master in cheating his old father, and by all man-
ner of knavish tricks procures him money for the gratification
of his passions; (as this character plays a principal part, T
shall shortly make some further observations on it;) the flatterer
or accommodating parasite, who, for the sake of a good meal,
is ready to say or do any thing that may be required of him;
the sycophant, a man whose business it was to set quietly-
disposed people by the ears, and stir up law-suits, for the
conduct of which he offered his services; the gasconading
soldier, returned from foreign service, generally cowardly and
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED–ANALYSIS. 195
simple, but who assumes airs and boasts of his exploits
abroad; and lastly, a servant or pretended mother, who
preaches very indifferent morals to the young girl entrusted
to her care; and the slave-dealer, who speculates on the
extravagant passions of young people, and regards nothing
but his own pecuniary advantage. The two last characters,
with their revolting coarseness, are, to our feelings, a real
blot in the Greek Comedy; but its very subject-matter ren-
dered it impossible for it to dispense with them.
The knavish servant is generally also the buffoon, who
takes pleasure in avowing, and even exaggerating, his own
sensuality and want of principle, and who jokes at the
expense of the other characters, and occasionally even ad-
dresses the pit. This is the origin of the comic servants of
the moderns, but I am inclined to doubt whether, with our
. manners, there is propriety and truth in introducing such
characters. The Greek servant was a slave, subject for life
to the arbitrary caprice of his master, and frequently the
victim of the most severe treatment. A man, who, thus
deprived by the constitution of society of all his natural
rights, makes trick and artifice his trade may well be par-
doned: he is in a state of war with his oppressors, and
cunning is his natural weapon. But in our times, a servant,
who is free to choose his situation and his master, is a
good-for-nothing scoundrel if he assists the son to deceive
the father. With respect, on the other hand, to the open
avowal of fondness of good eating and drinking which is
employed to give a comic stamp to servants and persons in
a low rank of life, it may still be used without impropriety:
of those to whom life has granted but few privileges it does
not require much; and they may boldly own the vulgarity
of their inclinations, without giving any shock to our moral
feelings. The better the condition of servants in real life,
the less adapted are they for the stage; and this at least
redounds to the praise of our more humane age, that in our
“family picture "tales we meet with servants who are right
worthy characters, better fitted to excite our sympathy than
our derision.
The repetition of the same characters was as it were ac-
knowledged by the Greek comic writers, by their frequent
use of the same names, and those too in part expressive of
N 2
196 USIE OF MASKS JUSTIFIED.
character. In this they did better than many comic poets of
modern times, who, for the sake of novelty of character,
torture themselves to attain complete individuality, by which
efforts no other effect generally is produced than that of
diverting our attention from the main business of the piece,
and dissipating it on accessory circumstances. And then
after all they imperceptibly fall back again into the old well-
known character. It is better to delineate the characters at
first with a certain breadth, and to leave the actor room to
touch them up more accurately, and to add the nicer and
more personal traits, according to the requirements of each
composition. In this respect the use of masks admits cf
justification; which, like many other peculiarities of the
ancient theatre, (such as the acting in the open air,) were still
retained, though originally designed for other departments of
the drama, and though they seem a greater incongruity in
the New Comedy than in the Old, and in Tragedy. But
certainly it was unsuitable to the spirit of the New,
that, while in other respects the representation approached
nature with a more exact, nay, illusive resemblance, the
masks deviated more from it than in the Old, being over-
charged in the features, and almost to caricature. However
singular this may appear, it is too expressly and formally
attested to admit of a doubt*. As they were prohibited from
bringing portraits of real persons on the stage they were,
after the loss of their freedom, very careful lest they should
accidentally stumble upon any resemblance, and especially
to any of their Macedonian rulers; and in this way they
endeavoured to secure themselves against the danger. Yet
the exaggeration in question was hardly without its meaning.
Accordingly we find it stated, that an unsymmetrical profile.
with one eyebrow drawn up and the other down, denoted an
idle, inquisitive, and intermeddling busy-body†, and we may
in fact remark that men, who are in the habit of looking at
things with anxious exact observation, are apt to acquire dis-
tortions of this kind.
* See Platonius, in Aristoph. cur. Küster, p. xi.
† See Jul. Pollux, in the section of comic masks. Compare Platonius,
as above, and Guinctilian, 1 xi. c. 3. The supposed wonderful discovery
of Voltaire respecting tragic masks, which I mentioned in the fourth
Lecture, will hardly be forgotten.


THE GREEK COMIC WRITERS. 197.
Among other peculiarities the masks in comedy have this
advantage, that from the unavoidable repetition of the same
characters the spectator knew at once what he had to expect.
I once witnessed at Weimar a representation of the Adelphi
of Terence, entirely in ancient costume, which, under the
direction of Goéthe, furnished us a truly Attic evening. The
actors used partial masks, cleverly fitted to the real counten-
ance*, and notwithstanding the smallness of the theatre, I
did not find that they were in any way prejudicial to viva-
city. The maskwas peculiarly favourable for the jokes of
the roguish slave: his uncouth physiognomy, as well as his
apparel, stamped him at once as a man of a peculiar race, (as
in truth the slaves were, partly even by extraction,) and he
might therefore well be allowed to act and speak differently
from the rest of the characters.
Out of the limited range of their civil and domestic life,
and out of the simple theme of the characters above men-
tioned, the invention of the Greek comic writers contrived to
extract an inexhaustible multitude of variations, and yet,
what is deserving of high praise, even in that on which they
grounded their development and catastrophe, they ever re-
Imained true to their national customs.
The circumstances of which they availed themselves for this
purpose were generally the following:–Greece consisted of a
number of small separate states, lying round about Athens on
the coast and islands. Navigation was frequent, piracy not
unusual, which, moreover, was directed against human beings
in order to supply the slave-market. Thus, even free-born
children might be kidnapped. Not unfrequently, too, they
were exposed by their own parents, in virtue of their legal
rights, and being unexpectedly saved from destruction, were
afterwards restored to their families. All this prepared a,
ground-work for the recognitions in Greek Comedy between
parents and children, brothers and sisters, &c., which as a
means of bringing about the dénouement, was borrowed by the
* This also was not unknown to the ancients, as it proved by many
comic masks having in the place of the mouth a circular opening of con-
siderable width, through which the mouth and the adjoining features were
allowed to appear; and which, with their distorted movements, must have
produced a highly ludicrous effect, from the contrast in the fixed distortion
of the rest of the countenance.
198 ANTIQUE TRAGEDY AND OLD COMEDY INIMITABLE.
comic from the tragic writers. The complicated intrigue is
carried on within the represented action, but the singular and
improbable accident on which it is founded, is removed to a
distance both of time and place, so that the comedy, though
taken from every-day life, has still, in some degree, a marvel-
lous romantic back-ground.
The Greek Comic writers were acquainted with Comedy in
all its extent, and employed themselves with equal diligence
on all its varieties, the Farce, the Play of Intrigue, and the
various kinds of the Play of Character, from caricature to
„he nicest delicacy of delineation, and even the serious or sen-
timental drama. They possessed moreover a most enchanting
species, of which, however, no examples are now remaining.
From the titles of their pieces, and other indications, it appears
they sometimes introduced historical personages, as for in-
stance the poetess Sappho, with Alcaeus's and Anacreon's love
for her, or her own passion for Phaon; the story of her leap
from the Leucadian rock owes, perhaps, its origin, solely to the
invention of the comic writers. To judge from their subject-
matter, these comedies must have approached to our romantic
drama; and the mixture of beautiful passion with the tranquil
grace of the ordinary comic representation must undoubtedly
have been very attractive.
In the above observations I have, I conceive, given a faith-
ful picture of the Greek Comedy. I have not attempted to
disguise either its defects or its limitation. The ancient
Tragedy and the Old Comedy are inimitable, unapproachable,
and stand alone in the whole range of the history of art.
But in the New Comedy we may venture to measure our
strength with the Greeks, and even attempt to surpass them.
Whenever we descend from the Olympus of true poetry to
the common earth, in other words, when once we mix the
prose of a definite reality with the ideal creations of fancy,
the success of productions is no longer determined by the genius
alone, and a feeling for art, but the more or less favourable
nature of circumstances. The figures of the gods of the
Grecian sculptors stand before us as the perfect models for
all ages. The noble occupation of giving an ideal perfection
to the human form having once been entered upon by the
fancy, all that is left even to an equal degree of inspiration
is but to make a repetition of the same attempts. In the
PORTRAIT-STATUES OF MENANDER AND POSIDIPPUS. 199
execution, however, of personal and individual resemblances,
the modern statuary is the rival of the ancient: but this is no
pure creation of art; observation must here come in: and
whatever degree of science, profundity, and taste may be dis-
played in the execution, the artist is still tied down to the
object which is actually before him.
In the admirable portrait-statues of two of the most cele-
brated comic writers, Menander and Posidippus (in the Vati-
can), the physiognomy of the Greek New Ä appears to me
to be almost visibly and personally expressed. Clad in the
most simple dress, and holding a roll in their hands, they are
sitting in arm-chairs with all the ease and self-possession
which mark the conscious superiority of the master; and in
that maturity of age which befits the undisturbed impartial
observation which is requisite for Comedy, but yet hale and
active, and free from all symptoms of decay. We recognise
in them that corporeal vigour, which testifies at once to equal
soundness both of mind and of temper; no lofty enthusiasm,
but at the same time nothing of folly or extravagance; rather
does a sage seriousness dwell on a brow wrinkled indeed,
though not with care, but with the exercise of thought; while
in the quick-searching eye, and in the mouth half curling
into a smile, we have the unnuistakable indications of a light
playful irony.
200 TEIE ROMAN THEATRE.
LECTURE XV.
Roman Theatre–Native kinds: Atellane Fables, Mimes, Comoedia To-
gata–Greek Tragedytransplanted to Rome–Tragic Authors of a former
Epoch, and of the Augustan Age–Idea of a National Roman Tragedy-
Causes of the want of success of the Romans in Tragedy-Seneca.
THE examination of the nature of the Drama in general, as
well as the consideration of the Greek theatre, which was as
peculiar in its originas in its maturity it was actually Per-
fect, have hitherto alone occupied our attention. Our notice
of the dramatic literature of most of the other nations, which
principally call for consideration, must be marked with greater
brevity; and yet, we are not afraid that we shall be accused
in either case of either disproportionate length or concise“
I1GSS.
And first, with respect to the Romans, whose theatre is in
every way immediately attached to that of the Greeks, we
have only, as it were, to notice one great gap, which partly
arises from their own want of creative powers in this depart-
ment, and partly from the loss, with the exception of a few
fragments, of all that they did produce in it. The only
works which have descended to us from the good classical
times are those of Plautus and Terence, whom I have already
characterised as copyists of the Greeks.
Poetry in general had no native growth in Rome; it was
first artificially cultivated along with other luxuries in those
later times when the original character of Rome was being
fast extinguished under an imitation of foreign manners. In
the Latin we have an example of a language modelled into
poetical expression, altogether after foreign grammatical and
Imetrical forms. This imitation of the Greek was not accom-
plished easily and without force: the Graecising was carried
even to the length of a clumsy intermixture of the two
languages. Gradually only was the poetical style smoothed
and softened, and in Catullus we still perceive the last traces
of its early harshness, which, however, are not without a

FABLES: FABULAE ATELLANAE. 201
certain rugged charm. Those constructions, and especially
those compounds which were too much at variance with the
internal structure of the Latin, and failed to become agreeable
to the Roman ear, were in time rejected, and at length, in
the age of Augustus, the poets succeeded in producing the
most agreeable combination of the peculiarities, native and
borrowed. Hardly, however, had the desired equilibrium
been attained when a pause ensued; all free development
was checked, and the poetical style, notwithstanding a seem-
ing advance to greater boldness and learning, was irrevocably
confined within the round of already sanctioned modes of
expression. Thus the language of Latin poetry flourished
only within the short interval which elapsed between the
period of its unfinished state and its second death ; and as to
the spirit also of poetry, it too fared no better.
To the invention of theatrical amusements the Romans
were not led from any desire to enliven the leisure of their
festivals with such exhibitions as withdraw the mind from
the cares and concerns of life; but in their despondency
under a desolating pestilence, against which all remedies
seemed unavailing, they had recourse to the theatre, as a
means of appeasing the anger of the gods, having previously
been only acquainted with the exercises of the gymnasium
and the games of the circus. The histriones, however, whom
for this purpose they summoned from Etruria, were merely
dancers, who probably did not attempt any pantomimic
dances, but endeavoured to delight their audience by the
agility of their movements. Their oldest spoken plays, the
Fabulae Aſtellanae, the Romans borrowed from the Osci, the
aboriginal inhabitants of Italy. With these saturae, (so called
because first they were improvisatory farces, without dramatic
connexion; satura signifying a medley, or mixture of every
thing,) they were satisfied till Livius Andronicus, somewhat
more than five hundred years after the foundation of Rome,
began to imitate the Greeks; and the regular compositions of
Tragedy and the New Comedy (the Old it was impossible to
transplant) were then, for the first time, introduced into
Rome.
Thus the Romans owed the first idea of a play to the
Etruscans, of the effusions of a sportive humou to the
Oscans, and of a higher class of dramatic works to the
202 THE OSCANS-TEIE MIMES.
Greeks. They displayed, however, more originality in the
comic than in the tragic department. The Oscans, whose lan-
guage soon ceasing to be spoken, survived only in these farces,
were at least so near akin to the Romans, that their dialect
was immediately understood by a Roman audience: for how
else could the Romans have derived any amusement from the
Atellanae ? So completely did they domesticate this species
of drama, that Roman youths, of noble families, enamoured of
this entertainment, used to exhibit it on their festivals; on
which account even the players who acted in the Atellane
fables for money enjoyed peculiar privileges, being exempt
from the infamy and exclusion from the tribes which attached
to all other theatrical artists, and were also excused from
military service.
The Romans had, besides, their own Mimes. The foreign
name of these little pieces would lead us to conclude that
they bore a great affinity to the Greek Mimes; they differed,
however, from them considerably inform; we know also that
the manners portrayed in them had a local truth, and that
the subject-matter was not derived from Greek composi-
tions.
It is peculiar to Italy, that from the earliest times its
people have displayed a native talent for a merry, amusing,
though very rude buffoonery, in extemporary speeches and
songs, with accompanying appropriate gestures; though it
has seldom been coupled with true dramatic taste. This
latter assertion will be fully justified when we shall have
examined all that has been accomplished in the higher walks
of the Drama in that country, down to the most recent times.
The former might be easily substantiated by a number of cir-
cumstances, which, however, would lead us too far from our
object into the history of the Saturnalia and similar customs,
Even of the wit which prevails in the dialogues of the Pasquino
and the Marforio and of their apposite and popular ridi-
cule on passing events, many traces are to be found even in
the times of the Emperors, however little disposed they were
to be indulgent to such liberties. But what is more imme-
diately connected with our present purpose is the conjecture
that in these Mimes and Atellane Fables we have perhaps the
first germ of the Commedia dell' arte, the improvisatory farce
with standing masks. A striking affinity between the latter
PULCINELLO–JULIUS CAESAR-LABERIUS. 203
and the Atellanae consists in the employment of dialects to
produce a ludicrous effect. But how would Harlequin and
Pulcinello be astonished were they to be told that they
descended in a direct line from the buffoons of the ancient
Romans, and even from the Oscans –With what drollery
would they requite the labours of the antiquarian who should
trace their glorious pedigree to such a root! From the figures
on Greek vases, we know that the grotesque masks of the Old
Comedy bore a dress very much resembling theirs: long trou-
sers, and a doublet with sleeves, articles of dress which the
Greeks, as well as the Romans, never used except on the
stage. Even in the present day Zanni is one of the names
of Harlequin; and Sannio in the Latin farces was a buffoon,
who, according to the accounts of ancient writers, had a
shaven head, and a dress patched together of gay parti-coloured
pieces. The exact resemblance of the figure of Pulcinello is
said to have been found among the frescoes of Pompeji. If
he came originally from Atella, he is still mostly to be met
with in the old land of his nativity. The objection that these
traditions could not well have been preserved during the
cessation for so many centuries of all theatrical amusements,
will be easily got over when we recollect the licences annually
enjoyed at the Carnival, and the Feasts of Fools in the middle
ages.
The Greek Mimes were dialogues in prose, and not destined
for the stage; the Roman were in verse, were acted, and often
delivered extempore. The most celebrated authors of this
kind were Laberius and Syrus, contemporaries of Julius
Caesar. The latter when dictator, by an imperial request,
compelled Laberius, a Roman knight, to appear publicly in
his own Mimes, although the scenic employment was branded
with the loss of civil rights. Laberius complained of this in
a prologue, which is still extant, and in which the painful
feeling of annihilated self-respect is nobly and affectingly ex-
pressed. We cannot well conceive how, in such a state of mind,
he could be capable of making ludicrous jokes, nor how, with
so bitter an example of despotic degradation* before their
* What humiliation Caesar would have inwardly felt, could he have
foreseen that, within a few generations, Nero, his successor in absolute
authority, out of a lust for self-degradation, would expose himself fre-
quently to infamy in the same manner as he, the first despot, had exposed
Z04 SYRUS, THE SLAVE.–HORACE.
eyes, the spectators could take any delight in them. Caesar,
on his part, kept his engagement: he gave Laberius a con-
siderable sum of money, and invested him anew with the
equestrian rank, which, however, could not re-instate him in
the opinion of his fellow-citizens. On the other hand, he
took his revenge for the prologue and other allusions by
bestowing the prize on Syrus, the slave, and afterward the
freedman and scholar of Laberius in the mimetic art. Of the
Mimes of Syrus we have still extant a number of sentences,
which, in matter and eiegant conciseness of expression, are
deserving of a place by the side of Menanders. Some of
them even go beyond the moral horizon of serious Comedy,
and assume an almost stoical elevation. How was the tran-
sition from low farce to such elevation effected? And how
could such maxims be at all introduced, without the same
important involution of human relations as that which is
exhibited in perfect Comedy? At all events, they are calcu-
lated to give us a very favourable idea of the Mimes.
Horace, indeed, speaks slightingly of the literary merit of
Laberius' Mimes, either on account of the arbitrary nature of
their composition, or of the negligent manner in which they
were worked out. However, we ought not to allow our own
opinion to be too much influenced against him by this critical
poet; for, from motives which are easy to understand, he lays
nmuch greater stress on the careful use of the file, than on
original boldness and fertility of invention. A single entire
Mime, which time unfortunately has denied us, would have
thrown more light on this question than all the confused
notices of grammarians, and all the conjectures of modern
scholars.
The regular Comedy of the Romans was, for the most part,
palliata, that is, it appeared in a Grecian costume, and repre-
sented Grecian manners. This is the case with all the
comedies of Plautus and Terence. But they had also a
comoedia togata, so called from the Roman dress which was
usually worn in it. Afranius is celebrated as the principal
writer in this walk. Of these comedies we have no remains
whatever, and the notices of them are so scanty, that we can-
a Roman of the middle rank, not without exciting a general feeling of
indignation.
GREEK TRAGEDY TRANSPLANTED TO ROME. 205
not even determine with certainty whether the togatae were
original comedies of an entirely new invention, or merely
Greek comedies recast with Roman manners. The latter case
is the more probable, as Afranius lived in a period when
Roman genius had not yet ventured to try a flight of original
invention; although, on the other hand, it is not easy to con-
ceive how the Attic comedies could, without great violence
and constraint, have been adapted to local circumstances so
entirely different. The tenor of Roman life was, in general,
earnest and grave, although in private society they had no
small turn for wit and joviality. The diversity of ranks
among the Romans, politically, was very strongly marked,
and the opulence of private individuals was frequently almost
kingly; their women lived much more in society, and acted a
much more important part than the Grecian women did, and
from this independence they fully participated in the over-
whelming tide of corruption which accompanied external
refinement. The differences being so essential, an original
Roman comedy would have been a remarkable phenomenon,
and would have enabled us to see these conquerors of the
world in an aspect altogether new. That, however, this was
not accomplished by the comoedia togata, is proved by the
indifferent manner in which it is mentioned by the ancients.
Quinctilian does not scruple to say, that the Latin literature
limps most in comedy; this is his expression, word for word.
With respect to Tragedy, we must, in the first place, re-
mark, that the Grecian theatre was not introduced into Rome
without considerable changes in its arrangement. The chorus,
for instance, had no longer a place in the orchestra, where the
most distinguished spectators, the knights and Senators, now
sat; but it remained on the stage itself. Here, then, was the
very disadvantage which we alleged in objection to the modern
attempts to introduce the chorus. Other deviations from the
Grecian mode of representation were also sanctioned, which
can hardly be considered as improvements. At the very first
introduction of the regular drama, Livius Andronicus, a.
Greek by birth, and the first tragic poet and actor of Rome,
in his monodies (lyrical pieces which were sung by a single
person, and not by the whole chorus), separated the song
from the mimetic dancing, the latter only remaining to the
actor, in whose stead a boy, standing beside the flute-player,
206 TRAGIC AUTHORS OF A FORMER EPOCH.
accompanied him with his voice. Among the Greeks, in
better times, the tragic singing, and the accompanying rhyth-
mical gestures, were so simple, that a single person was able
to do at the same time ample justice to both. The Romans,
however, it would seem, preferred separate excellence to
harmonious unity. Hence arose, at an after period, their
fondness for pantomime, of which the art was carried to the
greatest perfection in the time of Augustus. From the names
of the most celebrated of the performers, Pylades, Bathyllus,
&c., it would appear that it was Greeks that practised this
mute eloquence in Rome; and the lyric pieces which were
expressed by their dances were also delivered in Greek.
Lastly, Roscius frequently played without a mask, and in this
respect probably he did not stand alone; but, as far as we
know, there never was any instance of it among the Greeks.
The alteration in question might be favourable to the more
brilliant display of his own skill, and the Romans, who were
pleased with it, showed here also that they had a higher
relish for the disproportionate and prominent talents of a
virtuoso, than for the harmonious impression of a work of art
considered as a whole.
In the tragic literature of the Romans, two epochs are to be
distinguished: the first that of Livius Andronicus, Naevius,
Ennius, and also Pacuvius and Attius, who both flourished
somewhat later than Plautus and Terence; and the second,
the refined epoch of the Augustan age. The former produced
none but translators and remodellers of Greek works, but
it is probable that they succeeded better in Tragedy than in
Comedy. Elevation of expression is usually somewhat awk-
ward in a language as yet imperfectly cultivated, but still its
height may be attained by perseverance; but to hit off the
negligent grace of social wit requires natural humour and
refinement Here, however, (as well as in the case of Plautus
and Terence) we do not possess a single fragment of any
work whose Greek original is extant, to enable us to
judge of the accuracy and general felicity of the copy; but
a speech of considerable length from Attius Prometheus Un-
bound, is in no respect unworthy of AEschylus, and the versi-
fication, also, is much more careful* than that of the Latin
* In what metres could these tragedians have translated the Greek choral
ºdes? Horace declares the imitation, in Latin, of Pindar, whose lyrical
TEIE AUGUSTAN AGE:–ASINIUS POLLIO. 207
comic writers generally. This earlier style was carried to
perfection by Pacuvius and Attius, whose pieces alone kept
their place on the stage, and seem to have had many ad-
mirers down to the times of Cicero, and even still later.
Horace directs his jealous criticism against these, as well
as all the other old poets.
It was the ambition of the contemporaries of Augustus, to
measure their powers with the Greeks in a more original
manner; but their labours were not attended with equal
success in every department. The number of amateurs who
attempted to shine in Tragedy was particularly great; and
works of this kind by the Emperor himself even are men-
tioned. Hence there is much in favour of the conjecture
that Horace wrote his epistle to the Pisos, chiefly with the
view of deterring these young men from so dangerous a
career, being, in all probability, infected by the universal pas-
sion, without possessing the requisite talents. One of the
most renowned tragic poets of this age was the famous
Asinius Pollio, a man of a violently impassioned disposition,
as Pliny informs us, and who was fond of whatever bore the
same character in works of fine art. It was he who brought
with him from Rhodes, and erected at Rome, the well-known
group of the Farnese Bull. If his tragedies bore the same
relation to those of Sophocles, which this bold, wild, but some-
what overwrought group does to the calm sublimity of the
Niobe, we have every reason to regret their loss. But
Pollio's political influence might easily blind his contempora-
ries to the true value of his poetical labours. Ovid, who tried
so many departments of poetry, also attempted Tragedy, and
was the author of a Medea. To judge from the wordy and
commonplace displays of passion in his Heroides, we might
expect from him, in Tragedy, at most, a caricature of Euri-
pides. Quinctilian, however, asserts that he proved here, for
once, what he might have done, had he chosen to restrain
productions beargreat resemblance to those of Tragedy, altogether impracti-
cable. Probably they never ventured into the labyrinths of the choral
strophes, which were neither calculated for the language nor for the ear of
the Romans. Beyond the anapest, the tragedies of Seneca never ascend
higher than a sapphic or choriambic verse, which, when monotonously
repeated, is very disagreeable to the ear.
208 "THE ROMAN AND GREEH RELIGION.
nimself instead of yielding to his natural propensity to diffuse-
DGSS.
This, and all the other tragic attempts of the Augustan age,
have perished. We cannot estimate with certainty the mag-
Initude of the loss which we have here suffered, but from
all appearances it is not extraordinarily great.–First of all
the Grecian Tragedy had in Rome to struggle with all the
disadvantages of a plant removed to a foreign soil; the Roman
religion was in some degree akin to that of the Greeks, (though
by no means so completely identical with it as many people sup-
pose,) but at all events the heroic mythology of Greece was first
introduced into Rome by the poets, and was in no wise inter-
woven with the national recollections, as was the case in so
many ways with those of Greece. The ideal of a genuine
Roman Tragedy floats before me dimly indeed, and in the
background of ages, and with all the indistinctness which
must surround an entity, which never issued out of the womb
of possibility into reality. It would be altogether different
in form and significance from that of the Greeks, and, in the
old Roman sense, religious and patriotic. All truly creative
poetry must proceed from the inward life of a people, and
from religion, the root of that life. The spirit of the Roman
religion was however originally, and before the substance of
it was sacrificed to foreign ornament, quite different from that
of the Grecian. The latter was yielding and flexible to
the hand of art, the former immutable beneath the rigorous
jealousy of priestcraft. The Roman faith, and the customs
founded on it, were more serious, more moral, and pious, dis-
playing more insight into nature, and more magical and
mysterious, than the Greek religion, at least than that part
of it which was extrinsecal to the mysteries. As the Greek
Tragedy represented the struggle of the free man with des-
tiny, a true Roman Tragedy would exhibit the subjection
of human motives to the holy and binding force of religion,
and its visible presence in all earthly things. But this spirit
Ihad been long extinct, before the want of a cultivated poetry
was firstfelt by them. The Patricians, originally an Etruscan
sacerdotal school, had become mere secular statesmen and
warriors, who regarded their hereditary priesthood in no
other light than that of a political form. Their sacred bocks,
their Vedas, were become unintelligible to them, not so much
CHARACTER OF THE ROMANS. 209
from obsoleteness of character, as because they no longer pos-
sessed the higher knowledge which was the key to that
sanctuary. What the heroic tales of the Latins might have
become under an earlier development, as well as their peculiar
colouring, we may still see, from some traces in Virgil, Pro-
pertius, and Ovid, although even these poets did but handle
them as matters of antiquity.
Moreover, desirous as the Romans were ofbecoming thorough
Hellenists, they wanted for it that milder humanity which is
so distinctly traceable in Grecian history, poetry, and art,
even in the time of Homer. From the most austere virtue,
which buried every personal inclination, as Curtius did his
life, in the bosom of father-land, they passed with fearful
rapidity to a state of corruption, by avarice and luxury,
equally without example. Never in their character did they
belie the legend that their first founder was suckled, not at
the breast of woman, but of a ravening she-wolf. They were
the tragedians of the world's history, who exhibited many a
deep tragedy of kings led in chains and pining in dungeons;
they were the iron necessity of all other nations; universal
destroyers for the sake of raising at last, out of the ruins, the
mausoleum of their own dignity and freedom, in the midst of
the monotonous solitude of an obsequious world. To them it
was not given to excite emotion by the tempered accents of
mental suffering, and to touch with a light and delicate hand
every note in the scale of feeling. They naturally sought
also in Tragedy, by overleaping all intervening gradations, to
reach at once the extreme, whether in the stoicism of heroic
fortitude, or in the monstrous fury of criminal desire. Of
all their ancient greatness nothing remained to them but the
contempt of pain and death whenever an extravagant enjoy-
ment of life must finally be exchanged for them. This seal,
therefore, of their former grandeur they accordingly impressed
on their tragic heroes with a self-satisfied and ostentatious
profusion.
Finally, even in the age of cultivated literature, the dra-
matic poets were still in want of a poetical public among a
people fond, even to a degree of madness, of shows and spec-
tacles. In the triumphal processions, the fights of gladiators,
and of wild beasts, all the magnificence of the world, all the
wonders of every clime, were brought before the eye of the
CD
210 THE SENECA TRAGE DIES-MEDEA,
spectator, who was glutted with the most violent scenes of
blood. On nerves so steeled what effect could the more
refined gradations of tragic pathos produce? It was the
ambition of the powerful to exhibit to the people in one day,
on stages erected for the purpose, and immediately afterwards
destroyed, the enormous spoils of foreign or civil war. The
relation which Pliny gives of the architectural decoration of
the stage erected by Scaurus, borders on the incredible.
When magnificence could be carried no farther, they endea-
vcured to surprise by the novelty of mechanical contrivances.
Thus, a Roman, at his father's funeral solemnity, caused two
theatres to be constructed, with their backs resting against
each other, and made moveable on a single pivot, so that at
the end of the play they were wheeled round with all the
spectators within them, and formed into one circus, in which
gladiator combats were exhibited. In the gratification of the
eye that of the ear was altogether lost; rope-dancers and
white elephants were preferred to every kind of dramatic en-
tertainment; the embroidered purple robe of the actor was
applauded, as we are told by Horace, and so far was the great
body of the spectators from being attentive and quiet, that he
compares their noise to that of the roar of the ocean, or of a
mountain forest in a storm.
Only one sample of the tragical talent of the Romans has
come down to us, from which, however, it would be unjust to
form a judgment of the productions of better times; I allude
to the ten tragedies which pass under Seneca's name. Their
claim to this title appears very doubtful; perhaps it is founded
merely on a circumstance which would lead rather to a dif-
ferent conclusion; that, namely, in one of them, the Octavia,
Seneca himself appears among the dramatic personages. The
opinions of the learned are very much divided on the subject;
some ascribe them partly to Seneca the philosopher, . and
partly to his father the rhetorician; others, again, assume the
existence of a Seneca, a tragedian, a different person from
both. It is generally allowed that the several pieces are nei-
ther all from the same hand, nor were of the same age. For
the honour of the Roman taste, one would be disposed to con-
sider them the productions of a very late period of antiquity:
but Quinctilian quotes a verse from the Medea of Seneca,
which is found in the play of that name in our collection, and
CENSURABLE CHARACTER OF THE SENECA TRAGEDIES. 211
therefore no doubt can be raised against the authenticity of
this piece, though it seems to be in no way pre-eminent above
the rest*. We find also in Lucan, a contemporary of Nero,
a similar display of bombast, which distorts everything great
into nonsense. The state of constant outrage in which Rome
was kept by a series of blood-thirsty tyrants, gave an unnatu-
rai character even to eloquence and poetry. The same effect
has been observed in similar periods of modern history. Un-
der the wise and mild government of a Vespasian and a Titus,
and more especially of a Trajan, the Romans returned to a
purer taste. But whatever period may have given birth to
the tragedies of Seneca, they are beyond description bombastic
and frigid, unnatural both in character and action, revolting
from their violation of propriety, and so destitute of theatrical
effect, that I believe they were never meant to leave the rhe
torical schools for the stage. With the old tragedies, those
sublime creations of the poetical genius of the Greeks, these
have nothing in common, but the name, the outward form,
and the mythological materials; and yet they seem to have
oeen composed with the obvious purpose of surpassing them;
in which attempt they succeed as much as a hollow hyper-
hole would in competition with a most fervent truth. Every
tragical common-place is worried out to the last gasp; all
is phrase; and even the most common remark is forced
and stilted. A total poverty of sentiment is dressed out with
wit and acuteness. There is fancy in them, or at least a
phantom of it; for they contain an example of the misapplica-
tion of every mental faculty. The authors have found out
the secret of being diffuse, even to wearisomeness, and at the
same time so epigrammatically laconic, as to be often obscure
and unintelligible. Their characters are neither ideal nor
real beings, but misshapen gigantic puppets, who are set in
motion at one time by the string of an unnatural heroism, and
at another by that of a passion equally unnatural, which
no guilt nor enormity can appal
* The author of this Medea makes the heroine stramgle her children
before the eyes of the people, notwithstanding the admonition of Horace,
who probaby had some similar example of the Roman theatre before his
eyes; for a Greek would hardly have committed this error The Romau
tragedians must have had a particular rage for novelty and effect to seek
4hem in such atrocities.
o 2
2J 2 IMITATION IN MODERN TIMES.
In a history, therefore, of Dramatic Art, I should alto-
gether have passed over the tragedies of Seneca, if, from a
blind prejudice for everything which has come down to us
from antiquity, they had not been often imitated in modern
times. They were more early and more generally known
than the Greek tragedies. Not only scholars, without a feel-
ing for art, have judged favourably of them, nay, preferred
them to the Greek tragedies, but even poets have accounted
them worth studying. The influence of Seneca on Corneille's
idea of tragedy cannot be mistaken; Racinetoo, in his Phaedra.
has condescended to borrow a good deal from him, and among
other things. nearly the whole scene of the declaration of love
as Imay be seen in Brumoy's enumeration.
DRAMATIC LITERATURE OF THE MODERNS- 213
LECTURE XVI.
The Italians–Pastoral Dramas of Tasso and Guarini-Small progress in
Tragedy–Metastasio and Alfieri-Character of both–Comedies of
Ariosto, Aretin, Porta – Improvisatore Masks – Goldoni – Gozzi-
Latest state.
LEAvING now the productions of Classical Antiquity, we pro-
ceed to the dramatic literature of the moderns. With respect
to the order most convenient for treating our present subject,
it may be doubtful whether it is better to consider, seriatim,
what each nation has accomplished in this domain, or to pass
continually from one to another, in the train of their recipro-
cal but fluctuating influences. Thus, for instance, the 1talian
theatre, at its first revival, exercised originally an influence
on the French, to be, however, greatly influenced in its turn
by the latter. So, too, the French, before their stage attained
its full maturity, borrowed still more from the Spaniards than
from the Italians; in later times, Voltaire attempted to en-
large their theatrical circle, on the model of the English; the
attempt, however, was productive of no great effect, even
because everything had already been immutably fixed, in
conformity with their ideas of imitation of the ancients, and
their taste in art. The English and Spanish stages are nearly
independent of all the rest, and also of each other; on those
of other countries, however, they have exercised a great influ-
2nce, but experienced very little in return. But, to avoid
the perplexity and confusion which would attend such a plan,
it will be advisable to treat the several literatures separately,
pointing out, at the same time, whatever effects foreign in-
fluence may have produced. This course is also rendered
necessary, by the circumstance that among modern nations
the principle of imitation of the ancients has in some pre-
vailed, without check or modification; while in others, the
romantic spirit predominated, or at least an originality alto-
gether independent of classical models. The former is the
214 THE ITALIANS–TRISSION.
case with the Italians and French, and the latter with the
English and Spaniards.
I have already indicated, in passing, how even before the
eruption of the northern conquerors had put an end to every-
thing like art, the diffusion of Christianity led to the abolition
of plays, which, both with Greeks and Romans, had become
extremely corrupt. After the long sleep of the dramatic and
theatrical spirit in the middle ages, which, however uninflu-
enced by the classical models, began to awake again in the
Mysteries and Moralities, the first attempt to imitate the
ancients in the theatre, as well as in the other arts and
departments of poetry, was made by the Italians. The
Sophonisba of Trissino, which belongs to the beginning of the
sixteenth century, is generally named as the first regular
tragedy. This literary curiosity I cannot boast of having
read, but from other sources I know the author to be a spirit-
less pedant. Those even of the learned, who are most zealous
for the imitation of the ancients, pronounce it a dull laboured
work, without a breath of true poetical spirit; we may there-
fore, without further examination, safely appeal to their judg-
ment upon it. It is singular, that while all ancient forms,
even the Chorus, are scrupulously retained, the province of
mythology is abandoned for that of Roman history.
The pastoral dramas of Tasso and Guarini (which belong to
the middle of the sixteenth century), whose subjects, though
for the most part not tragical, are yet noble, not to say ideal,
may be considered to form an epoch in the history of dramatic
poetry. They are furnished with choruses of the most ravish-
ing beanty, which, however, are but so many lyrical voices
floating in the air; they do not appear as personages, and still
Jess are they introduced with due regard to probability as con-
stant witnesses of the represented actions. These compositions
were, there is no doubt, designed for the theatre; and they
were represented at Ferrara and at Turin with great pomp,
and we may presume with eminent taste. This fact, however,
serves to give us an idea of the infantine state of the theatre
at that time; although, as a whole, they have each their plot
and catastrophe, the action nevertheless stands still in some
scenes. Their popularity, therefore, would lead us to con-
clude that the spectators, little accustomed to theatrical
amusements, were consequently not difficult to please, and
TRAGEDY OF TEIE ITALIANS. 215
patiently followed the progress of a beautiful poem, even
though deficient in dramatic development. The Pastor Fido,
in particular, is an inimitable production; original and yet
classical; romantic in the spirit of the love which it portrays;
in its form impressed with the grand but simple stamp of
classical antiquity; and uniting with the sweet triflings of
poetry, the high and chaste beauty of feeling. No poet has
succeeded so well as Guarini in combining the peculiarities of
the modern and antique. He displays a profound feeling of
the essence of Ancient Tragedy; for the idea of fate pervades
the subject-matter, and the principal characters may be said
to be ideal: he has also introduced caricatures, and on that
account called the composition a Tragi-Comedy; but it is not
from the vulgarity of their manners that they are caricatures,
as from their over-lofty sentiments, just as in Ancient Tragedy
the subordinate personages ever are invested with more or less
of the general dignity.
The great importance of this work, however, belongs rather
to the History of Poetry in general; on Dramatic Poetry it had
no effect, as in truth it was not calcºlated to produce any.
I then return to what may properly be called the Tragedy
of the Italians. After the Sophonisba, and a few pieces of the
same period, which Calsabigi calls the first tragic lispings of
Italy, a number of works of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and
eighteenth centuries are cited; but of these none made, or at
any rate maintained any considerable reputation. Although
all these writers, in intention at least, laboured to follow the
rules of Aristotle, their tragical abortions are thus described
by Calsabigi, a critic entirely devoted to the French system:
–“ Distorted, complicated, improbable plots, ill-understood
scenic regulations, useless personages, double plots, inconsistent
characters, gigantic or childish thoughts, feeble verses, affected
phrases, the poetry neither harmonious nor natural; all this
decked out with ill-timed descriptions and similes, or idle phi-
losophical and political disquisitions; in every scene some
silly amour, with all the trite insipidity of common-place sen-
timentality; of true tragic energy, of the struggle of conflict-
ing passions, of overpowering theatrical catastrophes, not the
slightest trace.” Amongst the lumber of this forgotten litera-
ture we cannot stop to rummage, and we shall therefore
proceed immediately to the consideration of the Merope of
216 CALSABIGI's CRITICISM-MAFFEI.
Maffei, which appeared in the beginning of the eighteenth
century. Its success in Italy, on its first publication, was
great; and in other countries, owing to the competition of
Voltaire, it also obtained an extraordinary reputation. The
object of both Maffei and Voltaire was, from Hyginus ac-
count of its contents, to restore in some measure a lost piece
of Euripides, which the ancients highly commended. Vol-
taire, pretending to eulogize, has given a rival's criticism
of Maffei's Merope, there is also a lengthened criticism on it
in the Dramaturgie of Lessing, as clever as it is impartial.
He pronounces it, notwithstanding its purity and simplicity
of taste, the work of a learned antiquary, rather than of a
mind naturally adapted for, and practised in the dramatic art.
We must therefore judge accordingly of the previous state
of the drama in the country where such a work could arrive
at so great an estimation.
After Maffei came Metastasio and Alfieri; the first before
the middle, and the other in the latter half of the eighteenth
century. I here include the musical dramas of Metastasio,
because they aim in general at a serious and pathetic effect,
because they lay claim to ideality of conception, and because
in their external form there is a partial observance of what is
considered as belonging to the regularity of a tragedy. Both.
these poets, though totally differing in their aim, were never
theless influenced in common by the productions of the French
stage. Both, it is true, declared themselves too decidedly
against the authority of this school to be considered properly
as belonging to it; they assure us that, in order to preserve
their own originality, they purposely avoided reading the
French models. But this very precaution appears somewhat
suspicious: whoever feels himself perfectly firm and secure in
his own independence, may without hesitation study the
works of his predecessors; he will thus be able to derive from
them many an improvement in his art, and yet stamp on his
own productions a peculiar character But there is nothing
on this head that I can urge in support of these poets: if it be
really true that they never, or at least not before the comple-
tion of their works, perused the works of French tragedians,
some invisible influence must have diffused itself through the
atmosphere, which, without their being conscious of it, deter-
mined them. This is at once conceivable from the great
THE oPERA FoUNDED oN FRENCH TRAGEDY. 217
estimation which, since the time of Louis XIV., French
Tragedy has enjoyed, not only with the learned, but also
with the great world throughout Europe; from the new-
modelling of several foreign theatres to the fashion of the
French; from the prevailing spirit of criticism, with which
negative correctness was everything, and in which France gave
the tone to the literature of other countries. The affinity is
in both undeniable, but, from the intermixture of the musical
element in Metastasio, it is less striking than in Alfieri. I
trace it in the total absence of the romantic spirit; in a certain
fanciless insipidity of composition; in the manner of handling
mythological and historical materials, which is neither pro-
perly mythological nor historical; lastly, in the aim to pro-
duce a tragic purity, which degenerates into monotony. The
unities of both place and time have been uniformly observed
by Alfieri; the latter only could be respected by Metastasio,
as change of scene is necessary to the opera poet. Alfieri
affords in general no food for the eyes. In his plots he aimed
at the antique simplicity, while Metastasio, in his rich in-
trigues, followed Spanish models, and in particular borrowed
largely from Calderon*. Yet the harmonious ideality of the
ancients was as foreign to the one, as the other was destitute
of the charm of the romantic poets, which arises from the
indissoluble mixture of elements apparently incongruous.
Even before Metastasio, Apostolo Zeno had, as it is called,
purified the opera, a phrase which, in the sense of modern
critics, often means emptying a thing of all its substance and
vigour. He formed it on the model of Tragedy, and more
especially of French Tragedy; and a too faithful, or rather too
Slavish approximation to this model, is the very cause why he
left so little room for musical development, on which account
his pieces were immediately driven from the stage of the
Opera by those of his more expert successor. It is in general
an artistic mistake for one species to attempt, at evident dis-
advantage, that which another more perfectly accomplishes,
and in the attempt, to sacrifice its own peculiar excellencies.
It originates in a chilling idea of regularity, once for all esta-
blished for every kind alike, instead of ascertaining the spirit
and peculiar laws of each distinct species.
* This is expressly asserted by the learned Spaniard Arteaga, in his
Italian work on the History of the Opera,
218 METASTASIO-HIS TRAGICAL PRETENSIONS.
Metastasio quickly threw Zeno into the shade, since, with
the same object in view, he displayed greater flexibility in
accommodating himself to the requisitions of the musician.
The merits which have gained for him the reputation of a
classic among the Italians of the present day, and which, in
some degree, have made him with them what Racine is with
the French, are generally the perfect purity, clearness, ele-
gance, and sweetness of his language, and, in particular, the
soft melody and the extreme loveliness of his songs. Perhaps
no poet ever possessed in a greater degree the talent of briefly
bringing together all the essential features of a pathetic situa-
tion; the songs with which the characters make their exit,
are almost always the purest concentrated musical extract of
their state of mind. But, at the same time, we must own that
all his delineations of passionare general: his pathos is puri-
fied, not only from all characteristic, as well as from all con-
templative matter; and, consequently, the poetic represen-
tation, unencumbered thereby, proceeds with a light and easy
motion, leaving to the musician the care of a richer and fulker
development. Metastasio is musical throughout; but, to fol-
low up the simile, we may observe, that of poetical music,
melody is the only part that he possesses, being deficientin har-
monious compass, and in the mysterious effects of counterpoint.
Or, to express myself in diffe ent terms, he is musical, but in
no respect picturesque. His melodies are light and pleasant,
but they are constantly repeated with little or no variation:
when we have read a few of his pieces, we know them all;
and the composition as a whole is always without significance.
His heroes, like those of Corneille, are gallant; his heroines
tender, like those of Racine; but this has been too severely
censured by many, without a due consideration of the require-
ments of the Opera. To me he appears censurable only for
the selection of subjects, whose very seriousness could not
without great incongruity be united with such triflings. Had
Metastasio not adopted great historical names–had he bor-
rowed his subject-matter more frequently from mythology, or
from still more fanciful fictions–had he made always the same
happy choice as that in his Achilles in Scyros, where, from the
nature of the story, the Heroic is interwoven with the Idyllic,
we might then have pardoned him if he invariably depicts his
personages as in love Then should we, if only we ourselves
METASTASIO-EIS STYLE OF COMPOSITION. 219.
understood what ought to be expected from an opera, willingly
have permitted him to indulge in feats of fancy still more
venturesome. By his tragical pretensions he has injured hum-
self: his powers were inadequate to support them, and the
seductive movingness at which he aimed was irreconcileable
with overpowering energy. I have heard a celebrated Italian
poet assert that his countrymen were moved to tears by
Metastasio. We cannot get over such a national testimony
as this, except by throwing it back on the nation itself as a
Symptom of its own moral temperament. It appears to me
undeniable, that a certain melting softness in the sentiments,
and the expression of them, rendered Metastasio the delight of
his contemporaries. He has lines which, from their dignity
andvigorous compression, are perfectly suited to Tragedy, and
yet we perceive in them an indescribable something, which
seems to show that they were designed for the flexible throat
of a sopranosinger.
The astonishing success of Metastasio throughout all Eu-
rope, and especially at courts, must also in a great measure be
attributed to his being a court poet, not merely by profession,
but also by the style in which he composed, and which was in
every respect that of the tragedians of the era of Louis XIV.
A brilliant surface without depth ; prosaic sentiments and
thoughts decked out with a choice poetical language; a.
courtly moderation throughout, whether in the display of
passion, or in the exhibition of misfortune and crime; ob-
servance of the proprieties, and an apparent morality, for in
these dramas voluptuousness is but breathed, never named,
and the heart is always in every mouth; all these properties
could not fail to recommend such tragical miniatures to the
world of fashion. There is an unsparing pomp of noble sen-
timents, but withal most strangely associated with atrocious
baseness. Not unfrequently does an injured fair one dispatch
a despised lover to stab the faithless one from behind. In
almost every piece there is a crafty knave who plays the
traitor, for whom, however, there is ready prepared some
royal magnanimity, to make all right at the last. The facility
with which base treachery is thus taken into favour, as if it
were nothing more than an amiable weakness, would have
been extremely revolting, if there had been anything serious
in this array of tragical incidents. But the poisoned cup is
220 METASTASIO–DEPRECIArION OF HIS OPERAS.
always seasonably dashed from the lips; the dagger either
drops, or is forced from the murderous hand, before the deadly
blow can be struck; or if injury is inflicted, it is never more
than a slight scratch; and some subterranean exitis always at
hand to furnish the means of flight from the dungeon or other
imminent peril. The dread of ridicule, that conscience of all
poets who write for the world of fashion, is very visible in the
care with which he avoids allbolder flights as yet unsanctioned
by precedent, and abstains from everything supernatural, be-
cause such a public carries not with it, even to the fantastic
stage of the opera, a belief in wonders. Yet this fear has not
always served as a sure guide to Metastasio: besides such an
extravagant use of the “ aside,” as often to appear ludicrous,
the subordinate love-stories frequently assume the appearance
of being a parody on the others. Here the Abbé, thoroughly
acquainted with the various gradations of Cicisbeism, its pains
and its pleasures, at once betrays himself To the favoured
lover there is generally opposed an importunate one, who
presses his suit without return, the Sofione among the cicisbei,
the former loves in silence, and frequently finds no opportunity
till the end of the piece, of offering his little word of declara-
tion; we might call him the patito. This unintermitting love-
chase is not confined to the male parts, but extended also to
the female, that everywhere the most varied and brilliant con-
trasts may offer themselves.
A few only of the operas of Metastasio still keep posses-
sion of the stage, owing to the change of musical taste, which
demands a different arrangement of the text. Metastasio
seldom has choruses, and his airs are almost always for a single
voice: with these the scenes uniformly close, and with them
the singer never fails to make his exit. It appears as if,
proud of having played off this highest triumph of feeling, he
left the spectators to their astonishment at witnessing the
chirping of the passions in the recitatives rising at last in the
air, to the fuller nightingale tones. At present we require in
an opera more frequent duos and trios, and a crashing finale.
In fact, the most difficult problem for the opera poet is to
reduce the mingled voices of conflicting passions in one per-
vading harmony, without destroying any one of them: a
problem, however, which is generally solved by both poet and
musician in a very arbitrary manner.
ALFIERI | METASTASIO REVERSED. 22 I
Alfieri, a bold and proud man, disdained to please by such
meretricious means as those of which Metastasio had availed
himself: he was highly indignant at the lax immorality of
his countrymen, and the degeneracy of his contemporaries in
general. This indignation stimulated him to the exhibition
of a manly strength of mind, of stoical principles and free
opinions, and on the other hand, led him to depict the horrors
and enormities of despotism. This enthusiasm, however, was
by far more political and moral than poetical, and we must
Praise his tragedies rather as the actions of the man than as
the works of the poet. From his great disinclination to pur-
sue the same path with Metastasio, he naturally fell into the
opposite extreme: I might not unaptly call him a Metas-
tasio reversed. If the muse of the latter be a love-sick
nymph, Alfieri's muse is an Amazon. He gave her a Spartan
education; he aimed at being the Cato of the theatre; but he
forgot that, though the tragic poet may himself be a stoic,
tragic poetry itself, if it would move and agitate us, must
never be stoical. His language is so barren of imagery,
that his characters seem altogether devoid of fancy; it is
broken and harsh: he wished to steel it anew, and in the
process it not only lost its splendour, but became brittle and
inflexible. Not only is he not musical, but positively anti-
musical; he tortures our feelings by the harshest dissonances,
without any softening or solution. Tragedy is intended by
its elevating sentiments in Söme degree to emancipate our
minds from the sensual despotism of the body; but really to
do this, it must not attempt to strip this dangerous gift of
heaven of its charms: but rather it must point out to us the
sublime majesty of our existence, though surrounded on all
sides by dangerous abysses. When we read the tragedies of
Alfieri, the world looms upon us dark and repulsive. A style
of composition which exhibits the ordinary course of human
affairs in a gloomy and troublous light, and whose extraor-
dinary catastrophes are horrible, resembles a climate where
the perpetual fogs of a northern winter should be joined with
the fiery tempests of the torridzone. Profound and delicate
delineation of character is as little to be looked for in Alfieri
as in Metastasio: he does but exhibit the opposite but equally
partial view of human nature. His characters also are Cast
in the mould of naked general notions, and he frequently
222 ALFIERT COMPARED WITE RACINE.
paints the extremes of black and white, side by side, and in
unrelieved contrast. His villains for the most part betray
all their deformity, in their outward conduct; this might,
perhaps, be allowed to pass, although indeed such a picture
will hardly enable us to recognise them in real life; but his
virtuous persons are not amiable, and this is a defect open to
much graver censure. Of all seductive graces, and even of
all subordinate charms and ornaments, (as if the degree in
which nature herself had denied them to this caustic genius
had not been sufficient,) he studiously divested himself,
because as he thought it would best advance his more earnest
möral aim, forgetting, however, that the poet has no other
means of swaying the minds of men than the fascinations of
his art.
From the tragedy of the Greeks, with which he did not
become acquainted until the end of his career, he was sepa-
rated by a wide chasm; and I cannot consider his pieces as an
improvement on the French tragedy. Their structure is more
simple, the dialogue in some cases less conventional; he has
also got rid of confidants, and this has been highly extolled as
a difficulty overcome, and an improvement on the French
system; he had the same aversion to chamberlains and court
ladies in poetry as in real life. But in captivating and bril-
liant eloquence, his pieces bear no comparison with the better
French tragedies; they also display much less skill in the
plot, its gradual march, preparations, and transitions. Com-
pare, for instance, the Britannicus of Racine with the Octavia
of Alfieri. Both drew their materials fram Tacitus: but
which of them has shown the more perfect understanding or
this profound master of the human heart? Racine appears
here before us as a man who was thoroughly acquainted with
all the corruptions of a court, and had beheld ancient Rome
under the Emperors, reflected in this mirror of observation.
On the other hand, if Alfieri did not expressly assure us that
his Octavia was a daughter of Tacitus, we should be inclined to
believe that it was modelled on that of the pretended Seneca.
The colours with which he paints his tyrants are borrowed
from the rhetorical exercises of the school. Who can recog-
nise, in his blustering and raging Nero, the man who, as
Tacitus says, seemed formed by nature “to veil hatred with
caresses ”–the cowardly Sybarite, fantastically vain till the
ALFIERI : HIS VIEW OF THE TRAGIC STYLE. 223
very last moment of his existence, cruel at first, from fear, and
afterwards from inordinate lust.
If Alfieri has, in this case, been untrue to Tacitus, in the
Conspiracy of the Pazzi he has equally failed in his attempt to
translate Macchiavel into the language of poetry. In this
and other pieces from modern history, the Filippo for instance,
and the Don Garcia, he has by no means hit the spirit and
tone of modern times, nor even of his own nation: his ideas
of the tragic style were opposed to the observance of every-
thing like a local and determinate costume. On the otherhand
it is astonishing to observe the subjects which he has bor-
rowed from the tragic cycles of the Greeks, such as the Ores-
tiad, for instance, losing under his hands all their heroic
magnificence, and assuming a modern, not to say a vulgar
air. He has succeeded best in painting the public life of the
Roman republic; and it is a great merit in the Virginia that
the action takes place in the forum, and in part before the
eyes of the people. In other pieces, while the Unity of Place
is strictly observed, the scene chosen is for the most part so
invisible and indeterminate, that one would fain imagine it is
some out-of-the-way corner, where nobody comes but persons
involved in painful and disagreeable transactions. Again,
the stripping his kings and heroes, for the sake of simplicity,
of all their external retinue, produces the impression that the
world is actually depopulated around them. This stage-
solitude is very striking in Saul, where the scene is laid before
üwo armies in battle-array, on the point of a decisive engage-
ment. And yet, in other respects this piece is favourably dis-
tinguished from the rest, by a certain Oriental Splendour, and
the lyrical sublimity in which the troubled mind of Saul
gives utterance to itself. Myrrha is a perilous attempt to
treat with propriety a subject equally revolting to the senses
and the feelings. The Spaniard Arteaga has criticised this
tragedy and the Filippo with great severity but with great
truth.
I reserve for my notice of the present condition of the
Italian theatre all that. I have to remark on the successors of
Alfieri, and go back in order of time in order to give a short
sketch of the history of Comedy.
In this department the Italians began with an imitation of
the ancients, which was not sufficiently attentive to the differ-
224 ITALIAN COMEDY. PIETRO ARETINO,
ence of times and manners, and translations of Plautus ard
Terence were usually represented in their earliest theatres;
they soon fell, however, into the most singular extravagan-
cies. We have comedies of Ariosto and Macchiavelli–those
of the former are in rhymeless verse, versisdruccioli, and those
of the latter in prose. Such men could produce nothing
which did not bear traces of their genius. But Ariosto in the
structure of his pieces kept too close to the stories of the
ancients, and, therefore, did not exhibit any true living pic-
ture of the manners of his own times. In Macchiavelli this
is only the case in his Clitia, an imitation of Plautus; the
Mandragola, and another comedy, which is without a name,
are sufficiently Florentine; but, unfortunately, they are not
of a very edifying description. A simple deceived husband,
and a hypocritical and pandering monk, form the principal
parts. Tales, in the style of the free and merry tales of Boc-
cacio, are boldly and bluntly, I cannot say, dramatised: for
with respect to theatrical effect they are altogether inartificial,
but given in the form of dialogue. As Mimes, that is, as pic-
tures of the language of ordinary life with all its idioms, these
productions are much to be commended. In one point they
resemble the Latin comic poets; they are not deficient in in-
decency. This was, indeed, their general tone. The come-
dies of Pietro Aretino are merely remarkable for their shame-
less immodesty. It almost seems as if these writers, deeming
the spirit of refined love inconsistent with the essence of
Comedy, hadexhausted the very lees of the sensual amours of
Greek Comedy.
At a still earlier period, in the beginning, namely, of the
sixteenth century, an unsuccessful attempt had been made in
the Virginia of Accoltito dramatise a serious novel, as a mid-
dle species between Comedy and Tragedy, and to adorn it
with poetical splendour. Its subject is the same story on
which Shakspeare's All's Well that Ends Well, is founded.
I have never had an opportunity of reading it, but the un-
favourable report of a literary man disposes me to think
favourably of it*. According to his description, it resembles
the older pieces of the Spanish stage before it had attained
to maturity of form, and in common with them it employs the
* Bouterwek's Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit. – Erster
Band, s. 334, &cº
ITALIAN COMEDY–GIAMBATISTA. PORTA. 225
stanza for its metre. The attempts at romantic drama, have
always failed in Italy; whereas in Spain, on the contrary, all
endeavours to model the theatre according to the rules of the
ancients, and latterly of the French, have from the difference
of national taste uniformly been abortive.
We have a comedy of Tassos, Gli Intrichi d'Amore, which
ought rather to be called a lengthy romance in the form of
dialogue. So many and such wonderful events are crowded
together within the narrow limit of five acts, that one inci-
dent treads closely upon the heels of another, without being
in the least accounted for by human motives, so as to give to
the whole an insupportable hardness. Criminal designs are
portrayed with indifference, and the merriment is made to
consist in the manner in which some accident or other inva-
riably frustrates their consequences. We cannot here recog-
mise the Tasso whose nice sense of love, chivalry, and honour
speaks so delightfully in the Jerusalem Delivered, and on
this ground it has even been doubted whether this work be
really his. The richness of invention, if we may give this
name to a rude accumulation of incidents, is so great, that the
attention is painfully tortured in the endeavour to keep clear
and disentangled the many and diversely crossing threads.
We have of this date a multitude of Italian comedies on a
similar plan, only with less order and connexion, and whose
aim apparently is to delight by means of indecency. A para-
site and procuress are standing characters in all. Among
the comic poets of this class, Giambatista Porta deserves to
be distinguished. His plots, it is true, are like the rest, imi-
tations of Pkautus and Terence, or dramatised tales; but,
throughout the love-dialogues, on which he seems to have
laboured with peculiar fondness, there breathes a tender feel-
ing which rises even from the midst of the rudeness of the old
Italian Comedy, and its generally uncongenial materials.
In the seventeenth century, when the Spanish theatre flou-
rished in all its glory, the Italians seem to have borrowed
frequently from it; but not without misemploying and disfi-
guring whatever they so acquired. The neglect of the regular
stage increased with the all-absorbing passion for the opera,
and with the growing taste of the multitude for improvisatory
farces with standing masks. The latter are not in tiemselves
to be despised: they serve to fix, as it were, so many central
g>
226 ITALIAN COMEDY–GOLDONI-MASKED COMEDY
points of the national character in the comic exhibition, by
the external peculiarities of speech, dress, &c. Their constan
recurrence does not by any means preclude the greatest pos-
sible diversity in the plot of the pieces, eyen as in chess, with
a small number of men, of which each has his fixed move-
ment, an endless number of combinations is possible. But as
to extemporary playing, it no doubt readily degenerates into
insipidity; and this may have been the case eyen in Italy,
notwithstanding the great fund of drollery and fantastic wit.
and a peculiar felicity in farcical gesticulation, which the
Italians possess.
About the middle of the last century, Goldoni appeared as
the reformer of Italian Comedy, and his success was so great,
that he remained almost exclusively in possession of the comic
stage. He is certainly not deficient in theatrical skill; but,
as the event has proved, he is wanting in that Solidity, that
depth of characterization, that novelty and richness of inven-
tion, which are necessary to ensure a lasting reputation. His
pictures of manners are true, but not sufficiently elevated
above the range of every-day life; he has exhausted the sur-
face of life; and as there is little progression in his dramas,
and everything turns usually on the same point, this adds
to the impression of shallc. iess and ennui, as characteristic
of the existing state of society. Willingly would he have
abolished masks altogether, but he could hardly have com-
pensated for them out of his own resources; however, he
retained only a few of them, as Harlequin, Brighella, and
Pantaloon, and limited their parts. And yet he fell again
into a great uniformity of character, which, indeed, he partly
confesses in his repeated use of the same names: for instance,
his Beatrice is always a lively, and his Rosaura a feeling young
maiden; and as for any farther distinction, it is not to be
fould in him. s
The excessive admiration of Goldoni, and the injury sus-
tained thereby by the masked comedy, for which the company
of Sacchi in Venice possessed the highest talents, gave rise to
the dramas of Gozzi. They are fairytales in a dramatic
form, in which, however, along side of the wonderful, versified,
and more serious part, he employed the whole of the masks,
and allowed them full and unrestrained development of their
peculiarities. They, if ever any were, are pieces for effect,
ITALIAN COMEDY–GOZZT. 227
of great boldness of plot, still more fantastic than romantic;
even though Gozzi was the first among the comic poets of
Italy to show any true feeling for honour and love. The exe-
cution does not betoken either care or skill, but is sketchily
dashed off With all his whimsical boldness he is still quite a
popular writer; the principal motives are detailed with the
most unambiguous perspicuity, all the touches are coarse and
vigorous: he says, he knows well that his countrymen are
fond of robust situations. After his imagination had revelled
to satiety among Oriental tales, he took to re-modelling Spa-
nish plays, and particularly those of Calderon; but here he is,
in my opinion, less deserving of praise. By him the ethereal
and delicately-tinted poetry of the Spaniard is uniformly vul-
garised, and deepened with the most glaring colours; while
the weight of his masks draws the aërial tissue to the
ground, for the humorous introduction of the gracioso in the
Spanish is of far finer texture. On the other hand, the won-
derful extravagance of the masked parts serves as an admi-
rable contrast to the wild marvels of fairy tale. Thus the
character of these pieces was, in the serious part, as well as in
the accompanying drollery, equally removed from natural
truth. Here Gozzi had fallen almost accidentally on a fund
of whose value he was not, perhaps, fully aware: his pro-
saical, and for the most part improvisatory, masks, forming
altogether of themselves the irony on the poetical part. What
I here mean by irony, I shall explain more fully when I come
to the justification of the mixture of the tragic and comic in
the romantic drama, of Shakspeare and Calderon. At present
I shall only observe, that it is a sort of confession interwoven
into the representation itself, and more or less distinctly ex-
pressed, of its overcharged one-sidedness in matters of fancy
and feeling, and by means of which the equipoise is again
restored. The Italians were not, however, conscious of this,
and Gozzi did not find any followers to carry his rude sketches
to a higher degree of perfection. Instead of combining like
him, only with greater refinement, the charms of wonderful
poetry with exhilarating mirth; instead of comparing Gozzi
with the foreign masters of the romantic drama, whom he
resembles notwithstanding his great disparity, and from the
unconscious affinity between them in spirit and plan, drawing
the conclusion that the principle common to both was founded
P 2
228 ITALIAN COMEDY–LATEST STATE.
in nature; the Italians contented themselves with considering
the pieces of Gozzi as the wild offspring of an extravagant
imagination, and with banishing them from the stage. The
comedy with masks is held in contempt by all who pretend
to any degree of refinement, as if they were too wise for it,
and is abandoned to the vulgar, in the Sunday representions
at the theatres and in the puppet-shows. Although this con-
tempt must have had an injurious influence on the masks,
preventing, as it does, any actor of talent from devoting him-
self to them, so that there are no examples now of the spirit
and wit with which they were formerly filled up, still the
Commedia dell'Arte is the only one in Italy where we can
meet with original and truly theatrical entertainment*.
In Tragedy the Italians generally imitate Alfieri, who,
although it is the prevailing fashion to admire him, is too bold
and manly a thinker to be tolerated on the stage. They
have produced some single pieces of merit, but the principles
of tragic art which Alfieri followed are altogether false,
and in the bawling and heartless declamation of their actors,
this tragic poetry, stripped with stoical severity of all the
charms of grouping, of musical harmony, and of every
tender emotion, is represented with the most deadening
uniformity and monotony. As all the rich rewards are re-
served for the singers, it is only natural that their players,
who are only introduced as a sort of stop-gaps between
singing and dancing, should, for the most part, not even pos-
sess the very elements of their art, viz, pure promunciation, and
practised memory. They seem to have no idea that their
parts can be got by heart, and hence, in an Italian theatre,
we hear every piece as it were twice over; the prompter
speaking as loud as a good player elsewhere, and the actors
in order to be distinguished from him bawling most insuffer-
ably. It is exceedingly amusing to see the prompter, when,
* A few years ago, I saw in Milan an excellent Truffaldin or Harlequin,
and here and there in obscure theatres, and even in puppet-shows, admi-
rable representations of the old traditional jokes of the country. [Unfor-
cunately, on my last visit to Milan, my friend was no longer to be met
with. Under the French rule, Harlequin's merry occupation had been
proscribed in the Great Theatres, from a care, it was alleged, for the dig-
nity of man. The Puppet-theatre of Gerolamo still flourishes, however
but a stranger finds it difficult to follow the jokes of the Piedmontese and
Milan Masks.–LAsT EDITION.]
ITALIAN COMEDY–GIOVAFNNI PINDEMONTI. 229
from the general forgetfulness, a scene threatens to fall into
confusion, labouring away, and stretching out his head like a
serpent from his hole, hurrying through the dialogue before
the different speakers. Of all the actors in the world, I con-
ceive those of Paris to have their parts best by heart; in this,
as well as in the knowledge of versification, the Germans are
far inferior to them.
One of their living poets, Giovanni Pindemonti, has endea-
voured to introduce greater extent, variety, and nature into his
historical plays, but he has been severely handled by their
critics for descending from the height of the cothurnus to
attain that truth of circumstance without which it is impos-
sible for this species of drama, to exist; perhaps also for devi-
ating from the strict observation of the traditional rules, so
blindly worshipped by them. If the Italian verse be in fact
so fastidious as not to consort with many historical peculiari-
ties, modern names and titles for instance, let them write partly
in prose, and call the production not a tragedy, but an historical
drama. It seems in general to be assumed as an undoubted
principle, that the verso Sciolto, or rhymeless line, of eleven
syllables, is alone fit for the drama, but this does not seem
to me to be by any means proved. This verse, in variety
and metrical signification, is greatly inferior to the English
and German rhymeless iambic, from its uniform feminine
termination, and from there being merely an accentuation in
Italian, without any syllabic measure. Moreover, from the
frequent transition of the sense from verse to verse, according
to every possible division, the lines flow into one another
without its being possible for the ear to separate them. Al-
fieri imagined that he had found out the genuine dramatic
manner of treating this verse correspondent to the form of his
own dialogue, which consists of simply detached periods, or
rather of propositions entirely unperiodical and abruptly ter-
minated. It is possible that he carried into his works a
personal peculiarity, for he is said to have been extremely
laconic ; he was also, as he himself relates, influenced by the
example of Seneca: but how different a lesson might he have
learned from the Greeks! We do not, it is true, in conver-
sation, connect our language so closely as in an oratorical
harangue, but the opposite extreme is equally unnatural.
Even in our commondiscourses, we observe a certain con-
230 ITALIAN COMEDY–VERSIFICATION.
tinuity, we give a development both to arguments and
objections, and in an instant passion will animate us to fulness
of expression, to a flow of eloquence, and even to lyrical sub-
imity. The ideal dialogue of Tragedy may therefore find
in actual conversation all the various tones and turns of
poetry, with the exception of epic repose. The metre there-
fore of Metastasio, and before him, of Tasso and Guarini,
in their pastoral dramas, seems to me much more agreeable
and suitable than the monotonous verse of eleven syllables:
they intermingle with it verses of seven syllables, and occa-
sionally, after a number of blank lines, introduce a pair of
rhymes, and even insert a rhyme in the middle of a verse-
From this the transition to more measured strophes, either
in ottave rime, or in direct lyrical metres, would be easy.
Rhyme, and the connexion which it forms, have nothing in
them inconsistent with the essence of dramatic dialogue, and
the objection to change of measure in the dramarests merely
on a chilling idea of regularity.
No suitable versification for Comedy has yet been invented
in Italy. The versosciolto, it is well known, does not answer;
it is not sufficiently familiar. The verse of twelve syllables,
with a sdrucciolo termination selected by Ariosto, is much
better, resembling the trimeter of the ancients, but is still
somewhat monotonous. It has been, however, but little cul-
tivated. The Martellian verse, a bad imitation of the Alex-
andrine, is a downright torture to the ear. Chiari, and
occasionally Goldoni, came at last to use it, and Gozzi by
way of derision. It still remains therefore to the prejudice
of a more elegant style of prose.
Of Comedy, the modern Italians have nothing worth the
name. What they have, are nothing but pictures of manners
still more dull and superficial than those of Goldoni, without
drollery, or invention, and from their every-day common-
place, downright disagreeable. They have, on the other
hand, acquired a true relish for the sentimental drama and
familiar tragedy; they frequent with great partiality the
representation of popular German pieces of this description,
and even produce the strangest and oddest imitations of them.
Long accustomed to operas and ballets, as their favourite
entertainments, wherein nothing is ever attempted beyond
a beautiful air or an elegant movement, the public seems
DECLINE OF DRAMATIC POETRY IN ITALY. 231
nltogether to have lost all sense of dramatic connexion: they
are perfectly satisfied with seeing the same evening two acts
from different operas, or even the last act of an opera before
the first.
We believe, therefore, that we are not going too far if we
affirm, that both dramatic poetry and the histrionic art are ir
a lamentable state of decline in Italy, that not even the first
foundations of a true national theatre have yet been laid, and
that there is no prospect of it, till the prevailing ideas on the
subject shall have undergone a total change.
Calsabigi attributes the cause of this state to the want of
permanent companies of players, and of a capital. In this
last reason there is certainly some foundation: in England,
Spain, and France, a national system of dramatic art has been
developed and established; in Italy and Germany, where
there are only capitals of separate states, but no general me-
tropolis, great difficulties are opposed to the improvement
of the theatre. Calsabigi could not adduce the obstacles
arising from a false theory, for he was himself under their
influence.
232 DRAMATIC LITERATURE OF THE FRENCH.
LECTURE XVII.
Antiquities of the French Stage–Influence of Aristotle and the Imitation
of the Ancients–Investigation of the Three Unities–What is Unity
of Action ?–Unity of Time-Was it observed by the Greeks?–Unity
of Place as connected with it.
WE now proceed to the Dramatic Literature of France. We
have no intention of dwelling at length on the first beginnings
of Tragedy in this country, and therefore leave to French
critics the task of depreciating the antiquities of their own
literature, which, with the mere view of adding to the glory
of the laterage of Richelieu and Louis XIV., they so zealously
enter upon. Their language, it is true, was at this time first
cultivated, from an indescribable waste of tastlessness and
barbarity, while the harmonious diction of the Italian and
Spanish poetry, which had long before spontaneously deve-
loped itself in the most beautiful luxuriance, was rapidl
degenerating. Hence we are not to be astonished if the
French lay such great stress on negative excellences, and so
carefully endeavour to avoid everything like impropriety, and
that from dread of relapse into rudeness this has ever since
been the general object of their critical labours. When La
Harpe says of the tragedies of Corneille, that “their tone
rises above flatness, only to fall into the opposite extreme of
affectation,“ judging from the proofs which he adduces, we
see no reason to differ from him. The publication recently of
Legouvé's Death of Henry the Fourth, has led to the reprinting
of a contemporary piece on the same subject, which is not
only written in a ludicrous style, but in the general plan and
distribution of the subject, with its prologue spoken by Satan,
and its chorus of pages, with its endless monologues and want
of progress and action, betrays the infancy of the dramatic
art; not a naive infancy, full of hope and promise, but one
disfigured by the most pedantic bombast and absurdity. For
a character of the earlier tragical attempts of the French in
INFLUENCE OF ARISTOTLE. 233
the last half of the sixteenth and the first thirty or forty
years of the seventeenth century, we refer to Fontenelle, La
Harpe, and the Mélanges Littéraires of Suard and André. We
shall confine ourselves to the characteristics of three of their
most celebrated tragic poets, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire,
who, it would seem, have given an immutable shape to their
tragic stage. Our chief object, however, is an examination of
the system of tragic art practically followed by these poets,
and by them, in part, but by the French critics universally,
considered as alone entitled to any authority, and every
deviation from it viewed as an offence against good taste.
If only the system be in itself the right one, we shall be com-
pelled to allow that its execution is masterly, perhaps not to
be surpassed. But the great question here is: how far the
French tragedy is in spirit and inward essence related to the
Greek, and whether it deserves to be considered as an im-
provement upon it?
Of the earlier attempts it is only necessary for us to observe,
that the endeavour to imitate the ancients showed itself from
the very earliest period in France. Moreover, they con-
sidered it the surest method of succeeding in this endeavour
to observe the outward regularity of form, of which their
notion was derived from Aristotle, and especially from
Seneca, rather than from any intimate acquaintance with the
Greek models themselves. In the first tragedies that were
represented, the Cleopatra and Dido of Jodelle, a prologue and
chorus were introduced ; Jean de la Peruse trailslated the
AMedea of Seneca; and Garnier's pieces are all taken from the
Greek tragedies or from Seneca, but in the execution they
bear a much closer resemblance to the latter. The writers of
that day, moreover, modelled themselves diligently on the
Sophonisbe of Trissino, in good confidence of its classic form.
Whoever is acquainted with the procedure of true genius, how
it is impelled by an almost unconscious and immediate con-
templation of great and important truths, and in no wise by
convictions obtained mediately, and by circuitous deductions,
will be on that ground alone extremely suspicious of all acti-
vity in art which originates in an abstract theory. But Cor-
neille did not, like an antiquary, execute his dramas as so
many learned school exercises, on the model of the ancients.
Seneca, it is true, led him astray, but he knew and loved the
234 IMITATION OF TEIE ANCIENTS.
Spanish theatre, and it had a great influence on his mind.
The first of his pieces, with which, according to general ad-
mission, the classical aera of French tragedy commences,
and which is certainly one of his best, the Cid, is well known
to have been borrowed from the Spanish. It violates in a
great degree the unity of place, if not also that of time, and
it is animated throughout by the spirit of chivalrous love and
honour. But the opinion of his contemporaries, that a tragedy
must be framed in strict accordance with the rules of Aris-
totle, was so universally predominant, that it bore down all
opposition. Almost at the close of his dramatic career, Cor-
neille began to entertain scruples of conscience, and in a.
separate treatise endeavoured to prove that, although in the
composition of his pieces he had never even thought of Aris-
totle, they were yet all accurately written according to his
rules. This was no easy task, and he was obliged to have
recourse to all manner of forced explanations. If he had
been able to establish his case satisfactorily, it would but lead
to the inference that the rules of Aristotle must be very loose
and indeterminate, if works so dissimilar in spirit and form
as the tragedies of the Greeks and those of Corneille are
yet equally true to them.
It is quite otherwise with Racine: of all the French poets
he was, without doubt, the one who was best acquainted with
the ancients; and not merely did he study them as a scholar,
he felt them also as a poet. He found, however, the practice
of the theatre already firmly established, and he did not,
for the sake of approaching these models, undertake to de-
viate from it. He contented himself, therefore, with: appro-
priating the separate beauties of the Greek poets; but, whe-
ther from deference to the taste of his age, or from inclination,
he remained faithful to the prevailing gallantry so alien to
the spirit of Greek tragedy, and, for the most part, made it
the foundation of the complication of his plots.
Such, nearly, was the state of the French theatre before the
appearance of Voltaire. His knowledge of the Greeks was
very limited, although he now and then spoke of them with
enthusiasm, in order, on other occasions, to rank them below
the more modern masters of his own nation, including himself;
still, he always felt himself bound to preach up the grand
severity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to Tragedy.
VOLTAIRE : HIS INNOVATIONS ON THE STAGE. 235.
He censured the deviations of his predecessors therefrom as
mistakes, and insisted on purifying and at the same time
enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion, from the constraint of
court manners, it had been almost straitened to the dimensions
of an antechamber. He at first spoke of Shakspeare's bursts
of genius, and borrowed many things from this poet, at that
time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted, too,
on greater depth in the delineation of passion –on a stronger
theatrical effect; he called for a scene more majestically orna-
mented; and, lastly, he frequently endeavoured to give to his
pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether foreign
to poetry. His labours have unquestionably been of utility
to the French stage, although in language and versification
(which in the classification of dramatic excellences ought only
to hold a secondary place, though in France they alone almost
decide the fate of a piece), he is, by most critics, considered
inferior to his predecessors, or at least to Racine. It is now
the fashion to attack this idol of a bygone generation on every
point, and with the most unrelenting and partial hostility.
His innovations on the stage are therefore cried down as so
many literary heresies, even by watchmen of the critical Zion,
who seem to think that the age of Louis XIV. has left nothing
for all succeeding time, to the end of the world, but a passive
admiration of its perfections, without a presumptuous thought
of making improvements of its own. For authority is avowed
with so little disguise as the first principle of the French
Gritics, that this expression of literary heresy is quite current
with them.
In so far as we have to raise a doubt of the unconditional
authority of the rules followed by the old French tragic
authors, of the pretended affinity between the spirit of their
works and the spirit of the Greek tragedians, and of the in-
dispensableness of many supposed proprieties, we find an ally
in Voltaire. But in many other points he has, without
examination, nay even unconsciously, adopted the maxims of
his predecessors, and followed their practice. He is alike
implicated with them in many opinions, which are perhaps
founded more on national peculiarities than on human nature
and the essence of tragic poetry in general. On this account
we may include him in a common examination with them;
For we are here concerned not with the execution of particular
236 INVESTIGATION OF THE THREE UNITIES-
parts, but with the general principles of tragic art which
reveal themselves in the shape of the works.
The consideration of the dramatic regularity for which
these critics contend brings us back to the so-called Three
Unities of Aristotle. We shall therefore examine the doctrine
delivered by the Greek philosopher on this subject: how far
the Greek tragedians knew or observed these rules; whether
the French poets have in reality overcome the difficulty of
observing them without the sacrifice of freedom and proba-
bility, or merely dexterously avoided it; and finally, whether
the merit of this observance is actually so great and essential
as it has been deemed, and does not rather entail the sacrifice
of still more essential beauties.
There is, however, another aspect of French Tragedy
from which it cannot appeal to the authority of the ancients:
this is, the tying of poetry to a number of merely conven-
tional proprieties. On this subject the French are far less
clear than on that of the rules; for nations are not usually
more capable of knowing and appreciating themselves than
individuals are. It is, however, intimately connected with
the spirit of French poetry in general, nay, rather of their
whole literature and the very language itself. All this, in
France, has been formed under the guardianship of society,
and, in its progressive development, has uniformly been
guided and determined by it–the guardianship of a societ
which zealously imitated the tone of the capital, which
again took its direction from the reigning modes of a brilliant
court. If, as there is indeed no difficulty in proving, such be
really the case, we may easily conceive why French literature,
of and since the age of Louis XIV., has been, and still is, so
well received in the upper ranks of society and the fashionable
world throughout Europe, whereas the body of the people,
everywhere true to their own customs and manners, have
never shown anything like a cordial liking for it. In this
way, even in foreign countries, it again in some measure finds
the place of its birth.
The far-famed Three Unities, which have given rise to a
whole Iliad of critical wars, are the Unities of Action, Time,
and Place.
The validity of the first is universally allowed, but the
difficulty is to agree about its true meaning; and, I may add,
*-* -sºmat
THE UNITIES OF ACTION, TIME, AND PLACE. 237
that it is no easy matter to come to an understanding on the
subject.
The Unities of Time and of Place are considered by some
quite a subordinate matter, while others lay the greatest
stress upon them, and affirm that out of the pale of them.
there is no safety for the dramatic poet. In France this zeal
is not confined merely to the learned world, but seems to be
shared by the whole nation in common. Every Frenchman
who has sucked in his Boileau with his mother’s milk, con-
siders himself a born champion of the Dramatic Unities, much
in the same way that the kings of Fngland since Henry VIII.
are hereditary Defenders of the Faith.
It is amusing enough to see Aristotle driven perforce to
lend his name to these three Unities, whereas the only one of
which he speaks with any degree of fulness is the first, the
Unity of Action. With respect to the Unity of Time he
merely throws out a vague hint; while of the Unity of Place
he says not a syllable.
I do not, therefore, find myself in a polemical relation to
Aristotle, for I by no means contest the Unity of Action pro-
perly understood: I only claim a greater latitude with respect
to place and time for many species of the drama, nay, hold it
essential to them. In order, however, that we may view the
matter in its true light, I must first say a few words on the
Poetics of Aristotle, those few pages which have given rise to
such voluminous commentaries.
It is well established that this treatise is merely a frag-
ment, for it does not even touch upon many important matters.
Several scholars have even been of opinion, that it is not a
fragment of the true original, but of an abridgment which
some one had made for his own improvement. On one point
all philological critics are unanimous: namely, that the text
is very much corrupted, and they have endeavoured to
restore it by conjectural emendations. Its great obscurity is
either expressly complained of by commentators, or substan-
tiated by the fact, that all in turn reject the interpretations
of their predecessors, while they cannot approve their own to
those who succeed them.
Very different is it with the Rhetoric of Aristotle. It is
undoubtedly genuine, perfect, and easily understood. But
how does he there consider the oratorical art? As a sister of
298 ARISTOTLE ON UNITY OF ACTION.
Logic: for as this produces conviction by its syllogism, so
must Rhetoric in a kindred manner operate persuasion. This
is about the same as to consider architecture simply as the
art of building solidly and conveniently. This is certainly,
the first requisite, but a great deal more is still necessary
before we can consider it as one of the fine arts. What we
require of architecture is, that it should combine these essen-
tial objects of an edifice with beauty of plan and harmony of
proportion, and give to the whole a correspondent impression.
Now when we see how Aristotle, without allowing for imagina-
tion or feeling, has viewed oratory only on that side which is ac-
cessible to the understanding, and is subservient to an external
aim, can it surprise usif that he has still less fathomed the mys-
tery of poetry, that art which is absolved from every other
aim but its own unconditional one of creating the beautiful by
free invention and clothing it in suitable language –Already
have I had the hardihood to maintain this heresy, and
hitherto I have seen no reason for retracting my opinion.
Lessing thought otherwise. But what if Lessing, with his
acute analytical criticism, split exactly on the same rock?
This species of criticism is completely victorious when it
exposes the contradictions for the understanding in works
composed exclusively with the understanding; but it could
hardly rise to the idea of a work of art created by the true
genius.
The philosophical theory of the fine arts collectively was,
as a distinct science, little cultivated among the ancients; of
technical works on the several arts individually, in which the
means of execution were alone considered, they had no lack.
Were I to select a guide from among the ancient philosophers,
it should undoubtedly be Plato, who acquired the idea of the
beautiful not by dissection, which never can give it, but by
intuitive inspiration, and in whose works the germs of a
genuine Philosophy of Art, are every where scattered.
Let us now hear what Aristotle says on the Unity of Action.
“We affirm that Tragedy is the imitation of a perfect and
entire action which has a certain magnitude: for there may be
a whole without any magnitude whatever. Now a whole is
what has a beginning, middle, and end. A beginning is that
which is not necessarily after some other thing, but that which
from its nature has something after it, or arising out of it.
ITS APPLICATHON TO THE DRAMA. 239
An end, on the other hand, is that which from its nature is
after something else, either necessarily, or usually, but after
which there is nothing. A. middle, what is itself after some
other thing, and after which also there is something. Hence
poems which are properly composed must neither begin nor
end accidentally, but according to the principles above laid
down.”
Strictly speaking, it is a contradiction in terms to say that
a whole, which has parts, can be without magnitude. But
Aristotle goes on to state, in explanation, that by “ magni-
tude," as a requisition of beauty, he means, a certain measure
which is neither so small as to preclude us from distinguishing
its parts, nor so extensive as to prevent us from taking the
whole in at one view. This is, therefore, merely an external
definition of the beautiful, derived from experience, and
founded on the quality of our organs of sense and our powers
of comprehension. However, his application of it to the
drama is remarkable. “It must have an extension, but such
as may easily be taken in by the memory. The determina-
tion of the length according to the wants of the representation,
does not come within the province of Art. With respect to
the essence of the thing, the composition will be the more
beautiful the more extensive it is without prejudice to its com-
prehensibility.” This assertion would be highly favourable
for the compositions of Shakspeare and of other romantic
poets, who have included in one picture a more extensive
circle of life, characters, and events, than is to be found in the
simple Greek tragedy, if only we could show that they have
given it the necessary unity, and such a magnitude as can be
clearly taken in at a view, and this we have no hesitation in
affirming to be actually the case.
In another place Aristotle requires the same unity of action
from the epic as from the dramatic poet; he repeats the pre-
ceding definitions, and says that the poet must not resemble
the historian, who relates contemporary events, although they
have no bearing on one another. Here we have still a more
express demand of that connexion of cause and effect between
the represented events, which before, in his explanation of
the parts of a whole, was at most implied. He admits, how-
ever, that the epic poet may take in a much greater number
of events connected with one main action, since the narrative
240 WHAT IS UNITY OF ACTION ?
form enables him to describe many things as going on at the
same time; on the other hand, the dramatic poet cannot
represent several simultaneous actions, but only so much as is
going on upon the stage, and the part which the persons who
appear there take in one action. But what if a different con-
struction of the scene, and a more skilful theatric perspective,
should enable the dramatic poet, duly and without confusion,
although in a more compressed space, to develope a fable not
inferior in extent to the epic poem ? Where would be the
objection, if the only obstacle were the supposed impossibility?
This is nearly all that is to be found in the Poetics of Ari-
stotle on Unity of Action. A short investigation will serve
to show how very much these anatomical ideas, which have
been stamped as rules, are below the essential requisites of
poetry.
Unity of Action is required. What is action ? Most
critics pass over this point, as if it were self-evident. In the
higher, proper signification, action is an activity dependent
on the will of man. Its unity will consist in the direction
towards a single end; and to its completeness belongs all that
lies between the first determination and the execution of the
deed. -
This idea of action is applicable to many tragedies of the
ancients (for instance, Orestes murder of his mother, CEdipus'
determination to discover and punish the murderer of Laius),
but by no means to all; still less does it apply to the greater
part of modern tragedies, at least if the action is to be sought
in the principal characters. What comes to pass through
them, and proceeds with them, has frequently no more con-
nexion with a voluntary determination, than a ship's striking
on a rock in a storm. But further, in the term action, as
understood by the ancients, we must include the resolution to
bear the consequences of the deed with heroic magnanimity,
and the execution of this determination will belong to its
completion. The pious resolve of Antigone to perform the
last duties to her unburied brother is soon executed and with-
out difficulty; but genuineness, on which alone rests its claim
to be a fit subject for a tragedy, is only subsequently proved
when, without repentance, and without any symptoms of
weakness, she suffers death as its penalty. And to take ar
example from quite a different sphere, is not Shakspeares
ANTIGONE–ANDROMIACHE, 24]
Julius Caesar, as respects the action, constructed on the same
principle? Brutus is the hero of the piece; the completion of
his great resolve does not consist in the mere assassination
of Caesar (an action ambiguous in itself, and of which the
motives might have been ambitien and jealousy), but in this,
that he proves himself the pure champion of Roman liberty,
by the calm saeziſice of his amiable life.
Farthc, there could be no complication of the plot without
opposition, and this arises mostly out of the contradictory
motives and views of the acting personages. If, therefore, we
limit the notion of an action to the determination and the deed,
then we shall, in most cases, have two or three actions in a
single tragedy. Which now is the principal action ? Every
person thinks his own the most important, for every man is
his own central point. Creon's determination to maintain his
kingly authority, by punishing the burial of Polynices with
death, is equally fixed with Antigone's determination, equally
important, and, as we see at the end, not less dangerous, as it
draws after it the ruin of his whole house. It may be perhaps
urged that the merely negative determination is to be consi-
dered simply as the complement of the affirmative. But what
if each determines on something not exactly opposite, but
altogether different? In the Andromache of Racine, Orestes
wishes to move Hermione to return his love; Hermione is
resolved to compel Pyrrhus to marry her, or she will be
revenged on him; Pyrrhus wishes to be rid of Hermione, and
to be united to Andromache; Andromache is desirous of
saving her son, and at the same time remaining true to the
memory of her husband. Yet nobody ever questioned the
unity of this piece, as the whole has a common connexion,
and ends with one common catastrophe. But which of the
actions of the four persons is the main action? In strength
of passion their endeavours are pretty nearly equal-in all
the whole happiness of life is at stake; the action of An-
dromache has, however, the advantage in moral dignity,
and Racine was therefore perfectly right in naming the piece
after her.
We see here a new condition in the notion of action,
namely, the reference to the idea of moral liberty, by which
alone man is considered as the original author of his own
resolutions. For, considered within the province of expe-
Q,
242 NEW DEFINITION IN THE CONCEPTION OF ACTION.
rience, the resolution, as the beginning of action, is not a cause
merely, but is also an effect of antecedent motives. It was in
this reference to a higher idea, that we previously found the
unity and wholeness of Tragedy in the sense of the ancients;
mamely, its absolute beginning is the assertion of Free-will,
and the acknowledgment of Necessity its absolute end. But
we consider ourselves justified in affirming that Aristotle was
altogether a stranger to this view; he nowhere speaks of the
idea of Destiny as essential to Tragedy. In fact, we must not
expect from him a strict idea of action as a resolution and
deed. He says somewhere-“The extent of a tragedy is
always sufficiently great, if, by a series of probable or neces-
sary consequences, a reverse from adversity to prosperity, or
from happiness to misery, is brought about.” It is evident,
therefore, that he, like all the Emoderns, understood by action
something merely that takes place. This action, according to
him, must have beginning, middle, and end, and consequently
consist of a plurality of connected events. But where are the
limits of this plurality ? Is not the concatenation of causes
and effects, backwards and forwards, without end? and may
we then, with equal propriety, begin and break off wherever
we please? In this province, can there be either beginning
or end, corresponding to Aristotle's very accurate definition of
these notions? Completeness would therefore be altogether
impossible. If, however, for the unity of a plurality of events
nothing more is requisite than casual connexion, then this rule
is indefinite in the extreme, and the unity admits of being
narrowed or enlarged at pleasure. For every series of inci-
dents or actions, which are occasioned by each other, how-
ever much it be prolonged, may always be comprehended
under a single point of view, and denoted by a single name.
When Calderon in a single drama, describes the conversion of
Peru to Christianity, from its very beginning (that is, from
the discovery of the country) down to its completion, and
when nothing actually occurs in the piece which had not some
influence on that event, does he not give us as much Unity in
the above sense as the simplest Greek tragedy, which, how-
ever, the champions of Aristotle's rules will by no means
ailow?
Corneille was well aware of the difficulty of a proper defi-
nition of unity, as applicable to an inevitable plurality of
CONNEXION BETWEEN CAUSE AND EFFECT. 243
subºrdinate actions; and in this way did he endeavour to get
rid of it. “ I assume," says he, “ that in Comedy, Unity of
Action consists in Unity of the Intrigue; that is, of the
obstacles raised to the designs of the principal persons ; and
in Tragedy, in the unity of the danger, whether the hero sinks
under, or extricates himself from it. By this, however, I do
not mean to assert that several dangers in Tragedy, and
several intrigues or obstacles in Comedy, may not be allow-
able, provided only that the personage falls necessarily from
one into the other; for then the escape from the first danger
does not make the action complete, for it draws a second
after it, as also the clearing up of one intrigue does not place
the acting persons at their ease, because it involves them in
another.”
In the first place the difference here assumed between tragic
and comic Unity is altogether unessential. For the manner
of putting the play together is not influenced by the circum-
stance, that the incidents in Tragedy are more serious, as
affecting person and life; the embarrassment of the characters
in Comedy when they cannot accomplish their design and
intrigues, may equally be termed a danger. Corneille, like
most others, refers all to the idea of connexion between cause
and effect. No doubt when the principal persons, either by
marriage or death, are set at rest, the drama, comes to a close;
but if nothing more is necessary to its Unity than the uninter-
rupted progress of an opposition, which serves to keep up the
dramatic movement, simplicity will then come but poorly off:
for, without violating this rule of Unity, we may go on to an
almost endless accumulation of events, as in the Z/ousand
and One Wights, where the thread of the story is never once
broken.
De la Motte, a French author, whowrote against the Unities
in general, would substitute for Unity of action, the Unity of
interest. If the term be not confined to the interest in the
destinies of some single personage, but is taken to mean in
ºreneral the direction which the mind takes at the sight of an
event, this explanation, so understood, seems most satisfactory
and very near the truth.
But we should derive but little advantage from groping
about empirically with the commentators on Aristotle. The
idea of One and Whole is in no way whatever derived fromu
Q 2
244 UNITY IN TRAGEDY.
experience, but arises out of the primary and spontaneous
activity of the human mind. To account for the manner in
which we in general arrive at this idea, and come to think of
one and a whole, would require nothing short of a system of
metaphysics.
The external sense perceives in objects only an indefinite
plurality of distinguishable parts; the judgment, by which we
comprehend these into an entire and perfect unity, is in all
cases founded on a reference to a higher sphere of ideas.
Thus, for example, the mechanical unity of a watch consists
in its aim of measuring time; this aim, however, exists only
for the understanding, and is neither visible to the eye, nor
palpable to the touch: the organic unity of a plant or an
animal consists in the idea of life ; but the inward intuition of
life, which, in itself uncorporeal, nevertheless manifests itself
through the medium of the corporeal world, is brought by us
to the observation of the individual living object, otherwise
we could not obtain it from that object.
The separate parts of a work of art, and (to return to the
question before us) the separate parts, consequently, of a tra-
gedy, must not be taken in by the eye and ear alone, but also
comprehended by the understanding. Collectively, however,
they are all subservient to one common aim, namely, to pro-
duce a joint impression on the mind. Here, therefore, as in
the above examples, the Unity lies in a higher sphere, in the
feeling or in the reference to ideas. This is all one; for the
feeling, so far as it is not merely sensual and passive, is our
sense, our organ for the Infinite, which forms itself into ideas
for us.
Far, therefore, from rejecting the law of a perfect Unity in
Tragedy as unnecessary, I require a deeper, more intrinsic,
and more mysterious unity than that with which most critics
are satisfied. This Unity I find in the tragical compositions
of Shakspeare, in as great perfection as in those of AEschylus
and Sophocles; while, on the contrary, I do not find it in
many of those tragedies which nevertheless are lauded as
correct by the critics of the dissecting school.
Logical coherence, the causal connexion, I hold to be equally
essential to Tragedy and every serious drama, because all
the mental powers act and react upon each other, and if
the Understanding be compelled to take a leap, Imagina
UNITY OF TIME– ARISTOTLE. 245
tion and Feeling do not follow the composition with equal
alacrity. But unfortunately the champions of what is called
regularity have applied this rule with a degree of petty
subtlety, which can have no other effect than that of cramp-
ing the poet, and rendering true excellence impossible.
We must not suppose that the order of sequences in a
tragedy resembles a slender thread, of which we are every
moment in anxious dread lest it should snap. This simile is
by no means applicable, for it is admitted that a plurality of
subordinate actions and interests is inevitable; but rather
let us suppose it a mighty stream, which in its impetu-
ous course overcomes many obstructions, and loses itself at
last in the repose of the ocean. It springs perhaps from
different sources, and certainly receives into itself other rivers,
which hasten towards it from opposite regions. Why should
not the poet be allowed to carry on several, and, for a while,
independent streams of human passions and endeavours, down
to the moment of their raging junction, if only he can place
the spectator on an eminence from whence he may overlook
the whole of their course? And if this great and swollen
body of waters again divide into several branches, and pour
itself into the sea by several mouths, is it not still one and the
same stream?
So much for the Unity of Action. With respect to the
Unity of Time, we find in Aristotle no more than the follow-
ing passage: “ Moreover, the Epos is distinguished from
Tragedy by its length: for the latter seeks as far as possible
to circumscribe itself within one revolution of the sun, or to
exceed it but little; the Epos is unlimited in point of
time, and in that respect differs from Tragedy. At first,
however, the case was in this respect alike in tragedies and
epic poems." -
We may in the first place observe that Aristotle is not
giving a precept here, but only making historical mention of
a peculiarity which he observed in the Grecian examples
before him. But what if the Greek tragedians had particular
reasons for circumscribing themselves within this extent of
time, which with the constitution of our theatres no longer
exist? We shall immediately see that this was really the
(33.SG.
Corneille with great reason finds the rule extremely incon-
246 ENTERTAINMENT-WEARISOMIENESS.
venient; he therefore prefers the more lenient interpretation,
and says, “ he would not scruple to extend the duration of
the action even to thirty hours." Others, however, most rigor-
ously insist on the principle that the action should not
occupy a longer period than that of its representation, that is
to say, from two to three hours.–The dramatic poet must,
according to them, be punctual to his hour. In the main, the
latter plead a sounder cause than the more lenient critics.
For the only ground of the rule is the observation of a proba-
bility which they suppose to be necessary for illusion, namely,
that the actual time and that of the representation should be
the same. If once a discrepancy be allowed, such as the
difference between two hours and thirty, we may upon the
same principle go much farther. This idea of illusion has
occasioned great errors in the theory of art. By this term
there has often been understood the unwittingly erroneous
belief that the represented action is reality. In that case the
terrors of Tragedy would be a true torture to us, they would
be like an Alpine load on the fancy, No, the theatrical as
well as every other poetical illusion, is a walking dream, to
which we voluntarily surrender ourselves. To produce it, the
poet and actors must powerfully agitate the mind, and the
probabilities of calculation do not in the least contribute
towards it. This demand of literal deception, pushed to the
extreme, would make a!! ºdetic form impossible; for we know
well that the mythological and historical persons did not
speak our language, that impassioned grief does not express
itself in verse, &c. What an unpoetical spectator were he
who, instead of following the incidents with his sympathy,
should, like a gaoler, with watch or hour-glass in hand, count
out to the heroes of the tragedy, the minutes which they still
have to live and act! Is our soul then a piece of clock-work,
that tells the hours and minutes with infallible accuracy ?
Has it not rather very different measures of time for agreeable
occupation and for wearisomeness? In the one case, under
an easy and varied activity, the hours fly apace; in the other,
while we feel all our mental powers clogged and impeded,
they are stretched out to an immeasurable length. Thusitis
during the present, but in memory quite the reverse: the
interval of dull and empty uniformity vanishes in a moment;
while that which marks an abundance of varied impressions
THE ANCIENTS–APPARENT CONTINUITY OF TIME. 247
grows and widens in the same proportion. Our body is sub-
jected to external astronomical time, because the organical
operations are regulated by it; but our mind has its own ideal
time, which is no other but the consciousness of the progres-
sive development of our beings. In this measure of time the
intervals of an indifferent inactivity pass for nothing, and
two important moments, though they lie years apart, link
themselves immediately to each other. Thus, when we have
been intensely engaged with any matter before we fell asleep,
we often resume the very same train of thought the instant
we awake and the intervening dreams vanish into their
unsubstantial obscurity. It is the same with dramatic exhi-
bition: our imagination overleaps with ease the times which
are presupposed and intimated, but which are omitted because
nothing important takes place in them; it dwells solely on the
decisive moments placed before it, by the compression of
which the poet gives wings to the lazy course of days and
hours.
But, it will be objected, the ancient tragedians at least ob-
served the Unity of Time. This expression is by no means
precise; it should at least be the identity of the imaginary
with the material time. But even then it does not apply to
the ancients: what they observe is nothing but the seeming
continuity of time. It is of importance to attend to this dis-
tinction–the seeming; for they unquestionably allow much
more to take place during the choral songs than could really
happen within their actual duration. Thus the Agamemnon
of AEschylus comprises the whole interval, from the destruc-
tion of Troy to his arrival in Mycenae, which, it is plain,
must have consisted of a very considerable number of days;
in the Trachiniae of Sophocles, during the course of the play,
the voyage from Thessaly to Euboea is thrice performed; and
again, in the Supplices of Euripides, during a single choral
one, the entire march of an army from Athens to Thebes is sup-
Posed to take place, a battle to be fought, and the General to
return victorious. So far were the Greeks from this sort of
minute and painful calculations! They had, however, a par-
ticular reason for observing the seeming continuity of time in
the constant presence of the Chorus. When the Chorus leaves
the stage, the continuous progress is interrupted; of this we
bave a striking instance in the Eumenides of AEschylus, where
248 DIVISIONS OF A DRAMA–HORACE-WIELAND.
the whole interval is omitted which was necessary to allow
Orestes to proceed from Delphi to Athens. Moreover, be-
tween the three pieces of a trilogy, which were acted consecu-
tively, and were intended to constitute a whole, there were
gaps of time as considerable as those between the three acts
of many a Spanish drama. «- -
The moderns have, in the division of their plays into acts,
which, properly speaking, were unknown to Greek Tragedy,
a convenient means of extending the period of representation
without any ill effect. For the poet may fairly reckon so far
on the spectator’s imagination as to presume that during the
entire suspension of the representation, he will readily con-
ceive a much longer interval to have elapsed than that which
is measured by the rhythmical time of the music between the
acts; otherwise to make it appear the more natural to him, it
might be as well to invite him to come and see the next act
to-morrow. The division into acts had its origin with the
New Comedy, in consequence of the exclusion of the chorus.
Horace prescribes the condition of a regular play, that it
should have neither more nor less than five acts. The rule is so
unessential, that Wieland thought Horace was here laughing
at the young Pisos in urging a precept like this with such
solemnity of tone as if it were really of importance. If in
the ancient Tragedy we may mark it as the conclusion of an
act wherever the stage remains empty, and the chorus is left
alone to proceed with its dance and ode, we shall often have
fewer than five acts, but often also more than five. As an
observation that in a representation, between two or three
hours long, such a number of rests are necessary for the atten-
tion, it may be allowed to pass. But, considered in any
other light, I should like to hear a reason for it, grounded on
the nature of Dramatic Poetry, why a drama, must have so
many and only so many divisions. But the world is governed
by prescription and tradition: a smaller number of acts has
been tolerated; to transgress the consecrated number of five*
is still considered a dangerous and atrocious profanation.
As a general rule, the division into acts seems to me erro-
neous, when, as is so often the case in modern plays, nothing
takes place in the intervals between them, and when the per-
* Three unities, five acts: why not seven persons ? These rules seem to
proceed according to odd numbers.
UNITY OF PLACE. 249
sons at the beginning of the new act are exhibited in exactly
the same situation as at the close of the foregoing one. And
yet this stand-still has given much less offence than the
assumption of a considerable interval, or of incidents omitted
in the representation, because the former is merely a negative
GPPOI'.
The romantic poets take the liberty even of changing the
scene during the course of an act. As the stage is always
previously left empty, these also are such interruptions of the
continuity, as would warrant them in the assumption of as
many intervals. If we stumble at this, but admit the pro-
priety of a division into acts, we have only to consider these
changes of scene in the light of a greater number of short acts.
But then, it will perhaps be objected, this is but justifying one
error by another, the violation of the Unity of Time by the
violation of the Unity of Place: we shall, therefore, proceed
to examine more at length how far the last-mentioned Tule is
indispensable.
In vain, as we have already said, shall we look to Aristotle
for any opinion on this subject. It is asserted that the Iule
was observed by the ancients. Not always, only generally.
Of seven plays by AEschylus, and the same number by Sopho-
cles, there are two, the Eumenides and the Ajax, in which the
scene is changed. That they generally retain the same scene
follows naturally from the constant presence of the chorus,
which must be got rid of by some suitable device before there
can be a change of place. And then, again, it must not be
forgotten, that their scene represented a much wider extent
than in most cases ours does; not a mere room, but the open
space before several buildings: and the disclosing the interior
of a house by means of the encyclema, may be considered in
the same light as the drawing a back curtain on our stage.
The objection to the change of scene is founded on the
same erroneous idea of illusion which we have already dis-
cussed. To transfer the action to another place would, it is
urged, dispel the illusion. But now if we are in reality to
consider the imaginary for the actual place, then must stage
decoration and scenery be altogether different from what
it now is*. Johnson, a critic who, in general, is an advo-
* It is calculated merely for a single point of view : seen from every
other point, the broken lines betray the imperfection of the imitation.
250 VOLTAIRE : IIIS SUPERFICIAL CONCLUSIONS.
cate for the strict rules, very justly observes, that if our ima-
gination once goes the length of transporting us eighteen
hundred years back to Alexandria, in order to figure to our-
selves the story of Antony and Cleopatra as actually taking
place before us, the next step, of transporting ourselves from
Alexandria to Rome, is easier. The capability of our mind
to fly in thought, with the rapidity of lightning, through the
immensity of time and space, is well known and acknowledged
in common life; and shall poetry, whose very purpose it is to
add all manner of wings to our mind, and which has at com-
mand all the magic of genuine illusion, that is, of a lively and
enrapturing fiction, be alone compelled to renounce this uni-
versal prerogative ?
Voltaire wishes to derive the Unity of Place and Time from
the Unity of Action, but his reasoning is shallow in the ex-
treme. “ For the same reason," says he, “ the Unity of Place
is essential, because no one action can go on in several places
at once." But still, as we have already seen, several persons
necessarily take part in the one principal action, since it con-
sists of a plurality of subordinate actions, and what should
hinder these from proceeding in different places at the same
time ? Is not the same war frequently carried on simul-
taneously in Europe and India; and must not the historian
recount alike in his narrative the events which take place on
both these scenes ?
“The Unity of Time," he adds, “is naturally connected
with the two first. If the poet represents a conspiracy, and
extends the action to fourteen days, he must account to me
for all that takes place in these fourteen days.” Yes, for all
that belongs to the matter in hand; all the rest, being extra-
neous to it, he passes over in silence, as every good story-
teller would, and no person ever thinks of the omission.
“ If therefore, he places before me the events of fourteen
days, this gives at least fourteen different actions, however
small they may be." No doubt, if the poet were so unskilful
as to wind off the fourteen days one after another with visible
precision; if day and night are just so often to come and go,
Even as to the architectural import, so little attention do the audience in
general pay to these niceties, that they are not even shocked when the
actors enter and disappear through a wall without a door, between the side
SCEDES,
SHAKSPEARE : EIIS DEFINITION OF TIME AND PLACE. 25]
and the characters to go to bed and get up again just so many
times. But the clever poet thrusts into the background all
the intervals which are connected with no perceptible progress
in the action, and in his picture annihilates all the pauses of
absolute stand-still, and contrives, though with a rapid touch,
to convey an accurate idea of the period supposed to have
elapsed. But why is the privilege of adopting a much wider
space between the two extremes of the piece than the material
time of the representation important to the dramatist, and
even indispensable to him in many subjects ? The example
of a conspiracy given by Voltaire comes in here very oppor-
tunely.
A conspiracy plotted and executed in two hours is, in the
first place, an incredible thing. Moreover, with reference to
the characters of the personages of the piece, such a plot is
very different from one in which the conceived purpose, how
ever dangerous, is silently persevered in by all the parties for
a considerable time. Though the poet does not admit this
lapse of time into his exhibition immediately, in the midst of
the characters, as in a mirror, he gives us as it were a perspec-
tive view of it. In this sort of perspective Shakspeare is the
greatest master I know: a single word frequently opens to
view an almost interminable vista of antecedent states of
mind. Confined within the narrow limits of time, the poet is
in many subjects obliged to mutilate the action, by beginning
close to the last decisive stroke, or else he is under the neces-
sity of unsuitably hurrying on its progress: on either suppo-
sition he must reduce within petty dimensions the grand
picture of a strong purpose, which is no momentary ebullition,
but a firm resolve undauntedly maintained in the midst
of all external vicissitudes, till the time is ripe for its exe-
Cution. It is no longer what Shakspeare has so often painted,
and what he has described in the following lines:–
Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interimis
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:
The genius, and the mortal instruments,
Arethen in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
252 SCULPTURE–PAINTING.
But why are the Greek and romantic poets so different in
their practice with respect to place and time ? The spirit of
our criticism will not allow us to follow the practice of many
critics, who so summarily pronounce the latter to be bar-
barians. On the contrary, we conceive that they lived in
very cultivated times, and were themselves highly cultivated
men. As to the ancients, besides the structure of their stage,
which, as we have already said, led naturally to the seeming
continuity of time and to the absence of change of scene, their
observance of this practice was also favoured by the nature
of the materials on which the Grecian dramatist had to work.
These materials were mythology, and, consequently, a fiction,
which, under the handling of preceding poets, had collected
into continuous and perspicuous masses, what in reality was
detached and scattered about in various ways. Moreover,
the heroic age which they painted was at once extremely
simple in its manners, and marvellous in its incidents; and
hence everything of itself went straight to the mark of a
tragic resolution.
But the principal cause of the difference lies in the plastic
spirit of the antique, and the picturesque spirit of the romantic
poetry. Sculpture directs our attention exclusively to the
group which it sets before us, it divests it as far as possible
from all external accompaniments, and where they cannot
be dispensed with, it indicates them as slightly as possible.
Painting, on the other hand, delights in exhibiting, along
with the principal figures, all the details of the surrounding
locality and all secondary circumstances, and to open a pros-
pect into a boundless distance in the background; and light and
shade with perspective are its peculiar charms. Hence the
Dramatic, and especially the Tragic Art, of the ancients, anni-
hilates in some measure the external circumstances of space
and time; while, by their changes, the romantic drama adorns
its more varied pictures. Or, to express myself in other
terms, the principle of the antique poetry is ideal; that of
the romantic is mystical: the former subjects space and time
to the internal free-agency of the mind; the latter honours
these incomprehensible essences as supernatural powers, in
which there is somewhat of indwelling divinity
FRENCH TRAGEDY–ITS AFFINITY TO COMEDY 25Z
LECTURE XVIII.
Mischief resulting to the French Stage from too narrow Interpretation of
the Rules of Unity–Influence of these rules on French Tragedy–
Manner of treating Mythological and Historical Materials–Idea of
Tragical Dignity–Observation of Conventional Rules–False System of
Expositions.
I CoME now to the influence which the above rules of
Unity, strictly interpreted and received as inviolable, have,
with other conventional rules, exercised on the shape of
French tragedy.
With the stage of a wholly different structure, with mate-
rials for the most part dissimilar, and handled in an opposite
spirit, they were still desirous of retaining the rules of the
ancient Tragedy, so far as they are to be learnt from Aris-
totle.
They prescribed the same simplicity of action as the Grecian
Tragedy observed, and yet rejected the lyrical part, which is
a protracted development of the present moment, and conse-
quently a stand-still of the action. This part could not, it is
true, be retained, since we no longer possess the ancient
music, which was subservient to the poetry, instead of over-
bearing it as ours does. If we deduct from the Greek
Tragedies the choral odes, and the lyrical pieces which are
occasionally put into the mouths of individuals, they will be
found nearly one-half shorter than an ordinary French tragedy.
Voltaire, in his prefaces, frequently complains of the great
difficulty in procuring materials for five long acts. How now
have the gaps arising from the omission of the lyrical parts
been filled up ? By intrigue. While with the Greeks the
action, measured by a few great moments, rolls on uninterrupt-
edly to its issue, the French have introduced many secondary
characters almost exclusively with the view that their oppo-
site purposes may give rise to a multitude of impeding
incidents, to keep up our attention, or rather our curiosity, to
the close. There was now an end therefore of everything
like simplicity; still they flattered themselves that they had,
254 MACBETEI : RAPID PROGRESS OF THAT DRAMA.
by means of an artificial coherence, preserved at least a unity
for the understanding. -
Intrigue is not, in itself, a Tragical motive; to Comedy, it
is essential, as we have already shown. Comedy, even at its
close, must often be satisfied with mere suppositions for
the understanding; but this is by no means the poetic side
of this demi-prosaic species of the Drama. Although the
French Tragedy endeavours in the details of execution to rise
by earnestness, dignity, and pathos, as high as possible above
Comedy, in its general structure and composition, it stillbears,
in my opinion, but too close an affinity to it. In many
French tragedies I find indeed a Unity for the Understanding,
but the Feeling is left uusatisfied. Out of a complication of
painful and violent situations we do, it is true, arrive at last,
happily or unhappily, at a state of repose; but in the repre-
sented course of affairs there is no secret and mysterious
revelation of a higher order of things; there is no allusion to
any consolatory thoughts of heaven, whether in the dignity of
human nature successfully maintained in its conflicts with
fate, or in the guidance of an over-ruling providence. To
such a tranquillizing feeling the so-called poetical justice is
partly unnecessary, and partly also, so very questionably and
obliquely is it usually administered, very insufficient. But
even poetical justice (which I cannot help considering as
a, Imade-up example of a doctrine false in itself and one,
moreover, which by no means tends to the excitation of truly
moral feelings) has not unfreo ently been altogether neglected
by the French tragedians.
The use of intrigue is certainly well calculated to effect the
alI-desired short duration of an important action. For the
intriguer is ever expeditious, and loses no time in attaining
to his object. But the mighty course of human destinies pro-
ceeds, like the change of seasons, with measured pace: great
designs ripen slowly; stealthily and hesitatingly the dark
suggestions of deadly malice quit the abysses of the mind for
the light of day; and, as Horace, with equal truth and beauty
observes, the flying criminal is only limpingly followed by
penal retribution*.“ Let only the attempt be made, for in-
* Rarö antecedentem scelestum
Deseruit pede paena claudo.
TRANs.
ITs TRAGICAL EXHIBITION–THE COMET's CoURSE. 255
stance, to bring within the narrow frame of the Unity of Time
Shakspeares gigantic picture of Macbeth's murder of Duncan,
histyrannical usurpation and finalfall; let as many as may be
of the events which the great dramatist successively exhibits
before us in such dread array be placed anterior to the opening
of the piece, and made the subject of an after recital,
and it will be seen how thereby the story loses all its sub-
lime significance. This drama does, it is true, embrace a
considerable period of time: but does its rapid progress leave
us leisure to calculate this ? We see, as it were, the Fates
weaving their dark web on the whistling loom of time; and
we are drawn irresistibly on by the storm and whirlwind of
events, which hurries on the hero to the first atrocious deed,
and from it to innumerable crimes to secure its fruits with
fluctuating fortunes and perils, to his final fall on the field of
battle. Such a tragic exhibition resembles a comet's course,
which, hardly visible at first, and revealing itself only to the
astronomic eye, appears at a nebulous distance in the heavens,
but soon soars with unheard-of and accelerating rapidity
towards the central point of our system, scattering dismay
among the nations of the earth. till, in a moment, when least
expected, with its portentous tail it overspreads the half of
ihe firmament with resplendent flame.
For the sake of the prescribed Unity of Time the French
poets must fain renounce all those artistic effects which pro-
ceed from the gradually accelerated growth of any object in
the mind, or in the external world, through the march of
time, while of all that in a drama, is calculated to fascinate
the eye they were through their wretched arrangement of
stage-scenery deprived in a great measure by the Unity of
Place. Accidental circumstances might in truth enforce a
closer observance of this rule, or even render it indispen-
sable. From a remark of Corneille's* we are led to con-
Fecture that stage-machinery in France was in his time
extremely clumsy and imperfect. It was moreover the general
custom for a number of distinguished spectators to have seats
on both sides of the stage itself, which hardly left a breadth
* In his Premier Discours sur la Poesne Dramatique he says: “Une
chanson a quelquefois bonne grace; et dans les pièces de machines cet
ornement est redevenu necessaire pour remplir les oreilles du spectateur,
Pendant que les machines descendent.” -
25 S UNITY OF TIME–THE FRENCBI POETS.
of ten paces for the free movements of the actors. Regnard,
in Le Distrait, gives us an amusing description of the noise
and disorder these fashionable petit-maitres in his day kept
up in this privileged place, how chattering and laughing
behind the backs of the actors they disturbed the spectators,
and drew away attention from the play to themselves as the
prominent objects of the stage. This evil practice continued
even down to Voltaire's time, who has the merit of having
by his zealous opposition to it obtained at last its complete
abolition, on the appearance of his Semiramis. How could
they have ventured to make a change of scene in presence of
such an unpoetical chorus as this, totally unconnected with
the piece, and yet thrust into the very middle of the repre-
sentation ? In the Cid, the scene of the action manifestly
changes several times in the course of the same act, and yet
in the representation the material scene was never changed.
In the English and Spanish plays of the same date the case
was generally the same ; certain signs, however, were agreed
on which served to denote the change of place, and the docile
imagination of the spectators followed the poet whithersoever
he chose. But in France, the young men of quality who sat
on the stage lay in wait to discover something to laugh at;
and as all theatrical effect requires a certain distance, and
when viewed too closely appears iudicrous, all attempt at
it was, in such a state of things, necessarily abandoned, and
the poet confined himself principally to the dialogue between
a few characters, the stage being subjected to all the formali-
ties of an antechamber.
And in truth, for the most part, the scene did actually
represent an antechamber, or at least a hall in the interior
of a palace. As the action of the Greek tragedies is always
carried on in open places surrounded by the abode or symbols
of majesty, so the French poets have modified their mytho-
logical materials, from a consideration of the scene, to the
manners of modern courts. In a princely palace no strong
emotion, no breach of social etiquette is allowable; and as
in a tragedy affairs cannot always proceed with pure courtesy,
every bolder deed, therefore, every act of violence, every
thing startling and calculated strongly to impress the senses,
as transacted behind the scenes, and related merely by con-
fidants or other messengers. And yet as Horace. centuries
===------ - - - - - - -
THE SCENE, AN ANTECHAMBER–HOR ACE. 257
ago remarked, whatever is communicated to the ear excites
the mind far more feebly than what is exhibited to the
trusty eye, and the spectator informs himself of What he
recommends to be withdrawn from observation is only the
incredible and the revoltingly cruel. The dramatic effect of
the visible may, it is true, beliable to great abuse; and it is
possible for a theatre to degenerate into a noisy arena of
mere bodily events, to which words and gestures may be but
superfluous appendages. But surely the opposite extreme of
allowing to the eye no conviction of its own, and always
referring to something absent, is deserving of equal reproba-
tion. In many French tragedies the spectator might well
entertain a feeling that great actions were actually taking
place, but that he had chosen a bad place to be witness of
them. It is certain that the obvious impression of a drama,
is greatly impaired when the effects, which the spectators
behold, proceed from invisible and distant causes. The con-
verse procedure of this is preferable,–to exhibit the cause
itself, and to allow the effect to be simply recounted. Vol-
taire was aware of the injury which theatrical effect sustained
from the established practice of the tragic stage in France;
he frequently insisted on the necessity of richer scenical
decorations; and he himself in his pieces, and others after his
example, have ventured to represent many things to the eye,
which before would have been considered as unsuitable, not
to say, ridiculous. But notwithstanding this attempt, and
the still earlier one of Racine in his Athalie, the eye is now
more out of favour than ever with the fashionable critics.
Wherever any thing is allowed to be seen, or an action is
performed bodily before them, they scent a melodrama;
and the idea that Tragedy, if its purity, or rather its bald
insipidity, was not watchfully guarded, would be gradually
amalgamated with this species of play, (of which a word
hereafter,) haunts them as a horrible phantom.
Voltaire himself has indulged in various infractions of the
Unity of Time ; nevertheless he has not dared directly to
attack the rule itself as unessential. He did but wish to see
a greater latitude given to its interpretation. It would, he
thought, be sufficient if the action took place within the cir-
cuit of a palace or even of a town, though in a different part
of them. In order however, to avoid a change of Scene,
TR,
------- =-------+-------+------- ======
258 VOLTAIRE: INFRACTIONS OF TIIE UNITY OF TIME.
he would have it so contrived as at once to comprise the
several localities. Here he betrays very confused ideas, both
of architecture and perspective. He refers to Palladio's
theatre at Vicenza, which he could hardly have ever seen:
for his account of this theatre, which, as we have already
observed, is itself a misconception of the structure of the
ancient stage, appears to be altogether founded on descriptions
which clearly he did not understand. In the Semiramis,
the play in which he first attempted to carry into practice his
principles on this subject, he has fallen into a singular error.
Instead of allowing the persons to proceed to various places,
he has actually brought the places to the persons The scene
in the third act is a cabinet; this cabinet, to use Voltaire's
own words, gives way (without–let it be remembered–the
queen leaving it), to a grand saloon magnificently furnished.
The Mausoleum of Ninus too, which stood at first in an
open place before the palace, and opposite to the temple of
the Magi, has also found means to steal to the side of the
throne in the centre of this hall. After yielding his spirit to
the light of day, to the terror of many beholders, and again
receiving it back, it repairs in the following act to its old place,
where it probably had left its obelisks behind. In the fifth act
we see that the tomb is extremely spacious, and provided with
subterraneous passages. What a noise would the French
critics make were a foreigner to commit such ridiculous blun-
ders. In Brutus we have another example of this running about
of the scene with the persons. Before the opening of the first
act we have a long and particular description of the scenic
arrangement: the Senate is assembled between the Capitoline
temple and the house of the Consuls, in the open air. After-
wards, on the rising of the assembly, Arons and Albin alone
remain behind, and of them it is now said: qui sont supposés
être entrés de la salle d'audience dans un autre appartement
de la maison de Brutus. What is the poet's meaning here
Is the scene changed without being empty, or does he trust
so far to the imagination of his spectators, as to require them,
against the evidence of their senses, to take for a chamber a
scene which is ornamented in quite a different style? And
how does that which in the first description is a public place
become afterwards a hall of audience? In this scenic arrange-
ment there must be either legerdemain or a bad memorv.
TIME AND UNITY OF PLACE. 259
With respect to the Unity of Place, wenay in general ob-
serve that it is often very unsatisfactorily observed, even in
comedy, by the French poets, as well as by all who follow the
same system of rules. The scene is not, it is true, changed,
but things which do not usually happen in the same place are
made to follow each other. What can be more improbable
than that people should confide their secrets to one another in a
place where they know their enemies are close athand ? or that
plots against a sovereign should be hatched in his own ante-
chamber? Great importance is attached to the principle that
the stage should never in the course of an act remain empty.
This is called binding the scenes. But frequently the rule
is observed in appearance only, since the personages of the
preceding scene go out at one door the very moment that
those of the next enter at another. Moreover, they must not
make their entrance or exit without a motive distinctly an-
nounced: to ensure this particular pains are taken; the con-
fidants are despatched on missions, and equals also are
expressly, and sometimes not even courteously, told to go out
of the way. With all these endeavours, the determinations of
the places where things take place are often so vague and con-
tradictory, that in many pieces, as a German writer* has well
said, we ought to insert under the list of the dramatis personae
–“ The scene is on the theatre."
These inconveniences arise almost inevitably from an
anxious observance of the Greek rules, under a total change
of circumstances. To avoid the pretended improbability which
would lie in springing from one time and one place to another,
they have often involved themselves in real and grave impro-
babilities. A thousand times have we reason to repeat the
observation of the Academy, in their criticism on the Cid,
respecting the crowding together so many events in the period
of twenty-four hours: “ From the fear of sinning against the
rules of art, the poet has rather chosen to sin against the rules
of nature.” But this imaginary contradiction between art and
nature could only be suggested by a low and narrow range of
artistic ideas.
I come now to a more important point, namely, to the
* Joh. Elias Schlegel, in his Gedanken zur Aufnahme des Dänischen
Theatres.
R 2
260 TREATMENT OF MYTHOLOGICAL MATERIALS.
handling of the subject-matter unsuitably to its nature and
quality. The Greek tragedians, with a few exceptions,
selected their subjects from the national mythology. The
French tragedians borrow theirs sometimes from the ancient
mythology, but much more frequently from the history of
almost every age and nation, and their mode of treating
mythological and historical subjects respectively, is but too
often not properly mythological, and not properly historical.
I will explain myself more distinctly. The poet who selects
an ancient mythological fable, that is, a fable connected by hal-
lowing tradition with the religious belief of the Greeks, should
transport both himself and his spectators into the spirit of anti-
quity; he should keep ever before our minds the simple man-
ners of the heroic ages, with which alone such violent passions
and actions are consistent and credible; his personages should
preserve that near resemblance to the gods which, from their
descent, and the frequency of their immediate intercourse with
them, the ancients believed them to possess; the marvellous
in the Greek religion should not be purposely avoided or
understated, but the imagination of the spectators should be
required to surrender itself fully to the belief of it. Instead
of this, however, the French poets have given to their mytho-
logical heroes and heroines the refinement of the fashionable
world, and the court manners of the present day; they have,
because those heroes were princes (“ shepherds of the people,"
Homer calls them), accounted for their situations and views
by the motives of a calculating policy, and violated, in every
point, not merely archaeological costume, but all the costume
of character. In Phaedra, this princess is, upon the supposed
death of Theseus, to be declared regent during the minority of
her son. How was this compatible with the relations of the
Grecian women of that day? It brings us down to the times
of a Cleopatra. Hermione remains alone, without the pro-
tection of a brother or a father, at the court of Pyrrhus, nay,
even in his palace, and yet she is not married to him. With
the ancients, and not merely in the Homeric age, marriage
consisted simply in the bride being received into the bride-
groom's house. But whatever justification of Hermione’ssitua-
tion may be found in the practice of European courts, it is not
the less repugnant to female dignity, and the more indecorous,
as Hermione is in love with the unwilling Pyrrhus, and uses
VIOLATION OF COSTUM E. 26.
every influence to incline him to marriage. What would the
Greeks have thought of this bold and indecent courtship? No
doubt it would appear equally offensive to a French audience,
if Andromache were exhibited to them in the situation in
which she appears in Euripides, where, as a captive, her
person is enjoyed by the conqueror of her country. But when
the ways of thinking of two nations are so totally different,
why should there be so painful an effort to polish a subject
founded on the manners of the one, with the manners of the
other? What is allowed to remain after this polishing pro-
cess will always exhibit a striking incongruity with that
which is new-modelled, and to change the whole is either
impossible, or in nowise preferable to a new invention. The
Grecian tragedians certainly allowed themselves a great
latitude in changing the circumstances of their myths, but
the alterations were always consistent with the general and
prevalent notions of the heroic age. On the other hand, they
always left the characters as they received them from tradi-
tion and an earlier fiction, by means of which the cunning of
Ulysses, the wisdom of Nestor, and the wrath of Achilles, had
almost become proverbial. Horace particularly insists on the
rule. But how unlike is the Achilles of Racine's Iphigenia to
the Achilles of Homer! The gallantry ascribed to him is not
merely a sin against Homer, but it renders the whole story
improbable. Are human sacrifices conceivable among a people
whose chiefs and heroes are so susceptible of the tenderest
emotions? In vain recourse is had to the powerful influences
of religion: history teaches that a cruel religion invariably
becomes milder with the softening manners of a people.
In these new exhibitions of ancient fables, the marvellous
has been studiously rejected as alien to our belief. But when
we are once brought from a world in which it was a part of
the very order of things, into a world entirely prosaical and
historically settled, then whatever marvel the poet may
exhibit must, from the insulated state in which it stands, ap-
pear only so much the more incredible. In Homer, and in
the Greek tragedians, everything takes place in the presence
of the gods, and when they become visible, or manifest them-
selves in some wonderful operation, we are in no degree
astonished. On the other hand, all the labour and art of the
modern poets, all the eloquence of their narratives, cannot
262 RACINE'S IPHIGENIA-ACHILLES.
reconcile our minds to these exhibitions. Examples are
superfluous, the thing is so universally known. Yet I cannot
help cursorily remarking how singularly Racine, cautious as
he generally is, has on an occasion of this kind involved him-
self in an inconsistency. Respecting the origin of the fable of
Theseus descending into the world below to carry off Proser-
pine for his friend Pirithöus, he adopts the historical explana-
tion of Plutarch, that he was the prisoner of a Thracian king,
whose wife he endeavoured to carry off for his friend. On
this he grounds the report of the death of Theseus, which, at
the opening of the play, was current. And yet he allows
Phaedra“ to mention the fabulous tradition as an earlier
achievement of the hero. How many women then did
Theseus wish to carry off for Pirithöus? Pradon manages
this much better: when Theseus is asked by a confidant if
he really had been in the world below, he answers, how could
any sensible man possibly believe so silly a tale! he merely
availed himself of the credulity of the people, and gave out
this report from political motives.
So much with respect to the manner of handling mytholo-
gical materials. With respect to the historical, in the first
place, the same objection applies, namely, that the French
manners of the day are substituted to those which properly
belong to the several persons, and that the characters do not
sufficiently bear the colour of their age and nation. But to
this we must add another detrimental circumstance. A
mythological subject is in its nature poetical, and ever ready
to take a new poetical shape. In the French Tragedy, as in
the Greek, an equable and pervading dignity is required, and
the French language is even much more fastidious in this
respect, as very many things cannot be at all mentioned in
French poetry. But in history we are on a prosaic domain,
and the truth of the picture requires conditions, circumstances,
and features, which cannot be given without a greater or less
descent from the elevation of the tragical cothurnus; such as
has been made without hesitation by Shakspeare, the most
perfect of historical dramatists. The French tragedians, how-
ever, could not bring their minds to submit to this, and hence
* Je l'aime, non point tel que l'ont vu les enfers,
Volage adorateur de mille objets divers,
Qui va du dieu des morts deshonorer la couche.
IDEA OF TRAGICAL DIGNITY. 263
their works are frequently deficient in those circumstances
which give life and truth to a picture; and when an obstinate
prosaical circumstance must after all be mentioned, they avail
themselves of laboured and artificial circumlocutions.
Respecting the tragic dignity of historical subjects, peculiar
principles have prevailed. Corneille was in the best way of
the world when he brought his Cid on the stage, a story of
the middle ages, which belonged to a kindred people, charac-
terized by chivalrous love and honour, and in which the
principal characters are not even of princely rank. Had this
example been followed, a number of prejudices respecting the
tragic Ceremonial would have disappeared of themselves;
Tragedy from its greater verisimilitude, and being most readily
intelligible, and deriving its motives from still current modes
of thinking and acting, would have come more home to the
heart: the very nature of the subjects would alone have
turned them from the stiff observation of the rules of tho
ancients, which they did not understand, as indeed Corneille
never deviated so far from these ruies as, in the train, nd
doubt, of his Spanish model, he does in this very piece; in
one word, the French Tragedy would have become national
and truly romantic. But I know not what malignant star
was in the ascendant: notwithstanding the extraordinary suc-
cess of his Cid, Corneille did not go one step further, and the
attempt which he made found no imitators. In the time of
Louis XIV. it was considered as a matter established beyond
dispute, that the French, nay generally the modern European
history was not adapted for the purposes of tragedy. They
had recourse therefore to the ancient universal history: be-
sides the Romans and Grecians, they frequently hunted about
among the Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, and Egyptians,
for events which, however obscure they might often be, they
could dress out for the tragic stage. Racine, according to his
own confession, made a hazardous attempt with the Turks ;
it was successful, and since that time the necessary tragical
dignity has been allowed to this barbarous people, among
whom the customs and habits of the rudest despotism and
the most abject slavery are often united in the same person,
and nothing is known of love, but the most luxurious sen-
suality; while, on the other hand, it has been refused to the
Europeans, notwithstanding that their religion, their sense of

