But, because the general practice of the Greek and Roman theatres, which strongly countenance the other opinion, may still be thought to outweigh this single Latin poet, together with all the eastern and western barbarians, that can be thrown into the balance, let me go one step further, and, by explaining the rise and occasion of this practice, demonstrate, that, in the present case, their authority is, in fact, of no moment.
The form of the Greek, from whence the Roman and our drama is taken, though generally improved by reflexion and just criticism, yet, like so many other great inventions, was, in its original, the product of pure chance. Each of its species had sprung out of a chorus-song, which was afterwards incorporated into the legitimate drama, and found essential to its true form. But reason, which saw to establish what was right in this fortuitous conformation of the drama, did not equally succeed in detecting and separating what was wrong. For the occasion of this chorus-song, in their religious festivities, was widely different: the business at one time, being to express their gratitude, in celebrating the praises of their gods and heroes; at another, to indulge their mirth, in jesting and sporting among themselves. The character of their drama, which had its rise from hence,[9] conformed exactly to the difference of these occasions. Tragedy, through all its several successive stages of improvement, was serious and even solemn. And a gay or rather buffoon spirit was the characteristic of comedy.
We see, then, the genius of these two poems was accidentally fixed in agreement to their respective originals; consequent writers contenting themselves to embellish and perfect, not change, the primary form. The practice of the ancient stage is then of no further authority, than as it accords to just criticism. The solemn cast of their tragedy, indeed, bears the test, and is found to be suitable to its real nature. The same does not appear of the burlesque form of comedy; no reason having been given, why it must, of necessity, have the ridiculous for its object. Nay the effects of improved criticism on the later Greek comedy give a presumption of the direct contrary. For, in proportion to the gradual refinement of this species in the hands of its greatest masters, the buffoon cast of the comic drama was insensibly dropt and even grew into a severity, which departed at length very widely from the original idea. The admirable scholar of Theophrastus, who had been tutored in the exact study of human life, saw so much of the genuine character of true comedy, that he cleansed it, at once, from the greater part of those buffoonries, which had, till his time, defiled its nature. His great imitator, Terence, went still further; and, whether impelled by his native humour, or determined by his truer taste, mixed so little of the ridiculous in his comedy, as plainly shews, it might, in his opinion, subsist entirely without it. His practice indeed, and the theory, here delivered, nearly meet. And the conclusion is, that comedy, which is the image of private life, may take either character of pleasant or serious, as it chances, or even unite them into one piece; but that the former is, by no means, more essential to its constitution, than the latter.
I foresee but one objection, that can be made to this theory; which has, in effect, been obviated already. “It may be said, that, if this account of comedy be just, it would follow, that it might, with equal propriety, admit the gravest and most affecting events, which inferior life furnishes, as the lightest. Whereas it is notorious, that distresses of a deep and solemn nature, though faithfully copied from the fortunes of private men, would never be endured, under the name of comedy, on the stage. Nay, such representations would rather pass, in the public judgment, for legitimate tragedies; of which kind, we have, indeed, some examples in our language.”
Two things are mistaken in this objection. First, it supposes, that deep distresses of every kind are inconsistent with comedy; the contrary of which may be learnt from the Self-tormentor of Terence. Next, it insinuates, that, if deep distresses of any kind may be admitted into comedy, the deepest may. Which is equally erroneous. For the manners being the proper object of comedy, the distress must not exceed a certain degree of severity, lest it draw off the mind from them, and confine it to the action only: as would be the case of murder, adultery, and other atrocious crimes, infesting private, as well as public, life, were they to be represented, in all their horrors, on the stage. And though some of these, as adultery, have been brought, of late, into the comic scene, yet it was not till it had lost the atrocity of its nature, and was made the subject of mirth and pleasantry to the fashionable world. But for this happy disposition of the times, comedy, as managed by some of our writers, had lost its nature, and become tragic. And, yet, considered as tragic, such representations of low life had been improper. Because, where the intent is to affect, the subject is with more advantage taken from high life, all the circumstances being, there, more peculiarly adapted to answer that end.
The solution then of the difficulty is, in one word, this. All distresses are not improper in comedy; but such only as attach the mind to the fable, in neglect of the manners, which are its chief object. On the other hand, all distresses are not proper in tragedy; but such only as are of force to interest the mind in the action, preferably to the observation of the manners; which can only be done, or is done most effectually, when the distressful event, represented, is taken from public life. So that the distresses, spoken of, are equally unsuited to what the natures both of comedy and tragedy, respectively, demand.
CHAP. III.
OF M. DE FONTENELLE’S NOTION OF COMEDY.
Notwithstanding the pains I have taken, in the preceding chapters, to establish my theory of the comic drama, I find myself obliged to support it still further against the authority of a very eminent modern critic. M. de Fontenelle hath just now published two volumes of plays, among which are some comedies of a very singular character. They are not only, in a high degree, pathetic; but the scene of them is laid in antiquity; and great personages, such as Kings, Princesses, &c. are of the drama. He hath besides endeavoured to justify this extraordinary species of comedy by a very ingenious preface. It will therefore be necessary for me to examine this new system, and to obviate, as far as I can, the prejudices which the name of the author, and the intrinsic merit of the plays themselves, will occasion in favour of it.
His system, as explained in the preface to these comedies, is, briefly, this.
“The subject of dramatic representation, he observes, is some event or action of human life, which can be considered only in two views, as being either that of public, or of private, persons. The end of such representation, continues he, is to please, which it doth either by engaging the attention, or by moving the passions. The former is done by representing to us such events as are great, noble, or unexpected: The latter by such as are dreadful, pitiable, tender, or pleasant. Of these several sources of pleasure, he forms what he calls a dramatic scale, the extremes of which he admits to be altogether inconsistent; no art being sufficient to bring together the grand, the noble, or the terrible, into the same piece with the pleasant or ridiculous. The impressions of these objects, he allows, are perfectly opposed to each other. So that a tragedy, which takes for its subject a noble, or terrible event, can by no means admit the pleasant. And a comedy, which represents a pleasant action, can never admit the terrible or noble. But it is otherwise, he conceives, with the intermediate species of this scale. The singular, the pitiable, the tender, which fill up the interval betwixt the noble and ridiculous, are equally consistent with tragedy and comedy. An uncommon stroke of Fortune may as well befall a peasant as a prince. And two lovers of an inferior condition may have as lively a passion for each other, and, when some unlucky event separates them, may deserve our pity as much, as those of the highest fortune. These situations then are equally suited to both dramas. They will only be modified in each a little differently. From hence he concludes, that there may be dramatic representations, which are neither perfectly tragedies nor perfectly comedies, but yet partake of the nature of each, and that in different proportions. There might be a species of tragedy, for instance, which should unite the tender with the noble in any degree, or even subsist entirely by means of the tender: And of comedy, which should associate the tender with the pleasant, or even retain the tender throughout to a certain degree to the entire exclusion of the pleasant.