[] THE STAGE.

CHAP. I. INTRODUCTION.

THREE queſtions ſuggeſt themſelves on a conſi⯑deration of this undertaking:

Whether the ſubject it treats be of ſufficient moment, the characters it celebrates of ſufficient im⯑portance, and the events it relates of ſufficient authenticity to intereſt the public. To which may be added, by way of a fourth propoſition—Whether, even ſhould theſe points be incontrovertably made out, it can create intereſt to ſuch a degree as eſ⯑ſentially to ſerve the purpoſes of truth and morality.

Of this field for enquiry, over which I mean to [2] go at large in my preface, I ſhall, at preſent content myſelf with taking a curſory review.

If of all the arts of imitation the moſt ſeducing, the moſt ingenious, the moſt expanded, and the moſt eſteemed, that depicts nature by preſenting man to man, and face to face; that teaches us to be friends, brothers, huſbands, and fathers; that ac⯑celerates the progreſs of our ideas, perfects our rea⯑ſon and our ſenſibility, and induces us to bluſh at vice, and cheriſh virtue. If the ſtage exhibits this art, then is it of ſufficient moment to intereſt the public.

The ſtage, to which denomination I ſhall beg to reduce all ſecular ſpectacles intended to inculcate morality, has maintained a commanding ſituation at all times, and in all countries. Of this religion has furniſhed us with many examples, mythology with more. Indeed, as mythology is no other than al⯑legorical religion, ſo are the doctrines promulgated from the ſtage allegorical morality; to which prieſts have ever and wiſely lent their countenance and protection. Altars have been more thronged through the winning medium of poetry, muſic, and dancing, than through the attraction of religious or moral duty. Out of fiction ſprings truth. It is in human nature to love entreaties rather than commands, and [3] that argument is the ſureſt to prevail that awakens our pleaſure while it conciliates our intereſt.

The moſt delightful fountain is the ſame by night as by day. Its waters are as pure, as clear, and as delicious; but, though neceſſity may, induce us to have recourſe to it in the night, it is in the day alone that the draft is ſweetened, through the medium of contemplation, by an idea of that heaven which is ſo beautifully reflects. So did man wander in a chaos of truth till the light of ſcience taught him how to diſtinguiſh its beauty.

To the ſecond propoſition I ſhall anſwer, that if poets, warriours, philoſophers, and legiſlators, if thoſe who have united in themſelves thoſe various cha⯑racters, if all the promoters and protectors of the imitative arts, whoſe exertions have ſo nobly con⯑tributed to civilize the world, together with thoſe men ſo peculiarly gifted by nature, as to command the paſſions of their auditors, to compel burſts of laughter, force torrents of tears, and ſo to transfuſe the workings of their own ſenſibility into their hearers as to raiſe pity, excite terror, and inſpire delight. If the ſtage exhibits theſe characters, then is it of ſufficient importance to intereſt the public.

Tis little to ſay that the greateſt men, both as to [4] power and talents, that ever lived, have countenanced the ſtage. The greateſt men, in different coun⯑tries, and in different times, have been not only au⯑thors and actors, but even dancers. Thoſe great writers, AESCHYLUS and SOPHOCLES, were ſtateſ⯑men and warriours. They wrote for their country, and combated for it; and the ſame hand that, to ſerve the cauſe of morality, held the pen; in the cauſe of GREECE, held the ſword. The Seven Chiefs, before Thebes of AESCHYLUS, was ſaid to inſpire his audi⯑tors with all the fury of battle, and they compli⯑mented him with ſaying, that though AESCHYLUS wrote the piece, it was dictated by MARS.

This work will adduce a multitude of proofs to make out theſe aſſertions. In the mean time let us conſider for a moment the real worth and value of a dramatic writer. To be at all a writer, of any eminence, is a proud diſtinction; men of letters, the bent of whoſe genius is worthily conducted, who form the public taſte, who expoſe the de⯑formity of vice, and inculcate the true principles of virtue, merit from their fellow citizens the moſt honourable conſideration; but a dramatic writer, he who puts ſpeculative truth into action, who com⯑mands our richeſt faculties, who pervades the re⯑ceſſes of reaſon, who opens the treaſures of the heart, excites its pity, and its commiſeration, and [5] teaches us to be men, and to be virtuous; to ac⯑quire this art, is to attain the nobleſt privilege of human nature.