264 CORNEILLE - TEIE CID.
honour, and their respect for the female sex, plead so power-
fully in their behalf. But it was merely modern, and more
particularly French names that, as untragical and unpoetical,
could not, for a moment, be tolerated; for the heroes of anti-
quity are with them Frenchmen in everything but the name;
and antiquity was merely a thin veil beneath which the
modern French character might be distinctly recognized.
Racines Alexander is certainly not the Alexander of history;
but if under this name we imagine to ourselves the great
Condé, the whole will appear tolerably natural. And who
does not suppose that Louis XIV. and the Duchess de la
Valliere are represented under the names Titus and Berenice?
The poet has himself flatteringly alluded to his sovereign.
Voltaire's expression is somewhat strong, when he says that in
reading the tragedies which succeeded those of Racine we
might fancy ourselves perusing the romances of Mademoiselle
Scuderi, which paint citizens of Paris under the names of
heroes of antiquity. He alluded herein more particularly to
Crebillon. Corneille and Racine, however, deeply tainted as
they were with the way of thinking of their own nation, were
still at times penetrated with the spirit of true objective
exhibition. Corneille gives us a masterly picture of the
Spaniards in the Cid, and this is conceivable enough, for he
drew his materials from the fountain-head. With the excep-
tion of the original sin of gallantry, he succeeded also pretty
well with the Romans: of one part of their character, at least,
he had a tolerable conception, their predominating patriotism,
and unbending pride of liberty, and the magnanimity of their
political sentiments. All this, it is true, is nearly the same
as we find it in Lucan, varnished over with a certain inflation
and self-conscious pomp. The simple republican austerity,
and their religious submissiveness, was beyond his reach.
Racine has admirably painted the corruptions of the Romans
of the Empire, and the first timid outbreaks of Neros
tyranny. It is true, as he himself gratefully acknowledges,
he had in this Tacitus for a predecessor, but still it is a
great merit so ably to translate history into poetry. He
had also a just perception of the general spirit of Hebrew
history; here he was guided by religious reverence, which,
in greater or less degree, the poet ought always to bring
with him to his subject. He was less successful with the
RACINE : HIS NERO–BAJAZET. 265
Turks: Bajazet makes love quite in the style of an Euro-
pean; the bloodthirsty policy of Eastern despotism is well
portrayed, it is true, in the Wizier: but the whole resembles
Turkey upside down, where the women, instead of being
slaves, have contrived to get possession of the government,
which thereupon assumes so revolting an appearance as to in-
cline us to believe the Turks are, after all, not much to blame
in keeping their women under lock and key. Neither has
Voltaire, in my opinion, succeeded much better in his Maho-
met and Zaire, throughout we miss the glowing colouring of
Oriental fancy. Voltaire has, however, this great merit, that
as he insisted on treating subjects with more historical truth,
he made it also the object of his own endeavours; andfarther,
that he again raised to the dignity of the tragical stage the
chivalrous and Christian characters of modern Europe, which
since the time of the Cid had been altogether excluded from
it. His Lusignan and Werestan are among his most truthful,
affecting, and noble creations; his Tancred, although as a
whole the invention is deficient in keeping, will always, like
his namesake in Tasso, win every heart. Alzire, in a histo-
rical point of view, is highly eminent. It is singular enough
that Voltaire, in his restless search after tragic materials, has
actually travelled the whole world over; for as in Alzire he
exhibits the American tribes of the other hemisphere, in his
Dschingiskan he brings Chinese on the stage, from the farthest
extremity of ours, who, however, from the faithful observa-
tion of their costume, have almost the stamp of comic or
grotesque figures.
Unfortunately Voltaire came too late with his projected
reformation of the theatre: much had been already ruined by
the trammels within which French Tragedy had been so long
confined; and the prejudice which gave such disproportionate
importance to the observance of external rules and proprieties
was, at it appears, established firmly and irrevocably.
Next to the rules regarding the external mechanism, which
without examination they had adopted from the ancients, the
prevailing national ideas of social propriety were the princi-
pal hindrances which impeded the French poets in the exer-
cise of their talents, and in many cases put it altogether out
of their power to reach the highest tragical effect. The Pro-
blem which the dramatic poet has to solve is to combine poetic
266 DEVELOPMENT OF FRENCH TRAGEDY
form with nature and truth, and consequently nothing ought
to be included in the former which is inadmissible by the
latter. French Tragedy, from the time of Richelieu, developed
itself under the favour and protection of the court; and even
its scene had (as already observed) the appearance of an
antechamber. In such an atmosphere the spectators might
impress the poet with the idea that courtesy is one of the
original and essential ingredients of human nature. But in
Tragedy men are either matched with men in fearful strife, or
set in close struggle with misfortune ; we can, therefore, exact
from them only an ideal dignity, for from the nice observance
of social punctilios they are absolved by their situation. So
long as they possess sufficient presence of mind not to violate
them, so long as they do not appear completely overpowered
by their grief and mental agony, the deepest emotion is not
as yet reached. The poet may indeed be allowed to take
that care for his persons which Caesar, after his death-blow,
had for himself, and make them fall with decorum. He must
not exhibit human nature in all its repulsive nakedness. The
most heart-rending and dreadful pictures must still be invested
with beauty, and endued with a dignity higher than the com-
mon reality. This miracle is effected by poetry: it has its
indescribable sighs, its immediate accents of the deepest agony,
in which there still runs a something melodious. It is only a
certain full-dressed and formal beauty, which is incompatible
with the greatest truth of expression. And yet it is exactly
this beauty that is demanded in the style of a French tragedy.
No doubt something too is to be ascribed to the quality of
their language and versification. The French language is
wholly incapable of many bold flights, it has little poetical
freedom, and it carriesintopoetry all the grammaticalstiffness
of prose. This their poets have often acknowledged and
lamented. Besides, the Alexandrine with its couplets, with its
hemistichs of equallength, is a very symmetrical and monoton-
ous species of verse, and far better adapted for the expression
of antithetical maxims, than for the musical delineation of
passion with its unequal, abrupt, and erratic course of thoughts.
But the main cause lies in a national feature, in the social
endeavour never to forget themselves in presence of others,
and always to exhibit themselves to the greatest possible advan-
tage. It has been often remarked, that in French Tragedy
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE AND VERSIFICATION. 267
the poet is always too easily seen through the discourses of
the different personages, that he communicates to them his
own presence of mind, his cool reflections on their situation,
and his desire to shine on all occasions. When most of their
tragical speeches are closely examined, they are seldom found
to be such as the persons speaking or acting by themselves
without restraint would deliver; something or other is
generally discovered in them which betrays a reference to the
spectator more or less perceptible. Before, however, our com-
passion can be powerfully excited, we must be familiar with
the persons; but how is this possible if we are always to see
them under the yoke of their designs and endeavours, or, what
is worse, of an unnatural and assumed grandeur of character?
We must overhear them in their unguarded moments, when
they imagine themselves alone, and throw aside all care and
PESETVE. v
Eloquence may and ought to have a place in Tragedy, but
in so far as it is in some measure artificial in its method and
preparation, it can only be in character when the speaker is
sufficiently master of himself; for, for overpowering passion,
an unconscious and involuntary eloquence is alone suitable.
The truly inspired orator forgets himself in the subject of his
eloquence. We call it rhetoric when he thinks less of his
subject than of himself, and of the art in which he flatters
himself he has obtained a mastery. Rhetoric, and rhetoric in
a court dress, prevails but too much in many French trage-
dies, especially in those of Corneille, instead of the suggestions
of a noble, but simple and artless nature; Racine and Vol-
taire, however, have come much nearer to the true conception
of a mind carried away by its sufferings. Whenever the
tragic herois able to express his pain in antitheses and inge-
nious allusions, we may safely reserve our pity. This sort of
conventional dignity is, as it were, a coat of mail, which pre-
vents the pain from reaching the inmost heart. On account
of their retaining this festal pomp in situations where the
most complete self-forgetfulness would be natural, Schiller has
wittily enough compared the heroes in French Tragedy to the
kings in old engravings who lie in bed, crown, sceptre,
robes and all.
This social refinement prevails through the whole of French
Literature and art. Social refinement sharpens, no doubt, the
268 OBSERVATION OF CONVENTIONAL RULES.
sense for the ludicrous, and even on that account, when it is
carried to a fastidious excess, it is the death of everything like
enthusiasm. For all enthusiasm, all poetry, has a ludicrous
aspect for the unfeeling. When, therefore, such a way of
thinking has once become universal in a nation, a certain
negative criticism will be associated with it. A thousand
different things must be avoided, and in attending to these,
the highest object of all, that which ought properly to be
accomplished, is lost sight of The fear of ridicule is the con-
science of French poets; it has clipt their wings, and impaired
their flight. For it is exactly in the most serious kind of
poetry that this fear must torment them the most; for ex-
tremes run into one another, and whenever pathos fails it
gives rise to laughter and parody. It is amusing to witness
Voltaire's extreme agony when he was threatened with a
parody of his Semiramis on the Italian theatre. In a petition
to the queen, this man, whose whole life had been passed in
turning everything great and venerable into ridicule, urges
his situation as one of the servants of the king's household, as
a ground for obtaining from high authority the prohibition of
a very innocent and allowable amusement. As French wits
have indulged themselves in turning everything in the world
into ridicule, and more especially the mental productions of
other nations, they will also allow us on our part to divert
ourselves at the expense of their tragic writers, if with all
their care they have now and then split upon the rock of
which they were most in dread. Lessing has, with the most
irresistible and victorious wit, pointed out the ludicrous nature
of the very plans of Rodogune, Semiramis, Merope, and Zaire.
But both in this respect and with regard to single laughable
turns, a rich harvest might yet begathered*. But the war which
* A few examples of the latter will be sufficient. The lines with which
Theseus in the CEdipus of Corneille opens his part, are deserving of one of
the first places:
Quelque ravage affreux qu’étale ici la peste
L'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste.
The following from his Otho are equally well known:
Dis moi donc, lorsqu' Othon s'est offert à Camille,
A-t-il paru contraint ? a-t-elle été facile ?
Son hommage aupres d'elle a-t-il euplein effet ?
Comment l'a-t-elle pris, et comment l'a-t-il fait ?
VOLTAIRE : HIS LUDICROUS INCONSISTENCIES. 269
Lessing carried on against the French stage was much more
merciless, perhaps, than we, in the present day, should be jus-
Where it is almost inconceivable, that the poet could have failed to see the
application which might be made of the passage, especially as he allows
the confidant to answer, J'ai tout vu. That Attila should treat the kings
who are dependent on him like good-for-nothing fellows:
Ils ne sont pas venus, nos deux rois; qu'on leur die
Qu'ils se fonttrop attendre, et qu' Attila s'ennuie
Qu'alors que je les mande ils doivent se häter:
may in one view appear very serious and true; but nevertheless it appears
exceedingly droll to us from the turn of expression, and especially from its
being the opening of the piece. Generally Speaking, with respect to the
ludicrous, Corneille lived in a state of great innocence; since his time the
world has become a great deal more witty. Hence, after making all allow-
ances for what he cannot justly be blamed for, what, namely, arises merely
from his language having become obsolete, we shall still find an ample field
remaining for our ridicule. Among the numerous plays which are not
reckoned among his master-pieces, we have only to turn up any one at
random to light upon numerous passages susceptible of a ludicrous appli-
cation. Racine, from the refinement and moderation which were natural
to him, was much better guarded against this danger; but yet, here and
there, expressions of the same kind escape from him. Among these we
may include the whole of the speech in which Theramenes exhorts his
pupil Hippolytus to yield himself up to love. The ludicrous can hardly be
carried farther than it is in these lines:
Craint-on de s’égarer sur les traces d' Hercule ?
Quels courages Venus n'a-t-elle pas domtés ?
Vous mème, oü seriez vous, vous qui la combattez,
Si toujours Antiope, à ses loix opposée,
D'une pudique ardeur n'eüt brülé pour Thesée ?
In Berenice, Antiochus receives his confidant, whom he had sent to an-
nounce his visit to the Queen, with the words: Arsace, entrerons-nous ?
This humble patience in an antechamber would appear even undignified in
Comedy, but it appears too pitiful even for a second-rate tragical hero.
Antiochus says afterwards to the queen:
Je me suis tü cinq ans
Madame, et vais encore me taire plus long-tems–
And to give an immediate proof of his intention by his conduct, he repeats
after this no less than fifty verses in a breath.
When Orosman says to Zaire, whom he pretends to love with European
tenderness,
Je sais que notre loi, favorable aux plaisirs
Ouvre un champ sans limite a nos vastes desirs:
his language is still more indecorous than laughable. But the answer of
270 LESSING AND TEIE FRENCH STAGE.
tified in waging. At the time when he published his Drama-
turgie, we Germans had scarcely any but French tragedies
upon our stages, and the extravagant predilection for them as
classical models had not then been combated. At present the
national taste has declared itself so decidedly against them,
that we have nothing to fear of an illusion in that quarter.
It is farther said that the French dramatists have to do
with a public not only extremely fastidious in its dislike of
any low intermixture, and highly susceptible of the ludicrous,
but also extremely impatient. We will allow them the full
enjoyment of this self-flattery: for we have no doubt that their
real meaning is, that this impatience is a proof of quickness
of apprehension and sharpness of wit. It is susceptible, how-
ever, of another interpretation: superficial knowledge, and
more especially intrinsic emptiness of mind, invariably display
themselves in fretful impatience. But however this may be,
the disposition in question has had both a favourable and an
unfavourable influence on the structure of their pieces. Fa-
vourable, in so far as it has compelled them to lop off every
superfluity, to go directly to the main business, to be perspi-
cuous, to study compression, to endeavour to turn every
moment to the utmost advantage. All these are good theatri-
cal proprieties, and have been the means of recommending the
French tragedies as models of perfection to those who in the ex-
amination of works of art, measure everything by the dry test
of the understanding, rather than listen to the voice of imagi-
nation and feeling. It has been unfavourable, in so far as
even motion, rapidity, and a continued stretch of expectation,
become at length monotonous and wearisome. It is like a
music from which the piano should be altogether excluded,
and in which even the difference between forte and fortissimo
should, from the mistaken emulation of the performers, be
rendered indistinguishable. I find too few resting-places in
Zaire to her confidante, who thereupon reminded herthat she is a Christian.
is highly comic:
Ah! que dis-tu? pourquoi rappeler mes ennuis ?
Upon the whole, however, Voltaire is much more upon his guard against
the ludicrous than his predecessors: this was perfectly natural, for in his
time the rage of turning everything into ridicule was most prevalent. We
may boldly affirm that in our days a single verse of the same kind as hun-
dreds in Corneille would inevitably ruin any play.
INFLUENCE ON THE STRUCTURE OF PIECES. 271
their tragedies similar to those in the ancient tragedies where
the lyric parts come in. There are moments in human life
which are dedicated by every religious mind to self-medita-
tion, and when, with the view turned towards the past and
the future, it keeps as it were holiday. This sacredness of
the moment is not, I think, sufficiently reverOnced: the actors
and spectators alike are incessantly hurried on to something
that is to follow; and we shall find very few scenes indeed,
where a mere state, independent of its causal connexion, is
represented developing itself. The question with them is
always what happens, and only too seldom how happens it.
And yet this is the main point, if an impression is to be made
on the witnesses of human events. Hence every thing like
silent effect is almost entirely excluded from their domain of
dramatic art. The only leisure which remains for the actor
for his silent pantomime is during the delivery of the long
discourses addressed to him, when, however, it more frequently
serves to embarrass him than assists him in the development
of his part. They are satisfied if the web of the intrigue keeps
uninterruptedly in advance of their own quickness of tact,
and if in the speeches and answers the shuttle flies diligently
backwards and forwards to the end.
Generally Speaking, impatience is by no means a good dis-
position for the reception of the beautiful. Even dramatic
poetry, the most animated production of art, has its contem-
plative side, and where this is neglected, the representation,
from its very rapidity and animation, engenders only a
deafening tumult in our mind, instead of that inward music
which ought to accompany it.
The existence of many technical imperfections in their
tragedy has been admitted even by French critics themselves;
the confidants, for instance. Every hero and heroine regularly
drags some one along with them, a gentleman in waiting or
a court lady. In not a few pieces, we may count three or
four of these merely passive hearers, who sometimes open
their lips to tell something to their patron which he must
have known better himself, or who on occasion are dispatched
hither and thither on messages. The confidants in the Greek
tragedies, either old guardian-slaves and nurses, or servants,
have always peculiar characteristical destinations, and the
ancient tragedians felt so little the want of communications
272 FALSE SYSTEM OF EXPOSITIONS
between a hero and his confidant, to make us acquainted
with the hero's state of mind and views, that they even
introduce as a mute personage so important and proverbially
famous a friend as a Pylades. But whatever ridicule was
cast on the confidants, and however great the reproach of
being reduced to make use of them, no attempt was ever
made till the time of Alfieri to get rid of them.
The expositions or statements of the preliminary situation
of things are another muisance. They generally consist of
choicely turned disclosures to the confidants, delivered in a
happy moment of leisure. That very public whose impatience
keeps the poets and players under such strict discipline, has,
however, patience enough to listen to the prolix unfolding of
what ought to be sensibly developed before their eyes. It is
allowed that an exposition is seldom unexceptionable; that in
their speeches the persons generally begin farther back than
they naturally ought, and that they tell one another what
they must both have known before, &c. If the affair is com-
plicated, these expositions are generally extremely tedious:
those of Heraclius and Rodogune absolutely make the head
giddy. Chaulieu says of Crebillon's Rhadamiste, “The piece
would be perfectly clear were it not for the exposition." To
me it seems that their whole system of expositions, both in
Tragedy and in High Comedy, is exceedingly erroneous. No-
thing can be more ill-judged than to begin at once to instruct
us without any dramatic movement. At the first drawing up
of the curtain the spectator's attention is almost unavoidably
distracted by external circumstances, his interest has not yet
been excited; and this is precisely the time chosen by the
poet to exact from him an earnest of undivided attention to
a dry explanation,–a demand which he can hardly be sup-
posed ready to meet. It will perhaps be urged that the
same thing was done by the Greek poets. But with them
the subject was for the most part extremely simple, and
already known to the spectators; and their expositions, with
the exception of the unskilful prologues of Euripides, have
not the didactic particularising tone of the French, but are
full of life and motion. How admirable again are the expo-
sitions of Shakspeare and Calderon! At the very outset they
„ay hold of the imagination; and when they have once gained
the spectators interest and sympathy they then bring forward
THEORY OF THE TRAGIC ART IN FRANCE. 273
the information necessary for the full understanding of the
implied transactions. his means is, it is true, denied to
the French tragic poets, who, if at all, are only very sparingly
allowed the use of any thing calculated to make an impres-
sion on the senses, any thing like corporeal action; and who,
therefore, for the sake of a gradual heightening of the im-
pression are obliged to reserve to the last acts the little which
is within their power.
To sum up all my previous observations in a few words:
the French have endeavoured to form their tragedy according
to a strict idea; but instead of this they have set up merely
an abstract notion. They require tragical dignity and gran-
deur, tragical situations, passions, and pathos, altogether
simple and pure, and without any foreign appendages. Stript
thus of their proper investiture, they lose much in truth, pro-
fundity, and character; and the whole composition is deprived
of the living charm of variety, of the magic of picturesque
situations, and of all those ravishing effects which a light but
preparatory matter, when left to itself, often produces on the
mind by itsmarvellous and spontaneous growth. With respect
to the theory of the tragic art, they are yet at the very same
point that they were in the art of gardening before the time of
Lenotre. All merit consisted, in their judgment, in extorting
a triumph from nature by means of art. They had no other
idea of regularity than the measured symmetry of straight
alleys, clipped edges, &c. Vain would have been the attempt
to make those who laid out such gardens to comprehend that
there could be any plan, any hidden order, in an English
park, and demonstrate to them that a succession of landscapes,
which from their gradation, their alternation, and their oppo-
sition, give effect to each other, did all aim at exciting inus
a certain mental impression.
The rooted and lasting prejudices of a whole nation are sel-
dom accidental, but are connected with some general want of
intrinsic capacities, from which even the eminent minds who
lead the rest are not exempted. We are not, therefore, to
consider such prejudices merely as causes; we must also con-
sider them at the same time as important effects. We allow
that the narrow system of rules, that a dissecting criticism
of the understanding, has shackled the efforts of the French
tragedians; still, however, it remains doubtful whether of
S
w-Tº-T- - - - - - - - - -
======-F.
274 THEORY OF THE TRAGIC ART IN FRANCE.
their own inclination they would ever have made choice
of more comprehensive designs, and, if so, in what way they
would have filled them up. The most distinguished among
them have certainly not been deficient in means and talents.
In a particular examination of their different productions we
cannot show them any favour; but, on a general view, they
are more deserving of pity than censure; and when, under
such unfavourable circumstances, they yet produce what is
excellent, they are doubly entitled to our admiration, although
we can by no means admit the justice of the common-place
observation, that the overcoming of difficulty is a source of
pleasure, nor find anything meritorious in a work of art
merely because it is artificially composed. As for the claim
which the French advance to set themselves up, in spite of all
their one-sidedness and inadequacy of view, as the lawgivers
of taste, it must be rejected with becoming indignation.
USE MADE OF THE SPANISHI THEATRE. 275
LECTURE XIX.
Use at first made of the Spanish Theatre by the French-General Cha-
racter of Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire-Review of the principal
Works of Corneille and of Racine–Thomas Corneille. and Crebillon.
I HAvE briefly noticed all that was necessary to mention
of the antiquities of the French stage. The duties of the
poet were gradually more rigorously laid down, under a
belief in the authority of the ancients, and the infallibility
of Aristotle. By their own inclination, however, the poets
were led to the Spanish theatre, as long as the Dramatic Art
in France, under a native education, had not attained its full
maturity. They not only imitated the Spaniards, but, from
this mine of ingenious invention, even borrowed largely and
directly. I do not merely allude to the earlier times under
Richelieu; this state of things continued through the whole
of the first half of the age of Louis XIV.; and Racine is per-
haps the oldest poet who seems to have been altogether unac-
quainted with the Spaniards, or at least who was in no
manner influenced by them. The comedies of Corneille are
nearly all taken from Spanish pieces; and of his celebrated
works, the Cid and Don Sancho of Aragon are also Spanish.
The only piece of Rotrou which still keeps its place on the the-
atre, Wenceslas, is borrowed from Francisco de Roxas: Molière's
unfinished Princess of Elis is from Moreto, his Don Garcia of
Wavarre from an unknown author, and the Festin de Pierre
carries its origin in its front*: we have only to look at the
works of Thomas Corneille to be at once convinced that, with
the exception of a few, they are all Spanish; as also are the
earlier labours of Quinault, namely, his comedies and tragi-
comedies. The right of drawing without scruple from this
source was so universal, that the French imitators, when they
borrowed without the least disguise, did not even give them-
selves the trouble of naming the author of the original, and
* And betrays at the same time Molière's ignorance of Spanish. For if
he had possessed even a tolerable knowledge of it, how could he have
translated El Convidado de Piedra (the Stone Guest) into the Stone
Feast, which has no meaning here, and could only be applicable to the
Feasts of Midas ?
S 2
276 VOLTAIRE–HERACLIUS–GARCIA DE LA HUERTA,
assigning to the true owner a part of the applause which they
might earn. In the Cid alone the text of the Spanish poetis
frequently cited, and that only because Corneille's claim to
originality had been called in question.
We should certainly derive much instruction from a dis-
covery of the prototypes, when they are not among the more
gelebrated, or already known by their titles, and thereupon
instituting a comparison between them and their copies. We
must, however, go very differently to work from Voltaire in
Heraclius, in which, as Garcia de la Huerta* has incontestably
proved, he displays both great ignorance and studied and dis-
gusting perversions. If the most of these imitationsgive little
pleasure to France in the present day, this decision is noways
against the originals, which must always have suffered con-
siderably from the recast. The national characters of the
French and Spanish are totally different; and consequently
also the spirit of their language and poetry. The most tem-
perate and restrained character belongs to the French; the
Spaniard, though in the remotest West, displays, what his
history may easily account for, an Oriental vein, which luxu-
Fiates in a profusion of bold images and sallies of wit. When
we strip their dramas of these rich and splendid ornaments,
when, for the glowing colours of their romance and the musical
variations of the rhymed strophes in which they are composed,
we compel them to assume the monotony of the Alexandrine,
and submit to the fetters of external regularities, while the
character and situations are allowed to remain essentially the
same, there can no longer be any harmony between the sub-
ject and its mode of treatment, and it loses that truth which
it may still retain within the domain of fancy.
The charm of the Spanish poetry consists, generally speak-
ing, in the union of a sublime and enthusiastic earnestness of
feeling, which peculiarly descends from the North, with the
lovely breath of the South, and the dazzling pomp of the
East. Corneille possessed an affinity to the Spanish spirit,
but only in the first point; he might be taken for a Spaniard
educated in Normandy. It is much to be regretted that he
had not, after the composition of the Cid, employed himself,
without depending on foreign models, upon subjects which
would have allowed him to follow altogether his feeling for
chivalrous honour and fidelity. But on the other hand he took
* In the introduction to his Theatro Hespañol.
CORNEILLE–GENERAL CHARACTER. 27-
himself to the Roman history; and the severe patriotism of
the older, and the ambitious policy of the later Romans, sup-
plied the place of chivalry, and in some measure assumed its
garb. It was by no means so much his object to excite our
terror and compassion as our admiration for the characters
and astonishment at the situations of his heroes. He hardly
ever affects us; and is seldom capable of agitating our minds.
And here I may indeed observe, that such is his partiality for
exciting our wonder and admiration, that, not contented with
exacting it for the heroism of virtue, he claims it also for the
heroism of vice, by the boldness, strength of soul, presence of
mind, and elevation above all human weakness, with which he
endows his criminals of both sexes. Nay, often his characters
express themselves in the language of ostentatious pride,
without our being well able to see what they have to be proud
of: they are merely proud of their pride. We cannot often
say that we take an interest in them: they either appear,
from the great resources which they possess within themselves,
to stand in no need of our compassion, or else they are unde-
serving of it. He has delineated the conflict of passions and
motives ; but for the most part not immediately as such, but
as already metamorphosed into a contest of principles. It is
in love that he has been found coldest; and this was because
he could not prevail on himself to paint it as an amiable weak-
ness, although he everywhere introduced it, even where most
unsuitable, either out of a condescension to the taste of the
age or a private inclination for chivalry, where love always
appears as the ornament of valour, as the checquered favour
waving at the lance, or the elegant ribbon-knot to the sword.
Seldom does he paint love as a power which imperceptibly
steals upon us, and gains at last an involuntary and irresis-
tible dominion over us; but as an homage freely chosen at
first, to the exclusion of duty, but afterwards maintaining its
place along with it. This is the case at least in his better
pieces; for in his later works love is frequently compelled to
give way to ambition; and these two springs of action mutu-
ally weaken each other. His females are generally not suffi-
ciently feminine ; and the love which they inspire is with
them not the last object, but merely a means to something
beyond. They drive their lovers into great dangers, and
Sometimes also to great crimes; and the men too often appear
to disadvantage, while they allow themselves to become mere

