Elfrida (1st edition)/Letters concerning the following Drama

I was aware, when I sent you my Poem, that it would be liable to the very objections you make to it. Yet perhaps, they will be obviated to your satisfaction, when I have laid before you (as indeed I ought to have done at first) the original idea which led me to the choice of such a subject, and to execute it in so peculiar a manner.

Had I intended to give an exact copy of the ancient Drama, your objections to the present Poem would be unanswerable. But my design was much less confin'd. I meant only to pursue the ancient method so far as it is probable a Greek Poet, were he alive, would now do, in order to adapt himself to the genius of our times, and the character of our Tragedy. According to this ​notion, every thing was to be allowed to the present taste, which nature and Aristotle could possibly dispense with; and nothing of intrigue or refinement was to be admitted, at which antient judgment could reasonably take offence. Good sense, as well as antiquity, prescribed an adherence to the three great Unities; these therefore were strictly observed. But on the other hand, to follow the modern masters in those respects wherein they had not so faultily deviated from their predecessors, a story was chosen, in which the tender, rather than the noble passions were predominant, and in which even love had the principal share. Characters too were drawn as nearly approaching to private ones, as Tragic dignity would permit; and affections rais'd rather from the impulse of common humanity, than the distresses of royalty and the fate of kingdoms. Beside this, for the sake of natural embellishment, and to reconcile mere modern readers to that simplicity of fable, in which I thought it necessary to copy the antients, I contriv'd to lay the scene in an old romantic forest. For, by this means, I was enabled to enliven. the poem by various touches of pastoral description; not affectedly brought in from the store-house of a picturesque imagination, but necessarily resulting from the scenery of the place itself: A beauty, so extremely striking in the Comus of Milton, and the As you like it of Shakespeare; and of which the Greek Muse (tho' fond of rural imagery) has afforded few examples, besides that admirable one in the Philoctetes of Sophocles.

By this idea I could wish you to regulate your criticism. I need not, I think, observe to you that these ​deviations from the practice of the antients may be reasonably defended. For we were long since agreed, that, where Love does not degenerate into episodical gallantry, but makes the foundation of the distress, it is, from the universality of its influence, a passion very proper for Tragedy. And I have seen you too much mov'd at the representation of some of our best Tragedies of private story, to believe you will condemn me for making the other deviation.

Am glad, you approve the method, I have taken, of softening the rigor of the old Drama. If I have, indeed, softened it sufficiently for the modern taste, without parting with any of the essentials of the Greek method, I have obtain'd my purpose: which was to obviate some of the popular objections made to the antient form of Tragedy. For the current opinion, you know, is, that by the strict adherence to the Unities, it restrains the genius of the poet; by the simplicity of its conduct, it diminishes the pathos of the fable; and, by the admission of a continued chorus, prevents that agreeable embarras, which awakens our attention, and interests our passions.

The universal veneration, which we pay to the name of Shakespear, at the same time that it has improv'd our relish for the higher beauties of Poetry, has undoubtedly been the ground-work of all this false criticism. That disregard, which, in compliance merely with the taste of the times, he shew'd of all the neces​sary rules of the Drama, hath since been consider'd as a characteristic of his vast and original genius; and confequently set up as a model for succeeding writers. Hence M. Voltaire remarks very justly, "que le merite de cet auteur a perdu le Theatre Anglois. Le tems, que, seul fait la reputation des hommes, rend à la fin leurs defauts respectables."

Yet, notwithstanding the absurdity of this low superstition, the notion is so popular amongst Englishmen, that I fear it will never be entirely discredited, till a Poet rises up amongst us with a genius as elevated and daring as Shakespeare's, and a judgment as sober and chastis'd as Racine's. But as it seems too long to wait for this prodigy, it will not surely be improper for any one of common talents, who would entertain the public without indulging its caprice, to take the best models of antiquity for his guides; and to adapt those models, as near as may be, to the manners and taste of his own times. Unless he do both, he will, in effect, do nothing. For it cannot be doubted, that the many gross faults of our stage, are owing to the complaisance and servility, with which the ordinary run of writers have ever humour'd that illiterate, whimsical, or corrupted age, in which it was their misfortune to be born.