The dramatic art is the moſt precious inherit⯑ance bequeathed us by the ancients. A dramatic poet is an honour to his fellow creatures. Let us ſee why the profeſſion of an actor ſhould be in⯑volved in unmerited obloquy; and why a man, who delights and inſtructs us in his counterfeit cha⯑racter, ſhould be an object of indiſcriminate re⯑proach in his real character.

It is extremely difficult to conceive upon what principle, or from what circumſtance this unworthy prejudice took its riſe. Is it that actors are men of ſtronger intellectual power and intelligence than the common herd of mankind? No. Individuals may be envious, the public are always generous. Is it that becauſe actors are paid to amuſe and inſtruct the world they ought to be conſidered as purchaſed ſlaves of the will? No. Barriſters, par⯑ſons, and ſenators, are treated with reſpect.

What is the cauſe? That an actor is the main ſpring of the dramatic art it is impoſſible to deny. Vainly ſhall the poet paint a faithful portrait of men and manners; his labour ſhall remain a lifeleſs lump [6] till it receive a promethean touch from the fire of the actor. Nay, in this the public ſeem to ac⯑quieſce; for the laſt inſtrument, through the me⯑dium of which they immediately receive their plea⯑ſures, will ever be more conſidered as the intimate and welcome object of their commendation than the author, to whoſe perſon they are perfect ſtrangers, and to whoſe merits they would have remained ſo but for the actor.

ROSCIUS is ſaid to have given a moſt perfect idea of all the impaſſioned variety contained in the celebrated orations of CICERO without uttering a word. What perfect materials then muſt have com⯑poſed the extraordinary mind of this wonderful man. But how ſhall we have to admire the ſtrength of his head, and the goodneſs of his heart, if we believe CICERO himſelf, who tells us that ROSCIUS not only knew how to diſſeminate virtue among his auditors better than any other man, but was more correct in his practice of virtue in private life.

I know it may be oppoſed to me that actreſſes, in all ages, have made terrible ſavages among the hearts of the ſpectators, and that the oeconomy of many families has been too often deranged by the influence of their charms. Women, ornamented proſeſſedly with an intention to captivate, will ever [7] improperly attract the notice of the young and the irregular. The graces of beauty and talents, en⯑hanced by the inticements of dreſs, naturally beget admiration and pleaſure, and too many huſbands and fathers have certainly ſacrificed their wives and children at this ſhrine of voluptuouſneſs. Nay, I am afraid, the ſcene has been, in ſome inſtances, reverſed; and that the actor, while recommending conſtancy and honour from the ſtage, has raiſed ſen⯑ſations, throughout the boxes, not perfectly conſiſt⯑ent with virtue in the breaſts of the matron and the veſſal.

But admitting this argument in its fulleſt extent, why is this remarked in particular of actors and ac⯑treſſes? I anſwer, becauſe of the publicity of their ſituation. Were the private conduct of individuals in all other ſtations as well known, the world would be found to be a univerſal theatre no leſs in its particular then in its general manners. But there every irregularity is as much as poſſible huſhed up or gloſſed over; and, but for the intervention now and then of Weſtminſter Hall and Doctor's Com⯑mons, the great who look down on the ſtage would be conſidered as irreproachable and exemplary characters.

As to the Bar; as there certainly have been [8] inſtances in the private conduct of its members of rapacity and, I am afraid, diſhonour; it is not to be ſuppoſed that individuals, for I contend for no more, have been remarkable for a ſuperior degree of propriety, in their families and connections, than their neighbours; and of the Pulpit I ſhall only ſay, that churches are notoriouſly places of aſſignation, and that three-fourths of thoſe unhappy wretches, who have been driven to proſtitution by the arts of ſome young rake, or, perhaps, the overbearing landlord of their fathers, always begin the wretched ſtory of their misfortunes, by telling you that they are clergymens daughters.

