Before I come to the Art and Rise of the Stage, I shall say a Word or two of Shakespear, the English Ornament of it, and of his Works. I confess that I have nothing to add to his Life, written by Mr. Rowe, who has perfectly exhausted that Subject; yet he has, by declining a general and full Criticism, left me room enough to discourse both of the Author's Genius, and his Writings. As I shall give many more Examples of his Beauties, than those few which his Editor has but slightly glanc'd on in his Life; so shall I lay down such Rules of Art, as that the Reader may be able

to distinguish his Errors from his Perfections, now too much, and too unjustly confounded by the foolish Bigotry of his blind and partial Adorers. For there are a sort of Men, who deal by him, as some of our modern Dedicators do by their Patrons; denying them all Defects, and at the same time dawbing them with shining Qualities, which they do not only not possess, but have no need of, to compleat their Character: By so childish a Conduct not only bringing into question those which are really their Due, but making their Patrons as ridiculous, as themselves. For an unjust or ill-grounded Praise of the Living, is no better than fulsom Flattery; and of the Dead, only a mere assuming Compliment to ourselves, as Men of greater Genius, Discernment, and Penetration than others, in the Discovery of Beauties, which they are not able to find out. This is the very Fault which those Modernists lay to the Charge of the Admirers of the Antients: For while they would persuade us, that these have given Beauties to Homer, Virgil, Horace, &c. which those Poets never thought of, or design'd, they have advanc'd so unreasonable a Bigotry to our Poet, that if a Man, by Art and Reason, but question the greatest and most absurd of his Faults, with the Romans of old, on the same occasion—Clamant periisse Pudorem.

'Tis my Opinion, that if Shakespear had had those Advantages of Learning, which the perfect Knowledge of the Antients would have given him; so great a Genius as his would have made him a very dangerous Rival in Fame to the greatest Poets of Antiquity: So far am I from seeing, how this Knowledge could either have curb'd, confin'd, or spoil'd the natural Excellence of his Writings. For tho I must always think our Author a Miracle, for the Age he liv'd in, yet I am oblig'd, in Justice to Reason and Art, to confess that he does not come up to the Antients, in all the Beauties of the Drama; yet it is no small Honour to him, that he has surpass'd them in the Topicks or Common Places.

But to put his Errors and his Excellencies on the same Bottom, is to injure the latter, and give the Enemies of our Poet

an Advantage against him, of doing the same; that is, of rejecting his Beauties, as all of a piece with his Faults. This unaccountable Bigotry of the Town to the very Errors of Shakespear was the Occasion of Mr. Rymer's Criticisms, and drove him as far into the contrary Extreme. I am far from approving his Manner of treating our Poet: Tho Mr. Dryden owns that all, or most of the Faults he has found, are just; yet he adds this odd Reflection: “And yet, says he, who minds the Critick, and who admires Shakespear less?” That was as much as to say, “Mr. Rymer has indeed made good his Charge, and yet the Town admir'd his Errors still:” Which I take to be a greater Proof of the Folly and abandon'd Taste of the Town, than of any Imperfections in the Critick. And this, in my Opinion, expos'd the Ignorance of the Age he liv'd in; to which, Mr. Rowe very justly ascribes most of his Faults. It must be own'd, that Mr. Rymer carry'd the Matter too far, since no Man, who has the least Relish of Poetry, can question his Genius: For, in spite of his known and visible Errors, when I read Shakespear, even in some of his most irregular Plays, I am surpriz'd into a Pleasure so great, that my Judgment is no longer free to see the Faults, tho they are ever so gross and evident. There is such a Witchery in him, that all the Rules of Art, which he does not observe, tho built on an equally solid and infallible Reason, as intirely vanish away in the Transports of those that he does observe, as if I had never known any thing of the Matter. The Pleasure, I confess, is as peculiar as strong; for it comes from the admirable Draughts of the Manners, visible in the Distinction of his Characters, and his surprizing Reflections and Topicks, which are often extremely heighten'd by the Expression and Harmony of Numbers: For in these no Man ever excell'd him, and very few ever came up to his Merit. Nor is his nice touching the Passion of Joy, the least Source of this Satisfaction; for he frequently moves this, in some of the most indifferent of his Plays, so strongly, that it is impossible to quell the Emotion. There is likewise ever a Sprightliness in his Dialogue, and often a Genteelness, especially

in his Much ado about Nothing, which is very surprizing for that Age, and what the Learned BEN could not attain by all his Industry: And I confess, if we make some small Allowance for a few Words and Expressions, I question whether any one has since excell'd him in that Particular.

Tho all these Beauties were owing chiefly to a natural Strength of Genius in him, yet I can never give up his Acquaintance with the Antients, so intirely as Mr. Rowe has done; because I think there are many Arguments to prove, that he knew at least some of the Latin Poets, particularly Ovid; two of his Epistles being translated by him: His Motto to Venus and Adonis is another Proof. But that he had read Plautus himself, is plain from his Comedy of Errors, which is taken visibly from the Menœchmi of that Poet; as will be evident, when we come to consider that Play. The Characters he has in his Plays drawn of the Romans, is a Proof, that he was acquainted with their Historians; and Ben himself, in his commendatory Verses before the first Folio Edition of Shakespear's Works, allows him to have a little Latin, and less Greek; that is, he would not allow him to be as perfect a Critick in the Latin, as he himself was; but yet that he was capable of reading at least the Latin Poets; as is, I think, plainly prov'd. For I can see no manner of Weight in that Conjecture, which supposes that he never read the Antients, because he has not any where imitated them; so fertile a Genius as his, having no need to borrow Images from others, which had such Plenty of his own. Besides, we find by Experience, that some of our modern Authors, nay, those who have made great Figures in the University for their Wit and Learning, have so little follow'd the Antients in their Performances, that by them a Man could never guess that they had read a Word of them; and yet they would take it amiss, not to be allow'd to be very well read both in the Latin, and Greek Poets. If they do this in their Writings out of Pride, or want of Capacity; may we not as justly suppose, that Shakespear did it out of an Abundance of his own natural Stock? I contend not here to prove, that he was a perfect Master of either the Latin, or Greek

Authors; but all that I aim at, is to shew, that as he was capable of reading some of the Romans, so he had actually read Ovid, and Plautus, without spoiling or confining his Fancy, or Genius.

“Whether his Ignorance of the Antients were a Disadvantage to him or no, may admit of a Dispute.” I am surpriz'd at the Assertion; unless Mr. Rowe means, That all things may be argu'd upon; and that the Problems of Euclid, so long admitted as indisputable, may, by a new sort of Scepticism, be call'd in question. The Reason he assigns for this, is thus: “For tho the Knowledge of them might have made him more correct, yet it is not improbable but that the Regularity and Deference for them, which would have attended that Correctness, might have restrain'd some of that Fire, Impetuosity, and even beautiful Extravagance, which we admire in Shakespear.” I must own, that I am not capable of comprehending his Proof, or indeed of finding that it is any Proof at all: For if the Knowledge of the Antients would have made him correct, it would have given him the only Perfection he wanted; and that is certainly an Advantage not to be disputed. But then this “Correctness might have restrain'd some of that Fire, Impetuosity, and even Beautiful Extravagance, &c.” We do not find, that Correctness in Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, Euripides, &c. restrain'd any Fire that was truly celestial: And why we should think, that it would have had a worse Effect on Shakespear, I cannot imagine; nor do I understand what is meant by Beautiful Extravagance: For if it be something beyond Nature, it is so far from being admir'd by Men of Sense, that it is contemn'd and laugh'd at. For what there is in any Poem, which is out of Nature, and contrary to Verisimilitude and Probability, can never be beautiful, but abominable. The Business of Poetry is to copy Nature truly, and observe Probability and Verisimilitude justly; and the Rules of Art are to shew us what Nature is, and how to distinguish its Lineaments from the unruly and preposterous Sallies and Flights of an irregular, and uninstructed Fancy. So that as I think it is plain, that Shakespear was

not intirely ignorant of the Antients; so, I believe, it is as evident, that he would have been much more, not less, perfect than he is, had his Ignorance of them been much less, than it really was. A judicious Reader of our Author will easily discover those Defects, that his Beauties would make him wish had been corrected by a Knowledge of the whole Art of the Drama. For it is evident, that by the Force of his own Judgment, or the Strength of his Imagination, he has follow'd the Rules of Art in all those Particulars in which he pleases. I know, that the Rules of Art have been sufficiently clamour'd against by an ignorant and thoughtless sort of Men of our Age; but it was because they knew nothing of them, and never consider'd, that without some Standard of Excellence, there could be no Justice done to Merit, to which Poetasters, and Poets must else have an equal Claim, which is the highest Degree of Barbarism. Nay, without an Appeal to these very Rules, Shakespear himself is not to be distinguish'd from the most worthless Pretenders, who have often met with an undeserv'd Applause, and challeng'd the Title of great Poets from their Success.

Nature, Nature is the great Cry against the Rules. We must be judg'd by Nature, say they; not at all considering, that Nature is an equivocal Word, whose Sense is too various and extensive ever to be able to appeal to; since it leaves it to the Fancy and Capacity of every one, to decide what is according to Nature, and what not. Besides, there may be a great many things natural, which Dramatick-Poetry has nothing to do with. To do the Needs of Life, is as natural as any Action of it; but to bring such a thing into a Piece of History-Painting, or Dramatick-Poetry, would be monstrous and absurd, tho natural; for there may be many things natural in their proper Places, which are not so in others. It is therefore necessary, there should be Rules to let the Poet know not only what is natural, but when it is proper to be introduc'd, and when not. The Droll-Pieces of the Dutch are all very natural; yet I dare believe there is no Man so very ignorant of the Decorum of History-Painting, as to think, that in the Tent of Darius, by Monsieur Le Brun, or the Jephtha's

Sacrifice, it wou'd be natural or proper to introduce one of those Droll-Pieces, either of drinking, dancing, snick-or-snee, or the like. For tho both the Painters have propos'd Nature for their Copy, and have drawn her perfectly well; yet Grief and Laughter are so very incompatible, that to join these two Copies of Nature together, wou'd be monstrous, and shocking to any judicious Eye. And yet this Absurdity is what is done so commonly among us in our Tragi-Comedies; this is what our Shakespear himself has frequently been guilty of, not only in those Mixtures which he has given us of that kind, but in many other Particulars, for want of a thorow Knowledge of the Art of the Stage.

