Part 9

Seigneur, n’attirez point le tonnerre en ces lieux, Rangez-vous du parti des destins et des dieux, Et sans les accuser d’injustice, ou d’outrage, Puis qu’ils font les heureux, adorez leur ouvrage; Quels que soient leurs decrets, déclarez-vouz pour eux, Et pour leur obéir, perdez le malheureux. Pressé de toutes parts des coléres celestes, Il en vient dessus vous faire fondre les restes; Et sa tête qu’à peine il a pû dérober, Tout prête de choir, cherche avec qui tomber. Sa retraite chez vous en effet n’est qu’un crime; Elle marque sa haine, et non pas son estime; Il ne vient que vous perdre en venant prendre port, Et vous pouvez douter s’il est digne de mort! Il devoit mieux remplir nos vœux et notre attente, Faire voir sur ses nefs la victoire flotante; Il n’eût ici trouvé que joye et que festins, Mais puisqu’il est vaincu, qu’il s’en prenne aux destins J’en veux à sa disgrace et non à sa personne, J’exécute à regret ce que le ciel ordonne, Et du même poignard, pour César destiné, Je perce en soupirant son cœur infortuné. Vouz ne pouvez enfin qu’aux dépens de sa tête Mettre à l’abri la vôtre et parer la tempête. Laissez nommer sa mort un injuste attentat, La justice n’est pas une vertu d’etat. Le choix des actions, ou mauvaises, ou bonnes, Ne fait qu’anéantir la force des couronnes; Le droit des rois consiste à ne rien épargner; La timide équité détruit l’art de regner, Quand on craint d’être injuste on a toûjours à craindre, Et qui veut tout pouvoir doit oser tout enfraindre, Fuir comme un deshonneur la vertu qui le pert, Et voler sans scrupule au crime qui lui fert.

In the tragedy of _Esther_[57], Haman acknowledges, without disguise, his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another example of the same kind in the _Agamemnon_ of Seneca[58]. In the tragedy of _Athalie_[59], Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes he had been guilty of to satisfy his ambition.

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In Congreve’s _Double-dealer_, Maskwell, instead of disguising or colouring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy:

Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes; and whatsoever I commit of treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit.---- Treachery! what treachery? Love cancels all the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon their first foundations.

_Act 2. sc. 8._

In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, or dignity. I suspect the reason to be, that in the capital of France, love, by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real passion to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or fashion[60]. This may in some measure excuse their writers, but will never make their plays be relished among foreigners.

_Maxime._ Quoi, trahir, mon ami!

_Euphorbe._---- L’amour rend tout permis, Un véritable amant ne connoît point d’amis.

_Cinna, act 3. sc. 1._

_Cesar._ Reine, tout est paisible, et la ville calmée, Qu’un trouble assez leger avoit trop alarmée, N’a plus à redouter le divorce intestin Du soldat insolent, et du peuple mutin. Mais, ô Dieux! ce moment que je vous ai quittée, D’un trouble bien plus grand à mon ame agitée, Et ces soins importuns qui m’arrachoient de vous Contre ma grandeur même allumoient mon courroux. Je lui voulois du mal de m’être si contraire, De rendre ma presence ailleurs si necessaire. Mais je lui pardonnois au simple souvenir Du bonheur qu’a ma flâme elle fait obtenir. C’est elle dont je tiens cette haute espérance, Qui flate mes desirs d’une illustre apparence, Et fait croire à Cesar qu’il peut former de vœux, Qu’il n’est pas tout-à-fait indigne de vos feux, Et qu’il peut en pretendre une juste conquête, N’ayant plus que les Dieux au dessus de sa tête. Oui, Reine, si quelqu’un dans ce vaste univers Pouvoit porter plus haut la gloire de vos fers; S’il étoit quelque trône où vous puissiez paroître Plus dignement assise en captivant son maître, J’irois, j’irois à lui, moins pour le lui ravir, Que pour lui disputer le droit de vous servir; Et je n’aspirerois au bonheur de vous plaire, Qu’aprés avoir mis bas un si grand adversaire. C’etoit pour acquerir un droit si précieux, Que combatoit par tout mon bras ambitieux, Et dans Pharsale même il a tiré l’epée Plus pour le conserver, que pour vaincre Pompée. Je l’ai vaincu, Princesse, et le Dieu de combats M’y favorisoit moins que vos divins appas. Ils conduisoient ma main, ils enfloient mon courage, Cette pleine victoire est leur dernier ouvrage, C’est l’effet des ardeurs qu’ils daignoient m’inspirer; Et vos beaux yeux enfin m’ayant fait soûpirer, Pour faire que votre ame avec gloire y réponde, M’ont rendu le premier, et de Rome, et du monde; C’est ce glorieux titre, à présent effectif, Que je viens ennoblir par celui de captif; Heureux, si mon ésprit gagne tant sur le vôtre, Qu’il en estime l’un, et me permette l’autre. _Pompée, act 4. sc. 3._

The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, as being suited to no character nor passion. These may be subdivided into three branches: first, sentiments unsuitable to the constitution of man and the laws of his nature; second, inconsistent sentiments; third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance.