I could go a great way into this, but that it would be foreign to my preſent purpoſe, and I ſhall have moſt powerful occaſion to illuſtrate this point hereafter. I ſhall, therefore, only obſerve, that an object, however perfect, when placed upon a pina⯑cle, will appear to the purblind view of general ob⯑ſervation to have many deformities, while the moſt rickety piece of real deformity ſhall halt through the croud without attracting particular notice. In⯑dividuals, of all profeſſions, deſerve reprehenſion, actors as well as others. Are all profeſſions, there⯑fore, to be ſtigmatized much leſs the profeſſion of an actor excluſively? The idea is revolting, un⯑worthy, and unjuſt. Perfection is not the lot [9] of human nature. Let not any part of the public, therefore, become obnoxious to cenſure by acting a perpetual ſoleciſm themſelves in decrying thoſe with their tongues whom it is their greateſt pleaſure to applaud with their hands.

As to the third propoſition I ſtand nearly upon the ſame ground with other hiſtorians; and I can freely anſwer, that, if credit may be given to the various authors who have admitted the merit, and pointed out the beauties of the ancient and modern dramatic poets; who, by relating the events of ſtates and empires, have neceſſarily involved in their nar⯑rations a hiſtory of thoſe arts which have forwarded the great work of civilization; if the fidelity with which men more correctly ſpeak of what intereſts the imagination than what merely relates to their affairs, which is remarkably apparent in whatever can be collected of the theatres; if theſe can be re⯑lied on, then are the events contained in this hiſtory of ſufficient authority to intereſt the public.

I am not to learn the prodigious difficulty of pronouncing any thing to be true; or, with what diffidence and caution men ought to explore the labrynth of events, which cannot be known to him but through the clue of the hiſtorian, often miſled, and generally partial. Vague tradition may be true: apparent demonſtration may be falible.

[10]A biographer of Sir WALTER RALEIGH in⯑forms us, that when he had nearly finiſhed the ſe⯑cond volume of his Hiſtory of the World, being then a priſoner in the Tower, his attention was attracted by a diſpute between an officer and a private cen⯑tinel under his window. It appeared to him that the officer had improperly treated the poor ſoldier, and that the man had, with equal firmneſs and mo⯑deſty, remonſtrared againſt the oppreſſion. A mob crouded about the diſputants, and this was all he could collect of the affair.

A friend ſoon afterwards came to viſit him, to whom he related what he thought he had witneſſed. It turned out, however, that this friend had not only been preſent at the diſpute but a mediator in it, and had been, therefore, perfectly competent to aſcer⯑tain exactly the fact; which was, that the ſoldier had behaved very ill, and that the officer, in conſi⯑deration of a proper conceſſion, had, with great manlineſs and forbearance, forgiven him, when he might, conſiſtently with his duty, have puniſhed him.

Having heard his friend patiently out, Sir WAL⯑TER, with great coolneſs and determination, is ſaid to have ſeized the different papers which compoſed his work and thrown them behind the fire, ex⯑claiming; ‘"How ſhould I dare to avouch the au⯑thenticity [11] of facts which are ſuppoſed to have paſſed at ſuch diſtant times, and in ſuch remote parts of the world, when thoſe in a common occurrence that paſſes under my window, are directly oppoſite to my comprehenſion of them."’

This circumſtance is indeed doubted, for we are told by another writer, that Sir WALTER burnt the ſecond volume of his work becauſe the firſt ſold ſo ſlowly as to ruin his bookſeller; and we are told, by himſelf, that this ſecond and a third volume were only in preparation, but, as it is admitted on all ſides, that the materials for ſuch a work exiſted but were deſtroyed, this chain of circumſtances concur to render the above relation probable. Be it, there⯑fore, literally or virtually fact, it would be a lamen⯑table thing that every author ſhould be actuated by the ſame delicate ſcruples. It would go to the anihilation of enquiry, and facts themſelves, how⯑ever ſupported, would be ſuppoſed never to have exiſted. I own that circumſtances, univerſally ad⯑mitted, have been differently attributed; but are we to infer from this that theſe circumſtances never oc⯑curred at all? Seven towns are ſaid to comend for the birth of HOMER. Are we, therefore, to believe that there was no ſuch perſon as HOMER. Indeed this laſt has been ſtrongly inſiſted on. The Fables of AESOP have been attributed to HOMER, to SO⯑CRATES, [12] and even to SOLOMON. This does not prove they were not written, for by ſome means or other we are in poſſeſſion of them, and a moſt won⯑derful work they are.