After this, I hope no Man will assert, that Criticism is an ill-natur'd Work, unless he will declare for all the Extravagancies of Ignorance, and that Absurdities ought to be indulg'd for the sake of a great Name. For if Truth and Reason may be of any Account, to point out the real Errors of any Man, must be thought a good-natur'd Office; since it is to bring Men to a just Sense of things, and a true Knowledge and Taste of Nature, and Art. Did ever any Man think it an ill-natur'd thing to tell a Friend of his Mistakes in Conduct? Much less must it be thought so in the Discoveries of the Errors of writing; because by the Correction many are inform'd how to direct themselves justly, and not to follow the Ignes Fatuos of a distemper'd Fancy, without ever consulting Judgment; which must make its Decision by the Rules of Art. I confess, that there is a Decency in doing this, which to forsake, is to become liable to this Censure, as Mr. Rymer has done; who was not content to point out the Faults of Shakespear, but would deny him all manner of Excellence: The like has been done by the Remarker on Cato. This indeed favours of Ill-nature and Envy: But sure no body will accuse Aristotle of the same Crime, for those he discovers in Sophocles, Euripides, and some other Greek Poets, whose Beauties and Perfections he recommends to our Imitation. Notwithstanding that he forms from these his Poeticks, and tho they were of such great Authority and Esteem; yet this Father of all Criticks makes no

Difficulty of showing in what they transgress'd the Rules, which he founds on Reason, and Nature: Which the Athenians rightly look'd on, as a piece of Justice, not Ill-nature. For if, as he allow'd them their Excellencies, he had not pointed out their Defects; he had left room for a Bigotry to a Name, to have made their Vices pass for Virtues, to the prejudice of the just Improvement of so noble an Art. Thus I shall all along recommend the Beauties of Shakespear; but must beg leave to lay down the Rules of the Drama, lest we fall into an erroneous Imitation of his Faults. The Answer of Dionysius to Pompey the Great, will be just, to all who shall be of his mind,—Pompey complain'd, that he had found fault with Plato, to which he replies in this manner,—“Your Veneration for Plato is just, but your Accusation of me unjust. When a Man writes to show what is good or bad in a Subject, he ought, with the utmost Exactness, to point out its Virtues, and Vices, because that is a certain way to come at the Truth, which is the most valuable of all things. Had I wrote against Plato, with a Design to decry his Works, I ought to have been accounted as envious as Zoilus; but, on the contrary, my Design was to praise him: Yet if in doing this, I have discover'd and improv'd any of his Errors or Defects, I have done nothing that merits a Complaint, &c.‘

This, I hope, is sufficient to clear just Criticism from the Imputation of Ill-nature: And I am of opinion, that since Poetry has always been esteem'd, in all civiliz'd and polite Countries, a noble Art; there is a Necessity to free it from that Barbarism it has hitherto lain under in this Nation, especially in its most valuable and useful Part, the Drama; to lay down those Rules which may form our Judgment, and bring it to a Perfection, that it has not yet known among us.

There is indeed a very formidable Party among us, who are such Libertines in all manner of Poetry, especially in the Drama, that they think all regular Principles of Art an Imposition not to be born; yet, while they refuse in Poetry just Rules, as a Test of their Performance, they will allow no Man a Master in any other, that follows not the Rules of his Art, be it

Painting, Statuary, Architecture, &c. tho the Precepts of Poetry are not less founded on Nature, and Reason, and must indeed be the only Distinction betwixt an Artist, and a Pretender. This false Notion has open'd a Door to all the abominable Scriblers, who have so often won a Reputation from the Ignorance of the Town (to the Scandal of the Nation) nay, who have pass'd for Authors of the first Rank; tho their Writings, as Ben Johnson, in his Discoveries, has it, A Man would not wrap up any wholesome Drug in, &c. For if Poetry have no certain Standard of Excellence, no fix'd Rules to go by; then it must of consequence be an arbitrary Licence of writing what extravagant thing soever one pleases; and that Mess of Madness, that is most plausibly cook'd up by the Players, and goes best down with the Mob, that is, the Ignorant of all Degrees and Stations, is the best Poetry: A Notion so very whimsical, that it was never entertain'd in any City in the Universe, but London (and perhaps Madrid,) for it levels all Men, makes Settle and Durfey as good Poets as Otway, and Addison: Which is to deter Men of Learning and Genius from writing, since they are liable to Censures, almost as scandalous as those the Poets of Madrid are subject to; as we have the Account from The Lady's Travels into Spain: Which, because it bears some Proportion to the State of our Stage, I shall transcribe.

—‘The finest Comedy in the World, (says she) I mean those acted in the Cities, very often receive their Fate from the weak Fancy of some ignorant Wretch or other. But there is one particularly, a Shoe-maker, who decides the Matter, and who has gain'd so absolute an Authority so to do, that when the Poets have made their Plays, they go to him, and as it were, sue to him for his Approbation: They read to him their Plays; and the Shoe-maker, with grave Looks thereupon, utters abundance of Nonsence; which nevertheless the poor Poet is forc'd to put up. After all, if he happens to be at the first acting of it, every body has his Eyes upon the Behaviour and Action of this pitiful Fellow: The young People, of what Quality soever, imitate him; if he yawns, they yawn; if he laughs, so do they. In a word, sometimes he grows angry or

weary, and then takes a little Whistle, and falls a whistling; at the same time you hear an hundred Whistles, which make so shrill a noise that 'tis enough to confound the Heads of all the Spectators. By this time, our poor Poet is quite ruin'd; all his Study and Pains having been at the Mercy of a Blockhead, according as he was in good or bad Humour.’

This perhaps may seem a harder Fate, than what our Poets here are liable to: But whilst Ignorance is to be Judge of Art, and the Direction of the Theatre is in such Hands, it is certain, the Case is much the same. For the Fate of a Play depends on these Gentlemen's Opinion of it, who have nothing to guide them but Fancy, which leads them ten times into an Error, for once that it hits right; and then it is by wondrous chance. Nay, it is no new Defect of the Stage; for when the Poets, that is, the Masters of the Art, left off ordering the Stage, and directing the Actors, as the admirable Critick Monsieur Dacier observes in his Notes on the last Chapter of Aristotle's Art of Poetry, the Players being left to themselves, immediately spoil'd the acting, and degenerated from that Wisdom and Simplicity, by which they had been maintain'd.

These are the Gentlemen particularly that bring their Arguments against regular Plays, which had been as falsly urg'd before the Reformation of the French Stage; as is plain from the Academy's Animadversions on the Cid of Corneille, p. 22: Let their Words justify my Assertion—Que si au contraire, quelques Pieces regulaires donnent peu de Satisfaction; il ne faut pas croire, que ce soit la Faute des Regles, mais bien celles des Auteurs; dont le Sterile Genie na pu fournir a l' Art, une que fust assez Riche: i. e. ‘If, on the contrary, some regular Pieces give but little Satisfaction, you ought not to believe, that this is the Fault of the Rules, but of the Authors; whose barren Genius cannot supply Art with what is rich and noble.’ The Rules of Art indeed are not for any Man, to whom Nature has not given a Genius; without which it is impossible to observe, or indeed perfectly to understand them.

The ingenious Michael Cervantes, the celebrated Author of Don Quixot, tells us, that the same Objection was made to him in Defence of irregular Plays, that had usurp'd the Spanish Stage under the Direction of the Actors. Which I shall transcribe, because it shows that Stage to be like ours; that the Opinion of a Man of his Wit and Judgment, may have a just Influence on those, who look more on Authority, than Reason.

In the 50th Chapter of his first Part, the Canon and the Curate are discoursing to this purpose,—‘If these Plays, that are now in vogue, as well those that are mere Fiction, as those that are taken out of History, are all or the greatest part of them, plain visible Fopperies, and things without Head or Tail; yet the Multitude delights in, and thinks them good, tho they are so far from it. And if the Poets who write, and the Players who act, say they must be such, because the Multitude will have them so, and no otherwise; and that those which are regular, and carry on the Plot according to Art, are only of use to a few wise Men, who understand them, and all the rest make nothing of them; and that it is better for them to get their Bread by Many, than to be look'd on by a Few— If this be so, I say, the same will be the Fate of my Book; after I have crack'd my Brain to observe the Rules I have spoken of, I shall lose my Labour. And tho I have sometimes endeavour'd to persuade the Actors, that they are in the wrong in following that Opinion; and that they would draw more People, and gain more Reputation by acting Plays, that are according to the Rules of Art, than by those Mad ones: They are so fond of their own Opinion, that there is no bearing them out of it. I remember I once said to one of these obstinate Men—Tell me, don't you remember that a few Years ago, there were three Plays acted in Spain, written by a famous Poet of this Kingdom, which were so excellent, that they astonish'd, pleas'd, and surpriz'd all that saw them, as well ignorant, as wise; the Multitude, as better Sort? And those three alone yielded the Actors more Money than thirty

of the best that have been made since. Doubtless, Sir, said the Poet I speak of, you mean the Isabella, Phillis, and Alexander? I mean the same, quoth I, and see whether those did not observe the Rules of Art; and did not please all People? So that the Fault is not in the Multitude, who require Follies: but in those, who know not how to show them any thing else. Nor was the Play of Ingratitude Reveng'd a Foppery; nor was there any in that of Numantia; nor the Amorous Merchant; much less in the Favourable She-Enemy; nor in some others, that have been written by judicious Poets, to their great Reputation and Renown, and to the Advantage of those that acted them. Much more I urg'd; which, in my Opinion, confounded, but did not convince him, so as to make him recede from his erroneous Conceit.’

‘You have hit on a thing, Master Canon, (answer'd the Curate) that has stir'd up the old Grudge I bear the Plays now in use; which is not inferior to my Aversion to Books of Knight-Errantry. For whereas the Drama, according to Tully, ought to be a Mirror of human Life, a Pattern of Manners, and a lively Image of Truth; those, that are acted now-a-days, are Mirrors of Extravagancies; Patterns of Follies; and lively Images of Lewdness. For what greater Extravagancies can there be, than to bring on a Child in its Swadling-bands, in the first Scene of the First Act; and in the second to have him walk in, as grown up to a stout Man? And what greater Folly than to represent to us a fighting old Fellow, and a cowardly young Man; an haranguing Footman; a Page taking on him to be a Privy-Counsellor; a King a mere Clown; a Princess an errant Cook-Wench? What shall I say to the Time and Place, that these Accidents may or might have happen'd in? For I have seen a Play, whose first Act began in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third in Africa; and had it held out four Acts, the fourth would have ended in America; and so it would have been acted in all the four Quarters of the World.

And if Imitation be the principal Part of the Drama, how is it possible that any tolerable Understanding should be pleas'd

to see, that when they are acting a Passage, that happen'd in the Days of King Pepin, or Charlemagne; the same Man, who acts the Hero of the Play, should be made the Emperor Heraclius, who carry'd the Cross to Jerusalem, in order to recover the Holy Sepulchre, as Godfrey of Bulloin did, when there are many Years distance betwixt those Actions? Or when the Play is grounded on Fiction, to apply it to Truths out of History; or patch it up with Accidents, that happen'd to several Persons, and at a several Times; and this not with any Contrivance to make it appear probable, but with manifest Errors altogether inexcusable? And the worst of it is, there are some Blockheads who call this Perfection, and all the rest Notion and Pedantry, &c.’

