13.7.
mvp-aristotle-comment-44
13.11
THE SECOND FORM, WHICH IS ESTEEMED THE FIRST BY SOME, IS THAT WHICH HAS A DOUBLE COMPOSITION LIKE THE ODYSSEY; HAVING A DIFFERENT CATASTROPHE FOR THE VIRTUOUS AND VICIOUS. THIS FORM APPEARS TO BE THE FIRST, FROM THE WEAKNESS OF THE SPECTATORS, WHICH THE POETS ARE INDUCED TO FOLLOW, AND COMPOSE THEIR PLAYS TO GRATIFY THE FEELINGS OF THE AUDIENCE.
WHY it should be the duty of a poet not to gratify the feelings of his audience, or why it should be a weakness in the audience to wish to see virtue rewarded and vice punished in the catastrophe, provided the paffions of pity and terror have been strongly excited during the course of the drama, is I confefs totally beyond my comprehenfion. If the principal person of the piece, on our interest for whom the general interest of the drama must depend, is to be shewn as falling from happiness to mifery, through some great frailty, short of any species of guilt that shall fink him in our esteem, and is to be represented happy till the catastrophe of the piece, in the catastrophe only will the tragic impreffion be made. Or if the distress begin with the drama, and gradually increase till the fatal catastrophe, the peripetía or fudden revolution of fortune will be wanting. It is impoffible however to reduce to rules that which can be only tried by the criterion of our feelings; and from the passage before us it is obvious that the feelings of the Athenians L12 were
were in oppofition to the opinion of the Stagirite; and from a former part of the chapter it is equally clear that Euripides had been censured by his countrymen for forming his tragedies on the plan afterwards approved by Ariftotle, though many of his tragedies, especially his Alcestes, his [v] Iphigenia in Tauris, and his Ion, befides the Cresphontes, which will be particularly noticed in a note on the next chapter, are written in the popular form. Whatever might be Aristotle's motive for oppofing the general taste of Athens in this particular, it still less applies to the modern drama. However elegant the taste of the ancients may have been, it is I think sufficiently obvious from all the classical writers that they were not so much alive to the feelings of sensibility as the moderns. We find few of those nice touches which mark the delicacy of the sensations, and which intereft more than the strongest pictures of distress. The only striking instances I recollect of this kind, are the account of the behaviour and words of Alcestes when she supposes herself dying, in Euripides; and the elegant compliment of the wife of Tigranes to her husband, and the pathetic tale of Abradatas and Panthea in Xenophon's Cyropædia. Neither did the Greek tragedy possess the power which the modern stage does of exciting pity and terror during the course of the action from nice and pathetic touches of paffion and manners. Their theatre was not calculated for affecting situation; and therefore if the incidents themselves were not strikingly dreadful, little interest could be excited. Aristotle himself in the beginning of the next chapter, mentions the (Y) In the Iphigenia in Aulis, after the death of Iphigenia appears inevitable, she is faved by a machine, contrary to all probability as well as in opposition to the received fable. See the eleventh Pythian Ode of Pindar, and the Agamemnon of Æschylus. repre-
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. representation and the combination of the incidents as the only means of exciting pity and terror: if therefore that representation and that combination were not very striking, they could have but little effect on a theatre, whose apparatus was so ill calculated to conceal the means of imitation. [z] For, after all that has been faid of the dramatic probability of the ancient tragedy, encumbered as it was with its chorus, its exaggerated and unnatural recitation (A), its enormous masks and stilts as described by Julius Pollux and Lucian; its frequent instances of buffoonery, not put, like the similar passages in Shakespear into the mouth of fervants and clowns, but uttered by heroes and kings, and blended with the most serious parts of the drama, we may surely say with Mr. Twining [B], that the Greek tragedy was in ' many respects a fimple, unequal, imperfect thing.' [c] The modern theatre is very different; the means of imitation are less obvious and more natural, and the illusion much more complete. And befides it enters more into the detail both of passion and sentiment, and confequently has a variety of modes of affecting the feelings which [z] See Note II. Chap. v. and Note II. Chap. vI. [A] An enraged grenadier, with a fabre in his hand, is undoubtedly an object of terror ' and alarm; but if to make himself taller he mounts upon stilts; if in order to seem more ' enraged he covers his face with an illumined mask, he will then become a scare-crow, and • frighten children only; his enormous strides will but serve to render him the more ridiculous ' to the rational spectator.' LINGUET ON VOLTAIRE'S TRAGEDIES. [B] See Note 215 near the end. This is faid only as to dramatic effect. The spectacle was undoubtedly most magnificent. [c] See Note 1. Chap. Iv. were