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When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared with that of running cross to nature. In the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides[61], Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situation, How much (says he) should I be touched with his misfortune! as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another than for one’s own.

_Osmyn._ Yet I behold her--yet--and now no more. Turn your lights inward, Eyes, and view my thought, So shall you still behold her--’twill not be. O impotence of sight! mechanic sense Which to exterior objects ow’st thy faculty, Not seeing of election, but necessity. Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, Successively reflect succeeding images. Nor what they would, but must; a star or toad; Just as the hand of Chance administers! _Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 8._

No man, in his senses, ever thought of applying his eyes to discover what passes in his mind; far less of blaming his eyes for not seeing a thought or idea. In Moliere’s _L’Avare_[62], Harpagon being robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that of the robber. And again he expresses himself as follows:

Je veux aller querir la justice, et faire donner la question à toute ma maison; à servantes, à valets, à fils, à fille, et à moi aussi.

This is so absurd as scarce to provoke a smile if it be not at the author.

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Of the second branch the following are examples.

---- Now bid me run And I will strive with things impossible, Yea get the better of them. _Julius Cæsar, act 2. sc. 3._

Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible. _Le Cid, act 5. sc. last._

Que son nom soit beni. Que son nom soit chanté. Que l’on celebre ses ouvrages Au de la de l’eternité.

_Esther, act 5. sc. last._ Me miserable! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell: myself am hell: And in the _lowest_ deep, a _lower_ deep Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide; To which, the hell I suffer seems a heav’n. _Paradise Lost, book 4._

Of the third branch, take the following samples.

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Lucan, talking of Pompey’s sepulchre,

---- Romanum nomen, et omne Imperium Magno est tumuli modus. Obrue saxa Crimine plena deûm. Si tota est Herculis Oete, Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia; quare Unus in Egypto Magno lapis? Omnia Lagi Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen Hæserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum, Magne, metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. _L. 8. l. 798._

Thus in Rowe’s translation:

Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies, Where-e’er Rome’s empire stretches, Pompey lies. Far be the vile memorial then convey’d! Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid. Shall Hercules all Oeta’s heights demand, And Nysa’s hill for Bacchus only stand; While one poor pebble is the warrior’s doom That fought the cause of liberty and Rome? If fate decrees he must in Egypt lie, Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply, Yield the wide country to his awful shade,} Nor let us dare on any part to tread,} Fearful we violate the mighty dead.}

The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus speaking to his mother,

What is this? Your knees to me? to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillop the stars: then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun: Murd’ring impossibility, to make What cannot be, slight work. _Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3._

_Cæsar._---- Danger knows full well, That Cæsar is more dangerous than he. We were two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. _Julius Cæsar, act 2. sc. 4._

_Almahide._ This day---- I gave my faith to him, he his to me.

_Almanzor._ Good Heav’n, thy book of fate before me lay But to tear out the journal of this day. Or if the order of the world below,} Will not the gap of one whole day allow,} Give me that minute when she made that vow.} That minute ev’n the happy from their bliss might give, And those who live in grief a shorter time would live. So small a link if broke, th’ eternal chain Would like divided waters join again. _Conquest of Granada, act 3._

_Almanzor._---- I’ll hold it fast As life; and when life’s gone, I’ll hold this last. And if thou tak’st it after I am slain, I’ll send my ghost to fetch it back again. _Conquest of Granada, part 2. act 3._

_Lynairaxa._ A crown is come, and will not fate allow. And yet I feel something like death is near. My guards, my guards---- Let not that ugly skeleton appear. Sure Destiny mistakes; this death’s not mine; She doats, and meant to cut another line. Tell her I am a queen---- but ’tis too late; Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate; Bow down, ye slaves---- Bow quickly down and your submission show; I’m pleas’d to taste an empire ere I go. [_Dies._ _Conquest of Granada, part 2. act. 5._

_Ventidius._ But you, ere love misled your wand’ring eyes, Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, Fram’d in the very pride and boast of nature, So perfect, that the gods who form’d you wonder’d At their own skill, and cry’d, A lucky hit Has mended our design. _Dryden, All for Love, act 1._

Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty.

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The famous Epitaph on Raphael is not less absurd than any of the foregoing passages:

Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori.

Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller:

Living, great Nature fear’d he might outvie Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought so extravagant.

CHAP. XVII.

Language of Passion.

Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect every one greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend or acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity, though natural, operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself; and self-affliction is the gratification of the passion. Immoderate grief is therefore mute; because complaining is struggling for relief:

It is the wretch’s comfort still to have Some small reserve of near and inward wo, Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, And glutton-like alone devour. _Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._

When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue. We complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress[63].

Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and in particular that of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed both in words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence[64] nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is also unequal and interrupted. And even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought is justly branded with the character of _loquacity_. Sensible persons express no thoughts but what make some figure. In the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest impulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after some interruption.

I already have had occasion to observe[65], that the sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words have an intimate connection with the ideas they represent; and the representation must be imperfect, if the words correspond not precisely to the ideas. An elevated tone of language to express a plain or humble sentiment, has a bad effect by a discordant mixture of feeling. There is not less discord when elevated sentiments are dressed in low words:

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult. Indignatur item privatis ac prope Socco Dignis carminibus narrari cœna Thyestæ. _Horace, Ars poet. l. 89._

This however excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is indulged beyond a just measure. The opposition betwixt the expression and the sentiment, makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality[66].

At the same time, all passions admit not equally of figures. Pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression. Humbling and dispiriting passions, on the contrary, affect to speak plain:

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri Telephus et Peleus: cum pauper et exul uterque; Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba, Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. _Horace, Ars poet. 95._

Figurative expression is the work of an enlivened imagination, and for that reason cannot be the language of anguish or distress. A scene of this kind is painted by Otway in colours finely adapted to the subject. There is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural simile with which the speech is introduced.

Belvidera talking to her father of her husband:

Think you saw what pass’d at our last parting; Think you beheld him like a raging lion, Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand Fix’d on my throat, while the extended other Grasp’d a keen threat’ning dagger; oh, ’twas thus We last embrac’d, when, trembling with revenge, He dragg’d me to the ground, and at my bosom Presented horrid death; cry’d out, My friends, Where are my friends? swore, wept, rag’d, threaten’d, lov’d; For he yet lov’d, and that dear love preserv’d me To this last trial of a father’s pity. I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought That that dear hand should do th’ unfriendly office; If I was ever then your care, now hear me; Fly to the senate, save the promis’d lives Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice. _Venice preserv’d, act 5._

To preserve this resemblance betwixt words and their meaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy has a languid and slow train of perceptions. The expression best suited to this state of mind, is where words not only of long but of many syllables abound in the composition. For that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage:

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, Where heav’nly-pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. _Pope, Eloisa to Abelard._

To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite, that the language conformable to the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly; surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an expression both rough and broken.

It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that in the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart. This is beautifully done in the following passage.

Me, me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum, O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis. _Æneid ix. 427._

Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely represented in the following examples:

---- Thou sun, said I, fair light! And thou enlighten’d earth, so fresh and gay! Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains! And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.-- _Paradise Lost, b. viii. 273._

---- Both have sinn’d! but thou Against God only; I, ’gainst God and thee: And to the place of judgement will return. There with my cries importune Heav’n; that all The sentence, from thy head remov’d, may light On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe; Me! Me! only just object of his ire. _Paradise Lost, book x. 930._

Shakespear is superior to all other writers in delineating passion. It is difficult to say in what part he most excels, whether in moulding every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the sentiments that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing properly every different sentiment. He imposes not upon his reader, general declamation and the false coin of unmeaning words, which the bulk of writers deal in. His sentiments are adjusted, with the greatest propriety, to the peculiar character and circumstances of the speaker; and the propriety is not less perfect betwixt his sentiments and his diction. That this is no exaggeration, will be evident to every one of taste, upon comparing Shakespear with other writers, in similar passages. If upon any occasion he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where passion enters not. By endeavouring in this case to raise his dialogue above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression[67]. Sometimes, to throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in some measure excuse Shakespear, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an observation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those who magnify every blemish that is discovered in the finest genius for the drama ever the world enjoy’d. They ought also for their own sake to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie generally at the surface, than his beauties, of which none can have a thorough relish but those who dive deep into human nature. One thing must be evident to the meanest capacity, that where-ever passion is to be display’d, Nature shows itself strong in him, and is conspicuous by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression[68].

I return to my subject from a digression I cannot repent of. That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty, not less rare than conspicuous. As to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one or other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different authors collect volumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my citations to the grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.

And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course without interruption.

In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety of his sentiments; and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged to attack him a second time. Were I to give instances from that author of the fault under consideration, I might copy whole tragedies; for he is not less faulty in this particular, than in passing upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would a comparison betwixt him and Shakespear upon the present point, redound more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine here is less incorrect than Corneille, though many degrees inferior to the English author. From Racine I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his _Phædra_, given by Theramene the companion of Hippolytus, and an eye-witness to the disaster. Theramene is represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent perturbation of mind.

Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage, La terre s’en émeut, l’air en est infecté, Le flot, qui l’apporta, recule epouvanté.

Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of this event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator.

A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézene, _&c._ _Act 5. sc. 6._

The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of _Bajazet_, of the same author, is a continued discourse, and but a faint representation of the violent passion which forc’d her to put an end to her own life.

Enfin, c’en est donc fait, _&c._ _Act 5. sc. last._