Milton, you will tell me, is a noble exception to this observation. He is so, and would have been a nobler, had he not run into the contrary extreme. The contempt, in which, perhaps with justice, he held the age he liv'd in, prevented him from condescending either to amuse or to instruct it. He had, before, given to his unworthy Countrymen the noblest Poem, ​that genius, conducted by ancient art, could produce; and he had seen them receive it with disregard, if not with dislike. Conscious therefore of his own dignity, and of their demerit, he look'd to posterity only for his reward, and to posterity only directed his future labours. Hence it was perhaps, that he form'd his Sampson Agonistes on a model more simple and severe than Athens herself would have demanded; and took Æschylus for his master, rather than Sophocles or Euripides: intending by this conduct to put as great a distance as possible between himself and his contemporary writers; and to make his work (as he himself said) much different from what amongst them passed for the best.

The success of the Poem was, accordingly, what one would have expected. The age, it appeared in, treated it with total neglect; neither hath that posterity, to which he appealed, and which has done justice to most of his other writings, as yet given to this excellent piece its full measure of popular and universal fame. Perhaps in your closet, and that of a few more, who unaffectedly admire genuine nature and antient simplicity, the Agonistes may hold a distinguished rank. Yet, I think, we cannot say (in Hamlet's phrase) "that it pleases the Million; it is still Caviar to the general."

Hence, I think, I may conclude, that unless one would be content with a very late and very learned posterity, Milton's conduct in this point should not be followed. A Writer of Tragedy must certainly adapt himself more to the general taste; because the Dramatic, of all kinds of Poetry, ought to ​be most universally relish'd and understood. The Lyric Muse addresses herself to the imagination of a reader; the Didactic to his judgment; but the Tragic strikes directly on his passions. Few men have a strength of imagination capable of pursuing the flights of Pindar: Many have not a clearness of apprehension suited to the reasonings of Lucretius and Pope: But ev'ry man has passions to be excited; and ev'ry man feels them excited by Shakespear.

But, tho' Tragedy be thus chiefly directed to the heart, it must be observed, that it will seldom attain its end without the concurrent approbation of the judgment. And to procure this, the artificial construction of the fable goes a great way. In France, the excellence of their several poets is chiefly measur'd by this standard. And amongst our own writers, if you except Shakespeare (who indeed ought, for his other virtues, to be exempt from common rules) you will find, that the most regular of their compositions is generally reckon'd their Chef d'œuvre, witness the All for Love of Dryden, the Venice preserv'd of Otway, and the Jane Shore of Rowe.

The scheme, you propos'd in your last, is I own practicable enough. Undoubtedly, most part of the Dialogue of the Chorus might be put into the mouth of an Emma or Matilda, who, with some little shew of sisterly concernment, might ​be easily made to claim kindred with Earl Athelwold. Nay, by the addition of an unnecessary incident or two, which would cost me no more than they are worth in contriving, and an unmeaning personage or two, who would be as little expence in creating, I believe I could quickly make the whole tolerably fit for an English Audience.

But for all this I cannot persuade myself to enter upon the task. I have, I know not how (like many of my betters,) contracted a kind of veneration for the old Chorus; and am willing to think it essential to the Tragic Drama. You shall hear the reasons that incline me to this judgment. They respect the Poet and the Audience.

It is agreed, I think, on all hands, that, in the conduct of a fable, the admission of a Chorus lays a necessary restraint on the Poet. The two unities of Time and Place, are esteem'd by some of less consequence in our modern Tragedy, than the third Unity of Action; but admit a Chorus, and you must, of necessity, restore them to those equal rights, which they anciently, enjoyed, and yet claim, by the Magna Charta of Aristotle. For the difference, which the use of the Chorus makes, is this. The modern Drama contents itself with a fact represented; the antient requires it to be represented before Spectators. Now as it cannot be suppos'd, that these Spectators should accompany the chief Personages into private apartments, one single Scene or unity of Place becomes strictly necessary. And as these Spectators are assembled on purpose to observe and bear. a part in the action, the time of that action becomes, of course, that of the spectacle or representation ​itself; it being unreasonable to make the Spectators attend as long, as the Poet, in bringing about his Catastrophe, may require. And this is usually the practice of the ancient Stage. The modern, on the contrary, regards very little these two capital restraints; and its disuse of the Chorus helps greatly to conceal the absurdity. For the Poet, without offending so much against the laws of probability, may lead his personages from one part to another of the same palace or city, when they have only a paltry Servant or insignificant Confidant to attend them. He may think himself at liberty to spend two or three days, months or even years in compleating his story; to clear the Stage at the end or, if he pleases, in the middle of every act: and, being under no controul of the Chorus, he can break the continuity of the Drama, just where he thinks it convenient; and, by the assistance of a brisk fugue and a good violin, can persuade his audience, that as much time has elaps'd as his Hero's, or rather his own distress may demand.