were denied to the ancients. • In the drama of the Greeks we may • see indeed the strongest colors, but they are distinct, neither softened • by reflection or melted into each other; while in the modern drama ، we fee a thousand combinations which far from weakening the picture only serve to render it more lively, more various, and more interesting.' MARMONTEL. The impreffion of the paffions of pity [D] and terror on the mind as to their strength, will be influenced like every other impression corporal as [D] How much we are influenced by particular circumstances and situations, as to affecting impressions every one who confults his own feelings, or studies the feelings of others, will be foon convinced. To take a very familiar instance from the popular amusement of sporting: many a man who during the enthusiasm of the chace, will look on the death of a deer or a hare not only with unconcern but with pleasure, would feel a real pain at seeing a lamb slaughtered by a butcher, or will kill a pheasant or a partridge with his gun for his diversion, when he must be strongly pressed by hunger indeed before he would strangle a fowl with his hands. To those who like to judge rather by others sensations than their own, and think experiment inferior to classical authority, a quotation from Xenophon and Arrian on this subject may have weight. Xenophon speaking of the hare-chace says, ' This animal is so pleasing that who- ⚫ ever fees it either trailed, or found, or pursued, or taken, forgets every thing else that he ⚫ is most attached to. To all this Arrian assents in his Treatise on Coursing except the taking of the hare, which he says ' is neither a pleasing nor a striking sight, but rather dif- • gusting.' The difference of opinion in Xenophon, Arrian supposes to arise from his being ignorant of the use of greyhounds. Undoubtedly the corporal sufferings of the hare are more obvious to the courser than the hunter. Mr. Somerville in his Chace, where certainly it is not his purpose to diminish the enthusiasm of the sport, has chofen to mention a very improper circumstance, and which tends strongly to do it, in his description of the death of the hare. Till round inclos'd • By all the greedy pack, with infant fcreams • She yields her breath.' Thomfon
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. as well as mental, both by the force of the stroke and the sensibility of the object struck. If then the moderns possess more fenfib lity, and at the fame time their theatrical imitation not only exceeds the ancient in truth of representation, but enters more into affecting detail, it may produce that kind of illufion which shall be so strong as, on painful fubjects, to produce the paffions of pity and terror unallayed by the sensation of any attendant pleasure. In this case surely Aristotle would not condemn a poet for softening the pathos of the dramatic story in compliance with the feelings of his audience, fince in the passage quoted from his Treatise on Government he mentions (E) pleasure as a necessary concomitant of the purgation of the paffions by the imitative arts. Here however an objection may possibly occur. Aristotle indeed tells us, that the Athenians were best pleased with the happy catastrophe ending differently to the good and the bad; or in other words, with what is or rather has been usually called POETICAL JUSTICE. But how shall we Thomson not only censures hunting as a cruel diversion, but even blames the use of animal food. Angling however, he praises as a delightful amusement. Even there he feels for the worm. But he speaks with all the complacency imaginable of fixing with gentle twitch the barbed * hook' in the mouth of the fish. The early instructors of youth are now very careful in preventing them from tormenting animals, and it is a very proper care; but at the fame time it oftener originates from mistaken fondness than cruelty. If the fly-killing anecdote of Domitian be true, I think it rather a proof of his want of rational resources of amusement than a specimen of the natural barbarity of his disposition. [Ε] Καὶ πᾶσι γίγνεσθαι τινὰ καθάρσιν, καὶ κώφιζεσθαι μέθ ἡδονὴς. See Note I. Chap. VI. That the primary object of poetry is to please was the opinion also of Erastofthenes, another ancient philofopher, who says, ποιητὴν πάντα σοχάζεσθαι ψυχαγογίας ου διδασ καλίας. The poet effects all his purposes by interesting us not by instructing us.' See the beginning of the bishop of Worcester's Effay on the Idea of Universal Poetry. account
account for what has been said in favor of the opposite conduct of the tragic drama among ourselves? The answer to this objection appears sufficiently obvious [F]. People are very apt to think they like what they ought to like. How far this decifion of Aristotle might change the taste, or rather the fashion of Athens in this cafe, we have no opportunity of knowing; but that it has influenced, afsisted by the critical decifions of Addison and others, the opinion of many of the people of London, though perhaps not their real taste, is certain. Mr. Addison and his colleagues in the composition of the Tatlers and Spectators, have been at great pains to disseminate and enforce this doctrine of Aristotle, to the entire conviction of such of his readers as chose rather to judge of their feelings from the authority of philosophers and critics than their own sensations. See Spectator, No. 40, and Tatler, No. 82. The last mentioned paper is by the later editors attributed to Steele [G], but the doctrine [F] The father of English poetry makes no bad distinction between the decision of pedantry and nature in putting the commendation of the system of Ariftotle in the mouth of the monk, and giving the other opinion to the knight and the hoft. See the quotation from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales by Mr. Twining, Note 100. See also Beattie on Imagination, Chap. v. page 202. [G] In one of these tales which I do not quote as they are in every one's hands, we can hardly, on reflection, pity the man whose misfortune is brought on by so absurd an act as the