Chapter 5

[Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestriTelephus aut Peleus

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

Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit.

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

Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore.

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

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.

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

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

There is no absurdity, as the Doctor pretends, in takingtragicusfortragædiarum scriptor. For the poet, by a common figure, is made to do that, which he represents his persons, as doing.

But this is not the whole, that will deserve the reader’s regard in this place. A strict attention to the scope and turn of the passage [from v. 96 to 114] will lead him to conclude, 1. “That some real tragedy of Telephus and Peleus was intended in v. 96, in which the characters were duly preserved and set forth in proper language.” This the opposition to theChremesof Terence absolutely demands. Let us inquire what this might be.Euripides, we know, composed tragedies under these names; but it is unlikely, the poet should contrast the instance of aGreektragedy to aLatincomedy. Nor need it be supposed. The subject was familiar to the Roman poets. For we find aTelephusascribed to no less than three of them,Ennius,Accius, andNævius12. One of these then I doubt not, is here intended. But the Roman, in those times, were little more than translations of the Greek plays. Hence it is most likely, that the tragedy ofTelephus(and probably ofPeleus, though we have not so direct authority for this) was, in fact, the tragedy ofEuripides, translated into Latin, and accommodated to the Roman stage, by one of these writers. It remains only to enquire, if theTelephusitself ofEuripidesanswered to this character. Which, I think, it manifestly did, from considering whathis enemy, the buffoon Aristophanes, hath said concerning it. Every body knows, that theBatraxoiof this poet contains a direct satyr, and Burlesque uponEuripides. Some part of it is particularly levelled against hisTelephus: whence we may certainly learn the objections, that were made to it. Yet the amount of them is only this, “That he had drawn the character ofTelephusin too many circumstances of distress and humiliation.” His fault was, that he had represented him more like a beggar, than an unfortunate prince. Which, in more candid hands, would, I suppose, amount only to this, “That the poet had painted his distress in the most natural, and affecting manner.” He had stripped him of his royalty, and, together with it of the pomp and ostentation of the regal language, the very beauty, which Horace applauds and admires in hisTelephus.

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

Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loquêris,Aut dormitabo aut ridebo:

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

Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta,Romani tollent equitesque patresque cachinnum.

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

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

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

“There are a multitude of words in every language, which are sometimes used in awider, sometimes in amore restrainedsense. Of this kind are καλὸν of the Greeks, thepulchrumof the Romans, and the words by which they are translated in modern languages. To whatever subjects these epithets are applied, we always intend to signify that they give uspleasure: and we seldom apply them to any subjects, but those which please by means of impressionsmade on the fancy:includingunder this name the reception of images conveyed directly by the sight itself. As Poetry therefore always addresses itself to the imagination, every species ofpoetical excellenceobtains the name ofBeauty: and, among the rest, the power of pleasing us by affecting thepassions; an effect which intirely depends on the various images presented to our view. In this sense of the wordbeautiful, it cannot be opposed topathetic.Pulchrum enim quascunque carminis virtutes, etiam ipsamdulcedinem,in se continere meritò videatur.

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

If it be admitted that the epithets, of which we are speaking, were originally used in this restrained sense, it is easy to see that they would readily obtain the moreextendedsignification. For the species of pleasure to which they were first confined, was found always to arise from images impressed on the fancy: what then more natural, than to apply the same words to every species of pleasure resulting from the imagination, and to every species of images productive of pleasure? Thus thebeautyof a humanperson might originally signify such combinations of figure and colour, as produced thepeculiarperception above-mentioned.Pulchritudo corporis(says Cicero)aptâ compositione membrorum movet oculos, et eo ipso delectat, &c.—But from this signification to the other the transition was easy and obvious. If every beautiful form gave pleasure, every pleasing form might come to be called beautiful: not because the same perceptions are excited byall(the pleasures being apparently different) but because they are all excited in the same manner. And this is confirmed by a distinction which every one understands between beauties of theregularandirregularkind. When we would distinguish these from each other, we call the latteragreeable, and leave to the former only the name ofbeautiful: that is, we confine the latter term to its proper and original sense.—In much the same manner objectsnot visiblemay sometimes obtain the name of beauty, for no other reason than because the imagination is agreeably employed about them; and we may speak of a beautifulcharacter, as well as a beautifulperson: by no means intending that we have the samefeelingfrom the one as the other, but that in both cases we arepleased, and that in both theimaginationcontributes to the pleasure.

