Iratusque Chremes TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.
In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the reverse of this takes place. For the mind, oppressed and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks into a weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to submit, almost without resistance, to the incumbent affliction; or if we struggle at all with it, it is only to ease the labouring heart by putting forth some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings. Thus we find it represented by those perfect masters of simple nature, the Greek tragedians. So far are their sorrowing personages from entertaining any vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they constantly languish into sad repinings at their present, and trembling apprehensions of future, misery.
When these sentiments come to express themselves in words, what can they be but the plainest and simplest which the language of the complainant furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up with terms as humble as his fortune. His feeble conception is not only unapt or unable to look out for fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance throw them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings of another condition, and which serves only to upbraid his present wretchedness. The pomp of numbers and pride of poetic expression are so little his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to observe the ordinary exactness of mere prose[11]. And this even where the height of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more state and dignity.
Et tragicus plerumque DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.
Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself by entering into his own consciousness, and observing the sure dictates of experience. For what concerns the successful application of this rule in practice, every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.] must depend on the constitution of his own mind; which yet may be much assisted by the diligent study of those writers, who excel most in this way: in which class all agree to give the palm to Euripides.
But here it may not be improper to obviate a common mistake that seems to have arisen from the too strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule. Tragic characters, he says, will generally express their sorrows in a prosaic language. From this just observation, hastily considered and compared with the absurd practice of some writers, it hath been concluded, That what we call pure Poetry, the essence of which consists in bold figures and a lively imagery, hath no place on the Stage. It may not be sufficient to oppose to this notion the practice of the best poets, ancient and modern; for the question recurrs, how far that practice is to be justified on the principles of good criticism and common sense. To come then, to the Reason of the thing.
The capital rule in this matter is,
Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique.
But to do this, the Situation of the persons, and the various passions resulting from such situation, must be well considered. Each of these has a character or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But all agree in this property, that they occupy the whole attention of the speaker, and are perpetually offering to his mind a set of pictures or images, suitable to his state, and expressive of it. In these the tragic character of every denomination loves to indulge; as we may see by looking no farther than on what passes before us in common life, where persons, under the influence of any passion, are more eloquent and have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery, than at other times. So that to take from the speaker this privilege of representing such pictures or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is, in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest lessons.
’Tis true, if one character is busied in running after the Images which Nature throws in the way only of some other; or if, in representing such images as are proper to the character, the Imagination is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and amusing itself with circumstances that have no relation to the case in hand: then indeed the censure of these critics is well applied. It may be fine poetry, if you will, but very bad dramatic writing. But let the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if it be such only as the governing passion loves to conceive and paint, and if it be no further dilated on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity, than the natural working of the passion demands, the Drama is so far from rejecting such Poetry that it glories in it, as what is most essential to its true end and design.