pulling the trigger of a fire arm at a woman, even with a certainty of its being unloaded, which was not the cafe. A great frailty may be a proper foundation for tragic distress, but I doubt if a great folly is. As to the other story which Gay has made the groundwork of a very popular ballad, the event on which it turns is barely possible but very improbable, and therefore unfit for poetry. I have heard of an event as extraordinary, though directly opposite in the catastrophe, from an eye witness whose veracity I can depend on, which though on the same ground unfit for fable, those of my readers who think as I do on the subject will forgive me for relating. My friend was at one of the small bathing towns on the fouthern coast of England, I believe Teignmouth, when the Royal George was loft at Spithead. He was in the street when the account came. A poor woman in
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. doctrine as to poetical justice, and the weakness of the audience, is exactly correspondent with that of Addison in the Spectator, and this doctrine is supported by the introduction of two as shocking tales as a gloomy imagination ever invented, or the accidental occurrence of diftrefsful incidents actually occasioned. In this country, however, the authority of a dictator even in matters of taste will never be admitted, an appeal lies to the people, and their decree has reversed this dictatorial edict. [H] The tragedy of King Lear has always ended with the happinefs of Cordelia and the restoration of the old monarch, from the first alteration of it by Tate. Indeed Addison himself was too good a whig in all the agony of maternal grief exclaimed, I had a fon on board. A man at the instant was riding down the street. It was that son who had got leave of absence, and had left the ship the day before the accident. In No. 117 of the Tatler, a doctrine diametrically opposite is held. 'Inventions of this ' kind (ending happily) ' are the food and exercise of a good-natured disposition, which they ' please and gratify at the same time that they nourish and strengthen.' This paper the later editors attribute to Addison, but the internal evidence is strongly in favour of its being Steele's. Particularly the story of the dream. [H] Davies in his Dramatic Miscellanies has remarked, that King Lear in its original state was never a favorite. Mr. Colman altered Tate's alteration, preserving the happy catastrophe, but rejecting the love scenes between Edgar and Cordelia. The reason given by Tate for this love episode is quite a la Françoise, viz. the want of heroism in Edgar to take such a mode of saving his life for his own fake only. However the idea that Cordelia gives those harsh answers to her father to avoid a difagreeable marriage, reconciles us to a conduct otherwise a little inconsistent with so gentle a character; but on the other hand it deprives Albany, who is drawn as a perfectly just man, of the only excuse he can have for arming against his own conviction. < Where I could not be honest, ‹ I never yet was valiant: for this business, ' It touches us as France invades our land.' Mm not
not to lay afide his assumed authority, and bow to the majesty of the people, and flatter their prevailing taste even in violation of ancient manners by wedding a Roman virgin to a barbarian king, and of Roman history by dismissing to happiness and quiet a young patriot, who expired foon afterwards with his country's freedom in the plains of Philippi, for the fake of giving a happy catastrophe to his celebrated tragedy. I fay a happy catastrophe, for as to the character of Cato, as it is drawn by Addison, we are neither interested in his life or concerned for his death. To argue from my own feelings, that arrangement of dramatic fable is at the same time the most affecting, and the most pleasing in which those characters in whose welfare we are strongly interested, after experiencing the greatest distress, and while their utter ruin or death seems inevitable, are at once relieved by a sudden revolution of fortune quite unexpected and yet not improbable [1]; and the pleafure received from this will be greatly encreased if the distress of the fable arises from tyranny and oppreffion [K], the author of which. is involved in ruin by the peripetía. Such an arrangement will both: excite pity and terror, and the catastrophe will be still agreeable to our feelings. This form is exemplified in the Wife for a Month of Beaumont and Fletcher, the Marriage A-la-Mode of Dryden, the Grecian [1] The difficulty of doing this, I believe, has occafioned more poets to follow the oppofite plan than the precept of Aristotle; for as Dryden observes in his preface to the Spanish Friar, It is not so easy a business to make a tragedy end happily; for 'tis more difficult • to save than 'tis to kill. The dagger and the cup of poifon are always in readiness; but • to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will * require the art and judgment of a writer, and cost him many a pang in the performance.' [K] This is even approved by Ariftotle. See Note VI. Chap. XVIII. Daughter,