In theſe ſituations what are we to do? Since the certainty is ſo difficult to come at, we are to take the probability; which, in the buſineſs of AESOP, appears to be this: Fable was a poeticle vehicle at the time of HOMER and HESIOD; and, no doubt, was uſed by them; but AESOP, having perfected what others began, is conſidered as the Father of Fable, juſt as AESCHYLUS is called the Father of Tragedy.

It is not, therefore, that becauſe the leading fea⯑tures of facts are difficult to aſcertain, that facts themſelves are actually to be rejected. The germ of truth ſeems to be planted in the minds of all in⯑tellectual beings; and, though uncertain hiſtory, and more uncertain tradition, may have involved great events in doubt and contradiction, yet, that very doubt, and that very contradiction, have often gone to eſtabliſh unanſwerable confirmation that thoſe events did exiſt.

How very ſimilar is the war of the giants with the gods, to the war of the malignant angels with [13] the good. How remarkable is the reſemblance of Deucalion and Pyrrha, to Noah and the Flood. So the univerſal admiration of a SUPREME BEING, ac⯑knowledged throughout creation even to the moſt ignorant idolaters—but the theme is endleſs; and, in the inveſtigation of great truths, the wonder is not that falible human nature ſhould err ſo much, but that it ſhould err ſo little.

As to the auxiliary propoſition, its exiſtence is made out by eſtabliſhing the three others; for, if the ſtage be a vehicle to inſtruct and amuſe; if the primary and relative characters are of univerſal celebrity; if the truth of the events are virtually confirmed by as indiſputable authority as the events of other hiſtories: then the ſubject of this work is of ſufficient moment, its characters of ſufficient im⯑portance, and its facts of ſufficient authenticity to intereſt the public; and, if, through this ſubject, theſe characters, and theſe facts, the ſweeteſt emo⯑tions that penetrate the breaſt, are excited; if the dangerous paſſions of hate, envy, avarice, and pride, with all their inumerable train of attendant vices, are detected and expoſed; if love, friendſhip, gra⯑titude, and all thoſe active and generous virtues which warm and exalt the mind, are held up as ob⯑jects of emulation; if ignorance is ſcouted, genius [14] encouraged, and a true poliſh ſet on that mirror which the wiſes men of all ages have ſelected as the moſt unerring vehicle to reflect the manners of mankind: then muſt this work create intereſt to ſuch a degree as eſſentially to ſerve the purpoſes of truth and morality.

CHAP. II. ASIATIC THEATRE.

CHINA more than three thouſand years ago cul⯑tivated that art which ſomewhat later contributed to the renown of GREECE. The early principle of the ancient drama was to preſent living portraits of the times and manners, to reprehend vice, and in⯑culcate morality and virtue, through the medium of action and dialogue. The drama, for a conſi⯑derable time, was only held in honour throughout the vaſt country of CHINA, and the ſingle town of ATHENS. ROME did not adopt it till four hundred years afterwards.

The tragedies repreſented by the Chineſe were on moral ſubjects, ſupported by the examples of their heroes, and the maxims of their philoſophers. The ſcenes and habits were prodigiouſly magnifi⯑cent: their pieces, however, had neither regularity, intereſt, nor probability. Angels and devils were indiſcriminately introduced, and whatever could convey a myſtic ſenſe of moral duty was awkwardly enforced, no matter by what means. They had, [16] however, performances of various kinds, calculated merely to entertain and ſurpriſe the ſpectators. An incredible number of extraordinary feats both of legerdemain and tumbling made up ſome of theſe, which they performed in ſo wonderful a manner, that if we credit the accounts we read, all we have ever ſeen of this ſpecies of amuſement in EUROPE, cannot boaſt the ſmalleſt compariſon of the moſt trifling of their tours in this way. Theſe were per⯑formed, however, in ſtill greater perfection by monkies and mice, the ſubtilties of which animals, it will eaſily be credited, have often made them paſs for devils and ſorcerers^*.