278 CORNEILLE-GENERAL CHARACTERs
nstruments in the hands of women, or to be dispatched by
them on heroic errands, as it were, for the sake of winning
the prize of love held out to them. Such women as Emilia
in Cinna and Rodogune, must surely be unsusceptible of love.
But if in his principal characters, Corneille, by exaggerating
the energetic and underrating the passive part of our nature,
has departed from truth; if his heroes display too much voli-
tion and too little feeling, he is still much more unnatural in
his situations. He has, in defiance of all probability, pointed
them in such a way that we might with great propriety give
them the name of tragical antitheses, and it becomes almost
natural if the personages express themselves in a series of
epigrammatical maxims. He is fond of exhibiting perfectly
symmetrical oppositions. His eloquence is often admirable
from its strength and compression; but it sometimes degene-
rates into bombast, and exhausts itself in superfluous accu-
mulations. The later Romans, Seneca the philosopher, and
Lucan, were considered by him too much in the light of
models; and unfortunately he possessed also a vein of Seneca
the tragedian. From this wearisome pomp of declamation, a
few simple words interspersed here and there, have been often
made the subject of extravagant praise”. If they stood alone
they would certainly be entitled to praise; but they are im-
mediately followed by long harangues which destroy their
effect. When the Spartan mother, on delivering the shield
to her son, used the well-known words, “This, or on this!"
she certainly made no farther addition to them. Corneille
was peculiarly well qualified to portray ambition and the lust
of power, a passion which stifles all other human feelings, and
never properly erects its throne till the mind has become a
cold and dreary wilderness. His youth was passed in the
last civil wars, and he still saw around him remains of the
feudal independence. I will not pretend to decide how much
this may have influenced him, but it is undeniable that the
sense which he often showed of the great importance of poli-
tical questions was altogether lost in the following age, and
did not make its appearance again before Voltaire. How-
ever he, like the rest of the poets of his time, paid his tribute
* For instance, the Qu'il mourüt of the old Horatius; the Soyons amis,
Cinna : also the Moi of Medea, which, we may observe in passing, is bor-
rowed from Seneca.
CORNEILLE–RACINE. 279
of flattery to Louis the Fourteenth, in verses which are now
forgotten.
Racine, who for all but an entire century has been unhesi-
tatingly proclaimed the favourite poet of the French nation,
was by no means during his lifetime in so enviable a situation,
and, notwithstanding many an instance of brilliant success,
could not rest as yet in the pleasing and undisturbed posses-
sion of his fame. His merit in giving the last polish to the
French language, his unrivalled excellence both of expression
and versification, were not then allowed ; on the stage he had
rivals, of whom some were undeservedly preferred before him.
On the one hand, the exclusive admirers of Corneille, with
Madame Sevigné at their head, made a formal party against
him; on the other hand, Pradon, a younger candidate for the
honours of the Tragic Muse, endeavoured to wrest the victory
from him, and actually succeeded, not merely, it would appear,
in gaining over the crowd, but the very court itself, notwith
standing the zeal with which he was opposed by Boileau.
The chagrin to which this gave rise, unfortunately inter-
rupted his theatrical career at the very period when his mind
had reached its full maturity: a mistaken piety afterwards
prevented him from resuming his theatrical occupations, and
it required all the influence of Madame Maintenon to induce
him to employ his talent upon religious subjects for a parti-
cular occasion. It is probable that but for this interruption,
he would have carried his art still higher: for in the works
which we have of him, we trace a gradually advancing im-
provement. He is a poet in every way worthy of our love:
he possessed a delicate susceptibility for all the tenderer emo-
tions, and great sweetness in expressing them. His mode-
ration, which never allowed him to transgress the bounds
of propriety, must not be estimated too highly: for he did
not possess strength of character in any eminent degree,
nay, there are even marks of weakness perceptible in him,
which, it is said, he also exhibited in private life. He has
also paid his homage to the sugared gallantry of his age,
where it merely serves as a show of love to connect together
the intrigue; but he has often also succeeded completely in
the delineation of a more genuine love, especially in his
female characters; and many of his love-scenes breathe a
tender voluptuousness, which, from the veil of reserve and
modesty thrown over it, steals only the more seductively into
280 RACINE-GENERAL CHARACTER.
the soul. The inconsistencies of unsuccessful passion, the wan-
derings of a mind diseased, and a prey to irresistible desire,
he has portrayed more touchingly and truthfully than any
French poet before him, or even perhaps after him. Gene-
rally speaking, he was more inclined to the elegiac and the
idyllic, than to the heroic. I will not say that he would
never have elevated himself to more serious and dignified
conceptions than are to be found in his Britannicus and Mit-
ridat, but here we must distinguish between that which his
subject suggested, and what he painted with a peculiar fond-
ness, and wherein he is not so much the dramatic artistas
the spokesman of his own feelings. At the same time, it
ought not to be forgotten that Racine composed most of his
pieces when very young, and that this may possibly have in-
fluenced his choice. He seldom disgusts us, like Corneille
and Voltaire, with the undisguised repulsiveness of unneces-
sary crimes; he has, however, often veiled much that in
reality is harsh, base, and mean, beneath the forms of polite-
ness and courtesy. I cannot allow the plans of his pieces to
be, as the French critics insist, unexceptionable; those which
he borrowed from ancient mythology are, in my opinion, the
most liable to objection; but still I believe, that with the
rules and observations which he took for his guide, he could
hardly in most cases have extricated himself from his difficul-
ties more cautiously and with greater propriety than he has
actually done. Whatever may be the defects of his produc-
tions separately considered, when we compare him with others,
and view him in connexion with the French literature in
general, we can hardly bestow upon him too high a meed of
I'3,1SG.
P A new aera of French Tragedy begins with Voltaire, whose
first appearance, in his early youth, as a writer for the theatre,
followed close upon the age of Louis the Fourteenth. I have
already, in a general way, alluded to the changes and enlarge-
ments which he projected, and partly carried into execution.
Corneille and Racine led a true artist's life: they were dra-
matic poets with their whole soul; their desire, as authors,
was confined to that object alone, and all their studies were
directed to the stage. Voltaire, on the contrary, wished to
shine in every possible department; a restless vanity permit-
ted him not to be satisfied with the pursuit of perfection
in any single walk of literature; and from the variety of sub-
THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE. 281
jects on which his mind was employed, it was impossible
for him to avoid shallowness and immaturity of ideas. To
form a correct idea of his relation to his two predecessors
in the tragic art, we must institute a comparison between the
characteristic features of the preceding classical age and of that
in which he gave the tone. In the time of Louis the Four-
teenth, a certain traditionary code of opinions on all the most
important concerns of humanity reigned in full force and
unquestioned; and even in poetry, the object was not so much
to enrich as to form the mind, by a liberal and noble enter-
tainment. But now, at length, the want of original thinking
began to be felt; however, it unfortunately happened, that
bold presumption hurried far in advance of profound inquiry,
and hence the spread of public immorality was quick followed
by a dangerous scoffing scepticism, which shook to the foun-
dation every religious and moral conviction, and the very
principles of society itself. Voltaire was by turns philoso-
pher, rhetorician, sophist, and buffoon. The want of single-
ness, which more or less characterised all his views, was irre-
concileable with a complete freedom of prejudice even as an
artist in his career. As he saw the public longing for informa-
tion, which was rather tolerated by the favour of the great than
authorised and formally approved of and dispensed by appro-
priate public institutions, he did not fail to meet their want,
and to deliver, in beautiful verses, on the stage, what no man
durst yet preach from the pulpit or the professor’s chair. He
made use of poetry as a means to accomplish ends foreign
and extrinsecal to it; and this has often polluted the artistic
purity of his compositions. Thus, the end of his Mahomet
was to portray the dangers of fanaticism, or rather, laying
aside all circumlocution, of a belief in revelation. For this
purpose, he has most unjustifiably disfigured a great historica
character, revoltingly loaded him with the most crying enor-
mities, with which he racks and tortures our feelings. Univer-
Sally known, as he was, to be the bitter enemy of Christianity,
he bethought himself of a new triumph for his vanity; in
Zaire and Alzire, he had recourse to Christian sentiments to
excite emotion: and here, for once, his versatile heart, which,
indeed, in its momentary ebullitions, was not unsusceptible of
good feelings, shamed the rooted malice of his understanding;
he actually succeeded, and these affecting and religious pas-
sages cry out loudly against the slanderous levity of his
282 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE.
petulant misrepresentations. In England he had acquired
a knowledge of a free constitution, and became an enthusiastic
admirer of liberty. Corneille had introduced the Roman
republicanism and general politics into his works, for the sake
of their poetical energy. Voltaire again exhibited them
under a poetical form, because of the political effect he
thought them calculated to produce on popular opinion. As
he fancied he was better acquainted with the Greeks than
his predecessors, and as he had obtained a slight knowledge
of the English theatre and Shakspeare, which, before him,
were for France, quite an unknown land, he wished in
like manner to use them to his own advantage.–He insisted
on the earnestness, the severity, and the simplicity of the
Greek dramatic representation; and actually in so far ap-
proached them, as to exclude love from various subjects to
which it did not properly belong. He was desirous of
reviving the majesty of the Grecian scenery; and here his
endeavours had this good effect, that in theatrical representa-
tion the eye was no longer so miserably neglected as it had
been. He borrowed from Shakspeare, as he thought, bold
strokes of theatrical effect; but here he was the least success-
ful; when, in imitation of that great master, he ventured in
Semiramis to call up a ghost from the lower world, he fell
into innumerable absurdities. In a word he was perpetually
making experiments with dramatic art, availing himself of
some new device for effect. Hence some of his works seem
to have stopt short half way between studies and finished
productions; there is a trace of something unfixed and unf-
nished in his whole mental formation. Corneille and Racine,
within the limits which they set themselves, are much more
perfect; they are altogether that which they are, and we
have no glimpses in their works of any supposed higher
object beyond them. Voltaire's pretensions are much more ex-
tensive than his means. Corneille has expressed the maxims
of heroism with greater sublimity, and Racine the natural
emotions with a sweeter gracefulness; while Voltaire, it must
be allowed, has employed the moral motives with greater
effect, and displayed a more intimate acquaintance with the
primary and fundamental principles of the human mind.
Hence, in some of his pieces, he is more deeply affecting than
either of the other two.
The first and last only of these three great masters of the
THE FRENCH TRAGIC TEHEATRE–CORNEILLE. 283.
French tragic stage can be said to be fruitful writers; and
even these can hardly be accounted so, if compared with the
Greeks. That Racine was not more prolific, was owing
partly to accidental circumstances. He enjoys this advan-
tage, however, that with the exception of his first youthful
attempts, the whole of his pieces have kept possession of the
stage, and the public estimation. But many of Corneille's
and Voltaires, even such as were popular at first, have been
since withdrawn from the stage, and at present are not even
so much as read. Accordingly, selections only from their
works, under the title of Chef-d'oeuvres, are now generally
published. It is remarkable, that few only of the many
French attempts in Tragedy have been successful. La Harpe
reckons up nearly a thousand tragedies which have been
acted or printed since the death of Racine; and of these not
more than thirty, besides those of Voltaire, have kept pos-
session of the stage. Notwithstanding, therefore, the great
competition in this department, the tragic treasures of the
French are far from ample. Still we do not feel ourselves called
upon to give a full account even of these; and still farther is.
it from our purpose to enter into a circumstantial and anato-
mical investigation of separate pieces. All that our limits
will allow us is, with a rapid pen, to sketch the character and
relative value of the principal works of those three masters,
and a few others specially deserving of mention.
Corneille brilliantly opened his career of fame with the Cid,
of which, indeed, the execution alone is his own: in the plan he
appears to have closely followed his Spanish original. As the
Cid of Guillen de Castro has never fallen into my hands,
it has been out of my power to institute an accurate com-
parison between the two works. But if we may judge from
dhe specimens produced, the Spanish piece seems written with
far greater simplicity; and the subject owes to Corneille its.
rhetorical pomp of ornament. On the other hand, we are
ignorant how much he has left out and sacrificed. All the
French critics are agreed in thinking the part of the Infanta
superfluous. They cannot see that by making a princess
forget her elevated rank, and entertain a passion for Rod-
rigo, the Spanish poet thereby distinguished him as the
flower of noble and amiable knights; and, on the other hand,
furnished a strong justification of Chimene’s loye, which
so many powerful motives could not overcome. It is true,
284 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–CORNEILLE
that to be attractive in themselves, and drily to aid the general
effect, the Infanta's passion required to be set forth more
musically, and Rodrigo's achievements against the Moors
more especially, .e, with greater vividness of detail: and pro-
bably they were so in the Spanish original. The rapturous
applause, which, on its first appearance, universaly welcomed
a piece like this, which, without the admixture of any ignoble
incentive, founded its attraction altogether on the represented
conflict between the purest feelings of love, honour, and filial
duty, is a strong proof that the romantic spirit was not
yet extinct among spectators who were still open to such
natural impressions. This was entirely misunderstood by
the learned; with the Academy at their head, they affirmed
that this subject (one of the most beautiful that ever fell
to the lot of a poet) was unfit for Tragedy; incapable of
entering historically into the spirit of another age, they made
up improbabilities and improprieties for their censure“. The
Cid is not certainly a tragedy in the sense of the ancients; and,
at first, the poet himself called it a Tragi-comedy. Would
that this had been the only occasion in which the authority
of Aristotle has been applied to subjects which do not belong
to his jurisdiction!
The Horatii has been censured for want of unity; the
murder of the sister and the acquittal of the victorious Roman
is said to be a second action, independent of the combat of the
Horatii and Curiatii. Corneille himself was talked into a
belief of it. He appears, however, to me fully justified in
what he has done. If the murder of Camilla had not made a
part of the piece, the female characters in the first act would
have been superfluous; and without the triumph of patriotism
over family ties, the combat could not have been an action,
but merely an event destitute of all tragic complication. But
the real defect, in my opinion, is Corneille representing a
public act which decided the fate of two states, as taking
place altogether intra privatos parietes, and stripping it of
every visible pomp of circumstance. Hence the great flatness
of the fifth act. What a different impression would have been
produced had Horatius, in presence of the king and people,
* Scuderi speaks even of Chimene as a monster, and off-hand dismisses
the whole, as “ ce mechant combat de l'amour et de l'honneur.” Excel-
lent! Surely he understood the romantic !
THIC FRENCEI TRAGIC TEIEATRE–CORNEILLE. 285
been solemnly condemned, in obedience to the stern mandate
of the law, and afterwards saved through the tears and la-
mentations of his father, just as Livy describes it. Moreover,
the poet, not satisfied with making, as the history does, one
sister of the Horatii in love with one of the Curiatii, has
thought proper to invent the marriage of a sister of the
Curiatii with one of the Horatii: and as in the former the
love of country yields to personal inclination, in the latter
personal inclination yields to love of country. This gives
rise to a great improbability: for is it likely that men would
have been selected for the combat who, with a well-known
family connexion of this kind, would have had the most power-
ful inducements to spare one another? Besides, the con-
queror’s murder of his sister cannot be rendered even
poetically tolerable, except by supposing him in all the boiling
impetuosity of ungovernable youth. Horatius, already a hus-
band, would have shown a wiser and milder forbearance to-
wards his unfortunate sister's language ; else were he a
ferocious savage.
Cinna is commonly ranked much higher than The Horatii;
although, as to purity of sentiment, there is here a perceptible
falling off from that ideal sphere in which the action of the
two preceding pieces moves. All is diversely complicated and
diseased. Cinna's republicanism is merely the cloak of another
passion: he is a tool in the hands of Emilia, who, on her part,
constantly sacrifices her pretended love to her passion of
revenge. The magnanimity of Augustus is ambiguous: it ap-
pears rather the caution of a tyrant grown timid through age.
The conspiracy is, with a splendid marration, thrust into the
background; it does not excite in us that gloomy apprehen-
sion which so theatrical an object ought to do. Emilia, the
soul of the piece, is called by the witty Balzac, when com-
mending the work, “ an adorable fury.” Yet the Furies
themselves could be appeased by purifications and expiations:
but Emilia's heart is inaccessible to the softening influences of
benevolence and generosity; the adoration of so unfeminine
a creature is hardly pardonable even in a lover. Hence she
has no better adorers than Cinna and Maximus, two great
villains, whose repentance comes too late to be thought
sincere.
Here we have the first specimen of that Machiavellism of
motives, which subsequently disfigured the poetry of Corneille,
286 THE FRENCH TRACITC TIHEATRE–CORNEILLE.
and which is not only repuisive, but also for the most part
both clumsy and unsuitable. He flattered himself, that in
knowledge of men and the world, in an acquaintance with
courts and politics, he surpassed the most shrewd and clear-
sighted observers. With a mind naturally alive to honour,
he yet conceived the design of taking in hand the “ doctrine
of the murderous Machiavel;” and displays, broadly and
didactically, all the knowledge which he had acquired of these
arts. He had no suspicion that a remorseless and selfish policy
goes always smoothly to work, and dexterously disguises itself.
Had he been really capable of anything of the kind, he might
have taken a lesson from Richelieu.
Of the remaining pieces in which Corneille has painted the
Roman love of liberty and conquest, the Death of Pompey is
the most eminent. It is full, however, of a grandeur which is
more dazzling than genuine; and, indeed, we could expect
nothing else from a cento of Lucan's hyperbolical antitheses.
These bravuras of rhetoric are strung together on the thread
of a clumsy plot. The intrigues of Ptolemy, and the ambi-
tious coquetry of his sister Cleopatra, have a petty and
miserable appearance alongside of the picture of the fate of
the great Pompey, the vengeance-breathing sorrow of his wife,
and the magnanimous compassion of Caesar. Scarcely has the
conqueror paid the last honours to the reluctant shade of his
rival, when he does homage at the feet of the beautiful queen;
he is not only in love, but sighingly and ardently in love. Cleo-
patra, on her part, according to the poet's own expression, is
desirous, by her love-ogling, to gain the sceptre of her brother.
Caesar certainly made love, in his own way, to a number of
women: but these cynical loves, if represented with anything
like truth, would be most unfit for the stage. Who can re-
frain from laughing, when Rome, in the speech of Caesar,
implores the chaste love of Cleopatra for young Caesar?
In Sertorius, a much later work, Corneille has contrived to
make the great Pompey appear little, and the hero ridiculous.
Sertorius on one occasion exclaims–
Que c'est un sort cruel d'aimer par politzgue !
This admits of being applied to all the personages of the piece.
In love they are not in the least; but they allow a pretended
love to be subservient to political ends. Sertorius, a hardy
and hoary veteran, acts the lover with the Spanish Queen,
THE FRENCEI TRAGIC THEATRE–CORNEILLE. 287
Viriata; he brings forward, however, pretext after pretext,
and offers himself the while to Aristia; as Viriata presses him
to marry her on the spot, he begs anxiously for a short delay;
Viriata, along with her other elegant phrases, says roundly,
that she neither knows love nor hatred; Aristia, the repu-
diated wife of Pompey, says to him, “Take me back again,
or I will marry another;" Pompey beseeches her to wait only
till the death of Sylla, whom he dare not offend: after this
there is no need to mention the low scoundrel Perpenna. The
tendency to this frigidity of soul was perceptible in Corneille,
even at an early period of his career; but in the works of his
old age it increased to an incredible degree.
In Polyeucte, Christian sentiments are not unworthily
expressed ; yet we find in it more superstitious reverence than
fervent enthusiasm for religion: the wonders of grace are
rather affirmed, than embraced by a mysterious illumination.
Both the tone and the situations in the first acts, incline
greatly, as Voltaire observes, to comedy. A woman who, in
obedience to her father, has married against her inclinations,
and who declares both to her lover (who returns when too
late) and to her husband, that “she still retains her first love,
but that she will keep within the bounds of virtue;” a vulgar
and selfish father, who is sorry that he has not chosen for his
son-in-law the first suitor, now become the favourite of the
Emperor; all this promises novery high tragical determina-
tions. The divided heart of Paulina is in nature, and con-
sequently does not detract from the interest of the piece. It
is generally agreed that her situation, and the character of
Severus, constitute the principal charm of this drama. But
the practical magnanimity of this Roman, in conquering his
passion, throws Polyeucte's self-renunciation, which appears
to cost him nothing, quite into the shade. From this a con-
clusion has been partly drawn, that martyrdom is, in general,
an unfavourable subject for Tragedy. But nothing can be
more unjust than this inference. The cheerfulness with
which martyrs embraced pain and death did not proceed from
want of feeling, but from the heroism of the highest love:
they must previously, in struggles painful beyond expression,
haye obtained the victory over every earthly tie; and by the
exhibition of these struggles, of these sufferings of our mortal
nature, while the seraph soars on its flight to heaven, the
poet may awaken in us the most fervent emotion. In Poly-
288 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–CORNEILLE.
eucte, however, the means employed to bring about the
catastrophe, namely, the dull and low artifice of Felix, by
which the endeavours of Severus to save his rival are made
rather to contribute to his destruction, are inexpressibly con-
temptible. -
How much Corneille delighted in the symmetrical and
nicely balanced play of intrigue, we may see at once from
his having pronounced Rodogune his favourite work. I shall
content myself with referring to Lessing, who has exposed
pleasantly enough the ridiculous appearance which the two
distressed princes cut, between a mother who says, “ He who
murders his mistress I will name heir to my throne," and a
mistress who says, “ He who murders his mother shall be my
husband.” The best and shortest way of going to work would
have been to have locked up the two furies together. As for
Voltaire, he is always recurring to the fifth act, which he de-
clares to be one of the noblest productions of the French stage.
This singular way of judging works of art by piecemeal,
which would praise the parts in distinction from the whole,
without which it is impossible for the parts to exist, is
altogether foreign to our way of thinking.
With respect to Heraclius, Voltaire gives himself the un-
necessary trouble of showing that Calderon did not imitate
Corneille; and, on the other hand, he labours, with little suc-
cess, to give a negative to the question whether the latter had
the Spanish author before him, and availed himself of his
labours. Corneille, it is true, gives out the whole as his own
invention; but we must not forget, that only when hard
pressed did he acknowledge how much he owed to the author
of the Spanish Cid. The chief circumstance of the plot,
namely, the uncertainty of the tyrant Phocas as to which of
the two youths is his own son, or the son of his murdered
predecessor, bears great resemblance to an incident in a drama,
of Calderon's, and nothing of the kind is to be found in
history; in other respects the plot is, it is true, altogether
different. However this may be, in Calderon the ingenious
boldness of an extra ragant invention is always preserved in
due keeping by a deeper magic colouring of the poetry;
whereas in Corneille, after our head has become giddy in
endeavouring to disentangle a complicated and ill-contrived
intrigue, we are recompensed by a succession of mere tragical
epigrams, without the slightest recreation for the fancy.
=-- - - - TF:
THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–RACINE. 28F)
Wicomedes is a political comedy, the dryness of which is
hardly in any degree relieved by the ironical tone which runs
through the speeches of the hero.
This is nearly all of Corneille's that now appears on the
stage. His later works are, without exception, merely
treatises or reasons of state in certain difficult conjunctures,
dressed out in a pompous dialogical form. We might as well
make a tragedy out of a game at chess.
Those who have the patience to wade through the forgot-
ten pieces of Corneille will perceive with astonishment that
they are constructed on the same principles, and, with the
exception of occasional negligences of style, executed with as
much expenditure of what he considered art, as his admired
productions. For example, Attila bears in its plot a striking
resemblance to Rodogune. In his own judgments on his
works, it is impossible not to be struck with the unessential
nature of things on which he lays stress; all along he seems
quite unconcerned about that which is certainly the highest
object of tragical composition, the laying open the depths of
the mind and the destiny. of man. For the unfavourable
reception which he has so frequently to confess, his self-love
can always find some excuse, some trifling circumstance to
which the fate of his piece was to be attributed.
In the two first youthful attempts of Racine, nothing
deserves to be remarked, but the flexibility with which he
accommodated himself to the limits fixed by Corneille to the
career which he had opened. In the Andromache he first
broke loose from them and became himself. He gave utter-
ance to the inward struggles and inconsistencies of passion,
with a truth and an energy which had never before been
witnessed on the French stage. The fidelity of Andromache
to the memory of her husband, and her maternal tenderness,
are affectingly beautiful: even the proud Hermione carries us
along with her in her wild aberrations. Her aversion to
Orestes, after he had made himself the instrument of her
revenge, and her awaking from her blind fury to utter help-
essness and despair, may almost be called tragically grand.
The male parts, as is generally the case with Racine, are not
so advantageously drawn. The constantly repeated threat of
Pyrrhus to deliver up Astyanax to death, if Andromache
should not listen to him, with his gallant protestations, resem-
bles the arts of an executioner, who applies the torture to his
T
290 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE-RACINE.
victim with the most courtly phrases. It is difficult to think
of Orestes, after his horrible deed, as a light-hearted and
patient lover. Not the least mention is made of the murder
of his mother; he seems to have completely forgotten it the
whole piece through; whence, then, do the Furies come all at
once at the end ? This is a singular contradiction. In short,
the way in which the whole is connected together bears too
great a resemblance to certain sports of children, where one
always runs before and tries to surprise the other.
In Britannicus, I have already praised the historical fidelity
of the picture. Nero, Agrippina, Narcissus, and Burrhus,
are so accurately sketched, and finished with such light
touches and such delicate colouring, that, in respect to
character, it yields, perhaps, to no French tragedy whatever.
Racine has here possessed the art of giving us to understand
much that is left unsaid, and enabling us to look forward into
futurity. I will only notice one inconsistency which has
escaped the poet. He would paint to us the cruel voluptuary,
whom education has only in appearance tamed, breaking
loose from the restraints of discipline and virtue. And yet,
at the close of the fourth act, Narcissus speaks as if he had
even then exhibited himself before the people as a player and
a charioteer. But it was not until he had been hardened by
the commission of grave crimes that he sunk to this ignominy.
To represent the perfect Nero, that is, the flattering and
cowardly tyrant, in the same person with the vain and fan-
tastical being who, as poet, singer, player, and almost as
juggler, was desirous of admiration, and in the agony of death
even recited verses from Homer, was compatible only with a
mixed drama, in which tragical dignity is not required
throughout.
To Berenice, composed in honour of a virtuous princess, the
French critics generally seem to me extremely unjust. It is
an idyllic tragedy, no doubt; but it is full of mental tender-
ness. No one was better skilled than Racine in throwing a
veil of dignity over female weakness.–Who doubts that
Berenice has long yielded to Titus every proof of her tender-
ness, however carefully it may be veiled over ? She is like
a Magdalena of Guido, who languishingly repents of her
repentance. The chief error of the piece is the tiresome
part of Antiochus.
On the first representation of Bajazet, Corneille, it seems,
THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–RACINE. 29 .
was heard to say, “ These Turks are very much Frenchified."
The censure, as is well known, attaches principally to the
parts of Bajazet and Atalide. The old Grand Vizier is car
tainly Turkish enough; and were a Sultana ever to becone
the Sultan, she would perhaps throw the handkerchief in the
same Sultanic manner as the disgusting Roxane. I have
already observed that Turkey, in its naked rudeness, hardly
admits of representation before a cultivated public. Racine
felt this, and merely refined the forms without changing the
main incidents. The mutes and the strangling were motives
which in a seraglio could hardly be dispensed with; and so
he gives, on several occasions, very elegant circumlocutory
descriptions of strangling. This is, however, inconsistent;
when people are so familiar with the idea of a thing, they
usually call it also by its true name.
The intrigue of Mithridate, as Voltaire has remarked, bears
great resemblance to that of the Miser of Molière. Twobro-
thers are rivals for the bride of their father, who cunningly
extorts from her the name of her favoured lover, by feigning
a wish to renounce in his favour. The confusion of both
sons, when they learn that their father, whom they had be-
lieved dead, is still alive, and will speedily make his appear-
ance, is in reality exceedingly comic. The one calls out:
Qu'avons nous fait ? This is just the alarm of school-boys,
conscious of some impropriety, on the unexpected entrance of
their master. The political scene, where Mithridates consults
hissons respecting his grand project of conquering Rome, and in
which Racine successfully competes with Corneille, is no doubt
logically interwoven in the general plan; but still it is un-
suitable to the tone of the whole, and the impression which
it is intended to produce. All the interest is centred in
Monime: she is one of Racine's most amiable creations, and
excites in us a tender commiseration. 1.
On no work of this poet will the sentence of German
readers differ more from that of the French critics and their
whole public, than on the Iphigenie.–Voltaire declares it the
tragedy of all times and all nations, which approaches as near
to perfection as human essays can; and in this opinion he is
universally followed by his countrymen. But we see in it
only a modernised Greek tragedy, of which the manners aro
inconsistent with the mythological traditions, its simplicity
destroyed by the intriguing Eriphile, and in which the amo-
T 2
292 TEHE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–RACINE.
rous Achilles, however brave in other respects his behavioux
may be, is altogether insupportable. La Harpe affirms that
the Achilles of Racine is even more Homeric than that of
Euripides. What shall we say to this? Before acquiescing
in the sentences of such critics, we must first forget the
Greeks.
Respecting Phedre I may express myself with the greater
brevity, as I have already dedicated a separate Treatise to that
tragedy. However much Racine may have borrowed from
Euripides and Seneca, and however he may have spoiled the
former without improving the latter, still it is a great advance
from the affected mannerism of his age to a more genuine tra-
gic style. When we compare it with the Phaedra of Pradon,
which was so well received by his contemporaries for no other
reason than because no trace whatever of antiquity was dis-
cernible in it, but everything reduced to the scale of a modern
miniature portrait for a toilette, we must entertain a higher
admiration of the poet who had so strong a feeling for the ex-
cellence of the ancient poets, and the courage to attach him-
self to them, and dared, in an age of vitiated and unnatural
taste, to display so much purity and unaffected simplicity.
If Racine actually said, that the only difference between his
Phaedra and that of Pradon was, that he knew how to write,
he did himself the most crying injustice, and must have al-
lowed himself to be blinded by the miserable doctrine of his
friend Boileau, which made the essence of poetry to consist in
diction and versification, instead of the display of imagina-
tion and fancy.
Racine's last two pieces belong, as is well known, to a very
different epoch of his life: they were both written at the same
instigation; but are extremely dissimilar to each other. Esther
scarcely deserves the name of a tragedy; written for the
entertainment of well-bred young women in a pious seminary,
#t does not rise much higher than its purpose. It had, how-
ever. an astonishing success. The invitation to the repre-
sentations in St. Cyr was looked upon as a court favour;
flattery and scandal delighted to discover allusions throughout
the piece; Ahasuerus was said to represent Louis XIV;
Esther, Madame de Maintenon; the proud Vasti, who is only
incidentally alluded to, Madame de Montespan; and Haman,
the Minister Louvois. This is certainly rather a profane
application of the sacred history, if we can suppose the poe:
TIIE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–RACINE. 293
to have had any such object in view. In Athalie, however,
the poet exhibited himself for the last time, before taking
leave of poetry and the world, in his whole strength. It is
not only his most finished work, but, I have no hesitation in
declaring it to be, of all French tragedies the one which, free
from all mannerism, approaches the nearest to the grand style
of the Greeks. The chorus is conceived fully in the ancient
sense, though introduced in a different manner in order to
suit our music, and the different arrangement of our theatre.
The scene has all the majesty of a public action. Expecta-
tion, emotion, and keen agitation succeed each other, and
continually rise with the progress of the drama: with a severe
abstinence from all foreign matter, there is still a display of
the richest variety, sometimes of sweetness, but more fre-
quently of majesty and grandeur. The inspiration of the
prophet elevates the fancy to flights of more than usual bold-
ness. Its import is exactly what that of a religious drama,
ought to be: on earth, the struggle between good and evil;
and in heaven the wakeful eye of providence beaming, from
unapproachable glory, rays of constancy and resolution. All
is animated by one breath–the poet's pious enthusiasm, of
whose sincerity neither his life nor the work itself allow us a.
moment to doubt. This is the very point in which so many
French works of art with their great pretensions are, never-
theless, deficient: their authors were not inspired by a fervent
love of their subject, but by the desire of external effect:
and hence the vanity of the artist is continually breaking
forth to throw a damp over our feelings.
The unfortunate fate of this piece is well known. Scruples
of conscience as to the propriety of all theatrical representa-
tions (which appear to be exclusively entertained by the Gal-
lican church, for both in Italy and Spain men of religion and
piety have thought very differently on this subject) prevented
the representation in St. Cyr; it appeared in print, and was
universally abused and reprobated; and this reprobation of it
long survived its author. So incapable of everything serious
was the puerile taste of the age.
Among the poets of this period, the younger Corneille
deserves to be mentioned, who did not seek, like his brother,
to excite astonishment by pictures of heroism so much as
to win the favour of the spectators by “ those tendernesses
which,” to use the words of Pradon, “are so agreeable." Of
294 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE-CRE BILLON.
his numerous tragedies, two, only the Comte d'Essex and
Ariadné, keep possession of the stage; the rest are consigned
to oblivion. The latter of the two, composed after the model
of Berenice, is a tragedy of which the catastrophe may, pro-
perly speaking, be said to consist in a swoon. The situation
of the resigned and enamoured Ariadne, who, after all her
Sacrifices, sees herself abandoned by Theseus and betrayed
by her own sister, is expressed with great truth of feeling.
Whenever an actress of an engaging figure, and with a sweet
voice, appears in this character, she is sure to excite our inte-
rest. The other parts, the cold and deceitful Theseus, the
intriguing Phaedra, who continues to the last her deception of
herconfiding sister, the pandering Pirithöus, and King CEnarus,
who instantly offers himself in the place of the faithless lover,
are all pitiful in the extreme, and frequently even laughable.
Moreover, the desert rocks of Naxos are here smoothed down
to modern drawing-rooms; and the princes who people them,
with all the observances of politeness seek to out-wit each
other, or to beguile the unfortunate princess, who alone
has anything like pretensions to nature.
Crebillon, in point of time, comes between Racine and Vol-
taire, though he was also the rival of the latter. A numerous
party wished to set him, when far advanced in years, on a par
with, nay, even to rank him far higher than, Voltaire. No-
thing, however, but the bitterestrancour of party, or the
utmost depravity of taste, or, what is most probable, the two
together, could have led them to such signal injustice. Far
from having contributed to the purification of the tragic art,
je evidently attached himself, not to the better, but the more
affected authors of the age of Louis the Fourteenth. In his
total ignorance of the ancients, he has the arrogance to rank
himself above them. His favourite books were the antiquated
romances of a Calprenede, and others of a similar stamp:
from these he derived his extravagant and ill-connected plots.
One of the means to which he everywhere has recourse, is the
unconscious or intentional disguise of the principal characters
under other names; the first example of which was given
in the Heraclius. Thus, in Crebillon's Electra, Orestes does
not become known to himself before the middle of the piece.
The brother and sister, and a son and daughter of AEgisthus,
are almost exclusively occupied with their double amours,
which neither contribute to, nor injure, the main action; and
THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE. 295
Clytemnestra is killed by a blow from Orestes, which, without
knowing her, he unintentionally and involuntarilyinflicts. Ho
abounds in extravagances of every kind; of such, for instance,
as the shameless impudence of Semiramis, in persisting in her
love after she has learnt that its object is her own son. A
few emptyravings and common-place displays of terror, have
gained for Crebillon the appellation of the terrible, which
affords us a standard for judging of the barbarous and affected
taste of the age, and the infinite distance from nature and
truth to which it had fallen. It is pretty much the same
as, in painting, to give the appellation of the majestic to
Coypel.
LECTURE XX-
Voltaire-Tragedies on Greek Subjects: CEdpe, Merope, Oreste–Tra-
gedies on Roman Subjects: Brute, Morte de César, Catiline, Le
Triumvirat–Earlier Pieces: Zaire, Alzire, Mahomet, Semiramis,
and Tancred.
To Voltaire, from his first entrance on his dramatic career,
we must give credit both for a conviction that higher and
more extensive efforts remained to be made, and for the zeal
necessary to accomplish all that was yet undone. How far
he was successful, and how much he was himself blinded by
the very national prejudices against which he contended, is
another question. For the more easy review of his works, it
will be useful to class together the pieces in which he handled
mythological materials, and those which he derived from the
Roman history. -
His earliest tragedy, CEdipe, is a mixture of adherence to
the Greeks“ (with the proviso, however, as may be supposed,
of improving on them,) and of compliance with the prevailing
* His admiration of them seems to have been more derived from foreign
influence than from personal study. In his letter to the Duchess of Maine,
prefixed to Oreste, he relates how, in his early youth, he had access to a
noble house where it was a custom to read Sophocles, and to make extem-
porary translations from him, and where there were men who acknowledged
the superiority of the Greek Theatre over the French. In vain, in the
present day, should we seek for such men in France, among people of any
distinction, so universally is the study of the classics depreciated.
296 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE.
manmer. The best feature of this work Voltaire owed to
Sophocles, whom he nevertheless slanders in his preface; and
in comparison with whose catastrophe his own is flat in
the extreme. Not a little, however, was borrowed from the
frigid (Edipus of Corneille; and more especially the love of
Philoctetus for Jocaste, which may be said to correspond
nearly with that of Theseus and Dirce in Corneille. Voltaire
alleged in his defence the tyranny of the players, from which
a young and unknown writer cannot emancipate himself.
We may notice the frequent allusions to priestcraft, supersti-
tion, &c., which even at that early period betray the future
direction of his mind.
The Merope, a work of his ripest years, was intended as a
perfect revival of Greek tragedy, an undertaking of so great
difficulty, and so long announced with every note of prepa-
ration. Fts real merit is the exclusion of the customary love-
scenes (of which, however, Racine had already given an ex-
ample in the Athalie), for in other respects German readers
hardly need to be told how much is not conceived in the true
Grecian spirit. Moreover the confidants are also entirely
after the old traditional cut. The other defects of the piece
have been circumstantially, and, I might almost say, too
severely, censured by Lessing. The tragedy of Merope, if
well acted, can hardly fail of being received with a certain
degree of favour. This is owing to the nature of its subject.
The passionate love of a mother, who, in dread of losing her
only treasure, and threatened with cruel oppression, still sup-
ports her trials with heroic constancy, and at last triumphs
over them, is altogether a picture of such truth and beauty,
that the sympathy it awakens is beneficent, and remains
pure from every painful ingredient. Still we must not forget
that the piece belongs only in a very small measure to Vol-
taire. How much he has borrowed from Maffei, and changed
–not always for the better–has been already pointed out by
Lessing.
Of all remodellings of Greek tragedies, Oreste, the latest,
appears the farthest from the antique simplicity and severity,
although it is free from any mixture of love-making, and all
mere confidants are excluded. That Orestes should under-
take to destroy AEgisthus is nowise singular, and seems
scarcely to merit such marked notice in the tragical annals
of the world. It is the case which Aristotle lays down as
CONCLUDING REVIEW OF HIS WORKS. 297
the most indifferent, where one enemy knowingly attacks the
other. And in Voltaire's play neither Orestes nor Electra
have anything beyond this in view: Clytemnestra is to be
spared; no oracle consigns to her own son the execution of
the punishment due to her guilt. But even the deed in
question can hardly be said to be executed by Orestes him-
self: he goes to AEgisthus, and falls, simply enough it must
be owned, into the net, and is only saved by an insurrection
of the people. According to the ancients, the oracle hadcom-
manded him to attack the criminals with cunning, as they had
so attacked Agamemnon. This was a just retaliation: to fall
in open conflict would have been too honourable a death for
AEgisthus. Voltaire has added, of his own invention, that he
was also prohibited by the oracle from making himself known
to his sister; and when carried away by fraternal love, he
breaks this injunction, he is blinded by the Furies, and invo-
luntarily perpetrates the deed of matricide. These certainly
are singular ideas to assign to the gods, and a most unex-
ampled punishment for a slight, nay, even a noble crime.
The accidental and unintentional stabbing of Clytemnestra
was borrowed from Crebillon. A French writer will hardly
venture to represent this subject with mythological truth; to
describe, for instance, the murder as intentional, and executed
by the command of the gods. If Clytemnestra were depicted
not as rejoicing in the success of her crime, but repentant and
softened by maternal love, then, it is true, her death would
no longer be supportable. But how does this apply to so
premeditated a crime? By such a transition to littleness the
whole profound significance of the dreadful example is lost.
As the French are in general better acquainted with the
Romans than the Greeks, we might expect the Roman pieces
of Voltaire to be more consistent, in a political point of view,
with historical truth, than his Greek pieces are with the
symbolical original of mythology. This is, however, the case
only in Brutus, the earliest of them, and the only one which
can be said to be sensibly planned. Voltaire sketched this
tragedy in England; he had there learned from Julius Caesar
the effect which the publicity of Republican transactions is
capable of producing on the stage, and he wished therefore to
hold something like a middle course between Corneille and
Shakspeare. The first act opens majestically; the catas-
trophe is brief but striking, and throughout the principles of
298 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE.
genuine freedom are pronounced with a grave and noble elo-
Huence. Brutus himself, his son Titus, the ambassador of the
king, and the chief of the conspirators, are admirably depicted.
I am by no means disposed to censure the introduction of love
into this play. The passion of Titus for a daughter of Tar-
quin, which constitutes the knot, is not improbable, and in its
tone harmonizes with the manners which are depicted. Still
less am I disposed to agree with La Harpe, when he says that
Tullia, to afford a fitting counterpoise to the republican vir-
tues, ought to utter proud and heroic sentiments, like Emilia
in Cinna. By what means can a noble youth be more easily
seduced than by female tenderness and modesty? It is not,
generally Speaking, natural that a being like Emilia should
ever inspire love.
The Mort de César is a mutilated tragedy: it ends with
the speech of Antony over the dead body of Caesar, borrowed
from Shakspeare; that is to say, it has no conclusion. And
what a patched and bungling thing is it in all its parts! How
Coarse-spun and hurried is the conspiracy! How stupid
Caesar must have been, to allow the conspirators to brave him
before his face without suspecting their design! That Brutus,
although he knew Caesar to be his father, nay, immediately
after this fact had come to his knowledge, should lay murder-
ous hands on him, is cruel, and, at the same time, most
un-Roman. History affords us many examples of fathers in
Rome who condemned their own sons to death for crimes of
state; the law gave fathers an unlimited power of life and
death over their children in their own houses. But the mur-
der of a father, though perpetrated in the cause of liberty,
would, in the eyes of the Romans, have stamped the parricide
an unnatural monster. The inconsistencies which here arise
from the attempt to observe the unity of place, are obvious to
the least discerning eye. The scene is laid in the Capitol;
here the conspiracy is hatched in the clear light of day, and
Caesar the while goes in and out among them. But the
persons, themselves, do not seem to know rightly where they
are; for Caesar on one occasion exclaims, “ Courons aus
Capitole /”
The same Improprieties are repeated in Catiline, which is
but a little better than the preceding piece. From Voltaire's
sentiments respecting the dramatic exhibition of a conspiracy,
which I quoted in the foregoing Lecture, we might well con-
CONCLUDING REVIEW OF EIS WORKS. 299
cludo that he had not himself a right understanding on this
head, were it not quite evident that the French system
rendered a true representation of such transactions all
but impossible, not only by the required observance of the
Unities of Place and Time, but also on account of a demand
for dignity of poetical expression, such as is quite incom-
patible with the accurate mention of particular circumstances,
on which, however, in this case depends the truthfulness of
the whole. The machinations of a conspiracy, and the en-
deavours to frustrate them, are like the underground mine
and counter-mine, with which the besiegers and the besieged
endeavour to blow up each other.–Something must be done
to enable the spectators to comprehend the art of the miners.
If Catiline and his adherents had employed no more art and
dissimulation, and Cicero no more determined wisdom, than
Voltaire has given them, the one could not have endangered
Rome, and the other could not have saved it. The piece
turns always on the same point; they all declaim against
each other, but no one acts; and at the conclusion, the affair
is decided as if by accident, by the blind chance of war.
When we read the simple relation of Sallust, it has the
appearance of the genuine poetry of the matter, and Vol-
taire's work by the side of it looks like a piece of school
rhetoric. Ben Jonson has treated the subject with a very
different insight into the true connexion of human affairs;
and Voltaire might have learned a great deal from the man
in traducing whom he did not spare even falsehood.
The Triumvirat belongs to the acknowledged unsuccessful
essays of his old age. It consists of endless declamations on
the subject of proscription, which are poorly supported by a
mere show of action. Here we find the Triumvirs quietly
sitting in their tents on an island in the small river Rhenus,
while storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes rage around them;
and Julia and the young Pompeius, although they are travel-
ling on terra firma, are depicted as if they had been just
shipwrecked on the strand; besides a number of other absur-
dities. Voltaire, probably by way of apology for the poor
success which the piece had on its representation, says, “This
piece is perhaps in the English taste.”–Heaven forbid!
We return to the earlier tragedies of Voltaire, in which ho
brought on the stage subjects never before attempted, and ot.
300 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE.
which his fame as a dramatic poet principally rests: Zare.
Alzire, Mahomet, Semiramis, and Tancred.
Zaire is considered in France as the triumph of tragic
poetry in the representation of love and jealousy. We will
not assert with Lessing, that Voltaire was acquainted only
with the legal style of love. He often expresses feeling with
a fiery energy, if not with that familiar truth and naiveté in
which an unreserved heart lays itself open. But I see no
trace of an oriental colouring in Zaire's cast of feeling:
educated in the seraglio, she should cling to the object of her
passion with all the fervour of a maiden of a glowing imagi-
nation, rioting, as it were, in the fragrant perfumes of the
East. Her fanciless love dwells solely in the heart; and
again how is this conceivable with such a character ? Oros-
man, on his part, lays claim indeed to European tenderness
of feeling; but in him the Tartar is merely varnished over,
and he has frequent relapses into the ungovernable fury and
despotic habits of his race. The poet ought at least to have
given a credibility to the magnanimity which he ascribes to
him, by investing him with a celebrated historical name,
such as that of the Saracen monarch Saladin, well known
for his nobleness and liberality of sentiment. But all our
sympathy inclines to the oppressed Christian and chivalrous
side, and the glorious names to which it is appropriated.
What can be more affecting than the royal Inartyr Lusignan,
the upright and pious Nerestan, who, though in the fire of
youth, has no heart for deeds of bloody enterprise except
to redeem the associates of his faith ? The scenes in which
these two characters appear are uniformly excellent, and
more particularly the whole of the second act. The idea of
connecting the discovery of a daughter with her conversion
can never be sufficiently praised. But, in my opinion, the
great effect of this act is injurious to the rest of the piece.
Does any person seriously wish the union of Zaire with Oros-
man, except lady spectators flattered with the homage which
is paid to beauty, or those of the male part of the audience
who are still entangled in the follies of youth ? Who else
can go along with the poet, when Zaires love for the Sultan,
so ill-justified by his acts, balances in her soul the voice of
blood, and the most sacred claims of filial duty, honour, and
religion ?
CONCLUDING REVIEW OF EIIS WORKS 301
It was a praiseworthy daring (such singular prejudices
then prevailed in France) to exhibit French heroes in Zaire.
In Alzire Voltaire went still farther, and treated a subject in
modern history never yet touched by his countrymen. In
the former piece he contrasted the chivalrous and Saracenic
way of thinking; in this we have Spaniards opposed to
Peruvians. The difference between the old and new world
has given rise to descriptions of a truly poetical nature.
Though the action is a pure invention, I recognise in this
piece more historical and more of what we may call sym-
bolical truth, than in most French tragedies. Zamor is a.
representation of the Savage in his free, and Monteze in his
subdued state; Guzman, of the arrogance of the conqueror;
and Alvarez, of the mild influence of Christianity. Alzire
remains between these conflicting elements in an affecting
struggle betwixt attachment to her country, its manners, and
the first choice of her heart, on the one part, and new ties of
honour and duty on the other. All the human motives speak
in favour of Alzire's love, which were against the passion of
Zaire. The last scene, where the dying Guzman is dragged
in, is beneficently overpowering. The noble lines on the
difference of their religions, by which Zamor is converted by
Guzman, are borrowed from an event in history: they are
the words of the Duke of Guise to a Huguenot who wished
to kill him; but the glory of the poet is not therefore less in
applying them as he has done. In short, notwithstanding
the improbabilities in the plot, which are easily discovered,
and have often been censured, Alzire appears to be the most
fortunate attempt, and the most finished of all Voltaire's com-
positions.
In Mahomet, want of true singleness of purpose has fear-
fully avenged itself on the artist. He may affirm as much as
he pleases that his aim was directed solely against fanati-
cism ; there can be no doubt that he wished to overthrow the
belief in revelation altogether, and that for that object he
considered every means allowable. We have thus a work
which is productive of effect; but an alarmingly painful
effect, equally repugnant to humanity, philosophy, and reli-
gious feeling. The Mahomet of Voltaire makes two innocent
young persons, a brother and sister, who, with a childlike
reverence, adore him as a messenger from God, unconsciously
murder their own father, and this from the motives of an
302 THE FRENCH TRAGIC THEATRE–VOLTAIRE.
uncestuous love in which, by his allowance, they had also
become unknowingly entangled; the brother, after he has
blindly executed his horrible mission, he rewards with poison,
and the sister he reserves for the gratification of his own vile
lust. This tissue of atrocities, this cold-blooded delight in
wickedness, exceeds perhaps the measure of human nature;
but, at all events, it exceeds the bounds of poetic exhibition,
even though such a monster should ever have appeared in the
course of ages. But, overlooking this, what a disfigurement,
nay, distortion, of history! He has stripped her, too, of her
wonderful charms; not a trace of oriental colouring is to be
found. Mahomet was a false prophet, but one certainly
under the inspiration of enthusiasm, otherwise he would never
by his doctrine have revolutionized the half of the world.
What an absurdity to make him merely a cool deceiver!
One alone of the many sublime maxims of the Koran would
be sufficient to annihilate the whole of these incongruous
inventions.
Semiramis is a motley patchwork of the French manner
and mistaken imitätions. It has something of Hamlet, and
something of Clytemnestra and Orestes, but nothing of any of
them as it ought to be. The passion for an unknown son is
borrowed from the Semiramis of Crebillon. The appearance
of Ninus is a mixture of the Ghost in Hamlet and the shadow
of Darius in AEschylus. That it is superfluous has been
admitted even by the French critics. Lessing, with his rail-
lery, has scared away the Ghost. With a great many faults
common to ordinary ghost-scenes, it has this peculiar one,
that its speeches are dreadfully bombastic. Notwithstanding
the great zeal displayed by Voltaire against subordinate love
intrigues in tragedy, he has, however, contrived to exhibit
two pairs of lovers, the partie carrée as it is called, in this
play, which was to be the foundation of an entirely new
species.
Sº see the Cid, no French tragedy had appeared of which
the plot was founded on such pure motives of honour and love
without any ignoble intermixtures, and so completely conse-
crated to the exhibition of chivalrous sentiments, as Tancred.
Amenaide, though honour and life are at stake, disdains to
exculpate herself by a declaration which would endanger her
lover; and Tancred, though justified in esteeming her faith
less, defends her in single combat, and, in despair, is about to
CONCLUDING REVIEW OF HIS WORKS. 303
seek a hero's death, when the unfortunate mistake is cleared
up. So far the piece is irreproachable, and deserving of the
greatest praise. But it is weakened by other imperfections.
It is of great detriment to its perspicuity, that we are not at
the very first allowed to hear the letter without superscription
which occasions all the embarrassment, and that it is not sent
offbefore our eyes. The political disquisitions in the first act
are extremely tedious; Tancred does not appear till the third
act, though his presence is impatiently looked for, to give ani-
mation to the scene. The furious imprecations of Amenaide,
at the conclusion, are not in harmony with the deep but soft
emotion with which we are overpoweréd by the reconciliation
of the two Iovers, whose hearts, after so long a mutual mis-
understanding, are reunited in the moment of separation by
death.
In the earlier piece of the Orphelin de la Chine, it might
be considered pardonable if Voltaire represented the great
Dschingis-kan in love. This drama ought to be entitled The
Conquest of China, with the conversion of the cruel Khan
of Tartary, &c. Its whole interest is concentrated in two
children, who are never once seen. The Chinese are repre-
sented as the most wise and virtuous of mankind, and they
overflow with philosophical maxims. As Corneille, in his old
age, made one and all of his characters politicians, Voltaire in
like manner furnished his out with philosophy, and availed
himself of them to preach up his favourite opinions. He was
not deterred by the example of Corneille, when the power of
representing the passions was extinct, from publishing a host
of weak and faulty productions.
Since the time of Voltaire the constitution of the French
stage has remained nearly the same. No genius has yet
arisen sufficiently mighty to advance the art a step farther,
and victoriously to refute, by success, their time-strengthened
prejudices. Many attempts have been made, but they gene-
rally follow in the track of previous essays, without sur-
passing them. The endeavour to introduce more historical
extent into dramatic composition is frustrated by the tra-
ditional limitations and restraints. The attacks, both theo-
retical and practical, which have been made in France itself
on the prevailing system of rules, will be most suitably
noticed and observed upon when we come to review the
present condition of the French stage, after considering their
B 04 SUBSEQUENT CONSTITUTION OF THE FRENCH STAGE.
Comedy and the other secondary kinds of dramatic works,
since in these attempts have been made either to found new
species, or arbitrarily to overturn the classification hitherto
established.
LECTURE XXI.
French Comedy-Molière-Criticism of his Works–Scarron, Bcursault,
Regnard; Comedies in the Time of the Regency; Marivaux and Des-
touches; Piron and Gresset–Later Attempts–The Heroic Opera:
Quinault-Operettes and Vaudevilles–Diderot’s attempted Change of
the Theatre-The Weeping Drama-Beaumarchais–Melo-Dramnas–
Merits and Defects of the Histrionic Art.
THE same system of rules and proprieties, which, as I have
endeavoured to show, must inevitably have a narrowing influ-
ence on Tragedy, has, in France, been applied to Comedy much
more advantageously. For this mixed species of composition
has, as already seen, an unpoetical side; and some degree of
artificial constraint, if not altogether essential to Comedy, is
certainly beneficial to it; for if it is treated with too negli-
gent a latitude, it runs a risk, in respect of general structure,
of falling into shapelessness, and in the representation of indi-
vidual peculiarities, of sinking into every-day common-place.
In the French, as well as in the Greek, it happens that the
same syllabic measure is used in Tragedy and Comedy, which,
on a first view, may appear singular. But if the Alexandrine
did not appear to us peculiarly adapted to the free imitative
expression of pathos, on the other hand, it must be owned that
a comical effect is produced by the application of so symme-
trical a measure to the familiar turns of dialogue. Moreover,
the grammatical conscientiousness of French poetry, which is so
greatly injurious in other species of the drama, is fully suited
to Comedy, where the versification is not purchased at the
expense of resemblance to the language of conversation, where
it is not intended to elevate the dialogue by sublimity and
dignity above real life, but merely to communicate to it
greater ease and lightness. Hence the opinion of the French,
who hold a comedy in verse in much higher estimation than a
comedy in prose, seems to me to admit fairly of a justification,
FRENCEI COMEDY. * 305
I endeavoured to show that the Unities of Place and Time
are inconsistent with the essence of many tragical Subjects,
because a comprehensive action is frequently carried on in
distant places at the same time, and because great determina-
tions can only be slowly prepared. This is not the case in
Comedy: here Intrigue ought to prevail, the active Spirit of
which quickly hurries towards its object; and hence the unity
of time may here be almost naturally observed. The domestic
and social circles in which Comedy moves are usually assem-
bled in one place, and, consequently, the poet is not under the
necessity of sending our imagination abroad: only it might
perhaps have been as well not to interpret the unity of place
so very strictly as not to allow the transition from one room
to another, or to different houses of the same town. The
choice of the street for the scene, a practice in which the
Latin comic writers were frequently followed in the earlier
times of Modern Comedy, is quite irreconcileable with our way
of living, and the more deserving of censure, as in the case of
the ancients it was an inconvenience which arose from the
construction of their theatre.
According to French critics, and the opinion which has
become prevalent through them, Molière alone, of all their
comic writers, is classical; and all that has been done since
his time is merely estimated as it approximates more or less
to this supposed pattern of an excellence which can never be
surpassed, nor even equalled. Hence we shall first proceed to
characterize this founder of the French Comedy, and then
give a short sketch of its subsequent progress.
Molière has produced works in so many departments, and
of such different value, that we are hardly able to recognize
the same author in all of them; and yet it is usual, when
speaking of his peculiarities and merits, and the advance
which he gave to his art, to throw the whole of his labours
into one mass together.
Born and educated in an inferior rank of life, he enjoyed
the advantage of learning by direct experience the modes of
living among the industrious portion of the community-the
so-called Bourgeois class–and of acquiring the talent of imi-
tating low modes of expression. At an after period, when
Louis Xl V. took him into his service, he had opportunities,
although from a subordinate station, of narrowly observing
the court. He was an actor, and, it would appear, of pecn-
U
f
-
306 FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE.
Ilar power in overcharged and farcical comic parts; so little
was he possessed with prejudices of personal dignity, that he
renounced all the conditions by which it was accompanied,
and was ever ready to deal out, or to receive the blows which
were then so frequent on the stage. Nay, his mimetic zealwent
so far, that, actually sick, he acted and drew his last breath in
representing his Imaginary Invalid (Le Malade Imaginaire),
and became, in the truest sense, a martyr to the laughter of
others. His business was to invent all manner of pleasant
entertainments for the court, and to provoke “ the greatest
monarch of the world" to laughter, by way of relaxation from
his state affairs or warlike undertakings. One would think,
on the triumphant return from a glorious campaign, this
might have been accomplished with more refinement than by
the representation of the disgusting state of an imaginary
invalid. But Louis XIV. was not so fastidious; he was very
well content with the buffoon whom he protected, and even
occasionally exhibited his own elevated person in the dances
of his ballets. This external position of Molière was the
cause why many of his labours had their originas mere occa-
sional pieces in the commands of the court. And, accordingly,
they bear the stamp of that origin. Without travelling out
of France, he had opportunities of becoming acquainted with
the lazzis of the Italian comic masks on the Italian theatre
at Paris, where improvisatory dialogues were intermixed
with scenes written in French: in the Spanish comedies he
studied the ingenious complications of intrigue: Plautus and
Terence taught him the salt ofthe Attic wit, the genuine tone
of comic maxims, and the nicer shades of character. All this
he employed, with more or less success, in the exigency of the
moment, and also in order to deck out his drama in a sprightly
and variegated dress, made use of all manner of means,
however foreign to his art: such as the allegorical opening
scenes of the opera prologues, musical intermezzos, in which
he even introduced Italian and Spanish national music, with
texts in their own language; ballets, at one time sumptuous,
and at another grotesque; and even sometimes mere vaulting
and capering. He knew how to turn everything to profit:
the censure passed upon his pieces, the defects of rival actors
imitated to the life by himself and his company, and even the
embarrassment in not being able to produce a theatrical enter-
tainment as quickly as it was required by the king,–allbecame
*
FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE. 307
for him a matter for amusement. The pieces he borrowed
from the Spanish, his pastorals and tragi-comedies, calculated
merely to please the eye, and also three or four of his earlier
comedies, which are even versified, and consequently carefully
laboured, the critics give up without more ado. But even in
the farces, with or without ballets, and intermezzos, in which
the overcharged, and frequently the self-conscious and arbi-
trary comic of buffoonery prevails, Molière has exhibited an
inexhaustible store of excellent humour, scattered capital
jokes with a lavish hand, and drawn the most amusing cari-
catures with a bold and vigorous pencil. All this, however,
had been often done before his time; and I cannot see how, in
this department, he can stand alone, as a creative and alto-
gether original artist: for example, is Plautus braggadocio
soldier less meritorious in grotesque characterization than the
Bourgeois Gentilhomme ? We shall immediately examine
briefly whether Molière has actually improved the pieces
which he borrowed, in whole or in part, from Plautus and
Terence. When we bear in mind that in these Latin authors
we have only a faint and faded copy of the new Attic Comedy,
we shall then be enabled to judge whether he would have
been able to surpass its masters had they come down to us.
Many of his shifts and inventions, I am induced to suspect,
are borrowed; and I am convinced that we should soon dis-
cover the sources, were we to search into the antiquities of
farcical literature”. Others are so obvious, and have so often
been both used and abused, that they may in some measure
be considered as the common stock of Comedy. Such is the
scene in the Malade Imaginaire, where the wife's love is put
to the test by the supposed death of the husband–an old
joke, which our Hans Sachs has handled drolly enough†.
We have an avowal of Molière's, which plainly shows he
entertained no very great scruples of conscience on the sin of
* The learnea Tiraposchi (Stora della Letteratura Italiana, Lib. III.
§ 25) attests this in very strong language: “ Moliere,” says he, “ has
made so much use of the Italian comic writers, that were we to take from
him all that he has taken from others, the volumes of his comedies would
be very much reduced in bulk.”
† I know not whether it has been already remarked, that the idea on
which the Mariage Forcé is founded is borrowed from Rabelais; who
makes Panurge enter upon the very same consultation as to his future
marriage, and receive from Pantagruel just such a sceptical answer as
Sganarelle does from the second philosopher.
U 2
308 FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE.
plagiarism. In the undignified relations amidst which he
lived, and in which everything was so much calculated for
dazzling show, that his very name did not legally belong to
him, we see less reason to wonder at all this.
And even when in his farcical pieces Molière did not lean
on foreign invention, he still appropriated the comic manners
of other countries, and more particularly the buffoonery of
Italy. He wished to introduce a sort of masked character
without masks, who should constantly recur with the same
name. They did not, however, succeed in becoming properly
domiciliated in France; because the flexible national charac-
ter of the French, which so nimbly imitates every varying
mode of the day, is incompatible with that odd originality of
exterior to which in other nations, where all are not modelled
alike by the prevailing social tone, humorsome and singular
individuals carelessly give themselves up. As the Sgana-
relles, Mascarilles, Scapins, and Crispins, must be allowed to
etain their uniform, that everything like consistency may
not be lost, they have become completely obsolete on the
stage. The French taste is, generally speaking, little in-
clined to the self-conscious and arbitrary comic, with its droll
exaggerations, even because these kinds of the comic speak
more to the fancy than the understanding. We do not mean
to censure this, nor to quarrel about the respective merits of
the different species. The low estimation in which the former
are held may perhaps contribute the more to the success of
the comic of observation, And, in fact, the French comic
writers have here displayed a great deal of refinement and in-
genuity: in this lies the great merit of Molière, and it is cer-
tainly very eminent. Only, we would ask, whether it is of such
a, description as to justify the French critics, on account of
some half a dozen of so-called regular comedies of Molière, im
holding in such infinite contempt as they do a.l the rich stores
of refined and characteristic delineation which other nations
possess, and in setting up Molière as the unrivalled Genius of
Comedy.
If the praise bestowed by the French on their tragic writers
be, both from national vanity and from ignorance of the men-
ta productions of other nations, exceedingly extravagant; so
their praises of Molière are out of all proportion with their sub-
ject. Voltaire calls him the Father of Genuine Comedy; and
this may be true enough with respect to France. According
FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE. 309
ko La Harpe, Comedy and Molière are synonymous terms; he
is the first of all moralphilosophers, his works are the school
of the world. Chamfort terms him the most amiable teacher
of humanity since Socrates; and is of opinion that Julius
Caesar who called Terence a half Menander, would have called
Menander a half Molière.–I doubt this.
The kind of moral which we may in general expect from
Comedy I have already shown: it is an applied doctrine of
ethics, the art of life. In this respect the higher comedies of
Molière contain many admirable observations happily ex-
pressed, which are still in the present day applicable; others
are tainted with the narrowness of his own private opinions,
or of the opinions which were prevalent in his age. In this
sense Menander was also a philosophical comic writer; and
we may boldly place the moral maxims which remain of his
by the side at least of those of Molière. But no comedy is
constructed of mere apophthegms. The poet must be a moral-
ist, but his personages cannot always be moralizing. And
here Molière appears to me to have exceeded the bounds of
propriety: he gives us in lengthened disquisitions the pro and
con of the character exhibited by him; nay, he allows these
to consist, in part, of principles which the persons themselves
defend against the attacks of others. Now this leaves nothing
to conjecture; and yet the highest refinement and &elicacy
of the comic of observation consists in this, that the characters
disclose themselves unconsciously by traits which involun-
tarily escape from them. To this species of comic element, the
way in which Oronte introduces his sonnet, Orgon listens to
the accounts respecting Tartuffe and his wife, and Vadius and
Trissotin fall by the ears, undoubtedly belongs; but the end-
less disquisitions of Alceste and Philinte as to the manner in
which we ought to behave amid the falsity and corruption of
the world do not in the slightest respect belong to it. They
are serious, and yet they cannot satisfy us as exhausting the
subject; and as dialogues which at the end leave the charac-
ters precisely at the same point as at the beginning, they are
devoid in the necessary dramatic movement. Such argumen-
tative disquisitions which lead to nothing are frequent in all
the most admired pieces of Molière, and nowhere more than
in the Misanthrope. Hence the action, which is also poorly
invented, is found to drag heavily; for, with the exception
Df a few scenes of a more sprightly description, it consists
altogether of discourses formally introduced and supported,
Z1 () FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE.
ºhile the stagnation is only partially concealed by the ard
employed on the details of versification and expression. In a
word, these pieces are too didactic, too expressly instructive;
whereas in Comedy the spectator should only be instructed
incidentally, and, as it were, without its appearing to have
been intended.
Before we proceed to consider more particularly the pro-
ductions which properly belong to the poet himself, and are
acknowledged as master-pieces, we shall offer a few observa-
tions on his imitations of the Latin comic writers.
The most celebrated is the Avare. The manuscripts of the
Aulularia of Plautus are unfortunately mutilated towards the
end; but yet we find enough in them to excite our admi-
ration. From this play Molière has merely borrowed a few
scenes and jokes, for his plot is altogether different. In Plau-
tus it is extremely simple: his Miser has found a treasure,
which he anxiously watches and conceals. The suit of a rich
bachelor for his daughter excites a suspicion that his wealth
is known. The preparations for the wedding bring strange
servants and cooks into his house; he considers his pot of gold
no longer secure, and conceals it out of doors, which gives an
opportunity to a slave of his daughter’s chosen lover, sent to
glean tidings of her and her marriage, to steal it. Without
doubt the thief must afterwards have been obliged to make
restitution, otherwise the piece would end in too melancholy
a manner, with the lamentations and imprecations of the old
man. The knot of the love intrigue is easily untied: the
young man, who had anticipated the rights of the marriage
state, is the nephew of the bridegroom, who willingly re-
nounces in his favour. All the incidents serve merely to lead
the miser, by a gradually heightening series of agitations and
alarms, to display and expose his miserable passion. Mo-
lière, on the other hand, without attaining this object, puts a.
complicated machine in motion. Here we have a lover of the
daughter, who, disguised as a servant, flatters the avarice
of the old man; a prodigal son, who courts the bride of his
father; intriguing servants; an usurer; and after all a disco-
very at the end. The love intrigue is spun out in a very
clumsy and every-day sort of manner; and it has the effect of
making us at different times lose sight altogether of Har-
pagon. Several scenes of a good comic description are merely
subordinate, and do not, in a true artistic method, arise neces-
sarily out of the thing itself. Molière has accumulated, as it
FRENCEI COMEDY–MOLIERE. 31.
were, all kinds of avarice in one person; and yet the miser
who buries his treasures and he who lends on usury can
hardly be the same. Harpagon starves his coach-horses: but
why has he any? This would apply better to a man who,
with a disproportionate income, strives to keep up a certain
Yppearance of rank. Comic characterization would soon be at
nend were there really only one universal character of the
miser. The most important deviation of Molière from Plau-
tus is, that while the one paints merely a person who watches
over his treasure, the other makes his miser in love. The
love of an old man is in itself an object of ridicule; the
anxiety of a miser is no less so. We may easily see that when
we unite with avarice, which separates a man from others and
withdraws him within himself, the sympathetic and liberal
passion of love, the union must give rise to the most harsh
contrasts. Avarice, however, is usually a very good preser-
vative against falling in love. Where then is the more refined
characterization; and as such a wonderful noise is made about
it, where shall we here find the more valuable moral instruc-
tion –in Plautus or in Molière ? A miser and a super-
annuated lover may both be present at the representation of
Harpagon, and both return from the theatre satisfied with
themselves, while the miser says to himself, “ I am at least not
in love;" and the lover, “ Well, at all events I am not a
miser.” High Comedy represents those follies which, however
striking they may be, are reconcilable with the ordinary
course of things; whatever forms a singular exception, and is
only conceivable amid an utter perversion of ideas, belongs to
the arbitrary exaggeration of farce. Hence since (and it
was undoubtedly the case long before) the time of Molière, the
enamoured and avaricious old man has been the peculiar com-
mon-place of the Italian masked comedy and opera buffa,
to which in truth it certainly belongs. Molière has treated
the main incident, the theft of the chest of gold, with an un-
common want of skill. At the very beginning Harpagon,
in a scene borrowed from Plautus, is fidgetty with suspicions
lest a slave should have discovered his treasure. After this
heforgets it; for four whole acts there is not a word about it,
and the spectator drops, as it were, from the clouds when the
servant all at once brings in the stolen coffer; for we have no
information as to the way in which he fell upon the treasure
which had been so carefully concealed. Now this is really to
312 FRENCH COMEDY– MOLTERE-
begin again, not truly to work out. But Plautus has here
shown a great deal of ingenuity: the excessive anxiety of the
old man for his pot of gold, and all that he does to save it, are
the very cause of its loss. The subterraneous treasure is
always invisibly present; it is, as it were, the evil spirit
which drives its keeper to madness. In all this we have an
impressive moral of a very different kind. In Harpagon's
soliloquy, after the theft, the modern poet has introduced the
most incredible exaggerations. The calling on the pit to dis-
cover the theft, which, when well acted, produces so great an
effect, is a trait of the old comedy of Aristophanes, and may
serve to give us some idea of its powers of entertainment.
The Amphitryon is hardly anything more than a free imita-
tion of the Latin original. The whole plan and order of the
scenes is retained. The waiting-woman, or wife of Sosia, is
the invention of Molière. The parody of the story of the
master's marriage in that of the servant is ingenious, and
gives rise to the most amusing investigations on the part of
Sosia to find out whether, during his absence a domestic bless-
ing may not have also been conferred on him as well as on
Amphitryon. The revolting coarseness of the old mytho-
logical story is refined as much as it possibly could without
injury to its spirit and boldness; and in general the execution
is extremely elegant. The uncertainty of the personages
respecting their own identity and duplication is founded on a
sort of comic metaphysics: Sosia's reflections on his two egos,
which have cudgelled each other, may in reality furnish mate-
rials for thinking to our philosophers of the present day.
The most unsuccessful of Molière'simitations of the ancients
is that of the Phormio in the Fourberies de Scapin. The whole
plot is borrowed from Terence, and, by the addition of a
second invention, been adapted, well or ill, or rather tortured,
to a consistency with modern manners. The poet has indeed
gone very hurriedly to work with his plot, which he has
most negligently patched together. The tricks of Scapin, for
the sake of which he has spoiled the plot, occupy the foremost
place: but we may well ask whether they deserve it? The
Grecian Phormio, a man who, for the sake of feasting with
young companions, lends himself to all sorts of hazardous
tricks, is an interesting and modest knave; Scapin directly
the reverse. He had no cause to boast so much of his tricks:
they are so stupidly planned that in justice they ought not to
FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE 313
ilave succeeded. Even supposing the two old men to be obtuse
and brainless in the extreme, we can hardly conceive how they
could so easily fall into such a clumsy and obvious Snare as
ne lays for them. It is also disgustingly improbable that
Zerbinette, who as a gipsy ought to have known how to con
ceal knavish tricks, should run out into the street and tell the
first stranger that she meets, who happens to be none other
than Geronte himself, the deceit practised upon him by Sca-
pin. The farce of the sack into which Scapin makes Geronte
to crawl, then bears him off, and cudgels him as if by the hand
of strangers, is altogether a most inappropriate excrescence.
Boileau was therefore well warranted in reproaching Molière
with having shamelessly allied Terence to Taburin, (the
merry-andrew of a mountebank). In reality, Molière has
here for once borrowed, not, as he frequently did, from the
Italian masks, but from the Pagliasses of the rope-dancers and
vaulters.
We must not forget that the Rogueres of Scapin is one of
the latest works of the poet. This and several others of the
same period, as Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, La Comtesse d'Es-
carbagnas, and even his last, the Malade Imaginaire, suffi-
ciently prove that the maturity of his mind as an artist did
not keep pace with the progress of years, otherwise he would
have been disgusted with such looseproductions. They serve,
moreover, to show that frequently he brought forth pieces
with great levity and haste, even when he had full leisure to
think of posterity. If he occasionally subjected himself to
stricter rules, we owe it more to his ambition, and his desire
to be numbered among the classical writers of the golden age,
than to any internal and growing aspiration after the highest
excellence.
The high claims already mentioned, which the French critics
make in behalf of their favourite, are principally founded on
the Ecole des Femmes, Tartuffe, Le Misanthrope, and Les Fem-
mes Savantes, pieces which are certainly finished with great
care and diligence. Now, of these, we must expressly state
in the outset, that we leave the separate beauties of language
and versification altogether to the decision of native critics.
These merits can only be subordinate requisites; and the un-
due stress which is laid in France on the manner in which a
piece is written and versified has, in our opinion, been both in
Tragedy and Comedy injurious to the development of other
314 FRENCIT COMIEDY–MO LIERE.
and more essential requisites of the dramatic art. We shall
confine our exceptions to the general spirit and plan of
these comedies.
L'Ecole des Femmes, the earliest of them, seems to me also
the most excellent; it is the one in which there is the greatest
display of vivacious humour, rapidity, and comicvigour. As
to the invention: a man arrived at an age unsuitable for wed-
lock, purposely educating a young girl in ignorance and sim-
plicity, that he may keep her faithful to himself, while
everything turns out the very reverse of his wishes, was not
a new one: a short while before Molière it had been employed
by Scarron, who borrowed it from a Spanish novel. Still,
it was a lucky thought in him to adapt this subject to the
stage, and the execution of it is most masterly. Here we
have a real and very interesting plot; no creeping investiga-
tions which do not carry forward the plot; all the matter is
of one piece, without foreign lovers and accidental inter-
mixtures, with the exception of the catastrophe, which is
brought about somewhat arbitrarily, by means of a scene
of recognition. The naive confessions and innocent devices of
Agnes are full of sweetness; they, together with the un-
guarded confidence reposed by the young lover in his un-
known rival, and the stifled rage of the old man against both,
form a series of comic scenes of the most amusing, and at the
same time of the most refined description.
As an example how little the violation of certain probabili-
ties diminishes our pleasure, we may remark that Molière, with
respect to the choice of scene, has here indulged in very great
liberties. We will not inquire how Arnolph frequently hap-
pens to converse with Agnes in the street or in an open place,
while he keeps her at the same time so carefully locked up.
But if Horace does not know Arnolph to be the intended
husband of his mistress, and betrays everything to him, this
can only be allowable from Arnolph's passing with her by
another name. Horace ought therefore to look for Arnolph
in his own house in a remote quarter, and not before the door
of his mistress, where yet he always finds him, without enter-
taining any suspicion from that circumstance. Why do the
French critics set such a high value on similar probabilities in
the dramatic art, when they must be compelled to admit that
their best masters have not always observed them ?
Tartuffe is an exact picture of hypocritical piety held up fos
d
FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE. 315
universal warning; it is an excellent serious Satire, but with
the exception of separate scenes it is not a comedy. It is
generally admitted that the catastrophe is bad, as it is brought
about by a foreign means. It is bad, too, because the danger
which Orgon runs of being driven from his house and thrown
into prison is by no means such an embarrassment as his
blind confidence actually merited. Here the serious purpose
of the work is openly disclosed, and the eulogium of the king
is a dedication by which the poet, even in the piece itself,
humbly recommends himself to the protection of his majesty
against the persecutions which he dreaded.
In the Femmes Savantes raillery has also the upper hand of
mirth; the action is insignificant and not in the least degree
attractive; and the catastrophe, after the manner of Molière,
is arbitrarily brought about by foreign means. Yet these
technical imperfections might well be excused for the sake of
its satirical merit. But in this respect the composition, from
the limited nature of its views, is anything but equal through-
out. We are not to expect from the comic poet that he
should always give us, along with the exhibition of a folly, a.
representation also of the opposite way of wisdom; in this
way he would announce his object of instructing us with too
much of method. But two opposite follies admit of being
exhibited together in an equally ludicrous light. Molière has
here ridiculed the affectation of a false taste, and the vain-
gloriousness of empty knowledge. Proud in their own igno-
rance and contempt for all higher enlightenment, these
characters certainly deserve the ridicule bestowed on them;
but that which in this comedy is portrayed as the correct
way of wisdom falls nearly into the same error. All the rea-
sonable persons of the piece, the father and his brother, the
lover and the daughter, nay, even the ungrammaticalmaid, are
all proud of what they are not, have not, and know not, and
even what they do not seek to be, to have, or to know.
Chyrsale's limited view of the destination of the female sex,
Clitander's opinion on the inutility of learning, and the senti-
ments elsewhere advanced respecting the measure of cultiva-
tion and knowledge which is suitable to a man of rank, were
all intended to convey Molière's own opinions himself on
these subjects. We may here trace in him a certain vein of
valet-de-chambre morality, which also makes its appearance-
on many other points. We can easily conceive how his edu-
316 FRENCH COMEDY= MOLIERE-
cation and situation should lead him to entertain such ideas;
but they are hardly such as entitle him to read lectures
on human society. That, at the end, Trissotin should be
ignominiously made to commit an act of low Selfishness is
odious; for we know that a learned man then alive was
satirized under this character, and that his name was very
slightly disguised. The vanity of an author is, on the whole,
a preservative against this weakness: there are many more
lucrative careers than that of authorship for selfishness without
a feeling of honour.
The Misanthrope, which, as is well known, was at first
coldy received, is still less amusing than the two preceding
pieces: the action is less rapid, or rather there is none at all;
and there is a great want of coherence between the meagre
incidents which give only an apparent life to the dramatic
movement,–the quarrel with Oronte respecting the sonnet,
and its adjustment; the decision of the law-suit which is
ever being brought forward; the unmasking of Celimene
through the vanity of the two Marquisses, and the jealousy
of Arsinöe. Besides all this, the general plot is not even
probable. It is framed with a view to exhibit the thorough
delineation of a character ; but a character discloses itself
much more in its relations with others than immediately.
How comes Alceste to have chosen Philinte for a friend,
a man whose principles were directly the reverse of his own ?
How comes he also to be enamoured of a coquette, who
has nothing amiable in her character, and who entertains
us merely by her scandal? We might well say of this Celi-
mene, without exaggeration, that there is not one good point
in her whole composition. In a character like that of Alceste,
love is not a fleetingsensualimpulse, but a serious feeling arising
from a want of a sincere mental union. His dislike of flatter-
ing falsehood and malicious scandal, which always characterise
the conversation of Celimene, breaks forth so incessantly,
that, we feel, the first moment he heard her open her lips
ought to have driven him for ever from her society. Finally,
the subject is ambiguous, and that is its greatest fault. The
limits within which Alceste is in the right and beyond which
he is in the wrong, it would be no easy matter to fix, and I
am afraid the poet himself did not here see very clearly
what he would be at. Philinte, however, with his illusory jus-
tification of the way of the world, and his phlegmatic resigna-

FRENCH COMEDY–MOLIERE. 317
tion, he paints throughout as the intelligent and amiable man.
As against the elegant Celimene, Alceste is most decidedly in
the right, and only in the wrong in the inconceivable weak-
ness of his conduct towards her. He is in the right in
his complaints of the corruption of the social constitution;
the facts, at least, which he adduces, are disputed by nobody.
He is in the wrong, however, in delivering his sentiments
with so much violence, and at an unseasonable time; but as he
cannot prevail on himself to assunme the dissimulation which is
necessary to be well received in the world, he is perfectly in
the right in preferring solitude to society. Rousseau has
already censured the ambiguity of the piece, by which what
is deserving of approbation seems to be turned into ridicule.
His opinion was not altogether unprejudiced; for his own
character, and his behaviour towards the world, had a striking
similarity to that of Alceste; and, moreover, he mistakes the
essence of dramatic composition, and founds his condemnation
on examples of an accidentally false direction.
So far with respect to the famed moral philosophy of
Molière in his pretended master-piece. From what has been
stated, I consider myself warranted to assert, in opposition to
the prevailing opinion, that Molière succeeded best with the
coarse and homely comic, and hat both his talents and his
inclination, if unforced, would have determined him alto-
gether to the composition of farces such as he continued to
write even to the very end of his life. He seems always
to have whipped himself up as it were to his more serious
pieces in verse: we discover something of constraint in both
plot and execution. His friend Boileau probably communi-
cated to him his view of a correct mirth, of a grave and
decorous laughter; and so Molière determined, after the car-
nival of his farces, to accommodate himself occasionally to the
spare diet of the regular taste, and to unite what in their own
nature are irreconcileable, namely, dignity and drollery.
However, we find even in his prosaic pieces traces of that
didactical and satirical vein which is peculiarly alien to
Comedy; for example, in his constant attacks on physicians
and lawyers, in his disquisitions upon the true correct tone
of society, &c., the intention of which is actually to censure,
to refute, to instruct, and not merely to afford entertain-
ment.
The classical reputation of Molière still preserves his pieces
-318 FRENCH COMEDY–SCARRON.
on the stage*, although in tone and manners they are altoge-
ther obsolete. This is a danger to which the comic poet is
inevitably exposed from that side of his composition which
does not rest on a poetical foundation, but is determined by
the prose of external reality. The originals of the individual
portraits of Molière have long since disappeared. The comic
poet who lays claim to immortality must, in the delineation of
character and the disposition of his plan, rest principally on
such motives as are always intelligible, being taken not from
the manners of any particular age, but drawn from human
nature itself. A
In addition to Molière we have to notice but a few older or
contemporary comedians. Of Corneille, who from the imita-
tion of Spanish comedies acquired a name before he was
known as a tragic author, only one piece keeps possession of
the stage, Le Menteur, from Lope de Vega; and even this
evinces, in our opinion, no comic talent. The poet, accus-
tomed to stilts, moves awkwardly in a species of the drama
the first requisites of which are ease and sweetness. Scarron,
who only understood burlesque, has displayed this talent or
knack in several comedies taken from the Spanish, of which
two, Jodelle, or the Servant turned Master, and Don Japhet of
Armenia, have till within these few years been occasionally
acted as carnival farces, and have always been very successful.
The plot of the Jodelle, which belongs to Don Francisco de
Roxas, is excellent; the style and the additions of Scarron
have not been able altogether to disfigure it. All that is coarse,
nauseous, and repugnant to taste, belongs to the French writer
of the age of Louis XIV., who in his day was not without
celebrity; for the Spanish work is throughout characterized
by a spirit of tenderness. The burlesque tone, which in many
* If they were not already in possession of the stage, the indecency of a
number of the scenes would cause many of them to be rejected, as the pub-
lic of the present day, though probably not less corrupt than that of the
author's times, is passionately fond of throwing over everything a cloak
of morality. When a piece of Molière is acted, the head theatre of
Paris is generally a downright solitude, if no particular circumstance brings
the spectators together. Since these Lectures were held, George Dandin
has been hissed at Paris, to the great grief of the watchmen of the critical
Sion. This was probably not on account of mere indecency. What-
ever may be said in defence of the morality of the piece, the privileges of
the higher classes are offensively favoured in it; and it concludes with
the shameless triumph of arrogance and depravity over plain honesty.
FRENCH COMEDY –RACINE–BOURSAULT. 319
languages may be tolerated, has been properly rejected by
the French, for whenever it is not guided by judgment and
taste, it sinks to disgusting vulgarity. Dort Japhet repre-
sents in a still ruder manner the mystification of a coarse fool.
The original belongs to the kind which the Spaniards call
Comedias de Figuron: it also has undoubtedly been spoiled by
Scarron. The worst of the matter is, that his exaggerations
are trifling without being amusing.
Racine hit upon a very different plan of imitation from that
which was then followed, in his Plaideurs, of which the idea
is derived from Aristophanes. The piece in this respect
stands alone. The action is merely a light piece of legerde-
main; but the follies which it portrays belong to a circle, and,
with the imitations of the officers of court and advocates,
form a complete whole. Many lines are at once witty sallies
and characteristic traits; and some of the jokes have that
apparently aimless drollery, which genuine comic inspiration
can alone inspire. Racine would have become a dangerous
rival of Molière, if he had continued to exercise the talent
which he has here displayed.
Some of the comedies of a younger contemporary and rival
of Molière, Boursault, have still kept possession of the stage;
they are all of the secondary description, which the French call
pièces ä tiroir, and of which Molière gave the first example
in Le Facheux. This kind, from the accidental succession
of the scenes, which are strung together on some one common
occasion, bear in so far a resemblance to the Mimes of the
ancients; they are intended also to resemble them in the accu-
rate imitation of individual peculiarities. These subjects are
particularly favourable for the display of the Mimic art in the
more limited signification of the word, asthe same player always
appears in a different disguise, and assumes a new character.
It is advisable not to extend such pieces beyond a single act,
. as the want of dramatic movement, and the uniformity of the
occasion through all the different changes, are very apt to
excite impatience. But Boursault's pieces, which otherwise
are not without merit, are tediously spun out to five acts.
The idea of exhibiting AEsop, a slave-born sage, and deformed
in person, in possession of court favour, was original and
happy. But in the two pieces, AEsop in the City, and AZsop Tt
Court, the fables which are tacked to every important scene
are drowned in diffuse morals besides, they are quite distinct
320 FRENCH COMEDY–REGN.ARD.
from the dialogue, instead of being interwoven with it, like the
fable of Menenius Agrippa in Shakspeare; and modern man-
ners do not suit with this childish mode of instruction. In
the Mercure Galant all sorts of out-of-the-way beings bring
their petitions to the writer of a weekly paper. This thought
and many of the most entertaining details have, if I am not
mistaken, been borrowed by a popular Germam author without
acknowledgment.
A considerable time elapsed after the death of Molière
before the appearance of Regnard, to whom in France the
second place in Comedy is usually assigned. He was a sort
of adventurer who, after roaming a long time up and down
the world, fell to the trade of a dramatic writer, and divided
himself betwixt the composition of regular comedies in verse,
and the Italian theatre, which still continued to flourish under
Gherardi, and for which he sketched the French scenes. The
Joueur, his first play, is justly preferred to the others. The
author was acquainted with this passion, and a gamester's
life, from his own experience: it is a picture after nature, with
features strongly drawn, but without exaggeration; and the
plot and accessory circumstances, with the exception of a pair
of caricatures which might well have been dispensed with, are
all appropriate and in character. The Distrait possesses not
only the faults of the methodical pieces of character which I
have already censured, but it is not even a peculiar character
at all; the mistakes occasioned by the unfortunate habit of
being absent in thought are all alike, and admit of no height-
ening: they might therefore have filled up an after-piece, but,
certainly did not merit the distinction of being spun out into
a comedy of five acts. Regnard has done little more than
dramatize a series of anecdotes which La Bruyere had as-
sembled together under the name of a certain character. The
execution of the Legataire Universel shows more comic
talent; but from the error of the general plan, arising out of .
a want of moral feeling, this talent is completely thrown
away. La Harpe declares this piece the chef-d'oeuvre of comic
pleasantry. It is, in fact, such a subject for pleasantry as
would move a stone to pity,–as enlivening as the grin of a
death's head. What a subject for mirth: a feeble old man in
the very arms of death, teased by young profligates for his
property, has a false will imposed on him while he is lying in-
sensible, as is believed, on his death-bed! If it be true that
FRENCH COMEDY-LEGRAND. 321
these scenes have always given rise to much laughter on the
French stage, it only proves the spectators to possess the same
unfeeling levity which disgusts us in the author. We have
elsewhere shown that, with an apparent indifference, a moral
reserve is essential to the comic poet, since the impressions
which he would wish to produce are inevitably destroyed
whenever disgust or compassion is excited.
Legrand the actor, a contemporary of Regnard, was one of
the first comic poets who gained celebrity for after-pieces in
verse, a species of composition in which the French have since
produced a number of elegant trifles. He has not, however,
risen to any thing like the same height of posthumous fame as
Regnard: La Harpe dismisses him with very little ceremony.
Yet we should be disposed to rank him very high as an artist,
even if he had composed nothing else than the King of Lubber-
land (Le Roi de Cocagne), a sprightly farce in the marvellous
style, overflowing with what is very rare in France, a native
fanciful wit, animated by the most lively mirth, which al-
though carried the length of the most frolicsome giddiness,
sports on and round all subjects with the utmost harmlessness.
We might call it an elegant and ingenious piece of madness;
an example of the manner in which the play of Aristophanes,
or rather that of Eupolis*, who had also dramatised the tale
of Lubberland, might be brought on our stage without exciting
disgust, and without personal satire. And yet Legrand was,
certainly, unacquainted with the Old Comedy, and his own
genius (we scruple not to use the expression) led him to the
invention. The execution is as careful as in a regular
comedy; but to this title in the French opinion it can have
no pretensions, because of the wonderful world which it repre-
sents, of several of the decorations, and of the music here and
there introduced. The French critics show themselves in
general indifferent, or rather unjust towards every suggestion
of genuine fancy. Before they can feel respect for a work it,
must present a certain appearance of labour and effort. Among
a giddy and light-minded people, they have appropriated to
themselves the post of honour of pedantry: they confound the
levity ofjocularity, which is quite compatible with profundity
in art, with the levity of shallowness, which (as a natural
gift or natural defect,) is so frequent among their countrymen.
The eighteenth century produced in France a number of
See page 167.
XK
322 FRENCH COMEDY DURING THE REGENCY
comic writers of the second and third rank, but no distin-
guished genius capable of advancing the art a step farther; in
consequence of which the belief in Molière's unapproachable
excellence has become still more firmly riveted. As we have
not space at present to go through all these separate produc-
tions, we shall premise a few observations on the general spirit
of French Comedy before entering on the consideration of the
writers whom we have not yet mentioned.
The want of easy progress, and over-lengthy disquisitions
in stationary dialogue, have characterized more or less every
writer since the time of Molière, on whose regular pieces also
the conventional rules applicable to Tragedy have had an in-
disputable influence. French Comedy in verse has its tirades
as well as Tragedy. Besides, there was another circumstance,
the introduction of a certain degree of stiff etiquette. The
Comedy of other nations has generally, from motives which we
can be at no loss in understanding, descended into the circle
of the lower classes: but the French Comedy is usually con-
fined to the upper ranks of society. Here, then, we trace the
influence of the court as the central point of the whole na-
tional vanity. Those spectators who in reality had no access
to the great world, were flattered by being surrounded on the
stage with marquises and chevaliers, and while the poet sati-
rized the fashionable follies, they endeavoured to snatch some-
thing of that privileged tone which was so much the object of
envy. Society rubs off the salient angles of character; its
only amusement consists in the pursuit of the ridiculous, and
on the other hand it trains us in the faculty of being upon our
guard against the observations of others. The natural, cor-
dial, and jovial comic of the inferior classes is thrown aside,
and instead of it another description (the fruit of polished
society, and bearing in its insipidity the stamp of so purpose-
less a way of living) is adopted. The object of these come-
dies is no longer life but society, that perpetual negotiation
between conflicting vanities which never ends in a sincere
treaty of peace: the embroidered dress, the hat under the
arm, and the sword by the side, essentially belong to them,
and the whole of their characterization is limited to painting
the folly of the men and the coquetry of the women. The in-
sipid uniformity of these pictures was unfortunately too often
seasoned by the corruption of moral principles which, more
especially after the age of Louis XIV., it became, under the
FRENCE COMEDY–DESTOUCHES. 323
Regency of Louis XV., the fashion openly to avow. In this
period the favourite of the women, the homme d bonnes for-
tunes, who in the tone of satiety boasts of the multitude of
his conquests too easily won, was not a character invented by
the comic writers, but a portrait accurately taken from real
life, as is proved by the numerous memoirs of the last cen-
tury, even down to those of a Besenval. We are disgusted
with the unveiled sensuality of the love intrigues of the Greek
Comedy: but the Greeks would have found much more dis-
gusting the love intrigues of the French Comedy, entered into
with married women, merely from giddy vanity. Limits have
been fixed by nature herself to sensual excess; but when
vanity assumes the part of a sensuality already deadened and
enervated, it gives birth to the most hollow corruption. And
even if, in the constant ridicule of marriage by the petit-
maitres, and in their moral scepticism especially with regard
to female virtue, it was the intention of the poets to ridicule
a prevailing depravity, the picture is not on that account the
less immoral. The great or fashionable world, which in point
of numbers is the little world, and yet considers itself alone
of importance, can hardly be improved by it; and for the
other classes the example is but too seductive, from the
brilliancy with which the characters are surrounded. But in
so far as Comedy is concerned, this deadening corruption is by
no means invariably entertaining; and in many pieces, in
which fools of quality give the tone, for example in the
Chevalier ä la mode de Dancourt, the picture of complete
moral dissoluteness which, although true, is nevertheless both
unpoetical and unnatural, is productive not merely of ennui,
but of the most decided repugnance and disgust.
From the number of writers to whom this charge chiefly,
applies, we must in justice except Destouches and Marivaux,
fruitful or at least diligent comic writers, the former in verse-
and the latter in prose. They acquired considerable distinc-
tion among their contemporaries in the first half of the eigh-
teenth century, but on the stage few of their works survived
either of them. Destouches was a moderate, tame, and
well-meaning author, who applied himself with all his powers
to the composition of regular comedies, which were always
drawn out to the length of five acts, and in which there is
nothing laughable, with the exception of the vivacity dis-
played in virtue of their situation, by Lisette and her lover

X 2
–y w
324 FRENCH COMEDY–MARIVAUX.
Frontin, or Pasquin. He was in no danger, from any excess
of frolicsome petulance, of falling from the dignified tone of
the supposed high comic into the familiarity of farce, which
the French hold in such contempt. With moderate talents,
without humour, and almost without vivacity, neither inge-
nious in invention, nor possessed of a deep insight into the
human mind and human affairs, he has in some of his produc-
tions, Le Glorieux, Le Philosophe Marié, and especially L'Inde-
cis, shewn with great credit to himself what true and Unpretend-
ing diligence is by itself capable of effecting. Other pieces,
for instance, L'Ingrat and L'Homme Singulier, are complete
failures, and enable us to see that a poet who considers Zar-
tuffe and The Misanthrope as the highest objects of imitation,
(and with Destouches this was evidently the case,) has only
another step to take to lose sight of the comic art altogether.
These two works of Molière have not been friendly beacons
to his followers, but false lights to their ruin. Whenever
a comic poet in his preface worships The Misanthrope as a
model, I can immediately foretell the result of his labours.
He will sacrifice everything like the gladsome inspiration of
fun and all truly poetical amusement, for the dull and formal
seriousness of prosaic life, and for prosaical applications
stamped with the respectable name of morals.
That Marivaux is a mannerist is so universally acknow-
ledged in France, that the peculiar term of marivaudage has
been invented for his mannerism. But this is at least his own,
and at first sight by no means unpleasing. Delicacy of mind
cannot be denied to Marivaux, only it is coupled with a
certain littleness. We have stated it to be the most refined
species of the comic of observation, when a peculiarity or
property shows itself most conspicuously at the very time its
possessor has the least suspicion of it, or is most studious to
conceal it. Marivaux has applied this to the passions; and
naiveté in the involuntary disclosure of emotions certainly
belongs to the domain of Comedy. But then this naiveté is
prepared by him with too much art, appears too solicitous for
our applause, and, we may almost say, seems too well pleased
with it himself. It is like children in the game of hide and
seek, they cannot stay quiet in their corner, but keep popping
out their heads, if they are not immediately discovered ; nay,
sometimes, which is still worse, it is like the squinting over a
fan held up from affected modesty In Marivaux we always

FRENCEI COMEDY–MARIVAUX. 32
see his aim from the very beginning, and all our attention is
directed to discovering the way by which he is to lead us to
it. This would be a skilful mode of composing, if it did not
degenerate into the insignificant and the superficial. Petty
inclinations are strengthened by petty motives, exposed to
petty probations, and brought by petty steps nearer and
nearer to a petty conclusion. The whole generally turns on a
declaration of love, and all sorts of clandestine means are
tried to elicit it, or every kind of slight allusion is hazarded
to hasten it. Marivaux has neither painted characters, nor
contrived intrigues. The whole plot generally turns on an
unpronounced word, which is always at the tongue's end, and
which is frequently kept back in a pretty arbitrary manner.
He is so uniform in the motives that he employs, that when
we have read one of his pieces with a tolerable degree of
attention we know all of them. However, we must still
rank him above the herd of stiff imitators; something is to be
learned even from him, for he possessed a peculiar though a
very limited view of the essence of Comedy.
Two other single works are named as master-pieces in the
regular Comedy in verse, belonging to two writers who here
perhaps have taken more pains, but in other departments have
given a freer scope to their natural talent: the Metromanie of
Piron and the Mechant of Gresset. The Metromanie is not
written without humorous inspiration. In the young man
possessed with a passion for poetry, Piron intended in some
measure to paint himself; but as we always go tenderly to
work in the ridicule of ourselves, together with the amiable
weakness in question, he endows his hero with talents, mag
nanimity, and a good heart. But this tender reserve is not
peculiarly favourable for comic strength. As to the Mechant,
it is one of those gloomy comedies which might be rapturously
hailed by a Timon as serving to confirm hisaversion to human
society, but which, on social and cheerful minds, can only
give rise to the most painful impression. Why paint a dark
and odious disposition which, devoid of all human sympathy,
feeds its vanity in a cold contempt and derision of everything,
and solely occupies itself in aimless detraction? Why exhibit
such a moral deformity, which could hardly be tolerated even
in Tragedy, for the mere purpose of producing domestic dis-
content and petty embarrassments? »-
Yet, according to the decision of the French critics, thes
326 THE FRENCH OPERA.–OPERETTE AND VAUDEVILLE.
three comedies, the Glorieux, the Metromanie, and the Mechant,
are all that the eighteenth century can oppose to Molière.
We should be disposed to rank the Le Vieux Bachelier of
Collin d'Harleville much higher; but for judging this true
picture of manners there is no scale afforded in the works of
Molière, and it can only be compared with those of Terence.
We have here the utmost refinement and accuracy of charac-
terization, most felicitously combined with an able plot, which
keeps on the stretch and rivets our attention, while a certain
mildness of sentiment is diffused over the whole. «-
I purpose now to make a few observations on the secondary
species of the Opera, Operettes, and Vaudevilles, and shall
conclude with a view of the present condition of the French
stage with reference to the histrionic art.
In the serious, heroic, or rather the ideal opera, if we may
so express ourselves, we can only mention one poet of the
age of Louis XIV., Quinault–who is now little read, but
yet deserving of high praise. As a tragic poet, in the early
period of his career, he was satirized by Boileau; but he
was afterwards highly successful in another species, the
amusical drama. Mazarin had introduced into France a taste
for the Italian opera; Louis was also desirous of rivalling or
surpassing foreign countries in the external magnificence of
the drama, in decoration, machinery, music, and dancing;
these were all to be employed in the celebration of the court
festivals; and accordingly Molière was employed to write
gay, and Quinault serious operas, to the music of Lulli. I
am not sufficiently versed in the earlier literature of the
Italian opera to be able to speak with accuracy, but I suspect
that here also Quinault laboured more after Spanish than
Italian models; and more particularly, that he derived from
the Fiestas of Calderon the general form of his operas, and
their frequently allegorical preludes which are often to be
found in them. It is true, poetical ornament is much more
sparingly dealt out, as the whole is necessarily shortened for
the sake of the music, and the very nature of the French
language and versification is incompatible with the splendid
magnificence, the luxurious fulness, displayed by Calderon.
But the operas of Quinault are, in their easy progress, truly
fanciful; and the serious opera cannot, in my opinion, be
stripped of the charm of the marvellous without becoming at
length wearisome. So far Quinault appears to me to have

THE FRENCH HEROIC OPERA-QUINAUILT. 327
taken a much better road towards the true vocation of
particular departments of art, than that on which Metastasio
travelled long after him. The latter has admirably provided
for the wants of a melodious music expressive solely of feeling;
but where does he furnish the least food for the imagination ?
On the other hand, I am not so sure that Quinault is justly
entitled to praise for sacrificing, in compliance with the taste
of his countrymen, everything like comic intermixture. He
has been censured for an occasional play on language in the
expression of feeling. But is it just to exact the severity of
the tragical cothurnus in light works of this description ?
Why should not Poetry also be allowed her arabesque? No
person can be more an enemy to mannerism than I am ; but
to censure it aright, we ought first to understand the degree
of nature and truth which we have a right to expect from each
species, and what is alone compatible with it. The verses of
Quinault have no other naiveté and simplicity than those of
the madrigal; and though they occasionally fall into the
Juscious, at other times they express a languishing tenderness
with gracefulness and a soft melody. The opera ought to
resemble the enchanted gardens of Armida, of which Quinault
SayS,
Dans ces lieux enchantés la volupte preside.
We ought only to be awaked out of the voluptuous dreams
of feeling to enjoy the magical illusions of fancy. When
once we have come to imagine, instead of real men, beings
whose only language is song, it is but a very short step to
represent to ourselves creatures whose only occupation is
love; that feeling which hovers between the sensible and
intellectual world; and the first invention becomes naturai
again by means of the second.
Quinault has had no successors. How far below his, both
in point of invention and of execution, are the French operas
of the present day! The heroic and tragic have been required
in a department where they cannot produce their proper
effect. Instead of handling with fanciful freedom mytholo-
gical materials or subjects taken from chivalrous or pastoral
romances, they have after the manner of Tragedy chained
themselves down to history, and by means of their heavy
seriousness, and the pedantry of their rules, they have so
manage” matters, that Dulness with leaden sceptre presides
z----«. z .
328 THE FRENCH HEROIC OPERA–ITS DECLINE-
over the opera. The deficiencies of their music, the unfitness
of the French language for composition in a style anything
higher than that of the most simple national melodies, the
unaccented and arbitrary nature of their recitative, the bawling
bravura of the singers, must be left to the animadversions of
musical critics.
With pretensions far lower, the Comic Opera or Operette
approaches much more nearly to perfection. With respect to
the composition, it may and indeed ought to assume only a
national tone. The transition from song to speech, without
any musical accompaniment or heightening, which was cen-
sured by Rousseau as an unsuitable mixture of two distinct
modes of composition, may be displeasing to the ear; but it
has unquestionably produced an advantageous effect on the
structure of the pieces. In the recitatives, which generally
are not half understood, and seldom listened to with any
degree of attention, a plot which is even moderately compli-
cated cannot be developed with due clearness. Hence in the
Italian opera buffa, the action is altogether neglected; and
along with its grotesque caricatures, it is distinguished for
uniform situations, which admit not of dramatic progress.
But the comic opera of the French, although from the space
occupied by the music it is unsusceptible of any very perfect
dramatic development, is still calculated to produce a consider-
able stage effect, and speaks pleasingly to the imagination.
The poets have not here been prevented by the constraint of
rules from following out their theatrical views. Hence these
fleeting productions are in no wise deficient in the rapidity,
life, and amusement, which are frequently wanting in the
more correct dramatic works of the French. The distin-
guished favour which the operettes of a Favart, a Sedaine and
later poets, of whom some are still alive, always meet with in
Germany, (where foreign literature has long lost its com-
manding influence, and where the national taste has pro-
nounced so strongly against French Tragedy,) is by no means
to be placed to the account of the music; it is in reality owing
to their poetical merit. To cite only one example out of many,
I do not hesitate to declare the whole series of scenes in
Raoul Sire de Crequy, where the children of the drunken
turnkey set the prisoner at liberty, a master-piece of theatrical
painting. How much were it to be wished that the Tragedy
of the French, and even their Comedy in court-dress, had but
THE FRENCH VAUDEVILLE –LE SAGE–PIRON. 329
a little of this truth of circumstance, this vivid presence, and
power of arresting the attention. In several operettes, for
instance in a Richard Coeur de Lion and a Wina, the traces
of the romantic spirit are not to be mistaken.
The vaudeville is but a variation of the comic opera. The
essential difference is that it dispenses with composition, by
which the comic opera forms a musical whole, as the songs
are set to well-known popular airs. The incessant skipping
from the song to the dialogue, often after a few scrapes of
the violin and a few words, with the accumulation of airs
mostly common, but frequently also in a style altogether
different from the poetry, drives an ear accustomed to Italian
music to despair. If we can once make up our minds to bear
with this, we shall not unfrequently be richly recompensed in
comic drollery; even in the choice of a melody, and the
allusion to the common and well-known words, there is often
a display of wit. In earlier times writers of higher preten-
sions, a Le Sage and a Piron have laboured in the depart-
ment of the vaudeville, and even for marionettes. The wits
who now dedicate themselves to this species are little known
out of Paris, but this gives them no great concern. It not
unfrequently happens that several of them join together, that
the fruit of their common talents may be sooner brought to
light. The parody of new theatrical pieces, the anecdotes of
the day, which form the common talk among all the idlers of
the capital, must furnish them with subjects in working up
which little delay can be brooked. These vaudevilles are like
the gnats that buzz about in a summer evening; they often
sting, but they fly merrily about so long as the sun of oppor-
tunity shines upon them. A piece like the Despair of Jocrisse,
which, after a lapse of years, may be still occasionally brought
out, passes justly among the ephemeral productions for a
classical work that has gained the crown of immortality.
We must, however, see it acted by Brunet, whose face is
almost a mask, and who is nearly as inexhaustible in the
part of the simpleton as Puncinello is in his.
From a consideration of the sportive secondary species,
formed out of a mixture of the comic with the affecting, in
which authors and spectators give themselves up without
reserve to their natural incinations, it appears to me evident,
that as comic wit with the Italians consists in grotesque
mimicry or buffoonery, and with the English in numour, with

330 DE LA MOTTE. – DIDEROT–MERCIER.
the French it consists in gºod-natured gaiety. Among the
lower orders especially this property is everywhere visible,
where it has not been supplanted by the artifice of corruption.
With respect to the present condition of Dramatic Art in
France, everything depends on the endeavours to introduce
the theatrical liberties of other countries, or mixed species of
the drama. The hope of producing any thing truly new in
the two species which are alone admitted to be regular, of
excelling the works already produced, of filling up the old
frames with richer pictures, becomes more and more distant
every day. A new work seldom obtains a decided approba-
tion; and, even at best, this approbation only lasts till it
has been found out that the work is only a new preparation
of their old classical productions.
We have passed over several things relating to these
endeavours, that we may deliver together all the observations
which we have to make on the subject. The attacks hitherto
made against the French forms of art, first by De la Motte,
and afterwards by Diderot and Mercier, have been like voices
in the wilderness. It could not be otherwise, as the principles
on which these writers proceeded were in reality destructive,
not merely of the conventional forms, but of all poetical forms
whatever, and as none of them showed themselves capable of
suitably supporting their doctrine by their own example,
even when they were in the right they contrived, neverthe-
S M less, by a false application, to be in the wrong.
The most remarkable among them is Diderot, whom Les-
sing calls the best critic of the French. In opposition to this
opinion I should be disposed to affirm that he was no critic
at all. I will not lay any stress on his mistaking the object
of poetry and the fine arts, which he considered to be merely
moral: a man may be a critic without being a theorist. But
a man cannot be a critic without being thoroughly acquainted
with the conditions, means, and styles of an art; and here
the nature of Diderots studies and acquirements renders his
critical capabilities extremely questionable. This ingenious
sophist deals out his blows with such boisterous haste in the
province of criticism, that the half of them are thrown away.
The true and the false, the old and the new, the essential
and the unimportant, are so mixed up together, that the
highest praise we can bestow upon him is, that he is
worthy of the labour of disentangling them. What he

“-“
DIDE ROT-THIE FITS NATUREL. 331
wished to accomplish had either been accomplished, though
not in France, or did not deserve to be accomplished, or was
altogether impracticable. His attack on the formality and
holiday primness of the dramatic probabilities, of the ex-
cessive symmetry of the French versification, declamation,
and mode of acting, was just; but, at the same time, he-
objected to all theatrical elevation, and refused to allow
to the characters anything like a perfect mode of communi-
cating what was passing within them. He nowhere assigns
the reason why he held versification as not suitable, or
prose as more suitable, to familiar tragedy; this has been
extended by others, and among the rest, unfortunately, by
Lessing, to every species of the drama; but the ground for it
evidently rests on nothing but the mistaken principles of
illusion and nature, to which we have more than once ad-
verted*. And if he gives an undue preference to the senti-
mental drama, and the familiar tragedy, species valuable in
themselves, and susceptible of a truly poetic treatment; was
not this on account of the application? The main thing,
according to him, is not character and situations, but ranks
of life and family relations, that spectators in similar ranks
and relations may lay the example to heart. But this would
put an end to everything like true enjoyment in art. Diderot
recommended that the composition should have this direction,
with the very view which, in the case of a historical tragedy
founded on the events of their own times, met with the dis-
approbation of the Athenians, and subjected its author Phry-
nichus to their displeasure+. The view of a fire by night
may, from the wonderful effect produced by the combination
of flames and darkness, fill the unconcerned spectator with
delight; but when our neighbour's house is burning,–jam.
prevémus ardet Ucalegon–we shall hardly be disposed to see
the affair in such a picturesque light.
It is clear that Diderot was induced to take in his sail as he
made way with his own dramatic attempts. He displayed
the greatest boldness in an offensive publication of his youth,
in which he wished to overturn the entire dramatic system of
the French; he was less daring in the dialogues which accom-
* I have stated and refuted them in a treatise On the Relation Qf the
Fine Arts to Nature in the fifth number of the periodical work Prome-
theus, published by Leo von Seckendorf.
+ See page 72.

