Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres: Lecture XLV — Dramatic Poetry — Tragedy
Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been considered as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and serious discussion. According as it is employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave and affecting incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two forms, of comedy or tragedy. But as great and serious objects command more attention than little and ludicrous ones; as the fall of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private person; tragedy has always been held a more dignified entertainment than comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind. The other on their humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity are the great instruments of the former; ridicule is the sole instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall, therefore, be the object of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture shall be employed on it; after which, I shall treat of what is peculiar to comedy.
Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and behaviour of men, in some of the most trying and critical situations of life, is a noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of human manners and actions. For it does not, like the epic poem, exhibit characters by the narration and description of the poet; but the poet disappears; and the personages themselves are set before us, acting and speaking what is suitable to their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a trial of the author’s profound knowledge of the human heart. No kind of writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the strongest emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in which we behold ourselves, and the evils to which we are exposed; a faithful copy of the human passions, with all their direful effects, when they are suffered to become extravagant.
As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composition, so also, in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such power hath virtue happily over the human mind, by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, that as admiration cannot be raised in epic poetry, so neither in tragic poetry can our passions be strongly moved, unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us. Every poet finds, that it is impossible to interest us in any character, without representing that character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be perfect; and that the great secret for raising indignation, is to paint the person who is to be the object of it, in the colours of vice and depravity. He may, indeed, nay, he must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, because this is often the case in real life; but he will always study to engage our hearts in their behalf; and though they may be described as unprosperous, yet there is no instance of a tragic poet representing vice as fully triumphant, and happy, in the catastrophe of the piece. Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is made always to attend them; and misery of one kind or other is shown to be unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and admiration of virtuous characters, compassion for the injured and the distressed, and indignation against the authors of their sufferings, are the sentiments most generally excited by tragedy. And, therefore, though dramatic writers may sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of improprieties, though they may fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet no reasonable person can deny tragedy to be a moral species of composition. Taking tragedies complexly, I am fully persuaded, that the impressions left by them upon the mind are, on the whole, favourable to virtue and good dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious men have shown against the entertainments of the theatre, must rest only upon the abuse of comedy; which, indeed, has frequently been so great as to justify very severe censures against it.
The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy is, that it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity and terror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses have been put upon his words, and much altercation has followed among his commentators. Without entering into any controversy upon this head, the intention of tragedy may, I think, be more shortly and clearly defined, to improve our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests us in behalf of virtue, forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with proper sentiments on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, leads us to guard against errors in our own conduct, he accomplishes all the moral purposes of tragedy.
In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural and probable manner. For we must observe, that the natural and the probable must always be the basis of tragedy; and are infinitely more important there, than in epic poetry. The object of the epic poet, is to excite our admiration by the recital of heroic adventures; and a much slighter degree of probability is required when admiration is concerned, than when the tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the poet’s idea, and can admit the marvellous without being shocked. But tragedy demands a stricter imitation of the life and actions of men. For the end which it pursues is not so much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart; and the heart always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. Passion can be raised, only by making the impressions of nature and of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any wild or romantic circumstances into his story, the poet never fails to check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main effect of tragedy.
This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of the gods. Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place; as being strongly founded on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to heighten the terror of tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the plot which turn upon the interposition of deities, such as Euripides employs in several of his plays, are much to be condemned; both as clumsy and inartificial, and as destroying the probability of the story. This mixture of machinery with the tragic action is, undoubtedly, a blemish in the ancient theatre.
In order to promote that impression of probability which is so necessary to the success of tragedy, some critics have required, that the subject should never be a pure fiction invented by the poet, but built on real history or known facts. Such, indeed, were generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek tragedians. But I cannot hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any real history. In order to our being moved, it is not necessary, that the events related did actually happen, provided they be such as might easily have happened in the ordinary course of nature. Even when tragedy borrows its materials from history, it mixes many a fictitious circumstance. The greatest part of readers neither know, nor inquire, what is fabulous or what is historical, in the subject. They attend only to what is probable, and are touched by events which resemble nature. Accordingly, some of the most pathetic tragedies are entirely fictitious in the subject; such as Voltaire’s Zaire and Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others.
Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on which most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and of their probability affecting, is the conduct or management of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To regulate the conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of the three Unities; the importance of which it will be necessary to discuss. But, in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary that we first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, which will give light to several things relating to the subject.
