EVery thought suggested by a passion or emotion, is termed a sentiment[47].
The knowledge of the sentiments peculiar to each passion considered abstractly, will not alone enable an artist to make a just representation of nature. He ought, over and above, to be acquainted with the various appearances of the same passion in different persons. Passions, it is certain, receive a tincture from every peculiarity of character; and for that reason, it rarely happens that any two persons vent their passions precisely in the same manner. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions, That a passion be adjusted to the character, the sentiments to the passion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature be not faithfully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived. There may appear some resemblance; but the picture upon the whole will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. A painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought to be intimately acquainted with muscular motion: not less intimately acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A general notion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and weak, elevated and humble, severe and gay, is far from being sufficient. Pictures formed so superficially, have little resemblance, and no expression. And yet it will appear by and by, that in many instances our reputed masters are deficient even in this superficial knowledge.
In handling the present subject, it would be endless to trace even the ordinary passions through their nicer and more minute differences. Mine shall be an humbler task; which is, to select from the best writers instances of faulty sentiments, after paving the way by some general observations.
To talk in the language of music, each passion hath a certain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the greatest accuracy. This is no easy work, especially where such harmony is to be supported during the course of a long theatrical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the personage represented. This requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, forgetting himself, can thus personate another, so as to feel truly and distinctly the various agitations of the passion, need be in no pain about the sentiments: these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as afterward to his reader. But if a lively picture even of a single emotion require an effort of genius; how much greater must the effort be, to compose a passionate dialogue, in which there are as many different tones of passion as there are speakers? With what ductility of feeling ought a writer to be endued who aims at perfection in such a work; when, to execute it correctly, it is necessary to assume different and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succession? And yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a dialogue in genteel comedy devoid of passion; where the sentiments must be tuned to the nicer and more delicate tones of different characters. That the latter is the more difficult task, appears from considering, that a character is greatly more complex than a passion, and that passions are more distinguishable from each other than characters are. Many writers accordingly who have no genius for characters, make a shift to represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its plain movements. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most difficult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject. To interweave characters with reasoning, by adapting to the peculiar character of each speaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expression, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgement.
How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reasoning, from the imperfect compositions of this kind found without number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity in voice or gesture, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and hearing, the acutest and most lively of our external senses: how much more rare must the talent be of imitating characters and internal emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed? The truth is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expressing a passion like one who is under its power, content themselves with describing it like a spectator. To awake passion by an internal effort merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility; and yet this operation is necessary not less to the writer than to the actor; because none but they who actually feel a passion, can represent it to the life. The writer’s part is much more complicated: he must join composition with action; and, in the quickest succession, be able to adopt every different character introduced in his work. But a very humble flight of imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator, so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight and hearing. In this figured situation, he is led naturally to describe as a spectator, and at second hand to entertain his readers with his own observations, with cool description and florid declamation; instead of making them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion[48]. Thus, in the bulk of plays, a tiresome monotony prevails, a pompous declamatory style, without entering into different characters or passions.
This descriptive manner of expressing passion, has a very unhappy effect. Our sympathy is not raised by description: we must be lulled first into a dream of reality; and every thing must appear as actually present and passing in our sight[49]. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may be termed a descriptive tragedy. After he has assumed the very passion that is to be represented, how must he be cramped in his action, when he is forced to utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a by-stander? It is this imperfection, I am persuaded, in the bulk of our plays, that confines our stage almost entirely to Shakespear, his many irregularities notwithstanding. In our latest English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion. But it would be fruitless labour, to search in any of them for a sentiment expressive of character; and, upon that very account, all our modern performances of the dramatic kind, are intolerably insipid.
Looking back upon the foregoing observation, I am uncertain whether it will be sufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated subject, I find some difficulty to express myself with perspicuity. I despair not however to place this matter in the clearest light, by adding example to precept. In the front shall be set one or two examples of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; and to them shall be opposed a few others that are descriptive only, and illegitimate. In making this comparison, I shall borrow my instances from Shakespear and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame.
Shakespear shall furnish the first instance, being of sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed passion.
Lear.——————Filial ingratitude!
Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to’t?—But I’ll punish home;
No, I will weep no more.—— In such a night,
To shut me out!—— Pour on, I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all—
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.——
Kent. Good, my Lord, enter here.