Z32 DIDEROT : HIS M ANNER OF EXECUTION
pany the Fils Naturel, and he showed the greatest moderation
in the treatise appended to the Père de Famille. He carries
his hostility a great deal too far with respect to the forms
and the objects of the dramatic art. But in other respects
he has not gone far enough: in his view of the Unities
of Place and Time, and the mixture of seriousness and
mirth, he has shown himself infected with the prejudices of
his nation.
The two pieces above mentioned, which obtained an un-
merited reputation on their first appearance, have long since
received their due appreciation. On the Fils Naturel Lessing
has pronounced a severe sentence, without, however, censur-
ing the scandalous plagiarism from Goldoni. But the Père de
Famille he calls an excellent piece, but has forgotten, how-
ever, to assign any grounds for his opinion. Its defective
plot and want of connexion have been well exposed by
La Harpe. The execution of both pieces exhibits the utmost
mannerism: the characters, which are anything but natural,
become from their frigid prating about virtue in the most
hypocritical style, and the tears which they are perpetually
shedding, altogether intolerable. We Germans may justly
say, Hinc ille lacrymae / hence the unnecessary tears with
which our stage has ever since been overflowed. The custom
which has grown up of giving long and circumstantial direc-
tions respecting the action, and which we owe also to Diderot,
has been of the greatest detriment to dramatic eloquence. In
this way the poet gives, as it were, an order on the player,
instead of paying out of his own purse“. All good dramatists
have uniformly had the action in some degree present to their
minds; but if the actor requires instruction on the subject, he
will hardly possess the talent of following it up with the suit-
able gestures. The speeches should be so framed that an intel-
ligent actor could hardly fail to give them the proper action.
It will be admitted, that long before Diderot there were
serious family pictures, affecting dramas, and familiar
tragedies, much better than any which he was capable of
executing. Voltaire, who could never rightly succeed in
Comedy, gave in his Enfant Prodigue and Wanine a mixture
of comic scenes and affecting situations, the latter of which are
* I remember to have read the following direction in a German drama,
which is not worse than many others:–“ He flashes lightning at him with
uis eyes (Er blitzt ihn mit den Augen an) and goes off.”

LA CHAUSSEE-BEAUMARCHAIS. 333
deserving of high praise. The affecting drama had been
before attempted in France by La Chaussée. All this was in
verse: and why not? Of the familiar tragedy (with the very
same moral direction for which Diderot contended) several
examples have been produced on the English stage: and one
of them, Beverley, or the Gamester, is translated into French.
The period of sentimentality was of some use to the affecting
or sentimental drama; but the familiar tragedy was never
very successful in France, where they were too much attached
to brilliancy and pomp. The Melanie of La Harpe (to whom
the stage of the present day owes Philoctete, the most faithful
imitation of a Grecian piece) abounds with those painful
impressions which form the rock this species may be said to
split upon. The piece may perhaps be well adapted to
enlighten the conscience of a father who has determined to
force his daughter to enter a cloister; but to other spectators
it can only be painful.
Notwithstanding the opposition which Diderot experienced,
he was however the founder of a sort of school of which the
most distinguished names are Beaumarchais and Mercier.
The former wrote only two pieces in the spirit of his prede-
cessor-Eugenie, and La Mère Coupable, and they display
the very same faults. His acquaintance with Spain and the
Spanish theatre led him to bring something new on the stage
in the way of the piece of intrigue, a species which had long
been neglected. These works were more distinguished by
witty sallies than by humour of character; but their greatest
attraction consisted in the allusions to his own career as an
author. The plot of the Barber of Seville is rather trite; the
Marriage of Figaro is planned with much more art, but the
manners which it portrays are loose; and it is also censurable
in a poetical point of view, on account of the number of foreign
excrescences with which it is loaded. In both French cha-
racters are exhibited under the disguise of a Spanish costume,
which, however, is very ill observed”. The extraordinary
applause which these pieces met with would lead to the con-
clusion, that the French public do not hold the comedy of
Intrigue in such low estimation as it is by the critics: but the
means by which Beaumarchais pleased were certainly, in part
at least, foreign to art.
* The numerous sins of Beaumarchais against the Spanish manners and
observances, are pointed out by De la Huerta in the introduction to his
Teatro Español.
334 TALMA–MELO-DRAMA-
The attempt of Ducis to make his countrymen acquainted
with Shakspeare by modelling a few of his tragedies according
to the French rules, cannot be accounted an enlargement of
their theatre We perceive here and there indeed the “torn
members of the poet”–disjecta membra poetae, but the whole
is so constrained, disfigured, and, from the simple fulness of
the original, tortured and twisted into such miserable intricacy,
that even when the language is retained word for word, it
ceases to convey its genuine meaning. The crowd which these
tragedies attracted, especially from their affording an unusual
room to the inimitable Talma for the display of his art, must
be looked upon as no slight symptom of the people's dissatis-
faction with their old works, and the want of cthers more
powerfully agitating. F. *,
As the Parisian theatres are at present tied down to cer-
tain kinds, and as poetry has here a point of contact with the
police, the numerous mixed and new attempts are for the most
part banished to the subordinate theatres. Of these new at-
tempts the Melo-dramas constitute a principal part. A statis-
tical writer of the theatre informs us, that for a number of
years back the new productions in Tragedy and regular Comedy
have been fewest, and that the melo-dramas have in number
exceeded all the others put together. They do not mean by
melo-drama, as we do, a drama, in which the pauses are filled
up by monologue with instrumental music, but where actions
in any wise wonderful, adventurous, or even sensuous, are
exhibited in emphatic prose with suitable decorations and
dresses. Advantage might be taken of this prevailing in-
clination to furnish a better description of entertainment:
since most of the melo-dramas are unfortunately rude
even to insipidity, and resemble abortive attempts at the
romantic.
In the sphere of dramatic literature the labours of a Le
Mercier are undoubtedly deserving of the critic's attention.
This able man endeavours to break through the prescribed
limits in every possible way, and is so passionately fond of his
art that nothing can deter him from it; although almost every
new attempt which he makes converts the pit into a regular
field of battle”. -
* Since these Lectures were held, such a tumult arose in the theatre at
Paris on the representation of his Christopher Columbus, that several of the
champions of Boileau came off with bruised heads and broken shins. They
THE HISTRIONIC ART IN FRANCE. 335-
From all this we may infer, that the inclinations of the
French public, when they forget the duties they have imbibed
from Boileau's Art of Poetry, are not quite so hostile to the dra-
matic liberties of other nations as might be supposed, and that
the old and narrow system is chiefly upheld by a superstitious
attachment to traditional opinions.
The histrionic art, particularly in high comedy and tragedy,
has been long carried in France to great perfection. In exter-
nal dignity, quickness, correctness of memory, and in a won-
derful degree of propriety and elegance in the delivery of
verse, the best French actors are hardly to be surpassed.
Their efforts to please are incredible: every moment they
pass on the stage is a valuable opportunity, of which they
must avail themselves. The extremely fastidious taste of a
Paris pit, and the wholesome severity of the journalists, excite
in them a spirit of incessant emulation ; and the circumstance
of acting a number of classical works, which for generations
have been in the possession of the stage, contributes also
greatly to their excellence in their art. As the spectators
have these works nearly by heart, their whole attention may
were in the right to fight like desperadoes; for if this piece had succeeded,
it would have been all over with the consecrated Unities and good taste in
the separation of the heroic and the low. The first act takes place in the
house of Columbus, the second at the court of Isabella, the third and last
on shipboard near the New World. The object of the poet was to show
that the man in whom any grand idea originates is everywhere opposed and
thwarted by the limited and common-place views of other men; but that the
strength of his enthusiasm enables him to overcome all obstacles. In his
own house, and among his acquaintances, Columbus is considered as
insane; at court he obtains with difficulty a lukewarm support; in his
own vessel a mutiny is on the point of breaking out, when the wished-for
land is discovered, and the piece ends with the exclamation of “ Land,
land!” All this is conceived and planned very skilfully; but in the execu-
tion, however, there are numerous defects. In another piece not yet acted
or printed, called La Journée des Dupes, which I heard the author read, he
has painted with historical truth, both in regard to circumstances and the
spirit of the age, a well-known but unsuccessful court-cabal against Car-
dinal Richelieu. It is a political comedy, in which the rag-gatherer and
the king express themselves in language suitable to their stations. The
poet has, with the greatest ingenuity, shown the manner in which trivial
causes assist or impede the execution of a great political design, the dis-
simulation practised by political personages towards others, and even
towards themselves, and the different tones which they assume according to
circumstances; in a word, he has exhibited the whole inward aspect of the
game of politics. ».
336 THE HISTRIONIC ART IN FRANCE.
be directed to the acting, and every faulty Syllable meets in
this way with immediate detection and reprobation.
In high comedy the social refinement of the nation affords
great advantages to their actors. But with respect to tragical
composition, the art of the actor should also accommodate it-
self to the spirit of the poetry. I am inclined to doubt, how-
ever, whether this is the case with the French actors, and
whether the authors of the tragedies, especially those of the
age of Louis XIV. would altogether recognise themselves in
the mode in which these compositions are at present repre-
sented.
The tragic imitation and recitation of the French oscillate
between two opposite extremes, the first of which is occa-
sioned by the prevailing tone of the piece, while the second
seems rather to be at variance with it,–between measured
formality and extravagant boisterousness. The first might
formerly preponderate, but the balance is now on the other side.
Let us hear Voltaire's description of the manner in which,
in the time of Louis XIV., Augustus delivered his discourse
to Cinna and Maximus. Augustus entered with the step of a
braggadocio, his head covered with a four-cornered peruque,
which hung down to his girdle; the peruque was stuck full of
laurel leaves, and above this he wore a large hat with a dou-
ble row of red feathers. He seated himself on a huge fau-
teuil, two steps high, Cinna and Maximus on two low chairs;
and the pompous declamation fully corresponded to the osten-
tatious manner in which he made his appearance. As at that
time, and even long afterwards, tragedies were acted in a
court-dress of the newest fashion, with large cravats, swords,
and hats, no other movements were practicable but such as
were allowable in an antechamber, or, at most, a slight waving
of the hand; and it was even considered a bold theatrical
attempt, when, in the last scene of Polyeucte, Severus entered
with his hat on his head for the purpose of accusing Felix of
treachery, and the latter listened to him with his hat under
his arm.
However, there were even early examples of an extrava-
nce of an opposite description. In the Mariamme of
Mairet, an older poet than Corneille, the player who acted
Herod, roared himself to death. This may, indeed, be called
“ out-heroding Herod!" When Voltaire was instructing an
actress in some tragic part, she said to him, “ Were I to play
THE HISTRIONIC ART IN FRANCE-CONCLUSION. 337
in this manner, sir, they would say the devil was in me.”–
“ Very right,” answered Voltaire, “ an actress ought to have
the devil in her.“ This expression proves, at least, no very
keen sense for that dignity and sweetness which in an ideal
composition, such as the French Tragedy pretends to be,
ought never to be lost sight of, even in the wildest whirlwind
of passion.
I found occasionally, even in the action of the very best
players of the present day, sudden leaps from the measured
solemnity in recitation and gesticulation which the general
tone of the composition required, to a boisterousness of pas-
sion absolutely convulsive, without any due preparation or
softening by intervening gradations. They are led to this by
a sort of obscure feeling, that the conventional forms of poetry
generally impede the movements of nature; when the poet
any where leaves them at liberty, they then indemnify them-
selves for the former constraint, and oad, as it were, this rare
moment of abandonment with the whole amount of life and
animation which had been kept back, and which ought to have
been equally diffused over the whole. Hence their convulsive
and obstreperous violence. In bravura, they take care not to be
deficient; but they frequently lose sight of the true spirit of
the composition. In general, (with the single exception of the
great Talma,) they consider their parts as a sort of mosaic
work of brilliant passages, and they rather endeavour to make
the most of each separate passage, independently of the rest,
than to go back to the invisible central point of the character,
and to consider every expression of it as an emanation from
that point. They are always afraid of underdoing their
parts; and hence they are worse qualified for reserved action,
for eloquent silence, where, under an appearance of outward
tranquillity, the most hidden emotions of the mind are be-
trayed. However, this is a part which is seldom imposed on
them by their poets; and if the eause of such excessive vio-
lence in the expression of passion is not to be found in the
works themselves, they at all events occasion the actor to lay
greater stress on superficial brilliancy than on a profound
knowledge of character*.
* See a treatise of M. Von Humboldt the elder, in Goethe's Propyläen.
on the French acting, equally distinguished for a refined and solid spirit of
observation.
338 TEIE ENGLISHI AND SPANISH DRAMA.
LECTURE XXII.
Comparison of the English and Spanish Theatres–Spirit of the Romantic
Drama–Shakspeare–His age and the circumstances of his Life.
IN conformity with the plan which we laid down at the first, we
shall now proceed to treat of the English and Spanish theatres.
We have been, on various occasions, compelled in passing to
allude cursorily, sometimes to the one and sometimes to the
other, partly for the sake of placing, by means of contrast,
many ideas in a clearer light, and partly on account of the
influence which these stages have had on the theatres of other
countries. Both the English and Spaniards possess a very
rich dramatic literature, both have had a number of prolific
and highly talented dramatists, among whom even the least
admired and celebrated, considered as a whole, display uncom-
mon aptitude for dramatic animation, and insight into the
essence of theatrical effect. The history of their theatres has
no connexion with that of the Italians and French, for they
developed themselves wholly out of the abundance of their
own intrinsic energy, without any foreign influence: the
attempts to bring them back to an imitation of the ancients,
or even of the French, have either been attended with no
success, or not been made till a late period in the decay of the
drama. The formation of these two stages, again, is equally
independent of each other; the Spanish poets were altogether
unacquainted with the English; and in the older and most
important period of the English theatre I could discover no
trace of any knowledge of Spanish plays, (though their novels
and romances were certainly known,) and it was not till the
time of Charles II. that translations from Calderon first made
their appearance.
So many things among men have been handed down from
century to century and from nation to nation, and the hu-
man mind is in general so slow to invent, that originality
in any department of mental exertion is everywhere a rare
phenomenon. We are desirous of seeing the result of the
efforts of inventive geniuses when, regardless of what in the
same line has elsewhere been carried to a high degree of per-
fection, they set to work in good earnest to inventaltogether for
themselves; when they lay the foundation of the new edifice
on uncovered ground, and draw all the preparations, all the
ORIGINAL AND NATIONAL CHARACTER. 339
building materials, from their own resources. We participate,
in some measure, in the joy of success, when we see them
advance rapidly from their first helplessness and need to a
finished mastery in their art. The history of the Grecian
theatre would afford us this cheering prospect could we wit-
ness its rudest beginnings, which were not preserved, for they
were not even committed to writing; but it is easy, when we
compare together AEschylus and Sophocles, to form some ideº
of the preceding period. The Greeks neither inherited nor
borrowed their dramatic art from any other people; it was
original and native, and for that very reason was it able to
produce a living and powerful effect. But it ended with the
period when Greeks imitated Greeks; namely, when the
Alexandrian poets began learnedly and critically to compose
dramas after the model of the great tragic writers. The
reverse of this was the case with the Romans: they received
the form and substance of their dramas from the Greeks;
they never attempted to act according to their own discretion,
and to express their own way of thinking; and hence they
occupy so insignificant a place in the history of dramatic art.
Among the nations of modern Europe, the English and Spa-
miards alone (for the German stage is but forming), possess as
yet a theatre entirely original and national, which, in its
own peculiar shape, has arrived at maturity.
Those critics who consider the authority of the ancients
as models to be such, that in poetry, as in all the other arts,
there can be no safety out of the pale of imitation, affirm, that
as the nations in question have not followed this course, they
have brought nothing but irregular works on the stage, which,
though they may possess occasional passages of Splendour and
beauty, must yet, as a whole, be for ever reprobated as bar-
barous, and wanting in form. We have already, in the intro-
ductory part of these Lectures, stated our sentiments generally
on this way of thinking; but we must now examine the sub-
ject somewhat more closely.
If the assertion be well founded, all that. distinguishes the
works of the greatest Engish and Spanish dramatists, a.
Shakspeare and a Calderon, must rank them far below the
ancients; they could in no wise be of importance for theory,
and would at most appear remarkable, on the assumption that
the obstinacy of these nations in refusing to comply with the
rules, may have afforded a more ample field to the poets to
Y 2
340 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
display their native originality, though at the expense of art.
But even this assumption, on a closer examination, appears
extremely questionable. The poetic spirit, requires to be
limited, that it may move with a becoming liberty, within its
proper precincts, as has been felt by all nations on the first
invention of metre; it must act according to laws derivable
from its own essence, otherwise its strength will evaporate in
boundless vacuity.
The works of genius cannot therefore be permitted to be
without form; but of this there is no danger. However, that
we may answer this objection of want of form, we must
understand the exact meaning of the term form, since most
critics, and more especially those who insist on a stiff regu-
larity, interpret it merely in a mechanical, and not in an orga-
nical sense. Form is mechanical when, through external force,
it is imparted to any material merely as an accidental addition
without reference to its quality; as, for example, when we
give a particular shape to a soft mass that it may retain the
same after its induration. Organical form, again, is innate;
it unfolds itself from within, and acquires its determination
contemporaneously with the perfect development of the germ.
We everywhere discover such forms in nature throughout
the whole range of living powers, from the crystallization of
salts and minerals to plants and flowers, and from these
again to the human body. In the fine arts, as well as in the
domain of nature-the supreme artist, all genuine forms are
organical, that is, determined by the quality of the work.
In a word, the form is nothing but a significant exterior, the
speaking physiognomy of each thing, which, as long as it is
not disfigured by any destructive accident, gives a true evi-
dence of its hidden essence.
Hence it is evident that the spirit of poetry, which, though
imperishable, migrates, as it were, through different bodies,
Imust, so often as it is newly born in the human race, mould to
itself, out of the nutrimental substance of an altered age, a.
body of a different conformation. The forms vary with the
direction taken by the poetical sense; and when we give to
the new kinds of poetry the old names, and judge of them
according to the ideas conveyed by these names, the applica-
tion which we make of the authority of classical antiquity is
altogether unjustifiable. No one should be tried before a tri-
bunal to which he is not amenable. We may safely admit,
"TFIE ENGLISH AND SPANISH THEATRES. 341
that the most of the English and Spanish dramatic works are
neither tragedies nor comedies in the sense of the ancients:
they are romantic dramas. That the stage of a people who,
in its foundation and formation, neither knew nor wished to
know anything of foreign models, will possess many peculia-
rities; and not only deviate from, but even exhibit a striking
contrast to, the theatres of other nations who had a common
model for imitation before their eyes, is easily supposable, and
we should only be astonished were it otherwise. But when
in two nations, differing so widely as the English and Spanish,
in physical, moral, political, and religious respects, the the-
atres (which, without being known to each other, arose about
the same time,) possess, along with external and internal
diversities, the most striking features of affinity, the attention
even of the most thoughtless cannot but beturned to this phe-
nomenon; and the conjecture will naturally occur, that the
same, or, at least, a kindred principle must have prevailed in
the development of both. This comparison, however, of the
English and Spanish theatre, in their common contrast with
every dramatic literature which has grown up out of an imita-
tion of the ancients, has, so far as we know, never yet been
attempted. Could we raise from the dead a countryman,
contemporary, and intelligent admirer of Shakspeare, and
another of Calderon, and introduce to their acquaintance the
works of the poet to which in life they were strangers, they
would both, without doubt, considering the subject rather from
a national than a general point of view, enter with difficulty
into the above idea, and have many objections to urge against
it. But here a reconciling criticism * must step in ; and this,
perhaps, may be best exercised by a German, who is free from
the national peculiarities ofeither Englishmen or Spaniards, yet
by inclination friendly to both, and prevented by no jealousy
from acknowledging the greatness which has been earlier ex-
hibited in other countries than in his own.
The similarity of the English and Spanish theatres does not
* This appropriate expression was, if we mistake not, first used by
M. Adam Müller in his Lectures on German Science and Literature. If,
however, he gives himself out for the inventor of the thing itself, heis, to
use the softest word, in error. Long before him other Germans haden-
deavoured to reconcile the contrarieties of taste of different ages and
nations, and to pay due homage to all genuine poetry and art. Between
good and bad, it is true, no reconciliation is possible.
342 THE ROMANTIC DRAMA–ORIGIN AND ESSENCE.
consist merely in the bold neglect of the Unities of Place and
Time, and in the commixture of comic and tragic elements:
that they were unwilling or unable to comply with the rules
and with right reason, (in the meaning of certain critics these
terms are equivalent,) may be considered as an evidence
of merely negative properties. The ground of the resemblance
lies far deeper, in the inmost substance of the fictions, and in
the essential relations, through which every deviation of form
becomes a true requisite, which, together with its validity, has
also its significance. What they have in common with each
other is the spirit of the romantic poetry, giving utterance to
itself in a dramatic shape. However, to explain ourselves
with due precision, the Spanish theatre, in our opinion, down
to its decline and fall in the commencement of the eighteenth
century, is almost entirely romantic; the English is com-
pletely so in Shakspeare alone, its founder and greatest mas-
ter: in later poets the romantic principle appears more or less
degenerated, or is no longer perceivable, although the march
of dramatic composition introduced by virtue of it has been, out-
wardly at least, pretty generally retained. The manner in
which the different ways of thinking of the two nations, one a
northern and the other a southern, have been expressed ; the
former endowed with a gloomy, the latter with a glowing ima-
gination; the one nation possessed of a scrutinizing seriousness
disposed to withdraw within themselves, the other impelled
ourwardly by the violence of passion; the mode in which all
this has been accomplished will be most satisfactorily ex-
plained at the close of this section, when we come to institute
a parallel between Shakspeare and Calderon, the only two
poets who are entitled to be called great.
Of the origin and essence of the romantic I treated in my
first Lecture, and I shall here, therefore, merely briefly men-
tion the subject. The ancient art and poetry rigorously sepa-
rate things which are dissimilar; the romantic delights in
mdissoluble mixtures; all contrarieties: nature and art, poe-
try and prose, seriousness and mirth, recollection and antici-
pation, spirituality and sensuality, terrestrial and celestial,
life and death, are by it blended together in the most intimate
combination. As the oldest lawgivers delivered their manda-
tory instructions and prescriptions in measured melodies; as
this is fabulously ascribed to Orpheus, the first softener of the
yet untamed race of mortals; in like manner the whole of the
ANTIQUE TRAGEDY AND SCULPTURE–COMPARISON. 343
ancient poetry and art is, as it were, a rhythmical nomos
(law), an harmonious promulgation of the permanently estab-
lished legislation of a world submitted to a beautiful order,
and reflecting in itself the eternal images of things. Romantic
poetry, on the other hand, is the expression of the secret
attraction to a chaos which lies concealed in the very bosom
of the ordered universe, and is perpetually striving after new
and marvellous births; the life-giving Spirit of primal love
broods here anew on the face of the waters. The former is
more simple, clear, and like to nature in the self-existent per-
fection of her separate works; the latter, notwithstanding its
fragmentary appearance, approaches more to the secret of the
universe. For Conception can only comprise each object
separately, but nothing in truth can ever exist separately and
by itself; Feeling perceives all in all at one and the same time.
Respecting the two species of poetry with which we are
here principally occupied, we compared the ancient Tragedy
to a group in sculpture: the figures corresponding to the cha-
racters, and their grouping to the action; and to these two
in both productions of art is the consideration exclusively
directed, as being all that is properly exhibited. But the
romantic drama must be viewed as a large picture, where not
merely figure and motion are exhibited in larger, richer groups,
but where even all that surrounds the figures must also be por-
trayed; where we see not merely the nearest objects, but are
indulged with the prospect of a considerable distance; and all
this under a magical light, which assists in giving to the im-
pression the particular character desired. w
Such a picture must be bounded less perfectly and less dis-
tinctly, than the group; for it is like a fragment cut out of
the optic scene of the world. However the painter, by the
setting of his foreground, by throwing the whole of his light
into the centre, and by other means of fixing the point of
view, will learn that he must neither wander beyond the com-
position, nor omit any thing within it.
In the representation of figure, Painting cannot compete
with Sculpture, since the former can only exhibit it by a
deception and from a single point of view; but, on the other
hand, it communicates more life to its imitations, by colours
which in a picture are made to imitate the lightest shades of
mental expression in the countenance. The look, which can
be given only very imperfectly by Sculpture, enables us to
344 ARTISTIC VIEW (LE THE ROMANTIC DRAMA.
read much deeper in the mind, and to perceive its lightest
movements. Its peculiar charm, in short, consists in this,
that it enables us to see in bodily objects what is least cor-
poreal, namely, light and air.
The very same description of beauties are peculiar to the
romantic drama. It does not (like the Old Tragedy) separate
seriousness and the action, in a rigid manner, from among the
whole ingredients of life; it embraces at once the whole of the
chequered drama of life with all its circumstances; and while
it seems only to represent subjects brought accidentally toge-
ther, it satisfies the unconscious requisitions of fancy, buries
us in reflections on the inexpressible signification of the objects
which we view blended by order, nearness and distance, light
and colour, into one harmonious whole ; and thus lends, as it
were, a soul to the prospect before us. «
The change of time and of place, (supposing its influence on
the mind to be included in the picture; and that it comes to
the aid of the theatrical perspective, with reference to what is
indicated in the distance, or half-concealed by intervening
objects;) the contrast of sport and earnest (supposing that in
degree and kind they bear a proportion to each other;)
finally, the mixture of the dialogical and the lyrical elements,
(by which the poet is enabled, more or less perfectly, to trans-
form his personages into poetical beings:) these, in my
opinion, are not mere licenses, but true beauties in the roman-
tic drama. In all these points, and in many others also, the
English and Spanish works, which are pre-eminently worthy
of this title of Romantic, fully resemble each other, however
different they may be in other respects.
Of the two we shall first notice the English theatre, because
it arrived earlier at maturity than the Spanish. In both
we must occupy ourselves almost exclusively with a single
artist, with Shakspeare in the one and Calderon in the other;
but not in the same order with each, for Shakspeare stands
first and earliest among the English; any remarks we may
have to make on earlier or contemporary antiquities of the
English stage may be made in a review of his history. But
Calderon had many predecessors; he is at once the summit
and the close nearly of dramatic art in Spain.
The wish to speak with the brevity which the limits of my
plan demand, of a poet to the study of whom I have de-
voted many years of my life Flaces me in no little embar-
TEIE ENGLISH THEATRE - SEHAKSPEARE. 345
rassment. I know not where to begin ; for I should never be
able to end, were I to say all that. I have felt and thought on
the perusal of his works. With the poet as with the man, a
more than ordinary intimacy prevents us, perhaps, from put-
ting ourselves in the place of those who are first forming an
acquaintance with him: we are too familiar with his most
striking peculiarities, to be able to pronounce upon the first
impression which they are calculated to make on others. On
the other hand, we ought to possess, and to have the power of
communicating, more correct ideas of his mode of procedure,
of his concealed or less obvious views, and of the meaning and
import of his labours, than others whose acquaintance with
him is more limited.
Shakspeare is the pride of his nation. A late poet has,
with propriety, called him “the genius of the British isles.” He
was the idol of his contemporaries: during the interval indeed
of puritanical fanaticism, which broke out in the next genera-
tion,and rigorously proscribed all liberal arts and literature, and
during the reign of the Second Charles, when his works were
either not acted at all, or if so, very much changed and disfi-
gured, his fame was awhile obscured, only to shine forth again
about the beginning of the last century with more than its ori-
ginal brightness; and since then it has but increased in lustre
with the course of time; and for centuries to come, (I speak it
with the greatest confidence,) it will, like an Alpine avalanche,
continue to gather strength at every moment of its progress.
Of the future extension of his fame, the enthusiasm with which
he was naturalized in Germany, the moment that he was
known, is a significant earnest. In the South of Europe*, his
language, and the great difficulty of translating him with fide-
lity, will be, perhaps, an invincible obstacle to his general dif-
fusion. In England, the greatest actors vie with each other
in the impersonation of his characters; the printers in splen-
did editions of his works; and the painters in transferring his
scenes to the canvas. Like Dante, Shakspeare has received
the perhaps indispensable but still cumbersome honour of
being treated like a classical author of antiquity. The oldest
editions have been carefully collated, and where the readings
* This difficulty extends also to France; for it must not be supposed
that a literal translation can ever be a faithful one. Mrs. Montague has
done enough to prove how wretchedly, even Voltaire, in his rhymeless
Alexandrines, has translated a few passages from Hamlet and the first ac“
of Julius Caesar.
346 SHAKSPEARE–THE LITERATURE OF HIS AGE.
seemed corrupt, many corrections have been suggested; and
the whole literature of his age has been drawn forth from the
oblivion to which it had been consigned, for the sole purpose
of explaining the phrases, and illustrating the allusions of
Shakspeare. Commentators have succeeded one another in
such number, that their labours alone, with the critical con-
troversies to which they have given rise, constitute of them-
selves no inconsiderable library. These labours deserve both
our praise and gratitude; and more especially the historical
investigations into the sources from which Shakspeare drew the
materials of his plays, and also into the previous and contem-
porary state of the English stage, and other kindred subjects
of inquiry. With respect, however, to their merely philolo-
gical criticisms, I am frequently compelled to differ from the
commentators; and where, too, considering him simply as a
poet, they endeavour to enter into his views and to decide
upon his merits, I must separate myself from them entirely.
I have hardly ever found either truth or profundity in their
remarks; and these critics seem to me to be but stammering
interpreters of the general and almost idolatrous admiration
of his countrymen. Tiere may be people in England who
entertain the same views of them with myself, at least it is a
well-known fact that a satirical poet has represented Shaks-
peare, under the hands of his commentators, by Actaeon wor-
ried to death by his own dogs; and, following up the story of
Ovid, designated a female writer on the great poet as the
Snarling Lycisca.
We shall endeavour, in the first place, to remove some of
these false views, in order to clear the way for our own
homage, that we may thereupon offer it the more freely with-
out let or hindrance.
From all the accounts of Shakspeare which have come
down to us, it is clear that his contemporaries knew well the
treasure they possessed in him; and that they felt and under-
stood him better than most of those who succeeded him. In
those days a work was generally ushered into the world with
Commendatory Verses; and one of these, prefixed to an early
edition of Shakspeare, by an unknown author, contains some
of the most beautiful and happy lines that ever were applied
to any poet“. An idea, however, soon became prevalent that
Shakspeare was a rude and wild genius, who poured forth at
* It begins with the words: A mind reflecting ages past, and is sub-
scribed, I.M.S.
SHAKSPEARE–HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 347
random, and without aim or object, his unconnected composi-
tions. Ben Jonson, a younger contemporary and rival of
Shakspeare, who laboured in the sweat of his brow, but with
no great success, to expel the romantic drama, from the
English stage, and to form it on the model of the ancients,
gave it as his opinion that Shakspeare did not blot enough,
and that as he did not possess much school-learning, he owed
more to nature than to art. The learned, and sometimes
rather pedantic Milton was also of this opinion, when he says,
Our sweetest Shakspeare, fancy’s child,
Warbles his native wood-notes wild.
Yet it is highly honourable to Milton, that the sweetness of
Shakspeare, the quality which of all others has been least
allowed, was felt and acknowledged by him. The modern
editors, both in their prefaces, which may be considered as so
many rhetorical exercises in praise of the poet, and in their
remarks on separate passages, go still farther. Judging them.
by principles which are not applicable to them, not only do
they admit the irregularity of his pieces, but on occasionsthey
accuse him of bombast, of a confused, ungrammatical, and
conceited mode of writing, and even of the most contemptible
buffoonery. Pope asserts that he wrote both better and
worse than any other man. All the scenes and passages
which did not square with the littleness of his own taste, he
wished to place to the account of interpolating players; and
he was in the right road, had his opinion been taken, of
giving us a miserable dole of a mangled Shakspeare. It is,
therefore, not to be wondered at if foreigners, with the excep-
tion of the Germans latterly, have, in their ignorance of him,
even improved upon these opinions”. They speak in general
of Shakspeare's plays as monstrous productions, which could
only have been given to the world by a disordered imagina-
tion in a barbarous age; and Voltaire crowns the whole with
more than usual assurance, when he observes that Hamlet, the
profound master-piece of the philosophical poet, “ seems the
* Lessing was the first to speak of Shakspeare in a becoming tone; but
he said unfortunately a great deal too little of him, as in the time when ha
wrote the Dramaturgie this poet had not yet appeared on our stage-
Since that time he has been more particularly noticed by Herder in the
Blätter von deutscher Art und Kunst; Goethe, in Wilhelm Meister;
and Tieck, in Letters on Shakspeare (Poetisches Journal, 1800), which
break off, however, almost at the commencement.
348 SHAKSPEARE–OPINION OF FOREIGNERS–VOLTAIRE.
work of a drunken savage.” That foreigners, and in particu-
lar Frenchmen, who ordinarily speak the most strange lan-
guage of antiquity and the middle ages, as if cannibalism had
only been put an end to in Europe by Louis XIV. should
entertain this opinion of Shakspeare, might be pardonable;
but that Englishmen should join in calumniating that glorious
epoch of their history*, which laid the foundation of their
maational greatness, is incomprehensible. Shakspeare flourished
and wrote in the last half of the reign of Queen Elizabeth and
first half of that of James I.; and, consequently, under mo-
narchs who were learned themselves, and held literature in
honour. The policy of modern Europe, by which the rela-
tions of its different states have oeen so variously interwoven
with each other, commenced a century before. The cause of
the Protestants was decided by the accession of Elizabeth to
the throne; and the attachment to the ancient belief cannot
therefore be urged as a proof of the prevailing darkness.
Such was the zeal for the study of the ancients, that even
court ladies, and the queen herself, were acquainted with Latin
and Greek, and taught even to speak the former; a degree of
knowledge which we should in vain seek for in the courts of
Europe at the present day. The trade and navigation which
the English carried on with all the four quarters of the world,
made them acquainted with the customs and mental produc-
tions of other nations; and it would appear that they were
then more indulgent to foreign manners than they are in the
present day. Italy had already produced all nearly that
still distinguishes her literature, and in England translations
in verse were diligently, and even successfully, executed from
the Italian. Spanish literature also was not unknown, for it
is certain that Don Quixote was read in England soon after
its first appearance. Bacon, the founder of modern experi-
* The English work with which foreigners of every country are perhaps
best acquainted is Hume's History; and there we have a most unjustifiable
account both of Shakspeare and his age. “ Born in a rude age, and edu-
cated in the lowest manner, without any instruction either from the world
or from books.” How could a man of Hume's acuteness suppose for a
moment that a poet, whose characters display such an intimate acquaint-
ance with life, who, as an actor and manager of a theatre, must have come
in contact with all descriptions of individuals, had no instruction from the
world ? But this is not the worst; he goes even so far as to say, “ a rea-
sonable propriety of thought he cannot for any time uphold.” This is
Uearly as offensive as Voltaire's “ drunken savage.”–TRANs.
SHAKSPEARE–TONE OF SOCIETY IN HIS DAY. 349
mental philosophy, and of whom it may be said, that he car-
ried in his pocket all that even in this eighteenth century
merits the name of philosophy, was a contemporary of Shak-
speare. His fame, as a writer, did not, indeed, break forth-
into its glory till after his death; but what a number of ideas
must have been in circulation before such an author could
arise! Many branches of human knowledge have, since that
time, been more extensively cultivated, but such branches
as are totally unproductive to poetry: chemistry, mechanics,
manufactures, and rural and political economy, will never
enable a man to become a poet. I have elsewhere* examined
into the pretensions of modern enlightenment, as it is called,.
which looks with such contempt on all preceding ages; I have
shown that at bottom it is all little, superficial, and unsub-
stantial. The pride of what has been called the existing
maturity of human intensity, has come to a miserable end;
and the structures erected by those pedagogues of the human
race have fallen to pieces like the baby-houses of children.
With regard to the tone of society in Shakspeare's day, it
is necessary to remark that there is a wide difference between
true mental cultivation and what is called polish. That arti-
ficial polish which puts an end to everything like free original
communication, and subjects all intercourse to the insipid
uniformity of certain rules, was undoubtedly wholly unknown
to the age of Shakspeare, as in a great measure it still is at
the present day in England. It possessed, on the other hand,
a fulness of healthy vigour, which showed itself always with
boldness, and sometimes also with petulance. The spirit of
chivalry was not yet wholly extinct, and a queen, who was
far more jealous in exacting homage to her sex than to her
throne, and who, with her determination, wisdom, and mag-
nanimity, was in fact, well qualified to inspire the minds of
her subjects with an ardent enthusiasm, inflamed that spirit
to the noblest love of glory and renown. The feudal inde-
pendence also still survived in some measure; the nobility
vied with each other in splendour of dress and number of
retinue, and every great lord had a sort of small court of his
own. The distinction of ranks was as yet strongly marked:
a state of things ardently to be desired by the dramatic poet.
In conversation they took pleasure in quick and unexpected
answers; and the witty sally passed rapidly like a ball from
* In my Lectures on the Spirit gf the Age.
35Ü) SHAKSPEARE-IIIS REPARTEES-HAMLET.
mouth to mouth, till the merry game could no longer be kept
up. This, and the abuse of the play on words, (of which
King James was himself very fond, and we need not therefore
wonder at the universality of the mode,) may, doubtless, be
considered as instances of a bad taste; but to take them for
symptoms of rudeness and barbarity, is not less absurd than
to infer the poverty of a people from their luxurious extrava-
gance. These strained repartees are frequently employed by
Shakspeare, with the view of painting the actual tone of the
society in his day; it does not, however, follow, that they met
with his approbation; on the contrary, it clearly appears that
he held them in derision. Hanlet says, in the scene with the
Gravedigger, “ By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have
taken note of it: the age is grown so picked, that the toe of
the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his
kibe.” And Lorenzo, in the Merchant of Venice, alluding to
Launcelot:
O dear discretion, how his words are suited !
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words: and I do know
A many fools, that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter.
Besides, Shakspeare, in a thousand places, lays great and
marked stress or correct and refined tone of society, and
lashes every deviation from it, whether of boorishness or
affected foppery; not only does he give admirable discourses
on it, but he represents it in all its shades and modifications
by rank, age, or sex. What foundation is there, then, for the
alleged barbarity of his age? Its offences against propriety?
But if this is to be admitted as a test, then the ages of
Pericles and Augustus must also be described as rude and
uncultivated; for Aristophanes and Horace, who both were
considered as models of urbanity, display, at times, the
coarsest indelicacy. On this subject, the diversity in the
moral feeling of ages depends on other causes. Shakspeare,
it is true, sometimes introduces us to improper company; at
others, he suffers ambiguous expressions to escape in the
presence of women, and even from women themselves. This
species of petulance was probably not then unusual. He
certainly did not indulge in it merely to please the multitude,
for in many of his pieces there is not the slightest trace of
this sort to be found: and in what virgin purity are many of
SHAKSPEARE–SOCIAL CULTIVATION OF FIIS AGE. 351
his female parts worked out! When we see the liberties
taken by other dramatic poets in England in his time, and
even much later, we must account him comparatively chaste
and moral. Neither must we overlook certain circumstances
in the existing state of the theatre. The female parts were
not acted by women, but by boys; and no person of the fair
sex appeared in the theatre without a mask. Under such a
carnival disguise, much might be heard by them, and much
might be ventured to be said in their presence, which in
other circumstances would have been absolutely improper.
It is certainly to be wished that decency should be observed
on all public occasions, and consequently also on the stage.
But even in this it is possible to go too far. That carping
censoriousness which scents out impurity in every bold sally,
is, at best, but an ambiguous criterion of purity of morals;
and beneath this hypocritical guise there often lurks the con-
sciousness of an impure imagination. The determination to
tolerate nothing which has the least reference to the sensual
relation between the sexes, may be carried to a pitch ex-
tremely oppressive to a dramatic poet, and highly prejudicial
to the boldness and freedom of his compositions. If such
considerations were to be attended to, many of the happiest
parts of Shakspeare's plays, for example, in Measure for Mea-
sure, and All's Well that Ends Well, which, nevertheless, are
handled with a due regard to decency, must be set aside as
sinning against this would-be propriety.
Had no other monument of the age of Elizabeth come down
to us than the works of Shakspeare, I should, from them
alone, have formed the most favourable idea of its state of
social culture and enlightenment. When those who look
through such strange spectacles as to see nothing in them but
rudeness and barbarity cannot deny what I have now histori-
cally proved, they are usually driven to this last resource,
and demand, “What has Shakspeare to do with the mental
culture of his age? He had no share in it. Born in an infe-
rior rank, ignorant and uneducated, he passed his life in low
society, and laboured to please a vulgar audience for his
bread, without ever dreaming of fame or posterity.”
In all this there is not a single word of truth, though it has
been repeated a thousand times. It is true we know very
little of the poet's life; and what we do know consists for the
most part of raked-up and chiefly suspicious anecdotes, of such
Äg
C>v-YY VO- „-
352 SHAKSPEARE–CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS LIFE
a description nearly as those which are toldatinns to inqu.
sitive strangers, who visit the birthplace or neighbourhood of
a celebrated man. Within a very recent period some original
documents have been brought to light, and among them his
will, which give us a peep into his family concerns. It be-
trays more than ordinary deficiency of critical acumen in
Shakspeare's commentators, that none of them, so far as we
know, have ever thought of availing themselves of his sonnets
for tracing the circumstances of his life. These sonnets paint
most unequivocally the actual situation and sentiments of the
poet; they make us acquainted with the passions of the man;
they even contain remarkable confessions of his youthfnk
errors. Shakspeares father was a man of property, whose
ancestors had held the office of alderman and bailiff in Strat-
ford, and in a diploma fröm the Heralds Office for the renewäl
or confirmation of his coat of arms, he is styled gentleman.
Our poet, the oldest son but third child, could not, it is true,
receive an academical education, as he married when hardly
eighteen, probably from mere family considerations. This
retired and unnoticed life he continued to lead but a few
years; and he was either enticed to London from wearisom-
ness of his situation, or banished from home, as it is said,
in consequence of his irregularities. There he assumed the
profession of a player, which he considered at first as a degra-
dation, principally, perhaps, because of the wild excesses“ into
which he was seduced by the example of his comrades. Ib
is extremely probable, that the poetical fame which in the
progress of his career he afterwards acquired, greatly con-
tributed to ennoble the stage, and to bring the player's pro-
fession into better repute. Even at a very early age he
endeavoured to distinguish himself as a poet in other walks
than those of the stage, as is proved by his juvenile poems of
Adonis and Lucrece. He quickly rose to be a sharer or joint
proprietor, and also manager of the theatre for which he
* In one of his sonnets he says :
O, for my sake do you with fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means which public manners breeds.
And in the following:–
Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow.
SHAKSPEARE AT COURT-BRILLIANT SUCCESS. 3ſ 8
wrote. That he was not admitted to the society of persons
of distinction is altogether incredible. Not to mention many
others, he found a liberal friend and kind patron in the Earl
of Southampton, the friend of the unfortunate Essex. His
pieces were not only the delight of the great public, but also
in great favour at court: the two monarchs under whose reigns
he wrote were, according to the testimony of a contemporary,
quite “taken“ with him”. Many were acted at court; and
Elizabeth appears herself to have commanded the writing of
more than one to be acted at her court festivals. King
James, it is well known, honoured Shakspeare so far as to
write to him with his own hand. All this looks very unlike
either contempt or banishment into the obscurity of a low
circle. By his labours as a poet, player, and stage-manager,
Shakspeare acquired a considerable property, which, in the
last years of his too short life, he enjoyed in his native town
in retirement and in the society of a beloved daughter. Im-
mediately after his death a monument, was erected over his
grave, which may be considered sumptuous for those times.
In the midst of such brilliant success, and with such dis-
tinguished proofs of respect and honour from his contempo-
raries, it would be singular indeed if Shakspeare, notwith-
standing the modesty of a great mind, which he certainly
possessed in a peculiar degree, should never have dreamed
of posthumous fame. As a profound thinker he had pretty
accurately taken the measure of the circle of human capa-
bilities, and he could say to himself with confidence, that many
of his productions would not easily be surpassed. What
foundation then is there for the contrary assertion, which
would degrade the immortal artist to the situation of a daily
labourer for a rude multitude –Merely this, that he himself
published no edition of his whole works We do not reflect
that a poet, always accustomed to labour immediately for the
stage, who has often enjoyed the triumph of overpowering
assembled crowds of spectators, and drawing from them the
most tumultuous applause, who the while was not dependent
on the caprice of crotchety stage directors, but left to his owh
discretion to select and determine the mode of theatrical
* Ben Jonson:–
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James !
354 SHAKSPEARE–HIS MANUSCRIPTS-FELLOW MANAGERS.
representation, naturally cares much less for the closet of the
solitary reader. During the first formation of a national
theatre, more especially, we find frequent examples of such
indifference. Of the almost innumerable pieces of Lope de
Vega, many undoubtedly were never printed, and are con-
sequently lost; and Cervantes did notprint his earlier dramas,
though he certainly boasts of them as meritorious works. As
Shakspeare, on his retiring from the theatre, left his manu-
scripts behind with his fellow-managers, he may have relied
on theatrical tradition for handing them down to posterity,
which would indeed have been sufficient for that purpose if
the closing of the theatres, under the tyrannical intolerance
of the Puritans, had not interrupted the natural order of
things. We know, besides, that the poets used then to sell
the exclusive copyright of their pieces to the theatre“: it is
therefore not improbable that the right of property in his
unprinted pieces was no longer vested in Shakspeare, or had
not at least yet reverted to him. His fellow-managers entered
on the publication seven years after his death (which probably
cut short his own intention,) as it would appear on their own
account and for their own advantage.
LECTURE XXIII.
gnorance or Learning of Shakspeare–Costume as observed by Shak-
Speare, and how far necessary, or may be dispensed with in the Drama
–Shakspeare the greatest drawer of Character–Vindication of the
genuineness of his pathos–Play on words–Moral delicacy–Irony–
Mixture of the Tragic and Comic-The part of the Fool or Clown-
Shakspeare's Language and Versification. -
OUR poet's want of scholarship has been the subject of end-
ess controversy, and yet it is surely a very easy matter to
decide. Shakspeare was poor in dead school-cram, but he
Possessed a rich treasury of living and intuitive knowledge.
He knew a little Latin, and even something of Greek, though
it may be not enough to read with ease the writers in the
original. With modern languages also, the French and Ita-
* This is perhaps not uncommon still in some countries. The Venetian
Director Medebach, for whose company many of Goldoni's Comedies were
composed, claimed an exclusive right to them.–TRANs.
SHAKSPEARE–CONTROVERSY ON HIS SCHOLARSHIP. 355
dian, he had, perhaps, but a superficial acquaintance. The
general direction of his mind was not to the collection of
words but of facts. With English books, whether original
or translated, he was extensively acquainted: we may safely
affirm that he had read all that his native language and litera-
ture then contained that could be of any use to him in his
Poetical avocations. He was sufficiently intimate with my-
thology to employ it, in the only manner he could wish, in
the way of symbolical ornament. He had formed a correct
notion of the spirit of Ancient History, and more particularly
of that of the Romans; and the history of his own country
was familiar to him even in detail. Fortunately for him it
had not as yet been treated in a diplomatic and pragmatic
Spirit, but merely in the chronicle-style; in other words, it
had not yet assumed the appearance of dry investigations
respecting the development of political relations, diplomatic
negotiations, finances, &c., but exhibited a visible image of
the life and movement of an age prolific of great deeds.
Shakspeare, moreover, was a nice observer of nature; he knew
the technical language of mechanics and artisans; he seems
to have been well travelled in the interior of his own country,
while of others he inquired diligently of travelled navigators
respecting their peculiarity of climate and customs. He thus
became accurately acquainted with all the popular usages,
opinions, and traditions which could be of use in poetry.
The proofs of his ignorance, on which the greatest stress is
laid, are a few geographical blunders and anachronisms. Be-
cause in a comedy founded on an earlier tale, he makes ships
visit Bohemia, he has been the subject of much laughter. But
I conceive that we should be very unjust towards him, were
we to conclude that he did not, as well as ourselves, possess
the useful but by no means difficult knowledge that Bohemia
is nowhere bounded by the sea. He could never, in that case,
have looked into a map of Germany, who yet describes else-
where, with great accuracy, the maps of both Indies, together
with the discoveries of the latest navigators*. In such mat-
ters Shakspeare is only faithful to the details of the domestic
stories. In the novels on which he worked, he avoided dis-
turbing the associations of his audience, to whom they were
known, by novelties–the correction of errors in secondary
* Twelfth Night, or What You Will–Actiii. Ä ii.
Z
356 SHAKSPEARE–HIS ANACHRONTSMS-
and unimportant particulars. The more wonderful the story,
the more it ranged in a purely poetical region, which he trans-
fers at will to an indefinite distance. These plays, whatever
names they bear, take place in the true land of romance, and
in the very century of wonderful love stories. He knew welk
that in the forest of Ardennes there were neither the lions
and serpents of the Torrid Zone, nor the shepherdesses of
Arcadia: but he transferred both to it“, because the design
and import of his picture required them. Here he considered
himself entitled to take the greatest liberties. He had not to
do with a hair-splitting, hypercritical age like ours, which is
always seeking in poetry for something else than poetry; his
audience entered the theatre, not to learn true chronology,
geography, and natural history, but to witness a vivid exhibi-
tion. I will undertake to prove that Shakspeare's anachro-
nisms are, for the most part, committed of set purpose and
deliberately. It was frequently of importance to him to move
the exhibited subject out of the background of time, and
bring it quite near us. Hence in Hamlet, though avowedly
an old Northern story, there runs a tone of modish society,
and in every respect the costume of the most recent period.
Without those circumstantialities it would not have been
allowable to make a philosophical inquirer of Hamlet, on
which trait, however, the meaning of the whole is made to
rest. On that account he mentions his education at a univer-
sity, though, in the age of the true Hamlet of history, univer-
sities were not in existence. He makes him study at Witten-
berg, and no selection of a place could have been more suitable,
The name was very popular: the story of Dr. Faustus of Wit-
tenberg had made it well known; it was of particular celebrity
in protestant England, as Luther had taught and written
there shortly before, and the very name must have imme-
diately suggested the idea of freedom in thinking. I cannot
even consider it an anachronism that Richard the Third should
speak of Macchiavel. The word is here used altogether pro-
verbially: the contents, at least, of the book entitled Of the
Prince (Del Principe, ) have been in existence ever since the
existence of tyrants; Macchiavel was merely the first to com-
mit them to writing.
That Shakspeare has accurately hit the essential costume,
* As You Like It.
SHAKSPEARE–HIS ACCURACY IN ESSENTIAL COSTUME. 357
namely, the spirit of ages and nations, is at least acknow-
ledged generally by the English critics; but many sins against
external costume may be easily remarked. But here it is
necessary to bear in mind that the Roman pieces were acted
upon the stage of that day in the European dress. This was,
it is true, still grand and splendid, not so silly and tasteless as
it became towards the end of the Seventeenth century. (Bru-
tus and Cassius appeared in the Spanish cloak; they wore,
quite contrary to the Roman custom, the sword by their side
in time of peace, and, according to the testimony of an eye
witness”, it was, in the dialogue where Brutus stimulates
Cassius to the conspiracy, drawn, as if involuntarily, half out
of the sheath.) This does in no way agree with our way of
thinking: we are not content without the toga. The present,
perhaps, is not an inappropriate place for a few general obser-
vations on costume, considered with reference to art. It has
never been more accurately observed than in the present
day; art has become a slop-shop for pedantic antiquities.
This is because we live in a learned and critical, but by
no means poetical age. The ancients before us used, when
they had to represent the religions of other nations, which
deviated very much from their own, to bring them into con-
formity with the Greek mythology. In Sculpture, again, the
same dress, namely, the Phrygian, was adopted, once for all,
for every barbaric tribe. Not that they did not know that
there were as many different dresses as nations; but in art
they merely wished to acknowledge the great contrast be-
tween barbarian and civilized: and this, they thought, was
rendered most strikingly apparent in the Phrygian garb.
The earlier Christian painters represent the Saviour, the Vir-
gin Mary, the Patriarchs, and the Apostles in an ideal dress;
but the subordinate actors or spectators of the action, in the
dresses of their own nation and age. Here they were guided
by a correct feeling: the mysterious and sacred ought to be
kept at an awe-inspiring distance, but the human cannot be
rightly understood if seen without its usual accompaniments.
In the middle ages all heroical stories of antiquity, from The-
seus and Achilles down to Alexander, were metamorphosed
into true tales of chivalry. What was related to themselvos
* In one of the commendatory poems in the first folio edition:
And on the stage at half sword parley were
Brutus and Cassius.
358 SEIAKSPEARE–OBSERVATIONS ON COSTÜME,
spoke alone an intelligible language to them; of differences
and distinctions they did not care to know. In an old manu-
script of the Iliad, I saw a miniature illumination represent-
ing Hector's funeral procession, where the coffin is hung with
noble coats of arms, and carried into a Gothic church. It is
easy to make merry with this piece of simplicity, but a reflect-
ing mind will see the subject in a very different light. A.
powerful consciousness of the universal validity and the solid
permanency of their own manner of being an undoubting con-
viction that it has always so been and will ever continue so to
be in the world: these feelings of our ancestors were symp-
toms of a fresh fulness of life; they were the marrow of action
in reality as well as in fiction. Their plain and affectionate
attachment to everything around them, handed down from
their fathers, is by no means to be confounded with the obstre-
perous conceit of ages of mannerism, who, out of vanity,
introduce the fleeting modes and fashion of the day into art,
because to them everything like noble simplicity seems
boorish and rude. The latter impropriety is now abolished:
but, on the other hand, our poets and artists, if they would
hope for our approbation, must, like servants, wear the livery
of distant centuries and foreign nations. We are everywhere
at home except at home. We do ourselves the justice to
allow that the present mode of dressing, forms of politeness,
&c., are altogether unpoetical, and art is therefore obliged to
beg, as an alms, a poetical costume from the antiquaries. To
Hhat simple way of thinking, which is merely attentive to the
inward truth of the composition, without stumbling at ana-
chronisms, or other external inconsistencies, we cannot, alas !
now return; but we must envy the poets to whom it offered
itself; it allowed them a great breadth and freedom in the
handling of their subject. d
Many things in Shakspeare must be judged of according
Wo the above principles, respecting the difference between the
essential and the merely learned costume. They will also
in their measure admit of an application to Calderoli.
So much with respect to the spirit of the age in which
Shakspeare lived, and his peculiar mental culture and know-
ledge. To me he appears a profound artist, and not a blind
Wº wildly luxuriant genius. I consider, generally Speaking,
all that has been said on the subject a mere fable, a blind and
extravagant error. In other arts the assertion refutes itself;

SHAKSPEARE–HIS CHARACTER AND PASSION. 359
for in them acquired knowledge is an indispensable condition
of clever execution. But even in such poets, as are usually
given out as careless pupils of nature, devoid of art or school
discipline, I have always found, on a nearer consideration of
the works of real excellence they may have produced, even a
high cultivation of the mental powers, practice in art, and
views both worthy in themselves and maturely considered.
This applies to Homer as well as to Dante. The activity of
geniusis, it is true, natural to it, and, in a certain sense, un-
conscious; and, consequently, the person who possesses it is
not always at the moment able to render an account of the
course which he may have pursued; but it by no means fol-
lows, that the thinking power had not a great share in it. It
is from the very rapidity and certainty of the mental pro-
cess, from the utmost clearness of understanding, that think-
ing in a poet is not perceived as something abstracted, does
notwear the appearance of reflex meditation. That notion of
poetical inspiration, which many lyrical poets have brought
into circulation, as if they were not in their senses, and like
Pythia, when possessed by the divinity, delivered oracles un-
intelligible to themselves–this notion, (a mere lyrical inven-
tion,) is least of all applicable to dramatic composition, one of
the most thoughtful productions of the human mind. It is
admitted that Shakspeare has reflected, and deeply reflected,
on character and passion, on the progress of events and human
destinies, on the human constitution, on all the things and
relations of the world; this is an admission which must be
made, for one alone of thousands of his maxims would be a
sufficient refutation of whoever should attempt to deny it.
So that it was only for the structure of his own pieces that he
had no thought to spare? This he left to the dominion of
chance, which blew together the atoms of Epicurus. But
supposing that, devoid of any higher ambition to approve him-
self to judicious critics and posterity, and wanting in that
love of art which longs for self-satisfaction in the perfection of
its works, he had merely laboured to please the unlettered
crowd; still this very object alone and the pursuit of theatrical
effect, would have led him to bestow attention to the structure
and adherence of his pieces. For does not the impression of
a drama, depend in an especial manner on the relation of the
parts to each other? And, however beautiful a scene may be in
itself, if yet it be at variance with what the spectators have
Z60 SHAKSPEARE–CONSISTENCY OF HIS CHARACTERS.
been led to expect in its particular place, so as to destroy the
interest which they had hitherto felt, will it not be at once
reprobated by all who possess plain common sense, and give
themselves up to nature? The comic intermixtures may be
considered merely as a sort of interlude, designed to relieve
the straining of the mind after the stretch of the more serious
parts, so long as no better purpose can be found in them; but
in the progress of the mainaction, in the concatenation of the
events, the poet must, if possible, display even more expendi-
ture of thought than in the composition of individual charac-
ter and situations, otherwise he would be like the conductor
of a puppet-show who has entangled his wires, so that the
puppets receive from their mechanism quite different move-
ments from those which he actually intended.
The English critics are unanimous in their praise of the
truth and uniform consistency of his characters, of his heart-
rending pathos, and his comic wit. Moreover, they extol the
beauty and sublimity of his separate descriptions, images, and
expressions. This last is the most superficial and cheap mode
of criticising works of art. Johnson compares him who
should endeavour to recommend this poet by passages uncon-
nectedly torn from his works, to the pedant in Hierocles, who
exhibited a brick as a sample of his house. And yet how
little, and how very unsatisfactorily does he himself speak of
the pieces considered as a whole! Let any man, for instance,
bring together the short characters which he gives at the close
of each play, and see if the aggregate will amount to that
sum of admiration which he himself, at his outset, has stated
as the correct standard for the appreciation of the poet. It was,
generally speaking, the prevailing tendency of the time which
preceded our own, (and which has showed itself particularly
in physical science,) to consider everything having life as a
mere accumulation of dead parts, to separate what exists only
in connexion and cannot otherwise be conceived, instead of
penetrating to the central point and viewing all the parts as
so many irradiations from it. Hence nothing is so rare as a
critic who can elevate himself to the comprehensive contem-
plation of a work of art. Shakspeare's compositions, from the
very depth of purpose displayed in them, have been especially
liable to the misfortune of being misunderstood. Besides, this
prosaic species of criticism requires always that the poetic form
should be applied to the details of execution; but when the
zf
SEIAKSPEARE-HIS ROMEO AND JULIET. 361
plan of the piece is concerned, it never looks for more than
the logical connexion of causes and effects, or some partial
and trite moral by way of application; and all that cannot be
reconciled therewith is declared superfluous, or even a perni-
cious appendage. On these principles we must even strike
out from the Greek tragedies most of the choral songs, which
also contribute nothing to the development of the action, but
are merely an harmonious echo of the impressions the poet
aims at conveying. In this they altogether mistake the
rights of poetry and the nature of the romantic drama, which,
for the very reason that it is and ought to be picturesque,
requires richer accompaniments and contrasts for its main
groups. In all Art and Poetry, but more especially in the
romantic, the Fancy lays claims to be considered as an inde-
pendent mental power governed according to its own laws.
In an essay on Romeo and Juliet“, written a number of
years ago, I went through the whole of the scenes in their
order, and demonstrated the inward necessity of each with
reference to the whole ; I showed why such a particular
circle of characters and relations was placed around the two
lovers; I explained the signification of the mirth here and
there scattered, and justified the use of the occasional height-
ening given to the poetical colours. From all this it seemed
to follow unquestionably, that with the exception of a few
witticisms, now become unintelligible or foreign to the pre-
sent taste, (imitations of the tone of society of that day)
nothing could be taken away, nothing added, nothing other-
wise arranged, without mutilating and disfiguring the perfect
work. I would readily undertake to do the same for all the
pieces of Shakspeare's maturer years, but to do this would re-
quire a separate book. Here I am reduced to confine my
observations to the tracing his great designs with a rapid
pencil; but still I must previously be allowed to deliver my
sentiments in a general manner on the subject of his most
eminent peculiarities.
Shakspeare's knowledge of mankind has become proverbial:
in this his superiority is so great, that he has justly been
called the master of the human heart. A readiness to remark
the mind's fainter and involuntary utterances, and the power
to express with certainty the meaning of these signs, as deter-
* In the first volume of Charakteristiken und Kritiken, published by
my brother and myself.
362 SHAKSPEARE–HIs TALENT FoR CHARACTERIZATION.
mined by experience and reflection, constitutes “ the observer
of men;“ but tacitly to draw from these still further conclu-
sions, and to arrange the separate observations according to
grounds of probability, into a just and valid combination,
this, it may be said, is to know men. The distinguishing
property of the dramatic poet who is great in characterization,
is something altogether different here, and which, (take it
whichway we will,) either includes in it this readiness and this
acuteness, or dispenses with both. It is the capability of
transporting himself so completely into every situation, even
the most unusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary of
the whole human race, without particular instructions for
each separate case, to act and speak in the name of every in-
dividual. It is the power of endowing the creatures of his
imagination with such self-existent energy, that they after-
wards act in each conjuncture according to general laws of
nature: the poet, in his dreams, institutes, as it were, experi-
ments which are received with as much authority as if they
had been made on waking objects. The inconceivable ele-
ment herein, and what moreover can never be learned, is,
that the characters appear neither to do nor to say any thing
on the spectator's account merely; and yet that the poet
simply, by means of the exhibition, and without any subsi-
diary explanation, communicates to his audience the gift of
looking into the inmost recesses of their minds. Hence
Goethe has ingeniously compared Shakspeare's characters to
watches with crystalline plates and cases, which, while they
point out the hours as correctly as other watches, enable us
at the same time to perceive the inward springs whereby all
this is accomplished.
Nothing, however, is more foreign to Shakspeare than a.
certain anatomical style of exhibition, which laboriously enu-
merates all the motives by which a man is determined to act
in this or that particular manner. This rage of supplying
motives, the mania of so many modern historians, might be
carried at length to an extent which would abolish everything
like individuality, and resolve all character into nothing but
the effect of foreign or external influences whereas we know
that it often announces itself most decidedly in earliest in-
fancy. After all, a man acts so because he is so. And what
each man is, that Shakspeare reveals to us most immediately:
he demands and obtains ou belief, even for what is singular