Now as everyrepresentative artis capable of affording us pleasure, and this pleasure is occasioned by images impressed on the fancy; every pleasing production of art, will of course obtain the name ofbeautiful. Yet this hinders us not from considering beauty as adistinctexcellence in such productions. For we may distinguish, either in a picture or poem, between the pleasures we receive directly from the imitation ofvisible forms, and those which principally depend onotherkinds of imitation: And we may consider visible forms themselves either asoccasionsof pleasure, incommonwith other objects; or as yielding us thatpeculiardelight which they alone are capable of yielding. If we use the wordbeautifulin thislimitedsense, it is very intelligibly opposed topathetic. Images of Groves, Fields, Rocks and Water, afford us a pleasure extremely different from that which we find in the indulgence of ourtender affections: nor can there be any danger of confounding the agreeable perception received from a masterly statue of an Apollo or a Venus, with that which arises from a representation of theterrorsmen feel under a storm or a plague.

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

There is then no room for an objection to the text of Horace, as it stood before Dr. B.’s emendation: unless it should be thought an impropriety to oppose two epithets which arecapableof being understood in sensesnot opposite. But there is not the least ground for this imagination. For when a word of uncertain signification isopposedto another whose signification is certain; the opposition itselfdeterminesthe sense. The worddayin one of its senses includes the whole space of twenty-four hours: yet it is not surely an impropriety to opposedaytonight.—In like manner the wordspulchra poëmata, if we were not directed by the context, might signifygood poemsin general: but when the beauty of a poem isdistinguishedfrom other excellences, this distinction will lead us to confine our idea tobeautiful imagery; and, we know it is agreeable to the sentiments which Horace expresses in other places, to declare that this kind of merit isinsufficientindramaticwriters, from whom we expect a pleasure of very different kind. Indeed the most exquisite painting, if it is not constantly subordinate to this higher end, becomes not only insufficient, butimpertinent: serving only to divert the attention, and interrupt the course of the passions.

It may seem perhaps that the force of aLatinexpression cannot be ascertained from reflections of this sort, but must be gathered from citations of particular passages. And this indeed is true with regard to thepeculiaritiesof the language. But the question before us is of a different kind. It is a question ofPhilosophyrather thanCriticism: as depending on those differences of ideas, which are marked by similar forms of expression inalllanguages.”

102.Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi:]Tragedy, as13one said, who had a heart to feel its tenderest emotions,shewed forth the ulcers that are covered with tissue. In order to awaken and call forth in the spectator all those sympathies, which naturally await on the lively exhibition of such a scene, the writer must have a soultunedto the most exquisite sensibility, and susceptible of the same vibrations from his own created images, which are known toshakethe sufferer in real life. This is so uncommon a pitch of humanity, that ’tis no wonder, so few have succeeded in thistryingpart of the drama. Euripides, of all the ancients, had most of this sympathetic tenderness in his nature, and accordingly we find him without a rival in this praise. Τραγικώτατος τῶν ποιητῶν, says Aristotle of him [Περὶ ποιητ. κ. ιγʹ.] and to the same purpose another great critic,In affectibus cum omnibus mirus, tum in iis, quiMISERATIONEconstant, facile præcipuus. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] They, who apply themselves to express thepitiableἐλεεινὸν in tragedy, would do well to examine their own hearts by this rule, before they presume to practise upon those of others. See, further, this remark applied by Cicero to the subject of oratory, and inforced with his usual elegance and good sense. [l. ii. c. xlv.De oratore.]