Tragedy, like other arts, was, in its beginning, rude and imperfect. Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic entertainments are derived, the origin of tragedy was no other than the song which was wont to be sung at the festival of Bacchus. A goat was the sacrifice offered to that god; after the sacrifice, the priests, with the company that joined them, sung hymns in honour of Bacchus; and from the name of the victim, τράγος, a goat, joined with ᾠδή, a song, undoubtedly arose the word tragedy.
These hymns, or lyric poems, were sung sometimes by the whole company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alternately to each other; making what we call a chorus, with its strophes and antistrophes. In order to throw some variety into this entertainment, and to relieve the singers, it was thought proper to introduce a person who, between the songs, should make recitation in verse. Thespis, who lived about 536 years before the Christian era, made this innovation; and, as it was relished, Aeschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is properly the father of tragedy, went a step farther, introduced a dialogue between two persons, or actors, in which he contrived to interweave some interesting story, and his actors on a stage, adorned with proper scenery and decorations. All that these actors recited, was called episode, or additional song; and the songs of the chorus were made to relate no longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in which the actors were concerned. This began to give the drama a regular form, which was soon after brought to perfection, by Sophocles and Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all the tragic poets, flourished only 22 years after Aeschylus, and was little more than 70 years posterior to Thespis.
From the account which I have now given, it appears, that the chorus was the basis or foundation of the ancient tragedy. It was not an ornament added to it; or a contrivance designed to render it more perfect; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue was an addition to the chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of time, the chorus, from being the principal, became only the accessory in tragedy; till at last, in modern tragedy, it has disappeared altogether; which forms the chief distinction between the ancient and the modern stage.
This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the partisans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has gained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must be admitted, that the chorus tended to render tragedy both more magnificent, and more instructive and moral. It was always the most sublime and poetical part of the work; and being carried on, and accompanied with music, it must, no doubt, have diversified the entertainment greatly, and added to its splendour. The chorus, at the same time, conveyed constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as might most naturally be supposed present on the occasion; inhabitants of the place where the scene was laid, often the companions of some of the principal actors, and, therefore, in some degree, interested in the issue of the action. This company, which, in the days of Sophocles, was restricted to the number of fifteen persons, was constantly on the stage during the whole performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, entered into their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, moralized on all the incidents that were going on, and, during the intervals of the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they addressed the gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their misfortunes, and delivered many religious and moral sentiments.*
But, notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained by means of the chorus, the inconveniences, on the other side, are so great, as to render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, far more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural and probable imitation of human actions be the chief end of the drama, no other persons ought to be brought on the stage, than those who are necessary to the dramatic action. The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who have but a slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in itself, embarrassing to the poet, and, though it may render the spectacle splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and uninteresting, because more unlike a real transaction. The mixture of music, or song, on the part of the chorus, with the dialogue carried on by the actors, is another unnatural circumstance, removing the representation still farther from the resemblance of life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innumerable difficulties, in so contriving his plan, that the presence of the cho-
* The office of the chorus is thus described by Horace:
Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile
Defendat: neu quid medios intereinat actus,
Quod non proposito conducat, et haereat apte.
Ille bonis faveatque et consilietur amice,
Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes:
Ille dapes laudet mensae brevis; ille salubrem
Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis:
Ille tegat commissa, deosque precetur et oret,
Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. De Art. Poet.
The chorus must support an actor’s part,
Defend the virtuous, and advise with art;
Govern the choleric, and the proud appease.
And th’ short feasts of frugal tables praise;
Applaud the justice of well-governed states,
And peace triumphant with her open gates.
Intrusted secrets let them ne’er betray,
But to the righteous gods with ardour pray.
That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless
Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress;
Yet let their songs with apt coherence join,
Promote the plot, and aid the just design.
rus, during all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any probability. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free access to it. To many things that ought to be transacted in private the chorus must ever be witnesses; they must be the confederates of both parties, who come successively upon the stage, and who are, perhaps, conspiring against each other. In short, the management of a chorus is an unnatural confinement to a poet; it requires too great a sacrifice of probability in the conduct of the action; it has too much the air of a theatrical decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, which a poet must ever preserve, in order to move our passions. The origin of tragedy, among the Greeks, we have seen, was a choral song, or hymn, to the gods. There is no wonder, therefore, that on the Greek stage it so long maintained possession. But it may confidently, I think, be asserted, that if, instead of the dramatic dialogue having been superadded to the chorus, the dialogue itself had been the first invention, the chorus would, in that case, never have been thought of.