SHAKSPEARE–PoPE AND JOHNSON. 363.
and deviates from the ordinary course of nature. Never
perhaps was there so comprehensive a talent for characteriza-
tion as Shakspeare. It not only grasps every diversity of
rank, age, and sex, down to the lispings of infancy; not only
do the king and the beggar, the hero and the pickpocket, the
sage and the idiot, speak and act with equal truthfulness;
not only does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign
nations, and portray with the greatest accuracy (a few appa-
rent violations of costume excepted) the spirit of the ancient.
Romans, of the French in the wars with the English, of the
English themselves during a great part of their history, of
the Southern Europeans (in the serious part of many come-
dies), the cultivated society of the day, and the rude barbarism
of a Norman fore-time; his human characters have not only
such depth and individuality that they do not admit of being
classed under common names, and are inexhaustible even in
conception: no, this Prometheus not merely forms men, he
opens the gates of the magical world of spirits, calls up the
midnight ghost, exhibits before us the witches with their un-
hallowed rites, peoples the air with sportive fairies and
sylphs; and these beings, though existing only in the imagi-
nation, nevertheless possess such truth and consistency, that
even with such misshapen abortions as Caliban, he extorts the
assenting conviction, that were there such beings they would
so conduct themselves. In a word, as he carries a bold and
pregnant fancy into the kingdom of nature, on the other hand,
he carries nature into the regions of fancy, which lie beyond
the confines of reality. We are lost in astonishment at the
close intimacy he brings us into with the extraordinary, the
wonderful, and the unheard-of.
Pope and Johnson appear strangely to contradict each
other, when the first says, “ all the characters of Shakspeare
are individuals," and the second, “ they are species.” And
yet perhaps these opinions may admit of reconciliation.
Pope's expression is unquestionably the more correct. A
character which should be merely a personification of a naked
general idea could neither exhibit any great depth nor any
great variety. The names of genera and species are well
known to be merely auxiliaries for the understanding, that
we may embrace the infinite variety of nature in a certain
order. The characters which Shakspeare has so thoroughly
delineated have undoubtedly a number of individual pecu-
364 SHAKSPEARE-HIS EXHIBITION OF PASSION.
liarities, but at the same time they possess a significance which
is not applicable to them alone: they generally supply mate-
rials for a profound theory of their most prominent and
distinguishing property. But even with the above correction,
this opinion must still have its limitations. Characterization
is merely one ingredient of the dramatic art, and not dramatic
poetry itself. It would be improper in the extreme, if the
poet were to draw our attention to superfluous traits of cha-
racter, at a time when it ought to be his endeavour to produce
other impressions. Whenever the musical or the fanciful pre-
ponderates, the characteristical necessarily falls into the back-
ground. Hence many of the figures of Shakspeare exhibit
merely external designations, determined by the place which
they occupy in the whole: they are like secondary persons in
a public procession, to whose physiognomy we seldom pay
much attention; their only importance is derived from the
solemnity of their dress and the duty in which they are
engaged. Shakspeare's messengers, for instance, are for the
most partmere messengers, and yet not common, but poetical
messengers: the messages which they have to bring is the
soul which suggests to them their language. Other voices,
too, are merely raised to pour forth these as melodious lamen-
tations or rejoicings, or to dwell in reflection on what has
taken place; and in a serious drama, without chorus this must
always be more or less the case, if we would not have it pro-
saical.
If Shakspeare deserves our admiration for his characters,
he is equally deserving of it for his exhibition of passion,
taking this word in its widest signification, as including
every mental condition, every tone, from indifference or fami-
liar mirth to the wildest rage and despair. He gives us the
history of minds; he lays open to us, in a single word, a
whole series of their anterior states. His passions do not
stand at the same height, from first to last, as is the case with
so many tragic poets, who, in the language of Lessing, are
thorough masters of the legal style of love. He paints, with
inimitable veracity, the gradual advance from the first origin;
“he gives," as Lessing says, “ a living picture of all the
slight and secret artifices by which a feeling steals into our
souls, of all the imperceptible advantages which it there gains,
of all the stratagems by which it makes every other passion
subservient to itself, till it becomes the sole tyrant of our
SHAKSPEARE-HIS PLAY ON WORDS. 365
desires and our aversions.” Of all the poets, perhaps, he
alone has portrayed the mental diseases, melancholy, delirium,
lunacy, with such inexpressible and, in every respect, definite
truth, that the physician may enrich his observations from
them in the same manner as from real cases.
And yet Johnson has objected to Shakspeare that his
pathos is not always natural and free from affectation. There
are, it is true, passages, though comparatively speaking very
few, where his poetry exceeds the bounds of actual dialogue,
where a too soaring imagination, a too luxuriant wit, rendered
a complete dramatic forgetfulness of himself impossible-
With this exception, the censure originated in a fanciless way
of thinking, to which everything appears unnatural that does
not consort with its own tame insipidity. Hence an idea has
been formed of simple and natural pathos, which consists
in exclamations destitute of imagery and nowise elevated
above every-day life. But energetical passions electrify all
the mental powers, and wil] consequently, in highly-favoured
natures, give utterance to themselves in ingenious and figura-
tive expressions. It has been often remarked that indignation
makes a man witty; and as despair occasionally breaks out
into laughter, it may sometimes also give vent to itself in an-
tithetical comparisons.
Besides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly
weighed. Shakspeare, who was always sure of his power to
excite, when he wished, sufficiently powerful emotions, has
occasionally, by indulging in a freer play of fancy, purposely
tempered the impressions when too painful, and immediately
introduced a musical softening of our sympathy*. He had
not those rude ideas of his art which many moderns seem
to have, as if the poet, like the clown in the proverb, must
strike twice on the same place. An ancient rhetorician deli-
vered a caution against dwelling too long on the excitation
of pity; for nothing, he said, dries so soon as tears; and
Shakspeare acted conformably to this ingenious maxim with-
out having learned it. The paradoxical assertion of Johnson
that “Shakspeare had a greater talent for comedy than tragedy,
* A contemporary of the poet, the author of the already-noticed poem,
(subscribed I. M. S.,) tenderly felt this while he says–
Yet so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both smile and weep.
-- - «ST F-«-w .
366 SHAKSPEARE–POETICAL USE OF A PLAY ON WORDS.
and that in the latter he has frequently displayed an affected
tone,“ is scarcely deserving of lengthy notice. For its re-
futation, it is unnecessary to appeal to the great tragical
compositions of the poet, which, for overpowering effect,
leave far behind them almost everything that the stage has
seen besides; a few of their less celebrated scenes would
be quite sufficient. What to many readers might lend an
appearance of truth to this assertion are the verbal witticisms,
that playing upon words, which Shakspeare not unfrequently
introduces into serious and sublime passages, and even into
those also of a peculiarly pathetic nature.
I have already stated the point of view in which we ought
to consider this sportive play upon words. I shall here,
therefore, merely deliver a few observations respecting the
playing upon words in general, and its poetical use. A
thorough investigation would lead us too far from our subject,
and too deeply into considerations on the essence of language,
and its relation to poetry, or rhyme, &c.
There is in the human mind a desire that language should
exhibit the object which it denotes, sensibly, by its very
sound, which may be traced even as far back as in the first
origin of poetry. As, in the shape in which language comes
down to us, this is seldom perceptibly the case, an imagination
which has been powerfully excited is fond of laying hold of
any congruity in sound which may accidentally offer itself,
that by such means he may, for the nonce, restore the lost
resemblance between the word and the thing. For example,
How common was it and is it to seek in the name of a person,
however arbitrarily bestowed, a reference to his qualities and
fortunes,–to convert it purposely into a significant name.
Those who cry out against the play upon words as an unna-
tural and affected invention, only betray their own ignorance
of original nature. A great fondness for it is always evinced
among children, as well as with nations of simple manners,
among whom correct ideas of the derivation and affinity
of words have not yet been developed, and do not, conse-
quently, stand in the way of this caprice. In Homer we find
several examples of it; the Books of Moses, the oldest written
memorial of the primitive world, are, as is well known, full of
them. On the other hand, poets of a very cultivated taste,
like Petrarch, or orators, like Cicero, have delighted in them.
Whoever, in Richard the Second, is disgusted with the
SEIAKSPEARE-MORAL DELICACY. 367
affecting play of words of the dying John of Gaunt on his
own name, should remember that the same thing occurs in
the Ajax of Sophocles. We do not mean to say that all play-
ing upon words is on all occasions to be justified. This must
depend on the disposition of mind, whether it will admit of
such a play of fancy, and whether the sallies, comparisons,
and allusions, which lie at the bottom of them, possess in-
ternal solidity. Yet we must not proceed upon the principle
of trying how the thought appears after it is deprived of the
resemblance in sound, any more than we are to endeavour to
feel the charm ofrhymed versification after depriving it of its
rhyme. The laws of good taste on this subject must, more-
over, vary with the quality of the languages. In those which
possess a great number of homonymes, that is, words possessing
the same, or nearly the same, sound, though quite different in
their derivation and signification, it is almost more difficult to
avoid, than to fall on such a verbal play. It has, however,
been feared, lest a door might be opened to puerile witticism,
if they were not rigorously proscribed. But I cannot, for my
part, find that Shakspeare had such an invincible and immo-
derate passion for this verbal witticism. It is true, he some-
times makes a most lavish use of this figure; at others, he has
employed it very sparingly; and at times (for example, in
Macbeth), I do not believe a vestige of it is to be found.
Hence, in respect to the use or the rejection of the play upon
words, he must have been guided by the measure of the
objects, and the different style in which they required to be
treated, and probably have followed here, as in everything
else, principles which, fairly examined, will bear a strict
examination.
The objection that Shakspeare wounds our feelings by the
open display of the most disgusting moral odiousness, un-
mercifully harrows up the mind, and tortures even our eyes
by the exhibition of the most insupportable and hateful spec-
tacles, is one of greater and graver importance. He has, in
fact, never varnished over wild and blood-thirsty passions
with a pleasing exterior-never clothed crime and want of
principle with a false show of greatness of soul; and in that
respect he is every way deserving of praise. Twice he has
portrayed downright villains, and the masterly way in which
he has contrived to elude impressions of too painful a nature
may be seen in Iago and Richard the Third. I allow that
368 SHAKSPEARE–UNION OF ELEVATION AND DEPTH.
the reading, and still more the sight, of some of his pieces,
is not advisable to weak nerves, any more than was the
Eumenides of AEschylus; but is the poet, who can only reach
an important object by a bold and hazardous daring, to be
checked by considerations for such persons? If the effeminacy
of the present day is to serve as a general standard of what
tragical composition may properly exhibit to human nature,
we shall be forced to set very narrow limits indeed to art,
and the hope of anything like powerful effect must at once
and for ever be renounced. If we wish to have a grand pur-
pose, we must also wish to have the grand means, and our
nerves ought in some measure to accommodate themselves to
painful impressions, if, by way of requital, our mind is thereby
elevated and strengthened. The constant reference to a petty
and puny race must cripple the boldness of the poet. Fortu-
nately for his art, Shakspeare lived in an age extremely sus-
ceptible of noble and tender impressions, but which had yetin-
herited enough of the firmness of a vigorous olden time, not to
shrink with dismay from every strong and forcible painting.
We have lived to see tragedies of which the castastrophe con-
sists in the swoon of an enamoured princess: if Shakspeare
falls occasionally into the opposite extreme, it is a noble error,
originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength. And this
tragical Titan, who storms the heavens and threatens to tear
the world from off its hinges, who, more terrible than AEschy-
lus, makes our hair to stand on end, and congeals our blood
with horror, possessed at the same time the insinuating
loveliness of the sweetest poesy; he toys with love like a
child, and his songs die away on the ear like melting sighs.
He unites in his soul the utmost elevation and the utmost
depth; and the most opposite and even apparently irreconcil-
able properties subsist in him peaceably together. The world
of spirits and nature have laid all their treasures at his feet:
in strength a demi-god, in profundity of view a prophet, in
all-seeing wisdom a guardian Spirit of a higher order, he
lowers himself to mortals as if unconscious of his superiority,
and is as open and unassuming as a child.
If the delineation of all his characters, separately con-
sidered, is inimitably bold and correct, he surpasses even
himself in so combining and contrasting them, that they serve
to bring out each other's peculiarities. This is the very per-
fection of dramatic characterization: for we can never esti-
SHAKSPEARE–HIS IRC-WY. 369
mate a man's true worth if we consider him altogether
abstractedly by himself; we must see him in his relations
with others; and it is here that most dramatic poets are
deficient. Shakspeare makes each of his principal characters
the glass in which the others are reflected, and by like means
enables us to discover what could not be immediately revealed
to us. What in others is most profound, is with him but
surface. Ill-advised should we be were we always to take
men's declarations respecting themselves and others for ster-
ling coin. Ambiguity of design with much propriety he
makes to overflow with the most praiseworthy principles;
and sage maxims are not unfrequently put in the mouth of
stupidity, to show how easily such common-place truisms may
be acquired. Nobody ever painted so truthfully as he has
done the facility of self-deception, the half self-conscious
hypocrisy towards ourselves, with which even noble minds
attempt to disguise the almost inevitable influence of selfish
motives in human nature. This secret irony of the characteri-
zation commandsadmiration as the profound abyss of acuteness
and sagacity; but it is the grave of enthusiasm. We arrive
at it only after we have had the misfortune to see human
nature through and through ; and when no choice remains
but to adopt the melancholy truth, that “no virtue or great-
ness is altogether pure and genuine," or the dangerous error
that “the highest perfection is attainable.” Here we there-
fore may perceive in the poet himself, notwithstanding his
power to excite the most fervent emotions, a certain cool
indifference, but still the indifference of a superior mind,
which has run through the whole sphere of human existence
and survived feeling.
The irony in Shakspeare has not merely a reference to the
separate characters, but frequently to the whole of the action.
Most poets who pourtray human events in a narrative or dra-
matic form take themselves a part, and exact from their
readers a blind approbation or condemnation of whatever
side they choose to support or oppose. The more zealous this
rhetoric is, the more certainly it fails of its effect. In every
case we are conscious that the subject itself is not brought
immediately before us, but that we view it through the
medium of a different way of thinking. When, however.
by a dexterous manoeuvre, the poet allows us an occa-
sional glance at the less brilliant reverse of the medal, then
2 A
370 SIIAKSPEARE–HIS COMIC TALENT.
he makes, as it were, a sort of secret understanding with
the select circle of the more intelligent of his readers or spec-
tators; he shows them that he had previously seen and ad-
mitted the validity of their tacit objections; that he himself
is not tied down to the represented subject, but soars freely
above it; and that, if he chose, he could unrelentingly anni-
hilate the beautiful and irresistibly attractive scenes which
his magic pen has produced. No doubt, wherever the proper
tragic enters everything like irony immediately ceases; but
from the avowed raillery of Comedy, to the point where the
subjection of mortal beings to an inevitable destiny demands
the highest degree of seriousness, there are a multitude of
human relations which unquestionably may be considered in
an iromical view, without confounding the eternal line of
separation between good and evil. This purpose is answered
by the comic characters and scenes which are interwoven
with the serious parts in most of those pieces of Shakspeare
where romantic fables or historical events are made the sub-
ject of a noble and elevating exhibition. Frequently an
intentional parody of the serious part is not to be mistaken
in them; at other times the connexion is more arbitrary and
loose, and the more so the more marvellous the invention of
the whole, and the more entirely it is become a light revel-
ling of the fancy. The comic intervals everywhere serve to
prevent the pastime from being converted into a business, to
preserve the mind in the possession of its serenity, and to
keep off that gloomy and inert seriousness which so easily
steals upon the sentimental, but not tragical, drama. Most
assuredly Shakspeare did not intend thereby, in defiance
to his own better judgment, to humour the taste of the
multitude: for in various pieces, and throughout consider-
able portions of others, and especially when the catastrophe
is approaching, and the mind consequently is more on the
stretch and no longer likely to give heed to any amusement
which would distract their attention, he has abstained from
all such comic intermixtures. It was also an object with
lim, that the clowns or buffoons should not occupy a more
important place than that which he had assigned them: he
expressly condemns the extemporizing with which they loved
to enlarge their parts*. Johnson founds the justification of
the species of drama, in which seriousness and mirth are
* In Hamlet's directions to the players. Act iii, c. 2.
SHAKSPEARE–COMIC CEHARACTERIZATION. 371
mixed, on this, that in real life the vulgaris found close
to the sublime, that the merry and the sad usually accom-
pany and succeed one another. But it does not follow that
because both are found together, therefore they must not
be separable in the compositions of art. The observation is
in other respects just, and this circumstance invests the poet
with a power to adopt this procedure, because everything
in the drama, must be regulated by the conditions of thea-
trical probability; but the mixture of such dissimilar, and
apparently contradictory, ingredients, in the same works,
can only be justifiable on principles reconcilable with the
views of art, which I have already described. In the dramas
cf Shakspeare the comic scenes are the antechamber of the
poetry, where the servants remain; these prosaic attendants
must not raise their voices so high as to deafen the speakers
in the presence-chamber; however, in those intervals when
the ideal society has retired they deserve to be listened to;
their bold raillery, their presumption of mockery, may afford
many an insight into the situation and circumstances of their
maSterS.
Shakspeare's comic talent iſ equally wonderful with that
which he has shown in the pathetic and tragic: it stands
on an equal elevation, and possesses equal extent and pro-
fundity; in all that. I have hitherto said, I only wished to
guard against admitting that the former preponderated. He
is highly inventive in comic situations and motives: it will
be hardly possible to show whence he has taken any of them,
whereas, in the serious part of his dramas, he has generally
laid hold of some well-known story. His comic characteriza-
tion is equally true, various, and profound, with his serious.
So little is he disposed to caricature, that rather, it may be
said, many of his traits are almost too nice and delicate for
the stage, that they can only be made available by a great
actor, and fully understood by an acute audience. Not only
has he delineated many kinds of folly, but even of sheer
stupidity has he contrived to give a most diverting and
entertaining picture. There is also in his pieces a peculiar
species of the farcical, which apparently seems to be introduced
more arbitrarily, but which, however, is founded on imitation
of some actual custom. This is the introduction of the merry-
maker, the fool with his cap and bells, and motley dress,
called more commonly in England Clown, who appears in
2 A 2
372 SHAKSPEARE–THE PART OF THE FOOL AND CLOWN.
several comedies, though not in all, but of the tragedies in Lear
alone, and who generally merely exercises his wit in conver-
sation with the principal persons, though he is also sometimes
incorporated into the action. In those times it was not only
usual for princes to have their court fools, but many distin-
guished families, among their other retainers, kept such an
exhilarating housemate as a good antidote against the insi-
pidity and wearisomeness of ordinary life, and as a welcome
interruption of established formalities. Great statesmen, and
even ecclesiastics, did not consider it beneath their dignity to
recruit and solace themselves after important business with
the conversation of their fools; the celebrated Sir Thomas
More had his fool painted along with himself by Holbein.
Shakspeare appears to have lived immediately before the time
when the custom began to be abolished; in the English comic
authors who succeeded him the clown is no longer to be found.
The dismissal of the fool has been extolled as a proof of
refinement; and our honest forefathers have been pitied for
taking delight in such a coarse and farcical amusement. For
my part, I am rather disposed to believe, that the practice
was dropped from the difficulty in finding fools able to do full
justice to their parts*: on the other hand, reason, with all its
conceit of itself, has become too timid to tolerate such bold
irony; it is always careful lest the mantle of its gravity
should be disturbed in any of its folds; and rather than allow
a privileged place to folly beside itself, it has unconsciously
assumed the part of the ridiculous; but, alas ! a heavy and
* See Hamlet's praise of Yorick. In The Twelfth Night, Viola says:–
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit;
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of the persons, and the time;
And like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art:
For folly that he wisely shows is fit, -
But wise men's folly fall'n quite taints their wit.–AUTHoR.
The passages from Shakspeare, in the original work, are given from the
author's masterly translation. We may be allowed, however, to observe,
that the last line–
““ Doch wozu ist des Weisen Thorheit nutz ???
literally, Qf what use is the folly of the wise?–does not convey the exact
meaning of Shakspeare.–TRANs.
sHAKsPEARE-HIs LANGUAGE AND VERSIFICATION. 373
cheerless ridicule”. It would be easy to make a collection o1
the excellent sallies and biting sarcasms which have been
preserved of celebrated court fools. It is well known that
they frequently told such truths to princes as are never now
told to them†. Shakspeare's fools, along with somewhat of
an overstraining for wit, which cannot altogether be avoided
when wit becomes a separate profession, have for the most
part an incomparable humour, and an infinite abundance of
intellect, enough indeed to supply a whole host of ordinary
wise men.
I have still a few observations to make on the diction and
versification of our poet. The language is here and there
somewhat obsolete, but on the whole much less so than in
most of the contemporary writers, a sufficient proof of the
goodness of his choice. Prose had as yet been but little cul-
tivated, as the learned generally wrote in Latin: a favourable
circumstance for the dramatic poet; for what has be to do
with the scientific language of books? He had not only read,
but studied the earlier English poets; but he drew his lan-
guage immediately from life itself, and he possessed a
masterly skill in blending the dialogical element with the
highest poetical elevation. I know not what certain critics
mean, when they say that Shakspeare is frequently ungram-
matical. To make good their assertion, they must prove that
similar constructions never occur in his contemporaries, the
direct contrary of which can, however, be easily shown. In
no language is everything determined on principle; much is
always left to the caprice of custom, and if this has since
changed, is the poet to be made answerable for it? The
English language had not then attained to that correct in-
sipidity which has been introduced into the more recent
literature of the country, to the prejudice, perhaps, of its
originality. As a field when first brought under the plough
produces, along with the fruitful shoots, many luxuriant
weeds, so the poetical diction of the day ran occasionally into
* “Since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that
wise men have makes a greater show.”–As You Like It. Acti., sc. 2.
+ Charles the Bold, of Burgundy, is known to have frequently boasted
that he wished to rival Hannibal as the greatest general of all ages. After
his defeat at Granson, his fool accompanied him in his hurried flight, and
exclaimed, “ Ah, your Grace, they have for once Hanniballed us!” If the
Duke had given an ear to this warning raillery, he would not so soon after-
wards have come to a disgraceful end.
374 SHAKSPEARE–USE OF PROSE AND VERSE.
extravagance, but an extravagance originating in the exube-
rance of its vigour. We may still perceive traces of awkward-
ness, but nowhere of a laboured and spiritless display of art
In general Shakspeare's style yet remains the very best model,
both in the vigorous and sublime, and the pleasing andtender.
In his sphere he has exhausted all the means and appliances
of language. On all he has impressed the stamp of his
mighty spirit. His images and figures, in their unsought,
nay, uncapricious singularity, have often a sweetness alto-
gether peculiar. He becomes occasionally obscure from too
great fondness for compressed brevity; but still, the labour of
poring over Shakspeare's lines will invariably meet an ample
requital.
The verse in all his plays is generally the rhymeless
Iambic of ten or eleven syllables, occasionally only inter-
mixed with rhymes, but more frequently alternating with
prose. No one piece is written entirely in prose; for even
in those which approach the most to the pure Comedy, there
is always something added which gives them a more poetical
hue than usually belongs to this species. Many scenes are
wholly in prose, in others verse and prose succeed each other
alternately. This can only appear an impropriety in the
eyes of those who are accustomed to consider the lines of a
drama like so many soldiers drawn up rank and file on a
parade, with the same uniform, arms, and accoutrements, so
that when we see one or two we may represent to ourselves
thousands as being every way like them,
In the use of verse and prose Shakspeare observes very
nice distinctions according to the ranks of the speakers, but
still more according to their characters and disposition of
mind. A noble language, elevated above the usual tone, is
only suitable to a certain decorum of manners, which is
thrown over both vices and virtues, and which does not even
wholly disappear amidst the violence of passion. If this is
not exclusively possessed by the higher ranks, it still, how-
ever, belongs naturally more to them than to the lower; and
therefore in Shakspeare dignity and familiarity of language,
poetry, and prose, are in this manner distributed among the
characters. Hence his tradesmen, peasants, soidiers, sailors,
servants, but more especially his fools and clowns, speak,
almost without exception, in the tone of their actual life.
However, inward dignity of sentiment, wherever it is pos-
SHAKSPEARE–HAMLET, VARIED FORM OF LANGUAGE. 375
sessed, invariably displays itself with a noble.mess of its own,
and stands not in need, for that end, of the artificial elegancies
of education and custom ; it is a universal right of man, of
the highest as well as the lowest; and hence also, in Shak-
speare, the nobility of nature and morality is ennobled above
the artificial nobility of society. Not unfrequently also he
makes the very same persons express themselves at times in
the sublimest language, and at others in the lowest; and this
inequality is in like manner founded in truth. Extraordinary
situations, which intensely occupy the head and throw mighty
passions into play, give elevation and tension to the soul: it
collects together all its powers, and exhibits an unusual
energy, both in its operations and in its communications by
language. On the other hand, even the greatest men have
their moments of remissness, when to a certain degree they .
forget the dignity of their character in unreserved relaxation.
This very tone of mind is necessary before they can receive
amusement from the jokes of others, or what surely cannot
dishonour even a hero, from passing jokes themselves. Let
any person, for example, go carefully through the part of
Hamlet. How bold and powerful the language of his poetry
when he conjures the ghost of his father, when he spurs him-
self on to the bloody deed, when he thunders into the soul of
his mother! How he lowers his tone down to that of com-
mon life, when he has to do with persons whose station
demands from him such a line of conduct; when he makes
game of Polonius and the courtiers, instructs the player, and
even enters into the jokes of the grave-digger. Of all the
poet's serious leading characters there is none so rich in
wit and humour as Hamlet; hence he it is of all of them
that makes the greatest use of the familiar style. Others,
again, never do fall into it; either because they are con-
stantly surrounded by the pomp of rank, or because a uniform
seriousness is natural to them ; or, in short, because through
the whole piece they are under the dominion of a passion
calculated to excite, and not, like the sorrow of Hamlet, to
depress the mind. The choice of the one form or the other
is everywhere so appropriate, and so much founded in the
nature of the thing, that I will venture to assert, even where
the poet in the very same speech makes the speaker leave
prose for poetry, or the converse, this could not be altered
without danger of injuring or destroying some beauty or
376 SHAKSPEARE–HIS IAMBICS, A CoMPLETE MoDEL.
other. The blank verse has this advantage, that its tone
may be elevated or lowered; it admits of approximation to
the familiar style of conversation, and never forms such an
abrupt contrast as that, for example, between plain prose and
the rhyming Alexandrines.
Shakspeare's Iambics are sometimes highly harmonious
and full sounding; always varied and suitable to the subject,
at one time distinguished by ease and rapidity, at another
they move along with ponderous energy. They never fall out
of the dialogical character, which may always be traced even
in the continued discourses of individuals, excepting when
the latter run into the lyrical. They are a complete modei
of the dramatic use of this species of verse, which, in English,
since Milton, has been also used in epic poetry; but in the
latter it has assumed a quite different turn. Even the irre-
gularities of Shakspeare's versification are expressive; a,
verse broken off, or a sudden change of rhythmus, coincides
\with some pause in the progress of the thought, or the en-
trance of another mental disposition. As a proof that he
purposely violated the mechanical rules, from a conviction
that too symmetrical a versification does not suit with the
drama, and on the stage has in the long run a tendency to
lull the spectators asleep, we may observe that his earlier
pieces are the most diligently versified, and that in the later
works, when through practice he must have acquired a greater
facility, we find the strongest deviations from the regular
structure of the verse. As it served with him merely to
make the poetical elevation perceptible, he therefore claimed
the utmost possible freedom in the use of it.
The views or suggestions of feeling by which he was
guided in the use of rhyme may likewise be traced with
almost equal certainty. Not unfrequently scenes, or even
single speeches, close with a few rhyming lines, for the pur-
pose of more strongly marking the division, and of giving it
more rounding. This was injudiciously imitated by the
English tragic poets of a later date; they suddenly elevated
the tone in the rhymed lines, as if the person began all at
once to speak in another language. The practice was wel-
comed by the actors from its serving as a signal for clapping
when they made their exit. In Shakspeare, on the other
hand, the transitions are more easy: all changes of forms are
brought about insensibly, and as if of themselves. Moreover,
SHAKSPEARE=-HIS USE OF RHYME. 377
he is generally fond of heightening a series of ingenious
and antithetical sayings by the use of rhyme. We find other
passages in continued rhyme, where solemnity and theatrical
pomp were suitable, as, for instance, in the mask*, as it is
called, The Tempest, and in the play introduced in Hamlet.
Of other pieces, for instance, the Midsummer Night's Dream,
and Romeo and Juliet, the rhymes form a considerable part;
either because he may have wished to give them a glowing
colour, or because the characters appropriately utter in a
more musical tone their complaints or suits of love. In these
cases he has even introduced rhymed strophes, which ap-
proach to the form of the sonnet, then usual in England.
The assertion of Malone, that Shakspeare in his youth was
fond of rhyme, but that he afterwards rejected it, is suffi-
ciently refuted by his own chronology of the poet's works.
In some of the earliest, for instance, in the Second and Third
Part of Henry the Sixth, there are hardly any rhymes; in
what is stated to be his last piece, The Twelfth Wight, or What
You Will, and in Macbeth, which is proved to have been com-
posed under the reign of King James, we find them in no
inconsiderable number. Even in the secondary matters of
form Shakspeare was not guided by humour and accident,
but, like a genuine artist, acted invariably on good and solid
grounds. This we might also show of the kinds of verse
which he least frequently used; for instance, if the rhyming
verses of seven and eight syllables, were we not afraid of
dwelling too long on merely technical peculiarities.
In England the manner of handling rhyming verse, and the
opinion as to its harmony and elegance, have, in the course
of two centuries, undergone a much greater change than is
the case with the rhymeless Iambic or blank verse. In the
former, Dryden and Pope have become models; these writers
have communicated the utmost smoothing to rhyme, but they
have also tied it down to a harmonious uniformity. A
foreigner, to whom antiquated and new are the same, may
perhaps feel with greater freedom the advantages of the more
ancient manner. Certain it is, the rhyme of the present day,
from the too great confinement of the couplet, is unfit for the
drama. We must not estimate the rhyme of Shakspeare by
the mode of subsequent times, but by a comparison with his
* I shall take the opportunity of saying a few words respecting this
species of drama when I come to speak of Ben Jonson.
378 SPIAKSPEARE–DRYDEN–POPE-–SPENSER.
contemporaries or with Spenser. The comparison will, with-
out doubt, turn out to his advantage. Spenser is often dif-
fuse; Shakspeare, though sometimes hard, is always briefand
vigorous. He has more frequently been induced by the rhyme
to leave out something necessary than to insert anything super-
fluous. Many of his rhymes, however, are faultless: ingeni-
ous with attractive ease, and rich without false brilliancy.
The songs interspersed (those, I mean, of the poet himself) are
generally sweetly playful and altogether musical; in imagina-
tion, while we merely read them, we hear their melody.
The whole of Shakspeare's productions bear the certain stamp
of his original genius, but yet no writer was ever farther re-
moved from everything like a mannerism derived from habit
or personal peculiarities. Rather is he, such is the diversity
of tone and colour, which varies according to the quality of
his subjects he assumes, a very Proteus. Each of his com-
positions is like a world of its own, moving in its own sphere.
They are works of art, finished in one pervading style, which
revealed the freedom and judicious choice of their author.
If the formation of a work throughout, even in its minutest
parts, in conformity with a leading idea; if the domination of
one animating spirit over all the means of execution, deserves
the name of correctness (and this, excepting in matters of
grammar, is the only proper sense of the term); we shall
then, after allowing to Shakspeare all the higher qualities
which demand our admiration, be also compelled, in most
cases, to concede to him the title of a correct poet.
It would be in the highest degree instructive to follow, if
we could, in his career step by step, an author who at once
founded and carried his art to perfection, and to go through
his works in the order of time. But, with the exception of a
few fixed points, which at length have been obtained, all the
necessary materials for this are still wanting. The diligent
Malone has, indeed, made an attempt to arrange the plays of
Shakspeare in chronological order; but he himself only gives
out the result of his labours for hypothetical, and it could not
possibly be attended with complete success, since he excluded
from his inquiry a considerable number of pieces which have
been ascribed to the poet, though rejected as spurious by all
the editors since Rowe, but which, in my opinion, must, if not
wholly, at least in great measure be attributed to him*.
* Were this book destined immediately for an English public, I should
SDIAKSPEARE=REVIEW OR HIS DRAMASe 379
LECTURE XXIV.
Criticisms on Shakspeare’s Comedies.
THE best and easiest mode of reviewing Shakspeare's dramas»
will be to arrange them in classes. This, it must be owned
is merely a makeshift: several critics have declared that
all Shakspeare's pieces substantially belong to the same
species, although sometimes one ingredient, sometimes another,
the musical or the characteristical, the invention of the won-
derful or the imitation of the real, the pathetic or the comic,
seriousness or irony, may preponderate in the mixture.
Shakspeare himself, it would appear, did but laugh at the
petty endeavours of critics to find out divisions and sub-
divisions of species, and to hedge in what had been so sepa-
rated with the most anxious care; thus the pedantic Polonius
in Hamlet commends the players, for their knowledge of
“ tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, his-
torical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-
pastoral, scene-undividable, or poem unlimited.” On another
occasion he ridicules the limitation of Tragedy to an unfor-
tunate catastrophe:
“ And tragical, my noble lord, it is;
For Pyramus therein. doth kill himself.”
However the division into Comedies, Tragedies, and Historical
Dramas, according to the usual practice, may in some measure
be adopted, if we do not lose sight of the transitions and
affinities. The subjects of the comedies are generally taken
from novels: they are romantic love tales; none are alto-
gether confined to the sphere of common or domestic rela-
not have hazarded an opinion like this at variance with that which is gene-
rally received, without supporting it by proofs. The inquiry, however, is
too extensive for our present limits, and I have therefore reserved it for a
separate treatise. Besides at the present moment, while I am putting the
last hand to my Lectures, no collection of English books but my owns
accessible to me. The latter I should have enlarged with a view to this
object, if the interruption of intercourse with England had not renderedit
impossible to procure any other than the most common English books.
On this point, therefore. I must request indulgence. In an Appendix to
this Lecture I shall merely make a few cursory observations.
380 SHAKSPEARE : THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
tions: all of them possess poetical ornament, some of them
run into the wonderful or the pathetic. With these two of
his most famous tragedies are connected by an immediate
link, Romeo and Juliet and Othello; both true novels, and
composed on the same principles. In many of the historical
plays a considerable space is occupied by the comic characters
and scenes; others are serious throughout, and leave behind
a tragical impression. The essential circumstance by which
they are distinguished is, that the plot bears reference to a
poetical and national interest. This is not equally the case
in Hamlet, Lear, and Macbeth, and therefore it is that we do
not include these tragedies among the historical pieces, though
the first is founded on an oid northern, the second on a
national tradition; and the third comes even within the era,
of Scottish history, after it ceased to be fabulous.
Among the comedies, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The
Taming of the Shrew, and The Comedy of Errors, bear many
traces of an early origin. The Two Gentlemen of Verona
paints the irresolution of love, and its infidelity to friendship,
pleasantly enough, but in some degree superficially, we might
almost say with the levity of mind which a passion suddenly
entertained, and as suddenly given up, presupposes. The
faithless lover is at last, on account of a very ambiguous
repentance, forgiven without much difficulty by his first mis-
tress; for the more serious part, the premeditated flight of
the daughter of a Prince, the capture of her father along
with herself by a band of robbers, of which one of the Two
Gentlemen, the betrayed and banished friend, has been against
his will elected captain: for all this a peaceful solution is
soon found. It is as if the course of the world was obliged
to accommodate itself to a transient youthful caprice, called
love. Julia, who accompanies her faithless lover in the dis-
guise of a page, is, as it were, a light sketch of the tender
female figures of a Viola, and an Imogen, who, in the latter
pieces of Shakspeare, leave their home in similar disguises on
love adventures, and to whom a peculiar charm is communi-
cated by the display of the most virginly modesty in their
hazardous and problematical situation.
The Comedy of Errors is the subject of the Menaechmi of
Plautus, entirely recast and enriched with new develop-
ments: of all the works of Shakspeare this is the only
example of imitation of, or borrowing from, the ancients.
SHAKSPEARE - THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 381
To the two twin brothers of the same name are added two
slaves, also twins, impossible to be distinguished from each
other, and of the same name. The improbability becomes by
this means doubled: but when once we have lent ourselves to
the first, which certainly borders on the incredible, we shall
not perhaps be disposed to cavil at the second; and if the
spectator is to be entertained by mere perplexities they can-
not be too much varied. In such pieces we must, to give to
the senses at least an appearance of truth, always pre-suppose
that the parts by which the misunderstandings are occasioned
are played with masks, and this the poet no doubt observed.
I cannot acquiesce in the censure that the discovery is too
long deferred: so long as novelty and interest are possessed
by the perplexing incidents, there is no need to be in dread
of wearisomeness. And this is really the case here: matters
are carried so far that one of the two brothers is first arrested
for debt, then confined as a lunatic, and the other is forced to
take refuge in a sanctuary to save his life. In a subject of
this description it is impossible to steer clear of all sorts of
low circumstances, abusive language, and blows; Shakspeare
has however endeavoured to ennoble it in every possible way.
A couple of scenes, dedicated to jealousy and love, interrupt
the course of perplexities which are solely occasioned by the
illusion of the external senses. A greater solemnity is given
to the discovery, from the Prince presiding, and from the
re-union of the long separated parents of the twins who are
still alive. The exposition, by which the spectators are pre-
viously instructed while the characters themselves are still
involved in ignorance, and which Plautus artlessly conveys in
a prologue, is here masterly introduced in an affecting narra-
tive by the father. In short, this is perhaps the best of all
written or possible Menaechmi; and if the piece be inferior in
worth to other pieces of Shakspeare, it is merely because
nothing more could be made of the materials.
The Taming of the Shrew has the air of an Italian comedy ;
and indeed the love intrigue, which constitutes the main part
of it, is derived mediately or immediately from a piece of
Ariosto. The characters and passions are lightly sketched ;
the intrigue is introduced without much preparation, and in
its rapid progress impeded by no sort of difficulties; while,
in the manner in which Petruchio, though previously cautioned
as to Katherine, still encounters the risks in marrying her,
382 SHAKSPEARE : ZHE TAMING OF THE SIIREW.
and contrives to tame her–in all this the character and
peculiar humour of the English are distinctly visible. The
colours are laid on somewhat coarsely, but the ground is
good. That the obstinacy of a young and untamed girl, pos-
sessed of none of the attractions of her sex, and neither sup-
ported by bodily nor mental strength, must soon yield to the
still rougher and more capricious but assumed self-will of a
man: such a lesson can only be taught on the stage with all
the perspicuity of a proverb.
The prelude is still more remarkable than the play itself:
a drunken tinker, removed in his sleep to a palace, where he
is deceived into the belief of being a nobleman. The inven-
tion, however, is not Shakspeare's. Holberg has handled the
same subject in a masterly manner, and with inimitable truth;
but he has spun it out to five acts, for which such material is
hardly sufficient. Heprobably did not borrow from the English
dramatist, but like him took the hint from a popular story.
There are several comic motives of this description, which go
back to a very remote age, without ever becoming antiquated.
Here, as well as everywhere else, Shakspeare has proved
himself a great poet: the whole is merely a slight sketch, but
in elegance and delicate propriety it will hardly ever be ex-
celled. Neither has he overlooked the irony which the sub-
ject naturally suggested: the great lord, who is driven by
idleness and ennui to deceive a poor drunkard, can make no
better use of his situation than the latter, who every moment
relapses into his vulgar habits. The last half of this prelude,
that in which the tinker, in his new state, again drinks him-
self out of his senses, and is transformed in his sleep into his
former condition, is from some accident or other, lost. It
ought to have followed at the end of the larger piece. The
occasional remarks of the tinker, during the course of the
representation of the comedy, might have been improvisatory,
but it is hardly credible that Shakspeare should have trusted
to the momentary suggestions of the players, whom he did
not hold in high estimation, the conclusion, however short, of
a work which he had so carefully commenced. Moreover, the
only circumstance which connects the play with the prelude,
1s, that it belongs to the new life of the supposed nobleman
to have plays acted in his castle by strolling actors. This
invention of intTOducing spectators on the stage, who contri-
bute to the entelvainment, has been very wittily used by later
English poets.
SEIAKSPEARE I LOVES LABOUR LOST. 383
Love's Labour Lost is also numbered among the pieces of
his youth. It is a humorsome display offrolic; a whole
cornucopia of the most vivacious jokes is emptied into it.
Youth is certainly perceivable in the lavish superfluity of
labour in the execution: the unbroken succession of plays on
words, and sallies of every description, hardly leave the spec-
tator time to breathe; the sparkles of wit fly about in such
profusion, that they resemble a blaze of fireworks; while the
dialogue, for the most part, is in the same hurried style in
which the passing masks at a carnival attempt to banter each
other. The young king of Navarre, with three of his cour-
tiers, has made a vow to pass three years in rigid retirement,
and devote them to the study of wisdom; for that purpose he
has banished all female society from his court, and imposed a
penalty on the intercourse with women. But scarcely has he,
in a pompous harangue, worthy of the most heroic achieve-
ments, announced this determination, when the daughter of
the king of France appears at his court, in the name of her
old and bed-ridden father, to demand the restitution of a pro-
vince which he held in pledge. Compelled to give her audi-
ence, he falls immediately in love with her. Matters fare no
better with his companions, who on their parts renew an old
acquaintance with the princess's attendants. Each, in heart, is
already false to his vow, without knowing that the wish is
shared by his associates; they overhear one another, as they
in turn confide their sorrows in a love-ditty to the solitary
forest: every one jeers and confounds the one who follows
him. Biron, who from the beginning was the most satirical
among them, at last steps forth, and rallies the king and the
two others, till the discovery of a love-letter forces him also
to hang down his head. He extricates himself and his com-
panions from their dilemma by ridiculing the folly of the
broken vow, and, after a noble eulogy on women, invites
them to swear new allegiance to the colours of love. This
scene is inimitable, and the crowning beauty of the whole.
The manner in which they afterwards prosecute their love-
suits in masks and disguise, and in which they are tricked
and laughed at by the ladies, who are also masked and dis-
guised, is, perhaps, spun out too long. It may be thought,
too, that the poet, when he suddenly announces the death of
the king of France, and makes the princess postpone her
answer to the young prince's serious advances till the expira-
V-
384 SHAKSPEARE: ALL's WELL THAT ENDs wELL.
tion of the period of her mourning, and impose, besides, a
heavy penance on him for his levity, drops the proper comic
tone. But the tone of raillery, which prevails throughout the
piece, made it hardly possible to bring about a more satisfac-
tory conclusion: after such extravagance, the characters could
not return to sobriety, except under the presence of some
foreign influence. The grotesque figures of Don Armado, a
pompous fantastic Spaniard, a couple of pedants, and a clown,
who between whiles contribute to the entertainment, are the
creation of a whimsical imagination, and well adapted as foils
for the wit of so vivacious a society.
All's Well that Ends Well, Much Ado about Wothing, Measure
for Measure, and The Merchant of Venice, bear, in so far, a.
resemblance to each other, that, along with the main plot,
which turns on important relations decisive of nothing less
than the happiness or misery of life, and therefore is calcu-
lated to make a powerful impression on the moral feeling, the
poet. with the skill of a practised artist, has contrived to com-
bine a number of cheerful accompaniments. Not, however,
that the poet seems loth to allow full scope to the serious
impressions: he merely adds a due counterpoise to them in
the entertainment which he supplies for the imagination and
the understanding. He has furnished the story with all the
separate features which are necessary to give to it the appear-
ance of a real, though extraordinary, event. Buthe neverfalls
into the lachrymose tone of the sentimental drama, nor into
the bittermess of those dramas which have a moral direction,
and which are really nothing but moral invectives dramatized.
Compassion, anxiety, and dissatisfaction become too oppres-
sive when they are too long dwelt on, and when the whole of
a work is given up to them exclusively. Shakspeare always
finds means to transport us from the confinement of social
institutions or pretensions, where men do but shut out the
light and air from each other, into the open space, even before
we ourselves are conscious of our want.
Als Well that Ends Well is the old story of a young
maiden whose love looked much higher than her station. She
obtains her lover in marriage from the hand of the King as
a reward for curing him of a hopeless and lingering disease,
by means of a hereditary arcanum of her father, who had
been in his lifetime a celebrated physician. The young man
despises her virtue and beauty; concludes the marriage only
SHAKSPEARE: ALL's wELL THAT ENDs WELLs 385
in appearance, and seeks in the dangers of war, deliverance
from a domestic happiness which wounds his pride. By
faithful endurance and an innocent fraud, she fulfils the appa-
rently impossible conditions on which the Count had pro-
mised to acknowledge her as his wife. Love appears here in
humble guise: the wooing is on the woman's side; it is striv-
ing, unaided by a reciprocal inclination, to overcome the pre-
judices of birth. But as soon as Helena is united to the
Count by a sacred bond, though by him considered an op-
pressive chain, her error becomes her virtue.–She affects us
by her patient suffering: the moment in which she appears to
most advantage is when she accuses herself as the persecutor
of her inflexible husband, and, under the pretext of a pil-
grimage to atone for her error, privately leaves the house
of her mother-in-law. Johnson expresses a cordial aversion
for Count Bertram, and regrets that he should be allowed
to come off at last with no other punishment than a tem-
porary shame, nay, even be rewarded with the unmerited
possession of a virtuous wife. But has Shakspeare ever
attempted to soften the impression made by his unfeeling
pride and light-hearted perversity ? He has but given him
the good qualities of a soldier. And does not the poet paint
the true way of the world, which never makes much of man's
injustice to woman, if so-called family honour is preserved ?
Bertram’s sole justification is, that by the exercise of arb-
trary power, the King thought proper to constrain him, in a
matter of such delicacy and private right as the choice of
a wife. Besides, this story, as well as that of Grissel and
many similar ones, is intended to prove that woman's truth
and patience will at last triumph over man's abuse of his
Superior power, while other novels and fabliaux are, on the
other hand, true satires on woman's inconsistency and cun-
ning. In this piece old age is painted with rare favour: the
plain honesty of the King, the good-natured impetuosity
of old Lafeu, the maternal indulgence of the Countess to
Helena's passion for her son, seem all as it were to vie with
each other in endeavours to overcome the arrogance of the
young Count. The style of the whole is more sententious
than imaginative: the glowing colours of fancy could not
with propriety have been employed on such a subject. In
the passages where the humiliating rejection of the poor
Helena is most painfully affecting, the cowardly Parolles
2 B
Z86 SHAKSPEARE : MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
steps in to the relief of the spectator. The mystification by
which his pretended valour and his shameless slanders are
unmasked must be ranked among the most comic scenes that
ever were invented: they contain matter enough for an excel-
lent comedy, if Shakspeare were not always rich even to
profusion. Falstaff has thrown Parolles into the shade,
otherwise among the poet's comic characters he would havc
been still more famous.
The main plot in Much Ado about Wothing is the same
with the story of Ariodante and Ginevra in Ariosto; the
secondary circumstances and development are no doubt ver
different. The mode in which the innocent Hero before the
altar at the moment of the wedding, and in the presence
of her family and many witnesses, is put to shame by a most
degrading charge, false indeed, yet clothed with every ap-
pearance of truth, is a grand piece of theatrical effect in
the true and justifiable sense. The impression would have
been too tragical had not Shakspeare carefully softened it
in order to prepare for a fortunate catastrophe. The dis-
covery of the plot against Hero has been already partly
made, though not by the persons interested; and the poet
has contrived, by means of the blundering simplicity of a
couple of constables and watchmen, to convert the arrest and
the examination of the guilty individuals into scenes full
of the most delightful amusement. There is also a second
piece of theatrical effect not inferior to the first, where
Claudio, now convinced of his error, and in obedience to the
penance laid on his fault, thinking to give his hand to a rela-
tion of his injured bride, whom he supposes dead, discovers
on her unmasking, Hero herself. The extraordinary suc-
cess of this play in Shakspeare's own day, and even since
in England, is, however, to be ascribed more particularly
to the parts of Benedict and Beatrice, two humoursome beings,
who incessantly attack each other with all the resources of
raillery. Avowed rebels to love, they are both entangled
in its net by a merry plot of their friends to make them
believe that each is the object of the secret passion of the
other. Some one or other, not over-stocked with penetration,
has objected to the same artifice being twice used in entrap-
ping them; the drollery, however, lies in the very symmetry
of the deception. Their friends attribute the whole effect to
their own device; but the exclusive direction of their raillery
against each other is in itself a Droof of a growing inclination-
SHAKSPEARE - MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 387
Their witty vivacity does not even abandon them in the
avowal of love; and their behaviour only assumes a serious
appearance for the purpose of defending the slandered Hero.
This is exceedingly well imagined; the lovers ofjesting must
fix a point beyond which they are not to indulge in their
humour, if they would not be mistaken for buffoons by trade.
In Measure for Measure Shakspeare was compelled, by the
nature of the subject, to make his poetry more familiar with
criminal justice than is usual with him. All kinds of proceed-
ings connected with the subject, all sorts of active or passive
persons, pass in review before us: the hypocritical Lord
Deputy, the compassionate Provost, and the hard-hearted
Hangman; a young man of quality who is to suffer for the
seduction of his mistress before marriage, loose wretches
brought in by the police, nay, even a hardened criminal,
whom even the preparations for his execution cannot awaken
out of his callousness. But yet, notwithstanding this agitat-
ing truthfulness, how tender and mild is the pervading tone
of the picture! The piece takes improperly its name from
punishment; the true significance of the whole is the triumph
of mercy over strict justice; no man being himself so free
from errors as to be entitled to deal it out to his equals. The
most beautiful embellishment of the composition is the cha-
racter of Isabella, who, on the point of taking the veil, is yet
prevailed upon by sisterly affection to tread again the per-
plexing ways of the world, while, amid the general corruption,
the heavenly purity of her mind is not even stained with one
unholy thought: in the humble robes of the novice she is a
very angel of light. When the cold and stern Angelo, here-
tofore of unblemished reputation, whom the Duke has com-
missioned, during his pretended absence, to restrain, by a.
rigid administration of the laws, the excesses of dissolute
immorality, is even himself tempted by the virgin charms of
Isabella, supplicating for the pardon of her brother Claudio,
condemned to death for a youthful indiscretion; when at first,
in timid and obscure language, he insinuates, but at last im-
pudently avouches his readiness to grant Claudio's life to the
sacrifice of her honour; when Isabella repulses his offer with
a noble scorn; in her account of the interview to her brother,
when the latter at first applauds her conduct, but at length,
overcome by the fear of death, strives to persuade her to
consent to dishonour –in these masterly scenes, Shakspeare
2 B 2
388 SHAKSPEARE - THE MERCHANT OF VENICE,
has sounded the depths of the human heart. The interest
here reposes altogether on the represented action; curiosity
contributes nothing to our delight, for the Duke, in the
disguise of a Monk, is always present to watch over his
dangerous representative, and to avert every evil which could
possibly be apprehended; we look to him with confidence
Kor a happy result. The Duke acts the part of the Monk
naturally, even to deception; he unites in his person the
wisdom of the priest and the prince. Only in his wisdom he
is too fond of round-about ways; his vanity is flattered with
acting invisibly like an earthly providence; he takes more
pleasure in overhearing his subjects than governing them in
the customary way of princes. As he ultimately extends a
free pardon to all the guilty, we do not see how his original
purpose, in committing the execution of the laws to other
hands, of restoring their strictness, has in any wise been
accomplished. The poet might have had this irony in view,
that of the numberless slanders of the Duke, told him by
the petulant Lucio, in ignorance of the person whom he is
addressing, that at least which regarded his singularities and
whims was not wholly without foundation. It is deserving of
remark, that Shakspeare, amidst the rancour of religious
parties, takes a delight in painting the condition of a monk,
and always represents his influence as beneficial. We find
in him none of the black and knavish monks, which an
enthusiasm for Protestantism, rather than poetical inspiration,
has suggested to some of our modern poets. Shakspeare
merely gives his monks an inclination to busy themselves in
the affairs of others, after renouncing the world for them-
selves; with respect, however, topious frauds, he does not
represent them as very conscientious. Such are the parts
acted by the monk in Romeo and Juliet, and another in
Much Ado about Wothing, and even by the Duke, whom, con-
trary to the well-known proverb, the cowl seems really to
make a monk.
The Merchant of Venice is one of Shakspeare's most perfect
works: popular to an extraordinary degree, and calculated
to produce the most powerful effect on the stage, and at the
same time a wonder of ingenuity and art for the reflecting
critic. Shylock, the Jew, is one of the inimitable master-
pieces of characterization which are to be found only in
Shakspeare. It is easy for both poet and player to exhibit a
caricature of national sentiments, modes of speaking, and
SHAKSPEARE - THE MERCEIANT OF VENICE. 389
gestures. Shylock, however, is everything but a common
Jew: he possesses a strongly-marked and original indivi-
duality, and yet we perceive a light touch of Judaism in
everything he says or does. We almost fancy we can hear a
Fight whisper of the Jewish accent even in the written words,
such as we sometimes still find in the higher classes, notwith-
standing their social refinement. In tranquil moments, all
that is foreign to the European blood and Christian senti-
ments is less perceptible, but in passion the national stamp
comes out more strongly marked. All theseinimitable niceties
the finished art of a great actor can alone properly express.
Shylock is a man of information, in his own way, even a
thinker, only he has not discovered the region where human
feelings dwell; his morality is founded on the disbelief in
goodness and magnanimity. The desire to avenge the wrongs
and indignities heaped upon his nation is, after avarice, his
strongest spring of action. His hate is naturally directed
chiefly against those Christians who are actuated by truly
Ghristian sentiments: a disinterested love of our neighbour
seems to him the most unrelenting persecution of the Jews.
The letter of the law is his idol; he refuses to lend an ear to
the voice of mercy, which, from the mouth of Portia, speaks
to him with heavenly eloquence: he insists on rigid and
inflexible justice, and at last it recoils on his own head.
Thus he becomes a symbol of the general history of his unfor-
tunate nation. The melancholy and self-sacrificing magna-
nimity of Antonio is affectingly sublime. Like a princely
merchant, he is surrounded with a whole train of noble
friends. The contrast which this forms to the selfish cruelty
of the usurer Shylock was necessary to redeem the honour of
human nature. The danger which almost to the close of the
fourth act, hangs over Antonio, and which the imagination is
almost afraid to approach, would fill the mind with too painful
anxiety, if the poet did not also provide for its recreation and
diversion. This is effected in an especial manner by the
scenes at Portia's country-seat, which transport the spectator
into quite another world. And yet they are closely connected
with the main business by the chain of cause and effect:
Bassanio's preparations for his courtship are the cause of
Antonios subscribing the dangerous bond; and Portia again.
by the counsel and advice of her uncle, a famous lawyer,
effects the safety of her lover's friend. But the relations of
390 SHAKSPEARE: THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
the dramatic composition are the while admirably observed in
yet another respect. The trial between Shylock and Antonio
is indeed recorded as being a real event, still, for all that, it
must ever remain an unheard-of and singular case. Shak-
speare has therefore associated it with a love intrigue not less
extraordinary: the one consequently is rendered natural and
probable by means of the other. A rich, beautiful and clever
heiress, who can only be won by the solving the riddle–the
locked caskets–the foreign princes, who come to try the
venture-all this powerfully excites the imagination with the
splendour of an olden tale of marvels. The two scenes in
which, first the Prince of Morocco, in the language of Eastern
hyperbole, and then the self-conceited Prince of Arragon, make
their choice among the caskets, serve merely to raise our
curiosity, and give employment to our wits; but on the third,
where the two lovers stand trembling before the inevitable
choice, which in one moment must unite or separate them for
ever, Shakspeare has lavished all the charms of feeling–all
the magic of poesy. We share in the rapture of Portia and
Bassanio at the fortunate choice: we easily conceive why
they are so fond of each other, for they are both most deserv
ing of love. The judgment scene, with which the fourth act
is occupied, is in itself a perfect drama, concentrating in
itself the interest of the whole. The knot is now untied, and
according to the common ideas of theatrical satisfaction, the
curtain ought to drop. But the poetwas unwilling to dismiss
his audience with the gloomy impressions which Antonios
acquittal, effected with so much difficulty, and contrary to all
expectation, and the condemnation of Shylock, were calculated
to leave behind them; he has therefore added the fifth act by
way of a musical afterlude in the piece itself. The episode of
Jessica, the fugitive daughter of the Jew, in whom Shakspeare
has contrived to throw a veil of sweetness over the national
features, and the artifice by which Portia and her companion
are enabled to rally their newly-married husbands, supply him
with the necessary materials. The scene opens with the
playful prattling of two lovers in a summer evening; it is
followed by soft music, and a rapturous eulogy on this
powerful disposer of the human mind and the world; the
principal characters then make their appearance, and after a
simulated quarrel, which is gracefully maintained, the whole
end with the most exhilarating mirth.
SHAKSPEARE - AS YOU LIEE IT. 391
As You Like It is a piece of an entirely different descrip-
tion. It would be difficult to bring the contents within the
compass of an ordinary narrative; nothing takes place, or
rather what is done is not so essential as what is said ; even
what may be called the dénouement is brought about pretty
arbitrarily. Whoever can perceive nothing but what can as
it were be counted on the fingers, will hardly be disposed to
allow that it has any plan at all. Banishment and flight
have assembled together, in the forest of Arden, a strange
band: a Duke dethroned by his brother, who, with the faith-
ful companions of his misfortune, lives in the wilds on the
produce of the chase; two disguised Princesses, who love each
other with a sisterly affection; a witty court fool; lastly, the
native inhabitants of the forest, ideal and natural shepherds
and shepherdesses. These lightly-sketched figures form a
motley and diversified train; we see always the shady
dark-green landscape in the background, and breathe in
imagination the fresh air of the forest. The hours are here
measured by no clocks, no regulated recurrence of duty or of
toil: they flow on unnumbered by voluntary occupation or
fanciful idleness, to which, according to his humour or dis-
position, every one yields himself, and this unrestrained free-
dom compensates them all for the lost conveniences of life.
One throws himself down in solitary meditation under a tree,
and indulges in melancholy reflections on the changes of for-
tune, the falsehood of the world, and the self-inflicted torments
of social life; others make the woods resound with social and
festive songs, to the accompaniment of their hunting-horns.
Selfishness, envy, and ambition, have been left behind in the
city; of all the human passions, love alone has found an
entrance into this wilderness, where it dictates the same lan-
guage alike to the simple shepherd and the chivalrous youth,
who hangs his love-ditty to a tree. A prudish shepherdess
falls at first sight in love with Rosalind, disguised in men's
apparel; the latter sharply reproaches her with her severity
to her poor lover, and the pain of refusal, which she feels from
experience in her own case, disposes her at length to compas-
sion and requital. The fool carries his philosophical con-
tempt of external show, and his raillery of the illusion of love
so far, that he purposely seeks out the ugliest and simplest
countrywench for a mistress. Throughout the whole picture, it
seems to be the poet's design to show that to call forth the poetry
392 SHAKSPEARE TEIE TWELFTH NIGEIT.
which has its indwelling in nature and the human mind, nothing
is wanted but to throw off all artificial constraint, and restöre
both to mind and nature their original liberty. In the
very progress of the piece, the dreamy carelessness of such
an existence is sensibly expressed: it is even alluded to b
Shakspeare in the title. Whoever affects to be displeased, if
in this romantic forest the ceremonial of dramatic art is not
duly observed, ought in justice to be delivered over to the
wise fool, to be led gently out of it to some prosaical region.
The Twelfth Wight, or What you Will, unites the entertain-
ment of an intrigue, contrived with great ingenuity, to a rich
fund of comic characters and situations, and the beauteous
colours of an ethereal poetry. In most of hisplays, Shakspeare
treats love more as an affair of the imagination than the heart;
but here he has taken particular care to remind us that, in his
language, the someword, fancy, signified both fancy and love.
The love of the music-enraptured Duke for Olivia is not
merely a fancy, but an imagination; Viola appears at first to
fall arbitrarily in love with the Duke, whom she serves as a
page, although she afterwards touches the tenderest strings of
feeling; the proud Olivia is captivated by the modest and
insinuating messenger of the Duke, in whom she is far from
suspecting a disguised rival, and at last, by a second decep-
tion, takes the brother for the sister. To these, which I
might call ideal follies, a contrast is formed by the naked
absurdities to which the entertaining tricks of the ludicrous
persons of the piece give rise, under the pretext also of love:
the silly and profligate Knight's awkward courtship of Olivia,
and her declaration of love to Viola; the imagination of the
pedantic steward Malvolio, that his mistress is secretly in
love with him, which carries him so far that he is at last shut
up as a lunatic, and visited by the clown in the dress of a
priest. These scenes are admirably conceived, and as signifi-
cant as they are laughable. If this were really, as is asserted,
Shakspeare's latest work, he must have enjoyed to the last
the same youthful elasticity of mind, and have carried with
him to the grave the undiminished fulness of his talents.
The Merry Wives of Windsor, though properly a comedy
in the usual acceptation of the word, we shall pass over at
present, till we come to speak of Henry the Fourth, that we
may give our opinion of the characte" of Falstaff in con-
MEX1Oll.
SHAKSPEARE: THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 393
The Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest, may be
in so far compared together that in both the influence of a
wonderful world of spirits is interwoven with the turmoil of
human passions and with the farcical adventures of folly.
The Midsummer Night's Dream is certainly an earlier produc-
tion; but The Tempes according to all appearance, was writ-
ten in Shakspeare's later days: hence most critics, on the
supposition that the poet must have continued to improve
with increasingmaturity of mind, have honoured the last piece
with a marked preference. I cannot, however, altogether
concur with them: the internal merit of these two works are,
in my opinion, pretty nearly balanced, and a predilection for
the one or the other can only be governed by personal taste.
In profound and original characterization the superiority of
The Tempest is obvious: as a whole we must always admire
the masterly skill which he has here displayed in the economy
of his means, and the dexterity with which he has disguised
his preparations,–the scaffoldings for the wonderful aërial
structure. In The Midsummer Night's Dream, on the other
hand, there flows a luxuriant vein of the boldest and most
fantastical invention; the most extraordinary combination of
the most dissimilar ingredients seems to have been brought
about without effort by some ingenious and lucky accident,
and the colours are of such clear transparency that we think
the whole of the variegated fabric may be blown away with
a breath. The fairy world here described resembles those
elegant pieces of arabesque, where little genii with butterfly
wings rise, half embodied, above the flower-cups. Twilight,
moonshine, dew, and spring perfumes, are the element of these
tender spirits; they assist nature in embroidering her carpet
with green leaves, many-coloured flowers, and glittering in-
sects; in the human world they do but make sport child-
ishly and waywardly with their beneficent or noxious influ-
ences. Their most violent rage dissolves in good-natured
raillery; their passions, stripped of all earthly matter, are
merely an ideal dream. To correspond with this, the loves
of mortals are painted as a poetical enchantment, which, by a
contrary enchantment, may be immediately suspended, and
then renewed again. The different parts of the plot; the
wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta, Oberon and Titanias quar-
rel, the flight of the two pair of lovers, and the theatrical
manoeuvres of the mechanics, are so lightly and happily inter-
394 SHAKSPEARE: THE TEMPEST.
woven that they seem necessary to each other for the formation
of a whole. Oberon is desirous of relieving the lovers from
their perplexities, but greatly adds to them through the mis-
takes of his minister, till he at last comes really to the aid of
their fruitless amorous pain, their inconstancy and jealousy,
and restores fidelity to its old rights. The extremes of fan-
ciful and vulgarare united when the enchanted Titania
awakes and falls in love with a coarse mechanic with an ass's
head, who represents, or rather disfigures, the part of a tra-
gical lover. The droll wonder of Bottom’s transformation is
merely the translation of a metaphor in its literal sense; but
in his behaviour during the tender homage of the Fairy Queen
we have an amusing proof how much the consciousness of
such a head-dress heightens the effect of his usual folly.
Theseus and Hippolyta are, as it were, a splendid frame for
the picture; they take no part in the action, but surround iö
with a stately pomp. The discourse of the hero and his
Amazon, as they course through the forest with their noisy
hunting-train, works upon the imagination like the fresh
breath of morning, before which the shapes of night disappear.
Pyramus and Thisbe is not unmeaningly chosen as the gro-
tesque play within the play; it is exactly like the pathetic
part of the piece, a secret meeting of two lovers in the forest,
and their separation by an unfortunate accident, and closes
the whole with the most amusing parody.
The Tempest has little action or progressive movement; the
union of Ferdinand and Miranda, is settled at their first in-
terview, and Prospero merely throws apparent obstacles in
their way; the shipwrecked band go leisurely about the
island; the attempts of Sebastian and Antonio on the life of
the King of Naples, and the plot of Caliban and the drunken
sailors against Prospero, are nothing but a feint, for we fore-
see that they will be completely frustrated by the magical
skill of the latter; nothing remains therefore but the punish-
ment of the guilty by dreadful sights which harrow up their
consciences, and then the discovery and final reconciliation.
Yet this want of movement is so admirably concealed by the
most varied display of the fascinations of poetry, and the
exhilaration of mirth, the details of the execution are so very
attractive, that it requires no small degree of attention to
perceive that the dénouement is, in some degree, anticipated
in the exposition. The history of the loves of Ferdinand and
SEIAKSPEARE . TEE TEMPEST- 395-
Miranda, developed in a few short scenes, is enchantingly
beautiful: an affecting union of chivalrous magnanimity on
the one part, and on the other of the virgin openness of a heart.
which, brought up far from the world on an uninhabited
island, has never learned to disguise its innocent movements.
The wisdom of the princely hermit Prospero has a magical
and mysterious air; the disagreeable impression left by the
black falsehood of the two usurpers is softened by the honest
gossipping of the old and faithful Gonzalo; Trinculo and
Stephano, two good-for-nothing drunkards, find a worthy as-
sociate in Caliban; and Ariel hovers sweetly over the whole
as the personified genius of the wonderful fable.
Caliban has become a by-word as the strange creation of a
poetical imagination. A mixture of gnome and savage, half
daemon, half brute, in his behaviour we perceive at once the
traces of his native disposition, and the influence of Prospero's
education. The latter could only unfold his understanding,
without, in the slightest degree, taming his rooted malignity:
it is as if the use of reason and human speech were commu-
nicated to an awkward ape. In inclination Caliban is mali-
cious, cowardly, false, and base; and yet he is essentially dif-
ferent from the vulgar knaves of a civilized world, as por-
trayed occasionally by Shakspeare. He is rude, but not
vulgar; he never falls into the prosaic and low familiarity of
his drunken associates, for he is, in his way, a poetical being;
he always speaks in verse. He has picked up everything
dissonant and thorny in language to compose out of it a voca-
bulary of his own; and of the whole variety of nature, the
hateful, repulsive, and pettily deformed, have alone been im-
pressed on his imagination. The magical world of spirits,
which the staff of Prospero has assembled on the island, casts
merely a faint reflection into his mind, as a ray of light which
falls into a dark cave, incapable of communicating to it either
heat or illumination, serves merely to set in motion the poi-
sonous vapours. The delineation of this monster is through-
out inconceivably consistent and profound, and, notwithstand-
ing its hatefulness, by no means hurtful to our feelings, as the
honour of human nature is left untouched.
In the zephyr-like Ariel the image of air is not to be mis-
taken, his name even bears an allusion to it; as, on the other
hand Caliban signifies the heavy element of earth. Yet they
are neither of them simple, allegorical personifications but
Z96 SHAKSPEARE: THE wINTER's TALE.
beings individually determined. In general we find in The
Midsummer Night's Dream, in The Tempest, in the magical
part of Macbeth, and wherever Shakspeare avails himself of
the popular belief in the invisible presence of spirits, and the
possibility of coming in contact with them, a profound view
of theinward life of nature and her mysterious springs, which,
it is true, can never be altogether unknown to the genuine
poet, as poetry is altogether incompatible with mechanical
physics, but which few have possessed in an equal degree with
Dante and himself.
The Winter's Tale is as appropriately named as The Mid-
summer Wight's Dream. It is one of those tales which are
peculiarly calculated to beguile the dreary leisure of a long
winter evening, and are even attractive and intelligible to
childhood, while animated by fervent truth in the delineation
of character and passion, and invested with the embellish-
ments of poetry lowering itself, as it were, to the simplicity of
the subject, they transport even manhood back to the golden
age of imagination. The calculation of probabilities has
nothing to do with such wonderful and fleeting adventures,
when allend at last in universal joy; and, accordingly, Shak-
speare has here taken the greatest license of anachronisms
and geographical errors; not to mention other incongruities,
The opens a free navigation between Sicily and Bohemia, makes
Giulio Romano the contemporary of the Delphic oracle. The
piece divides itself in some degree into two plays. Leontes
becomes suddenly jealous of his royalbosom-friend Polyxenes,
who is on a visit to his court; makes an attempt on his life,
from which Polyxenes only saves himself by a clandestine
flight;–Hermione, suspected of infidelity, is thrown into pri-
son, and Line daughter which she there brings into the world
is exposea on a remote coast;–the accused Queen, declared
innocent by the oracle, on learning that her infant son has
pined to death on her account, falls down in a swoon, and is
mourned as dead by her husband, who becomes sensible, when
too late, of his error: all this makes up the three first acts.
The last two are separated from these by a chasm of sixteen
years; but the foregoing tragical catastrophe was only appa-
rent, and this serves to connect the two parts. The Princess,
who has been exposed on the coast of Polyxeness kingdom,
grows up among low shepherds; but her tender beauty, her
noble manners, and elevation of sentiment. bespeak her
SEIAKSPEARE CYMBELINE. 397
descent; the Crown Prince Florizel, in the course of his
hawking, falls in with her, becomes enamoured, and courts
her in the disguise of a shepherd ; at a rural entertainment
Polyxenes discovers their attachment, and breaks out into a
violent rage; the two lovers seek refuge from his persecutions
at the court of Leontes in Sicily, where the discovery and
general reconciliation take place. Lastly, when Leontes be-
holds, as he imagines, the statue of his lost wife, it descends.
from the niche: it is she herself, the still living Hermione,
who has kept herself so long concealed; and the piece ends
with universal rejoicing. The jealousy of Leontes is not, like
that of Othello, developed through all its causes, symptoms
and variations; it is brought forward at once full grown and
mature, and is portrayed as a distempered frenzy. It is a
passion whose effects the spectator is more concerned with
than with its origin, and which does not produce the catas-
trophe, but merely ties the knot of the piece. In fact, the
poet might perhaps have wished slightly to indicate that Her-
mione, though virtuous, was too warm in her efforts to please
Polyxenes; and it appears as if this germ of inclination first
attained its proper maturity in their children. Nothing can
be more fresh and youthful, nothing at once so ideally pastoral
and princely as the love of Florizel and Perdita; of the
prince, whom love converts into a voluntary shepherd; and
the princess, who betrays her exalted origin without knowing
it, and in whose hands nosegays become crowns. Shakspeare
has never hesitated to place ideal poetry side by side of the
most vulgar prose: and in the world of reality also this is
generally the case. Perdita's foster-father and his son are
both made simple boors, that we may the more distinctly see
how all that ennobles her belongs only to herself. Autolycus,
the merry pedlar and pickpocket, so inimitably portrayed, is
necessary to complete the rustic feast, which Perdita on her
part seems to render meet for an assemblage of gods in dis-
UISG.
S Cymbeline is also one of Shakspeare's most wonderful com-
positions. He has here combined a novel of Boccacio's with
traditionary tales of the ancient Britons reaching back to the
times of the first Roman Emperors, and he has contrived, by
the most gentle transitions, to blend together into one harmo-
nious whole the social manners of the newest times with
olden heroic deeds, and even with appearances of the gods.
398 SHAKSPEARE : CYMBELINE.
In the character of Imogen no one feature of female excellence
is omitted: her chastetenderness, her softness, and her virgin
pride, her boundless resignation, and her magnanimity towards
her mistaken husband, by whom she is unjustly persecuted,
her adventures in disguise, her apparent death, and her reco-
very, form altogether a picture equally tender and affecting.
The two Princes, Guiderius and Arviragus, both educated in
the wilds, form a noble contrast to Miranda and Perdita.
Shakspeare is fond of showing the superiority of the natural
over the artificial. Over the art which enriches nature, he
somewhere says, there is a higher art created by nature her-
self*. As Miranda's unconscious and unstudied sweetness is
more pleasing than those charms which endeavour to capti-
vate us by the brilliant embellishments of a refined cultiva-
tion, so in these two youths, to whom the chase has given
vigour and hardihood, but who are ignorant of their high des-
tination, and have been brought up apart from human society,
we are equally enchanted by a naive heroism which leads
them to anticipate and to dream of deeds of valour, till
an occasion is offered which they are irresistibly compelled to
embrace. When Imogen comes in disguise to their cave;
when, with all the innocence of childhood, Guiderius and Ar-
viragus form an impassioned friendship for the tender boy, in
whom they neither suspect a female nor their own sister;
* The passage in Shakspeare here quoted, taken with the context, will
not bear the construction of the author. The whole runs thus:–
Yet nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art
Which you say adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock;
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobler race: this is an art
Which does mend nature, change it rather; but
The art itself is nature. Winter's Tale, Activ. sc. 3.
Shakspeare does not here mean to institute a comparison between the re-
lative excellency of that which is innate and that which we owe to instruc-
tion; but merely says, that the instruction or art is itself a part of nature.
The speech is addressed by Polyxenes to Perdita, to persuade her that the
changes effected in the appearance of flowers by the art of the gardener are
not to be accounted unnatural; and the expression of making conceive a
bark of baser kind by bud of nobler race (i. e., engrafting), would rather
lead to the inference, that the mind derived its chief value from the influ-
ence of culture.–TRANs.
SEIAKSPEARE CYMBELINE. 399
when, on their return from the chase, they find her dead, then
“ singler to the ground,” and cover the grave with flowers:–
these scenes might give to the most deadened imagination a
new life for poetry. If a tragical event is only apparent, in
such case, whether the spectators are already aware of it or
ought Inerely to suspect it, Shakspeare always knows how to
mitigate the impression without weakening it: he makes the
mourning musical, that it may gain in solemnity what it loses
in seriousness. With respect to the other parts, the wise and
vigorous Belarius, who after long living as a hermit again be-
comes a hero, is a venerable figure; the Italian Jachimo's
ready dissimulation and quick presence of mind is quite suit-
able to the bold treachery which he plays; Cymbeline, the
father of Imogen, and even her husband Posthumus, during
the first half of the piece, are somewhat sacrificed, but this
could not be otherwise; the false and wicked Queen is merely
an instrument of the plot; she and her stupid son Cloton (the
only comic part in the piece) whose rude arrogance is por-
trayed with much humour, are, before the conclusion, got rid
of by merited punishment. As for the heroical part of the
fable, the war between the Romans and Britons, which brings
on the dénouement, the poet in the extent of his plan had so
little room to spare, that he merely endeavours to represent it
as a mute procession. But to the last scene, where all the
numerous threads of the knot are untied, he has again given
its full development, that he might collect together into one
focus the scattered impressions of the whole. This example
and many others are a sufficient refutation of Johnson’s asser-
tion, that Shakspeare usually hurries over the conclusion
of his pieces. Rather does he, from a desire to satisfy the
feelings, introduce a great deal which, so far as the under-
standing of the dénouement requires, might in a strict sense be
justly spared: our modern spectators are much more impa-
tient to see the curtain drop, when there is nothing more to be
determined, than those of his day could have been.
400 SHAKSPEARE : ROMEO AND JULIET.
LECTURE XXV.
Criticisms on Shakspeare's Tragedies.
Romeo and Juliet, and Othello, differ from most of the pieces
which we have hitherto examined, neither in the ingredients
of the composition, nor in the manner of treating them: it is
merely the direction of the whole that gives them the stamp
of Tragedy. Romeo and Juliet is a picture of love and its
pitiable fate, in a world whose atmosphere is too sharp for
this the tenderest blossom of human life. Two beings created
for each other feel mutual love at the first glance; every con-
sideration disappears before the irresistible impulse to live in
one another; under circumstances hostile in the highest de-
gree to their union, they unite themselves by a secret mar-
riage, relying simply on the protection of an invisible power.
Untoward incidents following in rapid succession, their heroic
constancy is within a few days put to the proof, till, forcibly
separated from each other, by a voluntary death they are
united in the grave to meet again in another world. All this
is to be found in the beautiful story which Shakspeare has not
invented, and which, however simply told, will always excite
a tender sympathy: but it was reserved for Shakspeare to join
in one ideal picture purity of heart with warmth of imagina-
tion; sweetness and dignity of manners with passionate inten-
sity of feeling. Under his handling, it has become a glorious
song of praise on that inexpressible feeling which ennobles
the soul and gives to it its highest sublimity, and which ele-
vates even the senses into soul, while at the same time it is a
melancholy elegy on its inherent and imparted frailty; it is
at once the apotheosis and the obsequies of love. It appears
here a heavenly spark, that, as it descends to the earth, is
converted into the lightning flash, which almost in tne same
moment sets on fire and consumes the mortal being on whom
it lights. All that is most intoxicating in the odour of a
southern spring,–all that is languishing in the song of the
nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening of the rose, all
alike breathe forth from this poem. But even more rapidly
than the earliest blossoms of youth and beauty decay, does it
SEAKSPEARE - ROMEO AND JULIET. 401
from the first timidly-bold declaration and modest return o.
love hurry on to the most unlimited passion, to an irrevocable
union; and then hastens, amidst alternating storms of rapture
and despair, to the fate of the two lovers, who yet appear
enviable in their hard lot, for their love survives them, and by
their death they have obtained an endless triumph over every
separating power. The sweetest and the bitterest love and
hatred, festive rejoicings and dark forebodings, tender em-
braces and sepulchral horrors, the fulness of life and self-
annihilation, are here all brought close to each other; and yet
these contrasts are so blended into a unity of impression, that
the echo which the whole leaves behind in the mind resembles
a single but endless sigh.
The excellent dramatic arrangement, the significance of
every character in its place, the judicious selection of all the
circumstances, even the most minute, have already been dwelt
upon in detail. I shall only request attention to a trait which
may serve for an example of the distance to which Shakspeare
goes back to lay the preparatory foundation. The most
striking and perhaps incredible circumstance in the whole
story is the liquor given by the Monk to Julia, by which she
for a number of hours not merely sleeps, but fully resembles
a corpse, without however receiving the least injury. How
does the poet dispose us to believe that Father Lorenzo pos-
sesses such a secret –At his first appearance he exhibits him
in a garden, where he is collecting herbs and descanting on
their wonderful virtues. The discourse of the pious old man
is full of deep meaning: he sees everywhere in nature em-
blems of the moral world; the same wisdom with which he
looks through her has also made him master of the human
heart. In this manner a circumstance of an ungrateful ap-
pearance, has become the source of a great beauty.
If Romeo and Juliet shines with the colours of the dawn of
morning, but a dawn whose purple clouds already announce
the thunder of a sultry day; Othello is, on the other hand, a
stronglyshadedpicture: we might call it a tragical Rembrandt.
What a fortunate mistake that the Moor (under which name in
the original novel, a baptized Saracen of the Northern coast of
Africa, was unquestionably meant), has been made by Shak
speare in every respect a negro! We recognize in Othello the
wild nature of that glowing zone which generates the most
ravenous beasts of prey and the most deadly poisons, tamed
2 C
402 SHAKSPEARE OTPHELLO.
only in appearance by the desire of fame, by foreign laws of
honour, and by nobler and milder manners. His jealousy is
not the jealousy of the heart, which is compatible with the
tenderest feeling and adoration of the beloved object; it is of
that sensual kind which, in burning climes, has given birth to
the disgraceful confinement of women and many other un-
natural usages. A drop of this poison flows in his veins, and
sets his whole blood in the wildest ferment. The Moor seems
noble, frank, confiding, grateful for the love shown him; and
he is all this, and, moreover, a hero who spurns at danger, a
worthy leader of an army, a faithful servant of the state; but
the mere physical force of passion puts to flight in one mo-
ment all his acquired and mere habitual virtues, and gives the
upper hand to the savage over the moral man. This tyranny
of the blood over the will betrays itself even in the expression
of his desire of revenge upon Cassio. In his repentance, a
genuine tenderness for his murdered wife, and in the presence
of the damning evidence of his deed, the painful feeling of
annihilated honour at last bursts forth; and in the midst of
these painful emotions he assails himself with the rage where-
with a despot punishes a runaway slave. He suffers as a
double man; at once in the higher and the lower sphere into
which his being was divided.–While the Moorbears the nightly
colour of suspicion and deceit only on his visage, Iago is
black within. He haunts Othello like his evil genius, and
with his light (and therefore the more dangerous) insinua-
tions, he leaves him no rest; it is as if by means of an unfor-
tunate affinity, founded however in nature, this influence was
by necessity more powerful over him than the voice of his
good angel. Desdemona. A more artful villain than this Iago
was never portrayed; he spreads his nets with a skill which
nothing can escape. The repugnance inspired by his aims
becomes tolerable from the attention of the spectators being
directed to his means: these furnish endless employment to
the understanding. Cool, discontented, and morose, arrogant
where he dare be so, but humble and insinuating when it
suits his purposes, he is a complete master in the art of diss-
mulation; accessible only to selfish emotions, he is thoroughly
skilled in rousing the passions of others, and of availing
himself of every opening which they give him: he is as ex-
celient an observer of men as any one can be who is unac-
quainted with higher motives of action from his own experi-
ence; there is always some truth in his malicious observations
SHAKSPEARE : OT1E, LLO. 4Ü3
on them. He does not merely pretend an obdurate incredu-
lity as to the virtue of women, he actually entertains it; and
this, too, falls in with his whole way of thinking, and makes
him the more fit for the execution of his purpose. As in
everything he sees merely the hateful side, he dissolves in the
rudest manner the charm which the imagination casts over
the relation between the two sexes: he does so for the pur-
pose of revolting Othello's senses, whose heart otherwise
might easily have convinced him of Desdemonas innocence.
This must serve as an excuse for the numerous expressions in
the speeches of Iago from which modesty shrinks. If Shak-
speare had written in our days he would not perhaps have
dared to hazard them; and yet this must certainly have
greatly injured the truth of his picture. Desdemona is a
sacrifice without blemish. She is not, it is true, a high ideal
representation of sweetness and enthusiastic passion like
Juliet; full of simplicity, softness, and humility, and so inno-
cent, that she can hardly form to herself an idea of the possi-
bility of infidelity, she seems calculated to make the most
yielding and tenderest ofwives. The femalepropensity wholly
to resign itself to a foreign destiny has led her into the only
fault of her life, that of marrying without her father's consent.
Her choice seems wrong; and yet she has been gained over
to Othello by that which induces the female to honour in
man her protector and guide,–admiration of his determined
heroism, and compassion for the sufferings which he had
undergone. With great art it is so contrived, that from the
very circumstance that the possibility of a suspicion of her
own purity of motive never onee enters her mind, she is the
less reserved in her solicitations for Cassio, and thereby does
but heighten more and more the jealousy of Othello. To
throw out still more clearly the angelic purity of Desdemona,
Shakspeare has in Emilia associated with her a companion of
doubtful virtue. From the sinful levity of this woman it is
also conceivable that she should not confess the abstraction of
the handkerchief when Othello violently demands it back:
this would otherwise be the circumstance in the whole piece
the most difficult to justify. Cassio is portrayed exactly as
he ought to be to excite suspicion without actual guilt,–
amiable and noby disposed, but easily seduced. The public
events of the first two acts show us Othello in his most
glorious aspect, as the support of Venice and the terror of the
2 g 2
404 SHAKSPEARE . HAMLET.
Turks: they serve to withdraw the story from the mere
domestic circle, just as this is done in Romeo and Juliet by
the dissensions between the houses of Montague and Capulet.
No eloquence is capable of painting the overwhelming force
of the catastrophe in Othello,–the pressure of feelings which
measure out in a montent the abysses of eternity.
Hamlet is singular in its kind: a tragedy of thought in-
spired by continual and never-satisfied meditation on human
destiny and the dark perplexity of the events of this world,
and calculated to call forth the very sahne meditation in the
minds of the spectators. This enigmatical work resembles
those irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown
magnitude always remains, that will in no way admit of so-
lution. Much has been said, much written, on this piece, and
yet nothinking head who anew expresses himself on it, will
(in his view of the connexion and the signification of all the
parts) entirely coincide with his predecessors. What natu-
rally most astonishes us, is the fact that with such hidden
purposes, with a foundation laid in such unfathomable depth,
the whole should, at a first view, exhibit an extremely popu-
lar appearance. The dread appearance of the Ghost takes
possession of the mind and the imagination almost at the
very commencement; then the play within the play, in which,
as in a glass, we see reflected the crime, whose fruitlessly
attempted punishment constitutes the subject-matter of the
piece; the alarm with which it fills the King; Hamlet's pre-
tended and Ophelia's real madness; her death and burial;
the meeting of Hamlet and Laertes at her grave; their com-
bat, and the grand determination ; lastly, the appearance of
the young hero Fortinbras, who, with warlike Pomp, pays the
last honours to an extinct family of kings; the interspersion
of comic characteristic scenes with Polonius, the courtiers, and
the grave-diggers, which have all of them their signification,
–all this fills the stage with an animated and varied move-
ment. The only circumstance from which this piece might be
judged to be less theatrical than other tragedies of Shakspeare
is, that in the last scenes the main action either stands still or
appears to retrograde. This, however, was inevitable, and
lay in the nature of the subject. The whole is intended to
show that a calculating consideration, which exhausts all the
relations and possible consequences of a deed, must cripple the
Power of acting; as Hamlet himself expresses it:–
sHAKSPEARE: HAMLET. 405
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
With respect to Hamlet's character: I cannot, as I understand
the poet's views, pronounce altogether so favourable a sen-
tence upon it as Goethe does. He is, it is true, of a highly
cultivated mind, a prince of royal manners, endowed with the
finest sense of propriety, susceptible of noble ambition, and
open in the highest degree to an enthusiastic admiration of
that excellence in others of which he himself is deficient. He
acts the part of madness with unrivalled power, convincing
the persons who are sent to examine into his supposed loss of
reason, merely bytelling them unwelcome truths, and rally-
ing them with the most caustic wit. But in the resolutions
which he so often embraces and always leaves unexecuted,
his weakness is too apparent: he does himself only justice
when he implies that there is no greater dissimilarity than
between himself and Hercules. He is not solely impelled by
necessity to artifice and dissimulation, he has a natural incli-
nation for crooked ways; he is a hypocrite towards himself;
his far-fetched Scruples are often mere pretexts to cover his
want of determination: thoughts, as he says on a different
occasion, which have
but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward.
He has been chiefly condemned both for his harshness in re-
pulsing the love of Ophelia, which he himself had cherished,
and for his insensibility at her death. But he is too much
overwhelmed with his own sorrow to have any compassion to
spare for others; besides his outward indifference gives us by
no means the measure of his internal perturbation. On the
other hand, we evidently perceive in him a malicious joy.
when he has succeeded in getting rid of his enemies, more
through necessity and accident, which alone are able to impel
him to quick and decisive measures, than by the merit of his own
courage, as he himself confesses after the murder of Polonius,
and with respect to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet
bas no firm belief either in himself or in anything else: from
expressions of religious confidence he passes over to sceptical
doubts; he believes in the Ghost of his father as long as he
sees it, but as soon as it has disappeared, it appears to him?
406 SHAKSPEARE HAMLET.
almost in the light of a deception“. He has even gone so fas
as to say, “ there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking
makes it so;” with him the poet loses himself here in laby-
rinths of thought, in which neither end nor beginning is
discoverable. The stars themselves, from the course of
events, afford no answer to the question so urgently proposed
to them. A voice from another world, commissioned it
would appear, by heaven, demands vengeance for a monstrous
enormity, and the demand remains without effect; the crimi-
nals are at last punished, but, as it were, by an accidental
blow, and not in the solemn way requisite to convey to the
world a warning example of justice; irresolute foresight,
cunning treachery, and impetuous rage, hurry on to a com-
mon destruction; the less guilty and the innocent are equally
involved in the general ruin. The destiny of humanity is
there exhibited as a gigantic Sphinx, which threatens to pre-
cipitate into the abyss of scepticism all who are unable to
solve her dreadful enigmas.
As one example of the many niceties of Shakspeare which
have never been understood, I may allude to the style in
which the player's speech about Hecuba is conceived. It has
been the subject of much controversy among the commenta-
tors, whether this was borrowed by Shakspeare from himself
or from another, and whether, in the praise of the piece of
which it is supposed to be a part, he was speaking seriously,
or merely meant to ridicule the tragical bombast of his con-
temporaries. It seems never to have occurred to them that this
speech must not be judged of by itself, but in connexion with
the place where it is introduced. To distinguish it in the
play itself as dramatic poetry, it was necessary that it should
rise above the dignified poetry of the former in the same pro-
portion that generally theatrical elevation soars above simple
nature. Hence Shakspeare has composed the play in Hamlet
altogether in sententious rhymes full of antitheses. But this
solemn and measured tone did not suit a speech in which vio-
lent emotion ought to prevail, and the poet had no other
expedient than the one of which he made choice: overcharging
+ It has been censured as a contradiction, that Hamlet in the soliloquy
on self-murder should Say,
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns
For was not the Ghost a returned traveller ? Shakspeare, however, pur-
posely wished to show, that Hamlet could not fix himself in any conviction
of any kind whatever,
SHAKSPEARE - MACBETH. 40"
the pathos. The language of the speech in question is cer-
tainly falsely emphatical; but yet this fault is so mixed up
with true grandeur, that a player practised in artificially call-
ing forth in himself the emotion he is imitating, may certainly
be carried away byit. Besides, it will hardly be believed that
Shakspeare knew so little of his art, as not to be aware that a
tragedy in which AEneas had to make a lengthy epic relation
of a transaction that happened so long before as the destruc-
tion of Troy, could neither be dramatical nor theatrical.
Of Macbeth I have already spoken once in passing, and who
could exhaust the praises of this sublime work? Since The
Eumenides of AEschylus, nothing so grand and terrible has
ever been written. The witches are not, it is true, divine,
Eumenides, and are not intended to be: they are ignoble
and vulgar instruments of hell. A German poet, therefore,
very ill understood their meaning, when he transformed them
into mongrel beings, a mixture of fates, furies, and enchan-
tresses, and clothed them with tragic dignity. Let no man
venture to lay hand on Shakspeare's works thinking to im-
prove anything essential: he will be sure to punish himself.
The bad is radically odious, and to endeavour in any manner
to ennoble it, is to violate the laws of propriety. Hence, in
my opinion, Dante, and even Tasso, have been much more suc-
cessful in their portraiture of daemons than Milton. Whether
the age of Shakspeare still believed in ghosts and witches, is
a matter of perfect indifference for the justification of the use
which in Hamlet and Macbeth he has made of pre-existing tradi-
tions. No superstition can be widely diffused without having
a foundation in human nature: on this the poet builds; he calls
up from their hidden abysses that dread of the unknown, that
presage of a dark side of nature, and a world of spirits, which
philosophy now imagines it has altogether exploded. In this
manner he is in some degree both the portrayer and the phi-
losopher of superstition; that is, not the philosopher who
denies and turns it into ridicule, but, what is still more diffi-
cult, who distinctly exhibits its origin in apparently irrational
and yet natural opinions. But when he ventures to make
arbitrary changes in these popular traditions, he altogether
forfeits his right to them, and merely holds up his own idle
fancies to our ridicule. Shakspeare's picture of the witches is
truly magical: in the short scenes where they enter, he has
created for them a peculiar language, which, although com-
posed of the usual elements, still seems to be a collection of
408 SHAKSPEARE : MACBETH.
formulae of incantation. The sound of the words, the accumu-
lation of rhymes, and the rhythmus of the verse, form, as it
were, the hollow music of a dreary witch-dance. He has been
abused for using the names of disgusting objects; but he who
fancies the kettle of the witches can be made effective with
agreeable aromatics, is as wise as those who desire that hell
should sincerely and honestly givegood advice. These repulsive
things, from which the imagination shrinks, are here emblems
of the hostile powers which operate in nature; and the repug-
nance of our senses is outweighed by the mental horror.
With one another the witches discourse like women of the
very lowest class; for this was the class to which witches
were ordinarily supposed to belong: when, however, they ad-
dress Macbeth they assume a loftier tone: their predictions,
which they either themselves pronounce, or allow their appa-
ritions to deliver, have all the obscure brevity, the majestic
solemnity of oracles.
We here see that the witches are merely instruments; they
are governed by an invisible spirit, or the operation of such
great and dreadful events would be above their sphere. With
what intent did Shakspeare assign the same place to them in
his play, which they occupy in the history of Macbeth as
related in the old chronicles ? A monstrous crime is com-
1mitted: Duncan, a venerable old man, and the best of kings,
is, in defenceless sleep, under the hospitable roof, murdered
by his subject, whom he has loaded with honours and rewards.
Natural motives alone seem inadequate, or the perpetrator
must have been portrayed as a hardened villain. Shakspeare
wished to exhibit a more sublime picture: an ambitious but
noble hero, yielding to a deep-laid hellish Lemptation; and in
whom all the crimes to which, in order to secure the fruits of
his first crime, he is impelled by necessity, cannot altogether
eradicate the stamp of native heroism. He has, therefore,
given a threefold division to the guilt of that crime. The
first idea comes from that being whose whole activity is
guided by a lust of wickedness. The weird sisters surprise
Macbeth in the moment of intoxication of victory, when his
love of glory has been gratified; they cheat his eyes by exhi-
biting to him as the work of fate what in reality can only be
accomplished by his own deed, and gain credence for all their
words by the immediate fulfilment of the first prediction.
The opportunity of murdering the King immediately offers;
the wife of Macbeth conjures him not to let it slip; she urges
SEIAKSPEARE - MACBETEIL 409
him on with a fiery eloquence, which has at command all
those sophisms that serve to throw a false splendour over
crime. Little more than the mere execution falls to the share
of Macbeth; he is driven into it, as it were, in a tumult of
fascination. Repentance immediately follows, nay, even pre-
cedes the deed, and the stings of conscience leave him rest
neither night nor day. But he is now fairly entangled in the
snares of hell; truly frightful is it to behold that same Macbeth,
who once as a warrior could spurn at death, now that he dreads
the prospect of the life to come“, clinging with growing anxiety
to his earthly existence the more miserable it becomes, and
pitilessly removing out of the way whatever to his dark and
suspicious mind seems to threaten danger. However much we
may abhor his actions, we cannot altogether refuse to compas-
sionate the state of his mind; we lament the ruin of so many
noble qualities, and even in his last defence we are compelled
to admire the struggle of a brave will with a cowardly con-
science. We might believe that we witness in this tragedy
the over-ruling destiny of the ancients represented in perfect
accordance with their ideas: the whole originates in a super-
natural influence, to which the subsequent events seem inevit-
ably linked. Moreover, we even find here the same ambiguous
oracles which, by their literal fulfilment, deceive those who
confide in them. Yet it may be easily shown that the poet
has, in his work, displayed more enlightened views. He
wishes to show that the conflict of good and evil in this
world can only take place by the permission of Providence,
which converts the curse that individual mortals draw down
on their heads into a blessing to others. An accurate scale is
followed in the retaliation. Lady Macbeth, who of all the
human participators in the kings murder is the most guilty,
is thrown by the terrors of her conscience into a state of in-
curable bodily and mental disease; she dies, unlamented by
her husband, with all the symptoms of reprobation. Macbeth
is still found worthy to die the death of a hero on the field
of battle. The noble Macduff is allowed the satisfaction of
saving his country by punishing with his own hand the tyrant
who had murdered his wife and children. Banquo, by an
early death, atones for the ambitious curiosity which prompted
the wish to know his glorious descendants, as he thereby has
roused Macbeth's jealousy; but he preserved his mind pure
from the evil suggestions of the witches: his name is blessed
* We'd jump the life to come.
«10 SHAKSPEARE MACBETFT,
in his race, destined to enjoy for a long succession of ages
that royal dignity which Macbeth could only hold for his
own life. In the progress of the action, this piece is altogether
the reverse of Hamlet: it strides forward with amazing ra-
pidity, from the first catastrophe (for Duncans murder may
be called a catastrophe) to the last. “ Thought, and done"
is the general motto; for as Macbeth says,
The flighty purpose never is o’ertook,
Unless the deed. go with it.
In every feature we see an energetic heroic age, in the hardy
North which steels every nerve. The precise duration of the
action cannot be ascertained,–years perhaps, according to the
story; but we know that to the imagination the most crowded
time appears always the shortest. Here we can hardly con-
ceive how so very much could ever have been compressed
into so narrow a space; not merely external events,–the
very inmost recesses in the minds of the dramatic personages
are laid open to us. It is as if the drags were taken from
the wheels of time, and they rolled along without interrup-
tion in their descent. Nothing can equal this picture in its
power to excite terror. We need only allude to the circum-
stances attending the murder of Duncan, the dagger that
hovers before the eyes of Macbeth, the vision of Banquo at
the feast, the madness of Lady Macbeth; what can possibly
be said on the subject that will not rather weaken the im-
pression they naturally leave? Such scenes stand alone, and
are to be found only in this poet; otherwise the tragic muse
might exchange her mask for the head of Medusa.
I wish merely to point out as a secondary circumstance the
prudent dexterity of Shakspeare, who could still contrive to
flatter a king by a work in every part of whose plan never-
theless the poetical views are evident. James the First drew
his lineage from Banquo; he was the first who united the
threefold sceptre of England, Scotland, and Ireland: this is
foreshown in the magical vision, when a long series of glori-
ous successors is promised to Banquo. Even the gift of the
English kings to heal certain maladies by the touch, which
James pretended to have inherited from Edward* the Con-
* The naming of Edward the Confessor gives us at the same time the
epoch in which these historically accredited transactions are made to take
place. The ruins of Macbeth's palace are yet standing at Inverness; the
present Earls of Fife are the descendants of the valiant Macduff, and down.
to the union of Scotland with England they were in the enjoyment oß
Peculiar privileges for their services to the crown.
SHAKSPEARE : KING LEAR. 41 ,
fessor, and on which he set a great value, is brought in very
naturally.–With such occasional matters we may well
allow ourselves to be pleased without fearing from them any
danger.to poetry: by similar allusions AEschylus endeavoured
to recommend the Areopagus to his fellow-citizens, and So-
phocles to celebrate the glory of Athens.
As in Macbeth terror reaches its utmost height, in King
Lear the science of compassion is exhausted. The principal
characters here are not those who act, but those who suffer-
We have not in this, as in most tragedies, the picture of a
calamity in which the sudden blows of fate seem still to
honour the head which they strike, and where the loss is
always accompanied by some flattering consolation in the
memory of the former possession; but a fall from the highest
elevation into the deepest abyss of misery, where humanity is
stripped of all external and internal advantages, and given
up a prey to naked helplessness. The threefold dignity of a
king, an old man, and a father, is dishonoured by the cruel
ingratitude of his unnatural daughters; the old Lear, who out
of a foolish tenderness has given away everything, is driven
out to the world a wandering beggar; the childish imbecility
to which he was fast advancing changes into the wildest
insanity, and when he is rescued from the disgraceful destitu-
tion to which he was abandoned, it is too late: the kind con-
solations of filial care and attention and of true friendship are
now lost on him; his bodily and mental powers are destroyed
beyond all hope of recovery, and all that now remains to him
of life is the capability of loving and suffering beyond measure.
What a picture we have in the meeting of Lear and Edgar in
a tempestuous night and in a wretched hovel! The youthful
Edgar has, by the wicked arts of his brother, and through
his father's blindness, fallen, as the old Lear, from the rank
to which his birth entitled him; and, as the only means of
escaping further persecution, is reduced to assume the dis-
guise of a beggar tormented by evil spirits. The King's fool,
notwithstanding the voluntary degradation which is implied
in his situation, is, after Kent, Lear's most faithful associate,
his wisest counsellor. This good-hearted fool clothes reason
with the livery of his motley garb; the high-born beggar
acts the part of insanity; and both, were they even in reality
what they seem, would still be enviable in comparison with
the King, who feels that the violence of his grief threatens
to overpower his reason. The meeting of Edgar with the
412 SHAKSPEARE : KING LEAR.
blinded Gloster is equally heart-rending; nothing can be
more affecting than to see the ejected son become the father's
guide, and the good angel, who under the disguise of insanity,
saves him by an ingenious and pious fraud from the horror
and despair of self-murder. But who can possibly enumerate
all the different combinations and situations by which our
minds are here as it were stormed by the poet ? Respecting
the structure of the whole I will only make one observation.
The story of Lear and his daughters was left by Shakspeare
exactly as he found it in a fabulous tradition, with all the
features characteristical of the simplicity of old times. But
in that tradition there is not the slightest trace of the story
of Gloster and his sons, which was derived by Shakspeare
from another source. The incorporation of the two stories
has been censured as destructive of the unity of action. But
whatever contributes to the intrigue or the dénouement must
always possess unity. And with what ingenuity and skill
are the two main parts of the composition dovetailed into one
another! The pity felt by Gloster for the fate of Lear
becomes the means which enables his son Edmund to effect
his complete destruction, and affords the outcast Edgar an
opportunity of being the saviour of his father. On the other
hand, Edmund is active in the cause of Regan and Gonerill,
and the criminal passion which they both entertain for him
induces them to execute justice on each other and on them-
selves. The laws of the drama, have therefore been suffi-
ciently complied with; but that is the least: it is the very
combination which constitutes the sublime beauty of the
work. The two cases resembles each other in the main: an
infatuated father is blind towards his well-disposed child, and
the unnatural children, whom he prefers, requite him by the
ruin of all his happiness. But all the circumstances are so dif-
ferent, that these stories, while they each make a correspon-
dent impression on the heart, form a complete contrast for the
imagination. Were Lear alone to suffer from his daughters,
the impression would be limited to the powerful compassion
felt by us for his private misfortune. But two such unheard-
of examples taking place at the same time have the appear-
ance of a great commotion in the moral world: the picture
oecomes gigantic, and fills us with such alarm as we should
entertain at the idea that the heavenly bodies might one day
fall from their appointed orbits. To save in some degree the
honour of human nature, Shakspeare never wishes his spec-
SHIAKSPEARE KING LEAR. 41 3.
tators to forget that the story takes place in a dreary ana
barbarous age: he lays particular stress on the circumstance
that the Britons of that day were still heathens, although he
has not made all the remaining circumstances to coincide
learnedly with the time which he has chosen. From this
point of view we must judge of many coarsenesses in expres-
sion and manners; for instance, the immodest manner in
which Gloster acknowledges his bastard, Kents quarrel with
the Steward, and more especially the cruelty personally in-
flicted on Gloster by the Duke of Cornwall. Even the virtue
of the honest Kent bears the stamp of an iron age, in which
the good and the bad display the same uncontrollable energy.
Great qualities have not been superfluously assigned to the
King; the poet could command our sympathy for his situa-
tion, without concealing what he had done to bring himself
into it. Lear is choleric, overbearing, and almost childish.
from age, when he drives out his youngest daughter because
she will not join in the hypocritical exaggerations of her
sisters. But he has a warm and affectionate heart, which is
Susceptible of the most fervent gratitude; and even rays of a
high and kingly disposition burst forth from the eclipse of
his understanding. Of Cordelia's heavenly beauty of soul,
painted in so few words, I will not venture to speak; she can
only be named in the same breath with Antigone. Her death.
has been thought too cruel; and in England the piece is in
acting so far altered that she remains victorious and happy
I must own, I cannot conceive what ideas of art and dramatic
connexion those persons have who suppose that we can at
pleasure tack a double conclusion to a tragedy; a melan-
choly one for hard-hearted spectators, and a happy one for
Souls of a softer mould. After surviving so many sufferings,
Lear can only die; and what more truly tragic end for him
than to die from grief for the death of Cordelia and if he
is also to be saved and to pass the remainder of his days in
happiness, the whole loses its signification. According to
Shakspeare's plan the guilty, it is true, are all punished, for
wickedness destroys itself; but the virtues that would bring
help and succour are everywhere too late, or overmatched by
the cunning activity of malice. The persons of this drama.
have only such a faint belief in Providence as heathens may
be supposed to have; and the poet here wishes to show Us
that this belief requires a wider range than the dark pilgrim-
age on earth to be established in full extent.
-4 l 4 SEHAKSPEARE . CORIOLANUS,
LECTURE XXVI.
Criticisms on Shakspeare's Historical Dramas.
THE five tragedies of which I have just spoken are de-
servedly the most celebrated of all the works of Shakspeare.
In the three last, more especially, we have a display of a
loftiness of genius which may almost be said to surpass the
powers of human nature: the mind is as much lost in the
contemplation of all the heights and depths of these works as
our feelings are overpowered by the first impression which
they produce. Of his historical plays, however, some possess
a high degree of tragical perfection, and all are distinguished
oy peculiar excellencies.
In the three Roman pieces, Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, and
Antony and Cleopatra, the moderation with which Shakspeare
excludes foreign appendages and arbitrary suppositions, and
yet fully satisfies the wants of the stage, is particularly de-
serving of admiration. These plays are the verything itself;
and under the apparent artlessness of adhering closely to
history as he found it, an uncommon degree of art is con-
cealed. Of every historical transaction Shakspeare knows
how to seize the true poetical point of view, and to give
unity and rounding to a series of events detached from the
immeasurable extent of history without in any degree
changing them. The public life of ancient Rome is called up
from its grave, and exhibited before our eyes with the utmost
grandeur and freedom of the dramatic form, and the heroes
of Plutarch are ennobled by the most eloquent poetry.
In Coriolanus we have more comic intermixtures than in
the others, as the many-headed multitude plays here a con-
siderable part; and when Shakspeare portrays the blind
movements of the people in a mass, he almost always gives
himself up to his merry humour. To the plebeians, whose
folly is certainly sufficiently conspiguous already, the original
old satirist Menenius is added by way of abundance. Droll
scenes arise of a description altogether peculiar, and which
are compatible only with such a political drama; for instance,
when Coriolanus, to obtain the consulate, must solicit the
SHAKSPEARE . JULIUS CAESAR. 415
lower order of citizens whom he holds in contempt for their
cowardice in war, but cannot so far master his haughty dis-
position as to assume the customary humility, and yet extorts
from them their votes.
I have already shown* that the piece of Julius Caesar, to
complete the action, requires to be continued to the fall of
Brutus and Cassius. Caesar is not the hero of the piece, but
Brutus. The amiable beauty of this character, his feeling
and patriotic heroism, are portrayed with peculiar care. Yet
the poet has pointed out with great nicety the superiority of
Cassius over Brutus in independent volition and discernment
in judging of human affairs; that the latter from the purity
of his mind and his conscientious love of justice, is unfit to be
the head of a party in a state entirely corrupted; and that
these very faults give an unfortunate turn to the cause of the
conspirators. In the part of Caesar several ostentatious
speeches have been censured as unsuitable. But as he never
appears in action, we have no other measure of his greatness
than the impression which he makes upon the rest of the
characters, and his peculiar confidence in himself. In this
Caesar was by no means deficient, as we learn from history
and his own writings; but he displayed it more in the easy
ridicule of his enemies than in pompous discourses. The
theatrical effect of this playis injured by a partial falling off of
the last two acts compared with the preceding in external
splendour and rapidity. The first appearance of Caesar in
festal robes, when the music stops, and all are silent when-
ever he opens his mouth, and when the few words which he
utters are received as oracles, is truly magnificent; the con-
spiracy is a true conspiracy, which in stolen interviews and
in the dead of night prepares the blow which is to be struck
in open day, and which is to change the constitution of the
world;–the confused thronging before the murder of Caesar,
the general agitation even of the perpetrators after the deed,
are all portrayed with most masterly skill; with the funeral
procession and the speech of Antony the effect reaches its
utmost height. Caesar's shade is more powerful to avenge
his fall than he himself was to guard against it. After the
overthrow of the external splendour and greatness of the
conqueror and ruler of the world, the intrinsic grandeur of
character of Brutus and Cassius is all that remain to fill the
* Page 240
41 6 SHAKSPEARE ANTONY AND CZEO PATRA.
stage and occupy the minds of the spectators: suitably to thein
name, as the last of the Romans, they stand there, in some
degree alone; and the forming a great and hazardous deter-
mination is more powerfully calculated to excite our expec-
tation, than the supporting the consequences of the deed with
heroic firmness.
Antony and Cleopatra may, in some measure, be considered
as a continuation of Julius Caesar: the two principal characters
of Antony and Augustus are equally sustained in both pieces.
Antony and Cleopatra is a play of great extent; the progress
is less simple than in Julius Caesar. The fulness and variety
of political and warlike events, to which the union of the
three divisions of the Roman world under one master neces-
sarily gave rise, were perhaps too great to admit of being
clearly exhibited in one dramatic picture. In this consists
the great difficulty of the historical drama:–it must be a
crowded extract, and a living development of history ;–the
difficulty, however, has generally been successfully overcome
by Shakspeare. But now many things, which are transacted
in the background, are here merely alluded to, in a manner
which supposes an intimate acquaintance with the history;
but a work of art should contain, within itself, every thing
necessary for its being fully understood. Many persons of
historical importance are merely introduced in passing; the
preparatory and concurring circumstances are not sufficiently
collected into masses to avoid distracting our attention.
The principal personages, however, are most emphatically
distinguished by lineament and colouring, and powerfully
arrest the imagination. In Antony we observe a mixture of
great qualities, weaknesses, and vices; violent ambition and
ebullitions of magnanimity; we see him now sinking into
luxurious enjoyment and then nobly ashamed of his own
aberrations,–manning himself to resolutions not unworthy of
himself, which are always shipwrecked against the seductions
of an artful woman. It is Hercules in the chains of Omphale,
drawn from the fabulous heroic ages into history, and invested
with the Roman costume. The seductive arts of Cleopatra,
are in no respect veiled over; she is an ambiguous being
made up of royal pride, female vanity, luxury, inconstancy,
and true attachment. Although the mutual passion of herself
and Antony is without moral dignity, it still excites our sym-
pathy as an insurmountable fascination:–they seem formed