And after some Reflections on the monstrous Miracles forg'd for their religious Plays, he proceeds—

—‘All this is an Affront to Truth, a Discredit to History, and a Shame to the Spanish Wits. Because Foreigners, who are very strict in observing the Laws of the Drama, look on us as ignorant and barbarous, when they see the Absurdity, and enormous Folly of these we write. And that is not excus'd by saying, that the chief Design of well-govern'd Commonwealths, in permitting Plays to be acted, is to divert the Commonalty with some lawful Recreation, to disperse the ill Humours that Idleness often breeds; and that since this is done by any Play good, or bad, there is no Occasion to prescribe Laws, or confine those that write, or those that act them, to make them such as they ought to be: For, as I said, any of them serve to compass the End design'd by them. To this I would answer, that the End would be infinitely better attain'd by good Plays, than these that are not so. For a Man, after seeing a good and well-contriv'd Play, would go away pleas'd with the Comedy, instructed by the serious Part, surpriz'd at the Plot, improv'd by the Language, warn'd by the Frauds, inform'd by the Examples, disgusted at Vice, and in love with Virtue: For a good Play must work all these Effects upon him That sees it, tho he be never so rude, and unthinking. And

it is absolutely impossible, but that a Play, that has all these Qualifications, must please, divert, satisfy, and content beyond that which wants them; as for the most part those do that are now acted. And the Poets that write them are not in the Fault; for some of them are very sensible of the Errors they commit, and know what they ought to do. But Plays being become venal, they say, and are in the right on't, that the Actors would give nothing for them, if they were not of that Stamp. And therefore the Poet endeavours to suit himself to what the Actor, who is to pay for it, requires, &c.’

This is so near an Image of our Dramatick State, in this Nation, that I hope the Observation of so receiv'd a Wit as Michael Cervantes, will have some weight with our Men of Figure, who are, or would be thought Men of Sense and Politeness. Yet, if they should think Authority insufficient, because against their wretched Goûst; I shall shew, that Reason is as much against them: and then shew the Source of our ill Taste, and the Corruption of our Stage, by giving a View of the Original and Rise of the Drama, in Greece, in Rome, and in this Nation.

To come therefore to Reason, against those blind Enemies to Regularity, and without which there can be no Harmony, we must prove that Poetry is an Art.

As the Injustice of Men was the Cause of Laws, so the Decay of Arts, and the Faults committed in them (as Dacier observes) oblig'd Men first to make Rules, and afterwards to revive them. The Laws of Legislators place all their Reason in their Will, or the present Occurrences; but the Rules of Poetry advance nothing but what is accompany'd with Reason, and drawn from the common Sentiments of Mankind: so that Men themselves become the Rule and Measure of what these prescribe.

All Arts are certain Rules or Means of arriving at, or doing something that is good and beneficial to Mankind; now Poetry aiming at the Instruction of Men by Pleasure, it proposes a certain End for the Good of Men: it must therefore have certain Rules or Means of obtaining that End; and is therefore an Art.

Poetry is not only an Art, but its Rules are known, and it is impossible to succeed without them. The certain Consequence of this is, that the Rules, and what pleases, are never contrary to each other, and that you can never obtain the latter, without the former. Secondly, That Poesy being an Art, can never be prejudicial to Mankind: for when any Verses are so, they deviate from the Rules, and are no longer Poetry, which was invented, and improv'd for their advantage only. Poesy owes its Rise to Religion: Hymns in the praise of, and Thanksgiving to Heaven for Blessings receiv'd, was the original Poetry; for Men, naturally inclin'd to Imitation, employ'd their native Tendence to Musick and Song, to the Praises of their Gods: And had Man continu'd in his primitive Simplicity, Hymns and Divine Songs, as among the Hebrews, had been all our Poetry. But in the Heathen System, Men soon deviated from this Purity; admitting first the Praise of Men, and then Satire, or Raillery on one another at their drunken Meetings, at Harvest-home, or the like. Thus Poetry being corrupted soon, scarce retain'd any Footsteps of Religion, whence it first sprung.

The succeeding Poets, being the Divines and Philosophers of those times, observing the invincible Bent of the People to these Feasts and Shows, and that it would be a fruitless Labour and Endeavour to restore their primitive Simplicity; took an admirable and wise care to turn this Inclination of theirs to Pleasure, to their advantage; by making that Pleasure convey Instruction to them, in so agreeable a manner.

To pass over the various Changes of Poetry, we must remember that we owe to Homer the Epick Poem; and in that, the Origin of Tragedy, more excellent for the Regulation of the Passions, than the Epopee, which only reach'd to Customs. The Invention of Comedy some attribute to the Corruption and degenerate Luxury of the People, some to the Margites of Homer; but both these Opinions are easily reconcil'd: for the Opprobria Rustica, as Horace calls them, the lewd Railleries of the Country-People at their drunken rural Festivals, gave the Ground-work, which the Margites of Homer reduc'd into a more decent Form and Order,

and gave the Idea, whence after-Poets deriv'd the antient Comedy.

But hence it is plain, as I have said, that Poesy is an Art, because we see from its Rise it has propos'd a certain End, and must necessarily have certain Means to be conducted to that End. For where there is a Right and a Wrong, there must be some Art or Rules to avoid the one, and arrive at the other. But then perhaps it may still be question'd, whether these Rules are fix'd and known, and whether they are those prescrib'd by Aristotle? That they are known, will be plain from what follows; and that they are those of Aristotle, at least in the Drama (which I shall chiefly insist on in this Essay) will be as plain, if we consider, 1st, Who gives the Rules: 2dly, When he gave them: and 3dly, The Manner in which he gave them. Aristotle's Character for Knowledge in all the politer Arts, will be of some Force; for his Genius and Capacity are sufficiently known to the Learned. 2dly, The Age he liv'd in, was in almost the first Regulation, if not Rise of Tragedy; learning the Art with Sophocles, and Euripides, who brought it to Perfection, and seeing the effect it had on the most polite and knowing People of the World. 3dly, The Manner in which they are deliver'd, is so evident and conformable to Nature, as that I cannot but be sensible of their truth. To confirm this, I consider the effects they have had in all Nations where they were known; for all the Beauties of Homer, Sophocles, Euripides, and the other Greek Poets of any note, are perfectly conformable to them: and these being five hundred years after reviv'd, in the time of Augustus, at Rome, we find the Beauties of Virgil, and the Latins owing to them. Nay, two thousand Years after they were written, we observe that by them the best Tragedies of France and Spain, nay, I may say of England too, are those in which they are perfectly follow'd: in which all that pleases, is according to the Rules; and all that disgusts, or is insipid, wild, or extravagant, contrary to them: for good Sense and right Reason are of all Countries. Human Laws indeed which regard the State, alter according to the Circumstances and Interests of the Men for which they were made: but these are

always the same, and ever support their Vigour, because they are the Law of Nature, which always acts uniformly, revives them continually, and gives them a perpetual Existence.

From hence it follows, that these Rules are known, and that they are those deliver'd by Aristotle, and that they are never opposite to what pleases; since they were made to shew us the Path we ought to tread, that we may arrive at what pleases. Were the Rules and what pleases opposite, we could never please but by chance; which is absurd. As there are certain Rules, therefore, that teach us to please, so we ought to make it our business to study and learn them, both for the reading and judging part: for these Rules are drawn from the Pleasant and the Profitable, and lead us to their Source. The Pleasant and the Profitable are what naturally please; and that, in all Arts, is what we always consult. In this most perfect and sure Model of Imitation, we find perfect UNITY, and ORDER; for it is it self the Effect of Order, and the Rule to conduct us to it: while there is only one way to find Order, but many to fall into Confusion.

‘There would be nothing bad (says Dacier very justly) in the World, if all that pleas'd were good; for there's nothing so absurd, but will have some Admirers. You may say indeed, that it is not true that what is Good pleases, because we daily see Disputes about the Good and the Pleasant; that the same thing pleases some, and displeases others; nay, it pleases and displeases the very same Man at different times. From whence then proceeds this difference? It comes either from an absolute Ignorance of the Rule, or that the Passions alter it. Rightly to clear this Truth, I believe, I may lay down this Maxim, That all sensible Objects are of two sorts; some may be judg'd of by the Sense independently of Reason (I call Sense that Impression which the animal Spirits make on the Soul) and others can't be judg'd of, but by Reason exercis'd in Science. Things simply agreeable or disagreeable, are of the first Sort; all the World may judge alike of these. For example, the most Ignorant in Musick perceives very well when a Player on the Lute strikes

one String for another; because he judges by his Sense, and his Sense is the Rule. On such occasions we may, therefore, very well say, That all that pleases, is good; because that which is good does please, or that which is ill never fails to displease: for neither Passion, nor Ignorance dull the Senses, but sharpen them. It is not thus in things that spring from Reason: Passion and Ignorance work very strongly in them, and choke the Judgment; and for this cause we ordinarily judge so ill, and differently in those things of which Reason is the Rule, and the Cause. Why what is bad often pleases, and that which is good does not always do so, is not the Fault of the Object, but of the Judge: But what is good will infallibly please those who can judge, and that's sufficient. By this we may see, that a Play, that shall bring those things which are to be judg'd by Reason within the Rules, and also that which is to be judg'd by Sense, shall never fail to please both the Learned, and the Ignorant. Now this Conformity of Suffrages is the most sure, or, according to Aristotle, the only mark of the Good and Pleasant. But these Suffrages are not to be obtain'd but by the observing of the Rules, and consequently these Rules are the only cause of the Good and the Pleasant; whether they are follow'd methodicaly and with design, or only by hazard or chance. For 'tis certain, there are many Persons who are intirely ignorant of these Rules, and yet do not miss of Success in many things. But this is far from destroying the Rules, since it only serves to shew their Beauty, and proves how far they are conformable to Nature, since those often follow them, who know nothing of them.

The latter end of this is perfectly prov'd by our Shakespear, who in all that pleases is exactly conformable to the Rules, tho 'tis evident by his Defects, that he knew nothing of them. I hope this is enough to satisfy any reasonable Man, not only that as Poesy is an Art, it proposes certain Means to arrive at a certain End; but that these Rules are absolutely necessary for the judging, and writing justly. If any one desire to see this Argument handled more at large, it will be worth his while to read Monsieur

Dacier's admirable Preface to his Remarks on the Poeticks of Aristotle; from which, what I have said on this Head is but an Abridgment.

Since therefore the Necessity of Rules is thus evident, I think I cannot be more just to the Art, and to those Poets who may hereafter arise worthy the Name, than to lay down, in as few Words as possible, the Rules of the Drama: to which I shall subjoin some relating to the Epigram, under which last Head most of the Miscellanies of Shakespear will fall; that by this means the ingenious Reader may distinguish betwixt his Errors, and Beauties, and so fix his Praise on a juster ground, than the blind Caprice of every ignorant Fancy. And if by this he will not appear so praise-worthy in many things, as he may now be thought, yet his Praise will be greater and more valuable when it is founded on Reason and Truth, and the Judgment of Men of Sense and Understanding.

Before I come to the particular Rules of the Stage, as Aristotle has laid them down, I shall set down what an English Nobleman has given us on this Subject in Verse; because there are some Things relating especially to the Diction, which Aristotle has not meddled with; and others, which tho conformable to him, yet being in Verse, sink easier into the Memory, and will lead the Reader better to the Apprehension and retaining the particular Rules in Prose, and perhaps give him a better relish of them. For when by Pleasure we are first let into the View of Truth, it has such Charms, as to engage our Pursuit after it, thro ways not altogether so smooth and delightful. The Verses I take out of the Essay on Poetry written by the late Duke of Buckingham, at a Time when the Town run away with as strange Monsters as have pleas'd since; tho those were dress'd a little more gayly, and went by there Chime a little more glibly off the Tongue.