Hence it is, that secret intrigues become (as Mr. Dryden gravely calls them) the beauties of our modern Stage. Hence it is, that Incidents, and Bustle, and Business, supply the place of Simplicity, Nature, and Pathos; A happy change, perhaps, for the generality of writers, who might otherwise find it impossible to fill cette longue carriere de cinq actes, which a Writer, sufficiently experienced in these matters, says, est si prodigieusement difficile à remplir sans Episodes.

But, whatever these Play-makers may have gain'd by rejecting the Chorus, the true Poet, has lost considerably by it. For he has lost a graceful and natu​ral resource to the embellishments of Picturesque Description, sublime allegory, and whatever else comes under the denomination of pure Poetry. Shakespear, indeed, had the power of introducing this naturally, and, what is most strange, of joining it with pure Passion. But I make no doubt, if we had a Tragedy of his form'd on the Greek model, we should find in it more frequent, if not nobler, instances of the high Poetical capacity, than in any single composition he has left us. I think you have a proof of this in those parts of his historical plays, which are call'd Chorus's, and written in the common Dialogue metre. And your imagination will easily conceive, how fine an ode the description of the night, preceding the battle of Agincourt, would have made in his hands; and what additional grace it would receive from that form of composition.

With the means of introducing Poetry naturally is lost, also, the opportunity of conveying moral reflections with grace and propriety. But this comes more properly under consideration, when I give you my thoughts on the advantage the Audience receiv'd from a well-conducted Chorus.

In my last I took no notice of that superior pomp and majesty, which the Chorus necessarily added to the scene of the Drama. I made no remarks on the agreable variety it introduc'd into the versification and metre; nor shew'd how, by uniting the harmony of the Lyre to the pomp of the Buskin, musick became ​intimately connected with it, and furnished it with all it's additional graces. These and many other advantages I might have insisted upon, had I thought them so material as the two I mentioned; the latter of which, namely its being a proper vehicle for moral and sentiment, is so material, that I think nothing can possibly atone for the loss of it.

In those parts of the Drama, where the judgment of a mixt audience is most liable to be misled by what passes before it's view, the chief actors are generally too much agitated by the furious passions, or too much attach'd by the tender ones, to think cooly, and impress on the spectators a moral sentiment properly. A Confidant or Servant has seldom sense enough to do it, never dignity enough to make it regarded. Instead therefore of these, the antients were provided with a band of distinguish'd persons, not merely capable of seeing and hearing, but of arguing, advising, and reflecting; from the leader of which a moral sentiment never came unnaturally, but suitably and gracefully; and from the troop itself, a poetical flow of tender commiseration, of religious supplication, or of virtuous triumph, was ever ready to heighten the pathos, to inspire a reverential awe of the Deity, and to advance the cause of honesty and of truth.

If you ask me, how it augmented the pathetic, I cannot give you a better answer than the Abbè Vatry has done in his dissertation on the subject published in the memoirs de l'Acad. des Inscr. &c. "It affected this (says he) both in its odes, and dialogue. The wonderful power of Music and the Dance is universally allowed. And, as these were ​always accompaniments to the Odes, there is no doubt but they contributed greatly to move the passions. It was necessary that there should be odes or interludes, but it was also necessary, that these interludes should not suffer the minds of the Audience to cool, but, on the contrary, should support and fortify those passions, which the previous scenes had already excited. Nothing imaginable could produce this effect better, than the choral songs and dances, which fill'd the mind with ideas corresponding to the subject, and never fail'd to add new force to the sentiments of the principal personages. In the Dialogue also, the Chorus serv'd to move the passions by shewing to the spectators other spectators strongly affected by the action. A spectacle of such a kind as is fitted to excite in us the passions of Terror, and Pity, will not of itself so strongly affect us, as when we see others, also, affected by it. The Painters have generally understood this secret, and have had recourse to an expedient, similar to that of the Chorus of the Poets. Not content with the simple representation of an historical event, they have also added groups of assistant figures, and exprest in their faces the different passions, they would have their picture excite. Nay they sometimes inlist into their service even irrational animals. In the slaughter of the Innocents, Le Brun was not satisfied with expressing all the horror, of which the subject is naturally capable, he has also painted two Horses with their hair standing on end, and starting back, as afraid to trample upon the bleeding infants. This is an artifice which has often been employ'd, and which has always, succeeded. A good poet should do the same; and Iphigenia should ​not be suffer'd to appear on the Theatre, without being accompanied with persons capable of feeling her misfortunes."

