ments of Shakspeare's muse had been so noted him through every one would be tedious, and and applauded for their surprising rapidity, therefore I will give a sample of one passage that the public had contracted a very ridiculous only: Volpone is speaking to his goldrespect for hasty productions in general, and thought there could be no better test of a poet's genius then the despatch and facility with which he wrote; Jonson therefore affects to mark his contempt of the public judgment for applauding hasty writers, in the couplet preceding those above quoted And when his plays come out, think they can flout 'em But at the same time that he shows this contempt very justly, he certainly betrays a degree of weakness in boasting of his poetical despatch, and seems to forget that he had noted Shakspeare with something less than friendly censure, for the very quality he is vaunting himself upon. Several comic poets since his age have seemed to pride themselves on the little time they expended on their productions; some have had the artifice to hook it in as an excuse for their errors, but it is no less evident what share vanity has in all such apologies. Wycherly is an instance amongst these, and Congreve tells of his expedition in writing the Old Bachelor; yet the same man afterwards, in his letter to Mr. Dryden, pompously pronounces that to write one perfect comedy should be the labour of one entire life, produced from a concentration of talents which hardly ever met in any human person. Thou being the best of things and far transcending Let the curious reader compare this with the Ω χρυσέ, δεξίωμα κάλλιστον βροτοῖς, Cicero made a selection of passages from the Greek dramatic authors, which he turned into Latin verse for the purpose of applying them, as occasion should offer, either in his writings or pleadings; and our learned countryman seems on his part to have made the whole circle of Greek and Roman poets his own, and naturalized them to our stage. If any learned man would employ his leisure in following his allusions through this comedy only, I should think it would be no unentertaining task. The Fox is indubitably the best production of its author, and in some points of substantial merit yields to nothing which the English stage can oppose to it: there is a bold and happy spirit in the fable, it is of moral tendency, female chastity and honour are beautifully displayed, and punishment is inflicted on the delinquents of the drama with strict and exexemplary justice. The characters of the Heredipetæ depicted under the titles of birds of prey, Voltore, Corbaccio, and Corvino, are After all it will be confessed that the production of such a drama as The Fox, in the space of five weeks, is a very wonderful performance; for it must on all hands be considered as the masterpiece of a very capital artist, a work that bears the stamp of elaborate design, a strong and frequently a sublime vein of poetry, much ster-warmly coloured, happily contrasted, and faithling wit, comic humour, happy character, moral satire, and unrivalled erudition: a work Quod non imber edax, non aquilo impotens fully supported from the outset to the end. Volpone, who gives his name to the piece, with a foxlike craftiness deludes and gulls their hopes by the agency of his inimitable Parasite, or (as the Greek and Roman authors expressed it), by his Fly, his Mosca ; and in this finished portrait In this drama the learned reader will find Jonson may throw the gauntlet to the greatest himself for ever treading upon classic ground: masters of antiquity; the character is of classic the foot of the poet is so fitted and familiarized origin; it is found with the contemporaries of to the Grecian sock, that he wears it not with Aristophanes, though not in any comedy of his the awkwardness of an imitator, but with all now existing; the Middle Dramatists seem to the easy confidence and authoritative air of a have handled it very frequently, and in the New privileged Athenian; exclusive of Aristophanes, Comedy it rarely failed to find a place; Plautus in whose volume he is perfect, it is plain that has it again and again, but the aggregate merit even the gleanings and broken fragments of the of all his parasites will not weigh in the scale Greek stage had not escaped him; in the very against this single Fly of our poet. first speech of Volpone's, which opens the come- dent of his concealing Bonario in the gallery, The incidy, and in which he rapturously addresses from whence he breaks in upon the scene to the himself to his treasure, he is to be traced rescue of Celia and the detection of Volpone, is most decidedly in the fragments of Menander, one of the happiest contrivances which could Sophocles, and Euripides, in Theognis and in possibly be devised, because, at the same time Hesiod, not to mention Horace. To follow that it produces the catastrophe, it does not sacrifice Mosca's character in the manner most villains are sacrificed in comedy, by making them commit blunders which do not correspond with the address their first