SHAKSPEARE - TIMON OF ATHENS. 417
for each other, and Cleopatra is as remarkable for her seduc-
tive charms as Antony for the splendour of his deeds. As
they die for each other, we forgive them for having lived for
each other. The open and lavish character of Antony is
admirably contrasted with the heartless littleness of Octavius,
whom Shakspeare seems to have completely seen through,
without allowing himself to be led astray by the fortune and
the fame of Augustus.
Timon of Athens, and Troilus and Cressida, are not histo-
rical plays; but we cannot properly call them either tragedies
or comedies. By the selection of the materials from anti-
quity they have some affinity to the Roman pieces, and hence
I have hitherto abstained from mentioning them.
Timon of Athens, of all the works of Shakspeare, possesses
most the character of satire:–a laughing satire in the picture
of the parasites and flatterers, and Juvenalian in the bitter-
ness of Timon'simprecations on the ingratitude of a false world.
The story is very simply treated, and is definitely divided
into large masses:–in the first act the joyous life of Timon,
his noble and hospitable extravagance, and around him the
throng of suitors of every description; in the second and
third acts his embarrassment, and the trial which he is
thereby reduced to make of his supposed friends, who all desert
him in the hour of need ;–in the fourth and fifth acts, Timon's
flight to the woods, his misanthropical melancholy, and his
death. The only thing which may be called an episode is
the banishment of Alcibiades, and his return by force of arms.
However, they are both examples of ingratitude,–the one of
a state towards its defender, and the other of private friends
to their benefactor. As the merits of the General towards
his fellow-citizens suppose more strength of character than
those of the generous prodigal, their respective behaviours are
not less different; Timon frets himself to death, Alcibiades
regains his lost dignity by force. If the poet very properly
sides with Timon against the common practice of the world,
he is, on the other hand, by no means disposed to spare
Timon. Timon was a fool in his generosity; in his discon-
tent he is a madman: he is every where wanting in the
wisdom which enables a man in all things to observe the due
measure. Although the truth of his extravagant feelings is
proved by his death, and though when he digs up a treasure
he spurns the wealth which seems to tempt him, we yet see
2 D
4 18 SEHAKSPEARE . TROILUS AND CRESSID A.
distinctly enough that the vanity of wishing to be singular,
in both the parts that he plays, had some share in his liberal
self-forgetfulness, as well as in his anchoritical seclusion.
This is particularly evident in the incomparable scene where
the cynic Apemantus visits Timon in the wilderness. The
have a sort of competition with each other in their trade öf
misanthropy: the Cynic reproaches the impoverished Timon
with having been merely driven by necessity to take to the
way of living which he himself had long been following of
his free choice, and Timon cannot bear the thought of being
merely an imitator of the Cynic. In such a subject as this
the due effect could only be produced by an accumulation of
similar features, still, in the variety of the shades, an amazing
degree of understanding has been displayed by Shakspeare.
What a powerfully diversified concert of flatteries and of
empty testimonies of devotedness! It is highly amusing to
see the suitors, whom the ruined circumstances of their
patron had dispersed, immediately flock to him again when
they learn that he has been revisited by fortune. On the
other hand, in the speeches of Timon, after he is undeceived,
all hostile figures of speech are exhausted,–it is a dictionary
of eloquent imprecations.
Troilus and Cressida is the only play of Shakspeare which
ne allowed to be printed without being previously represented.
It seems as if he here for once wished, without caring for
theatrical effect, to satisfy the nicety of his peculiar wit, and
the inclination to a certain guile, if I may say so, in the cha-
racterization. The whole is one continuedirony of that crown
of all heroic tales, the tale of Troy. The contemptible nature
of the origin of the Trojan war, the laziness and discord with
which it was carried on, so that the siege was made to last
ten years, are only placed in clearer light by the noble
descriptions, the sage and ingenious maxims with which the
work overflows, and the high ideas which the heroes enter-
tain of themselves and each other. Agamemnon’s stately
behaviour, Menelaus irritation, Nestor's experience, Ulysses'
cunning, are all productive of no effect; when they have at
last arranged a single combat between the coarse braggart
Ajax and Hector, the latter will not fight in good earnest, as
Ajax is his cousin. Achilles is treated worst: after having
long stretched himself out in arrogant idleness, and passed his
time in the company of Thersites the buffoon, he falls upon
Hector at a moment when he is defenceless, and kills him by
SHAKSPEARE–DRAMAS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. 419
means of his myrmidons. In all this let no man conceive
that any indignity was intended to the venerable Homer.
Shakspeare had not the Iliad before him, but the chivalrous
romances of the Trojan war derived from Dares Phrygius.
From this source also he took the love-intrigue of Troilus and
Cressida, a story at one time so popular in England, that the
name of Troilus had become proverbial for faithful and ill-
requited love, and Cressida for female falsehood. The name
of the agent between them, Pandarus, has even been adopted
into the English language to signify those personages (panders)
who dedicate themselves to similar services for inexperienced
persons of both sexes. The endless contrivances of the cour-
teous Pandarus to bring the two lovers together, who do not
stand in need of him, as Cressida requires no seduction, are
comic in the extreme. The manner in which this treacherous
beauty excites while she refuses, and converts the virgin
modesty which she pretends, into a means of seductive allure-
ment, is portrayed in colours extremely elegant, though cer-
tainly somewhat voluptuous. Troilus, the pattern of lovers,
looks patiently on, while his mistress enters into an intrigue
with Diomed. No doubt, he swears that he will be revenged;
but notwithstanding his violence in the fight next day, he
does no harm to any one, and ends with only high-sounding
threats. In a word, in this heroic comedy, where, from tradi-
tional fame and the pomp of poetry, everything seems to lay
claim to admiration, Shakspeare did not wish that any room
should be left, except, perhaps, in the character of Hector,
for esteem and sympathy ; but in this double meaning of the
picture, he has afforded us the most choice entertainment.
The dramas derived from the English history, ten in number,
form one of the most valuable of Shakspeare's works, and
partly the fruit of his maturest age. I say advisedly one of
his works, for the poet evidently intended them to form one
great whole. It is, as it were, an historical heroic poem in
the dramatic form, of which the separate plays constitute the
rhapsodies. The principal features of the events are exhibited
with such fidelity; their causes, and even their secret springs,
are placed in such a clear light, that we may attain from
them a knowledge of history in all its truth, while the living
picture makes an impression on the imagination which can
never be effaced. But this series of dramas is intended as the
vehicle of a much higher and much more general instruction;
2 D 2
420 SHAKSPEARE–DRAMAS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.
it furnishes examples of the political course of the world, ap-
plicable to all times. This mirror of kings should be the
manual of young princes; from it they may learn the in-
trinsic dignity of their hereditary vocation, but they will also
learn from it the difficulties of their situation, the dangers of
usurpation, the inevitable fall of tyranny, which buries itself
under its attempts to obtain a firmer foundation; lastly, the
ruinous consequences of the weaknesses, errors, and crimes of
kings, for whole nations, and many subsequent generations.
Eight of these plays, from Richard the Second to Richard the
Third, are linked together in an uninterrupted succession,
and embrace a most eventful period of nearly a century of
English history. The events portrayed in them not only
follow one another, but they are linked together in the closest
and most exact connexion ; and the cycle of revolts, parties,
civil and foreign wars, which began with the deposition of
Richard II., first ends with the accession of Henry VII.
to the throne. The careless rule of the first of these
monarchs, and his injudicious treatment of his own rela-
tions, drew upon him the rebellion of Bolingbroke; his
dethronement, however, was, in point of form, altogether
unjust, and in no case could Bolingbroke be considered
the rightful heir to the crown. This shrewd founder of the
House of Lancaster never as Henry IV. enjoyed in peace the
fruits of his usurpation: his turbulent Barons, the same who
aided him in ascending the throne, allowed him not a mo-
ment's repose upon it. On the other hand, he was jealous of
the brilliant qualities of his son, and this distrust, more than
any really low inclination, induced the Prince, that he might
avoid every appearance of ambition, to give himself up to
dissolute society. These two circumstances form the subject-
matter of the two parts of Henry the Fourth; the enterprises
of the discontented make up the serious, and the wild youthful
frolics of the heir-apparent supply the comic scenes. When
this warlike Prince ascended the throne under the name of
Henry V., he was determined to assert his ambiguous title;
he considered foreign conquests as the best means of guarding
against internal disturbances, and this gave rise to the glo-
rious, but more ruinous than profitable, war with France,
which Shaxspeare has celebrated in the drama of Henry the
Fifth. The early death of this king, the long legal minority
of Henry VI., and his perpetual minority in the art of
government, brought the greatest troubles on Ergland. The
SHAKSPEARE–DRAMAS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. 421
dissensions of the Regents, and the consequently wretched
administration, occasioned the loss of the French conquests:
and there arose a bold candidate for the crown, whose title
Was indisputable, if the prescription of three governments
may not be assumed to confer legitimacy on usurpation.
Such was the origin of the wars between the Houses of York
and Lancaster, which desolated the kingdom for a number of
years, and ended with the victory of the House of York
All this Shakspeare has represented in the three parts of
Henry the Sixth. Edward IV. shortened his life by excesses,
and did not long enjoy the throne purchased at the expense
of so many cruel deeds. His brother Richard, who had a
great share in the elevation of the House of York, was not
contented with the regency, and his ambition paved himself
a way to the throne through treachery and violence; but his
gloomy tyranny made him the object of the people's hatred,
and at length drew on him the destruction which he merited.
He was conquered by a descendant of the royal house un-
stained by the guilt of the civil wars, and what might seem
defective in his title was made good by the merit of freeing
his country from a monster. With the accession of Henry
VII. to the throne, a new epoch of English history begins:
the curse seemed at length to be expiated, and the long series
of usurpations, revolts, and civil wars, occasioned by the
levity with which the Second Richard sported away his
crown, was now brought to a termination.
Such is the evident connexion of these eight plays with
each other, but they were not, however, composed in chrono-
logical order. According to all appearance, the four last were
first written; this is certain, indeed, with respect to the three
parts of Henry the Sixth; and Richard the Third is not only
from its subject a continuation of these, but is also composed
in the same style. Shakspeare then went back to Richard
the Second, and with the most careful art connected the second
series with the first. The trilogies of the ancients have
already given us an example of the possibility of forming a
perfect dramatic whole, which shall yet contain allusions
to something which goes before, and follows it. In like
manner the most of these plays end with a very definite
division in the history: Richard the Second, with the murder
of that King; the Second Part of Henry the Fourth, with the
accession of his son to the throne; Henry the Fifth, with the
422 SHAKSPEARE-DRAMAS FROM ENGLISH IIISTORY,
conclusion of peace with France; the First Part of Henry the
Sixth, also, with a treaty of Peace; the third, with the murder
of Henry, and Edward's elevation to the throne; Richard the
Third, with his overthrow and death. The First Part of Henry
the Fourth, and the Second of Henry the Sixth, are rounded off
in a less satisfactory manner. The revolt of the nobles was
only half quelled by the overthrow of Percy, and it is there-
fore continued through the following part of the piece. The
victory of York at St. Alban's could as little be considered a
decisive event, in the war of the two houses. Shakspeare
has fallen into this dramatic imperfection, if we may so call
it, for the sake of advantages of much more importance.
The picture of the civil war was too great and too rich in
dreadful events for a single drama, and yet the uninterrupted
series of events offered no more convenient resting-place.
The government of Henry IV. might certainly have been
comprehended in one piece, but it possesses too little tragical
interest, and too little historical splendour, to be attractive,
if handled in a serious manner throughout: hence Shakspeare
has given to the comic characters belonging to the retinue
of Prince Henry, the freest development, and the half of the
space is occupied by this constant interlude between the
political events.
The two other historical plays taken from the English his-
tory are chronologically separate from this series: King John
reigned nearly two centuries before Richard II., and between
Richard III. and Henry VIII. comes the long reign of Henry
VII., which Shakspeare justly passed over as unsusceptible
of dramatic interest. However, these two plays may in
some measure be considered as the Prologue and the Epi-
logue to the other eight. In King John, all the political and
national motives which play so great a part in the following
pieces are already indicated: wars and treaties with France;
a. usurpation, and the tyrannical actions which it draws after
it; the influence of the clergy, the factions of the nobles.
//entry the Eighth again shows us the transition to another
age; the policy of modern Europe, a refined court-life
under a voluptuous monarch, the dangerous situation of
favourites, who, after having assisted in effecting the fall of
others, are themselves precipitated from power; in a word,
despotism under a milder form, but not less unjust and cruel.
By the prophecies on the birth of Elizabeth, Shakspeare has
SEIAKSPEARE : KING JO IIN. 423
in some degree brought his great poem on English history
down to his own time, as far at least as such recent events
could be yet handled with security. He composed probably
the two plays of King John” and Henry the Eighth at a later
period, as an addition to the others.
In King John the political and warlike events are dressed
out with solemn pomp, for the very reason that they possess
but little of true grandeur. The falsehood and selfishness of
the monarch speak in the style of a manifesto. Conventional
dignity is most indispensable where personal dignity is want-
ing. The bastard Faulconbridge is the witty interpreter of
this language: he ridicules the secret springs of politics, with-
out disapproving of them, for he owns that he is endeavouring
to make his fortune by similar means, and wishes rather to
belong to the deceivers than the deceived, for in his view of the
world there is no other choice. His litigation with his brother
respecting the succession of his pretended father, by which he
effects his acknowledgment at court as natural son of the
most chivalrous king of England, Richard Coeur de Lion,
forms a very entertaining and original prelude in the play
itself. When, amidst so many disguises of real sentiments,
and so much insincerity of expression, the poet shows us
human nature without a veil, and allows us to take deep views
of the inmost recesses of the mind, the impression produced is
only the more deep and powerful. The short scene in which
John urges Hubert to put out of the way Arthur, his young
rival for the possession of the throne, is superlatively
masterly: the cautious criminal hardly ventures to say to
himself what he wishes the other to do. The young and
amiable prince becomes a sacrifice of unprincipled ambition:
his fate excites the warmest sympathy. When Hubert, about
to put out his eyes with the hot iron, is softened by his
prayers, our compassion would be almost overwhelming, were
it not sweetened by the winning innocence of Arthur's
childish speeches. Constance's maternal despair on her son's
imprisonment is also of the highest beauty; and even the last
moments of John–an unjust and feeble prince, whom we can
* I mean the piece with this title in the collection of his works. There
is an older King John, in two parts, of which the former is a re-cast:–
perhaps a juvenile work of Shakspeare, though not hitherto acknowledged
as such by the English critics. See the disquisition appended to this Lec-
ture.
424 SHAKSPEARE RICHARD THE SECOND.
neither respect nor admire–are yet so portrayed as to ex«
tinguish our displeasure with him, and fill us with serious
considerations on the arbitrary deeds and the inevitable fate
of mortals.
In Richard the Second, Shakspeare exhibits a noble kingly
nature, at first obscured by levity and the errors of an un-
bridled youth, and afterwards purified by misfortune, and
-endered by it more highly and splendidly illustrious. When
he has lost the love and reverence of his subjects, and is on
the point of losing also his throne, he then feels with a bitter
enthusiasm the high vocation of the kingly dignity and its
transcendental rights, independent of personal merit or chang-
able institutions. When the earthly crown is fallen from his
head, he first appears a king whose innate nobility no humili-
ation can annihilate. This is felt by a poor groom: he is
shocked that his master's favourite horse should have carried
the proud Bolingbroke to his coronation; he visits the captive
king in prison, and shames the desertion of the great. The
political incident of the deposition is sketched with extra-
ordinary knowledge of the world;–the ebb of fortune, on
the one hand, and on the other, the swelling tide, which
carries every thing along with it. While Bolingbroke acts
as a king, and his adherents behave towards him as if he
really were so, he still continues to give out that he has come
with an armed band merely to demand his birthright and the
removal of abuses. The usurpation has been long completed,
before the word is pronounced and the thing publicly avowed.
The old John of Gaunt is a model of chivalrous honour: he
stands there like a pillar of the olden time which he has
outlived. His son, Henry IV., was altogether unlike
him: his character is admirably sustained throughout the
three pieces in which he appears. We see in it that mixture
of hardness, moderation, and prudence, which, in fact, enabled
him to secure the possession of the throne which he had
violently usurped; but without openness, without true cor-
diality, and incapable of noble ebullitions, he was so little
able to render his government beloved, that the deposed
Richard was even wished back again.
The first part of Henry the Fourth is particularly brilliant
in the serious scenes, from the contrast between two young
heroes, Prince Henry and Percy (with the characteristicalname
of Hotspur.) All the amiability and attractiveness is certainly
SHAKSPEARE : HENRY THE FOURTH. 425
on the side of the prince: nowever familiar he makes himself
with bad company, we can never mistake him for one of
them: the ignoble does indeed touch, but it does not contami-
nate him; and his wildest freaks appear merely as witty
tricks, by which his restless mind sought to burst through the
inactivity to which he was constrained, for on the first occa-
sion which wakes him out of his unruly levity he distinguishes
himself without effort in the most chivalrous guise. Percy's
boisterous valour is not without a mixture of rude manners,
arrogance, and boyish obstinacy; but these errors, which pre-
pare for him an early death, cannot disfigure the majestic
image of his noble youth; we are carried away by his fiery
spirit at the very moment we would most censure it. Shak-
speare has admirably shown why so formidable a revolt
against an unpopular and really an illegitimate prince was
not attended with success: Glendower's superstitious fancies
respecting himself, the effeminacy of the young Mortimer, the
ungovernable disposition of Percy, who will listen to no pru-
dent counsel, the irresolution of his older friends, the want of
unity of plan and motive, are all characterized by delicate but
unmistakable traits. After Percy has departed from the
scene, the splendour of the enterprise is, it is true, at an end;
there remain none but the subordinate participators in the
revolts, who are reduced by Henry IV., more by policy
than hy warlike achievements. To overcome this dearth of
matter, Shakspeare was in the second part obliged to employ
great art, as he never allowed himself to adorn history with
more arbitrary embellishments than the dramatic form ren-
dered indispensable. The piece is opened by confused rumours
from the field of battle; the powerful impression produced by
Percy’s fall, whose name and reputation were peculiarly
adapted to be the watchword of a bold enterprise, make him
in some degree an acting personage after his death. The
last acts are occupied with the dying king's remorse of con-
science, his uneasiness at the behaviour of the prince, and
lastly, the clearing up of the misunderstanding between father
andson, which make up several most affecting scenes. All
this, however, would still be inadequate to fill the stage, if
the serious events were not interrupted by a comedy which
runs through both parts of the play, which is enriched from
time to time with new figures, and which first comes to its
catastrophe at the conclusion of the whole, namely, when
426 SEIA KSPEARE : EIENRY TEIE FOURTEI
Henry V., immediately after ascending the throne, banishes
to a proper distance the companions of his youthful excesses,
who had promised to themselves a rich harvest from his kingly
favour.
Falstaff is the crown of Shakspeare's comic invention.
He has, without exhausting himself, continued this character
throughout three plays, and exhibited him in every variety of
situation; the figure is drawn so definitely and individually,
that even to the mere reader it conveys the clear impression
of personal acquaintance. Falstaff is the most agreeable and
entertaining knave that ever was portrayed. His con-
temptible qualities are not disguised: old, lecherous, and dis-
solute; corpulent beyond measure, and always intent upon
cherishing his body with eating, drinking, and sleeping; con-
stantly in debt, and anything but conscientious in his choice
of means by which money is to be raised; a cowardly soldier,
and a lying braggart; a flatterer of his friends before their
face, and a satirist behind their backs; and yet we are never
disgusted with him. We see that his tender care of himself
is without any mixture of malice towards others; he will
only not be disturbed in the peasant repose of his sensuality,
and this he obtains through the activity of his understanding.
Always on the alert, and good-humoured, ever ready to crack
jokes on others, and to enter into those of which he is himself
the subject, so that he justly boasts he is not only witty him-
self, but the cause of wit in others, he is an admirable com-
panion for youthful idleness and levity. Under a helpless
exterior, he conceals an extremely acute mind; he has always
at command some dexterous turn whenever any of his free
jokes begin to give displeasure; he is shrewd in his distinc-
tions, between those whose favour he has to win and those
over whom he may assume a familiar authority. He is so
convinced that the part which he plays can only pass under
the cloak of wit, that even when alone he is never altogether
serious, but gives the drollest colouring to his love-intrigues,
his intercourse with others, and to his own sensual philosophy.
Witness his inimitable soliloquies on honour, on the influence
of wine on bravery, his descriptions of the beggarly vaga-
bonds whom he enlisted, of Justice Shallow, &c. Falstaff
has about him a whole court of amusing caricatures, who by
turns make their appearance, without ever throwing him into
the shade. The adventure in which the Prince, under the
SkAKSPEARE : THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 427
disguise of a robber, compels him to give up the spoil which
he had just taken; the scene where the two act the part of
the King and the Prince; Falstaff's behaviour in the field,
his mode of raising recruits, his patronage of Justice Shallow,
which afterwards takes such an unfortunate turn:–all this
forms a series of characteristic scenes of the most original
description, full of pleasantry, and replete with nice and
ingenious observation, such as could only find a place in a.
historical play like the present.
Several of the comic parts of Henry the Fourth are con-
tinued in The Merry Wives of Windsor. This piece is said to
have been composed by Shakspeare, in compliance with the
request of Queen Elizabeth*, who admired the character of
Falstaff, and wished to see him exhibited once more, and in
love. In love, properly speaking, Falstaff could not be; but
for other purposes he could pretend to be so, and at all
events imagine that he was the object of love. In the pre-
sent piece accordingly he pays his court, as a favoured
Knight, to two married ladies, who lay their heads together
and agree to listen apparently to his addresses, for the sake
of making him the butt of their just ridicule. The whole
plan of the intrigue is therefore derived from the ordinary
circle of Comedy, but yet richly and artificially interwoven
with another love affair. The circumstance which has been
so much admired in Molière's School of Women, that a jealous.
individual should be made the constant confidant of his
rival's progress, had previously been introduced into this
play, and certainly with much more probability. I would
not, nowever, be understood as maintaining that it was the
original invention of Shakspeare: it is one of those circum-
stances which must almost be considered as part of the common
stock of Comedy, and everything depends on the delicacy and
humour with which it is used. That Falstaff should fall so
repeatedly into the snare gives us a less favourable opinion
of his shrewdness than the foregoing pieces had led us to
form; still it will not be thought improbable, if once we
* We know with certainty, that it was acted before the Queen. Many
local descriptions of Windsor and its neighbourhood, and an allusion in
which the Order of the Garter is very poetically celebrated, make it credible
that the play was destined to be first represented on the occasion of some
festival of the Order at the palace of Windsor, where the Knights of the
Garter have their hall of meeting.
428 SEIAKSPEARE : HENRY THE FIFTH.
admit the probability of the first infatuation on which the
whole piece is founded, namely, that he can believe himself
qualified to inspire a passion. This leads him, notwith-
standing his age, his corpulency, and his dislike of personal
inconveniences and dangers, to venture on an enterprise
which requires the boldness and activity of youth; and the
situations occasioned by this infatuation are droll beyond all
description. Of all Shakspeare's pieces, this approaches the
nearest to the species of pure Comedy: it is exclusively con-
fined to the English manners of the day, and to the domestic
relations; the characters are almost all comic, and the dia-
iogue, with the exception of a couple of short love scenes, is
written in prose. But we see that it was a point of principle
with Shakspeare to make none of his compositions a mere
imitation of the prosaic world, and to strip them of all
poetical decoration: accordingly he has elevated the conclu-
sion of the comedy by a wonderful intermixture, which suited
the place where it was probably first represented. A popular
superstition is made the means of a fanciful mystification*
of Falstaff; disguised as the Ghost of a Hunter who, with
ragged horns, wanders about in the woods of Windsor, he is
to wait for his frolicsome mistress; in this plight he is sur-
prised by a chorus of boys and girls disguised like fairies,
who, agreeably to the popular belief, are holding their mid-
night dances, and who sing a merry song as they pinch
and torture him. This is the last affront put upon poor
Falstaff; and with this contrivance the conclusion of the
second love affair is made in a most ingenious manner to
depend.
King Henry the Fifth is manifestly Shakspeare's favourite
hero in English history: he paints him as endowed with
every chivalrous and kingly virtue; open, sincere, affable,
yet, as a sort of reminiscence of his youth, still disposed to
innocent raillery, in the intervals between his perilous but
glorious achievements. However, to represent on the stage
his whole history subsequent to his accession to the throne,
was attended with great difficulty. The conquests in France
were the only distinguished event of his reign; and war is
an epic rather than a dramatic object. For wherever men
act in masses against each other, the appearance of chance
* This word is French; but it has lately been adopted by some English
writers.–TRANs.
SEIAKSPEARE - HENRY THE FIFTH. 429.
can never wholly be avoided; whereas it is the business of
the drama, to exhibit to us those determinations which, with
a certain necessity, issue from the reciprocal relations of
different individuals, their characters and passions. In several
of the Greek tragedies, it is true, combats and battles are
exhibited, that is, the preparations for them and their results;
and in historical plays war, as the ultima ratio regum, cannot
altogether be excluded. Still, if we would have dramatic
interest, war must only be the means by which something
else is accomplished, and not the last aim and substance of
the whole. For instance, in Macbeth, the battles which are
announced at the very beginning merely serve to heighten the
glory of Macbeth and to fire his ambition; and the combats
which take place towards the conclusion, before the eyes of
the spectator, bring on the destruction of the tyrant. It is
the very same in the Roman pieces, in the most of those
taken from English history, and, in short, wherever Shak-
speare has introduced war in a dramatic combination. With
great insight into the essence of his art, he never paints the
fortune of war as a blind deity who sometimes favours one
and sometimes another; without going into the details of the
art of war, (though sometimes he even ventures on this), he
allows us to anticipate the result from the qualities of the gene-
ral, and their influence on the minds of the soldiers; some-
times, without claiming our belief for miracles, he yet exhibits
the issue in the light of a higher volition: the consciousness
of a just cause and reliance on the protection of Heaven give
courage to the one party, while the presage of a curse hang-
ing over their undertaking weighs down the other*. In
Henry the Fifth no opportunity was afforded Shakspeare of
adopting the last mentioned course, namely, rendering the
issue of the war dramatic; but he has skilfully availed himself
of the first.–Before the battle of Agincourt he paints in
the most liyely colours the light-minded impatience of the
French leaders for the moment of battle, which to them
* AEschylus, with equal wisdom, in the uniformly warlike tragedy of
the Seven before Thebes, has given to the Theban chiefs foresight, deter-
mination, and presence of mind; to their adversaries, arrogant audacity.
Hence all the combats, excepting that between Eteocles and Polynices,
turn out in favour of the former. The paternal curse, and the blindness
to which it gives rise, carry headlong the two brothers to the unnatura
strife in which they both fall by Rae hands of each other.–See page 91.
430 SEIAKSPEARE EIENRY THE FIFTLI
seemed infallibly the moment of victory; on the other hand,
he paints the uneasiness of the English King and his army in
their desperate situation, coupled with their firm determi-
nation, if they must fall, at least to fall with honour. He
applies this as a general contrast between the French and
English national characters; a contrast which betrays a par-
tiality for his own nation, certainly excusable in a poet, espe-
cially when he is backed with such a glorious document as
that of the memorable battle in question. He has surrounded
the general events of the war with a fulness of individual,
characteristic, and even sometimes comic features. A heavy
Scotchman, a hot Irishman, a well-meaning, honourable, but
pedantic Welchman, all speaking in their peculiar dialects,
are intended to show us that the warlike genius of Henry did
not merely carry the English with him, but also the other
natives of the two islands, who were either not yet fully
united or in no degree subject to him. Several good-for-
nothing associates of Falstaff among the dregs of the army
either afford an opportunity for proving Henry's strictness of
discipline, or are sent home in disgrace. But all this variety
still seemed to the poet insufficient to animate a play of
which the subject was a conquest, and nothing but a conquest.
He has, therefore, tacked a prologue (in the technical lan-
guage of that day a chorus) to the beginning of each act.
These prologues, which unite epic pomp and solemnity with
lyrical sublimity, and among which the description of the two
camps before the battle of Agincourt forms a most admirable
night-piece, are intended to keep the spectators constantly in
mind, that the peculiar grandeur of the actions described
cannot be developed on a narrow stage, and that they must,
therefore, supply, from their own imaginations, the deficiencies
of the representation. As the matter was not properly
dramatic, Shakspeare chose to wander in the form also beyond
the bounds of the species, and to sing, as a poetical herald,
what he could not represent to the eye, rather than to cripple
the progress of the action by putting long descriptions in the
mouths of the dramatic personages. The confession of the
poet that “ four or five most vile and ragged foils, right ill
disposed, can only disgrace the name of Agincourt,” (a scruple
which he has overlooked in the occasion of many other great
battles, and among others of that of Philippi,) brings us here
naturally to the question how far, generally Speaking, it may
SHAKSPEARE : HENRY THE FIFTH. 431
be suitable and advisable to represent wars and battles on the
stage. The Greeks have uniformly renounced them: as in
the whole of their theatrical system they proceeded on ideas
ofgrandeur and dignity, a feeble and petty imitation of the
unattainable would have appeared insupportable in their eyes.
With them, consequently, all fighting was merely recounted.
The principle of the romantic dramatists was altogether differ-
ent: their wonderful pictures were infinitely larger than their
theatrical means of visible execution; they were every where
obliged to count on the willing imagination of the spectators,
and consequently they also relied on them in this point. It
is certainly laughable enough that a handful of awkward
warriors in mock armour, by means of two or three swords,
with which we clearly see they take especial care not to do
the slightest injury to one another, should decide the fate of
mighty kingdoms. But the opposite extreme is still much
worse. If we in reality succeed in exhibiting the tumult of a
great battle, the storming of a fort, and the like, in a manner
any way calculated to deceive the eye, the power of these
sensible impressions is so great that they render the spectator
incapable of bestowing that attention which a poetical work
of art demands; and thus the essential is sacrificed to the
accessory. We have learned from experience, that whenever
cavalry combats are introduced the men soon become secon-
dary personages beside the four-footed players*. Fortunately,
in Shakspeare's time, the art of converting the yielding boards
of the theatre into a riding course had not yet been invented.
He tells the spectators in the first prologue in Henry the
„Fifth:–
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth.
When Richard the Third utters the famous exclamation,–
A. horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
it is no doubt inconsistent to see him both before and after-
wards constantly fighting on foot. It is however better, per-
haps, that the poet and player should by overpowering
impressions dispose us to forget this, than by literal exactness
* The Greeks, it is true, brought horses on the tragic stage, but only in
solemn processions, not in the wild disorder of a fight. Agamemnon and
Pallas, in AEschylus, make their appearance drawn in a chariot with four
ihorses. But their theatres were built on a scale very different from ours.
432 SEIAKSPEARE . EIENRY TEIE SIXTH.
to expose themselves to external interruptions. With all the
disadvantages which I have mentioned, Shakspeare and several
Spanish poets have contrived to derive such great beauties
from the immediate representation of war, that I cannot bring
myself to wish they had abstained from it. A theatrical
manager of the present day will have a middle course to fol-
low: his art must, in an especial manner, be directed to make
what he shows us appear only as separate groups of an im-
mense picture, which cannot be taken in at once by the eye;
he must convince the spectators that the main action takes
place behind the stage; and for this purpose he has easy
means at his command in the nearer or more remote sound of
warlike music and the din of arms.
However much Shakspeare celebrates the French conquest
of Henry, still he has not omitted to hint, after his way, the
secret springs of this undertaking. Henry was in want of
foreign war to secure himself on the throne; the clergy also
wished to keep him employed abroad, and made an offer
of rich contributions to prevent the passing of a law which
would have deprived them of the half of their revenues. His
learned bishops consequently are as ready to prove to him his
indisputable right to the crown of France, as he is to allow
his conscience to be tranquillized by them. They prove that
the Salic law is not, and never was, applicable to France; and
the matter is treated in a more succinct and convincing man-
ner than such subjects usually are in manifestoes. After his
renowned battles, Henry wished to secure his conquests by
marriage with a French princess; all that has reference to
this is intended for irony in the play. The fruit of this union,
from which two nations promised to themselves such happi-
ness in future, was the weak and feeble Henry VI., under
whom everything was so miserably lost. It must not, there-
fore, be imagined that it was without the knowledge and will
of the poet that a heroic drama, turns out a comedy in his
hands, and ends in the manner of Comedy with a marriage of
convenience.
The three parts of Henry the Sixth, as I have already re-
marked, were composed much earlier than the preceding
pieces. Shakspeare's choice fell first on this period of English
history, so full of misery and horrors of every kind, because
the pathetic is naturally more suitable than the characteristic
to a young poet's mind. We do not yet find here the whole
SHAKSPE ARE : IIENRY THE SIXTII. 433
maturity of his genius, yet certainly its whole strength. Care-
less as to the apparent unconnectedness of contemporary
events, he bestows little attention on preparation and develop-
ment: all the figures follow in rapid succession, and announce
themselves emphatically for what we ought to take them;
from scenes where the effect is sufficiently agitating to form
the catastrophe of a less extensive plan, the poet perpetually
hurries us on to catastrophes still more dreadful. The First
Part contains only the first forming of the parties of the
White and Red Rose, under which blooming ensigns such
bloody deeds were afterwards perpetrated; the varying results
of the war in France principally fill the stage. The wonderful
Saviour of her country, Joan of Arc, is portrayed by Shak-
speare with an Englishman's prejudices: yet he at first leaves
it doubtful whether she has not in reality a heavenly mission;
she appears in the pure glory of virgin heroism; by her super-
natural eloquence (and this circumstance is of the poet's
invention) she wins over the Duke of Burgundy to the French
cause; afterwards, corrupted by vanity and luxury, she has
recourse to hellish fiends, and comes to a miserable end. To
her is opposed Talbot, a rough iron warrior, who moves us the
more powerfully, as, in the moment when he is threatened
with inevitable death, all his care is tenderly directed to save
his son, who performs his first deeds of arms under his eye.
After Talbot has in vain sacrificed himself, and the Maid of
Orleans has fallen into the hands of the English, the French
provinces are completely lost by an impolitic marriage; and
with this the piece ends. The conversation between the aged
Mortimer in prison, and Richard Plantagenet, afterwards
Duke of York, contains an exposition of the claims of the
latter to the throne: considered by itself it is a beautiful
tragicelegy. .-
In the Second Part, the events more particularly prominent
are the murder of the honest Protector, Gloster, and its conse-
quences; the death of Cardinal Beaufort; the parting of the
Queen from her favourite Suffolk, and his death by the hands
of Savage pirates; then the insurrection of Jack Cade under
an assumed name, and at the instigation of the Duke of York:
The short scene where Cardinal Beaufort, who is tormented
by his conscience on account of the murder of Gloster, is
visited on his death-bed by Henry VI. is sublime beyond all
praise. Can any other poet be named who has drawn aside
2 E
434 SHAKSPEARE : HENRY THE SIXTH.
the curtain of eternity at the close of this life with such over-
powering and awful effect? And yet it is not mere horror
with which the mind is filled, but solemn emotion; ablessing and
a curse stand side by side; the pious King is an image of the
heavenly mercy which, even in the sinner's last moments,
labours to enter into his soul. The adulterous passion of
Queen Margaret and Suffolk is invested with tragical dig-
nity and all low and ignoble ideas carefully kept out of sight.
Without attempting to gloss over the crime of which both are
guilty, without seeking to remove our disapprobation of this
criminal love, he still, by the magic force of expression, con-
trives to excite in us a sympathy with their sorrow. In the
insurrection of Cade he has delineated the conduct of a popular
demagogue, the fearful ludicrousness of the anarchical tumult
of the people, with such convincing truth, that one would
believe he was an eye-witness of many of the events of our
age, which, from ignorance of history, have been considered
as without example. «»
The civil war only begins in the Second Part; in the
Third it is unfolded in its full destructive fury. The picture
becomes gloomier and gloomier; and seems at last to be
painted rather with blood than with colours. With horror
we behold fury giving birth to fury, vengeance to vengeance,
and see that when all the bonds of human society are vio-
lently torn asunder, even noble matrons became hardened to
cruelty. The most bitter contempt is the portion of the
unfortunate; no one affords to his enemy that pity which he
will himself shortly stand in need of. With all party is
family, country, and religion, the only spring of action. As
York, whose ambition is coupled with noble qualities, prema-
turely perishes, the object of the whole contest is now either
to support an imbecile king, or to place on the throne a luxu-
rious monorch, who shortens the dear-bought possession by
the gratification of an insatiable voluptuousness. For this
the celebrated and magnanimous Warwick spends his chi-
valrous life; Clifford revenges the death of his father with
blood-thirsty filial love; and Richard, for the elevation of
his brother, practises those dark deeds by which he is soon
after to paye the way to his own greatness. In the midst
of the general misery, of which he has been the innocent
cause, King Henry appears like the powerless image of a
saint, in whose wonder-working influence no man any longer
SHAKSPEARE: RICHARD THE THIRD. 435
believes: he can but sigh and weep over the enormities
which he witnesses. In his simplicity, however, the gift
of prophecy is lent to this pious king: in the moment of
his death, at the close of this great tragedy, he prophe-
sies a still more dreadful tragedy with which futurity is
pregnant, as much distinguished for the poisonous wiles of
ºde wickedness as the former for deeds of savage
ury.
The part of Richard III. has become highly celebrated in
England from its having been filled by excellent performers,
and this has naturally had an influence on the admiration of
the piece itself, for many readers of Shakspeare stand in want
of good interpreters of the poet to understand him properly.
This admiration is certainly in every respect well founded,
though I cannot help thinking there is an injustice in consi-
dering the three parts of Henry the Sixth as of little value
compared with Richard the Third. These four plays were
undoubtedly composed in succession, as is proved by the style
and the spirit in the handling of the subject: the last is de-
finitely announced in the one which precedes it, and is also
full of references to it: the same views run through the
series; in a word, the whole make together only one single
work. Even the deep characterization of Richard is by no
means the exclusive property of the piece which bears his
name: his character is very distinctly drawn in the two last
parts of Henry the Sixth, nay, even his first speeches lead us
already to form the most unfavourable anticipations of his
future conduct. He lowers obliquely like a dark thunder-
cloud on the horizon, which gradually approaches nearer and
nearer, and first pours out the devastating elements with
which it is charged when it hangs over the heads of mortals.
Two of Richard's most significant soliloquies which enable us
to draw the most important conclusions with regard to his
mental temperament, are to be found in The Last Part ºf
Henry the Sixth. As to the value and the justice of the actions
to which passion impels us, we may be blind, but wickedness
cannot mistake its own nature; Richard, as well as Iago, is a
villain with full consciousness. That they should say this in
so many words, is not perhaps in human nature: but the
poet has the right in soliloquies to lend a voice to the most
hidden thoughts, otherwise the form of the monologue would,