One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancient chorus, and would, be a considerable improvement of the modern theatre. Instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly chosen music, with which the audience is entertained in the intervals between the acts, a chorus might be introduced, whose music and songs, though forming no part of the play, should have a relation to the incidents of the preceding act, and to the dispositions which those incidents are presumed to have awakened in the spectators. By this means the tone of passion would be kept up without interruption; and all the good effects of the ancient chorus might be preserved, for inspiring proper sentiments, and for increasing the morality of the performance, without those inconveniences which arose from the chorus forming a constituent part of the play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the personages of the drama.
After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, and of the nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages and inconveniences attending it, our way is cleared for examining, with more advantage, the three unities of action, place, and time, which have generally been considered as essential to the proper conduct of the dramatic fable.
Of these three, the first, unity of action, is, beyond doubt, far the most important. In treating of epic poetry, I have already explained the nature of it; as consisting in a relation which all the incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, so as to combine naturally into one whole. This unity of subject is still more essential to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry. For a multiplicity of plots, or actions, crowded into so short a space as tragedy allows must, of necessity, distract the attention, and prevent passion from rising to any height. Nothing, therefore, is worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent actions in the same play; the effect of which is, that the mind being suspended and divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either to the one or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots; that is, the persons introduced may have different pursuits and designs; but the poet’s art must be shown in managing these so as to render them subservient to the main action. They ought to be connected with the catastrophe of the play, and to conspire in bringing it forward. If there be any intrigue which stands separate and independent, and which may be left out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, we may always conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. Such episodes are not permitted here, as in epic poetry.
We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison’s Cato. The subject of this tragedy is, the death of Cato: and a very noble personage Cato is, and supported by the author with much dignity. But all the love scenes in the play, the passion of Cato’s two sons for Lucia, and that of Juba for Cato’s daughter, are mere episodes; have no connexion with the principal action, and no effect upon it. The author thought his subject too barren in incidents, and in order to diversify it, he has given us, as it were, by the by, a history of the amours that were going on in Cato’s family; by which he hath the unity of his subject, and formed a very unseasonable junction of gallantry, with the high sentiments and public spirited passions which predominate in other parts, and which the play was chiefly designed to exhibit.
We must take care not to confound the unity of the action with the simplicity of the plot. Unity and simplicity import different things in dramatic composition. The plot is said to be simple, when a small number of incidents are introduced into it. But it may be implex, as the critics term it, that is, it may include a considerable number of persons and events, and yet not be deficient in unity; provided all the incidents be made to tend towards the principal object of the play, and be properly connected with it. All the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity in the action, but are remarkably simple in the plot; to such a degree, indeed, as sometimes to appear to us too naked, and destitute of interesting events. In the Oedipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole subject is no more than this: Oedipus, blind and miserable, wanders to Athens, and wishes to die there: Creon, and his son Polynices, arrive at the same time, and endeavour, separately, to persuade the old man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his own interest: he will not go: Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him; and the play ends with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, the plot, or fable, is nothing more than Ulysses, and the son of Achilles, studying to persuade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his uninhabited island, and go with them to Troy; which he refuses to do, till Hercules, whose arrows he possessed, descends from heaven and commands him. Yet these simple, and seemingly barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by Sophocles, as to become very tender and affecting.
Among the moderns, much greater variety of events has been admitted into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passion than it was among the ancients. A greater display of characters is attempted; more intrigue and action are carried on; our curiosity is more awakened, and more interesting situations arise. This variety is, upon the whole, an improvement on tragedy: it renders the entertainment both more animated and more instructive; and when kept within due bounds, may be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But the poet must, at the same time, beware of not deviating too far from simplicity, in the construction of his fable. For if he overcharges it with action and intrigue, it becomes perplexed and embarrassed; and, by consequence, loses much of its effect. Congreve’s Mourning Bride, a tragedy, otherwise far from being void of merit, fails in this respect; and may be given as an instance of one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of the ancient plots. The incidents succeed one another too rapidly. The play is too full of business. It is difficult for the mind to follow and comprehend the whole series of events; and, what is the greatest fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be plain and simple, is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate.
Unity of action must not only be studied in the general construction of the fable or plot, but must regulate the several acts and scenes, into which the play is divided.
The division of every play into five acts, has no other foundation than common practice, and the authority of Horace:
Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu
Fabula.* - De Art. Poet. v. 189.