representation exhibits, and which the audience has a right to expect from them throughout, of which the Double Dealer is amongst others a notable instance. But this incident of Bonario's interference does not only not impeach the adroitness of the Parasite, but it furnishes a very brilliant occasion for setting off his ready invention and presence of mind in a new and superior light, and serves to introduce the whole machinery of the trial and condemnation of the innocent persons before the court of Advocates. In this part of the fable the contrivance is inimitable, and here the poet's art is a study which every votarist of the dramatic muses ought to pay attention and respect to. Had the same address been exerted throughout, the construction would have been a matchless piece of art, but here we are to lament the haste of which he boasts in his prologue, and that rapidity of composition, which he appeals to as a mark of genius, is to be lamented as the probable cause of incorrectness, or at least the best and most candid plea in excuse of it. For who can deny that nature is violated by the absurdity of Volpone's unseasonable insults to the very persons who had witnessed falsely in his defence, and even to the very Advocate who had so successfully defended him? Is it in character for a man of his deep cunning and long reach of thought, to provoke those on whom his all depended to retaliate upon him, and this for the poor triumph of a silly jest? Certainly this is a glaring defect which every body must lament, and which can escape nobody. The poet himself knew the weak part of his plot, and vainly strives to bolster it up by making Volpone exclaim against his own folly I am caught in my own noose And again To make a snare for mine own neck, and run These are my fine conceits! It is with regret I feel myself compelled to protest against so pleasant an episode, as that which is carried on by Sir Politic Would-be and Peregrine, which in fact produces a kind of double plot and catastrophe: this is an imperfection in the fable, which criticism cannot overlook; but Sir Politic is altogether so delightful a fellow that it is impossible to give a vote for his exclusion; the most that can be done against him is, to lament that he has not more relation to the main business of the fable. The judgment pronounced upon the criminals in the conclusion of the play is so just and solemn that I must think the poet has made a wanton breach of character, and gained but a sorry jest by the bargain, when he violates the dignity of his court of judges by making one of them so abject in his flattery to the Parasite upon the idea of matching him with his daughter, when he hears that Volpone has made him his heir; but this is an objection, that lies within the compass of two short lines, spoken aside from the bench, and may easily be remedied by their omission in representation; it is one only, and that a very slight one, amongst those venial blemishes -quas incuria fudit. It does not occur to me that any other remark is left for me to make upon this celebrated drama, that could convey the slightest censure; but very many might be made in the highest strain of commendation, if there was need of any more than general testimony to such acknowledged merit. The Fox is a drama of so peculiar a species that it cannot be dragged into a comparison with the production of any other modern poet whatsoever; its construction is so dissimilar from any thing of Shakspeare's writing, that it would be going greatly out of our way, and a very gross abuse of criticism to attempt to settle the relative degrees of merit, where the characters of the writers are So widely opposite: in one we may respect the profundity of learning, in the other we must admire the sublimity of genius; to one we pay the tribute of understanding, to the other we surrender up the possession of our hearts; Shakspeare, with ten thousand spots about him, dazzles us with so bright a lustre that we either cannot or will not see his faults; he gleams and flashes like a meteor, which shoots out of our sight before the eye can measure its proportions, or analyze its properties-but Jonson stands still to be surveyed, and presents so bold a front, and levels it so fully to our view, as seems to challenge the compass and the rule of the critic, and defy him to find out an error in the scale and composition of his structure. Putting aside therefore any farther mention of Shakspeare, who was a poet out of all rule and beyond all compass of criticism, one whose excellences are above comparison, and his errors beyond number, I will venture an opinion that this drama of The Fox, is, critically speaking, the nearest to perfection of any one drama, comic or tragic, which the English stage is at this day in possession of. NUMBER LXXVI. In my foregoing paper, when I remarked that Jonson in his comedy of The Fox was a close copier of the ancients, it occurred to me to say something upon the celebrated drama of The Samson Agonistes, which, though less beholden to the Greek poets