2 E 2
7 º.
A 5 Ö SIIAKSXPEARE : RICHARD THE THIRD.
generally speaking, be censurable“. Richard's deformty is
öhe expression of his internal malice, and perhaps in part the
effect of it: for where is the ugliness that would not be sof-
tened by benevolence and openness? He, however, considers
ić as an iniquitous neglect of nature, which justifies him in
taking his revenge on that human society from which it is the
means of excluding him. Hence these sublime lines:
And this word love, which graybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,
And not in me. I am myself alone.
Wickedness is nothing but selfishness designedly unconscien-
tious; however it can never do altogether without the format
least of morality, as this is the law of all thinking beings,–it
must seek to found its depraved way of acting on something
like principles. Although Richard is thoroughly acquainted
with the blackness of his mind and his hellish mission, he yet
endeavours to justify this to himself by a sophism: the hap-
piness of being beloved is denied to him ; what then remains
to him but the happiness of ruling? All that stands in the
way of this must be removed. This envy of the enjoyment
of love is so much the more natural in Richard, as his brother
Edward, who besides preceded him in the possession of the
crown, was distinguished by the nobleness and beauty of his
figure, and was an almost irresistible conqueror of female
hearts. Notwithstanding his pretended renunciation, Richard
places his chief vanity in being able to please and win over
the women, if not by his figure at least by his insinuating
discourse. Shakspeare here shows us, with his accustomed
acuteness of observation, that human nature, even when it is
altogether decided in goodness or wickeness, is still subject to
petty infirmities. Richard's favourite amusement is to ridi-
cule others, and he possesses an eminent satirical wit. He
entertains at bottom a contempt for all mankind: for he is
confident of his ability to deceive them, whether as his instru-
ments or his adversaries. In hypocrisy he is particularly
fond of using religious forms, as if actuated by a desire of
* What, however, happens in so many tragedies, where a person is
made to avow himself a villain to his confidants, is most decidedly un-
natural. He will, indeed, announce his way of thinking, not, however, under
damning names, but as something that is understood of itself, and is
equally approved of by others.
SHAKSPEARE : RICHARD THE THIRD. 437
profaning in the service of hell the religion whose blessings
he had inwardly abjured.
So much for the main features of Richard's character. The
play named after him embraces also the latter part of thereign
of Edward IV., in the whole a period of eight years. It ex-
hibits all the machinations by which Richard obtained the
throne, and the deeds which he perpetrated to secure himself
in its possession, which lasted however but two years. Shak-
speare intended that terror rather than compassion should
prevail throughout this tragedy: he has rather avoided than
sought the pathetic scenes which he had at command. Of all
the sacrifices to Richard's lust of power, Clarence alone is put
to death on the stage: his dream excites a deep horror, and
proves the omnipotence of the poet's fancy: his conversation
with the murderers is powerfully agitating; but the earlier
crimes of Clarence merited death, although not from his bro-
ther’s hand. The most innocent and unspotted sacrifices are
the two princes: we see but little of them, and their murder
is merely related. Anne disappears without our learning any
thing farther respecting her: in Inarrying the murderer of her
husband, she had shown a weakness almost incredible. The
parts of Lord Rivers, and other friends of the queen, are of
too Secondary a nature to excite a powerful sympathy; Hast-
ings, from his triumph at the fall of his friend, forfeits all
title to compassion; Buckingham is the satellite of the tyrant,
who is afterwards consigned by him to the axe of the execu-
tioner. In the background the widowed Queen Margaret
appears as the fury of the past, who invokes a curse on the
future: every calamity, which her enemies draw down on
each other, is a cordial to her revengeful heart. Other female
voices join, from time to time, in the lamentations and impre-
cations. But Richard is the soul or rather the daemon, of the
whole tragedy. He fulfils the promise which he formerly
made of leading the murderous Macchiavel to school. Not-
withstanding the uniform aversion with which he inspires us,
he still engages us in the greatest variety of ways by his pro-
found skill in dissimulation, his wit, hisprudence, his presence
of mind, his quick activity, and his valour. He fights at last
against Richmond like a desperado, and dies the honourable
death of a hero on the field of battle. Shakspeare could not
change this historical issue, and yet it is by no means satisfac-
tory to our moral feelings, as Lessing, when speaking of a
438 FHAKSPEARE - HENRY THE FOURTH
German play on the same subject, has very judiciously re-
marked. How has Shakspeare solved this difficulty ? By a
wonderful invention he opens a prospect into the other world,
and shows us Richard in his last moments already branded
with the stamp of reprobation. We see Richard and Rich-
mond in the night before the battle sleeping in their tents;
the spirits of the murdered victims of the tyrant ascend in
succession, and pour out their curses against him, and their
blessings on his adversary. These apparitions are properly
but the dreams of the two generals represented visibly. It is
no doubt contrary to probability that their tents should only
be separated by so small a space; but Shakspeare could
reckon on poetical spectators who were ready to take the
breadth of the stage for the distance between two hostile
camps, if for such indulgence they were to be recompensed by
beauties of so sublime a nature as this series of spectres and
Richard's awakening soliloquy. The catastrophe of Richard
the Third is, in respect of the external events, very like that
of Macbeth: we have only to compare the thorough difference
of handling them to be convinced that Shakspeare has most
accurately observed poetical justice in the genuine sense of
the word, that is, as signifying the revelation of an invisible
blessing or curse which hangs over human sentiments and
actions.
Although the last four pieces of the historical series paint
later events, yet the plays of Henry the Fourth and Fifth
have, in tone and costume, a much more modern appearance.
This is partly owing to the number of comic scenes; for the
comic must always be founded not only in national, but also
in contemporary manners. Shakspeare, however, seems also
to have had the same design in the serious part. Bloody
revolutions and devastations of civil war appear to posterity
as a relapse into an earlier and more uncultivated condition of
society, or they are in reality accompanied by such a relapse
into unbridled savageness. If therefore the propensity of a
young poetical mind to remove its object to a wonderful dis-
tance has had an influence on the style in which Henry the
Sixth and Richard the Third are conceived, Shakspeare has
been rightly guided by his instinct. As it is peculiar to the
heroic poem to paint the races of men in times past as colossal
in strength of body and resolution, so in these plays, the
voices of a Talbot, a Warwick, a Clifford, and others, so ring
SHAKSPEARE HENRY THE EIGHTH. 439
on our ear that we imagine we hear the clanging trumpets of
foreign or of civil war. The contest of the Houses of York
and Lancaster was the last outbreak of feudal independence;
it was the cause of the great and not of the people, who were
only dragged into the struggle by the former: Afterwards the
part was swallowed up in the whole, and no longer could any
one be, like Warwick, a maker of kings. Shakspeare was as
profound a historian as a poet; when we compare his Henry
the Eighth with the preceding pieces, we see distinctly that
the English nation during the long, peaceable, and economical
reign of Henry VII., whether from the exhaustion which was
the fruit of the civil wars, or from more general European
influences, had made a sudden transition from the powerful
confusion of the middle age, to the regular tameness of
modern times. Henry the Eighth has, therefore, somewhat of
a prosaic appearance; for Shakspeare, artist-like, adapted
himself always to the quality of his materials. If others of
his works, both in elevation of fancy and in energy of pathos
and character, tower far above this, we have here on the
other hand occasion to admire his nice powers of discrimina-
tion and his perfect knowledge of courts and the world.
What tact was requisite to represent before the eyes of the
queen* subjects of such a delicate nature, and in which she
was personally so nearly concerned, without doing violence to
the truth! He has unmasked the tyrannical king, and to the
intelligent observer exhibited him such as he was actually:
haughty and obstinate, voluptuous and unfeeling, extravagant
in conferring favours, and revengeful under the pretext of
justice; and yet the picture is so dexterously handled that a
daughter might take it for favourable. The legitimacy of
Elizabeth's birth depended on the invalidity of Henry's first
marriage, and Shakspeare has placed the proceedings respect-
ing his separation from Catharine of Arragon in a very
doubtful light. We see clearly that Henry’s scruples of con-
science are no other than the beauty of Anne Boleyn. Catha-
* It is quite clear that Henry the Eighth was written while Elizabeth
was still alive. We know that Ben Jonson, in the reign of King James
brought the piece again on the stage with additional pomp, and took the
liberty of making several changes and additions. Without doubt, the pro-
phecy respecting James the First is due to Ben Jonson: it would only
have displeased Elizabeth, and is so ill introduced that we at once recog-
nize in it a foreign interpolation.
440 SHAKSPEARE : APPENDIX-
rine is, properly speaking, the heroine of the piece; she excites
the warmest sympathy by her virtues, her defenceless misery,
her mild but firm opposition, and her dignified resignation.
After her, the fall of Cardinal Wolsey constitutes the principal
part of the business. Henrys whole reign was not adapted
for dramatic poetry. It would have merely been a repetition
of the same scenes: the repudiation, or the execution of his
wives, and the disgrace of his most estimable ministers, which
was usually soon followed by death. Of all that. distinguished
Henry's life Shakspeare has given us sufficient specimens.
But as, properly speaking, there is no division in the history
where he breaks off we must excuse him if he gives us a
flattering compliment of the great Elizabeth for a fortunate
catastrophe. The piece ends with the general joy at the
birth of that princess, and with prophecies of the happiness
which she was afterwards to enjoy or to diffuse. It was only
by such a turn that the hazardous freedom of thought in the
rest of the composition could have passed with impunity:
Shakspeare was not certainly himself deceived respecting this
theatrical delusion. The true conclusion is the death of Ca-
tharine, which under a feeling of this kind, he has placed
earlier than was conformable to history.
I havenowgone through all the unquestionably genuine works
of Shakspeare. I have carefully abstained from all indefinite
eulogies, which merely serve to prove a disproportion betwixt
the feeling and the capability of expressing it. To many the
above observations will appear too diffuse for the object and
plan of these Lectures; to others they will perhaps seem unsa-
tisfactory. I shall be satisfied if they place those readers
who are not yet familiar with the poet in the right point of
view, and pave the way for a solid knowledge, and if they
recall to the minds of intelligent critics some of those thoughts
which have occurred to themselves.
s“
APPENDIX
Respecting the Pieces said to be falsely attributed to Shakspeare.
THE commentators of Shakspeare, in their attempts to
deprive him of parts of his works, or even of whole pieces,
WORKS ASCRIBED TO HIM. 441
have for the most part displayed very little of a true critical
Spirit. Pope, as is well known, was strongly disposed to
reject whole scenes as interpolations by the players; but
his opinion was not much listened to. However, Steevens
acceded to the opinion of Pope, as to the apparition of the
ghosts and of Jupiter, in Cymbeline, while Posthumus is sleep-
ing in the dungeon. But Posthumus finds on waking a tablet
on his breast, with a prophecy on which the dénouement of
the piece depends. Is it to be imagined that Shakspeare
would require of his spectators the belief in a wonder without
a visible cause? Can Posthumus have got this tablet with
the prophecy by dreaming? But these gentlemen do not
descend to this objection. The verses which the apparitions
deliver do not appear to them good enough to be Shakspeare's.
I imagine I can discover why the poet has not given them
more of the splendour of diction. It is the aged parents and
brothers of Posthumus, who, from concern for his fate, return
from the world below: ought they not consequently to speak
the language of a more simple olden time, and their voices,
too, ought they not also to seem a feeble sound of wailing,
when contrasted with the thundering oracular language of
Jupiter? For this reason Shakspeare chose a syllabic mea-
sure which was very common before his time, but which was
then going out of fashion, though it still continued to be fre-
quently used, especially in translations of the classical poets.
In some such manner might the shades express themselves in
the then existing translations of Homer and Virgil. The
speech of Jupiter is, on the other hand, majestic, and in
form and style bears a complete resemblance to Shakspeare's
sonnets. Nothing but incapacity to appreciate the views of
the poet, and the perspective observed by him, could lead
them to stumble at this passage.
Pope would willingly have declared the Winter's Tale
spurious, one of the noblest creations of the equally bold and
lovely fancy of Shakspeare. Why? I suppose on account
of the ship coming to Bohemia, and of the chasm of sixteen
years between the third and fourth acts, which Time as a pro-
logue entreats us to overleap.
The Three Parts of Henry the Sixth are now at length
admitted to be Shakspeare's. Theobald, Warburton, and
lastly Farmer, affirmed that they were not Shakspeares. In
this case, we might well ask them to point out the other works
442 SHAKSPEARE : TITUS ANDRONICUS-
of the unknown author, who was capable of inventing, amon
many others, the noble death-scenes of Talbot, Suffolk, Beau-
fort, and York. The assertion is so ridiculous, that in this
case Richard the Third might also not be Shakspeare's, as it is
linked in the most immediate manner to the three other pieces,
both by the subject, and the spirit and style of handling.
All the editors, with the exception of Capell, are unani-
mous in rejecting Titus Andronicus as unworthy of Shaks-
peare, though they always allow it to be printed with the
other pieces, as the scape-goat, as it were, of their abusive
criticism. The correct method in such an investigation is first
to examine into the external grounds, evidences, &c., and to
weigh their value; and then to adduce the internal reasons
derived from the quality of the work. The critics of Shaks-
peare follow a course directly the reverse of this; they set
out with a preconceived opinion against a piece, and seek, in
justification of this opinion, to render the historical ground sus-
picious, and to set them aside. Now Titus Andronicus is to
be found in the first folio edition of Shakspeare's works, which
it is known was published by Heminge and Condell, for many
years his frinds and fellow-managers of the same theatre. Is
it possible to persuade ourselves that they would not have
known if a piece in their repertory did or did not really
belong to Shakspeare? And are we to lay to the charge of
these honourable men an intentional fraud in this single case,
when we know that they did not show themselves so very
desirous of scraping everything together which went by the
name of Shakspeare, but, as it appears, merely gave those
plays of which they had manuscripts in hand? Yet the fol-
lowing circumstance is still stronger. George Meres, a con-
temporary and admirer of Shakspeare, in an enumeration of
his works, mentions Titus Andronicus, in the year 1598.
Meres was personally acquainted with the poet, and so very
intimately, that the latter read over to him his sonnets before
they were printed. I cannot conceive that all the critical
scepticism in the world would ever be able to get over such a
testimony.
This tragedy, it is true, is framed according to a false idea
of the tragic, which by an accumulation of cruelties and enor-
mities, degenerates into the horrible, and yet leaves no deep
impression behind: the story of Tereus and Philomela is
heightened and overcharged under other names, and mixed up
SHAKSPEARE - HIS FIRST POEM. 443
with the repast of Atreus and Thyestes, and many other inci-
dents. In detail there is no want of beautiful lines, bold
images, nay, even features which betray the peculiar concep-
tion of Shakspeare. Among these we may reckon the joy
of the treacherous Moor at the blackness and ugliness of his
adulterous offspring; and in the compassion of Titus Andro-
nicus, grown childish through grief, for a fly which had been
struck dead, while his rage afterwards, when he imagines he
discovers in it his black enemy, we recognize the future poet
of Zear. Are the critics afraid that Shakspeare's fame would
be injured, were it established that in his early youth he
ushered into the world a feeble and immature work ? Was
Rome the less the conqueror of the world, because Remus
could leap over its first walls? Let any one place himself in
Shakspeare's situation at the commencement of his career.
He found only a few indifferent models, and yet these
met with the most favourable reception, because in the
novelty of an art, men are never difficult to please, before
their taste has been made fastidious by choice and abundance.
Must not this situation have had its influence on him before
he learned to make higher demands on himself, and by dig-
ging deeper in his own mind, discovered the rich veins of
noble metal that ran there ? It is even highly probable that
he must have made several failures before he succeeded in
getting into the right path. Genius is in a certain Sense
infallible, and has nothing to learn; but art is to be learned,
and must be acquired by practice and experience. In Shak-
speare's acknowledged works we find hardly any traces of his
apprenticeship, and yet apprenticeship he certainly had.
This every artist must have, and especially in a period where
he has not before him the examples of a school already formed.
I consider it as extremely probable that Shakspeare began to
write for the theatre at a much earlier period than the one
which is generally stated, namely, after the year 1590. It
appears that, as early as the year 1584, when only twenty
years of age, he had left his paternal -home and repaired to
London. Can we imagine that such an active head would
remain idle for six whole years without making any attempt
to emerge by his talents from an uncongenial situation ? That
in the dedication of the poem of Venus and Adonis he calls it
“ the first heir of his invention,” proves nothing against the
444 SHAKSPEARE: LOCHIRINE–PERICLES, ETC.
supposition. It was the first which he printed; he might hava
composed it at an earlier period; perhaps, also, in this term,
“ heirs of his invention,” he did not indulge theatrical labours,
especially as they then conferred but little to his literary
dignity. The earlier Shakspeare began to compose for the
theatre, the less are we enabled to consider the immaturity
and imperfection of a work a proof of its spuriousness in
opposition to historical evidence, if only we can discern in
it prominent features of his mind. Several of the works
rejected as spurious, may still have been produced in the
period betwixt Titus Andronicus, and the earliest of the
acknowledged pieces.
At last, in two supplementary volumes, Steevens published
seven pieces ascribed to Shakspeare. It is to be remarked,
that they all appeared in print in Shakspeare's life-time, with
his mame prefixed at full length. They are the following:–
1. Lochrine. The proofs of the genuineness of this piece
are not altogether unambiguous; the grounds for doubt, on
the other hand, are entitled to attention. However, this
question is immediately connected with that respecting Titus
Andronicus, and must with it be resolved in the affirmative
or negative.
2. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This piece was acknowledged
by Dryden to be a work, but a youthful work of Shakspeare's.
It is most undoubtedly his, and it has been admitted into several
late editions of his works. The supposed imperfections origi-
nate in the circumstance, that Shakspeare here handled a
childish and extravagant romance of the old poet Gower, and
was unwilling to drag the subject out of its proper sphere.
Hence he even introduces Gower himself, and makes him deli-
ver a prologue in his own antiquated language and versifica-
tion. This power of assuming so foreign a manner is at least
no proof of helplessness.
3. The London Prodigal. If we are not mistaken, Lessing
pronounced this piece to be Shakspeare's, and wished to bring
it on the German stage.
4. The Puritan; or The Widow of Watling Street. One
of my literary friends, intimately acquainted with Shak-
speare, was of opinion that the poet must have wished for
once to write a play in the style of Ben Jonson, and that in
this way we must account for the difference between the pre-
sHAKSPEARE: CROMWELL–SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, ETC. 445
sent piece and his usual manner. To follow out this idea,
however, would lead to a long and very nice critical investi-
gation.
5. Thomas Lord Cromwell.
6. Sir John Oldcastle.–First part.
7. A Yorkshire Tragedy.
The three last pieces are not only unquestionably Shak-
speare's, but in my opinion they deserve to be classed among
his best and maturest works. Steevens at last admits, in some
degree, that they, as well as the rest, except Lochrine, are
Shakspeare's, but he speaks of all of them with great con-
tempt, as worthless productions. His condemnatory sentence
is not, however, in the slightest degree convincing, nor is it
supported by much critical acumen. I should like to see how
such a critic would, of his own natural suggestion, have
decided on Shakspeare's acknowledged master-pieces, and how
much he would have thought of praising in them, had not the
public opinion already imposed on him the duty of admira-
tion. Thomas Lord Cromwell and Sir John Oldcastle are
biographical dramas, and in this species they are models: the
first, by its subject, attaches itself to Henry the Eighth, and the
second to Henry the Fifth. The second part of Sir John Old-
castleis wanting; I know not whether a copy of the old edition
has been discovered in England, or whether it is lost. The
Yorkshire Tragedy is a tragedy in one act, a dramatised tale
of murder: the tragical effect is overpowering, and it is ex-
tremely important to see how poetically Shakspeare could
handle such a subject. «
Still farther, there have been ascribed to him, 1st. The Merry
Devil of Edmonton, a comedy in one act, printed in Dodsley's
Collection of Old Plays. This has, certainly, some appearance
in its favour. It contains a merry landlord, who bears great
similarity to the one in The Merry Wives of Windsor. How-
ever, at all events, though a clever, it is but a hasty sketch.
2nd. The Arraignment of Paris. 3rd. The Birth of Merlin
4th. Edward the Third. 5th. The Fair Em. (Emma). 6th,
Mucedorus. 7th. Arden of Feversham. I have never seen
any of these, and cannot therefore say anything respecting
them. From the passages cited, I am led to conjecture that
the subject of Mucedorus is the popular story of Valentine
and Orson: a beautiful subject which Lope de Vega has also
taken for a play. Arden of Feversham is said to be a tragedy
446 SHAKSPEARE : ENGLISH THEATRE CONTINUED.
on the story of a man from whom the poet descended by the
mother's side. This circumstance, if the quality of the piece
be not too directly at variance with its supposed authorship,
would afford an additional probability in its favour. For such
motives were not without their influence on Shakspeare: thus
he treated with a manifest partiality, Henry VII., who had
betowed lands on his forefathers for services performed by
them.
Of Shakspeare's share in The Two Woble Cousins, it will be
the time to speak when I come to mention Fletcher's works.
It would be very instructive, if it could be proved that
several earlier attempts of works, afterwards re-written, pro-
ceeded from himself, and not from an unknown author. We
should thus be best enabled to trace his development as an
artist. Of the older King John, in two parts, (printed by
Steevens among six old plays) this might probably be made
out. That he sometimes returned to an old piece is certain.
With respect to Hamlet, for instance, it is well known, that it
was very gradually formed by him to its present perfect state.
Whoever takes from Shakspeare a play early ascribed to
him, and confessedly Ä to his time, is certainly bound
to answer, with some degree of probability, this question: who
then wrote it? Shakspeare's competitors in the dramatic
walk are pretty well known, and if those of them who have
even acquired a considerable reputation, a Lilly, a Marlow, a
Heywood, are still very far below him, we can hardly imagine
that the author of a work, which rises so high beyond theirs,
could have remained unknown.
LEC'TURE XXVII.
Two periods of the English Theatre: the first the most important–The
first conformation of the Stage, and its advantages–State of the His-
trionic Art in Shakspeare's time-Antiquities of Dramatic Literature–
Lilly, Marlow, Heywood–Ben Jonson–Criticism of his Works–
Masques–Beaumont and Fletcher–General characterization of these
Poets, and remarks on some of their Pieces–Massinger and other
contemporaries of Charles the First.
THE great master of whom we have spoken in the preceding
Lecture, forms so singular an exception to the whole history
ANTIQUITIES OF THE ENGLISH THEATRE 447
of art, that we are compelled to assign a particular place to
him. He owed hardly anything to his predecessors, and he
has had the greatest influence on his successors: but no man
has yet learned from him his secret. For two whole centuries,
during which his countrymen have diligently employed them-
selves in the cultivation of every branch of Science and art,
according to their own confession, he has not only never yet
been surpassed, but has left every dramatic poet at a great
distance behind him.
In the sketch of a history of the English theatre which
I am now to give, I shall be frequently obliged to return
to Shakspeare. The dramatic literature of the English is
very rich; they can boast of a large number of dramatic
poets, who possessed in an eminent degree the talent of origi-
nal characterization, and the knowledge of theatrical effect.
Their hands were not shackled by prejudices, by arbitrary
rules, and by the anxious observance of so-called proprieties.
There has never been in England an academical court of taste;
in art, as in life, every man there gives his voice for what best
pleases him, or what is most suitable to his nature. Notwith-
standing this liberty, their writers have not, however, been
able to escape the influence either of varying modes, or of the
spirit of different ages.
We shall here remain true to our principle of merely dwell-
ing at length on what we consider as the highest efforts of
poetry, and of taking brief views of all that occupies but the
second or third place.
The antiquities of the English theatre have been sufficiently
illustrated by the English writers, and especially by Malone.
The earliest dramatic attempts were here as well as elsewhere
Mysteries and Moralities. However it would seem that in
these productions the English distinguished themselves at an
earlier period than other nations. In the History of the
Council of Constance it is recorded that the English prelates
in one of the intervals between the sittings, entertained their
brethren with a spiritual play in Latin, such as the latter
were either entirely unacquainted with, or at least in suck
perfection, (as perfection was understood by the simple ideas
of art of those times). The beginning of a theatre, properly
so called, cannot, however, be placed farther back than the
reign of Elizabeth. John Heywood, the buffoon of Henry
VIII. is considered as the oldest comic writer: the single
448 HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH THEATIRE.
Interiude under his name, published in Dodsley's collection, is
in fact merely a dialogue, and not a drama. But Gammer
Gurton's Weedle, which was first acted about the year 1560,
certainly deserves the name of a comedy. However anti-
quated in language and versification, it possesses unequivocal
merit in the low comic. The whole plot turns on a lost
needle, the search for which is pursued with the utmost assi-
duity: the poverty of the persons of the drama, which this
supposes, and the whole of their domestic condition, is very
amusingly portrayed, and the part of a cunning beggar espe-
cially is drawn with much humour. The coarse comic of this
piece bears a resemblance to that of the Avocat Patelin, yet
the English play has not, like the French, been honoured with
a revival on the stage in a new shape.
The history of the English theatre divides itself naturally
into two periods. The first begins nearly with the accession
of Elizabeth, and extends to about the end of the reign of
Charles I., when the Puritans gained the ascendency, and
effected the prohibition of all plays whatsoever. The closing
of the theatres lasted thirteen years; and they were not
again opened till the restoration of Charles II. This inter-
ruption, the change which had taken place in the mean time
on the general way of thinking and in manners, and lastly,
the influence of the French literature which was then flourish-
ing, gave quite a different character to the plays subsequently
written. The works of the older school were indeed in part
sought out, but the school itself was extinct. I apply the
term of a “ school” to the dramatical poets of the first aera, in
the same sense as it is taken in art, for with all their personal
differences we may still perceive on the whole a common cha-
racter in their productions. Independently of the language
or contemporary allusions, we should never be disposed to
take a play of that school, though ignorant of its author, and
the date of its production, for a work of the more modern
period. The latter period admits of many subdivisions, but
with these, however, we may dispense. The talents of the
authors, and the taste of the public, have fluctuated in every
possible way; foreign influence has gained more and more the
ascendency, and (to express myself without circumlocution,)
the English theatre has in its progress become more and more
destitute of character and independence. For a critic, who
everywhere seeks originality, troubling himself little about
AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH AND OF CHARLES II. 449
what has arisen from the following or the avoiding of imita-
tion, the dramatic poets of the first period are by far the most
important, although, with the exception of Shakspeare, they
may be reproached with great defects and extravagances, and
although many of the moderns are distinguished for a more
careful polish.
There are times when the human mindall at once makes gigan-
ticstrides in an art previously almost unknown, as if during its
long sleep it had been collecting strength for the effort. The
age of Elizabeth was in England such an epoch for dramatic
poetry. This queen, during her long reign, witnessed the first
infantine attempts of the English theatre, and its most mas-
terly productions. Shakspeare had a lively feeling of this
general and rapid development of qualities not before called
into exercise; in one of his sonnets he calls his age, these time-
bettering days. The predilection for the theatre was so great,
that in a period of sixty years, under this and the following
reign, seventeen play-houses were built or fitted up in London,
whereas the capital of the present day, with twice the popu-
lation*, is satisfied with two. No doubt they did not act
every day, and several of these theatres were very small, and
probably not much better fitted up than Marionette booths.
However, they served to call forth the fertility of those writers
who possessed, or supposed that they possessed, dramatic
talents; for every theatre must have had its peculiar reper-
tory, as the pieces were either not printed at all, or at least
not till long after their composition, and as a single theatrical
company was in the exclusive possession of the manuscripts.
However many of feeble and lame productions might have
been called forth, still it was impossible that such an exten-
sive competition should not have been advantageous. Of all
the different species of poetry the dramatic is the only one
in which experience is necessary: and the failure of others
is, for the man of talents, an experiment at their expense.
Moreover, the exercise of this art requires vigorous deter-
mination, to which the great artist is often the least inclined,
as in the execution he finds the greatest difficulty in satisfying
himself; while, on the other hand, his greatest enjoyment
consists in embodying in his own mind the beloved creation
of his imagination. It is therefore fortunate for him when
the bolder forwardness of those who, with trifling means,
* The author might almost have said six times.–TRANs.
2 F
450 sHAKSPEAIcE's PLAY-HoUSE–THE GLoBE TEHEATRE-
venture on this difficult career stimulates him to put fresh
hand to the work. Further, it is of importance to the dra-
matic poet to be connected immediately with the stage, that
he may either himself guide it, or learn to accommodate him-
self to its wants; and the dramatic poets of that day were,
for the most part, also players. The theatre still made small
claims to literature, and it thus escaped the pedantry of scho-
lastic learning. There were as yet no periodical writings
which, as the instrument of cabal, could mislead opinion. Of
jealousies, indeed, and bickerings among the authors there was
no want: this, however, was more a source of amusement
than of displeasure to the public, who decided without pre-
judice or partiality according to the amount of entertainment.
The poets and players, as well as the spectators, possessed in
general the most essential requisite of success: a true love for
the business. This was the more unquestionable, as the
theatrical art was not then surrounded with all those foreign
ornaments and inventions of luxury which serve to distract
the attention and corrupt the sense, but made its appearance
in the most modest, and we may well say in the most humble
shape. For the admirers of Shakspeare it must be an object
of curiosity to know what was the appearance of the theatre
in which his works were first performed. We have an en-
graving of the play-house of which he was manager, and
which, from the symbol of a Hercules supplying the place of
Atlas, was called the Globe: it is a massive structure desti-
tute of architectural ornaments, and almost without windows
in the outward walls. The pit was open to the sky, and the
acting was by day-light; the scene had no other decoration
than wrought tapestry, which hung at some distance from the
walls, and left space for several entrances. In the back-ground
of the stage there was a second stage raised above it, a sort
of balcony, which served for various purposes, and according
to circumstances signified all manner of things. The players
appeared, excepting on a few rare occasions, in the dress of
their time, or at most distinguished by higher feathers on their
hats and roses on their shoes. The chief means of disguise
were false hair and beards, and occasionally also masks. The
female parts were played by boys so long as their voice
allowed it. Two companies of actors in London consisted
entirely of boys, namely, the choir of the Queen's Chapel and
that of St. Paul's. Betwixt the acts it was not customary to
PRESENT APPLIANCE OF THEATRICAL ACCESSORIES. 451
have music, but in the pieces themselves marches, dances, solo
songs, and the like, were introduced on fitting occasions, and
trumpet flourishes at the entrance of great personages. In
the more early time it was usual to represent the action before
it was spoken, in silent pantomime (dumb Show) between each
act, allegorically or even without any disguise, to give a
definite direction to the expectation. Shakspeare has ob-
served this practice in the play in Hamlet.
By the present lavish appliance of every theatrical acces-
sory;–of architecture, lighting, music, the illusion of decora-
tions changing in a moment as if by enchantment, machinery
and costume;–by all this, we are now so completely spoiled,
that this earlier meagreness of stage decoration will in no wise
satisfy us. Much, however, might be urged in favour of such
a constitution of the theatre. Where the spectators are not
allured by any splendid accessories, they will be the more
difficult to please in the main thing, namely, the excellence
of the dramatic composition, and its embodying by delivery
and action. When perfection is not attainable in external
decoration, the critic will rather altogether overlook it than
be disturbed by its deficiencies and tastelessness. And how
seldom has perfection been here attained! It is about a
century and a half since attention began to be paid to the
observance of costume on the European stage; what with
this view has been accomplished has always appeared excel-
lent to the multitude, and yet, to judge from the engravings
which sometimes accompany the printed plays, and from
every other evidence, it is plain that it was always charac-
terized by puerility and mannerism, and that in none the
endeavours to assume a foreign or antique appearance, could
shake themselves free of the fashions of the time. A sort of
hoop was long considered as an indispensable appendage of a
hero; the long peruques and fontanges, or topknots, keps
their ground in heroical tragedy as long as in real life; after-
wards it would have been considered as barbarous to appear
without powdered and frizzled hair; on this was placed a
helmet with variegated feathers; a taffeta.scarf futtered over
the gilt paper coat of mail; and the Achilles or Alexander
was then completely mounted. We have now at last returned
to a purer taste, and in some great theatres the costume is
actually observed in a learned and severe style. We owe
this principally to the antiquarian reform in the arts of
2 F 2
452 SYSTEM OF DECORATION –ITS DEFECTS.
design, and the approximation of the female dress to the
Grecian; for the actresses were always the most inveterate
in retaining on the stage those fashions by which they turned
their charms to account in society. However, even yet there
are very few players who know how to wear a Grecian
purple mantle, or a toga, in a natural and becoming manner;
and who, in moments of passion, do not seem to be unduly
occupied with holding and tossing about their drapery.
Our system of decoration was properly invented for the
opera, to which it is also in reality best adapted. It has
several unavoidable defects; others which certainly may be,
but seldom are avoided. Among the inevitable defects ſ
reckon the breaking of the lines in the side scenes from every
point of view except one; the disproportion between the size
of the player when he appears in the background, and the
objects as diminished in the perspective; the unfavourable
lighting from below and behind; the contrast between the
painted and the actual lights and shades; the impossibility of
narrowing the stage at pleasure, so that the inside of a palace
and a hut have the same length and breadth, &c. The errors
which may be avoided are, want of simplicity and of great
and reposing masses; overloading the scenery with super-
fluous and distracting objects, either from the painter being
desirous of showing his strength in perspective, or not know-
ing how otherwise to fill up the space; an architecture full of
mannerism, often altogether unconnected, nay, even at vari-
ance with possibility, coloured in a motley manner which
resembles no species of stone in the world. Most scene-
painters owe their success entirely to the spectator's ignorance
of the arts of design; I have often seen a whole pit enchanted
with a decoration from which the eye of skill must have
turned away with disgust, and in whose place a plain green
wall would have been infinitely better. Avitiated taste for
splendour of decoration and magnificence of dress, has ren-
dered the arrangement of the theatre a complicated and ex-
pensive business, whence it frequently happens that the main
requisites, good pieces and good players, are considered as
secondary matters; but this is an inconvenience which it is
here unnecessary to mention.
Although the earlier English stage had properly no decora-
tions, we must allow, however, that it was not altogether
destitute of machinery: without it, it is almost impossible to
MACHINERY–INIGO JONES. 453
conceive how several pieces, for instance, Macbeth, The Tem-
pest, and others, could ever be represented. The celebrated
architect, Inigo Jones, who lived in the reign of James the
First, put in motion very complicated and artificial machines
for the decoration of the Masques of Ben Jonson which were
acted at court.
With the Spanish theatre at the time of its formation, it
was the same as with the English, and when the stage had
remained a moment empty, and other persons came in by
another entrance, a change of scene was to be supposed
though none was visible; and this circumstance had the most
favourable influence on the form of the dramas. The poet
was not obliged to consult the scene-painter to know what
could or what could not be represented ; nor to calculate
whether the store of decorations on hand were sufficient, or
new ones would be requisite: he was not driven to impose
restraint on the action as to change of times and places, but
represented it entirely as it would naturally have taken place*:
he left to the imagination to fill up the intervals agreeably to
the speeches, and to conceive all the surrounding circum-
stances. This call on the fancy to supply the deficiencies
supposes, indeed, not merely benevolent, but also intelligent
spectators of a poetical tone of mind. That is the true
illusion, when the spectators are so completely carried away
by the impressions of the poetry and the acting, that they
overlook the secondary matters, and forget the whole of the
remaining objects around them. To lie morosely on the
watch to detect every circumstance that may violate an
apparent reality which, strictly speaking, can never be at-
tained, is in fact a proof of inertness of imagination and an
incapacity for mental illusion. This prosaical incredulity
may be carried so far as to render it utterly impossible for
the theatrical artists, who in every constitution of the theatre
require many indulgences, to amuse the spectators by their
productions; and thus they are, in the end, the enemies of
their own enjoyment.
* Capell, an intelligent commentator on Shakspeare, unjustly under-
rated by the others, has placed the advantages in this respect in the clearest
light, in an observation on Antony and Cleopatra. It emboldened the
poet, when the truth of the action required it, to plan scenes which the
most skilful mechanist and scene-painter could scarcely exhibit to the eye;
as for instance, in a Spanish play where sea-fights occur.
454 ENGLISH PLAYERS.
We now complain, and with justice, that in the acting of
Shakspeare's pieces the too frequent change of scenes occasions
an interruption. But the poet is here perfectly blameless.
It ought to be known that the English plays of that time, as
well as the Spanish, were printed without any mention of the
scene and its changes. In Shakspeare the modern editors have
inserted the scenical directions; and in doing so, they have
proceeded with the most pedantic accuracy. Whoeyer has
the management of the representation of a piece of Shak-
speare's may, without any hesitation, strike out at once all
such changes of scene as the following:–“Another room in
the palace, another street, another part of the field of
battle,” &c. By these means alone, in most cases, the
change of decorations will be reduced to a very moderate
number.
Of the actor's art on a theatre which possessed so little
external splendour as the old English, those who are in the
habit ofjudging of the man from his dress will not be inclined
to entertain a very favourable idea. I am induced, however,
from this very circumstance, to draw quite a contrary conclu-
sion: the want of attractions of an accessory.nature renders
it the more necessary to be careful in essentials. Several
Englishmen* have given it as their opinion, that the players of
the first epoch were in all likelihood greatly superior to those
of the second, at least with the exception of Garrick; and if
we had no other proof, the quality of Shakspeare's pieces
renders this extremely probable. That most of his principal
characters require a great player is self-evident ; the elevated
and compressed style of his poetry cannot be understood
without the most energetic and flexible delivery; besides,
he often supposes between the speeches a mute action of great
difficulty, for which he gives no directions. A poet who
labours only and immediately for the stage will not rely for
his main effect on traits which he must beforehand know will
be lost in the representation from the unskilfulness of his in-
terpreters. Shakspeare consequently would have been driven
to lower the tone of his dramatic art, if he had not possessed
excellent theatrical coadjutors. Of these, some have de-
scended by name and fame even to our times. As for Shak-
speare himself, since we are not fond of allowing any one
* See a Dialogue prefixed to the 11th volume of Dodsley's Old
Plays.
SEIAKSPEARE AS AN ACTOR. 455
man to possess two great talents in an equal degree, it has
been assumed on very questionable grounds, that he was but
an indifferent actor*. Hamlet's instructions, however, to the
players prove at least that he was an excellent judge of acting.
We know that correctness of conception and judgment are
not always coupled with the power of execution; Shakspeare,
however, possessed a very important and too frequently
neglected requisite for serious acting, a beautiful and noble
countenance. Neither is it probable that he could have been
the manager of the most respectable theatre, had he not himself
possessed the talent both of acting and guiding the histrionic
talents of others. Ben Jonson, though a meritorious poet,
could not even obtain the situation of a player, as he did not
possess the requisite qualifications. From the passage cited
from Hamlet, from the burlesque tragedy of the mechanics in
the Midsummer Night's Dream, and many other passages, it
is evident that there was then an inundation of bad players,
who fell into all the aberrations from propriety which offendat
the present day, but the public, it would appear, knew well
how to distinguish good and bad acting, and would not be easily
satisfied†.
* No certain account has yet been obtained of any principal part played
by Shakspeare in his own pieces. In Hamlet he played the Ghost; cer-
tainly a very important part, if we consider that from the failure in it, the
whole piece runs a risk of appearing ridiculous. A. writer of his time says
in a satirical pamphlet, that the Ghost whined in a pitiful manner; and it
has been concluded from this that Shakspeare was a bad player. What
iogic! On the restoration of the theatre under Charles II., a desire was
felt of collecting traditions and information respecting the former period.
Lowin, the original Hamlet, instructed Betterton as to the proper concep-
tion of the character. There was still alive a brother of Shakspeare, a
desrepid old man, who had never had any literary cultivation, and whose
memory was impaired by age. From him they could extract nothing, but
that he had sometimes visited his brother in town, and once saw him play
an old man with grey hair and beard. From the above description it was
2oncluded that this must have been the faithful servant Adam in As You
Like It, also a second-rate part. In most of Shakspeare's pieces we have
not the slightest knowledge of the manner in which the parts were distri-
buted. In two of Ben Jonson's pieces we see Shakspeare's name among
the principal actors.
† In this respect, the following simile in Richard the Second is desery-
ing of attention:–
As in a theatre the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious, &c.
„ET===-
456 ATTEMPTS AT ANTIQUE TRAGEDY.
A thorough critical knowledge of the antiquities of the
English theatre can only be obtained in England; the old
editions of the pieces which belong to the earlier period are
even there extremely rare, and in foreign libraries they are
never to be met with; the modern collectors have merely
been able to give a few specimens, and not the whole store.
It would be highly important to see together all the plays
which were undoubtedly in existence before Shakspeare
entered on his career, that we might be able to decide with
certainty how much of the dramatic art it was possible for
him to learn from others. The year of the appearance of a
piece on the stage is generally, however, difficult to ascertain,
as it was often not printed till long afterwards. If in the
abours of Shakspeare's contemporaries, even the older who
continued to write at the same time with himself, we can dis-
cover resemblances to his style and traces of his art, still it
will always remain doubtful whether we are to consider these
as the feeble model, or the imperfect imitation. Shakspeare
appears to have had all the flexibility of mind, and all the
modesty of Raphael, who, also, without ever being an imi-
tator and becoming unfaithful to his sublime and tranquil
genius, applied to his own advantage all the improvements of
his competitors.
A few feeble attempts to introduce the form of the antique
tragedy with choruses, &c., were at an early period made, and
praised, without producing any effect. They, like most of the
attempts of the moderns in this way, serve to prove how
strange were the spectacles through which the old poets were
viewed; for it is hardly to be conceived how unlike they are
to the Greek tragedies, not merely in merit (for that we may
easily suppose), but even in those external circumstances
which may be the most easily seized and imitated. Ferrex
and Porrer, or the Tragedy of Gorboduc, is most frequently
cited, which was the production of a nobleman”, in the first
part of the reign of Elizabeth. Pope bestows high praise on
this piece, on account of its regularity, and laments that the
Lontemporary poets did not follow in the same track; for
thus he thought a classical theatre might have been formed in
England. This opinion only proves that Pope (who, however,
passes for a perfect judge of poetry,) had not even an idea of
the first elements of Dramatic Art. Nothing can be more
* Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, conjointly with Norton.–FD
THOMAS KYD IIS SPANISH TRAGEDY. 45j
spiritless and inanimate, nor more drawling and monotonous
in the language and the versification, than this Ferrex and
Porrex, and although the Unities of Place and Time are in
no way observed, and a number of events are crowded into
it, yet the scene is wholly destitute of movement: all that
happens is previously announced by endless consultations, and
afterwards stated in equally endless narratives. Mustapha,
another unsuccessful work of a kindred description, and also
oy a great lord*, is a tedious web of all sorts of political
subtleties; the choruses in particular are true treatises.
However, of the innumerable maxims in rhyme, there are
many which might well have a place in the later pieces of
Corneille. Kyd, one of the predecessors of Ben Jonson, and
mentioned by him in terms of praise, handled the Cornelia of
Garnier. This may be called receiving an imitation of the
ancients from the third or fourth hand.
The first serious piece calculated for popular effect is The
Spanish Tragedy [by Thomas Kyd], so called from the scene
of the story, and not from its being borrowed from a Spanish
writer. It kept possession of the stage for a tolerable length
of time, though it was often the subject of the ridicule and
the parodies of succeeding poets. It usually happens that the
public do not easily give up a predilection formed in their
first warm susceptibility for the impressions of an art yet
unknown to them, even after they have long been acquainted
with better, nay, with excellent works. This piece is cer-
tainly full of puerilities; the author has ventured on the
picture of violent situations and passions without suspecting
his own want of power; the catastrophe, more especially, which
in horror is intended to outstrip everything conceivable, is
very sillily introduced, and produces merely a ludicrous effect.
The whole is like the drawings of children, without the ob-
servance of proportion, and without steadiness of hand. With
a great deal of bombast, the tone of the dialogue, however.
has something natural, nay, even familiar, and in the change
of scenes we perceive a light movement, which in some degree
will account for the general applause received by this imma-
ture production.
Lilly and Marlow deserve to be noticed among the prede-
cessors of Shakspeare. Lilly was a scholar, and laboured to
introduce a stilted elegance into English prose, and in the
* Grevile, Lord Broke.
458 COMEDIES BEFORE SEIAKSPEATRE.
tone of dialogue, with such success, that for a period he was,
the fashionable writer, and the court ladies even formed their
conversation after the model of his Euphues. His comedy in
prose, Campaspe, is a warning example of the impossibility of
ever constructing, out of mere anecdotes and epigrammatic
sallies, anything like a dramatic whole. The author was a
learned witling, but in no respect a poet.
Marlow possessed more real talent, and was in a better
way. He has handled the history of Edward the Second
with very little of art, it is true, but with a certain truth and
simplicity, so that in many scenes he does not fail to produce
a pathetic effect. His verses are flowing, but without energy:
how Ben Jonson could come to use the expression “ Marlow's
mighty line,” is more than I can conceive. Shakspeare could
neither learn nor derive anything from the luscious manner of
Lilly; but in Marlow's Edward the Second I certainly imagine
that I can discover the feebler model of the earliest historical
pieces of Shakspeare. -
Of the old comedies in Dodsley's collection, The Pinner of
Wakefielde, and Grim, the Collier of Croydon, seem alone to
belong to a period before Shakspeare. Both are not without
merit, in the manner of Marionette pieces; in the first, a
popular tradition, and in the second, a merry legend, is
handled with hearty joviality.
I have dwelt longer on the beginnings of the English
theatre, than from their internal worth they deserve, because
it has been affirmed recently in England that Shakspeare
shows more affinity to the works of his contemporaries now
sunk in oblivion than people have hitherto been usually
disposed to believe. We are as little to wonder at certain
outward resemblances, as at the similarity of the dresses in
portraits of the same period. In a more limited sense, how-
ever, we apply the word resemblance exclusively to the rela-
tion of those features which express the spirit and the mind.
Moreover, such plays alone can be admitted to be a satisfac-
tory proof of an assertion of this kind as are ascertained to
have been written before the commencement of Shakspeare's
career; for in the works of his younger contemporaries, a.
Decker, Marston, Webster, and others, something of a resem-
blance may be very naturally accounted for: distinct traces
of imitation of Shakspeare are sufficiently abundant. Their
imitation was, however, merely confined to external appear-
-
CEHAPMAN–HEYWOOD, 459.
ance and separate peculiarities; these writers, without the
virtues of their model, possess in reality all the faults which
senseless critics have falsely censured in Shakspeare.
A sentence somewhat more favourable is merited by Chap-
man, the translator of Homer, and Thomas Heywood, if we
may judge of them from the single specimens of their works
in Dodsley's collection. Chapman has handled the well-known
story of the Ephesian matron, under the title of The Widows
Tears, not without comic talent. Heywood's Woman Killed
with Kindness is a familiar tragedy: so early may we find
examples of this species, which has been given out for new.
It is the story of a wife tenderly beloved by her husband, and
seduced by a man whom he had loaded with benefits; her sin
is discovered, and the severest resolution which her husband
can bring himself to form is to remove her from him, without
proclaiming her dishonour; she repents, and grieves to death
in bitter repentence. A due gradation is not observed in
the seduction, but the last scenes are truly agitating. A dis-
tinct avowal of a moral aim is, perhaps, essential to the fami-
liar tragedy; or rather, by means of such an aim, a picture of
human destinies, whether afflicting kings or private families,
is drawn from the ideal sphere into the prosaic world. But
when once we admit the title of this subordinate species, we
shall find that the demands of morality and the dramatic art
coincide, and that the utmost severity of moral principles
leads again to poetical elevation. The aspect of that false
repentance which merely seeks exemption from punishment,
is painful; repentance, as the pain arising from the irreparable
forfeiture of innocence, is susceptible of a truly tragic por-
traiture. Let only the play in question receive a happy con-
clusion, such as in a well-known piece* has, notwithstanding
this painful feeling, been so generally applauded in the pre-
sent day–viz., the reconciliation of the husband and wife, not
on the death-bed of the repentant sinner, but in sound mind
and body, and the renewal of the marriage; and it will then
be found that it has not merely lost its moral, but also its
poetical impression.
In other respects, this piece of Heywood is very inartistic,
and carelessly finished: instead of duly developing the main
action, the author distracts our attention by a second intrigue,
* The author alludes to Kotzebue's play of Menschenhass und Reue
(The Stranger).–TRANs-
460 BEN JONSON–INGRATITUDE TO SHAKSPEARE.
which can hardly be said to have the slightest connection with
the other. At this we need hardly be astonished, for Hey-
wood was both a player and an excessively prolific authör.
Two hundred and twenty pieces were, he says, written
entirely, or for the greatest part, by himself; and he was so
careless respecting these productions, which were probabl
thrown off without any great labour, that he had lost the
manuscript of the most of them, and only twenty-five remained
for publication through the press.
All the above authors, and many others beside, whatever
applause they obtained in their life-time, have been unsuc-
cessful in transmitting a living memorial of their works to
posterity. Of Shakspeare's younger contemporaries and com-
petitors, few have attained this distinction; and of these Ben
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, are the
chief.
Ben Jonson found in Shakspeare a ready encourager of
his talents. His first piece, imperfect in many respects,
Every Man in his Humour, was by Shakspeare's intervention
brought out on the stage; Seanus was even retouched by him,
and in both he undertook a principal character. This hospit-
able reception on the part of that great man, who was far
above everything like jealousy and petty rivalry, met with a
very ungrateful return. Jonson assumed a superiority over
Shakspeare on account of his school learning, the only point
in which he really had an advantage; he introduced all sorts
of biting allusions into his pieces and prologues, and repro-
bated more especially those magical flights of fancy, the
peculiar heritage of Shakspeare, as contrary to genuine taste.
In his excuse we must plead, that he was not born under a
happy star: his pieces were either altogether unsuccessful,
or, compared with the astonishing popularity of Shakspeare’s,
they obtained but a small share of applause; moreover, he
was incessantly attacked, both on the stage and elsewhere, by
his rivals, as a disgraceful pedant, who pretended to know
everything better than themselves, and with all manner of
satires: all this rendered him extremely irritable and uneven
of temper. He possessed in reality a very solid understand-
ing; he was conscious that in the exercise of his art he dis-
played zeal and earnestness; that Nature had denied him
grace, a quality which no labour can acquire, he could not
indeed suspect. He thought every man may boast of his
BEN JONSON : HIS MASQUES. 46 .
assiduity, as Lessing says on a similar occasion. After
several failures on the stage, he formed the resolution to
declare of his pieces in the outset that they were good, and
that if they should not please, this could only proceed from
the stupidity of the multitude. The epigraph on one of his
unsuccessful pieces with which he committed it to the press,
is highly amusing: “As it was never acted, but most neg-
ligently played by some, the King's servants, and more
squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's sub-
jects.“
J Jonson was a critical poet in the good and the bad sense
of the word. He endeavoured to form an exact estimate
of what he had on every occasion to perform; hence he suc-
ceeded best in that species of the drama, which makes the
principal demand on the understanding and with little call
on the imagination and feeling,–the comedy of character.
He introduced nothing into his works which critical dissection
should not be able to extract again, as his confidence in
it was such, that he conceived it exhausted everything which
pleases and charms us in poetry. He was not aware that, in
the chemical retort of the critic, what is most valuable, the
volatile living Spirit of a poem, evaporates. His pieces are in
general deficient in soul, in that nameless something which
never ceases to attract and enchant us, even because it is in-
definable. In the lyrical pieces, his Masques, we feel the
want of a certain mental music of imagery and intonation,
which the most accurate observation of difficult measures can-
not give. He is everywhere deficient in those excellencies
which, unsought, flow from the poet's pen, and which no
artist, who purposely hunts for them, can ever hope to find.
We must not quarrel with him, however, for entertaining a
high opinion of his own works; since, whatever merits they
have, he owed like acquired moral properties altogether
to himself. The production of them was attended with
labour, and unfortunately it is also a labour to read them.
They resemble solid and regular edifices, before which, how-
ever, the clumsy scaffolding still remains, to interrupt and
prevent us from viewing the architecture with ease, and
receiving from it a harmonious impression.
We have of Jonson two tragical attempts, and a number
of comedies and masques.
He could have risen to the dignity of the tragic tone, but,
- 462 PEN JONSON HIS SEJANUS AND CATALINE.
for the pathetic, he had not the smallest turn. As he inces-
santly preaches up the imitation of the ancients, (and he had,
we cannot deny, a learned acquaintance with their works) it
is astonishing to observe how much his two tragedies differ,
both in substance and form, from the Greek tragedy. From
this example we see the influence which the prevailing tone
of an age, and the course already pursued in any art,
necessarily have upon even the most independent minds. In
the historical extent given by Jonson to his Sejanus and
Cataline, unity of time and place were entirely out of the
question; and both pieces are crowded with a multitude of
secondary persons, such as are never to be found in a Greek
tragedy. In Cataline, the prologue is spoken by the spirit of
Sylla, and it bears a good deal of resemblance to that of
Tantalus, in the Atreus and Thyestes of Seneca; to the end of
each act an instructive moralizing chorus is appended, without
being duly introduced or connected with the whole. This is
the extent of the resemblance to the ancients; in other
respects, the form of Shakspeare's historical dramas is ad-
hered to, but without their romantic charm. We cannot with
certainty say, whether or not Jonson had the Roman pieces
of Shakspeare before him: it is probable that he had in Cata-
line at least; but, at all events, he has not learned from him
the art of being true to history, and yet satisfying the de-
Inands of poetry. In Jonson's hands, the subject continues
history, without becoming poetry; the political events which
he has described have more the appearance of a business than
an action. Cataline and Sejanus are solid dramatic studies
after Sallust and Cicero, after Tacitus, Suetonius, Juvenal,
and others; and that is the best which we can say of them.
In Cataline, which upon the whole is preferable to Sejanus,
he is also to be blamed for not having blended the dissi-
milarity of the masses. The first act possesses most elevation,
though it disgusts us from its want of moderation: we see a
secret assembly of conspirators, and nature appears to answer
the furious inspiration of wickedness by dreadful signs. The
second act, which paints the intrigues and loves of depraved
women, by means of which the conspiracy was brought to
light, treads closely on comedy; the last three acts contain a
history in dialogue, developed with much good sense, but
little poetical elevation. It is to be lamented that Jonson
gave only his own text of Sejanus without communicating
BEN JONSON : HIS COMIC INVENTIONS. 46#
Shakspeare's alterations. We should have been curious to
know the means by which he might have attempted to give
animation to the monotony of the piece without changing its
plan, and how far his genius could adapt itself to another's
Conceptions.
After these attempts, Jonson took his leave of the Tragic
Muse, and in reality his talents were far better suited to
Comedy, and that too merely the Comedy of Character. His
characterization, however, is more marked with serious satire
than playful ridicule: the later Roman satirists, rather than
the comic authors, were his models. Nature had denied him
that light and easy raillery which plays harmlessly round
everything, and which seems to be the mere effusion of gaiety,
but which is so much the more philosophic, as it is not the
vehicle of any definite doctrine, but merely the expression of a
general irony. There is more of a spirit of observation than
of fancy in the comic inventions of Jonson. From this cause
his pieces are also defective in point of intrigue. He was a
strong advocate for the purity of the species, was unwilling
to make use of any romantic motives, and he never had re-
course to a novel for the subject of his plots. But his contri-
vances for the entangling and disentangling his plot are often
improbable and forced, without gaining over the imagination
by their attractive boldness. Even where he had contrived a
happy plot, he took so much room for the delineation of the
characters, that we often lose sight of the intrigue altogether,
and the action lags with heavy pace. Occasionally he reminds
us of those over-accurate portrait painters, who, to insure a
likeness, think they must copy every mark of the small-pox,
every carbuncle or freckle. Frequently he has been suspected
of having, in the delineation of particular characters, had real
persons in his eye, while, at the same time, he has been
reproached with making his characters mere personifications
of general ideas; and, however inconsistent with each other
these reproaches may appear, they are neither of them, how-
ever, without some foundation. He possessed a methodical
head; consequently, where he had once conceived a character
in its leading idea, he followed it out with the utmost rigour;
whatever, having no reference to this leading idea, served
merely to give individual animation, appeared to him in the
light of a digression. Hence his names are, for the most part,
expressive even to an unpleasant degree of distinctness; and,
464 BEN JONSÜN–EIS CARICATURIES.
to add to our satiety, he not unfrequently tacks explanatory
descriptions to the dramatis personae. On the other hand, he
acted upon the principle, that the comicwriter must exhibit
real life, with a minute and petty accuracy. Generally he
succeeded in seizing the manners of his own age and nation:
in itself this was deserving of praise; but even here he con-
fined himself too much to external peculiarities, to the singu-
larities and affectations of the modish tone which were then
called humours, and which from their nature are as transient
as dresses. Hence a great part of his comic very soon became
obsolete, and as early as the re-opening of the theatre under
Charles II., no actors could be found who were capable of
doing justice to such caricatures. Local colours like these can
only be preserved from fading by the most complete season-
ing with wit. This is what Shakspeare has effected. Com-
pare, for instance, his Osric, in Hamlet, with Fastidius Brisk,
in Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour: both are portrai-
tures of the insipid affectation of a courtier of the day; but
Osric, although he speaks his own peculiar language, will re-
main to the end of time an exact and intelligible image offop-
pish folly, whereas Fastidius is merely a portrait in a dress
no longer in fashion, and nothing more. However, Jonson
has not always fallen into this error; his Captain Bobadil,
for example, in Every Man in his Humour, a beggarly and
cowardly adventurer, who passes himself off with young and
simple people for a Hector, is, it is true, far from being
as amusing and original as Pistol; but he also, notwithstand-
ing the change of manners, still remains a model in his way,
and he has been imitated by English writers of comedy in
after times.
In the piece I have just named, the first work of Jonson,
the action is extremely feeble and insignificant. In the fol-
lowing, JEvery Man out of his Humour, he has gone still far-
ther astray, in seeking the comic effect merely in caricatured
traits, without any interest of situation: it is a rhapsody of
ludicrous scenes without connexion and progress. The Bar-
tholomew Fair, also, is nothing but a coarse Bambocciate,
in which no more connexion is to be found than usually
exists in the hubbub, the noise, the quarrelling, and thefts,
which attend upon such amusements of the populace. Vul-
gar delight is too naturally portrayed; the part of the
Puritan, however, is deserving of distinction: his casuistica
BEN JONSON –MIERITS AND DEFECTS 465
consultation, whether he ought to eat a sucking-pig according
to the custom of the fair, and his lecture afterwards against
puppet-shows as a heathen idolatry, are inimitable, and full
of the most biting salt of comedy. Ben Jonson did not then
foresee that, before the lapse of one generation, the Puritans
would be sufficiently powerful to take a very severe revenge
on his art, on account of similar railleries.
In so far as plot is concerned, the greatest praise is merited
by Volpone, The Alchemist, and Epicaene, or the Silent Woman.
In Volpone Jonson for once has entered into Italian manners,
without, however, taking an ideal view of them. The leading
idea is admirable, and for the most part worked out with
masterly skill. Towards the end, however, the whole turns
too much on swindling and villany, which necessarily call for
the interference of criminal justice, and the piece, from the
punishment of the guilty, has everything but a merry conclu-
sion. In the Alchemist, both the deceivers and deceived sup-
ply a fund of entertainment, only the author enters too deeply
into the learning of alchemy. Of an unintelligible jargon
very short specimens at most ought to be given in comedy,
and it is best that they should also have a secondary significa-
tion, of which the person who uses the mysterious language
should not himself be aware; when carried to too great a
length, the use of them occasions as much weariness as
the writings themselves which served as a model. In The
Devil's an Ass the poet has failed to draw due advantage from
a fanciful invention with which he opens, but which indeed
was not his own; and our expectation, after being once
deceived, causes us to remain dissatisfied with other scenes
however excellently comic.
Of all Jonson's pieces there is hardly one which, as itstands,
would please on the stage in the present day, even as most of
them failed to please in his own time; extracts from them,
however, could hardly fail to be successful. In general,
much might be borrowed from him, and much might be
learned both from his merits and defects. His characters are,
for the most part, solidly and judiciously drawn; what he
most fails in, is the art of setting them off by the contrast of
situations. He has seldom planned his scenes so successfully
in this respect as in Every Man in his Humour, where the
jealous merchant is called off to an important business, when
his wife is in expectation of a visit of which he is suspicious,
2 G
466 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
and when he is anxious to station his servant as a sentinel,
without however confiding his secret to him, because, above all
things he dreads the discovery of his own jealousy. This
scene is a master-piece, and if Jonson had always so com-
posed, we must have been obliged to rank him among the
first of comic writers.
Merely lest we should be charged with an omission do we
mention The Masques: allegorical, occasional pieces, chiefly
designed for court festivals, and decorated with machinery,
masked dresses, dancing, and singing. This secondary species
died again nearly with Jonson himself; the only subsequent
production in this way of any fame is the Comus of Milton
When allegory is confined to mere personification, it must in-
fallibly turn out very frigid in a play; the action itself must
be allegorical, and in this respect there are many ingenious
inventions, but the Spanish poets have almost alone furnished
us with successful examples of it. The peculiarity of Jonson's
Masques most deserving of remark seems to me to be the anti-
masque, as they are called, which the poet himself sometimes
attaches to his own invention, and generally allows to precede
the serious act. As the ideal flatteries, for whose sake the
gods have been brought down from Olympus, are but too ap;
to fall into mawkishness, this antidote on such occasions is cer-
tainly deserving of commendation.
Ben Jonson, who in all his pieces took a mechanical view
of art, bore a farther resemblance to the master of a handi-
craft in taking an apprentice. He had a servant of the name
of Broome, who formed hinnself as a theatrical writer from the
conversation and instructions of his master, and brought come-
dies on the stage with applause.
Beaumont and Fletcher are always named together, as if
they had been two inseparable poets, whose works were all
planned and executed in common. This idea, however, is not
altogether correct. We know, indeed, but little of the cir-
cumstances of their lives: this much however is known, that
Beaumont died very young; and that Fletcher survived his
younger friend ten years, and was so unremittingly active in
his career as a dramatic poet, that several of his plays were
first brought on the stage after his death, and some which he
left unfinished were completed by another hand. The pieces
collected under both names amount to upwards of fifty; and
of this number it is probable that the half must be considerea
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 467
as the work of Fletcher alone. Beaumont and Fletcher's
works did not make their appearance until a short time after
the death of the latter; the publishers have not given them-
selves the trouble to distinguish critically the share which
belonged to each, and still less to afford us any information
respecting the diversity of their talents. Some of their con-
temporaries have attributed boldness of imagination to Flet-
cher, and a mature judgment to his friend: the former, accord-
ing to their opinion, was the inventive genius; the latter, the
directing and moderating critic. But this account rests on
no foundation. It is now impossible to distinguish with cer-
tainty the hand of each; nor would the knowledge repay the
labour. All the pieces ascribed to them, whether they proceed
from one alone or from both, are composed in the same spirit
and in the same manner. Hence it is probable that it was
not so much the need of supplying the deficiencies of each
other, as the great resemblance of their way of thinking, which
induced them to continue so long and so inseparably united.
Beaumont and Fletcher began their career in the lifetime
of Shakspeare: Beaumont even died before him, and Fletcher
only survived him nine years. From some allusions in the
way of parody, we may conclude that they entertained no
very extravagant admiration of their great predecessor; from
whom, nevertheless, they both learned much, and unquestion-
ably borrowed many of their thoughts. In the whole form of
their plays they followed his example, regardless of the differ-
ent principles of Ben Jonson and of the imitation of the
ancients. Like him they drew from novels and romances;
they combined pathetic and burlesque scenes in the sameplay,
and, by the concatenation of the incidents, endeavoured to
excite the impression of the extraordinary and the wonderful.
A wish to surpass Shakspeare in this species is often evident
enough ; contemporary eulogists, indeed, have no hesitation
in ranking Shakspeare far below them, and assert that the
English stage was first brought to perfection by Beaumont
and Fletcher. And, in reality, Shakspeare's fame was in
some degree eclipsed by them in the generation which imme-
diately succeeded, and in the time of Charles II. they still
enjoyed greater popularity: the progress of time, however,
has restored all three to their due places. As on the stage
the highest excellence will wear out by frequent repetition,
and novelty always possesses a great charm, the dramatic art
2 G 2
468 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
is, consequently, much influenced by fashion; it is more than
other branches of literature and the fine arts exposed to the
danger of passing rapidly from a grand and simple style to
dazzling and superficial mannerism.
Beaumont and Fletcher were in fact men of the most dis-
tinguished talents; they scarcely wanted anything more than
u, profounder seriousness of mind, and that artistic sagacity
which everywhere observes a due measure, to rank beside the
greatest dramatic poets of all nations. They possessed extra-
ordinary fecundity and flexibility of mind, and a facility
which however too often degenerated into carelessness. The
highest perfection they have hardly ever attained; and I
should have little hesitation in affirming that they had not
even an idea of it: however, on several occasions they have
approached quite close to it. And why was it denied them
to take this last step? Because with them poetry was not an
inward devotion of the feeling and imagination, but a means
to obtain brilliant results. Their first object was effect, which
the great artist can hardly fail of attaining if he is determined
above all things to satisfy himself. They were not like the
most of their predecessors, players*, but they lived in the
neighbourhood of the theatre, were in constant intercourse
with it, and possessed a perfect understanding of theatrical
matters. They were also thoroughly acquainted with their
contemporaries; but they found it more convenient to lower
themselves to the taste of the public than to follow the exam-
ple of Shakspeare, who elevated the public to himself. They
lived in a vigorous age, which more willingly pardoned ex
travagancies of every description than feeblenesss and fri-
gidity. They therefore never allowed themselves to be re-
strained by poetical or moral considerations; and in this
confidence they found their account: they resemble in some
measure somnambulists, who with closed eyes pass safely
through the greatest dangers. Even when they undertake
what is most depraved they handle it with a certain felicity.
In the commencement of a degeneracy in the dramatic art,
the spectators first lose the capability of judging of a play as
a whole; hence Beaumont and Fletcher bestow very little
* In the privilege granted by James I. to the royal players, a Laurence
Fletcher is named along with Shakspeare as manager of the company.
The poet's name was John Fletcher. Perhaps the former might be his
brother or near relation.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 469
attention on harmony of composition and the observance of
due proportion between all the different parts. They not
unfrequently lose sight of a happily framed plot, and appear
almost to forget it; they bring something else forward equally
capable of affording pleasure and entertainment, but without
preparation, and in the particular place where it occurs with-
out propriety. They always excite curiosity, frequently
compassion–they hurry us along with them ; they suceeed
better, however, in exciting than in gratifying our expecta-
tion. So long as we are reading them we feel ourselves
keenly interested; but they leave very few imperishable im-
pressions behind. They are least successful in their tragic
attempts, because their feeling is not sufficiently drawn from
the depths of human nature, and because they bestowed too
little attention on the general consideration of human des-
tinies: they succeed much better in Comedy, and in those
serious and pathetic pictures which occupy a middle place
betwixt Comedy and Tragedy. Their characters are often
arbitrarily drawn, and, when it suits the momentary wants
of the poet, become even untrue to themselves; in external
matters they are tolerably in keeping Beaumont and Flet-
cher employ the whole strength of their talents in pictures
of passion; but they enter little into the secret history of
the heart; they pass over the first emotions and the graduai
heightening of a feeling; they seizeit, as it were, in its highest
maturity, and then develope its symptoms with the most
overpowering illusion, though with an exaggerated strength
and fulness. But though its expression does not always pos-
sess the strictest truth, nevertheless it still appears natural,
every thing has free motion; nothing is laboriously con-
strained or far-fetched, however striking it may sometimes
appear. In their dialogue they have completely succeeded
in uniting the familiar tone of real conversation and the
appearance of momentary suggestion with poetical elevation:
They even run into that popular affectation of the natural
which has ensured such great success to some dramatic poets
of our own time; but as the latter sought it in the absence of
all elevation of fancy, they could not help falling into insi-
pidity. Beaumont and Fletcher generally couple nature with
fancy; they succeed in giving an extraordinary appearance to
what is common, and thus preserve a certain fallacious image
of the ideal. The morality of these writers is ambiguous,
Not that they failed in strong colours to contrast greatness of
470 B EAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
soul and goodness with baseness and wickedness, or did nos
usually conclude with the disgrace and punishment of the
latter, but an ostentatious generosity is often favourably ex-
hibited in lieu of duty and justice. Everything good and
excellent in their pictures arises more from transientebullition
than fixed principle; they seem to place the virtues in the
blood; and close beside them impulses of merely a selfish and
instinctive nature hold up their heads, as if they were of
nobler origin. There is an incurable vulgar side of human
nature which, when he cannot help but show it, the poet
should never handle without a certain bashfulness; but in-
ztead of this Beaumont and Fletcher throw no veil whatever
over nature. They express everything bluntly in words;
they make the spectator the unwilling confidant of all that
more noble minds endeavour even to hide from themselves.
The indecencies in which these poets indulged themselves go
beyond conception. Licentiousness of language is the least
evil; many scenes, nay, even whole plots, are so contrived
that the very idea, not to mention the beholding of them, is a
gross insult to modesty. Aristophanes is a bold mouth-piece
of sensuality; but like the Grecian statuaries in the figures
of satyrs, &c., he banishes them into the animal kingdom to
which they wholly belong; and judging him by the morality
of his times, he is much less offensive. But Beaumont and
Fletcher hold up to view the impure and nauseous colours of
vice in quite a different sphere; their compositions resemble
the sheet, in the vision of the Apostle, full of pure and
impure animals. This was the universal tendency of the
dramatic poets under James and Charles I. They seem as if
they purposely wished to justify the assertion of the Puritans,
that theatres were so many schools of seduction and chapels
of the Devil.
To those who merely read for amusement and general cul-
tivation, we cam only recommend the works of Beaumont and
Fletcher with some limitation*. For the practical artist,
however, and the critical judge of dramatic poetry, an infinite
deal may be learned from them; as well from their merits as
their extravagancies. A minute dissection of one of their
works, for which we have not here the necessary space, would
* Hence I cannot approve of the undertaking, which has been recently
commenced, of translating them into German. They are not at all.
adapted for our great public, and whoever makes a particular study of dra-
matic poetry will have little difficulty in finding his way to the originals.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 471
serve to place this in the clearest light. With regard to
representation, these pieces had, in their day, this advantage,
that they did not require such great actors to fill the principal
characters as Shakspeare's plays did. In order to bring them
on the stage in our days, it would be necessary to re-cast most
of them; which might be done with some of them by omit-
ting, moderating, and purging various passages*.
The Two Woble Kinsmen is deserving of more particular
mention, as it is the joint production of Shakspeare and Flet-
cher. I see no ground for calling this in question; the piece,
it is true, did not make its appearance till after the death of
both; but what could be the motive with the editor or printer
for any deception, as Fletcher's name was at the time in as
great, at least, if not greater celebrity than Shakspeare's?
Were it the sole production of Fletcher, it would, undoubtedly,
have to be ranked as the best of his serious and heroic pieces.
However, it would be unfair to a writer of talent to take from
him a work simply because it seems too good for him. Might
not Fletcher, who in his thoughts and images not unfrequently
shows an affinity to Shakspeare, have for once had the good
fortune to approach closer to him than usual? It would still be
more dangerous to rest on the similarity of separate passages
to others in Shakspeare. This might rather arise from imita-
tion. I rely therefore entirely on the historical statement,
which, probably, originated in a tradition of the players.
There are connoisseurs, who, in the pictures of Raphael,
(which, as is well know, were not always wholly executed by
himself) take upon them to determine what parts were painted
by Francesco Penni, or Giulio Romano, or some other scholar.
I wish them success with the nicety of their discrimination;
they are at least secure from contradiction, as we have no cer-
tain information on the subject. I would only remind these
connoisseurs, that Giulio Romano was himself deceived by a
copy from Raphael of Andrea del Sarto's, and that, too, with re-
gard to a figure which he had himself assisted in painting. The
case in point is, however, a much more complicated problem in
criticism. The design of Raphael's figures was at least his
own, and the execution only was distributed in part amonghis
* So far as I know only one play has yet been brought on the German
theatre, namely, Rule a Wife and have a Wife, re-written by Schröder
under the title of Stille Wasser sind tief (Still Waters run deep) which,
when well acted, has always been uncommonly well received.
472 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
scholars. But to find out how much of The Two Woble Kinsmen
may belong to Shakspeare, we must not only be able to tell
the difference of hands in the execution, but also to determine
the influence of Shakspeare on the plan of the whole. When,
however, he once joined another poet in the production of a
work, he must also have accommodated himself, in a certain
degree, to his views, and renounced the prerogative of unfold-
ing his inmost peculiarity. Amidst so many grounds for
doubting, if I might be allowed to hazard an opinion, I should
say, that I think I can perceive the mind of Shakspeare in a
certain ideal purity, which distinguishes this piece from all
others of Fletcher's, and in the conscientious fidelity with
which the story adheres to that of Chaucer's Palamon and
Arcite. In the style Shakspeare's hand is at first discover-
able in a brevity and fulness of thought bordering on obscu-
rity; in the colour of the expression, almost all the poets of
that time bear a strong resemblance to each other. The first
acts are most carefully laboured; afterwards the piece is drawn
out to too great a length and in an epic manner; the dramatic
law of quickening the action towards the conclusion, is not
sufficiently observed. The part of the jailor's daughter, whose
insanity is artlessly conducted in pure monologues, is cer-
tainly not Shakspeare's; for, in that case, we must suppose
him to have had an intention of arrogantly imitating his own
Ophelia.
Moreover, it was then a very general custom for two or
even three poets to join together in the production of one play.
Besides the constant example of Beaumont and Fletcher, we
have many others. The consultations, respecting the plan,
were generally held at merry meetings in taverns. Upon one
of these occasions it happened that one in a poetical intoxica-
tion calling out, “I will undertake to kill the king!" was im-
mediately taken into custody as a traitor, till the misunder-
standing was cleared up. This mode of composing may
answer very well in the lighter species of the drama, which
require to be animated by social wit. With regard to thea-
trical effect, four eyes may, in general, see better than two,
and mutual objections may be of use in finding out the most
suitable means. But the highest poetical inspiration is much
more eremitical than communicative; for it always seeks to
express something which sets language at defiance, which,
therefore, can only be weakened and dissipated by detached
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 473
words, and can only be attained by the common impression of
the complete work, whose idea is hovering before it.
The Knight of the Burning Pestle, of Beaumont and Flet-
cher, is an incomparable work and singular in its kind. It
is a parody of the chivalry romances; the thought is bor-
rowed from Don Quixote, but the imitation is handled with
freedom, and so particularly applied to Spenser's Fairy Queen,
that it may pass for a second invention. But the peculiarly
ingenious novelty of the piece consists in the combination
of the irony of a chimerical abuse of poetry with another
irony exactly the contrary, of the incapacity to comprehend
any fable, and the dramatic form more particularly. A
grocer and his wife come as spectators to the theatre: they
are discontented with the piece which has just been announced;
they demand a play in honour of the corporation, and Ralph,
their apprentice, is to act a principal part in it. Their
humour is complied with; but still they are not satisfied,
make their remarks on every thing, and incessantly address
themselves to the players. Ben Jonson had already exhibited
imaginary spectators, but they were either benevolent ex-
pounders or awkward censurers of the poet's views: con-
sequently, they always conducted his, the poet's, own cause.
But the grocer and his wife represent a whole genus, namely,
those unpoetical spectators, who are destitute of a feeling for
art. The illusion with them becomes a passive error; the
subject represented has on them all the effect of reality,
they accordingly resign themselves to the impression of each
moment, and take part for or against the persons of the
drama. On the other hand, they show themselves insensible
to all genuine illusion, that is, of entering vividly into the
spirit of the fable: for them Ralph, however heroically and
chivalrously he may conduct himself, is always Ralph their
apprentice; and in the whim of the moment they take upon
them to demand scenes which are quite inconsistent with the
plan of the piece that has been commenced. In short, the
views and demands with which poets are often oppressed by
a prosaical public are very cleverly and amusingly personified
in these caricatures of spectators.
The Faithful Shepherdess, a pastoral, is highly extoiled b
some English critics, as it is without doubt finished wit
great care, in rhymed, and partly, in lyrica verses Fletcher
wished also to be classical for once, and did violence to his
474 MASSINGER–SHIRLEY.
natural talent. Perhaps he had the intention of surpassing
Shakspeare's Midsummer Wight's Dream, but the composition,
which he has ushered into the world is as heavy as that ot
the other was easy and aërial. The piece is overcharged
with mythology and rural painting, is untheatrical, and so far
from pourtraying the genuine ideality of a pastoral world, it
even contains the greatest vulgarities. We might rather call
it an immodest eulogy of chastity. I am willing to hope that
Fletcher was unacquainted with the Pastor Fido of Guarini,
for otherwise his failure would admit of less justification.
We are in want of space to speak in detail of the remain-
ing works of Beaumont and Fletcher, although they might be
made the subject of many instructive observations. On the
whole, we may say of these writers that they have built a
splendid palace, but merely in the suburbs of poetry, while
Shakspeare has his royal residence in the very centre point of
the capital.
The fame of Massinger has been lately revived by an
edition of his works. Some literary men wish to rank him
above Beaumont and Fletcher, as if he had approached more .
closely to the excellence of Shakspeare. I cannot see it. He
appears to me to bear the greatest resemblance to Beaumont
and Fletcher in the plan of the pieces, in the tone of manners,
and even in the language and negligences of versification.
I would not undertake to decide, from internal symptoms,
whether a play belonged to Massinger, or Beaumont and
Fletcher. This applies also to the other contemporaries; for
instance, to Shirley, of whose pieces two are stated to havo
crept into the works ascribed to the two last-named poets.
There was (as already said) at this time in England a school
of dramatic art, a school of which Shakspeare was the in-
visible and too often unacknowledged head; for Ben Jonson
remained almost without successors. It is a characteristic of
what is called manner in art to efface the features of personal
originality, and to make the productions of various artists
bear a resemblance to each other; and from manner no dra-
matic poet of this age, who succeeded Shakspeare, can be
pronounced altogether free. When, however, we compare
their works with those of the succeeding age, we perceive
between them something about the same relation as between
the paintings of the school of Michel Angelo and those of the
last half of the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth
THE PURITANS–THE STAGE CLOSED. 475
ceutery. Both are tainted with manner; but the manner of
tie former bears the trace of a sublime origin in the first
ages; in the latter, all is little, affected, empty, and super-
ficial. I repeat it: in a general history of the dramatic art,
the first period of the English theatre is the only one of im-
portance. The plays of the least known writers of that time,
(I venture to affirm this, though I am far from being ac-
quainted with all of them) are more instructive for theory,
and more remarkable, than the most celebrated of all the
succeeding times.
LECTURE XXVIII.
Closing of the Stage by the Puritans–Revival of the Stage under Charles-
the Second-Depravity of Taste and Morals–Dryden, Otway, and
others–Characterization of the Comic Poets from Wycherley and Con-
greve to the middle of the eighteenth century–Tragedies of the same
Period–Rowe–Addison's Cato–Later Pieces–Familiar Tragedy:
Lillo–Garrick–Latest state.
IN this condition nearly the theatre remained under the reign
of Charles I. down to the year 1647, when the invectives of
the Puritans (who had long murmured at the theatre, and at
last thundered loudly against it,) were changed into laws.
To act, or even to be a spectator of plays was prohibited under
a severe penalty. A civil war followed, and the extraordi-
nary circumstance here happened, that the players, (who, in
general, do not concern themselves much about forms of
government, and whose whole care is usually devoted to the
ºpeaceable entertainment of their follow-citizens,) compelled
by want, joined that political party the interests of which
were intimately connected with their own existence. Almost
all of them entered the army of the King, many perished for
the good cause, the survivors returned to London and con-
tinued to exercise their art in secret. Out of the ruins of all
the former companies of actors, one alone was formed, which
occasionally, though with very great caution, gaye repre-
sentations at the country seats of the great, in the vicinity of
London. For among the other singularities to which the
violence of those times gave rise, it was considered a proof of
attachment to the old constitution to be fond of plays, and
476 JHARLES II. REVIVES THE STAGE.
to reward and harbour those who acted them in private
houses.
Fortunately the Puritans did not so well understand the
importance of a censorship as the Governments of our day,
or the yet unprinted dramatic productions of the preceding
age could not have issued from the press, by which means many
of them would have been irrecoverably lost. These gloomy
fanatics were such enemies of all that was beautiful, that
they not only persecuted every liberal mental entertainment,
calculated in any manner to adorn life, and more especially
the drama, as being a public worship of Baal, but they even
shut their ears to church music, as a demoniacal howling. If
their ascendency had been maintained much longer, England
must infallibly have been plunged in an irremediable bar-
barity. The oppression of the drama, continued down to
the year 1660, when the free exercise of all arts returned with
Charles II.
The influence which the government of this monarch had
on the manners and Spirit of the time, and the natural re-
action against the principles previously dominant, are suffi-
ciently well known. As the Puritans had brought republican
principles and religious zeal into universal odium, so this
light-minded monarch seemed expressly born to sport away
all respect for the kingly dignity. England was inundated
with foreign follies and vices in his train. The court set the
fashion of the most undisguised immorality, and its example
was the more contagious, the more people imagined that
they could only show their zeal for the new order of things by
an extravagant way of thinking and living. The fanaticism
of the republicans had been associated with strictness of
manners, nothing therefore could be more easy and agreeable
than to obtain the character of royalists, by the extravagant
indulgence of all lawful and unlawful pleasures. Nowhere
was the age of Louis XIV. imitated with greater depravity.
But the prevailing gallantry of the court of France had
its reserve and a certain delicacy of feeling; they sinned (if I
may so speak) with some degree of dignity, and no man
ventured to attack what was honourable, however at variance
with it his own actions might be. The English played a
part which was altogether unnatural to them: they gave
themselves up heavily to levity; they everywhere confounded
the coarsest licentiousness with free mental vivacity, and did
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT–DRYDEN. 477
not perceive that the kind of grace which is still compatible
with depravity, disappears with the last veil which it throws
off.
We can easily conceive the turn which, under such aus-
pices, the new formation of taste must have taken. There
existed no real knowledge of the fine arts, which were favoured
merely like other foreign fashions and inventions of luxury.
The age neither felt a true want of poetry, nor had any
relish for it: in it they merely wished for a light and brilliant
entertainment. The theatre, which in its former simplicity
had attracted the spectators solely by the excellence of the
dramatic works and the skill of the actors, was now furnished
out with all the appliances with which we are at this day fa-
miliar; but what it gained in external decoration, it lost in
internal worth.
To Sir William Davenant, the English theatre, on its re-
vival after the interruption which we have so often mentioned,
owes its new institution, if this term may be here used. He
introduced the Italian System of decoration, the costume, as it
was then well or ill understood, the Opera music, and in
general the use of the orchestra. For this undertaking
Charles II. had furnished him with extensive privileges.
Davenant was a sort of adventurer and wit; in every way
worthy of the royal favour; to enjoy which, dignity of
character was never a necessary requisite. He set himself
to work in every way that a rich theatrical repertory may
render necessary; he made alterations of old pieces, and also
wrote himself plays, operas, prologues, &c. But of all his
writings nothing has escaped a merited oblivion.
Dryden soon became and long remained the hero of the stage.
This man, from his influence in fixing the laws of versification
and poetical language, especially in rhyme, has acquired a
reputation altogether disproportionate to his true merit. We
shall not here inquire whether his translations of the Latin
poets are not manneristical paraphrases, whether his political
allegories (now that party interest is dead) can be read without
the greatest weariness; but confine ourselves to his plays,
which considered relatively to his great reputation, are incre-
dibly bad. Dryden had a gift of flowing and easy versifica-
tion; the knowledge which he possessed was considerable, but
undigested; and all this was coupled with the talent of giving
a certain appearance of novelty to what however was borrowed
478 DRY DEN–-HEROIC DRAMA.
from all quarters; his serviceable Inuse was the resource of
an irregular life. He had besides an immeasurable vanity;
he frequently disguises it under humble prologues; on other
occasions he speaks out boldly and confidently, avowing his
opinion that he has done better than Shakspeare, Fletcher,
and Jonson (whom he places nearly on the same level); all
the merit of this he is, however, willing to ascribe to the
refinement and advances of the age. The age indeed! as if
that of Elizabeth compared with the one in which Dryden
lived, were not in every respect “ Hyperion to a Satyr!”
Dryden played also the part of the critic: he furnished his
pieces richly with prefaces and treatises on dramatic poetry,
in which he chatters most confusedly about the genius of Shak-
speare and Fletcher, and about the entirely opposite example
of Corneille; of the original boldness of the British stage,
and of the rules of Aristotle and Horace.–He imagined that
he had invented a new species, namely the Heroic Drama; as
if Tragedy had not from its very nature been always heroical!
If we are, however, to seek for a heroic drama, which is not
peculiarly tragic, we shall find it among the Spaniards, who
had long possessed it in the greatest perfection. From the
uncommon facility of rhyming which Dryden possessed, it
cost him little labour to compose the most of his serious
pieces entirely in rhyme. With the English, the rhymed
verse of ten syllables supplies the place of the Alexandrine;
it has more freedom in its pauses, but on the other hand
it wants the alternation of male and female rhymes; it pro-
ceeds in pairs exactly like the French Alexandrine, and in
point of syllabic measure it is still more uniformly symme-
trical. It therefore unavoidably communicates a great stiffness
to the dialogue. The manner of the older English poets
before them, who generally used blank verse, and only occa-
sionally introduced rhymes, was infinitely preferable. But,
since then, on the other hand, rhyme has come to be too
exclusively rejected.
Dryden's plans are improbable, even to silliness; the inci-
dents are all thrown out without forethought; the most won-
derful theatrical strokes fall incessantly from the clouds. He
cannot be said to have drawn a single character; for there is
not a spark of nature in his dramatic personages. Passions,
criminal and magnanimous sentiments, flow with indifferent
levity from their lips, without ever having dwelt in the heart:
OTWAY–LEE–WYCEIER LEY–CONGREVE 479
their chief delight is in heroical boasting. The tone of
expression is by turns flat or madly bombastical; not unfre-
quently both at the same time: in short, this poet resembles a
man who walks upon stilts in a morass. His wit is displayed
in far-fetched sophistries; his imagination in long-spun
similies, awkwardly introduced. All these faults have been
ridiculed by the Duke of Buckingham in his comedy of The
Rehearsal. Dryden was meant under the name of Bayes,
though some features are taken from Davenant and other con-
temporary writers. The vehicle of this critical satire might
have been more artificial and diversified; the matter, however
is admirable, and the separate parodies are very amusing and
ingenious. The taste for this depraved manner was, however,
too prevalent to be restrained by the efforts of so witty a
critic, who was at the same time a grandee of the kingdom.
Otway and Lee were younger competitors of Dryden in
tragedy. Otway lived in poverty, and died young; under
more favourable circumstances greater things perhaps would
have been done by him. His first pieces in rhyme are imita-
tations of Dryden's manner; he also imitated the Berenice of
Racine. Two of his pieces in blank verse have kept posses-
sion of the stage–The Orphan and Venice Preserved. These
tragedies are far from being good; but there is matter in
them, especially in the last; and amidst much empty declama-
tion there are some truly pathetic passages. How little
Otway understood the true rules of composition may be in-
ferred from this, that he has taken the half of the scenes of
his Caius Marius verbally, or with disfiguring changes, from
the Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare. Nothing more incon-
gruous can well be conceived, than such an episode in Roman
manners, and in a historical drama. This impudent plagiarism
is in no manner justified by his confessing it.
Dryden altered pieces of Shakspeare; for then, and even
long afterwards, every person thought himself qualified for
this task. He also wrote comedies; but Wycherley and
Congreve were the first to acquire a name in this species of
composition. The mixed romantic drama, was now laid
entirely aside; all was either tragedy or comedy. The history
of each of these species will therefore admit of being separately
handled–if, indeed, that can be correctly said to have a history
where we can perceive no progressive development, but mere
standing still, or even retrograding, and an inconstant fluc-
480 THE ENGLISEI COMIC WRITERS-
tuation in all directions. However, the English, under
Charles II. and Queen Anne, and down to the middle of the
eighteenth century, had a series of comic writers, who may
be all considered as belonging to one common class; for the
only considerable diversity among them arises merely from
an external circumstance, the varying tone of manners.
I have elsewhere in these Lectures shown that elegance of
form is of the greatest importance in Comedy, as from the
want of care in this respect it is apt to degenerate into a mere
prosaical imitation of reality, and thereby to forfeit its pre-
tensions to rank as either poetry or art. It is exactly, how-
ever, in the form, that the English comedies are most negli-
gent. In the first place, they are written entirely in prose.
It has been well remarked by an English critic, that the
banishment of verse from Comedy had even a prejudicial
influence on versification in Tragedy. The older dramatists
could elevate or lower the tone of their Iambics at pleasure;
from the exclusion of this verse from familiar dialogue, it has
become more pompous and inflexible. Shakspeare's comic
scenes, it is true, are also written, for the most part, in prose;
but in the Mixed Comedy, which has a serious, wonderful, or
pathetic side, the prose, mixed with the elevated language of
7erse, serves to mark the contrast between vulgar and ideal
sentiments; it is a positive means of exhibition. Continued
prose in Comedy is nothing but the natural language, on
which the poet has failed to employ his skill to refine and
smoothe it down, while apparently he seems the more carefui
to give an accurate imitation of it: it is that prose which
Molières Bourgeois Gentilhomme has been speaking his whole
lifetime without suspecting it.
Moreover, the English comic poets tie themselves down too
little to the unity of place. I have on various occasions
declared that I consider change of scene even a requisite,
whenever a drama, is to possess historical extent or the magic
of romance. But in the comedy of common life the case is
somewhat altogether different. I am convinced that it would
almost always have had a beneficial influence on the conduct
of the action in the English plays, if their authors had, in this
respect, subjected themselves to stricter laws.
The lively trickery of the Italian masks has always found
a more unfavourable reception in England than in France.
The fool or clown in Shakspeare's comedies is far more of an
THE ENGLISH COMIC WRITERS. 48
ironical humorist than a mimical buffoon. Intrigue in real life
1s foreign to the Northern nations, both fom the virtues and
the defects of their character; they have too much openness
of disposition, and too little acuteness and nicety of understand-
ing. It is remarkable that, with greater violence of passion,
the Southern nations possess, nevertheless, in a much higher
degree the talent of dissembling. In the North, life is wholly
founded on mutual confidence. Hence, in the drama, the
spectators, from being less practised in intrigue, are less
inclined to be delighted with concealment of views and their
success by bold artifice, and with the presence of mind which,
in unexpected events of an untoward nature, readily extricates
its possessor from embarrassment. However, there may be
an intrigue in Comedy, in the dramatic sense, though none of
the persons carry on what is properly called intrigue. Still
it is in the entangling and disentangling their plots that the
English comic writers are least deserving of praise. Their
plans are defective in unity. From this reproach I have, I
conceive, sufficiently exculpated Shakspeare; it is rather
merited by many of Fletcher's pieces. When, indeed, the
imagination has a share in the composition, then it is far from
being as necessary that all should be accurately connected
together by cause and effect, as when the whole is framed and
held together exclusively by the understanding. The exist-
ence of a double or even triple intrigue in many modern
English comedies has been acknowledged even by English
eritics themselves*. The inventions to which they have
recourse are often everything but probable, without charming
us by their happy novelty; they are chiefly deficient, how-
ever, in perspicuity and easy development. Most English
comedies are much too long. The authors overload their
composition with characters: and we can see no reason why
they should not have divided them into several pieces. It is
as if we were to compel to travel in the same stage-coach
a greater number of persons, all strangers to each other.
than there is properly room for; the journey becomes more
inconvenient, and the entertainment not a whit more lively
* Among others, by the anonymous author of a clever letter to Garrick,
prefixed to Coxeter's edition of Massinger's Works, who says–“ What with
their plots, and double plots, and counter-plots, and under-plots, the
mind is as much perplexed to piece out the story as to put together the
disjointed parts of an ancient drama.”
2H
482 THE ENGLISH COMIC WRITERS.
The great merit of the English comic poets of this perio«.
consists in the delineation of character; yet though many have
certainly shown much talent, I cannot ascribe to any a pecu-
liar genius for characterization. Even in this department the
older poets (not only Shakspeare, for that may easily be sup-
posed, but even Fletcher and Jonson) are superior to them.
The moderns seldom possess the faculty of seizing the most
hidden and involuntary emotions, and giving a comic expres-
sion to them; they generally draw merely the natural or
assumed surface of men. Moreover, the same circumstance
which in France, after Molière's time, was attended with such
prejudicial effects, came here also into play. The comic muse,
instead of becoming familiar with life in the middle and lower
ranks (her proper sphere), assumed an air of distinction: she
squeezed herself into courts, and endeavoured to snatch a
resemblance of the beau monde. It was now no longer an
English national, but a London comedy. The whole turns
almost exclusively on fashionable love-suits and fashionable
raillery; the love-affairs are either disgusting or insipid, and
the raillery is always puerile and destitute of wit. These
comic writers may have accurately hit the tone of their time;
in this they did their duty; but they have reared a lamentable
memorial of their age. In few periods has taste in the fine
arts been at such a low ebb as about the close of the seven-
teenth and during the first half of the eighteenth century.
The political machine kept its course; wars, negotiations, and
changes of states, give to this age a certain historical splendour;
but the comic poets and portrait-painters have revealed to us
the secret of its pitifulness–the former in their copies of the
dresses, and the latter in the imitation of the social tone. I
am convinced that if we could now listen to the conversation
of the beau monde of that day, it would appear to us as
pettily affected and full of tasteless pretension, as the hoops,
the towering head-dresses and high-heeled shoes of the women,
and the huge perukes, cravats, wide sleeves, and ribbon-knots
of the men*.
* When I make good or bad taste in dress an infallible criterion of
social elegance or deformity, this must be limited to the age in which the
fashion came up; for it may sometimes be very difficult to overturn a
wretched fashion even when, in other things, a better taste has long pre-
vailed. The dresses of the ancients were more simple, and consequently
less Subject to change of fashion; and the male dress, in particular, was
FARQUHAR–-VANBRUGH-STEELE–CONGREVE. 483
The last, and not the least defect of the English comedies
is their offensiveness. I may sum up the whole in one wora
by saying, that after all we know of the licentiousness of
manners under Charles II., we are still Host in astonishment
at the audacious ribaldry of Wycherley and Congreve.
Decency is not merely violated in the grossest manner in
single speeches, and frequently in the whole plot; but in the
character of the rake, the fashionable debauchee, a moral
scepticism is directly preached up, and marriage is the con-
stant subject of their ridicule. Beaumont and Fletcher por-
trayed an irregular but vigorous nature: nothing, however,
can be more repulsive than rude depravity coupled with
claims to higher refinement. Under Queen Anne manners
became again more decorous; and this may easily be traced
in the comedies: in the series of English comic poets,
Wycherley, Congreve, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Steele, Cibber,
&c., we may perceive something like a gradation from the
most unblushing indecency to a tolerable degree of modesty.
However, the example of the predecessors has had more than
a due influence on the successors. From prescriptive fame
pieces keep possession of the stage such as no man in the pre-
sent day durst venture to bring out. It is a remarkable
phenomenon, the causes of which are deserving of inquiry,
that the English nation, in the last half of the eighteenth
century, passed all at once from the most opposite way of
thinking, to an almost over-scrupulous strictness of manners
in social conversation, in romances and plays, and in the
plastic arts.
Some writers have said of Congreve that he had too much
wit for a comic poet. These people must have rather a.
strange notion of wit. The truth is, that Congreve and the
other writers above mentioned possess in general much less
comic than epigrammatic wit. The latter often degenerates
into a laborious straining for wit. Steele's dialogue, for ex-
almost unchangeable. However, even from the dresses alone, as we see
them in the remains of antiquity, we may form a pretty accurate judgment
of the character of the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Romans. In the
female portrait-busts of the time of the later Roman emperors, we often
find the head-dresses extremely tasteless; nay, even busts with peruques
which may be taken off, probably for the purpose of changing them, as the
originals themselves did.
2 H 2
484 COLMAN–ROWE.
ample, puts us too much in mind of the letters in the Spectator.
Farquhar's plots seem to me to be the most ingenious of all.
The latest period of English Comedy begins nearly with
Colman. Since that time the morals have been irreproach-
able, and much has been done in the way of refined and
original characterization; the form, however, has on the whole
remained the same, and in that respect I do not think the
English comedies at all models.
Tragedy has been often attempted in England in the eigh-
teenth century, but a genius of the first rank has never made
his appearance. They laid aside the manner of Dryden, how-
ever, and that at least was an improvement. Rowe was an
honest admirer of Shakspeare, and his modest reverence for
this superior genius was rewarded by a return to nature and
truth. The traces of imitation are not to be mistaken: the
art of Gloster in Jane Shore is even directly borrowed from
Richard the Third Rowe did not possessboldness and vigour,
but was not without sweetness and feeling; he could excite
the softer emotions, and hence in his Fair Penitent, Jane
Shore, and Lady Jane Gray, he has successfully chosen female
heroines and their weaknesses for his subjects. -
Addison possessed an elegant mind, but he was by no means
a poet. He undertook to purify the English Tragedy, by
bringing it into a compliance with the supposed rules of good
taste. We might have expected from a judge of the ancients,
that he would have endeavoured to approach the Greek models.
Whether he had any such intention I know not, but certain
it is that he has produced nothing but a tragedy after the
French model. Cato is a feeble and frigid piece, almost
destitute of action, without one truly overpowering moment.
Addison has so narrowed a great and heroic picture by his
timid manner of treating it, that he could not, without foreign
intermixture, even fill up the frame. Hence, he had recourse
to the traditional love intrigues; if we count well, we shall
find in this piece no fewer than six persons in love: Cato's
two sons, Marcia and Lucia, Juba and Sempronius. The
good Cato cannot, therefore, as a provident father of a family,
avoid arranging two marriages at the close. With the excep-
tion of Sempronius, the villain of the piece, the lovers are one
and all somewhat silly. Cato, who ought to be the soul of
the whole, is hardly ever shown to us in action; nothing
remains for him but to admire himself and to die. It might
ADDISON-HIS CATO. 485
be thought that the stoical determination of suicide, without
struggle and without passion, is not a fortunate subject; but
correctly speaking, no subjects are unfortunate, everything
depends on correctly apprehending them. Addison has been
induced, by a wretched regard to Unity of Place, to leave out
Caesar, the only worthy contrast to Cato; and, in this respect
even Metastasio has managed matters better. The language
is pure and simple, but without vigour; the rhymeless Iambic
gives more freedom to the dialogue, and an air somewhat less
conventional than it has in the French tragedies; but in vigor-
ous eloquence, Cato remains far behind them.
Addison took his measures well; he placed all the great
and small critics, with Pope at their head, the whole militia
of good taste under arms, that he might excite a high expec-
tation of the piece which he had produced with so much
labour. Cato was universally praised, as a work without an
equal. And on what foundation do these boundless praises
rest? On regularity of form? This had been already ob-
served by the French poets for nearly a century, and not-
withstanding its constraints they had often attained a much
stronger pathetic effect. Or on the political sentiments? But
in a single dialogue between Brutus and Cassius in Shakspeare
there is more of a Roman way of thinking and republicar
energy than in all Cato.
I doubt whether this piece could ever have produced a
powerful impression, but its reputation has certainly had a
prejudicial influence on Tragedy in England. The example
of Cato, and the translation of French tragedies, which be-
came every day more frequent, could not, it is true, render
universal the belief in the infallibility of the rules; but they
were held in sufficient consideration to disturb the conscience
of the dramatic poets, who consequently were extremely timid
in availing themselves of the prerogatives they inherited from
Shakspeare. On the other hand, these prerogatives were at
the same time problems; it requires no ordinary degree of
skill to arrange, with simplicity and perspicuity, such great
masses as Shakspeare uses to bring together: more of draw-
ing and perspective are required for an extensive fresco paint-
ing, than for a small oil picture. In renouncing the inter-
mixture of comic scenes when they no longer understood their
ironical aim, they did perfectly right: Southern still attempted
them in his Oroónoko, but in his hands they exhibit a wretched
486 LILLO-GEORGE BARNWELL.
appearance. With the general knowledge and admiration of
the ancients which existed in England, we might have looked
for some attempt at a true imitation of the Greek Tragedy; no
such imitation has, however, made its appearance; in the
choice and handling of their materials they show an un-
doubted affinity to the French. Some poets of celebrity in
other departments of poetry, Young, Thomson, Glover, have
written tragedies, but no one of them has displayed any true
tragical talent.
They have now and then had recourse to familiar tragedy to
assist the barrenness of imagination; but the moral aim, which
must exclusively prevail in this species, is a true extinguisher
of genuine poetical inspiration. They have, therefore, been
satisfied with a few attempts. The Merchant of London, and
The Gamester, are the only plays in this way which have
attained any great reputation. George Barnwell is remark-
able from having been praised by Diderot and Lessing, as a
model for imitation. This error could only have escaped
from Lessing in the keenness of his hostility to the French
conventional tone. For in truth it is necessary to keep Lillos
honest views constantly in mind, to prevent us from finding
George Barnwell as laughable as it is certainly trivial. Who-
ever possesses so little, or rather, no knowledge of men and of
the world, ought not to set up for a public lecturer on morals.
We might draw a very different conclusion from this piece,
from that which the author had in view, namely, that to pre-
vent young people from entertaining a violent passion, and
being led at last to steal and murder, for the first wretch who
spreads her snares for them, (which they of course cannot pos-
sibly avoid,) we ought, at an early period, to make them
acquainted with the true character of courtezans. Besides, I
cannot approve of not making the gallows visible before the
last scene; such a piece ought always to be acted with a place
of execution in the background. With respect to the edifi-
cation to be drawn from a drama of this kind, I should prefer
the histories of malefactors, which in England are usually
printed at executions; they contain, at least, real facts, instead
of awkward fictions.
Garrick's appearance forms an epoch in the history of the
English theatre, as he chiefly dedicated his talents to the
great characters of Shakspeare, and built his own fame on the
growing admiration for this poet Before his time, Shakspeare
GARRICK=-HIS HISTRIONIC TALENTS. 487
had only been brought on the stage in mutilated and disfigured
alterations. Garrick returned on the whole to the true ori-
ginals, though he still allowed himself to make some very
unfortunate changes. It appears to me that the only excu-
sable alteration of Shakspeare is, to leave out a few thingsnot
in conformity to the taste of the time. Garrick was undoubt-
edly a great actor. Whether he always conceived the parts
of Shakspeare in the sense of the poet, I, from the very cir-
cumstances stated in the eulogies on his acting, should be
inclined to doubt. He excited, however, a noble emulation to
represent worthily the great national poet; this has ever since
been the highest aim of actors, and even at present the stage
can boast of men whose histrionic talents are deservedly
famous.
But why has this revival of the admiration of Shakspeare
remained unproductive for dramatic poetry? Because he has
been too much the subject of astonishment, as an unapproach-
able genius who owed everything to nature and nothing to
art. His success, it is thought, is without example, and can
never be repeated; nay, it is even forbidden to venture into the
same region. Had he been considered more from an artistic
point of view, it would have jed to an endeavour to understand
the principles which he followed in his practice, and an attempt
to master them. A meteor appears, disappears, and leaves no
trace behind; the course of a heavenly body, however, ought
to be delineated by the astronomer, for the sake of investigat-
ing more accurately the laws of general mechanics.
I am not sufficiently acquainted with the latest dramatic
productions of the English, to enter into a minute account of
them. That the dramatic art and the public taste are, how-
ever, in a wretched state of decline, may, I think, be safely
inferred from the following circumstance. Some years ago,
several German plays found their way to the English stage;
plays, which, it is true, are with us the favourites of the mul-
titude, but which are not considered by the intelligent as
forming a part of our literature, and in which distinguished
actors are almost ashamed of earning applause. These pieces
have met with extraordinary favour in England; they have,
properly speaking, as the Italians say, fatto furore, though
indeed the critics did not fail to declaim against their immo-
rality, veiled over by sentimental hypocrisy. From th-
poverty of our dramatic literature, the admission of such abo!
488 THE SPANISII DRAMA.
tions into Germany may be easily comprehended; but what
can be alleged in favour of this depravity of taste in a nation
like the English, which possesses such treasures, and which
must therefore descend from such an elevation ? Certain
writers are nothing in themselves; they are merely symptoms
of the disease of their age; and were we to judge from them,
there is but too much reason to fear that, in England, an effe-
minate sentimentality in private life is more frequent, than
from the astonishing political greatness and energy of the
nation we should be led to suppose.
May the romantic drama and the grand historical drama,
those truly native species, be again speedily revived, and
may Shakspeare findsuch worthy imitators as some of those
whom Germany has to produce!
- - -
LECTURE XXIX.
Spanish Theatre-Its three Periods: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon-
Spirit of the Spanish Poetry in general–Influence of the National
History on it–Form, and various species of the Spanish Drama–
Decline since the beginning of the eighteenth century.
THE riches of the Spanish stage have become proverbial, and
it has been more or less the custom of the Italian, French, and
English dramatisis, to draw from this source, and generally
without acknowledgment. I have often, in the preceding
Lectures, had occasion to notice this fact; it was incompa-
tible, however, with my purpose, to give an enumeration of all
that has been so borrowed, for it would have assumed rather a
bulky appearance, and without great labour it could not have
been rendered complete. What has been taken from the
most celebrated Spanish poets might be easily pointed out;
but the writers of the second and third rank have been equally
laid under contribution, and their works are not easily met
with out of Spain. Ingenious boldness, joined to easy clear-
ness of intrigue, is so exclusively peculiar to the Spanish
dramatists, that whenever I find these in a work, I consider
myself justified in suspecting a Spanish origin, even though
the circumstance may have been unknown to the author him-
self, who drew his plagiarism from a nearer source.*
* Thus for example, The Servant of two Masters, of Goldoni, a piece
SPANISH DRAMA –DE LA HUERTA. 48S;
From the political preponderance of Spain in the sixteenth
century, a knowledge of its language became widely diffused
throughout Europe. Even in the first half of the seventeenth
century, many traces are to be found of an acquaintance with
Spanish literature in France, Italy, England, and Germany;
since that time, however, the study of it had everywhere
fallen into neglect, till of late some zeal for it has been again
excited in Germany. In France they have no other idea
of the Spanish theatre, than what can be formed from the
translations of Linguet. These again have been rendered into
German, and their number has been increased by others,
in no respect better, derived immediately from the originals.
The translators have, however, confined themselves almost
exclusively to the department of comedies of intrigue, and
though all the Spanish plays with the exception of a few En-
tremeses, Saynetes, and those of a very late period, are versified,
they have turned the whole into prose, and even considered
themselves entitled to praise for having carefully removed
everything like poetical ornament. After such a mode of
proceeding nothing but the material scaffolding of the original
could remain; the beautiful colouring must have disappeared
together with the form of execution. That translators who
could show such a total wait of judgment as to poetical ex-
cellences would not choose the best pieces of the store, maybe
easily supposed. The species in question, though in the in-
vention of innumerable intrigues, of such a kind as the thea-
trical literature of all other countries can produce but few
examples of it, it certainly shows astonishing acuteness, is,
nevertheless, by no means the most valuable part of the
Spanish theatre, which displays a much greater brilliancy in
the handling of wonderful, mythological, or historical subjects.
The selection published by De la Huerta in sixteen small
volumes, under the title of Teatro Hespañol, with introduc-
tionsgiving an account of the authors of the pieces and the
different species, will not afford, even to one conversant with
the language, a very extensive acquaintance with the Spanisb
theatre. His collection is limited almost exclusively to the
department of comedies in modern manners, and he has not
highly distinguished above his others for the most amusing intrigue,
passes for an original. A learned Spaniard has assured me, that he knows
it to be a Spanish invention. Perhaps Goldoni had bere merely an older
Italian imitation before him.
490 SPANISH DRAMA –CERVANTES.
admitted into it any of the pieces of an earlier period, com-
posed by Lope de Vega, or his predecessors. Blankenburg
and Bouterwek* among ourselves have laboured to throw
light on the earlier history of the Spanish theatre, before it
acquired its proper shape and attained literary dignity,–a
subject involved in much obscurity. But even at an after
period, an immense number of works were written for the
stage which never appeared in print, and which are either now
lost or only exist in manuscript; while, on the other hand,
there is hardly an instance of a piece being printed without
having first been brought on the stage. A correct and com-
plete history of the Spanish theatre, therefore, can only be
executed in Spain. The notices of the German writers above-
mentioned, are however of use, though not free from errors;
their opinions of the poetical merit of the several pieces, and
the general view which they have taken, appear to me exceed-
ingly objectionable.
The first advances of Dramatic Art in Spain were made in
the last half of the sixteenth century; and with the end of
the seventeenth it ceased to flourish. In the eighteenth,
after the War of the Succession, (which seems to have had a
very prejudicial influence on the Spanish literature in gene-
ral,) very little can be mentioned which does not display
extravagance, decay, the retention of old observances without
meaning, or a tame imitation of foreign productions. The
Spanish literari of the last generation frequently boast of
their old national poets, the people entertain a strong attach-
ment to them, and in Mexico, as well as Madrid, their pieces
are always represented with impassioned applause.
The various epochs in the formation of the Spanish theatre
may be designated by the names of three of its most famous
authors, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, and Calderon.
The earliest and most valuable information and opinions
on this subject are to be found in the writings of Cervantes;
chiefy in Don Quixote (in the dialogue with the Canon), in
the Preface to his later plays, and in the Journey to Parnassus.
He has also in various other places thrown out occasional
remarks on the subject. He had witnessed in his youth the
commencement of the dramatic art in Spain; the poetical
poverty of which, as well as the meagreness of the theatrica?
decorations, are very humorously described by him. He was
* The former, in his annotations on Sulzers Theorie der schönen
Künste the latter in his Geschichte der Spanischen Poesie.
SPANISH DRAMA-LOPE DE VEGA. 49
justified in looking upon himself as one of the founders of
this art; for before he gained immortal fame by his Don
Quixote he had diligently laboured for the stage, and from
twenty to thirty pieces (so negligently does he speak of them)
from his pen had been acted with applause. On this ac-
count, however, he made no very high claims, nor after they
had fulfilled their momentary destination did he allow any of
them to be printed; and it was only lately that two of these
earlier labours were for the first time published. One of
these plays, probably Cervantes' first, The Way of Living in
Algiers (El Trato de Arge), still bears traces of the infancy
of the art in the preponderance of narrative, in the general
meagreness, and in the want of prominency in the figures and
situations. The other, however, The Destruction of Wumantia,
has altogether the elevation of the tragical cothurnus; and,
from its unconscious and unlaboured approximation to an-
tique grandeur and purity, forms a remarkable phenomenon
in the history of modern poetry. The idea of destiny pre-
vails in it throughout; the allegorical figures which enter
between the acts supply nearly, though in a different way,
the place of the chorus in the Greek tragedies; they guide the
reflection and propitiate the feeling. A great deed of heroism
is accomplished; the extremity of suffering is endured with
constancy; but it is the deed and the suffering of a whole
nation whose individual members, it may almost be said,
appear but as examples of the general fortitude and magna-
Ilimity, while the Roman heroes seem merely the instruments
of fate. There is, if I may so speak, a sort of Spartan
pathos in this piece: every single and personal consideration
is swallowed up in the feeling of patriotism; and by allusions
to the warlike fame of his nation in modern times, the poet
has contrived to connect the ancient history with the interests
of his own day.
Lope de Vega appeared, and soon became the sole monarch
of the stage; Cervantes was unable to compete with him; yet
he was unwilling altogether to abandon a claim founded on
earlier success; and shortly before his death, in the year 1615,
he printed eight plays and an equal number of smaller in-
terludes, as he had failed in his attempts to get them brought
on the stage. They have generally been considered greatly
inferior to his other prose and poetical works; their modern
editor is even of opinion that they were meant as parodies
and satires on the vitiated taste of the time: but to find this
4 92 SPANISH DRAMA–LOPE DE VEGA.
hypothesis ridiculous, we have only to read them without
any such prepossession. Had Cervantes entertained such a
design, he would certainly have accomplished it in a very
different way in one piece, and also in a manner both highly
amusing and not liable to misconception. No, they were
intended as pieces in the manner of Lope: contrary to his
own convictions, Cervantes has here endeavoured, by a dis-
play of greater variety, of wonderful plots, and theatrical
effect to comply with the taste of his contemporaries. It
would appear from them that he considered a superficial com-
position as the main requisite for applause; his own, at least,
is for the most part, extremely loose and ill-connected, and
we have no examples in his prose works of a similar degree
of negligence. Hence, as he partly renounced his peculiar
excellences, we need not be astonished that he did not suc-
ceed in surpassing Lope in his own walk. Two, however, of
these pieces, The Christian Slaves in Algiers (Los Baños de
Argel), an alteration of the piece before-mentioned, and The
Labyrinth of Love, are, in their whole plot, deserving of great
praise, while all of them contain so many beautiful and inge-
nious traits, that when we consider them by themselves, and
without comparing them with the Destruction of Numantia,
we feel disposed to look on the opinion entertained pretty
generally by the Spanish critics as a mere prejudice. But on
the other hand, when we compare them with Lope's pieces,
or bear in mind the higher excellences to which Calderon had
accustomed the public, this opinion will appear to admit of
conditional justification. We may, on the whole, allow that
the mind of this poetwas most inclined to the epic, (taking
the word in its more extensive signification, for the narrative
form of composition); and that the light and gentlemanner
in which he delights to move the mind is not well suited to
the making the most of every moment, and to the rapid com-
pression which are required on the theatre. But when we,
on the other hand, view the energetical pathos in The De-
struction of Wumantia, we are constrained almost to consider
it as merely accidental that Cervantes did not devote himself
wholly to this species of writing, and find room in it for the
complete development of his inventive mind.
The sentence pronounced by Cervantes on the dramas of
his later contemporaries is one of the neglected voices which,
from time to time, in Spain have been raised, insisting on the
SPANISH DRAMA-LOPE DE VEGA, 493
imitation of the ancient classics, while the national taste had
decidedly declared in favour of the romantic drama, in its
boldest form. On this subject Cervantes, from causes which
we may easily comprehend, was not altogether impartial.
Lope de Vega had followed him as a dramatic writer, and
by his greater fertility and the effective brilliancy of
his pieces, had driven him from the stage; a circumstance
which ought certainly to be taken into account in explaining
the discontent of Cervantes in his advanced age with the
direction of the public taste and the constitution of the
theatre. It would appear, too, that in his poetical mind
there was a certain prosaical corner in which there still lurked
a disposition to reject the wonderful, and the bold play of
fancy, as contrary to probability and nature. On the autho-
rity of the ancients he recommended a stricter separation of
the several kinds of the drama; whereas the romantic art
endeavours, in its productions, as he himself had done in his
romances and novels, to blend all the elements of poetry;
and he censured with great severity, as real offences against
propriety, the rapid changes of time and place. It is remark-
able that Lope himself was unacquainted with his own rights,
and confessed that he wrote his pieces, contrary to the rules
with which he was well acquainted, merely for the sake of
pleasing the multitude. That this object entered prominently
into his consideration is certainly true; still he remains one
of the most extraordinary of all the popular and favourite
theatrical writers that ever lived, and well deserves to be
called in all seriousness by his rival and adversary, Cervantes,
a wonder of nature. -
The pieces of Lope de Vega, numerous beyond all belief,
have partly never been printed; while of those that have,
a complete collection is seldom to be found, except in Spain.
Many pieces are probably falsely ascribed to him; an abuse of
which Calderon also complains. I know not whether Lope him-
self ever gave a list of the pieces actually composed by him;
indeed he could hardly at last have remembered the whole of
them. However, by reading a few, we shall advance pretty
far towards an acquaintance with this poet; nor need we
be much afraid lest we should have failed to perüse the most
excellent, as in his separate productions he does not surprise
us by any elevated flight nor by laying open the whole
unfathomable depths of his mind. This prolific writer, at one
494 V. SPANISH DRAMA-CALDERON.
time too much idolized, at another too much depreciated,
appears here undoubtedly in the most advantageous light, as
the theatre was the best school for the correction of his three
great errors, want of connexion, diffuseness, and an unneces-
saryparade of learning. In some of his pieces, especially the
historical ones, founded on old romances or traditional tales,
for instance, King Wamba, The Youthful Tricks of Bernardo
del Carpio, The Battlements of Toro, &c., there prevails a cer-
tain rudeness of painting, which, however, is not altogether
without character, and seems to have been purposely chosen
to suit the subjects: in others, which portray the manners of
his own time, as for instance, The Lively Fair One of Tolédo,
The Fair deformed, we may observe a highly cultivated
social tone. All of them contain, besides truly interesting
situations, a number of inimitable jokes; and there are,
perhaps, very few of them which would not, if skilfully
treated and adapted to our stages, produce a great effect
in the present day. Their chief defects are, a profusion of
anjudicious invention, and negligence in the execution. They
resemble the groups which an ingenious sketcher scrawls
on paper without any preparation, and without even taking
the necessary time; in which, notwithstanding this hasty
negligence every line is full of life and significance. Besides
the want of careful finish, the works of Lope are deficient in
depth, and also in those more delicate allusions which consti-
tute the peculiar mysteries of the art.
If the Spanish theatre had not advanced farther, if it had pos-
sessed onlythe works of Lope and the more eminent of his con-
temporaries, as Guillen de Castro, Montalban, Molina, Matos-
Fragoso, &c., we should have to praise it, rather for grandeur
of design and for promising subjects than for matured per-
fection. But Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca now made his
appearance, a writer as prolific and diligent as Lope, and a
poet of a very different kind,–a poet if ever any man de-
served that name. The “ wonder of nature,” the enthusiastic
popularity, and the sovereignty of the stage were renewed in
a much higher degree. The years of Calderon* keep nearly
equal pace with those of the seventeeth century; he was con-
sequently sixteen when Cervantes, and thirty-five when Lope
died, whom he survived nearly half a century. According
to his biographer's account, Calderon wrote more than a hun-