We are told by different travellers, that, though the Perſians and the Indians are ſaid, to be the in⯑ventors [17] of dramatic entertainments, owing, proba⯑bly, to their groteſque and fanciful dances, for which they are ſo famous, the Chineſe claim an indiſ⯑putable right to be acknowledged as the original founders of this art, which, though the ſeverity of their manners prevented them from authorizing, was exhibited at the palaces of their richeſt mandarines where regular theatres were fitted up.

On days of regaling it was the cuſtom to invite friends and ſend for actors, who brought with them liſts of ſuch pieces as they were prepared to per⯑form. I have before me a hiſtory of one of thoſe days of performance, which will ſhew, that though the Chineſe never arrived to the regularity of the Greeks, at the time of AESCHYLUS, yet the drama, and all its beſt purpoſes, were as warmly felt then at CHINA as it was afterwards at Athens.

The piece, preceded by a prologue, was taking from hiſtory. An Emperor appeared ſur⯑rounded by an admiring multitude on whom he had heaped benefits. His virtues became the ſubject of their eulogium, and they ſometimes recited, and ſometimes chanted orations to his praiſe.

This piece was followed by a farce full of in⯑trigue, but void of drift or regularity; and to their [18] farce ſucceeded a pantomime, in which women, mounted on men's ſhoulders, went through a kind of exerciſe with fans following exactly the meaſure and movement of the muſic which accompanied them. Next came juglers with cups and balls, and then tumblers and poſture maſters; theſe were fol⯑lowed by a man who thruſt a tube into the wall and drew from it twenty different liquors at the word of command; another threw three knives into the air, which he managed ſo dexterouſly as repeatedly to catch one of them by the handle while the other two were ſuſpended.

They were after this entertained with conjurors, who came in with birds, ſnakes, mice, and mon⯑kies; which, as they were commanded, danced upon the ground and upon ropes, and formed themſelves into all manner of figures relating to the ſciences, and particularly to the mathematics, and to aſtro⯑nomy^*.

[19]At the palaces of the emperors the entertainments were of the ſame hetrogenious kind but much more grand. After ſome magnificent ſpectacle, founded, as uſual, on hiſtory, a pantomime commenced by a Tartar, who ſung a warlike ſong to the ſound of a carillon, on which he performed with ſticks of ivory. This was improved by the entrance of others into a duet, then into a trio, and at length into a chorus, accompanied, at laſt, by dancers, tumblers, wreſtlers, and gladiators; with all which the theatre was filled, each performing his different part at the ſame time, with great vociferation, force, and agility. At length they were wrought into ſo violent a frenzy, that what commenced in jeſt finiſhed in earneſt; till it was with difficulty the prince himſelf could call off the performers, among whom ſeveral were often ſeverely wounded.

[20]Actors, though ſlaves, were held by the Chineſe in a reſpectable light. THYNGH TI, emperor of CHINA, became enamoured of an actreſs, and repu⯑diated his wife to make her an empreſs. His mo⯑ther, however, ſhrewdly remarking that the lady having been ſo uſed to act different parts, would not probably content herſelf with that ſingle one which he had now given her to perform, the emperor, with a quick ſenſe of his own abſurdity, anſwered he had only placed the actreſs in that ſituation to ſee how well ſhe could ſuſtain her part, and that having had enough of the comedy, he ſhould now reduce her to her primitive obſcurity.

The moſt celebrated men of ſtudy and ſcience are ſaid to have planned and aſſiſted at theſe repre⯑ſentations. The Gymnoſophiſts, who entirely gave themſelves up to the ſtudy of reaſon, among others encouraged, as far as the ſeverity of their manners would permit dramatic exhibitions in Aſia. Their principal, called Budda, is ranked among the Brach⯑mans, and the Brachmans are known to have culti⯑vated religious truth through the medium of ſcenic fiction.