  The Unities of Action, Time, and Place,
Which if observ'd give Plays so great a Grace,
Are, tho but little practis'd, too well known,
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer Faults to purge the present Age,
Less obvious Errors of the English Stage.
  First then Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in Passion too.
Our Lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the Pit their Confident.
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a Friend, only to tell it us:
Th' Occasion should as naturally fall,
As when * ^noteBellario confesses all.
Figures of Speech, which Poets think so fine,
Art's needless Varnish to make Nature shine,
Are all but Paint upon a beauteous Face,
And in Descriptions only can have place.
But to make Rage declaim, and Grief discourse,
From Lovers in Despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed: for who can chuse but pity
A dying Hero miserably witty?
But O! the Dialogue, where Jest and Mock
Are held up like a Rest at shuttle-cock!
Or else like Bells eternally they chime,
They sigh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What Things are these, who would be Poets thought?
By Nature not inspir'd, nor Learning taught?
Some Wit they have, and therefore may deserve
A better Course, than this by which they starve.
But to write Plays! Why 'tis a bold Pretence
To Judgment, Breeding, Wit, and Eloquence.
Nay more, for they must look within, to find
These secret Turns of Nature in the Mind.
Without this Part, in vain would be the Whole,
And but a Body all, without a Soul.

All this together yet is but a Part
Of * ^noteDialogue, that great and powerful Art
Now almost lost; which the old Grecians knew,
From which the Romans fainter Copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since, but by a few:
Plato and Lucian are the best Remains
Of all the Wonders which this Art contains:
Yet to our selves we must some justice do,
Shakespear, and Fletcher are our Wonders now.
Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go see them play'd, then read them as before:
For tho in many things they often fail,
Over our Passions still they so prevail,
That our own Grief by theirs is rock'd asleep,
The Dull are forc'd to feel, the Wife to weep.
Their Beauties imitate, avoid their Faults.
† ^noteFirst on a Plot employ thy careful Thoughts;
Turn it with Time a thousand several ways,
This oft alone has given Success to Plays.
Reject that vulgar Error, which appears
So fair, of making perfect Characters:
There's no such thing in Nature, and you'll draw
A faultless Monster, which the World ne'er saw.
‡ ^noteSome Faults must be, that his Misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve Compassion too.
Besides the main Design compos'd with Art,
¶ ^noteEach moving Scene must be a Plot apart.

Contrive each little Turn, mark every Place,
As Painters first chalk out the future Face.
Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
  Think not so much where shining Thoughts to place,
As what a Man should say in such a case.
Neither in Comedy will this suffice,
The Player too must be before your Eyes:
And tho 'tis Drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your utmost Meaning show.
  Expose no single Fop, but lay the Load
More equally, and spread the Folly broad.
The other way is vulgar; oft we see
A Fool derided by as bad as he.
Hawks fly at nobler Game; in this low way
A very Owl may prove a Bird of Prey.
Ill Poets so will one poor Fop devour:
But to collect, like Bees, from every Flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious Juice,
Which serves the World for Pleasure, and for Use;
In spite of Faction this would Favour get:
But Falstaff seems inimitable yet, &c.

In what I have to say of the Rules, I shall confine my self to them, without going into the Controversy, yet I shall sometimes add the Reason and Foundation, that being the Extremity my Bounds will admit.

To begin therefore with the Definition of Tragedy (for the Rules of that I shall first insist on, much of Comedy depending on them) it is this—‘Tragedy is the Imitation of one grave and entire Action of a just Length, and which, without the Assistance of Narration, by the means of Terror and Compassion, perfectly refines in us all sorts of Passions, and whatever is like them.’

This is explain'd by a Piece of History-Painting (which is very near a-kin to Tragedy) for the Painter takes one grave and entire

Action, and mingles nothing else with it. For example, Raphael painted the Battel of Constantine, but he brought not into that one Action of Constantine, all that he had done in his Life; for that had been monstrous, and contrary to Nature and Art. Thus a Tragedy is the Imitation of some one grave Action, but not all the Actions of a Man's Life.

From hence it is plain, that there is no place in Tragedy for any thing but grave and serious Actions. Comedy imitates the witty, and the pleasant, and the ridiculous Actions of Mankind. Next, this Action must be entire; that is, it must have a Beginning, Middle, and End, and be of a just Length: not so long as that of the Epopee, nor so short as a single Fable. The excluding Narration, and the confining its Aim to Terror, and Compassion, distinguishes it from the Epick Poem, which may be perfect without them, and employs Admiration.

By the refining the Passions, I mean not their Extirpation, which is impossible; but the reducing them to just Bounds and Moderation, which renders them as useful as they are necessary: for by representing to us the Miseries of those who have yielded too much to them, it teaches us to have a stricter guard over them; and by beholding the great Misfortunes of others, it lessens those that we either do, or may feel our selves.

This Imitation mention'd in the Definition being made by the Actors, or Persons representing, the Scenes are to be regarded by the Poet: For the Decoration is not only for Pomp and Show, as it is generally design'd, but to express the Nature of the things represented, and the Place where; since there is no Action that does not suppose a Place, and Actors dress'd in one Habit or other proper to that Place.

As Tragedy is the Imitation of an Action, not Inclinations or Habits; so there is no Action, that does not proceed from the Manners and the Sentiments: therefore the Manners and Sentiments are essential Parts of Tragedy. For nothing but the Manners and Sentiments can distinguish and characterize an Action: the Manners form, and the Sentiments explain it, exposing its

Causes and Motives; and those being the Producers of Actions, are the Causes of Good and Evil to Mankind.

The Imitation of an Action is properly call'd the Fable; that is, the Composition of all the Parts and Incidents of this Action is the Fable. The Manners distinguish the Qualities of the Persons represented; that is, characterize Men, denote their Inclinations either good or bad. The Manners of Achilles were Choler, and Temerity; those of Æneas sweet Temper, and Piety. The Sentiments are the Discourses or Speeches of the Dramatick Persons, discovering their Thoughts, and making known their Actions: by which they speak agreeably to their Manners or Characters, that the Auditors may know their Manners before they see their Actions.

There is no Subject of a Tragedy where these following five Parts are not found, viz. The Fable, the Manners, the Sentiments, the Diction, and the Decoration. Aristotle adds the Musick, because the Greek Poets directed that too. But the chief and most considerable is the Fable, or the Composition of the Incidents, which form the Subject of the Tragedy; both in the Opinion of Aristotle, and of all those who know any thing of the Reason of Things. For Tragedy is in imitation of an Action, not of Men; whence it follows, that Action constitutes the Tragedy, and that there can be no Tragedy where there is no Action. The good or evil Fortune of Men depends on their Actions, and the End that every Man proposes to himself, is an Action, not a Quality: what Qualities Men pursue, are only as Mediums to some Action. Thus the general End that Mankind propose, is to live happily; but to live happily, is an Action, not a Quality. Man being therefore happy or miserable by his Actions, not Manners or Qualities; Tragedy proposes not to imitate the Manners, but adds them for the Production of Actions. So that the Fable (which is the Imitation of the Action) being the End of Tragedy, it must be of the most importance, and chiefly to be consider'd; for so the End in all things is. Another Proof, which Aristotle brings for the Preference of the Fable to all the other Parts of the Play, is, That the best and most taking Tragedies (of his

Time) are those which have their Peripeties, Revolutions, or Changes of Fortune, and Discoveries, as in the Oedipus of Sophocles: But these Discoveries are inseparable from the Subject, and consist intirely in Action. The Fable therefore furnishing the most efficacious Means of arriving at the End, must necessarily in Reason be the most important part of Tragedy.

Aristotle indeed, and his best Commentators, are very large on this Head, to prove that all the fine Diction, the Manners well express'd, and the Sentiments natural and just, are of no manner of value, if the Fable be faulty, or the Action maim'd. This is, I suppose, sufficient to let the Reader see, that this is not only the first Thing that comes under our Consideration, as some would without any ground in Reason insinuate; but the most noble and most important thing that he is to study, if he wou'd ever hope to deserve the Name of a Tragic Poet: to which indeed we have very few of those, who have made a considerable noise in the World for a little time, who have any Pretence. Besides, it is much easier to succeed in the Stile, or what the leading Fools call fine Diction (which is deriv'd, by the way, from Grammar and Rhetorick, not Poetry) than the forming of the Subject, or Fable justly, and with Art. Nature enabled Shakespear to succeed in the Manners and Diction often to perfection; but he could never by his Force of Genius, or Nature, vanquish the barbarous Mode of the Times, and come to any Excellence in the Fable; except in the Merry Wives of Windsor, and the Tempest.

Next to the Fable, the Manners are the most considerable (and in these Shakespear has generally excell'd, as will be seen when we come to his Plays;) for as Tragedy is the Imitation of an Action, so there are no Actions without the Manners, since the Manners are the Cause of Actions. By the Manners we discover the Inclinations of the Speaker, what Part, Side, or Course he will take on any important and difficult Emergence; and know how he will behave himself, before we see his Actions. Thus we know from the Manners of Achilles, what Answer he will give the Ambassadors of Agamemnon, by what the Poet has told us of

his Hero. And when Mercury brings Jove's Orders to Æneas, we know that the Piety of the Hero will prevail over his Love. And the Character of Oedipus makes us expect his extravagant Passions, and the Excesses he will commit by his Obstinacy. These Discourses therefore that do not do this, are without the Manners. The Character of Coriolanus, in Shakespear, prepares us to expect the Resolution he will take to disoblige the People; for Pride naturally contemns Inferiors, and over-values itself. The same may be said of Tybalt, in Romeo and Juliet; and most of the Characters of this Poet.

The Sentiments are the next in degree of Excellence to the Fable, and the Manners, and justly demand the third place in our Care and Study; for those are for the Manners, as the Manners for the Subject or Fable. The Action can't be justly imitated without the Manners, nor the Manners express'd without the Sentiments. In these we must regard Truth and Verisimilitude; as when the Poet makes a Madman speak exactly as a Madman does, or as 'tis probable he would do. This Shakespear has admirably perform'd in the Madness of King Lear; where the Cause of his Frenzy is ever uppermost, and mingles with all he says or does. But Beaumont and Fletcher have perform'd abominably in their Mad-house, in the Pilgrim, and our modern Alterer of that Play, has increas'd the Absurdities.

The Diction, or Language, obtains but the fourth Place of the essential Parts of a Tragedy, and is of the least importance of any of them, in the Opinion of Aristotle, the best of Criticks, and Reason: tho our modern Poetasters, or vile Pretenders to this noble Poem, have plac'd their chief Excellence in it. But the Reason of it is, because this was what they thought they could in some measure obtain, while the rest were intirely above their Reach and Capacity. For the Subject may be well conducted, the Manners well mark'd, and the Sentiments fine, tho ill express'd. It is indeed, as Dryden observes, the first Beauty that strikes the Ear, and enhances the Value of the Piece, but comes not into Competition with any of the other three.