103.Tunc tua me infortunia laedent.] This is expressed with accuracy. Yet the truth is, The more we arehurtwith representations of this sort, the more we arepleasedwith them. Whence arises this strangePleasure? The question hath been frequently asked, and various answers have been given to it.

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

His account in short is, “That the force of imagination, the energy of expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation, are all naturally of themselves delightful to the mind; that these sentiments of beauty, being thepredominantemotions, seize the whole mind, and convert the uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In a word, that the sentiments ofbeauty, excited by a good tragedy, are the superior prevailing movements, and transform the subordinate impressionsarising fromgrief,compassion,indignation, andterror, into one uniform and strong enjoyment.” [See four Dissertations byD. Hume,Esq. p. 185, &c.]

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

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

1. It is not to be doubted but that we love to have ourattentionraised, and ourcuriositygratified. So far theAbbé du Bos’system may be admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

119.Aut famam sequere, &c.] The connexion lies thus:Languagemust agree withcharacter;characterwithfame, or at least withitself.

123.Sit medea ferox invictaque.] Horace took this instance from Euripides, where theunconquered fiercenessof this character is preserved in that due mediocrity, which nature and just writingdemand. The poet, in giving her character, is content to say of her,

Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶςΠάσχους’

And

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

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

Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτωΜηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.

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

invadam deos,Et cuncta quatiam.

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

126.Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet.] The rule is, as appears from the reason of the thing, and from Aristotle, “Let anuniformityof character be preserved, or at least aconsistency:” i. e. either let the manners be exactly the same from the beginning to the end of the play, as those of Medea, for instance, and Orestes; or, if any change be necessary, let it be such as may consist with, and be easily reconciled to, the manners formerly attributed; as is seen in the case of Electra and Iphigenia. We should read then, it is plain,

servetur ad imumQualis ab incepto processerit,AUTsibi constet.

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

127.Aut sibi constet.] TheElectraandIphigeniaof Euripides have been quoted, in the preceding note, as instances ofununiformcharacters, justly sustained, or what Aristotle calls,uniformly ununiform: And this, though the general opinion condemns the one, and the great critic himself, the other; the reader will expect some account to be given of this singularity.

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

πατρὸς δ’ ἔτισας φόνον δικαίως.Act v.

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

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

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

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

Quippe illeDeis auctoribusultorPatris erat cæsi media inter pocula.Sat. viii.

And to this opinion agrees that tradition, or rather fiction, of the poets, who, though they represent the judges of the Areopagus as divided in their sentiments of this matter, yet make no scruple of bringing in Minerva herself to pronounce his absolution.Hoc etiam fictis fabulis doctissimi homines memoriæ prodiderunt, eum, qui patris ulciscendi causâ matrem necavisset, variatis hominum sententiis, non solum divinâ, sed etiam sapientissimæ Deæ sententiâ absolutum[Cic.proMilon.] The venerable council of Areopagus, when judging by the severe rules ofwrittenjustice, it seems, did not condemn the criminal; and theunwrittenlaw of equity, which the fable calls thewisdom of Pallas, formallyacquittedhim. The murder then was not againsthuman, and directly agreeable to the determinations ofdivine, justice. Of this too the Chorus takes care to inform us:

Νέμει τοι δίκαν θεὸς ὅταν τύχῃ.Act. iv.

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

Καὶ μὲν ἀμύνων πατρὶ, δυσσεβὴς ἔσῃ;

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

Τῷ δαὶ πατρῴαν διαμεθῇς τιμωρίαν;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ἔθρεψας Ἑλλάδι μέγα φάος—θανοῦσα δ’ οὐκ ἀναίνομαι.Once the bright star of Greece—But I submit to die.

Ἔθρεψας Ἑλλάδι μέγα φάος—θανοῦσα δ’ οὐκ ἀναίνομαι.

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

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

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

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

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

136.Nec sic incipies, ut scriptor cyclicus olim:] All this [to v. 153] is a continuation of the poet’s advice, given above,

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