in its dialogue than the comedy above-mentioned, is in all other particulars as complete an imitation of the ancient tragedy as the distance of times and the difference of languages will admit of. It is professedly built according to ancient rule and example, and the author, by taking Aristotle's definition of tragedy for his motto, fairly challenges the critic to examine and compare it by that test. His close adherence to the model of the Greek tragedy is in nothing more conspicuous than in the simplicity of his diction: in this particular he has curbed his fancy with so tight a hand, that knowing as we do the fertile vein of his genius, we cannot but lament the fidelity of his imitation; for there is a harsh ness in the metre of his chorus, which to a certain degree seems to border upon pedantry and affectation: he premises that the measure is indeed of all sorts, but I must take leave to observe that in some places it is no measure at all, or such at least as the ear will not patiently endure, nor which any recitation can make harmonious. By casting out of his composition the strophe and antistrophe, those stanzas which the Greeks appropriated to singing, or in one word, by making his chorus monostrophic, he has robbed it of that lyric beauty which he was capable of bestowing in the highest perfection; and why he should stop short in this particular, when he had otherwise gone so far in imitation, is not easy to guess for surely it would have been quite as natural to suppose those stanzas, had he written any, might be sung, as that all the other parts, as the drama now stands, with a chorus of such irregular measure might be recited or given in representation. out the support of music and spectacle than the mournful fable and more languid recitation of the tragedians. That the tragic authors laboured against the chorus will appear from their efforts to expel Bacchus and his Satyrs from the stage, in which they were a long time opposed by the audience, and at last, by certain ingenious expedients, which were a kind of compromise with the public, effected their point; this in part was brought about by the introduction of a fuller scene and a more active fable, but the chorus with its accompaniments kept its place, and the poet, who seldom ventured upon introducing more than three speakers on the scene at the same time, qualified the sterility of his business by giving to the chorus a share of the dialogue, who, at the same time that they furnished the stage with numbers, were not counted amongst the speaking characters according to the rigour of the usage above mentioned. A man must be an enthusiast for antiquity, who can find charms in the dialogue part of a Greek chorus, and reconcile himself to their unnatural and chilling interruptions of the action and pathos of the scene; I am fully persuaded they came there upon motives of expediency only, and kept their post upon the plea of long possession, and the attractions of spectacle and music: in short, nature was sacrificed to the display of art, and the heart gave up its feelings that the ear and eye might be gratified. When Milton therefore takes the chorus into his dialogue, excluding from his drama the lyric strophe and antistrophe, he rejects what I conceive to be its only recommendation, and which an elegant contemporary in his imitations of the Greek tragedy is more properly attentive to; at the same time it cannot be denied that Milton's Chorus subscribes more to the dialogues and harmonizes better with the business of the scene than that of any Greek tragedy we can now refer to. I would now proceed to a review of the performance itself, if it were not a discussion which the author of The Rambler has very ably prevented me in; respect however to an authority Now it is well known to every man convers- so high in criticism must not prevent me from ant in the Greek theatre, how the chorus, which observing, that when he says "This is the train fact is the parent of the drama, came in pro- gedy, which ignorance has admired and bigotry cess of improvement to be woven into the fable, applauded," he makes it meritorious in any and from being at first the whole, grew in time future critic to attempt at following him over to be only a part: the fable being simple, and the ground he has trod, for the purpose of disthe characters few, the striking part of the spec- covering what those blemishes are, which he has tacle rested upon the singing and dancing of the found out by superior sagacity, and which others interlude, if I may so call it, and to these the have so palpably overlooked as to merit the dispeople were too long accustomed and too warm-graceful character of ignorance and bigotry. ly attached, to allow of any reform for their exclusion; the tragic poet therefore never got rid of his chorus, though the writers of the middle comedy contrived to dismiss theirs, and probably their fable being of a more lively character, their scenes were better able to stand with The principal, and in effect the only, objection, which he