Daughter, and above all in the fourth act of The Merchant of Venice. At the moment Shylock is preparing to execute his bloody purpose, the interpofition of Portia, Tarry a little-there is something else,' and the terror and disappointment of the Jew, has been already mentioned as affording the most striking theatrical situation that can be conceived. Perhaps the subsequent effect is something hurt by the raillery of Gratiano, the force of which should be kept down as much as poffible in the performance, instead of being highly exaggerated as it usually is. We have feen indeed the character of Portia given to a comic actress, and the gravest and most spirited parts of this scene made the vehicles of mimicry. In this Mrs. Clive was followed by Miss Macklin and others. Miss Young, now Mrs. Pope, had the honor of restoring Portia to her proper dignity. The fate of Sir Giles Overreach in Maffinger's New Way to Pay Old Debts, would be a masterpiece of this fort were it not for the circumstance [L] of his daughter being a party in the scheme to betray him, and the lord degrading his character as a nobleman, and still more as a foldier, by taking a principal part in the deception. Though the peripetía, or sudden revolution of fortune, when arifing even from accident is allowable in the tragedy with a happy catastrophe, as in the Wife for a Month of Beaumont and Fletcher, yet I think in the tragedy of the other form the unhappy catastrophe should be a necessary or probable consequence of the circumstances of the fable. Undeferved [L] From a circumstance of the same kind, though not immediately connected with the catastrophe, Shylock moves more of our compaffion than perhaps the poet intended; though this is greatly counteracted by the scene where his imprecations against his daughter's disobedience are alternately interrupted by his vows of vengeance against Antonio, Mm 2 mifery,
misery, purely accidental, will always displease in the representation. Our sense of moral fitness is hurt by it; we are apt to say [M] such things ought not to be. When such things happen in real life our first sentiments take that turn, and we can only reconcile them with our notions of a just and merciful Providence, by looking beyond this life; but we are not likely to make reflections of that kind at the theatre; the dramatic illufion is momentary; the instant we reason about it it vanishes. The distress in Romeo and Juliet arifes only from the Friar's coming a few minutes too late to the monument; and in Garrick's [N] alteration, by Romeo's drinking the poison a few moments too foon. The catastrophe of King Lear and of Douglas are both derived from accident. Tate has altered the first by making the messenger arrive only an instant sooner in the prison; in the original he comes time enough to fave the king. The other may be altered, and I believe has been on a private theatre, by making Douglas turn a moment sooner on Glenalvon. Tragedies of this fort do not require the great art and judgment mentioned by Dryden to change the catastrophe, but it can very feldom be done when the catastrophe arises inevitably from the incidents; as in the Edipus of Sophocles, and in Coriolanus, Othello, Timon of Athens, Venice Preserved, and the Fair Penitent. [o] Dr. Beattie blames the punishment of Lovelace in Clarifsa as not being the immediate consequence of his wickedness, but of fome infe- [M] Elements of Criticism, Vol. II. page 379. [N] By Garrick's judicious alteration the pathos is greatly increased. At the same time that I express a general opinion that the unhappy catastrophe ought not to arise from accident, I do not mean to say that when such an arrangement is adopted the merit of the poet does not increase in proportion as the power of affecting is made more forcible. [o] Effay on Fable and Romance, page 569. riority
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. riority to his antagonist in the use of the small sword. But though the wisdom of the age has abolished the trial by combat from our courts, it still makes a part of the jurisprudence of fable whether epic or dramatic [P]. On the stage we are pleased to fee Richard fall by the hand of Richmond, and Macbeth yield to Macduff, though from the characters of the combatants, it is most probable that the decifion of a duel would in reality have been the reverse. [P] We must nevertheless allow, that when either the epopee or the drama chuse to punish a character they have drawn superlatively vicious with death, they ought not to diftinguish his final conduct with any particular strokes of heroism. The ingenious author of Zelucco has erred in this respect when we consider what a fiend he is made. I think Thomson saw this clearly from the answer he makes Cassandra give to the vaunt of Ægifthus, in his tragedy of Agamemnon. EGISTHUS. We this important day • Will or with conquest crown, or bravely die. CASSANDRA. No, tyrant, no! the gods refuse thee that: • Not like the brave, but like the trembling coward, • Th' afsaffinating coward, shalt thou die.' M. Leffing, in speaking of the German tragedy of Richard the Third, makes a fimilar observation. (For the character of Richard, as drawn by the German poet, see Note Iv. on this chapter.) After so many crimes which we have been compelled to witness, we hear ⚫ that he has fallen in the field of battle. When the queen' (his sister-in-law, I prefume,) ' is informed of it, and the poet makes her say, "This is something," I have never been able ⚫ at the representation to refrain from faying to myself, " No! it's nothing." • More than ' one virtuous monarch has fallen in defending his crown against a powerful rebel. Richard ' dies indeed, but he dies like a hero; dies on the bed of honor: and can fuch a death recom- ⚫ pense me for the pain I have felt during all the piece from feeing the triumph of successful • villainy?' DRAMATURGIE, Part II. page 36. It was given only to Shakespear to paint the character of Richard as a cruel and successful tyrant without caufing him to awaken our disgust, and to make his death at the fame time honorable and supremely dreadful, by means of preceding machinery. NOTE
A COMMENTARY ON THE CHAP. XIII.