It is a division purely arbitrary. There is nothing in the nature of the composition which fixes this number rather than any other; and it had been much better if no such number had been ascertained, but every play had been allowed to divide itself into as many parts, or intervals, as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek stage, whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the division by acts was totally unknown. The word act, never once occurs in Aristotle’s Poetics, in which he defines exactly every part of the drama, and divides it into the beginning, the middle, and the end; or, in his own words, into the prologue, the episode, and the exode. The Greek tragedy was, indeed, one continued representation, from beginning to end. The stage was never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But at certain intervals, when the actors retired, the chorus continued and sung. Neither do these songs of the chorus divide the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts; though some of the commentators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at which the chorus sung, are extremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion and the subject; and would divide the play sometimes into three, sometimes into seven or eight acts.
As practice has now established a different plan on the modern
* If you would have your play deserve success,
Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less. Francis f See the dissertation prefixed to Franklin’s translation of Sophocles.
stage, has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause in the representation at the end of each act, the poet must be careful that this pause shall fall in a proper place; where there is a natural pause in the action; and where, if the imagination has any thing to supply, that is not represented on the stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted during the interval.
The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject. It ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the spectators and, at the same time, to furnish them with materials for understanding the sequel. It should make them acquainted with the personages who are to appear, with their several views and interests, and with the situation of affairs at the time when the play commences. A striking introduction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect; but this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of dramatic writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by a prologue, or by a single actor appearing, and giving full and direct information to the spectators. Some of Aeschylus’s and Euripides’s plays are opened in this manner. But such an introduction is extremely inartificial, and therefore is now totally abolished, and the subject made to open itself by conversation among the first actors who are brought upon the stage.
During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and fourth acts, the plot should gradually thicken. The great object which the poet ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us in his story, to keep our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to languish, there is no more tragic merit. He should, therefore, introduce no personages but such as are necessary for carrying on the action. He should contrive to place those whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the most interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conversation, or mere declamation. The action of the play ought to be always advancing; and as it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the spectators, to be raised more and more. This is the great excellency of Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment and action, never of mere discourse; whereas, it is often a fault of the best French tragedians, that they allow the action to languish for the sake of a long and artful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, pity, and terror, should reign throughout a tragedy. Every thing should be full of movements. A useless incident, or an unnecessary conversation, weakens the interest which we take in the action, and renders us cold and inattentive.
The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of the plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the poet to be most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, that it be brought about by probable and natural means. Hence all unravellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night, mistakes of one person for another, and other such theatrical and romantic circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. In the next place, the catastrophe ought always to be simple; to depend on few events, and to include but few persons. Passion never rises so high when it is divided among many objects, as when it is directed towards one, or a few. And it is still more checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, that the understanding is put on the stretch to trace them, when the heart should be wholly delivered up to emotion. The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted, offends, against both these rules. In the last place, the catastrophe of a tragedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In proportion as it approaches, every thing should warm and glow. No long discourses; no cold reasonings; no parade of genius, in the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of the great revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where, the poet must be simple, serious, pathetic; and speak no language but that of nature.
The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon what is called an ‘Anagnorisis,’ or a discovery of some person to be different from what he was taken to be. When such discoveries are artfully conducted, and produced in critical situations, they are extremely striking; such as that famous one in Sophocles, which makes the whole subject of his CEdipus Tyrannus, and which is, undoubtedly, the fullest of suspense, agitation, and terror, that ever was exhibited on any stage. Among the moderns, two of the most distinguished Anagnorises, are those contained in Voltaire’s Merope, and Mr. Home’s Douglas; both of which are great masterpieces of the kind.
It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it should end unhappily. In the course of the play, there may be sufficient agitation and distress, and many tender emotions raised by the sufferings and dangers of the virtuous, though in the end, good men are rendered successful. The tragic spirit, therefore, does not want scope upon this system; and, accordingly, the Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire’s finest plays, such as Alzire, Merope, and the Orphan of China, with some few English tragedies likewise, have a fortunate conclusion. But, in general, the spirit of tragedy, especially of English tragedy, leans more to the side of leaving the impression of virtuous sorrow full and strong upon the heart.