states, is, "that the poem wants a middle, since nothing passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays the death of Samson." This demands examination: the death of Samson I need not describe: it is a sadden, momentary event; what can hasten or delay it, but the will of the person, who, by an exertion of miraculous strength, was to bury himself under the ruins of a structure, in which his enemies were assembled? To determine that will depends upon the impulse of his own spirit, or it may be upon the inspiration of Heaven: if there are any incidents in the body of the drama, which lead to this determination, and indicate an impulse either natural or preternatural, such must be called leading incidents, and those leading incidents will constitute a middle, or in more diffusive terms, the middle business of the drama. Manoah in his interview with Samson, which the author of the Rambler denominates the second act of the tragedy, tells him, This day the Philistines a popular feast Here is information of a meeting of his enemies to celebrate their idolatrous triumphs; an incident of just provocation to the servant of the living God, an opportunity perhaps for vengeance, either human or divine; if it passes without notice from Samson, it is not to be styled an incident; if, on the contrary, he remarks upon it, it must be one-but Samson replies, Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive Such a discomfit as shall quite despoil him Of all these boasted trophies won on me, And with confusion blank his worshippers. Who will say the expectation is not here prepared for some catastrophe, we know not what, but awful it must be, for it is Samson which denounces the downfall of the idol, it is God who inspires the denunciation; the crisis is important, for it is that which shall decide whether God or Dagon is to triumph, it is in the strongest sense of the expression-dignus vindice nodus-and therefore we may boldly pronounce Deus intersit! That this interpretation meets the sense of the author is clear from the remark of Manoah, who is made to say that he receives these words as a prophecy. Prophetic they are, and were meant to be by the poet, who in this use of his sacred prophecy imitates the heathen oracles, on which several of their dramatic plots are constructed, as might be shown by obvious examples. The interview with Manoah then is conducive to the catastrophe, and the drama is not in this scene devoid of incident. Dalilah next appears, and if whatever tends to raise our interest in the leading character of the tragedy, cannot rightly be called episodical, the introduction of this person ought not to be accounted such, for who but this person is the cause and origin of all the pathos and distress of the story? The dialogue of this scene is moral, affecting, and sublime; it is also strictly characteristic. The next scene exhibits the tremendous giant Harapha, and the contrast thereby produced is amongst the beauties of the poem, and may of itself be termed an important incident: that it leads to the catastrophe I think will not be disputed, and if it is asked in what manner, the chorus will supply us with an answer He will directly to the Lords, I fear, Here is another prediction connected with the plot, and verified by its catastrophe, for Samson is commanded to come to the festival and entertain the revellers with some feats of strength: these commands he resists, but obeys an impulse of his mind by going afterwards, and thereby fulfils the prophetic declaration he had made to his father in the second act. What incident can show more management and address in the poet, than this of Samson's refusing the summons of the idolaters, and obeying the visitation of God's spirit. And now I may confidently appeal to the judicious reader, whether the Samson Agonistes is so void of incident between the opening and conclusion as fairly to be pronounced to want a middle. Simple it is from first to last, simple perhaps to a degree of coldness in some of its parts, but to say that nothing passes between the first act and the last, which hastens or delays the death of Samson, is not correct, because the very incidents are to be found, which conduce to the catastrophe, and but for which it could not have come to pass. The author of the Rambler professes to examine the Samson Agonistes according to the rule laid down by Aristotle for the disposition and perfection of a tragedy, and this rule he informs us is, that it should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And is this the mighty purpose for which the authority of Aristotle is appealed to? If it be thus the author of the Rambler has read the Poetics, and this be the best rule he can collect from that treatise, I am afraid he will find it too short a measure for the poet he is examining, or the critic he is quoting. Aristotle had said "that every whole hath not amplitude enough for the construction of a tragic fable; now by a whole (adds he in the way of illustration,) I mean that which hath beginning, middle, and end." This