The Decoration I have already mention'd, and how far that is to be regarded by the Poet.

Having thus seen the several Parts of Tragedy, and their Excellence in regard of each other, I come to give the Directions necessary for the making each of 'em perfect.

The first and chief of them I have prov'd to be the Fable or Subject; or, as we generally call it in English, the Plot. I shall begin with that, in the forming of which, the Poet's principal Care ought to be employ'd.

Every Action that is fit for a Tragick Imitation, or that can be made use of in Tragedy, ought not only to be intire, but of a just length; that is, it must have a Beginning, Middle, and End. This distinguishes it from momentaneous Actions, or those that happen in an instant, without Preparation, or Sequel; which wanting Extension, may come into the Incidents, not the Fable. The Cause or Design of undertaking an Action, is the Beginning; and the Effects of that Cause, and the Difficulties we find in the Execution, are the Middle; the unravelling and dissolving these Difficulties, is the End.

The Anger of Achilles is the Action propos'd by Homer in the two first Verses of the Ilias. The Quarrel betwixt him and Agamemnon is the Beginning; the Evils this Quarrel produc'd, are the Middle; and the Death of Hector, giving perfect Satisfaction to Achilles, leads to the unravelling the Action, and disposing Achilles to relent at the Tears and Prayers of Priam, and restores him to his first Tranquillity, which is the End. The Departure of Ulysses from Troy, begins the Action of the Odysses; the Hardships and Obstacles of his Voyage make the Middle; and his Arrival and Establishment in Ithaca the End.

The true Beginning to an Action, is that which does not necessarily require or suppose any thing before it, as part of that Action. Thus the Beginning of an Epic, or Dramatic Poem may be the Sequel of another Action: for the Quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles, which is the Beginning of the Action of the Ilias, is Agamemnon's Injustice, which provok'd the Anger of Achilles, when all was quiet before in the Camp; so we may consider

this Affair the Sequel of, but not depending necessarily on any thing precedent, tho it come not to pass without it, and requires something else to follow it, depending on it, present or remote. The Retreat of Achilles to the Ships, the Trojans routing the Greeks on that Retreat, were the present Effects of his Anger; the remote, the Death of Patroclus, Reconcilement of Agamemnon and Achilles, and the Death of Hector, which satisfies and restores Tranquillity by the Tears of Priam. The End is just opposite to the Beginning; for it necessarily supposes something to have gone before, but nothing to follow it: as the End of the Anger of Achilles naturally supposes a Beginning of it, but nothing to come after. The Tranquillity of Achilles is restor'd by the Death of Hector, for then the Action is compleat; and to add any thing farther, would be to begin a new Action.

To instance in a Dramatic as well as Epic Action, tho they perfectly agree in this, let us consider the Action of the Antigone of Sophocles. The Beginning of this Action has no necessary Dependence on the Death of her Brother Polynices; for tho as to that, the Decree of Creon might have been or not have been, yet it follow'd that Death, nor could it have happen'd without it. The Action begins with the impious and partial Decree of Creon against the burying the Body of Polynices; the Middle is the Effects produc'd by that Decree in Antigone's Punishment, the Death of Æmon and Euridice; which produce the End, in breaking the Obstinacy of Creon, and making him penitent, and miserable.

The Middle is that which necessarily supposes something gone before, and something to follow: Thus all the Evils that the Anger of Achilles produc'd, necessarily suppose that Anger as their Cause and Beginning, from whence they did proceed. So these Evils, that is, the Middle producing the Satisfaction and Revenge of Achilles in the Death of Hector, furnish'd the End, in his relenting at the Misery of Priam. This is a perfect Example of an Epic and Dramatic Action, and shews, that the Poet cannot begin or end it where he pleases, if he would manage his Subject with true Oeconomy, and Beauty. For there must be the

Cause or Beginning; the Effect of that Cause, which is naturally the Middle; and the unravelling or finishing it, which is the End produc'd by the Middle, as that by the Beginning.

I have been the larger upon this Head, because so much Beauty depends upon it, and it is a Doctrine not so common, but that it needs a thorow Explication.

The Subject of the Drama should be of a just Extent, neither too narrow, nor too large; but that it may be seen, view'd, and consider'd at once, without confounding the Mind, which if too little and narrow, it will do, or make it wander, or distract it; as it will do, if it be too large and extensive. That is, the Piece ought to take up just so much time, as is necessary or probable for the introducing the Incidents, with their just Preparation. For to make a good Tragedy, that is, a just Imitation, the Action imitated ought not in reality to be longer than the Representation; for by that means it has the more Likeness, and by consequence is the more perfect: but as there are Actions of ten or twelve Hours, and their Representations cannot possibly be so long; then must we bring in some of the Incidents in the Intervals of the Acts, the better to deceive the Audience, who cannot be impos'd on with such tedious and long Actions, as we have generally on the Stage; as whole Lives, and many Actions of the same Man, where the Probable is lost as well as the Necessary: and in this our Shakespear is every where faulty, thro the ignorant Mode of the Age in which he liv'd; and which I instance not as a Reproach to his Memory, but only to warn the Reader, or young Poet to avoid the same Error.

Having shewn what an Action is, we now come more closely to the Subject; and first to the Unity of the Action, which can never be broken without destroying the Poem. This Unity is not preserv'd by the Representation of several Actions of one Man; as of Julius Cæsar, or Anthony and Brutus. Thus in the Cæsar of Shakespear, there is not only the Action of Cæsar's Death, where the Play ought to have ended, but many other subsequent Actions of Anthony and Brutus, even to the Overthrow and Death of Brutus and Cassius; and the Poet might as well

have carry'd it down to the settling of the Empire in Augustus, or indeed to the Fall of the Roman Empire in Augustulus. For there was no more reason for the ending it where he does, than at the Establishment of Augustus. Natural Reason indeed show'd to Shakespear the Absurdity of making the Representation longer than the Time, and the Place more extensive than the Place of acting; as is plain from his Chorus's in his Historical Plays, in which he apologizes for the Absurdity: as in the beginning of the fourth Act of the Winter's Tale, among other things, Time, the Chorus says;

And the second Act of Henry V. begins another Chorus, excusing the Variation of the Place:

And so goes on to describe all his Passage, &c. introducing a Narration to supply the Gap of the Action, or rather, of the Actions.

But the Chorus of the fifth Act is plainer on this Head:

In Pericles Prince of Tyre, the Chorus's excuse the rambling from place to place, and the like: But 'tis pity that his Discovery of the Absurdity did not bring him to avoid it, rather than make an Apology for it. But this is not the only Fault of the way of writing in his time, which he did not correct; for in the Chorus of the third Act of Henry V. he concludes in this manner:

Hence it is plain, that Shakespear's good Sense perceiv'd the ridiculous Absurdity of our fighting Senses, our Drum and Trumpeting Scenes; but he chose to go on in the way that he found beaten to his hands, because he unhappily knew no better road.

But to return from this short Digression.—This Unity of Action does not exclude the Episodes or various Under-Actions, which are dependent on, and contribute to the chief, and which without it are nothing. Thus a Painter represents in a Battel-Piece the Actions of every Particular that makes up the Army; but all these compose that main Action of the Battel. But this does not excuse the faulty Episodes or Under-plots (as they call them) of our English Plays, which are distinct Actions, and contribute nothing at all to the principal. Of this kind is Creon and Euridice, and Adrastus in our lamentable Oedipus. But indeed we have few Plays free from this Absurdity; of which the Orphan is one, where the Action is one, and every Episode, Part, or Under-Action, carries on and contributes to the main Action or Subject.

Thus the different Actions of different Men are not more distinctly different Actions, than those of one Man at different times. And we might as well make a Unity of all the Actions in the World, as of those of one Man. No Action of the same Man can be brought into a Tragedy, but that which necessarily or probably

relates to that Action, which the Tragedy imitates. The Wound of Ulysses, which he receiv'd in Parnassus, was necessary to his Discovery; but his Madness to avoid the War, was not: and therefore Homer takes notice of the former, but not of the latter. For as in all other Imitations, so in Tragedy, the thing imitated must be but One. This Action, with its Episodes or Under-Actions, ought to be so link'd together, that to take any part away, or to endeavour to transpose them, destroys the whole: for these Episodes or Under-Actions ought either necessarily or probably to be produc'd by the main Action, as the Death of Patroclus by the Anger of Achilles. For whatever can be put in or left out, without causing a sensible Change, can never be part of the Action. This is a sure Rule to distinguish the true Episodes from the false: And this Rule will indeed condemn most of our English Tragedies, in some of which, the very principal Character may be left out, and the Play never the worse. But more of that hereafter.

From what has been said of the Actions, main, and Episodic, it is plain that the Poet is not oblig'd to relate things just as they happen, but as they might, or ought to have happen'd: that is, the Action ought to be general and allegorical, not particular; for particular Actions can have no general Influence. Thus Homer, in the Action of Achilles, intends not the Description of that one individual Man, but to show what Violence and Anger would make all Men of that Character say or do: As therefore Achilles is a general and allegorical Person, so ought all Heroes of Tragedy to be; where they should speak and act necessarily or probably, as all Men so qualify'd, and in those Circumstances would do: differing from History in this, that the Drama consults not the Truth of what any particular Person did say or do, but only the general Nature of such Qualities to produce such Words and Actions. 'Tis true that Tragedy employs true Names, but that is to give a Credibility to the Action; the Persons still remaining general and allegoric. I would therefore recommend to the Poet the intire Invention of his own Fable; there being very few Actions in History, that are capable of being made general and allegoric, which is the Beauty and Essential of

both an Epic and Dramatic Action: not but the Poet may take Incidents from History and Matter of Fact; but then they must have that Probability, and Verisimilitude that Art requires.

But all these Properties of the Action, which we have given, are not sufficient; for the Action that is to be imitated in Tragedy, must also be such as excites Terrour and Compassion, and not Admiration, which is a Passion too weak to have the Effect of Tragedy. Terrour and Pity are rais'd by Surprize, when Events are produc'd out of Causes contrary to our Expectation; that is, when the Incidents produce each other, not merely follow after each other: for if it do not necessarily follow, 'tis no Incident for Tragedy. The Surprize must be the Effect of Design, not Chance, of precedent Incidents; allowing still, that there are Accidents that are by Chance, which yet seem done by Design, as the Fall of the Statue of Mitys on his Murderer, which kill'd him, for that Accident looks like the Work of Providence. Those Fables, where this is observ'd, will always appear the finest. Thus Oedipus is the best Subject for Tragedy that ever was; for all that happen'd to him is the Effect of Fortune: yet every body may see, that all the Accidents have their Causes, and fall out according to the Design of a particular Providence.