* Born in 1601.
SPANISH DRAMA –CALDERON. 495
dred and twenty plays, more than a hundred spiritual allego-
rical acts (Autos), a hundred merry interludes or Saynetes*
besides a number of poems which were not dramatical. As
from his fourteenth to his eighty-first year, that in which he
died, he continued to produce dramatic works, they spread
over a great space, and we may therefore suppose that he did
not write with the same haste as Lope; he had sufficient
leisure to consider his plans maturely, which, without doubt,
he has done. In the execution, he could not fail from his
extensive practice to acquire great readiness.
In this almost incalculable exuberance of production, we
find nothing thrown out at random; all is finished in masterly
perfection, agreeably to established and consistent principles,
and with the most profound artistic views. This cannot
be denied even by those who would confound the pure and
high style of the romantic drama, with mannerism, and con-
sider these bold flights of poetry, on the extreme boundaries
of the conceivable, as aberrations in art. For Calderon has
everywhere converted that into matter what passed with his
predecessors for form;–nothing less than the noblest and most
exquisite excellence could satisfy him. And this is why
he repeats himself in many expressions, images, comparisons,
nay, even in many plays of situation; for he was too rich to
* This account is perhaps somewhat rhetorical. The most complete,
and in every respect the best edition of the plays, that of Apontes, contains
only a hundred and eight pieces. At the request of a great Lord, Cal-
deron, shortly before his death, gave a list of his genuine works. He
names a hundred and eleven plays; but among them there are consider-
ably more than three which are not to be found in the collection of
Apontes. Some of them may, indeed, be concealed under other titles, as,
for instance, the piece, which Calderon himself calls, El Tuzani de la
Alpujarra, is named in the collection, Amar despues de la Muerte.
Others are unquestionably omitted, for instance, a Don Quixote, which I
should be particularly desirous of seeing. We may infer from many
circumstances that Calderon had a great respect for Cervantes. The col-
lection of the Autos sacramentales contains only seventy-two, and of
these several are not mentioned by Calderon. And yet he lays the
greatest stress on these; wholly devoted to religion, he had become in his
age more indifferent towards the temporal plays of his muse, aiihough he
did not reject them, and still continued to add to the number. It might
well be with him as with an excessively wealthy man, who, in a general
computation, is apt to forget many of the items of his capital. I have
never yet been able to see any of the Saynetes of Calderon; I cannot even
find an account whether or not they have been ever collected and
printed.
–x--- ----- --------
496 SPANISH DRAMA-CALDERON.
be under the necessity of borrowing from himself, much less
from others. The effect on the stage is with Calderon tho
first and last thing; but this consideration, which is generally
felt by others as a restraint, is with him a positive end. T
know of no dramatist equally skilled in converting effect into
poetry, who is at once so sensibly vigorous and so ethereal.
His dramas divide themselves into four principal classes:
compositions on sacred subjects taken from scripture and
legends; historical; mythological, or founded upon other
fictitious materials; and finally, pictures of social life in
modern manners.
The pieces founded on the history of his own country are
historical only in the more limited acceptation. The earlier
periods of Spanish history have often been felt and portrayed
by Calderon with the greatest truth; but, in general, he had
too decided, I might almost say, too burning a predilection
for his own nation, to enter into the peculiarities of another;
at best he could have portrayed what verges towards the
sun, the South and the East; but classical antiquity, as well
as the North of Europe, were altogether foreign to his con-
ception. Materials of this description he has therefore taken
in a perfectly fanciful sense: generally the Greek mythology
became in his hands a deiightful tale, and the Roman history
a majestic hyperbole.
His Sacred compositions must, however, in some degree, be
ranked as historical; for although surrounded with rich
fiction, as is always the case in Calderon, they nevertheless
in general express the character of Biblical or legendary
story with great fidelity. They are distinguished, however,
from the other historical pieces by the frequent prominency
of a significant allegory, and by the religious enthusiasm with
which the poet, in the spiritual acts designed for the celebra-
tion of the festival of Corpus Christi, the Autos exhibits the
universe as it were, under an allegorical representation in the
purple flames of love. In this last class he was most admired
by his contemporaries, and here also he himself set the highest
value on his labours. But without having read, at least, one
of them in a truly poetical translation, my auditors could not
form the slightest idea of them ; while the due consideration
of these Autos would demand a difficult investigation into the
admissibility of allegory into dramatical composition. I shall
therefore confine myself to those of his dramas which are no
SPANISH DRAMA MOR.ETÖ–ROXAS–SOLIS. 497
allegorical. The characterization of these I shall be very far
from exhausting; I can merely exhibit a few of their more
general features.
Of the great multitude of ingenious and acute writers, who
were then tempted by the dazzling splendour of the theatrical
career to write for the stage, the greater part were mere
imitators of Calderon; a few only deserve to be named along
with him, as Don Agustin Moreto, Don Franzisco de Roxas,
Don Antonio de Solis, the acute and eloquent historian of the
conquest of Mexico, &c. The dramatic literature of the
Spaniards can even boast of a royal poet, Philip IV., the
great patron and admirer* of Calderon, to whom several
anonymous pieces, with the epigraph de un ingenio de esta
corte, are ascribed. All the writers of that day wrote in a
kindred spirit: they formed a true school of art. Many of
them have peculiar excellences, but Calderon in boldness,
fulness, and profundity, soars beyond them all; in him the
romantic drama of the Spaniards attained the summit of per-
fection.
We shall endeavour to give a feeble idea of the spirit and
form of these compositions, which differ so widely from every
other European production. For this purpose, however, we
must enter in some measure into the character of the Spanish
poetry in general, and those historical circumstances by which
it has been determined.
The beginnings of the Spanish poetry are extremely simple:
its two fundamental forms were the romaunt and the song,
and in these original national melodies we everywhere fancy
we hear the accompaniment of the guitar. The romaunt,
which is half Arabian in its origin, was at first a simple
heroic tale; afterwards it became a very artificial species,
adapted to various uses, but in which the picturesque ingre-
dient always predominated even to the most brilliant luxu-
riance of colouring. The song again, almost destitute of
* This monarch seems, in reality, to have had a relish for the peculiar
excellence of his favourite poet, whom he considered as the brightest
ornament of his court. He was so prepossessed in favour of the national
drama, that he forbade the introduction into Spain of the Italian opera,
which was then in general favour at the different European courts: an
example which deserves to be held up to the German Princes, who have
hitherto, from indifference towards everything national, and partiality for
everything foreign, done all in their power to discourage the German
poets.
2 I
498 SE ANISEI DRAMA POETICAL INSPIRATION.
imagery, expressed tender feelings in ingenious turns; it
extends its sportiveness to the very limits where the self-
meditation, which endeavours to transfuse an inexpressible
disposition of mind into thought, wings again the thought to
dreamlike intimations. The forms of the song were diversified
by the introduction into poetry of what in music is effected
by variation. The rich properties of the Spanish language
however could not fully develope themselves in these species of
poetry, which were rather tender and infantine than elevated.
Hence towards the beginning of the sixteenth century they
adapted the more comprehensive forms of Italian poetry,
Ottave Terzine, Canzoni, Sonetti; and the Castilian language,
the proudest daughter of the Latin, was then first enabled to
display her whole power in dignity, beautiful boldness, and
splendour of imagery. The Spanish with its guttural sounds,
and frequent termination with consonants, is less soft than
the Italian; but its tones are, if possible, more fuller and
deeper, and fill the ear with a pure metallic resonance. It
had not altogether lost the rough strength and heartiness of
the Gothic, when Oriental intermixtures gave it a wonderful
degree of sublimity, and elevated its poetry, intoxicated as it
were with aromatic fragrances, far above all the scrupulous
nmoderation of the sober West.
The stream of poetical inspiration, swelled by every proud
consciousness, increased with the growing fame in arms of
this once so free and heroic nation. The Spaniards played a
glorious part in the events of the middle ages, a part but too
much forgotten by the envious ingratitude of modern times.
They were then the forlorn out-posts of Europe; they lay on
their Pyrenean peninsula, as in a camp, exposed without
foreign assistance to the incessant eruptions of the Arabians,
but always ready for renewed conflicts. The founding of
their Christian kingdom, through centuries of conflicts, from
the time when the descendants of the Goths driven before
the Moors into the mountains of the North first left their
protecting shelter for the war of freedom and independence,
down to the complete expulson of the Arabian invaders, was
one long adventure of chivalry; nay, the preservation of
Christianity itself in the face of so powerful a foe seems the
wondrous work of more than mortal guidance. Accustomed
to fight at the same time for liberty and religion, the Spaniard
ekung to his faith with a fiery Zeal, as an acquisition purchased
sPANIsH DRAMA: SPIRIT OF CHIvALRY. 499
by the costly expenditure of noble blood. These consolations
of a holy worship were to him the rewards of heroic exertion;
in every church he saw as it were a trophy of his forefathers'
bravery. Ready to shed the last drop of his blood in the
cause of his God and his King; tenderly sensitive of his
honour; proud, yet humble in the presence of all that is
sacred and holy; serious, temperate, and modest was the old
Castilian: and yet forsooth some are found to scoff at a noble
and a loyal race because even at the plough they were lothe
to lay aside the beloved sword, the instrument of their high
vocation of patriotism and liberty.
This love of war, and spirit of enterprise, which so many
circumstances had thus served to keep alive among their sub-
jects, the monarchs of Spain made use of, at the close of the
fifteenth and throughout the sixteenth century, in an attempt
to obtain universal monarchy; and while the arms of the
Spaniard were thus employed to effect the subjugation of
other nations, he was himself deprived of his own political
freedom. The faithless and tyrannical policy of Philip II.
has unmeritedly drawn down on the whole nation the hatred
of foreigners. In Italy, Macchiavelism was not confined to
the Princes and Republican leaders; it was the universal
character; all ranks were infected with the same love of
artifice and fraud. But in Spain it must be laid to the
charge of the Government alone, and even the religious per-
secutions in that country seldom or never proceeded from the
outbreakings of a universal popular fury. The Spaniard never
presumed to question the conduct of his spiritual and worldly
superiors, and carried on their wars of aggression and ambi-
tion with the same fidelity and bravery which he had formerly
displayed in his own wars of self-defence and patriotism.
Personal glory, and a mistaken religious zeal, blinded him
with respect to the justice of his cause. Enterprises before un-
exampled, were eagerly undertaken, and successfully achieved;
a newly discovered world beyond the ocean was eonquered by
a handful of bold adventurers; individual instances of cruelty
and avaricemay have stained the splendour of resolute heroism,
but the mass of the nation was uninfected by its contagion.
Nowhere did the spirit of chivalry so long outlive its poli-
tical existence as in Spain. Long after the internal pro-
sperity, as well as the foreign influence of the nation, had
fatally declºsed under the ruinous errors of the Second Philip.
2 I 2
H00 SPANISEI DRAMA : POET-WARRIORS.
this spirit propagated itself even to the most flourishing period
of their literature, and plainly imprinted upon it an indelible
stamp. Here, in all their dazzling features, but associated
with far higher mental culture, the middle ages were, as it
were, renewed–those times when princes and nobles loved to
indite the lays of love and bravery, and when, with hearts
devoted equally to their lady-love and the Holy Sepulchre,
knights joyfully exposed themselves to the dangers and hard-
ships of pilgrimage to the Land of Promise, and when even a
lion-hearted king touched the lute to tender sounds of amorous
lamentation. The poets of Spain were not, as in most other
sountries of Europe, courtiers or scholars, or engaged in some
beaceful art or other; of noble birth for the most part, they
aiso led a warlike life. The union of the sword and the
pen, and the exercise of arms and the nobler mental arts,
was their watch-word. Garcilaso, one of the founders of
Spanish poetry under Charles V., was a descendant of the
Yncas of Peru, and in Africa, still accompanied by his agree-
able muse, fell before the walls of Tunis: Camoëns, the Por-
tuguese, sailed as a soldier to the remotest Indies, in the track
of the glorious Adventurer whose discoveries he celebrated:
Don Alonso de Ercilla composed his Araucana in the midst of
warfare with revolted savages, in a tent at the foot of the
Cordilleras, or in wildernesses yet untrodden by men, or in a
storm-tossed vessel on the restless oeean; Cervantes purchased,
with the loss of an arm, and a long slavery in Algiers, the
honour of having fought, as a common soldier, in the battle
of Lepanto, under the illustrious John of Austria; Lope de
Vega, among other adventures, survived the misfortunes of
the Invincible Armada; Calderon served several campaigns
in Flanders and in Italy, and discharged the warlike duties
of a knight of Santiago until he entered holy orders, and thus
gave external evidence that religion was the ruling motive of
his life.
If a feeling of religion, a loyal heroism, honour, and love,
be the foundation of romantic poetry, it could not fail to attain
to its highest development in Spain, where its birth and growth
were cherished by the most friendly auspices. The fancy of
the Spaniards, like their active powers, was bold and venture-
some; no mental adventure seemed too hazardous for it to
essay. The popular predilection for surpassing marvels had
already shown itself in its chivalrous romaunts. And so they
SPANISH DRAMA : CALDERON. 50J
wished also to see the wonderful on the stage; when, there-
fore, their poets, standing on the lofty eminence of a highly
polished state of art and society, gave it the requisite form,
breathed into it a musical soul, and refined its beautiful hues
and fragrance from all corporeal grossness, there arose, from
the very contrast of the matter and the form, an irresistible
fascination. Amid the harmony of the most varied metre,
the elegance of fanciful allusions, and that splendour of
imagery and simile which no other language than their own
could hope to furnish, combined with inventions ever new, and
almost always pre-eminently ingenious, the spectators per-
ceived in imagination a faint refulgence of the former great-
ness of their nation which had measured the whole world
with its victories. The most distant zones were called upon
to contribute, for the gratification of the mother country,
the treasures of fancy as well as of nature, and on the
dominions of this poetry, as on that of Charles V., the sun
may truly be said never to set.
Even those plays of Calderon which, cast in modern man-
ners, descend the most to the tone of common life, still fasci-
nate us by a sort of fanciful magic, and cannot be considered
in the same light with the ordinary run of comedies. Of those
of Shakspeare, we have seen that they are always composed
of two dissimilar elements: the comic, which, in so far as
comic imitation requires the observance of local condi-
tions, is true to English manners; and the romantic, which,
as the native soil was not sufficiently poetical for it,
is invariably transplanted to a foreign scene. In Spain,
on the other hand, the national costume of that day still
admitted of an ideal exhibition. This would not indeed
have been possible, had Calderon introduced us into the
interior of domestic life, where want and habit generally
reduce all things to every-day narrowness. His comedies,
like those of the ancients, end with marriages; but how
different is all that precedes! With them the most immoral
means are set in motion for the gratification of sensual pas-
sions and selfish views, human beings with their mental
powers stand opposed to each other as mere physical beings,
endeavouring to spyout and to expose their mutualweaknesses.
Calderon, it is true, also represents to us his principal charac-
ters of both sexes carried away by the first ebullitions of
youth, and in its unwavering pursuit of the honours and
502 SPANISH DRAMA : CALDERON,
pleasures of life; but the aim after which they strive, and in
the prosecution of which everything else kicks the beam, is
never in their minds confounded with any other good. Hon-
our, love, and jealousy, are uniformly the motives out of which,
by their dangerous but noble conflict, the plot arises, and is not
purposely complicated by knavish trickery and deception.
Honour is always an ideal principle; for it rests, as I have
elsewhere shown, on that higher morality which consecrates
principles without regard to consequences. It may sink down to
a mere conventional observance of social opinions or prejudices,
to a mere instrument of vanity, but even when so disfigured
we may still recognize in it some faint feature of a sublime
idea. I know no apter symbol of tender sensibility of honour
as portrayed by Calderon, than the fable of the ermine,
which is said to prize so highly the whiteness of its fur, that
rather than stain it in flight, it at once yields itself up to the
hunters and death. This sense of honour is equally powerful
in the female characters; it rules over love, which is only
allowed a place beside it, but not above it. According to the
sentiments of Calderon's dramas, the honour of woman con-
sists in loving only one man of pure and spotless honour, and
loving him with perfect purity, free from all ambiguous
homage which encroaches too closely on the severe dignity of
woman. Love requires inviolable secrecy till a lawful union
permits it to be publicly declared. This secrecy secures it
from the poisonous intermixture of vanity, which might plume
itself with pretensions or boasts of a confessed preference;
it gives it the appearance of a vow, which from its mystery
is the more sacredly observed. This morality does not, it is
true, condemn cunning and dissimulation if employed in the
cause of love, and in so far as the rights of honour may be
said to be infringed; but nevertheless the most delicate con-
sideration is observed in the conflict with other duties,–with
the obligations, for instance, of friendship. Moreover, a.
power of jealousy, always alive and often breaking out into
fearful violence,–not, like that of the East, a jealousy of
possession,–but one watchful of the slightest emotions of the
heart and its most imperceptible demonstrations serves tG
ennoble love, as this feeling, whenever it is not absolutely
exclusive, ceases to be itself. The perplexity to which the
mental conflict of all these motives gives rise, frequently ends
in nothing, and in such cases the catastrophe is truly comic;
SPANISH DRAMA : CALDERON. 503
sometimes, however, it takes a tragic turn, and then honour
becomes a hostile destiny for all who cannot satisfy its
requisitions without sacrificing either their happiness or their
1II1OGGI1CG.
These are the dramas of a higher kind, which by foreigners
are called Pieces of Intrigue, but by Spaniards, from the dress
in which they are acted, Comedies of Cloak and Sword (Come-
dias de Capa y Espada). They have commonly no other
burlesque part than that of the merry valet, known by the
name of the Gracioso. This valet serves chiefly to parody
the ideal motives from which his master acts, and this he
frequently does with much wit and grace. Seldom is he with
his artifices employed as an efficient lever in establishing the
intrigue, in which we rather admire the wit of accident than
of contrivance. Other pieces are called Comedias defiguron,
all the figures, with one exception, are usually the same as
those in the former class, and this one is always drawn in
caricature, and occupies a prominent place in the composition.
To many of Calderon's dramas we cannot refuse the name of
pieces of character, although we cannot look for very delicate
characterization from the poets of a nation in which vehe-
mence of passion and exaltation of fancy neither leave suffi-
cient leisure nor sufficient coolness for prying observation.
Another class of his pieces is called by Calderon himself
festal dramas (fiestas). They were destined for representa-
tion at court on solemn occasions; and though they require
the theatrical pomp of frequent change of decoration and
visible wonders, and though music also is often introduced
into them, still we may call them poetical operas, that is,
dramas which, by the mere splendour of poetry, perform what
in the opera can only be attained by the machinery, the
music, and the dancing. Here the poet gives himself wholly
up to the boldest flights of fancy, and his creations hardly
seem to touch the earth.
The mind of Calderon, however, is most distinctiy expressed
in the pieces on religious subjects. Love he paints merely in
its most general features; he but speaks her technical poetical
language. Religion is his peculiar love, the heart of his heart.
For religion alone he excites the most overpowering emotions,
which penetrate into the inmost recesses of the soul. He did
not wish, it would seem, to do the same for mere worldly
events. However turbid they may be in themselves to him,
504 SPANISEI DRAMA - CALDERON.
such is the religious medium through which he views them,
they are all cleared up and perfectly bright. Blessed man !
he had escaped from the wild labyrinths of doubt into the
stronghold of belief; from thence, with undisturbed tranquil-
lity of soul, he beheld and portrayed the storms of the world;
to him human life was no longer a dark riddle. Even his
tears reflect the image of heaven, like dew-drops on a flower
in the sun. His poetry, whatever its apparent object, is a
never-ending hymn of joy on the majesty of the creation; he
celebrates the productions of nature and human art with an
astonishment always joyful and always new, as if he saw them
for the first time in an unworn festal splendour. It is the
first awaking of Adam, and an eloquence withal, a skill of
expression, and a thorough insight into the most mysterious
affinities of nature, such as high mental culture and mature
contemplation can alone bestow. When he compares the
most remote objects, the greatest and the smallest, stars and
flowers, the sense of all his metaphors is the mutual attraction
subsisting between created things by virtue of their common
origin, and this delightful harmony and unity of the world
again is merely a refulgence of the eternal all-embracing love.
Calderon was still flourishing at the time when other coun-
tries of Europe began to manifest a strong inclination for that
mannerism of taste in the arts, and those prosaic views in
literature, which in the eighteenth century obtained such uni-
versal dominion. He is consequently to be considered as the
last summit of romantic poetry. All its magnificence is
lavished in his writings, as in fireworks the most brilliant
and rarest combinations of colours, the most dazzling of fiery
showers and circles are usually reserved for the last explosion.
The Spanish theatre continued for nearly a century after
Calderon to be cultivated in the same spirit. All, however,
that was produced in that period is but an echo of previous
productions, and nothing new and truly peculiar appeared
such as deserves to be named after Calderon. After him a
great barrenness is perceptible. Now and then attempts were
made to produce regular tragedies, that is to say, after the
French model. Even the declamatory drama of Diderot
found imitators. I remember reading a Spanish play,
which had for its object the abolition of the torture. The
exhilaration to be expected from such a work may be easily
conceived. A few Spaniards, ap0states from the old national
SPANISH DRAMA - MORETOs 505
taste, extol highly the prosaical and moraldramas of Moratin;
but we see no reason for seeking in Spain what we have as
good, or, more correctly speaking, equally bad at home. The
theatrical audience has for the most part preserved itself tole-
rably exempt from all such foreign influences; a few years
ago when a bel esprit undertook to reduce a justly admired
piece of Moreto (El Pareceido en la Corte) to a conformity
with the three unities, the pit at Madrid were thrown into
such a commotion that the players could only appease them
by announcing the piece for the next day in its genuine
Ahape. «.
When in any country external circumstances, such, for
instance, as the influence of the clergy, the oppression of the
censorship, and even the jealous vigilance of the people in
the maintenance of their old national customs, oppose the
introduction of what in neighbouring states passes for a pro-
gress in mental culture, it frequently happens that clever de-
scription of heads will feel an undue longing for the forbidden
fruit, and first begin to admire some artistic depravity, when
it has elsewhere ceased to be fashionable. In particular ages
certain mental maladies are so universally epidemic that a
nation can never be secure from infection till it has been
innoculated with it. With respect, however, to the fatal en-
iightenment of the last generation, the Spaniards it would
appear have come off with the chicken-pox, while in the
features of other nations the disfiguring variolous scars are
but too visible. Living nearly in an insular situation, Spa-
niards have slept through the eighteenth century, and how
in the main could they have applied their time better? Should
the Spanish poetry ever again awake in old Europe, or in the
New World, it would certainly have a step to make, from
instinct to consciousness. What the Spaniards have hitherto
loved from innate inclination, they must learn to reverence on
clear principles, and, undismayed at the criticism to which it
has in the mean time been exposed, proceed to fresh creations
in the spirit of their greatest poets.
506 THE GERMAN TEIEATRE.
TLECTURE XXX.
Origin of the German Theatre-Hans Sachs–Gryphius–The age of
Gottsched–Wretched Imitation of the French-Lessing, Goethe, and
Schiller-Review of their Works – Their influence on Chivalrous
Dramas, Affecting Dramas, and Family Pictures–Prospect for Futurity.
IN its cultivated state, the German theatre is much younger
than any of those of which we have already spoken, and we
are not therefore to wonder if the store of our literature in
valuable original works, in this department, is also much
more scanty. -
Little more than half a century ago, German literature was
in point of talent at the very lowest ebb; at that time, how-
ever, greater exertions first began to be made, and the Ger-
mans have since advanced with gigantic strides. And if
Dramatic Art has not been cultivated with the same success,
and I may add with the same zeal, as other branches, the
cause must perhaps be attributed to a number of unfavourable
circumstances rather than to any want of talents.
The rude beginnings of the stage are with us as old as
with other countries“. The oldest drama, which we have in
manuscript is the production of one Hans Rosenpluet, a native
of Nuremberg, about the middle of the fifteenth centurv-
He was followed by two fruitful writers born in the same
imperial city, Hans Sachs and Ayrer. Among the works of
Hans Sachs we find, besides merry carnival plays, a great mul-
titude of tragedies, comedies, histories bc th spiritual and tem-
poral, where the prologue and epilogue are always spoken by
the herald. The latter, it appears, were all acted without
any theatrical apparatus, not by players, but by respectable
citizens, as an allowable relaxation for the mind. The car-
nival plays are somewhat coarse, but not unfrequently ex-
* The first mention of the mysteries or religious representations in
Germany, with which I am acquainted, is to be found in the Eulenspiegel.
In the 13th History, we may see this merry, but somewhat disgusting
trick, of the celebrated buffoon: “ How Eulenspiegel made a play in the
Easter fair, in which the priest and his maid-servant fought with the
boors.” Eulenspiegel is stated to have lived towards the middle of the
fourteenth century, but the book cannot be placed farther back than ta
beginning of the fifteenth.
Kl-ANS SACEIS–OPIZ. 507“
tremely droll, as the jokes in general are; they often run out
into the wildest farce, and, inspired by mirth and drollery,
leave far behind the narrow bounds of the world of reality.
In all these plays the composition is respectable, and without
round-about goes at once to the point: all the characters,
from God the Father downwards, state at once in the clearest
terms what they have at heart, and the reasons which have
caused them to make their appearance; they resemble those
figures in old pictures who have written labels placed in
their mouths, to aid the defective expression of the attitudes.
In form they approach most nearly to what was elsewhere
called Moralities; allegorical personages are frequent in them.
These sketches of a dramatic art yet in its infancy, are
feebly but not falsely drawn; and if only we had continued
to proceed in the same path, we should have produced some-
thing better and more characteristic than the fruits of the
seventeenth century. »-
In the first half of this century, poetry left the sphere of
common life, to which it had so long been confined, and fell
into the hands of the learned. Opiz, who may be considered
as the founder of its modern form, translated several tragedies
from the ancients into verse, and composed pastoral operas
after the manner of the Italians; but I know not whether he
wrote anything expressly for the stage. He was followed by
Andreas Gryphius, who may be styled our first dramatic
writer. He possessed a certain extent of erudition in his
particular department, as is proved by several of his imitations
and translations; a piece from the French, one from the Ita-
lian, a tragedy from the Flemish of Vondel; lastly, a farce
called Peter Squenz, an extension of the burlesque tragedy of
Pyramus and Thisbe, in The Midsummer Wight's Dream of
Shakspeare. The latter was then almost unknown beyond
his own island; the learned Morhof, who wrote in the last
half of the seventeenth century, confesses that he had never
seen Shakspeare's works, though he was very well acquainted
with Ben Jonson. Even about the middle of the last century,
a writer of repute in his days, and not without merit, has in
one of his treatises instituted a comparison between Shak-
speare and Andreas Gryphius, the whole resemblance consist-
ing in this, that Gryphius, like Shakspeare, was also fond of
calling up the spirits of the departed. He seems rather to
have had Vondel, the Fleming, before his eyes, a writer still
ZOF GRYPHIUS–GOTTSCHIED.
highly celebrated by his countrymen, and universally called
by them, the great Ä while Gryphius himself has been
consigned to oblivion. Unfortunately the metre in Gryphius's
plays is the Alexandrine; the form, however, is not so con-
fined as that of the French at an after period; the scene some-
times changes, and the interludes, partly musical, partly
allegorical, bear some resemblance to the English masques
In other respects, Gryphius possessed little theatrical skill
and I do not even know if his pieces were ever actually
brought out on the stage. The tragedies of Lohenstein, who
in his day may be styled the Marino of our literature, in their
structure resemble those of Gryphius; but, not to mention
their other faults, they are of such an immeasurable length as
to set all ideas of representation at defiance.
The pitiful condition of the theatre in Germany at the end
of the seventeenth and during the first third part of the eigh-
teenth century, wherever there was any other stage than that
of puppet-shows and mountebanks, corresponded exactly to
that of the other branches of our literature. We have a
standard for this wretchedness, in the fact that Gottsched
actually once passed for the restorer of our literature; Gotts-
ched, whose writings resemble the watery bewerage, which
was then usually recommended to convalescent patients, from
an idea that they could bear nothing stronger, which, how-
ever, did but still more enfeeble their stomachs. Gottsched.
among his other labours, composed a great deal for the theatre;
connected with a certain Madam Neuber, who was at the
head of a company of players in Leipsic, he discarded Punch
(Hanswurst), whom they buried solemnly with great triumph.
I can easily conceive that the extemporaneous part of Punch,
of which we may even yet form some notion from the puppet-
shows, was not always very skilfully filled up, and that many
platitudes were occasionally uttered by him; but still, on the
whole, Punch had certainly more sense in his little finger than
Gottsched in his whole body. Punch, as an allegorical per-
sonage, is immortal; and however strong the belief in his
death may be, in some grave office-bearer or other he still
pops up unexpectedly upon us almost every day.
Gottsched and his school now inundated the German the-
atre, which, under the influence of these insipid and diffuse
translations from the French, was hereafter to become regu-
war. Heads of a better description began to labour for the
GFLLERT–ELLAS SCHLEGEL. 509
stage; but, instead of bringing forth really original works,
they contented themselves with producing wretched imita-
tions; and the reputation of the French theatre was so great,
that from it was borrowed the most contemptible mannerism
no less than the fruits of a better taste. Thus, for example,
Gellert still composed pastoral plays after bad French models,
in which shepherds and shepherdesses, with rose-red and
apple-green ribands, uttered all manner of insipid compli-
ments to one another.
Besides the versions of French comedies, others, translated
from the Danish of Holberg, were acted with great applause.
This writer has certainly great merit. His pictures of man-
ners possess great local truth; his exhibitions of depravity,
folly, and stupidity, are searching and complete; in strength
of comic motives and situations he is not defective; only he
does not show much invention in his intrigues. The execu-
tion runs out too much into breadth. The Danes speak in the
highest terms of the delicacy of his jokes in their own lan-
guage; but to our present taste the vulgarity of his tone is
revolting, though in the low sphere in which he moves, and
amidst incessant storms of cudgellings, it may be natural
enough. Attempts have lately been made to revive his
works, but seldom with any great success. As his principal
merit consists in his characterization, which certainly borders
somewhat on caricature, he requires good comic actors to
represent him with advantage.
A few plays of that time, in the manners of our own coun-
try, by Gellert and Elias Schlegel, are not without merit;
only they have this error, that in drawing folly and stupidity
the same wearisomeness has crept into their picture which is
inseparable from them in real life.
In tragedies, properly so called, after French models, the
first who were in any degree successful were Elias Schlegel,
and afterwards Cronegk and Weisse. I know not whether
their labours, if translated into good French verse, would
then appear as frigid as they now do in German. It is insuf-
ferable to us to read verses of an ell long, in which the style
seldom rises above watery prose; for a true poetic language
was not formed in German until a subsequent period. The
Alexandrine, which in no language can be a good metre, is
doubly stiff and heavy in ours. Long after our poetry had
again begun to take a higher flight, Gotter, in his translation
510 GOTTER-HOLBERG-LESSING.
of French tragedies, made the last attempt to ennoble the
Alexandrine and procure its re-admission into Tragedy, and,
it appears to me, proved by his example that we must for
ever renounce the idea. It serves admirably, however, for a
parody of the stilted style of false tragical emphasis; its use,
too, is much to be recommended in some kinds of Comedy,
especially in small afterpieces. Those earlier tragedies, after
the French model, notwithstanding the uncommon applause
they met within their day, show how little hope there is of any
progress of art in the way of slavish imitation. Even a form,
narrow in itself, when it has been established under the influ-
ence of a national way of thinking, has still some significance;
but when it is blindly taken on trust in other countries, it
becomes altogether a Spanish mantle.
Thus bad translations of French comedies, with pieces from
Holberg, and afterwards from Goldoni, and with a few imita-
tions of a public nature, and without any peculiar spirit,
constituted the whole repertory of our stage, till at last Les-
sing, Goethe, and Schiller, successively appeared and redeemed
the German theatre from its long-continued mediocrity.
Lessing, indeed, in his early dramatic labours, did homage
to the spirit of his age. His youthful comedies are rather in-
significant; they do not already announce the great mind who
was afterwards to form an epoch in so many departments of
literature. He sketched several tragedies after the French
rules, and executed several scenes in Alexandrines, but has
succeeded with none: it would appear that he had not the
requisite facility for so difficult a metre. Even his Miss Sara
Sampson is a familiar tragedy in the lachrymose and creeping
style, in which we evidently see that he had George Barnwell
before his eyes as a model. In the year 1767, his connexion
with a company of actors in Hamburgh, and the editorship of
a periodical paper dedicated to theatrical criticism, gave hin
an opportunity of considering more closely into the nature
and requisitions of theatrical composition. In this paper he
displayed much wit and acuteness; his bold, nay, (considering
the opinions then prevalent,) his hazardous attacks were
especially successful in overthrowing the usurpation of French
taste in Tragedy. With such success were his labours at-
tended, that, shortly after the publication of his Dramaturgie,
translations of French tragedies, and German tragedies
modelled after them, disappeared altogether from the stage.
LESSING - HIS MINNA VON BARNHIELM. 5 11
He was the first who spoke with warmth of Shakspeare, and
paved the way for his reception in Germany. But his linger-
ing faith in Aristotle, with the influence which Diderot's writ-
ings had had on him, produced a strange compound in his
theory of the dramatic art. He did not understand the
rights of poetical imitation, and demanded not only in dia-
logue, but everywhere else also, a naked copy of nature, just
as if this were in general allowable, or even possible in the
fine arts. His attack on the Alexandrine was just, but, on
the other hand, he wished to, and was only too successful
in abolishing all versification: for it is to this that we must
impute the incredible deficiency of our actors in getting by
heart and delivering verse. Even yet they cannot habituate
themselves to it. He was thus also indirectly the cause of
the insipid affectation of nature of our Dramatic writers,
which a general use of versification would, in some degree,
have restrained.
Lessing, by his own confession, was no poet, and the few
dramas which he produced in his riper years were the slow
result of great labour. Minna von Barnhelm is a true comedy
of the refined class; in point of form it holds a middle
place between the French and English style; the spirit of the
invention, however, and the social tone portrayed in it, are
peculiarly German. Everything is even locally determined;
and the allusions to the memorable events of the Seven Years
War contributed not a little to the extraordinary success
which this comedy obtained at the time. In the serious part
the expression of feeling is not free from affectation, and the
difficulties of the two lovers are carried even to a painful height.
The comic secondary figures are drawn with much drollery
and humour, and bear a genuine German stamp.
Emilia Galotti was still more admired than Minna von
Barnhelm, but hardly, I think, with justice. Its plan, per-
haps, has been better considered, and worked out with still
greater diligence; but Minna von Barnhelm answers betterto
the genuine idea of Comedy than Emilia Galotti to that of
Tragedy. Lessings theory of the Dramatic Art would, it is
easily conceived, have much less of prejudicial influence on a
demi-prosaic species than upon one which must inevitably sink
when it does not take the highest flight. He was now too
well acquainted with the world to fall again into the drawling,
E.
512 LESSING: EMILIA GALOTTI–NATHAN DER WEISz
lachrymose, and sermonizing tone which prevails in his Miss
Sara Sampson throughout. On the other hand, his sound
sense, notwithstanding all his admiration of Diderot, preserved
him from his declamatory and emphatical style, which owes its
chief effect to breaks and marks of interrogation. But as in
the dialogue he resolutely rejected all poetical elevation, he
did not escape this fault without falling into another. He
introduced into Tragedy the cool and close observation of
Comedy; in Emilia Galotti the passions are rather acutely
and wittily characterized than eloquently expressed. Under
a, belief that the drama, is most powerful when it exhibits
faithful copies of what we know, and comes nearest home to
ourselves, he has disguised, under fictitious names, modern
European circumstances, and the manners of the day, an event
imperishably recorded in the history of the world, a famous
deed of the rough old Roman virtue–the murder of Virginia
by her father. Virginia is converted into a Countess Galotti,
Virginius into Count Odoardo, an Italian prince takes the
place of Appius Claudius, and a chamberlain that of the unblush-
ing minister of his lusts, &c. It is not properly a familiar tra-
gedy, but a court tragedy in the conversational tone, to which
in some parts the sword of state and the hat under the arm
as essentially belong as to many French tragedies. Lessing
wished to transplant into the renownless circle of the princi-
pality of Massa Carara the violent injustice of the Decemvir's
inevitable tyranny; but as by taking a few steps we can ex-
tricate ourselves from so petty a territory, so, after a slight
consideration, we can easily escape from the assumption so
laboriously planned by the poet; on which, however, the
necessity of the catastrophe wholly rests. The visible care
with which he has assigned a motive for everything, invites
to a closer examination, in which we are little likely to be inter-
rupted by any of the magical illusions of imagination: and in
such examination the want of internal connectedness cannot
escape detection, however much of thought and reflection the
outward structure of a drama may display.
It is singular enough, that of all the dramatical works of
Lessing, the last, Wathan der Weise, which he wrote when his
zeal for the improvement of the German theatre had nearly
cooled, and, as he says, merely with a view to laugh at theo-
logists, should be the most conformable to the genuine rules
LESSING–ENGEL, 513
of art. A remarkable tale of Boccacio is wrought up with a
number of inventions, which, however wonderful, are yet not
improbable, if the circumstances of the times are considered;
the fictitious persons are grouped round a real and famous
character, the great Saladin, who is drawn with historical
truth; the crusades in the background, the scene at Jerusa-
lem, the meeting of persons of various nations and religions
on this Oriental soil,–all this gives to the work a romantic
air, and with the thoughts, foreign to the age in question,
which for the sake of his philosophical views the poet has in-
terspersed, forms a contrast somewhat hazardous indeed, but
yet exceedingly attractive. The form is freer and more con-
prehensive than in Lessings other pieces; it is very nearly
that of a drama of Shakspeare. He has also retur.ed here to
the use of versification, which he had formerly rejected; not
indeed of the Alexandrine, for the discarding of which from
the serious drama, we are in every respect indebted to him, but
the rhymeless Iambic. The verses in Wathan are indeed often
harsh and carelessly laboured, but truly dialogical; and thead-
vantageous influence of versification becomes at once apparent
upon comparing the tone of the present piece with the prose
of the others. Had not the development of the truths which
Lessing had particularly at hcart demanded so much of repose,
had there been more of rapid motion in the action, the piece
would certainly have pleased also on the stage. That Lessing,
with all his independence of mind, was still in his dramatical
principles influenced in some measure by the general inclina-
tion and tastes of his age, I infer from this, that the imitators
of Wathan were very few as compared with those of Emilia
Galotti. Among the striking imitations of the latter style, I
will merely mention the Julius von Tarent.
Engel must be regarded as a disciple of Lessing. His
small after-pieces in the manner of Lessing are perfectly
insignificant; but his treatise on imitation (Mimik) shows the
point to which the theory of his master leads. This book con-
tains many useful observations on the first elements of the
language of gesture: the grand error of the author is, hat he
considered it a complete system of mimicry or imitation,
though it only treats of the expression of the passions, and
does not contain a syllable on the subject of exhibition of
character. Moreover, in his histrionic art he has not given a
place to the ideas of tragic comic; and it may easily be Säp-
2 K
514 GoErHE–GöTZ VON BERLICHINGEN.
posed that he rejects ideality of every kind*, and merely
requires a bare copy of nature.
The nearer I draw to the present times the more I wish to
be general in my observations, and to avoid entering into a
minute criticism of works of living writers with part of whom
I have been, or still am, in relations of personal friendship or
hostility. Of the dramatic career, however, of Goethe and
Schiller, two writers of whom our nation is justly proud, and
whose intimate society has frequently enabled me to correct
and enlarge my own ideas of art, I may speak with the frank-
ness that is worthy of their great and disinterested labours.
The errors which, under the influence of erroneous principles,
they at first gave rise to, are either already, or soon will be,
sunk in oblivion, even because from their very mistakes they
contrived to advance towards greater purity and perfectness;
their works will live, and in them, to say the least, we have
the foundation of a dramatic school at once essentially Ger-
man, and governed by genuine principles of art.
Scarcely had Goethe, in his Werther, published as it were
a declaration of the rights of feeling in opposition to the
tyranny of social relations, when, by the example which he
set in Götz von Berlichingen, he protested against the arbitrary
rules which had hitherto fettered dramatic poetry. In this
play we see not an imitation of Shakspeare, but the inspira-
tion excited in a kindred mind by a creative genius. In the
dialogue, he put in practice Lessings principles of nature,
only with greater boldness; for in it he rejected not only
versification and all embellishments, but also disregarded the
laws of written language to a degree of licence which had never
been ventured upon before. He avoided all poetical circumlo-
cutions; the picture was to be the very thing itself; and thus
he sounded in our ears the tone of a remote age in a degree
illusory enough for those at least who had never learned from
historical monuments the very language in which our ancestors
* Among other strange things Engel says, that as the language of
Euripides, the latest, and in his opinion the most perfect of the Greek tra-
gedians has less elevation than that of his predecessors, it is probable that,
had the Greeks carried Tragedy to further perfection, they would have pro-
ceeded a step farther : the next step forward would have been to discard
verse altogether. So totally ignorant was Engel of the spirit of Grecian
art. This approach to the tone of common life, which certainly may be
traced in Euripides, is the very indication of the decline and impending
fall of Tragedy: but even in Comedy the Greeks never could bring them-
Scives to make use of prose
-y-
GOETEIE–CLAVIGO–EGMONT. 515
themselves spoke. Most movingly has he expressed the old
German cordiality: the situations which are sketched with a
few rapid strokes are irresistibly powerful; the whole conveys
a great historical meaning, for it represents the conflict be-
tween a departing and a coming age; between a century of
rude but vigorous independence, and one of politicaltameness.
In this composition the poet never seems to have had an eye
to its representation on the stage; Tather does he appear, in
his youthful arrogance, to have scorned it for its insufficiency.
It seems, in general, to have been the grand object of Goe-
the to express his genius in his works, and to give new poeti-
cal animation to his age; as to form, he was indifferent about
it, though, for the most part, he preferred the dramatic. At
the same time he was a warm friend of the theatre, and some-
times condescended even to comply with its demands as
settled by custom and the existing taste; as, for instance, in
his Clavigo, a familiar tragedy in Lessings manner. Besides
other defects of this piece, the fifth act does not correspond
with the rest. In the four first acts Goethe adhered pretty
closely to the story of Beaumarchais, but he invented the
catastrophe; and when we observe that it strongly reminds
the reader of Ophelia's burial, and the meeting of Hamlet and
Laertes at her grave, we have said enough to convey an idea
how strong a contrast it forms to the tone and colouring of the
rest. In Stella Goethe has taken nearly the same liberty with
the story of Count von Gleichen which Lessing did with tha
of Virginia, but his labours were still more unsuccessful; the
trait of the times of the Crusades on which he founded his
play is affecting, true-hearted, and even edifying; but Stella
can only flatter the sentimentality of superficial feeling.
At a later period he endeavoured to effect a reconciliation
between his own views of art and the common dramatic
forms, even the very lowest, in all of which almost he has made
at least a single attempt. In Iphigenia he attempted to ex-
press the spirit of Ancient Tragedy, according to his concep-
tions of it, with regard especially to repose, perspicuity, and
ideality. With the same simplicity, flexibility, and noble
elegance, he composed his Tasso, in which he has availed
himself of an historical anecdote to embody in a general sig-
nificance the contrast between a court and a poet's life.
Egmont again is a romantic and historical drama, the style of
which steers a middle course between his first manner in Götz,
2 K 2
516 GOETHE-TAsso–JERY UND BATETY, ETc.
and the form of Shukspeare. Erwin und Elmire and Clau-
dine von Villabella, if I may say so, are ideal operettes, which
breathe so lightly and airily that, with the accompaniments of
music and acting, they would be in danger of becoming heavy
and prosaic; in these pieces the noble and sustained style of
the dialogue in Tasso is diversified with the most tender songs.
Jery und Bätely is a charming natural picture of Swiss man-
ners, and in the spirit and form of the best French operettes;
Scherz List und Rache again is a true opera buffa, full of
Italian Lazzi. Die Mitschuldigen is a comedy of common
life in rhyme, and after the French rules. Goethe carried
his condescension so far that he even wrote a continuation of
an after-piece of Florian's; and his taste was so impartial that
ne even translated several of Voltaire's tragedies for the Ger-
man stage. Goethes words and rhythm no doubt have always
golden resonance, but still we cannot praise these pieces as
uccessful translations; and indeed it would be matter of
regret if that had succeeded which ought never to have been
attempted. Tobanish these unprofitable productions from the
German soil, it is not necessary to call in the aid of Les-
sing's Dramaturgie , Goethe's own masterly parody on French
Tragedy in some scenes of Esther, will do this much more
amusingly and effectually.
Der Triumph der Empfindsamkeit (The Triumph of Sen-
sibility) is a highly ingenious satire of Goethe's own imitators,
and inclines to the arbitrary comic, and the fancifully symbo-
lical of Aristophanes, but a modest Aristophanes in good
company and at court. At a much earlier period Goethe
had, in some of his merry tales and carnival plays, completely
appropriated the manner of our honest Hans Sachs.
In all these transformations we distinctly recognize the same
free and powerful poetical spirit, to which we may safely
apply the Homeric lines on Proteus:
AAA' rot Tportorta Aecov yéver jüyévetos–
Tivero ö öypóv Üöop, kat öevöpeov ܺttéryAov. Odyss. lib. iv
A lion now, he curls a surgy mane;
Here from our strict embrace a stream he glides,
And last, sublime his stately growth he rears,
A tree, and well-dissembled foliage wears.–PoPE.*
* I have here quoted the translation of Pope, though nothing can well
be more vapid and more unlike the original, which is literally, “ First, he

GOETHE-FAUST. 517
To the youthful epoch belongs his Faust, a work which was
early planned, though not published till a late period, and
which even in its latest shape is still a fragment, and from its
very nature perhaps must always remain so. It is hard to
say whether we are here more lost in astonishment at the
heights which the poet frequently reaches, or seized with
giddiness at the depths which he lays open to our sight. But
this is not the place to express the whole of our admiration of
this labyrinthine and boundless work, the peculiar creation of
Goethe; we have merely to consider it in a dramatic point of
view. The marvellous popular story of Faustus is a subject
peculiarly adapted for the stage; and the Marionette play,
from which Goethe, after Lessing*, took the first idea of a
drama, satisfies our expectation even in the meagre scenes and
sorry words of ignorant puppet-showmen. Goethe's work,
which in some points adheres closely to the tradition, but
leaves it entirely in others, purposely runs out in all directions
beyond the dimensions of the theatre. In many scenes the
action stands quite still, and they consist wholly of long soli-
Joquies, or conversations, delineating Faustus's internal con-
ditions and dispositions, and the development of his reflections
on the insufficiency of human knowledge, and the unsatisfac-
tory lot of human nature; other scenes, though in themselves
extremely ingenious and significant, nevertheless, in regard to
the progress of the action, possess an accidental appearance;
many again, while they are in the conception theatrically
became a lion with a huge mane–and then flowing water; and a tree
with lofty foliage.”–It would not, perhaps, be advisable to recur to our
earliest mode of classical translation, line for line, and nearly word for
word; but when German Literature shall be better known in England, it
will be seen from the masterly versions of Voss and Schlegel, that without
diluting by idle epithets one line into three, as in the above example, it is
still possible to combine fidelity with spirit. The German translation
quoted by Mr. Schlegel runs,
Erstlich ward er ein Leu mit fürchterlich rollender Mähne,
Floss dann als Wasser dahin, und rauscht als Baum in den Wolken.
* –TRANS.
* Lessing has borrowed the only scene of his sketch which he has
published, (Faustus summoning the evil spirits in order to select the
nimblest for his servant,) from the old piece which bears the showy title:
Infelia Prudentia, or Doctor Joannes Faustus. In England Marlow had
Iong ago written a Faustus, but unfortunately it is not printed in Dodsley's
Collection.
51 8 GOETHE–FAUST–-IPHTGENIA IN TAURUS.
effective, are but slightly sketched,–rhapsodical fragments
v7itho:t beginning or end, in which the poet opens for a mo-
ment a surprising prospect, and then immediately drops the
curtain again: whereas in the truly dramatic poem, intended
to carry the spectators along with it, the separate parts must
be fashioned after the figure of the whole, so that we may say,
each scene may have its exposition, its intrigue, and winding
up. Some scenes, full of the highest energy and overpower-
ing pathos, for example, the murder of Valentine, and Mar-
garet and Faustus in the dungeon, prove that the poetwas a.
complete master of stage effect, and that he merely sacrificed
it for the sake of more comprehensive views. He makes fre-
quent demands on the imagination of his readers; nay, he
compels them, by way of background for his flying groups, to
supply immense moveable pictures, and such as no theatrical
art is capable of bringing before the eye. To represent the
Faustus of Goethe, we must possess Faustus magic staff, and
his formulae of conjuration. And yet with all this unsuit-
ableness for outward representation, very much may be
learned from this wonderful work, with regard both to plan
and execution. In a prologue, which was probably composed
at a later period, the poet explains how, if true to his genius,
he could not accommodate himself to the demands of a mixed
multitude of spectators, and writes in some measure a farewell
letter to the theatre.
All must allow that Goethe possesses dramatic talent in a
very high degree, but not indeed much theatrical talent. He
is much more anxious to effect his object by tender develop-
ment than by rapid external motion; even the mild grace
of his harmonious mind prevented him from aiming at strong
demagogic effect. Iphigenia in Taurus possesses, it is true,
more affinity to the Greek spirit than perhaps any other work
of the moderns composed before Goethe's; but is not so much
an ancient tragedy as a reflected image of one, a musical
echo: the violent catastrophes of the latter appear here in the
distance only as recollections, and all is softly dissolved within
the mind. The deepest and most moving pathos is to be
found in Egmont, but in the conclusion this tragedy also is
removed from the external world into the domain of an ideal
soul-music.
That with this direction of his poetical career to the puresk
expression of his inspired imagining, without regard to any
--“
stakspeare in Germanx–schrien. 519
other object, and with the universality of his artistic studies,
Goethe should not have had that decided influence on the
shape of our theatre which, if he had chosen to dedicate him-
self exclusively and immediately to it, he might have exer-
cised, is easily conceivable.
In the mean time, shortly after Goethe's first appearance,
the attempt had been made to bring Shakspeare on our stage
The effort was a great and extraordinary one. Actors still
alive acquired their first laurels in this wholly novel kind of
exhibition, and Schröder, perhaps, in some of the most celo-
brated tragic and comic parts, attained to the same perfection
for which Garrick had been idolized. As a whole, however,
no one piece appeared in a very perfect shape; most of them
were in heavy prose translations, and frequentlymere extracts,
with disfiguring alterations, were exhibited. The separate
characters and situations had been hit to a certain degree of
success, but the sense of his composition was often missed.
In this state of things Schiller made his appearance, a man
endowed with all the qualifications necessary to produce at
once a strong effect on the multititude, and on nobler minds.
He composed his earliest works while very young, and un-
acquainted with that world which he attempted to paint; and
although a genius independent and boldly daring, he was
nevertheless influenced in various ways by the models which
he saw in the already mentioned pieces of Lessing, by the
earlier labours of Goethe, and in Shakspeare, so far as he could
understand him without an acquaintance with the original.
In this way were produced the works of his youth:–Die
Faiber, Cabale und Liebe, and Fiesco. The first, wild and
horrible as it was, produced so powerful an effect as even to
turn the heads of youthful enthusiasts. The defective imita-
tion here of Shakspeare is not to be mistaken: Francis Moor
is a prosaical Richard III., ennobled by none of the properties
which in the latter mingle admiration with aversion. Cabale
und Liebe can hardly affect us by its extravagant sentimen-
tality, but it tortures us by the most painful impressions.
Fesco is in design the most perverted, in effect the feeblest.
So noble a mind could not long persevere in such mistaken
courses, though they gained him applauses which might have
rendered the continuance of his blindness excusable. He had
in his own case experienced the dangers of an undisciplined
spirit and an ungovernable defiance of all constraining auth--
520 SCHILLER– DON CARY, US--WALLENSTEIN.
rity, and therefore, with incredible diligence and a sort of
passion, he gave himself up to artistic discipline. . The work
which marks this new epoch is Don Carlos. In parts we
observe a greater depth in the delineation of character; yet
the old and tumid extravagance is not altogether lost, but
merely clothed with choicer forms. In the situations there is
much of pathetic power, the plot is complicated even to epi-
grammatic subtlety; but of such value in the eyes of the
poet were his dearly purchased reflections on human nature
and social institutions, that, instead of expressing them by the
progress of the action, he exhibited them with circumstantial
fulness, and made his characters philosophize more or less On
themselves and others, and by that means swelled his work to
a size quite incompatible with theatrical limits.
Historical and philosophical studies seemed now, to the
ultimate profit of his art, to have seduced the poet for a time
from his poetical career, to which he returned with a riper
mind, enriched with varied knowledge, and truly enlightened
at last with respect to his own aims and means. He now
applied himself exclusively to Historical Tragedy, and endea-
voured, by divesting himself of his personality, to rise to a
truly objective representation. In Wallenstein he has ad-
hered so conscientiously to historical truth, that he could not
wholly master his materials, an event of no great historical ex-
tent is spun out into two plays, with prologue in some degree
didactical. In form he has closely followed Shakspeare ; only
that he might not make too large a demand on the imagina-
tion of the spectators, he has endeavoured to confine the
changes of place and time within narrower limits. He also
tied himself down to a more sustained observance of tragical
dignity, and has brought forward no persons of mean con-
dition, or at least did not allow them to speak in their natural
tone, and banished into the prelude the mere people, here
represented by the army, though Shakspeare introduced them
with such vividness and truth into the very midst of the
great public events. The loves of Thekla and Max Piccolo-
mini form, it is true, properly an episode, and bear the stamp
of an age very different from that depicted in the rest of the
work; but it affords an opportunity for the most affecting
scenes, and is conceived with equal tenderness and dignity.
Maria Stuart is planned and executed with more artistic
skill, and also with greater depth and breadth. All is wisely
SCHIILLER–MARIA STUAR T–MAID OF ORLEANS. 521
weighed ; we may censure particular parts as offensive: the
quarrel for instance, between the two Queens, the wild fury of
Mortimer's passion, &c.; but it is hardly possible to take any
thing away without involving the whole in confusion. The piece
cannot fail of effect; the last moments of Mary are truly worthy
of a queen; religious impressions are employed with becom-
ing earnestness; only from the care, perhaps superfluous, to
exercise, after Mary's death, poetical justice on Elizabeth, the
spectator is dismissed rather cooled and indifferent.
With such a wonderful subject as the Maid of Orleans,
Schiller thought himself entitled to take greater liberties. The
plot is looser; the scene with Montgomery, an epic intermix-
ture, is at variance with the general tone; in the singular and
inconceivable appearance of the black knight, the object of the
poet is ambiguous; in the character of Talbot, and many other
parts, Schiller has entered into an unsuccessful competition
with Shakspeare; and I know not but the colouring em-
ployed, which is not so brilliant as might be imagined, is an
equivalent for the severer pathos which has been sacrificed to
it. The history of the Maid of Orleans, even to its details, is
generally known; her high mission was believed by herself
and generally by her contemporaries, and produced the most
extraordinary effects. The marvel might, therefore, have
been represented by the poet, even though the sceptical spirit
of his contemporaries should have deterred him from giving
it out for real; and the real ignominious martyrdom of this
betrayed and abandoned heroine would have agitated us more
deeply than the gaudy and rose-coloured one which, in con-
tradiction to history, Schiller has invented for her. Shak-
speare's picture, though partial from national prejudice, still
possesses much more historical truth and profundity. How-
ever, the German piece will ever remain as a generous
attempt to vindicate the honour of a name deformed by im-
pudent ridicule; and its dazzling effect, strengthened by the
rich ornateness of the language, deservedly gained for it on
the stage the most eminent success.
Least of all am I disposed to approve of the principles
which Schiller followed in The Bride of Messina, and which
he openly avows in his preface. The examination of them,
however, would lead me too far into the province of theory.
It was intended to be a tragedy, at once ancient in itsform,
but romantic in substance. Astory altogether fictitious is
522 SCHILLER-wILHELM TELL–SCHILLER's DEATH.
kept in a costume so indefinite and so devoid of all intrinsig
probability, that the picture is neither truly ideal nor truly
natural, neither mythological nor historical. The romantic
poetry seeks indeed to blend together the most remote objects,
but it cannot admit of combining incompatible things; the
way of thinking of the people represented cannot be at once
Pagan and Christian. I will not complain of him for borrow-
ing openly as he has done; the whole is principally composed
of two ingredients, the story of Eteocles and Polynices, who,
notwithstanding the mediation of their mother Jocaste, con-
tend for the sole possession of the throne, and of the brothers,
in the Zwillingen von Klinger, and in Julius von Tarent,
impelled to fratricide by rivalry in love. In the introduction
of the choruses also, though they possess much lyrical sub-
limity and many beauties, the spirit of the ancients has been
totally mistaken; as each of the hostile brothers has a chorus
attached to his, the one contending against the other, they
both cease to be a true chorus; that is, the voice of human
sympathy and contemplation elevated above all personal con-
siderations. G
Schiller's last work, Wilhelm Tell, is, in my opinion, also
his best. Here he has returned to the poetry of history; the
manner in which he has handled his subject, is true, cordial,
and when we consider Schiller's ignorance of Swiss nature
and manners, wonderful in point of local truth. It is true he
bad here a noble source to draw from in the speaking pictures
of the immortal John Müller. This soul-kindling picture of
old German manners, piety, and true heroism, might have
merited, as a solemn celebration of Swiss freedom, five
hundred years after its foundation, to have been exhibited,
in view of Tell's chapel on the banks of the lake of Lucerne,
in the open air, and with the Alps for a background.
Schiller was carried off by an untimely death in the fulness
of mental maturity; up to the last moment his health, which
had long been undermined, was made to yield to his powerful
will, and completely exhausted in the pursuit of most praise-
worthy objects. How much might he not have still per-
formed had he lived to dedicate himself exclusively to the
theatre, and with every work attained a higher mastery in
his art! He was, in the genuine sense of the word, a vir-
tuous artist; with purity of mind he worshipped the true and
the beautiful, and to his indefatigabla efforts to attain them
GOETEIE AND SCHILLER–THEIR IMITATORS. 523
his own existence was the sacrifice; he was, moreover, far
removed from that petty self-love and jealousy but too com-
mon even among artists of excellence.
Great original minds in Germany have always been followed
by a host of imitators, and hence both Goethe and Schiller
have been the occasion, without any fault of theirs, of a
number of defective and degenerate productions being brought
on our stage.
Götz von Berlichingen was followed by quite a flood of
chivalrous plays, in which there was nothing historical but
the names and other external circumstances, nothing chival-
rous but the helmets, bucklers, and swords, and nothing of
old German honesty but the supposed rudeness: the senti-
ments were as modern as they were vulgar. From chivalry-
pieces they became true cavalry-pieces, which certainly de-
served to be acted by horses rather than by men. To all
those who in some measure appeal to the imagination by
superficial allusions to former times, may be applied what I
said of one of the most admired of them:
Mit Harsthörnern, und Burgen, und Harnischen, pranget Johanna;
Traun! mir gefiele das Stück, wären nicht Worte dabey*.
The next place in the public favour has been held by the
Family Picture and the Affecting Drama, two secondary species.
From the charge of encouraging these both by precept and
example Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller (the two last by their
earliest compositions Stella, Clavigo, Die Geschwister, Cabale
und Liebe), cannot be acquitted. I will name no one, but
merely suppose that two writers of some talent and theatrical
knowledge had dedicated themselves to these species, that
they had both mistaken the essence of dramatic poetry, and
laid down to themselves a pretended moral aim; but that the
one saw morality under the narrow guise of economy, and
the other in that of sensibility: what sort of fruits would thus
be put forth, and how would the applause of the multitude
finally decide between these two competitors?
The family picture is intended to portray the every-day
course of the middle ranks of society. The extraordinary
events which are produced by intrigue are consequently
banished from it: to cover this want of motion, the writer
* With trumpets, and donjons, and helmets, Johanna parades it.
It would certainly please were but the words all away.–ED.
524 THE GERMAN DRAMA REVIEWED.
has recourse to a characterization wholly individua-, and
capable of receiving vividness from a practised player, but
attaches itself to external peculiarities just as a bad portrait-
painter endeavours to attain a resemblance by noticing every
pit of small-pox and wart, and peculiar dress and cravat-tie:
the motives and situations are sometimes humorous and droll,
but never truly diverting, as the serious and prosaical aim
which is always kept in view completely prevents this. The
rapid determinationsof Comedy generally end before the family
life begins, by which all is fixed in every-day habits To make
economy poetical is impossible: the dramatic family painter
will be able to say as little of a fortunate and tranquil
domestic establishment, as the historian can of a state in pos-
session of external and internal tranquillity. He is therefore
driven to interest us by painting with painful accuracy the
torments and the penury of domestic life-chagrins expe-
rienced in the honest exercise of duty, in the education of
children, interminable dissensions between husband and wife,
the bad conduct of servants, and, above all things, the cares of
earning a daily subsistence. The spectators understand these
pictures but too well, for every man knows where the shoe
pinches; it may be very salutary for them to have, in presence
of the stage, to run over weekly in thought the relation be-
tween their expenditure and income; but surely they will
hardly derive from it elevation of mind or recreation, for they
do but find again on the stage the very same thing which
they have at home from morning tonight.
The sentimental poet, again, contrives to lighten their
heart. His general doctrine amounts properly to this, that
what is called a good heart atones for all errors and extrava-
gances, and that, with respect to virtue, we are not to insist
So strictly on principles. Do but allow, he seems to say to
his spectators, free scope to your natural impulses; see how
well it becomes my naive girls, when they voluntarily and
without reserve confess everything If he only knows how to
corrupt by means of effeminate emotions–rather sensual than
moral, but at the close contrives, by the introduction of some
generous benefactor, who showers out his liberality with open
hands, to make all things pretty even, he then marvellously
delights the vitiated hearts of his audience: they feel as if
they had themselves done noble actions, without, however,
Putting their hands in their own pockets–all is drawn from
HISTRIONIC ART IN GERMANY. 525
the purse of the generous poet. In the long run, therefore, the
affecting species can hardly fail to gain a victory over the
economical; and this has actually been the case in Germany.
But what in these dramas is painted to us not only as natural
and allowable, but even as moral and dignified, is strange
beyond all thought, and the seduction, consequently, is much
more dangerous than that of the licentious Comedy, for this
very reason, that it does not disgust us by external indecency,
but steals into unguarded minds, and selects the most sacred
names for a disguise.
The poetical as well as moral decline of taste in our time
has been attended with this consequence, that the most popular
writers for the stage, regardless of the opinion of good judges,
and of true repute, seek only for momentary applause; while
others, who have both higher aims, keep both the former
in view, cannot prevail on themselves to comply with the
demands of the multitude, and when they do compose
dramatically, have no regard to the stage. Hence they are
defective in the theatrical part of art, which can only be at-
tained in perfection by practice and experience.
The repertory of our stage, therefore, exhibits, in its
miserable wealth, a motley assemblage of chivalrous pieces,
family pictures, and sentimental dramas, which are occa-
sionally, though seldom, varied by works in a grander and
higher style by Shakspeare and Schiller. In this state of
things, translations and imitations of foreign novelties, and
especially of the French after-pieces and operettes, are indis-
pensable. From the worthlessness of the separate works,
nothing but the fleeting charm of novelty is sought for
in theatrical entertainment, to the great injury of the
histrionic art, as a number of insignificant parts must be got
by heart in the most hurried manner, to be immediately
forgotten*.
* To this must be added, by way of rendering the vulgarity of our
theatre almost incurable, the radically depraved disposition of everything
having any reference to the theatre. The companies of actors ought to be
under the management of intelligent judges and persons practised in the
dramatic art, and not themselves players. Engel presided for a time over
the Berlin theatre, and eye-witnesses universally assert that he succeeded
in giving it a great elevation. What Goethe has effected in the manage-
ment of the theatre of Weimar, in a small town, and with small means, is
known to all good theatrical judges in Germany. Rare talents he can
neither create nor reward, but he accustoms the actors to order and disi-
526 HISTRIONIC ART IN GERMANY.
The labours of the poets who do not write immediately for
the theatre take every variety of direction: in this, as in
pline, to which they are generally altogether disinclined, and thereby gives
to his representations a unity and harmony which we do not witness on
larger theatres, where every individualplays as his own fancy prompts him.
The little correctness with which their parts are got by heart, and the im-
perfection of their oral delivery, I have elsewhere censured. I have heard
verses mutilated by a celebrated player in a manner which would at Paris
be considered unpardonable in a beginner. It is a fact, that in a certain
theatre, when they were under the melancholy necessity of representing
piece in verse they wrote out the parts as prose, that the players might not
be disturbed in their darling but stupid affectation of nature, by observa-
tion of the quantity. How many“ periwig-pated fellows” (as Shakspeare
called such people), must we suffer, who imagine they are affording the
public an enjoyment, when they straddle along the boards with their awk-
ward persons, considering the words which the poet has given them to
repeat merely as a necessary evil. Our players are less anxious to please
than the French. By the creation of standing national theatres as they
are called, by which in several capitals people suppose that they have
accomplished wonders, and are likely to improve the histrionic art, they
have on the contrary put a complete end to all competition. They bestow
on the players exclusive privileges–they secure their salaries for life;
having now nothing to dread from more accomplished rivals, and being
independent of the fluctuating favour of the spectators, the only concern of
the actors is to enjoy their places, like so many benefices, in the most con-
venient manner. Hence the national theatres have become true hospitals
for languor and laziness. The question of Hamlet with respect to the
players–“ Do they grow rusty?” will never become obsolete; it must,
alas! be always answered in the affirmative. The actor, from the ambi-
guous position in which he lives (which, in the mature of things, cannot
well be altered), must possess a certain extravagant enthusiasm for his art,
if he is to gain any extraordinary repute. He cannot be too passion-
ately alive to noisy applause, reputation, and every brilliant reward which
may crown his efforts to please. The present moment is his kingdom
time is his most dangerous enemy, as there is nothing durable in his exhi-
bition. Whenever he is filled with the tradesman-like anxiety of securing
a moderate maintenance for himself, his wife, and children, there is an end
of all improvement. We do not mean to say that the old age of deserving
artists ought not to be provided for. But to those players who from age,
illness, or other accidents, have lost their qualifications for acting, we
ought to give pensions to induce them to leave off instead of continuing to
play. In general, we ought not to put it into the heads of the players that
they are such important and indispensable personages. Nothing is more
rare than a truly great player; but nothing is more common than the
qualifications for filling characters in the manner we generally see them
filled; of this we may be convinced in every amateur theatre among tole-
rably educated people. Finally, the relation which subsists with us
between the managers of theatres and writers, is also as detrimental as
possible. In France and England, the author of a piece has a certain
ZESTHETICS–FRENCH TRAGEDY. 527
other departments, may be observed the ferment of ideas
that has brought on our literature in foreign countries the
reproach of a chaotic anarchy, in which, however, the striving
after a higher aim as yet unreached is sufficiently visible.
The more profound study of AEsthetics has among the Ger-
mans, by nature a speculative rather than a practical people,
led to this consequence, that works of art, and tragedies more
especially, have been executed on abstract theories, more or
less misunderstood. It was natural that these tragedies
should produce no effect on the theatre; nay, they are, in
general, unsuited for representation, and wholly devoid of any
inner principle of life.
Others again, with true feeling for it, have, as it were,
appropriated the very spirit of the ancient tragedians, and
sought for the most suitable means of accommodating the
simple and pure forms of ancient art to the present constitu-
tion of our stage.
Men truly distinguished for their talents have attached
themselves to the romantic drama, but in it they have gene-
rally adopted a latitude which is not really allowable, except
in a romance, wholly disregarding the compression which
the dramatic form necessarily requires. Or they have seized
only the musically fanciful and picturesquely sportive side of
the Spanish dramas, without their thorough keeping, their
energetical power, and their theatrical effect.
What path shall we now enter? Shall we endeavour to
accustom ourselves again to the French form of Tragedy,
which has been so long banished? Repeated experience of it
has proved that, however modified in the translation and
representation, for even in the hands of a Goethe or a Schiller
some modification is indispensable, it can never be very suc-
cessful.
share of the profits of each representation; this procures for him a perma-
nent income, whenever any of his pieces are so successful as to keep their
place on the theatre. Again, if the piece is unsuccessful, he receives no-
thing. In Germany, the managers of theatres pay a certain sum before-
hand, and at their own risks for the manuscripts which they receive. They
may thus be very considerable losers; and on the other hand, if the piece
is extraordinarily successful, the author is not suitably rewarded.
[The Author is under a mistake with respect to the reward which falls
to the share of the dramatic writer in England. He has not a part of the
profits of each representation. If the play runs three nights, it brings him:
in as much as if it were to run three thousand nights.–TRANs.]
528 GERMAN NATIONAL DRAMA.
The genuine imitation of Greek Tragedy has far more affi-
nity to our national ways of thinking; but it is beyond the
comprehension of the multitude, and, like the contemplation
of ancient statues, can never be more than an acquired artistic
enjoyment for a few highly cultivated minds.
In Comedy, Lessing has already pointed out the difficulty
of introducing national manners which are not provincia,
inasmuch as with us the tone of social life is not modelled
after a common central standard. If we wish pure comedies,
I would strongly recommend the use of rhyme; with the more
artificial formthey might, perhaps, gradually assume also a
peculiarity of substance.
To me, however, it appears that this is not the most urgent
want: let us first bring to perfection the serious and higher
species, in a manner worthy of the German character. Now
nere, it appears to me, that our taste inclines altogether to
the romantic. What most attracts the multitude in our half-
sentimental, half-humorous dramas, which one moment trans-
port us to Peru, and the next to Kamschatka, and soon after
into the times of chivalry, while the sentiments are alſ modern
and lachrymose, is invariably a certain sprinkling of the
romantic, which we recognize even in the most insipid magical
operas. The true significance of this species was lost with us
before it was properly found; the fancy has passed with the
inventors of such chimeras, and the views of the plays are
sometimes wiser than those of their authors. In a hundred
play-biils the name “romantic is profaned, by being lavished
on rude and monstrous abortions; let us therefore be per-
mitted to elevate it, by criticism and history, again to its true
import. We have lately endeavoured in many ways to revive
the remains of our old national poetry. These may afford the
poet a foundation for the wonderful festival-play; but the
most dignified species of the romantic is the historical.
In this field the most glorious laurels may yet be reaped by
dramatic poets who are willing to emulate Goethe and Schiller.
Only iet our historical drama be in reality and thoroughly
national; let it not attach itself to the life and adventures of
single knights and petty princes, who exercised no influence
on the fortunes of the whole nation. Let it, at the same time,
be truly historical, drawn from a profound knowledge, and
transporting us back to the great olden time. In this mirror
let the poei Snable us to see, while we take deep shame to
HISTORICAL SOURCES FOR NATIONAL DRAMA. 529
ourselves for what we are, what the Germans were in former
times, and what they must again be. Let him impress it
strongly on our hearts, that, if we do not consider the lessons
of history better than we have hitherto done, we Germans–
we, formerly the greatest and most illustrious nation of
Europe, whose freely-elected prince was willingly acknow-
ledged the head of all Christendom-are in danger of dis-
appearing altogether from the list of independent nations.
The higher ranks, by their predilection for foreign manners,
by their fondness for exotic literature, which, transplanted
from its natural climate into hot-houses, can only yield a
miserable fruit, have long alienated themselves from the body
of the people; still longer, even for three centuries, at least,
has internal dissension wasted our noblest energies in civil
wars, whose ruinous consequences are now fixst beginning to
disclose themselves. May all who have an opportunity of
influencing the public mind exert themselves to extinguish at
last the old misunderstandings, and to rally, as round a conse-
crated banner, all the well-disposed objects of reverence, which,
unfortunately, have been too long deserted, but by faithful
attachment to which our forefathers acquired so much happi-
ness and renown, and to let them feel their indestructible
unity as Germans! What a glorious picture is furnished by
our history, from the most remote times, the wars with the
Romans, down to the establishment of the German Empire!
Then the chivalrous and brilliant era of the House of Hohen-
staufen! and lastly, of greater political importance, and more
nearly concerning ourselves, the House of Hapsburg, with its
many princes and heroes. What a field for a poet, who, like
Shakspeare, could discern the poetical aspect of the great
events of the world ! But, alas, so little interest do we Ger-
mans take in events truly important to our nation, that its
greatest achievements still lack even a fitting historical
record.
*** --- =- - - -
i








INDEX
Hºsmas-sms-mms.
Accolti, 224 /
Achaeus, 78 *
ADDISON, Review of, 484–485
AESCHYLUS, Review of, 78–95,
Referred to, 50, 57, 58, 71, 77,
96, 97, 98, 99, 102, 103, 111,
120, 121, 122, 128, 129, 131,
132, 143, 153, 155, 165, 206,
244, 247, 249, 302–339, 368,
429, 431
Africanus, 204, 205
Agathon, 78, 146, 163, 165
ALFIERI, Review of, 221–3,
Referred to, 28, 228, 272
Anacreon, 198
Anaxagoras, 116
André, 233
Andronicus (Livius), 201, 205, 206
Antiphanes, 192
Apollodorus, 191
Aretino (Pietro), 224
Ariosto, 20, 215, 224, 230, 381, 386
ARISTOPHANES, Review of, 153
–173, References, 40, 41, 52,
113, 116, 117, 121, 14 1, 144,
145, 149, 150, 174, 175, 176,
194, 196, 319, 321, 351
Aristophanes (The Grammarian),
100, 179, 312
Aristotle, Influence of, 233–245,
References, 49, 68, 70, 112, 113,
114, 115, 186, 253, 275, 284,
296
Arteaga, 217, 223
Attius, 93, 206, 207
Augustus, 201, 206, 207, 285, 336
Ayrer, 506
Balzac, 285
Barthelemy, 49, 52, 59, 63, 105,
145
Bathyllus, 206
Beaumarchais, 333
BEAUMONT (and Fletcher), Re-
view of 466–4 74
BEN JONSON, Review of, 460–
466. References, 299, 347, 353,
377
Besenval, 323
Betterton, 455
Boccacio, 33, 397
BOILEAU, 279, 292, 313, 317,
326, 334, 335
Boursault, 319
Bouterwek, 224, 490
Brook, Lord, 457
Bruyère (La), 320
Brumoy, 212
Brunk, 135
Buckingham, 479
Caesar, 118, 191, 203, 204, 241,
266, 267, 309
CALDERON, Review of, 494–5D4
References, 217, 227, 242, 272,
288, 326, 338, 340, 341, 342,
345, 358
Calpremede, 294
Calsabigi, 215, 231
Camoens, 20, 500
Capell, 453
Catullus, 200
Cervantes, 354, 500
Chamfort, 309
Chapman, 459
Charles the Bold, 372
Chiari, 230
Cibber, 481
Cicero, 60, 61, 109, 207, 209, 366
Collin d'Harleville, 326
Colman, 484
Congreve, 479, 483
L 2
532
CORNEILLE, Review of, 275–
288. References to, 212, 218,
232, 233, 234, 242, 243, 245,
255, 263, 267, 268, 269, 270
Corneille (Thomas), 275, 276, 278,
293, 296, 297, 303, 318, 336
Coypel, 295
Cratinus, 167, 175
CREBILLON, Review of, 294–7.
References, 264, 272, 302
Cronegk, 509
Dancourt, 323, 477
Dante, 20, 80, 346, 359, 396
Davenant, 477
Decker, 458
De la Motte, 243, 330
Destouches, 323, 324
Diderot, 330. 331, 332, 333, 486,
504
Diphilus, 190, 191
Dodsley, 448
DRYDEN, Review of, 477–479.
Reference, 377
Ducis, 334
Engel, 513
Ennius, 206
Epicharmus, 34, 150, 191
Epicurus, 191, 359
Ercella, Alonzo de, 500
Euclid, 68
Eulenspiegel, 506
Eupolis, 167, 168, 321
EURIPIDES, Review of, 111–
144. References, 58, 67, 71, 78,
79, 89, 96, 109, 160, 163, 164,
165, 169, 176, 207, 216, 247,
272, 292
Farquhar, 483
Favart, 328
Fontenelle, 233
Franklin, 104
Gammer Gurton, 448
Garcilaso, 500
Garnier, 233
Garrick, 61, 486
Gellert, 509
INDEX.
Genelli, 53
Glover, 486
GOETHE, Review of, 514–518,
References, 156, 197, 337, 348,
362, 523
Goldoni, 226, 230, 332, 354
Gorgias, 80, 144
Gotter, 509
Gottsched, 508
Gozzi, 226, 227, 228, 230
Grosset, 325
Gryphius,507
Guarini, 214–215, 230
Guido, 200
Guillen de Castro, 283, 494
Hannibal, 373
Hemsterhuys, 22
Herder, 108
Herodotus, 33
Heywood, 447, 459
Holbein, 372
Holberg, 186, 382, 509
Homer, 20, 43, 67, 75, 76, 82, 92,
143, 209, 260, 261,290, 359, 366
Horace, 49, 70, 153, 154, 179, 189,
204, 206, 207, 210, 211, 248,
254, 256, 261, 278, 351
Huerta (de la), 276, 333, 489
Humboldt, M. von (the Elder),
337
Hyginus, 118, 216
Isocrates, 137, 139
Jodelle, 233
Johnson, Dr., 249, 360, 363, 365,
370, 399
Jones, Sir William, 33
Jones, Inigo, 253
Kant, 69
Kotzebue, 459
Kyd, 457
Labernis, 203, 204
La Chaussée, 333
La Harpe, 49, 232, 233, 283, 292,
298, 309, 321, 332, 333
I. ſelius, 190
INDEX. 533
Lee, 479
Legouvé, 232
Legrand, 321
Lemercier, 334
Lenotre, 273
Lesage, 329
LESSING, Review of, 510–513
References, 68, 108, 119, 238
268, 269, 288, 296, 300, 302,
330, 331, 332, 348, 364, 528
Lillo, 486
Lilly, 457
Livy, 285
Lohenstein, 508
LOPE DE VEGA, Review of, 491
–494. References, 28, 3 18,
354
Lucan, 211, 264, 278, 286
Lulli, 326
Luther, 356
Lycophron, 144
Lysippus, 79
Macchiavelli, 223, 224, 286, 356
Maffei, 216
Mairet, 336
Malone, 377, 378
Mantegna, 112
Marivaux, 323, 324, 325
Marlow, 457
Marston, 458
Massinger, 474
Matos-Fragoso, 494
Menander, 145, 176, 191, 194, 199,
204, 309
Mercier, 330, 333
METASTASIO, Review of, 2]6–
220. References, 28, 49, 230,
326.
Michael Angelo, 20
Milton, 347, 376
MOLIERE, Review of, 186, 275,
291, 305, 306, 308, 310, 311,
312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317,
320, 322, 324, 326, 427
Molina, 494
Montague, Mrs., 345
Montalban, 494
Noratin, 505
4ſore, Sir Thomas, 372
i
Moreto, 275, 497, 505
Moses, 366
Müller (Adam), 34l
Munter, 53
Naevius, 206
Opitz, 507
Otway, 479
Ovid, 58, 207, 209, 346
Pacuvius, 206, 207
Perugino, 112
Peruse (Jean de la), 233
Petrarch, 366
Phaedrus, 191
Philemon, 120, 190, 191
Phrynichus, 71, 72, 78, 331
Phidias, 79
Pindar, 206
Pindemonti, 229
Piron, 325, 329
Plato, 30, 40, 56, 78, 113, 144,
146, 152, 155, 156, 163, 180,
238
Platonius, 60, 174, 175, 196
PLAUTUS, Review of, 28, 181,
188, 191, 200, 204, 206, 224,
225, 306, 307, 310, 311, 312,
380, 381
Pliny, 207, 210
Plutarch, 145, 262
Pollio (Asimius), 207
Pollux (Julius), 62, 115, 155, 192,
I96
Polycletus, 79
Pope, 347, 363, 377, 485
Porta (Giambatista), 225
Posilippus, 199
Pradon, 279, 292, 293
Propertius, 209
Pylades, 206
Quinault, 275, 326, 327
Quinctilian, 49, 60, 120, 196, 205,
207, 210
Rabelais, 307
RACINE, Review of, 289-93. Re-
ferences, 1 11, 135, 139. 212, 218,
534
222, 233, 234, 235, 241, 257,
261, 262, 263, 264, 267, 269,
275, 279, 280, 282, 283, 319
Raphael, 20, 110
Reynard, 256, 320, 321
Rotrou, 275
Rosenpluet (Hans), 506
Roscius, 206
Rousseau, 22, 187, 317, 328
Rowe, 484
Roxas (De), 275, 318, 497
Sachs (Hans), 307, 506
Sappho, 198
Sallust, 299
Scarron, 314, 318, 319
Scuderi, 284
SCHILLER, Review of, 519, 523.
Reference, 267
Schlegel, (A. W. Von), 104
Schlegel, (Joh. Elias), 259, 509
Schroder, 61
Scipio, (the elder), 190
Sedaine, 328
Seckendorf (Leo von), 331
SENECA, Review of, 210–212.
References, 135, 207, 222, 229,
233, 278, 292.
Seneca (the Philosopher), 210, 278
Servius, 55 »
SHAKSPEARE, Review of his
Dramas, 379; Two Gentlemen of
Verona, 380; Comedy of Errors,
380; Taming of the Shrew, 381;
Love's Labour Lost, 382; All’s
Well that Ends Well, 384; Much
Ado about Nothing, 386; Mea-
sure for Measure, 387; Merchant
of Venice, 388; As You Like it,
391; Twelfth Night, 392; Merry
Wives of Windsor, 392; Mid-
summer Night's Dream, 393;
Tempest, 393; Winter's Tale,
396; Cymbeline, 397; Romeo
and Juliet, 400; Othello, 402;
Hamlet, 404; Macbeth, 407;
King Lear, 411; Coriolanus,
414; Julius Caesar, 415; Antony
and Cleopatra, 416; Timon of
Athens, 417; Troilus and Cres-
INDEX,
sida, 418; Hist. Plays, 419-440
Spurious Plays, 440-446; his
Playhouse, 450; his Acting, 454.
References, 23, 28, 33, 80, 82,
227, 235, 239, 240, 244, 251,
255, 262, 272, 282, 297, 298,
320, 334, 340, 341, 342, 345,
346, 347, 348, 349, 350, 351,
352, 353, 354, 355, 356, 358,
359, 360, 361, 362, 363, 364,
365, 366, 367, 368, 369, 370,
371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 376,
377, 378
Shirley, 474
Socrates, 30, 116, 146,
164, 309
Solis (De), 497
SOPHOCLES, Review of, 96–
110. References to, 23, 48, 58,
71, 77, 78, 79, 92, 95, 111, 113,
114, 115, 118, 120, 121, 124,
125, 126, 131, 132, 133, 142,
165, 207, 244, 247, 249, 295,
296
Sophron, 179, 339, 367
Southerne, 485
Spenser, 378
Steele, 483
Suard, 233
Syrus, 203, 204
154, 156,
Tacitus, 222, 223, 264
Talma, 334, 337
Tasso, 20, 214, 225, 230, 265
TERENCE, Review of, 188–192.
References, 28, 181, 197, 200,
204, 206, 224, 225, 306, 307
309,312, 313, 326
Theocritus, 180
Theophrastus, 191
Thespis, 153
Thomson, 486
Thucydides, 97, 154
Tieck, 348
Timotheus, 1 15
Tiraboschi, 307
Trissino, 214, 233
Varro, 189
Vanbrugh, 483
INDEX.
Virgil, 20, 55, 209
Vitruvius, 52, 54
VOLTAIRE, Review of, 280–283;
continued, 295–304. References,
49, 60, 145, 196, 213, 216, 233,
234, 235, 250, 251, 256, 257,
258, 264, 265, 267, 268, 270,
276, 278, 308, 332, 336, 337,
345, 348
Vondel, 507
Webster. 458
535
Weisse, 509
Wycherley, 479
Wieland, 248
Winkelmann, 20, 48, 49, 76, 108,
I 16
Xenophon, 164
Young, 486
Zeno (Apostolo), 217
Zucheri, 1 12
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