PILPAY, the celebrated fabuliſt, is in particular ſuppoſed to have contributed towards the reputation of the dramatic art in Aſia; and this conjecture is ex⯑tremely [21] probable. He is well known to have go⯑verned a large kingdom in INDIA under a powerful emperor; and, as it might not have been ſafe to have uttered his political opinions to his maſter in the plain terms of unadorned truth—for in that caſe he might not have come off ſo well as the old woman who wiſhed DIONYSIUS a long life leſt there ſhould come a worſe tyrant in his ſtead; or the Viſier who, pretending to underſtand the lan⯑guage of birds, informed his Sultan that the crows were croaking his praiſes for having maſſacred his ſubjects to provide them with carrion—it is not un⯑likely that PILPAY ſhould endeavour to cheat his maſter into a love of virtue, by painting on the ſtage the hateful figure of vice. Indeed it was only one ſtep further than what we know him to have done, for fables, as far as they go, are dramatic repre⯑ſentations.

In JAPAN ſpectacles are followed with eager avidity, and the religion of the country, ſo far from condemning, authorizes and conſecrates them. Their amuſements are performed to celebrate feaſts in honour of the divinities. They conſiſt of ſing⯑ing and dancing to muſic, if it may be ſo called, performed by flutes, drums, cymbals, and large bells. As for the machinery and decorations, we have not a conception how wonderful they are. [22] Monſtrous giants, floating caſcades, moving moun⯑tains, peopled cities, and a variety of other objects as extraordinary, make up their pageants, and pro⯑ceſſions.

Their plays repreſent the adventures, both he⯑roic and amorous, of their gods. They are deſtri⯑buted like ours, into ſcenes and acts. The prologue announces the plan, but never touches on the de⯑nouement, which is always managed ſo as to ſur⯑prize. The interludes and the farces, like thoſe of the Chineſe, are groſs buffoonery; but their trage⯑dies and comedies have always a moral tendency, which the ſtronger to enforce, the prieſts, upon par⯑ticular occaſions, ſit in the moſt conſpicuous places, and are the firſt to applaud.

The Perſians alſo have a taſte for theſe amuſe⯑ments. There is ſcarcely a petty governor without his tumblers, his declaimers, his muſicians, and his dancers. In this part of ASIA their pieces conſiſt of indecent pictures of love, and the moſt unbridled libertiniſm. Their dances are not a whit behind hand in laciviouſneſs.—For lightneſs, however, quickneſs, and variety, FRANCE is infinitely in⯑ferior, and the beſt dancers that ever graced our opera can boaſt no more compariſon with the Per⯑ſian girls, than can the worſt figurante ſwim, ſlide, [23] and poſture with PARISOT. The young ladies alone are permitted to practice this harmleſs amuſe⯑ment, and are on that account conſidered as in⯑famous.

It will evidently be ſeen that the drama flouriſhes beſt where morality is moſt inculcated. Among the ſoftened and eſſeminate Perſians we have ſeen the ſtage imitating all the unprincipled audacity of a ſtew. Of this the Jeſuits who viſited GOA were aware, and, therefore began their miſſion with teach⯑ing the inhabitants a play which they called The eſta⯑bliſhment of the Chriſtian faith in India. The ſpec⯑tacle itſelf, though little ſhort of blaſphemy, drew converts from all quarters; indeed, thoſe who have been accuſtomed to Roman catholic countries will not find any thing extraordinary in this ſpecies of ſanctified knavery: the farce performed on holy-thurſday, in SPAIN and PORTUGAL, is full as im⯑pious as the mummery of the moſt ſubtle monk who pretends to convert Indian ignorance to a ve⯑neration of that faith of which he himſelf makes a jeſt.

ASIA, however, even to this hour can boaſt, nothing regular in the dramatic art; which, cer⯑tainly, under the influence of the prieſts, and particularly the Jeſuits, ſpread itſelf into many [24] countries, but no where with ſuch enthuſiaſm as into SIBERIA; where, among other blaſphemous repro⯑ſentations, for the purpoſe of deſſeminating religion, they perform the redemption as a play, the baptiſm as a farce, and recite the commandments as an in⯑terlude.