As the Actions imitated by Tragedy, so are all its Fables Simple, or Implex. The Simple is that, in which there is neither Change of the Condition or State of the principal Person or Persons, which is call'd the Peripetie, or Discovery; and the unravelling the Plot is only a single Passage of Agitation, or Trouble, or Repose and Tranquillity; as in the Medea and Hecuba of Euripides, and the Philoctetes, and Ajax of Sophocles: the same is the Fable of the Ilias, and that of the Æneis. The Implex Fable is that, which has a Peripetie, or a Discovery, or both; which is the most beautiful, and the least common. In the Antigone of Sophocles, there is the Change of the State and Fortune of Creon, and that produc'd by the Effect of his own barbarous Decree and Obstinacy. But in his Oedipus and Electra, there is both a Peripetie and Discovery; the first to Misery, the latter to Revenge, and Happiness. Oedipus, with his Change of Fortune, discovers,

that he is the Son of Jocasta and Laius, and so guilty of Incest, and Parricide. Electra discovers Orestes to be her Brother, and changes her Miseries into Happiness, in the Revenge of her Father's Death. In the Iphigenia in Tauris, Iphigenia making a Discovery that Orestes is her Brother, changes both their Fortunes from Despair to a happy Escape from the barbarous Altars of Taurica. But the Peripetie can neither be necessary nor probable (without which Qualities they are good for nothing) if they are not the natural Result, or at least the Effect of the previous Actions, or the Subject it self. The Oedipus and Electra of Sophocles are the most excellent in this kind, and ought to be thorowly studied by the Poets, who wou'd excel in their Art.

But not to give you Terms without a thorow Explanation; A Peripetie is a Change of one Fortune into another, either from Good to Bad, or from Bad to Good, contrary to our Expectations: and this Change (as I have observ'd) ought to happen either necessarily, or probably; as in the Oedipus of Sophocles: for he who comes to bring him agreeable News, which ought to deliver him from those Apprehensions, into which his fear of committing Incest with his Mother had thrown him, does quite the contrary, in making it out to him who, and what he is. The Matter lies thus—A Messenger from Corinth brings Oedipus word of the Death of Polybus, and invites him to go and take possession of that Kingdom: but Oedipus afraid to commit the Incest the Oracle had told him of, believing Polybus his Father, declar'd, that he never wou'd go to the Place where his Mother was. The Corinthian told him that he did not know himself, disturbing his Head about nothing; and thinking to do him a signal Piece of Service, in delivering him from his Fears, informs him, that Polybus and Merope were not his Father and Mother: which began the Discovery, that cast him into the most horrible of all his Misfortunes.

But because Discovery is here a Dramatic Term, and so signifies something more than in its vulgar Acceptation, I must inform the Reader, that here it means a Discovery, which is made by the principal Characters on remembering either one another, or something

of Importance to their Change of Fortune, and is thus defin'd by Aristotle—‘The Discovery is a Change, which causing us to pass from Ignorance to Knowledge, produces either Love or Hatred in those whom the Poet has a design to make happy, or miserable:’ that is, it ought not to be in vain, by leaving those, who remember one another, in the same Sentiments they were in before; it must produce either Love, or Hatred in the principal, not inferior Characters. But those Discoveries, which are immediately follow'd by the Peripetie, are the most beautiful, as that of Oedipus; for the Discovery of his being the Son of Jocasta and Laius, immediately makes him, of happy, the most miserable of Men. The Discovery in Electra is not near so fine, because their Condition and Fortune is not chang'd till some time after: but this, where the Peripetie and Discovery join, will always produce Terror or Pity, the End and Aim of Tragedy. What I have to add, of the several sorts of Discoveries, I shall defer till I have treated of the Manners, because those have some Interest in them.

The next thing that we are to consider, are the Characters. Those, which are to compose a perfect Tragedy, must not be either perfectly Virtuous and Innocent (as the Duke of Buckingham has observ'd) nor scandalously wicked. To make a perfectly virtuous and innocent Character unfortunate, excites Horror, not Pity, nor Terror. To punish the wicked, gives a sort of satisfaction indeed, but neither Pity nor Terror, the Business of Tragedy; for what we never think our selves capable of committing, we can never pity. But the Character of perfect Tragedy shou'd be the Mean betwixt both; but rather Good, than Bad. The Character, that has this Mean, shou'd not draw his Misfortunes on him by superlative Wickedness, or Crimes notoriously scandalous, but by involuntary Faults; that is, Frailties proceeding from the Excess of Passion; involuntary Faults, which have been committed either by Ignorance or Imprudence against the natural Temper of the Man, when he was transported by a violent Passion, which he cou'd not suppress; or by some greater, or external Force, in the Execution of such Orders, which he neither cou'd, nor ought to disobey. The Fault of Oedipus is of the first sort, tho he be likewise guilty of the second;

that of Thyestes is of the second only; those of Orestes and Alcmæon of the third; that is, in Obedience to the Oracle of the Gods: which clears Sophocles of the Fault laid to his charge by Mr. Rowe. In the Plays of the Antients, of this middle Character, were Oedipus, Thyestes, Alcmæon, Meleager, Telephus, &c. I shall only give a Draught of the first, being confin'd to great Brevity, since that Example will make the Precept plain.

Corneille, Mr. Dryden, and Lee have quite mistaken this Character: they have made him perfectly Good, whereas Sophocles does not praise him for any thing but his Courage, his good Fortune, and Judgment; Qualities equally common to the Good and the Bad, and to those, who are made up of Virtues and Vices. His Fault was his Curiosity; his being transported to Anger by the Insolence of a Coach-man for not giving him the way, which made him kill some Men two days after the Oracle had forewarn'd him, that he shou'd kill his Father. This Action alone sufficiently denotes his Character; but Sophocles has shown him by all his Manners so conformable to this, that he appears in every respect a Man that is neither Good nor Bad, having a Mixture of Virtue and Vice. His Vices are Pride, Violence, Anger, Temerity, and Imprudence; so that it is not for his Parricide, nor his Incest, that he is made unhappy: those, as they were the Effects of his Curiosity, and his Rashness, Violence, and Anger, were the Punishment of them; and those are the Vices that Sophocles wou'd correct in us by this Example of Oedipus.

From what has been said, it appears, that a Fable, with a single Catastrophe, is better than that which has one that is double; and that the Catastrophe, that is unhappy, is better than that which is happy; provided the Unhappiness be the Consequence of some of these Faults, or Frailties, which I have mention'd; and not the Effect of gross and remarkable Crimes: for these merit the Correction of the Axe, not the Muse.

The Fable that is of the next Excellence, is that which has a double Constitution, and Catastrophe, viz. one happy for the Good, and one unhappy for the Guilty. Tho this is more proper for Comedy; where the greatest Enemies go off reconcil'd.

Terror and Compassion being the chief End of Tragedy, and that being produc'd only by the Fable, let us consider what Incidents (which compose the Fable) are the most productive of these two Passions.

All Incidents are Events, that happen betwixt some body or other; and all Incidents, that are terrible or pitiful, happen between Friends, Relations, or the like; for what happens betwixt Enemies has no Tragical Effect. As when a Brother is going to kill, or kills his Brother; the Father his Son, or the Son his Father; the Mother the Son, or the Son the Mother. And these are the proper Incidents that a Poet shou'd employ all his Search and Study to find out.

Now all these Actions may be divided thus: into those, which the Actor performs with an entire Knowledge of what he does, or is going to do, as Medea when she kill'd her Children; Alcmæon, when he kill'd his Mother, and the like: And into those done, or about to be done, when the Heinousness of the Crime, which they are going to commit, or do commit, is not known to the Actors till after the Deed is done; when they, that did it, come to discover the Relation of the Persons they have destroy'd: as Alcmæon in the Astydamas, knew not that Eryphile was his Mother, whom he had kill'd, till after her Death; and Telegonus discover'd that it was his Father Ulysses he had mortally wounded, after the Fact was done. The third sort of Incident, and the most beautiful, is, when a Man or Woman is going to kill a Relation, who is not known to him or her, and is prevented by a Discovery of their Friendship and Relation. The first is the worst, the last the best, and the second next to the third in Excellence, because here is nothing flagitious and inhuman, but is the Sin of perfect Ignorance; for then the Discovery is very pathetic and moving, as that of Oedipus killing Laius.

In those Incidents of the third kind, to make them perfectly beautiful, like that of Merope and Iphigenia in Euripides, it will be necessary, that the Poet take care to let the Audience know the Relation of his Dramatic Persons, tho the Persons themselves must not know it till the Discovery. For those Stories of Merope

and Iphigenia were perfectly known to the Audience, which gave them all along a Concern for the Danger of the Brother and the Son; and rais'd their Joy and Satisfaction, when the Discovery came and prevented the Event. 'Tis true, that it is no easy matter to meet with such a Story, or indeed to form it without Obscurity and imperfect Beauty; yet if it be done, it answers the Labour and Pains of the Study and Search.

We come now to the Manners, which is the next thing to the Fable in Excellence and Consideration. The Manners distinguish the Characters; and if the Manners be ill express'd, we can never be acquainted with them, and consequently never be terrify'd by foreseeing the Dangers they will produce to the Characters, or Dramatic Persons; nor melt into Pity by feeling their Sufferings. All Dramatic therefore, as well as Epic Persons, ought to have the Manners; that is, their Discourse ought to discover their Inclinations, and what Resolutions they will certainly pursue. The Manners therefore shou'd have four Qualities; they must be, (1.) Good; (2.)Like; (3.)Convenient; (4.)Equal. Good is when they are mark'd; that is, when the Discourse of the Persons makes us clearly and distinctly see their Inclinations, and what good or evil Resolutions they are certain to take. Like relates only to known and publick Persons, whose Characters are in History, with which the Poetic Characters must agree; that is, the Poet must not give a Person any Quality contrary to any that History has given him. Convenient, that is, these must be agreeable to the Age, Sex, Climate, Rank, and Condition of the Person that has them.

Thus Horace advises to study Mankind, and from the Observation of them to draw the Proprieties of Characters or Manners. But a thorow Consideration of Ethicks, will be a very great help to the Observation: for when you have once got the true Knowledge of the various Habits of the Mind in their just Order, and the nature of their several Blendings, Mixtures, and Composition;

you will with much greater ease make an advantage of your Study of Men, in regard to that, of which we are now discoursing.

As to the Likeness, you must remember, that the evil Qualities, given by History to Princes and Great Men, ought to be omitted by the Poet, if they are contrary to the Character of a Prince, &c. but the Vertues opposite to those known Vices, ought not to be impos'd.

But if any Character be of unequal Manners, as in Nature, so in Poetry, which is an Imitation of Nature, the Variety and Inequality of the Manners must be equal. The Fearful must not be Brave, nor the Brave, Fearful; the Avaritious must not be Generous, and the like.

The Manners therefore of the principal Persons at least ought to be so clearly and fully mark'd, as to distinguish them from all other Men: for Nature has made as great a Distinction between every individual Man by the Turn of his Mind, as by the Form of his Countenance. In this Shakespear has excell'd all the Poets; for he has not only distinguish'd his principal Persons, but there is scarce a Messenger comes in, but is visibly different from all the rest of the Persons in the Play. So that you need not to mention the Name of the Person that speaks, when you read the Play; their Manners will sufficiently inform you who it is speaks; whereas in our modern Poets, if the Name of the Person speaking be not read, you can never by what he says, distinguish one from the other.