Had this ingenious Abbè seen the famous Bellisarius of Vandyke, I am apt to believe he would have thought it a much more noble illustration of the matter. The Soldier in that piece, tho' so much condemn'd by our modern Professors of Vertù for being, as they say, the principal Figure, is the very thing, which raises this picture from a simple Portrait (which it must otherwise have been) to the finest moral painting; and in Greece would have plac'd the Painter amongst that class of Artists, which they esteem'd the noblest, the ΗΘΟΓΡΑΦΟΙ. The greatest Tragic Poet could not have rais'd a more exquisite distress, than this judicious Painter has done by the attitude of that Soldier; as well as by the subordinate figures, which, with great propriety, are female ones: nothing being so likely to raise that pitiable disdain in a military mind, which he wanted to express, as to see such a Hero reliev'd by charity, and that too the charity of girls and old women.

But, returning to my subject, I will just observe to you, that if it be proper to assist an audience in relishing the pathetic, by shewing an imitation of that pathos in the Chorus, it is much more so to instruct them how to be affected properly, with the characters and actions which are represented in the course of the Drama. The character of Pierre in Venice preserv'd, when left entirely to the judgment of the audience, is perhaps one of the most improper for public view, that ever was produced on any stage. It is almost impossible, but some part of the spectators should go from the representation with ​very false and immoral expressions. But had that Tragedy been written on the antient plan; had Pierre's character been drawn just as it is, and some few alterations made in Jaffeir's, I know no two Characters more capable of doing service in a moral view, when justly animadverted upon by the Chorus. I don't say, I would have trusted Otway with the writing of it.

To have done and to release you. Bad characters become on this plan as harmless in the hands of the Poet, as the Historian; and good ones become infinitely more useful, by how much the Poetic is more forcible, than the Historical mode of instruction.

The reason, why in a former Letter you advis'd me to alter the Chorus, is made very apparent in your last. For, by persuading me to get the Odes set to music, and to risk the play on the stage, I understand only that you are willing, any how, to make it a more profitable work for me, that it can possibly be by means of the press alone.

Yet certainly, Sir, one single reflection on our British pit will make you change your sentiments effectually. Think only on the trial made by M. Racine, in a nation much before our's, in a taste for probability and decorum in Theatrical diversions. In his two last Tragedies, you know, he has fully succeeded in the very thing I aim'd at; and has adapted a noble imitation of ancient simplicity to the taste of his own times: particularly in his Athaliah, a poem in which the most superb ​and august spectacle, the most interesting event, and the most sublime flow of inspir'd Poetry, are all nobly and naturally united. Yet I am told, that neither that, nor the Esther, retains it Chorus, when represented on the French Theatre.

To what is this owing? To the refinement most certainly of our modern music. This art is now carried to a pitch of perfection, or, if you will, of corruption, which makes it utterly incapable of being an adjunct to Poetry. Il y a grand apparence, que les progres que vous avez faits dans la musique, ont nui enfin à ceux de la veritable Tragedie. C'est un talent, qui a fait tort à un autre; says M. Voltaire with his usual taste and judgment. Our different cadences, our divisions, variations, repetitions, without which modern music cannot subsist, are intirely improper for the expression of poetry, and were scarce known to the ancients.

But could this be manag'd, the additional expence necessarily attendant on such a performance, would make the matter impracticable. This Mr. Dryden foresaw long ago. The passage is curious.

"A new Theatre, much more ample and much deeper, must be made for that purpose; besides the cost of sometimes forty or fifty habits: which is an expence too large to be supply'd by a company of actors. 'Tis true I should not be sorry to see a Chorus on a Theatre, more than as large and as deep again as our's, built and adorn'd at a King's Charges; and on that condition, and another, which is, that my hands were not bound behind me, as now they are, I should not despair of making such a Tragedy, as might be both instructive and delightful according ​to the manner of the Grecians." What he means by having his hands bound, I imagine, is, that he was either engag'd to his subscribers for a Translation of Virgil, or to the manager of the Theatre for so many plays a season. This suffrage of Mr. Dryden is, however, very apposite to the present point. But it serves, also, to vindicate my design of imitating the Greek Drama. For if he, who was so prejudiced to the modern stage, as to think intrigue a capital beauty in it; if he, I say, owns that the grand secret prodesse et delectare was the characteristic of the Greek Drama only, nothing I think can better justify my present attempt than the approbation he gives to it in this passage.

Having now, I think, settled with you all matters of general criticism, I hope in your next you will give me your objections to scenes, speeches, images, &c. And be assur'd I shall treat your judgment in these matters with greater deference, than I have done in what related to the Stage and the Chorus.

Pemb. Hall. 1751.