A question intimately connected with this subject, and which has employed the speculations of several philosophical critics, naturally occurs here: how it comes to pass that those emotions of sorrow which tragedy excites, afford any gratification to the mind? For, is not sorrow in its nature a painful passion? Is not real distress often occasioned to the spectators, by the dramatic representations at which they assist? Do we not see their tears flow? and yet, while the impression of what they have suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble in crowds to renew the same distresses. The question is not without difficulty, and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men.* The most plain and satisfactory
* See Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book i. ch. xi. where an account is given of the hypothesis of different critics on this subject; and where one is proposed, with which, in the main, I agree. See also Lord Kaimos’s Essays on the Principles of Morality, Essay i., and Mr David Hume’s Essay on Tragedy.
account of the matter, appears to me to be the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takes a strong interest in the concerns of his fellow creatures, an internal satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest instincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. It is an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on account of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily involves. But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those affections. The heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same moment at which it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes: and the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affections, derives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. We are pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, and for entering, with proper sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. In tragedy, besides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish the painful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our distress is feigned, not real; and we are also gratified by the charms of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the beauty of action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mixture of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much heightened, by the representation of incidents extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to render us averse, either to the reading of such tragedies, or to the beholding of them upon the stage.
Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several scenes which make up the acts of a play.
The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is called a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should be closely linked and connected with each other; and much of the art of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion. Two rules are necessary to be observed for this purpose.
The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should never be left vacant, though but for a single moment; that is, all the persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should never go off together, and be succeeded by a new set of persons appearing in the next scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated, the act is closed. This rule is, very generally, observed by the French tragedians; but the English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any regard to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the stage: with so little connexion; the union of their scenes is so much broken, that, with equal propriety, their plays might be divided into ten or twelve acts, as well as into five.
The second rule, which the English writers also observe little better than the former, is, that no person shall come upon the stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for the one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, than for an actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for his appearing in that scene, except that it was for the poet’s purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment; or for an actor to go away without any reason for his retiring, farther than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is managing the personae dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are moved by wires, to answer the call of the master of the show. Whereas the perfection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should be conducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction; where we are let into the secret of all that is passing, where we behold persons before us always busy; see them coming and going; and know perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what they are employed.
All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dramatic action. In order to render the unity of action more complete, critics have added the other two unities of time and place. The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not so necessary. The unity of place requires, that the scene should never be shifted; but that the action of the play should be continued to the end, in the same place where it is supposed to begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, requires, that the time of the action be no longer than the time that is allowed for the representation of the play; though Aristotle seems to have given the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to comprehend the whole time of one day.
The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little as possible, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circumstances in the acting of the play, and to bring the imitation more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of dramatic exhibitions upon the Greek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to a more strict observance of these unities than is necessary in modern theatres. I showed, that a Greek tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning to end. There was no division of acts; no pauses or interval between them; but the stage was continually full; occupied either by the actors or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go beyond the precise time and place of the representation; any more than is allowed during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre.
But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some little time between the acts, has made a great and material change; gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient strict confinement to time and place less necessary. While the acting of the play is interrupted, the spectator can, without any great or violent effort, suppose a few hours to pass between every act; or can suppose himself moved from one apartment of a palace, or one part of a city, to another: and, therefore, too strict an observance of these unities ought not to be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any other way, than by the transgression of these rules.
On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with many an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities which were then so necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public area, to which all the persons concerned in the action might have equal access. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things as transacted there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, from limiting themselves so much in point of time. Incidents were unnaturally crowded; and it is easy to point out several instances in the Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a song of the chorus, which must necessarily have employed many hours.
But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a strict observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes of time and place; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or country, to another; or making several days or weeks to pass during the course of the representation, are liberties which shock the imagination, which give to the performance a romantic, and unnatural appearance, and, therefore, cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer who aspires to correctness. In particular, we must remember that it is only between the acts, that any liberty can be given for going beyond the unities of time and place. During the course of each act, they ought to be strictly observed; that is, during each act the scene should continue the same, and no more time should be supposed to pass, than is employed in the representation of that act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly observe. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English; to change the place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention of the division of a play into acts. Mr. Addison’s Cato is remarkable beyond most English tragedies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited himself, in time, to a single day; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous unity. The scene is never changed; and the whole action passes in the hall of Cato’s house, at Utica.
In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic represen tation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, the impression which he makes on us will always be the more perfect. Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly
essential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt by the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dramatic unities to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed without sacrificing more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, that by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators are deceived into a belief of the reality of the objects which are set before them on the stage; and that, when those unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a
Greek or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the whole to be an imitation only; but he requires that imitation to be conducted with skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the entertainment which he expects, the interest which he is to take in the story, all depend on its being so conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the imitation, and to rest on the probability; and the poet, who shocks him by improbable circumstances, and by awkward, unskilful imitation, deprives him of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the theatrical illusion.