But besides these four Qualities of the Manners, there is a fifth essential to their Beauty, viz. that they be necessary: that is, that no vicious or base Quality or Inclination ought to be given to any Poetic Person, unless it appear to be absolutely necessary and requisite for the carrying on of the Action.

To make this a little plainer—There are three sorts of Qualities compose the Character of a Hero. First, Such as are absolutely

necessary for the Fable and Action; and those are most to appear, and evidently prevail above the rest, so that the Hero is to be known and distinguish'd by them. The Second are to imbellish the first, and the Third are to sustain both: but an Example will explain this. The first of these in Æneas is the transcendent Goodness of his Nature: The second, that beautifies this, is his solid Piety, and entire Resignation to the Will of the Gods: The third, that sustains both, is an Heroic Fortitude, which is absolutely necessary to the carrying on of any great Design. Thus in Ulysses we find Dissimulation set off by Prudence, and sustain'd by Valour: In Achilles, Rage set off by a noble Vehemence, and sustain'd by a wonderful Courage. This first Quality, as Goodness in Æneas, is to appear thro his whole Character; Rage thro Achilles, and Dissimulation thro Ulysses.

Having thus run thro the Manners, as briefly as I cou'd to give the Reader any just Idea of their Nature; I shall now conclude my Discourse on the several sorts of Discoveries, because, well manag'd, they add a wonderful Beauty to the Piece; tho it is a Beauty indeed almost entirely unknown to our Stage.

The first Sort of Discovery is, by certain Marks in the Body, either natural, or accidental, as some Families have Marks peculiar to them; as the Founders of Thebes and their Issue had a Lance naturally in their Bodies. Accidental, as the Wound Ulysses had formerly receiv'd in his Thigh by a Boar in Parnassus: Or Tokens, such as the Casket of Ion, which makes the Discovery of his Mother Creusa, whom he was going to kill. Tho this be the least beautiful and artful Discovery, yet it may be more or less artfully manag'd, as that of Ulysses is in the Odysses, where the Nurse washing his Feet, discovers the Wound, and by that Ulysses; but when he is oblig'd to shew it to the Shepherds, to confirm them that he was Ulysses, it is less artificial.

The second Sort of Discovery, and that likewise unartful, is when it is made by certain Tokens; as when Orestes had come to the knowledge of his Sister Iphigenia, by a Letter which she gave Pylades to carry to Orestes at Argos, and told him the Contents by word of mouth, lest the Letter shou'd be lost; he discovers himself

to her by mentioning her working a fine piece of Tapestry, that was in her Apartment, and the Lance of Pelops, &c. for these Tokens are no great matter of Invention, since it might have made them twenty other ways.

The third sort of Discoveries is what is made by Remembrance; that is, when the Sight or Hearing of any thing makes us remember our Misfortunes, &c. as when Ulysses heard Demodocus sing his Actions at Troy, the memory struck him, and drew Tears from him; which discover'd him to Alcinous.

The fourth sort of Discoveries are made by Reasoning. Thus Iphigenia argues in the Cœphores of Æschylus; Hither is a Man come like me; No body is like me but Orestes, it must therefore be Orestes. That of Polyides is beautiful and pathetic; for in the Iphigenia of that Poet (as we have it in Aristotle) Orestes kneeling at the Altar, and just opening his Bosom to receive the sacred Knife, cries out, 'Tis not sufficient that my Sister has been sacrific'd to Diana, but I must be so too.

The finest Sort is that which rises from the Subject, or the Incidents of the Fable; as that of Oedipus from his excessive Curiosity; and the Letter of Iphigenia, for it was very natural that she should write to her Brother.

Having thus consider'd the two main Points of the Theory, I shall say a word or two of the Practice. As the Duke of Buckingham has observ'd, the first business of a Tragic Poet, is to draw a Plan of his Design; and having plac'd it in a just Light, and in one View, he may best judge of its Probability. But then he must consider, that in this Plan must first be drawn the Fable in general, before he thinks of the Episodes that particularize and circumstantiate it. I'll give you that which is drawn up by Aristotle himself, because it may have the greater Authority with you—‘A young Princess is plac'd on the Altar to be sacrific'd, disappears of a sudden from the Eyes of the Spectators, and is carry'd into another Country, where the Custom is to sacrifice Strangers to the Guardian Goddess of that Country: They make her Priestess of that Temple. Some years after, the Brother of that Princess arrives at the same Place, in obedience to an

Oracle; he is no sooner arriv'd, but taken, and as he is going to be sacrific'd, the Discovery is made that he is Brother to the Priestess, which saves his Life.’

This is the general and universal Fable without Names, and which may yet receive any Names the Poet pleases; who, adding the Episodes circumstantiates, and makes it particular; as the adding the Madness of Orestes, and the like, makes it proper to that Story.

When the Poet comes to write and work up his Scenes, Aristotle advises, which Otway's Practice confirms, that he shou'd put himself into the same Passion he writes, and imitate the Gestures, and Actions of those whom he makes to speak.

The Poet ought to take care in the unravelling the Plot, in which many miscarry: the Plot is all the Play from the Beginning to the Discovery or Unravelling, which is best towards the last Scene of the Play; for if the Unravelling be in the fourth Act, the rest must be dull and heavy. But when the Peripetie and Discovery come together, and all at the End of the Play, the Audience go away with Pleasure and Satisfaction.

Having said so much of the Fable, Incidents, Manners, &c. I shall add a word or two on the Sentiments; in which we must follow the Advice of the Duke of Buckingham.

But then the Poet must not be content to look into his Mind, to see what he himself shou'd think on such an Occasion, but he must put himself into the Passion, Quality, and Temper of the Character he is to draw; that is, he must assume the Manners he gives his Dramatic Person, and then see what Sentiments or Thoughts such an Occasion, Passion, or the like, will produce. And the Poet must change his Person, as a different Person, and Character speaks: or he will make all speak alike, without any distinction of Character. Gaffarel gives you an Account of Campanella, which will illustrate this Place. He says, ‘That going

to see him when in the Inquisition, he found him making several odd Faces, which he took to be the Effect of the Pains he had endur'd there; but on his asking Gaffarel what sort of Man such a Cardinal was, and enquiring into his Features, he found that Campanella was framing himself by the force of Imagination to the Likeness of the Cardinal, to know what Answer he shou'd have to a Letter he had sent him.’

Now if the forming our outward Figure cou'd be of such Use, as to make us think like another, certainly when the Imagination proceeds by its own Strength and Force to liken the Soul as well as the Body, it must have a wonderful Effect: yet this cannot be done but by a great Genius.

I shall say no more of the Sentiments here, because they are to be learn'd from the Art of Rhetoric more than that of Poetry. For the Sentiments being all that make up the Discourse, they consist in proving, refuting, exciting and expressing the Passions, as Pity, Anger, Fear, and all the others; to raise, or debase the Value of any thing. The Reasons of Poets and Orators are the same when they would make things appear worthy of Pity, or terrible, or great, or probable; tho some things are render'd so by Art, and others by their own Nature.

The Diction or Language is that which next comes under our Consideration; which, tho made so considerable a Part by our modern Play-wrights, (who indeed have little else to value themselves upon) was by Aristotle thought of the least Importance; tho it is confess'd, when the Elocution is proper and elegant, and varies as it ought, it gives a great and very advantageous Beauty to a Play. The Fable, the Manners, and the Sentiments are without doubt the most considerable; for, as Aristotle observes, a Tragedy may be perfect without the Assistance of Elocution: for the Subject may be well manag'd, the Manners well mark'd, and the Sentiments may be just and fine, tho ill express'd. An ill Elocution renders the Discourse flat, but that destroys not the Beauty of the other Parts. Besides, a Tragedy may be written in Prose as well as Verse; that is, those other three Parts may be as well

express'd in Prose as Verse; but Verse is made use of, because more harmonious, and by consequence more agreeable.

But as we err as much in this part of Tragedy, as in the other three, it wou'd be necessary to give some Rules of Distinction on this Head: but that I have not room to do in this place; and Propriety and Elegance of Diction must be learn'd from Grammar and Rhetoric. However, I will not pass this entirely in silence, but shall lay down two or three Rules which are absolutely necessary to give any true Beauty to a Dramatic Diction.

Some have been betray'd by their Ignorance of Art and Nature to imagine, that because the Stile of Milton's Paradise Lost is admirable in the Epic Poem, it will be so in Tragedy; not considering that Milton himself has vary'd his Stile mightily in his Sampson Agonistes, from that of his Paradise. And Mr. Dryden's Criticism is very just, in his Epistle to the Marquiss of Normandy, (the late Duke of Buckingham) before the Æneis; where quoting from Segrais and Bossu—That the Stile of an Heroic Poem ought to be more lofty than that of the Drama—‘The Critick is in the right, says he, for the Reason already urg'd. The Work of Tragedy is on the Passions in Dialogue: both of them abhor strong Metaphors, in which the Epopee delights; a Poem cannot speak too plainly on the Stage, &c.’

And Boileau, a judicious Critic, as well as Poet, has Words to this effect—‘Wou'd you deserve the Applause of the Public? In writing, diversify your Stile incessantly: too equal, and too uniform a Manner shines to no purpose, and inclines us to sleep. Rarely are those Authors read, who are born to plague us, and who appear always whining in the same ingrateful Tone. Happy the Man, who can so command his Voice, as to pass without any Constraint from that which is Grave, to that which is Moving; and from that which is Pleasant, to that which is Severe, and Solemn.’ Every Passion has its proper way of speaking, which a Man of Genius will easily derive from the very Nature of the Passion he writes. Anger is proud, and utters haughty words, but speaks in words less fierce and fiery when it

debates: Grief is more humble, and speaks a Language like itself, dejected, plain, and sorrowful.

As Horace justly observes. From these few Observations it is evident how far from fine Language some of our Poets are, who have had Success even for that alone, in spight of all the Absurdities of the Fable, Manners, and Sentiments; tho in reality they were no more excellent in this, than in those.

Thus have we seen that Tragedy is an Imitation of an Action of a just Extent, i. e. that has a Beginning, Middle, and End, and which shall produce Pity, and Terrour. But this Action not being to be perform'd or represented without human Agents in that Action, it necessarily brings in an Under-Imitation of those Men in that Action; that is, of their Manners, as they contribute to that Action: and this makes a Necessity of imitating the Men that are introduc'd in the Drama.

We must not expect many Instances of Shakespear's Perfection in the Fable, tho perhaps we may find some extraordinary Strokes that way likewise; but the Beauties of the Manners we shall find every where, as I shall shew in my Examen of his Plays.

It may perhaps be expected, that I should say something of Comedy. But I have insensibly swell'd this Discourse to a greater Bulk than I at first design'd; so that I shall only say in general, that Comedy participates in many things of the Rules of Tragedy: that is, it is an Imitation both of Action and Manners; but those must both have a great deal of the Ridiculum in them, and indeed Humour is the Characteristic of this Poem, without which a Comedy looses its Name; as we have many of late who fall from the Ridiculum into a mere Dialogue, distinguish'd only by a pert sort of Chit-Chat, and little Aims at Wit. Ben Johnson is our best Pattern, and has given us this Advantage, that tho the English Stage has scarce yet been acquainted with

the Shadow of Tragedy, yet we have excell'd all the Antients in Comedy.