and no more is what he says upon beginning, middle, and end; and this which the author of the Rambler conceives to be a rule for tragedy, turns out to be merely an explanation of the word whole, which is only one term amongst many employed by the critic in his professed and complete definition of tragedy. I should' add, that Aristotle gives a further explanation impartial examination, jointly with the more of the terms, beginning, middle, and end, which unknown and less popular tragedy from which the author of the Rambler hath turned into it is derived. English; but in so doing, he hath inexcusably turned them out of their original sense as well as language; as any curious critic may he convinced of, who compares them with Aristotle's words in the eighth chapter of the Poetics. Of the poetic diction of the Samson Agonistes I have already spoken in general; to particularize passages of striking beauty would draw me into too great length; at the same time, not to pass over so pleasing a part of my undertaking in absolute silence, I will give the following reply of Samson to the chorus Wherever fountain or fresh current flow'd Of the character I may say in few words, that Samson possesses all the terrific majesty of Prometheus chained, the mysterious distress of (Edipus, and the pitiable wretchedness of Philoctetes. His properties, like those of the first, are something above human; his misfortunes, like those of the second, are derivable from the displeasure of heaven, and involved in oracles; his condition, like that of the last, is the most abject which human nature can be reduced to from a state of dignity and splendour. Of the catastrophe there remains only to remark, that it is of unparalleled majesty and terror. NUMBER LXXVII. DR. Samuel Johnson, in his life of Rowe, pronounces of "The Fair Penitent, that it is one of the most pleasing tragedies on the stage, where it still keeps its turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them, for that there is scarcely any work of any poet at once so interesting by the fable, and so delightful by the language. The story," he observes, "is domestic, and therefore easily received by the imagination, and assimilated to common life; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft or sprightly as occasion requires." Few people, I believe, will think this character of the Fair Penitent too lavish on the score of commendation; the high degree of public favour in which this tragedy has long stood has ever attracted the best performers in its display. As there is no drama more frequently exhibited, or more generally read, I propose to give it a fair and The Fair Penitent is in fable and character so closely copied from the Fatal Dowry, that it is impossible not to take that tragedy along with it; and it is matter of some surprise to me that Rowe should have made no acknowledgment of his imitation either in his dedication or prologue, or any where else that I am apprized of. This tragedy of the Fatal Dowry was the joint production of Massinger and Nathaniel Field; it takes a wider compass of fable than the Fair Penitent, by which means it presents a very affecting scene at the opening, which discovers young Charalois attended by his friend Romont, waiting with a petition in his hand to be presented to the judges, when they shall meet, praying the release of his dead father's body, which had been seized by his creditors, and detained in their hands for debts he had incurred in the public service, as Field Marshal of the armies of Burgundy. Massinger, to whose share this part of the tragedy devolved, has managed this pathetic introduction with consummate skill and great expression of nature; a noble youth in the last state of worldly distress, reduced to the humiliating yet pious office of soliciting an unfeeling and unfriendly judge to allow him to pay the solemn rites of burial to the remains of an illustrious father, who had fought his country's battles with glory, and bad sacrificed life and fortune in defence of an un grateful state, impresses the spectator's mind with pity and respect, which are felt through every passage of the play: one thing in particular strikes me at the opening of the scene, which is the long silence that the poet has artfully imposed upon his principal character (Charalcis) who stands in mute sorrow with his petition in his hand, whilst his friend Romont, and his advocate Charmi, urge him to present himself to the judges and solicit them in person: the judges now make their entrance, they stop upon the stage: they offer him the fairest opportunity for tendering his petition and soliciting his suit; Charalois remains fixed and speechless: Romont, who is all eagerness in his cause, presses him again and again Now put on your spirits Now, Sir, lose not this offered means: their looks, The judges point him out to each other; they lament the misfortunes of his noble house; they observe, It is young Charalois Son to the Marshal, from whom he inherits His fame and virtues only. Romont. Hah! They name you. |