There is no Man has had more of this Vis Comica than our Shakespear in particular Characters; and in the Merry Wives of Windsor, he has given us a Play that wants but little of a perfect Regularity. Comedy in England has met with the Fate of Tragedy in Athens, for that only has yet been cultivated; whereas the polite Athenians took first care of Tragedy, and it was late e'er the Magistrate took any notice of Comedy, or thought it worthy their Inspection.

All Arts indeed improve as they find Encouragement; our Statesmen have never yet thought it worth their while to rescue the Drama from the Hands of the Ignorant, and the Benefit of private Persons, under which Load of Obstacles it can never rise to any Perfection; and place such Men in the Management of it, as may turn it to the Advantage of the Public. Whether this be any Proof of their good Politics or not, I shall not here determine; but I am sure, that very politic Nations, that is, the Greeks and the Romans, had far other Sentiments.

This naturally leads me to the Rise of the Sage in Greece, where it was entirely rais'd by Tragedy. For Thespis first made a moving Stage for that Poem, tho it was not then, as it is now, pure and unmix'd: for the ill Subjects that Thespis chose, threw him upon a sort of Tragi-Comedy; which Error Æschylus corrected, by chusing only noble Subjects, and an exalted Stile, that being before too burlesque. So that as far as we may guess, the Plays of Thespis were not unlike some of those of our Shakespear. For it was some time before the Stage came to its Magnificence and Purity, even in Greece it self, at least in Comedy: For the People are generally the same in all Countries, and obstinately retain licentious and obscene things; and it is the Property of Roughness and Barbarism to give place to Politeness with a great deal of difficulty. Nay, Sophocles was the first that purg'd Tragedy it self entirely, and brought it to its true Majesty and Gravity. For, as Dacier observes, the Changes that Tragedy and Comedy underwent, were brought about by little and little,

because it was impossible to discover what was proper for them at once; and new Graces were added to them, as the Nature of these Poems came better to be understood.

'Tis true, that the Idea of Tragedy was taken from the Iliads and Odysses of Homer; and of Comedy from his Poem call'd Margites: but that was after these Poems had been in use in a ruder manner; then indeed Homer inspir'd the Improvers and Reformers of the Stage with this noble Idea. Tragedy truly had a very advantageous Rise in Greece, falling immediately under the Inspection of the Magistrate, being founded on Religion: and this carry'd it so soon to Perfection, to which it wou'd never have arriv'd, had it been in the hands of private Persons, and mercenary Players, ignorant of its Beauties and Defects, and whose Thoughts reach no farther than what they are us'd to; which turning to a tolerable Advantage to their Pockets, they believe there is no greater Perfection. But Athens was too wise, too polite a State to let that fade, and remain useless in the hands of the Ignorant, which, by the care of the wise and knowing, might be turn'd to the Public Advantage, and Glory.

Tragedy, as I have said, had the Advantage of being grafted on the Goat-song, or Vintage-song, in the Honour of Bacchus; which, being a Recitation only, Thespis first made a Stage, and introduc'd one Actor. Æschylus added a second Actor, and fix'd his Stage, and adorn'd it in a more magnificent manner; but then the same Ornaments serv'd all Plays. Sophocles added a third Actor, and vary'd the Ornaments, and brought Tragedy to Perfection, and into such Esteem with the Athenians, that they spent more in the Decorations of the Theatre, than in all their Persian Wars; nay the Mony appropriated to that use, was look'd on as so sacred, that Demosthenes, with Difficulty and a great deal of Art, attempted to alienate some of it to the Defence of Greece against Philip of Macedon.

The Alterations that were made in this Poem in so little a time, were almost in every Part of it; in the very Numbers as well as in the Subject, Manners, and Diction: For the first Verse of the earliest Tragedies were Tetrameters, or a sort of

Burlesque, and fit for Countrymens Songs, and not unlike our Doggrel. But on the reforming the Stage, it was turn'd into Trimeter Iambics: For, as Dacier from Aristotle observes, those Numbers were fitted for Tragedy, which were most like our common Discourse, and consequently it was Trimeter Iambics, for that was most us'd in familiar Conversation: and Tragedy, says he, being an Imitation, ought to admit nothing but what is easy and natural.

But as this seems to relate chiefly to the Greek and Latin Diction, so it will not be amiss to give you something like it in the English, at the Rise of the Drama here. I shall take the Examples of both from Shakespear alone, to show this Error mended by himself, and brought to such a Perfection, that the highest Praise is to imitate his Stile.

What they call'd their Tetrameters may be answer'd by the Doggrel in the Comedy of Errours, and Love's Labour Lost.

But lest this shou'd be thought passable in the Mouths of the Dromios, and their Masters, we shall see, in those of Lords and Princes, in Love's Labour Lost; first Boyet, of the Retinue of the Princess of France, and the Princess her self.

Boyet.
No Sheep, sweet Lamb, unless we feed on your Lips. Princess.
Good Wits will be jangling, but Genteels agree—
The civil War of Wits were much better us'd
On Navarre, and his Book-men, for here 'tis abus'd.

In short, these false Numbers and Rhimes are almost thro the whole Play; which must confirm any one, that this was one of his first. But that Verse, which answers both the Latin and the Greek is our Blank Verse, which generally consists of Iambics, and so fit for the Drama, that tho Mr. Dryden had once brought rhiming on the Stage so much into fashion, that he told us plainly in one of his Prefaces, that we shou'd scarce see a Play take in this Age without it; yet as soon as The Rehearsal was acted, that violent and unnatural Mode vanish'd, and Blank Verse resum'd its place. A thousand beautiful Examples of this Verse might be taken out of Shakespear, there scarce being a Play of his which will not furnish us with many; I shall satisfy my self here with an Instance or two out of the Much Adoe about Nothing.

Comedy, on the other hand, lay long uncultivated in private Hands, among the Mob or Country Fellows, without any regard of the Government; till at last Epicharmus and some others taking the Idea from the Margites of Homer, and having purg'd the Country Railleries from their Licentiousness, the Magistrates of Athens took it into their Consideration, that it might be of

use to the State in the Hands, and under the Management of the Publick. And thus by the Encouragement and Inspection of the Government, the Drama of both kinds arriv'd to Perfection in not many Years after their Appearance in the World.

But it was not so in Rome, it was in the 399th Year of the City, when any thing like a Stage got into Rome; and tho it was introduc'd to appease a great Plague, which cou'd not be averted by any other Propitiation, yet they being originally perform'd by Strangers, the Romans had little regard to them. For on this Occasion they sent for Players out of Etruria, which in their Language they call Hister, from whence the Romans call'd their Actors Histriones. Nor did these make use of any Verse, but danc'd to the Tunes of their Pipes, with Measures not indecent, after the Thuscan manner. The young Sparks began to imitate them by rallying one another in undigested Verses. With their Voices their Motions agreed; so that the Matter was receiv'd, and by often Repetition came into a Mode. But the Players did not, as in the Fescennine Verses, rally one another with extempore Verses; but representing Pastorals, call'd Satires with Vocal Music, set to the Instrumental, and a regular Action, perform'd their Parts. But Livius Andronicus, a Greek by Nation, was the first (some Years after this) who ventur'd to mingle a Fable with these Songs, acting himself in these Performances, as then all the Poets did. This Livy tells us, and the same we find in Valerius Maximus, Lib. 2. Cap 4. ‘From which we see, from what small Beginnings the Scenic Plays arose: First, Players were sent for out of Etruria, who danc'd without either Verse or Piper: After this, rude and unpolish'd Verse came in, and Motions something agreeable to the Voice; but at last all things were improv'd by Art.’ Tho these two Accounts do not agree in every Particular, we easily see the low Rise of the Stage in this City; which tho brought in at first for the appeasing a raging Pestilence, yet the Players, who belong'd to the Drama, had their Names put out of the List of their Tribe, some say by way of Disgrace, and were never permitted to have the Honour to go to the Wars, but on the greatest Extremity;

yet this might be in respect to their Preservation, as the Athenians made a Law when Eupolis was kill'd in a Sea-Fight, that Poets shou'd go no more to the Wars. But be this as it will; yet in time, when it had work'd it self out of the Dreggs of the People, the State took notice of it, and no Play was permitted to be acted, which was not approv'd by the Ædile, who had the same Care of the Stage in Rome, as the Choragus had in Athens; Agrippa was Ædile in Rome, and the great Themistocles was Choragus in Athens.

But notwithstanding the Ædiles took Care at last of the Roman Stage, yet that never came to the Excellence of that of Athens; at least if we may judge of their Tragedies by those of Seneca, which are in nothing comparable to those of the Greek Poets. The Medea of Ovid, (had it been extant,) might perhaps have shown us something more perfect, for he was much better qualify'd for that, than the Philosopher.

In England Plays begun at the very bottom of the People, and mounted by degrees to the State we now see them in, the yet imperfect Diversion of Ladies, and Men of the first Quality. Queen Elizabeth first distinguish'd Actors, from Strollers and Vagabonds, by making them Gentlemen of her Bed-Chamber, as some say, at least her Domestic Servants: and then it was that Shakespear ennobled the rude Scene, giving it a Grace, which it knew not before, and sufficient to please so wise and good a Princess. But the Glory of giving it Perfection, yet remains for a no less excellent King; and the Muses have reason to hope, that He, that is so universal a Patron of Liberty, will not leave them in their old Bondage. For while the Poet's Success depends so much upon the injudicious Taste of the Managers, and the Whim of the unjudging Town, it is impossible that this glorious Art can ever be brought to that Excellence to which it arriv'd in Greece; Opinion or Chance, and the Address of the Players having given many of our modern Tragedies a sort of temporary Success. But because in a little time these Plays, which were cry'd up without Merit, lose ground, and grow neglected, some of our Play-wrights have pretended that

our Taste of Tragedy is lost, and that the Best will not do. But certainly that is a very ill Argument, for we see that The Orphan, Venice Preserv'd, and good Tragedies, increase in Esteem, and bring as good Audiences as any Comedies. But the same Argument will hold against Comedies; for after Opinion or Whim have given them a sort of Run at their first Appearance, they flag in a little time for want of innate Merit, and sink, so that in a year or two they will not bring ten Pounds. And tho an ingenious Gentleman has told us, that Tragi-Comedies will do better than Tragedies, I must say that the same Reason will hold against them; for I know scarce one of them, except Shakespear's, that bring any great Audiences. But I am confident, had we good Tragedies written, according to the Art I have laid down, and that they had fair Play at first from the Managers, the Diversion is so noble and great, they wou'd find another sort of Success than our Trifles have met with, and last for ever. At least we have Reason to think so, for all that we have yet seen to the contrary in Experience.

Thus have I given my Thoughts on Shakespear, laid down the Rules of true judging and judicious Writing, and given a View of the Rise and Progress of the Drama in Greece, Rome, and England; from whence it is plain, that the only way to make the Stage flourish, is to put it into the Hands of the Magistrate, and the Management of Men of Learning and Genius; which wou'd once again bring this admirable Art to its antient Perfection.

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