The empreſs ELIZABETH, however, corrected in great meaſure theſe barbariſms by erecting an opera houſe at MOSCOW. After this another was built at PETERSBURGH, where an opera was performed in the Ruſſian language. The author, the compoſer, and the performers were all Ruſſians. At length CATHERINE the Second invited to her capital the charming GALLUPPI, ſurnamed BURANELLI, who was at that time maſter of muſic to the chapel of St. MARK at VENICE, and one of the moſt cele⯑brated compoſers of modern ITALY^*.

[25]This compoſer, like another ORPHEUS, charmed the rugged Ruſſians by the power of his muſic. It is aſtoniſhing with what avidity it was reliſhed. After the firſt repreſentation of his Didone Abandonata, the empreſs gave him with her own hand a magnificent box filled with gold, and he was treated by all ranks with the moſt ſingular marks of favour and conſideration.

To GALLUPPI ſucceed TRAETTA the Neapo⯑litan; a man certainly leſs celebrated, but capable of keeping up what had been ſo well eſtabliſhed by his predeceſſor. Performers were invited of the beſt celebrity; till, at length, the opera at PE⯑TERSBURGH became one of the moſt brilliant in Europe^*.

CHAP. III. GRECIAN THEATRE, FROM ITS ORIGIN TO THE TIME OF AESCHYLUS.

THOUGH we find traces of the dramatic art in all nations back to the remoteſt antiquity, even 'till its origin, is loſt in the night of time, yet it ſeems to have attained no perfection till it became memora⯑ble in GREECE. Simplified there, it grew intereſt⯑ing and important. It celebrated among that peo⯑ple recent events of which their fathers had been witneſſes. All the ſubjects of their theatre were comprized in the hiſtories of a few families; no foreign heroes preſumed to uſurp thoſe tears that deplored the miſfortunes of their proper citizens.

In the theatre, as in the field, and in the areo⯑pagus the Greeks were poſſeſſed with the ſpirit of real patriotiſm. They acknowledged the repreſen⯑tative of no hero but in his true hiſtory, and a great action had no charms for them unleſs it was legi⯑timate, and as it were naturalized. Liberty con⯑verted every town into an empire, and the greatneſs [27] of ſoul which inſpired this fame inſpired poets with the genius to celebrate it.

A tragedy was not merely art amuſement, not an exhibition to beguile a moment of leiſure, it was an affair of ſtate; and the Athenian ſpecta⯑tors ſaw their duty as men through the tranſparent veil of allegory: nor was there a Grecian ſailor who did not taſte the beauties of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES.

Inclination to occupy time, with a view to deſ⯑troy that laſſitude natural to man, begat in him a taſte for thoſe ſtudies which are called the arts, and which are purely an imitation of nature. The Gy⯑mnaſtic and other exerciſes in GREECE were thus improvements of ſimilar games, to which all people have been accuſtomed ever ſince the primitive union of man into ſociety.

The Iſthmian games inſtituted in honour of NEP⯑TUNE, and revived with particular attention by THESEUS, king of ATHENS, who reigned twelve hundred years before the chriſtian aera, were the firſt, of which poetry and muſic made apart. In theſe games were introduced the ſports of the chaſe, where were ſeen rare and ſcarce animals, purpoſely brought from all parts of the known world, and [28] theſe games in the end fixed the epoch of all the inhabitants of the Iſthmus of CORINTH.

Seven centuries after THESEUS, THEMISTOCLES inſtituted a new combat of poetry and muſic, which made a part of the Panathanean Feaſts, in honour of MINERVA. In theſe feaſts dramatic pieces were introduced. Each poet was permitted to bring forward, to the number of four, and this aſ⯑ſemblage was called Tetralogy. The prize of the victors was a crown of olive branches and a barrel of oil, which was conſidered as a preſent from the goddeſs whoſe glory theſe ſports celebrated. We know not what theſe dramatic pieces were at that time; there were none of any particular diſtinction, the term Tragedy confounded every thing, and it was long after this period that the art had its diviſions.

Tragedy, according to an ancient tradition, ge⯑nerally adopted, owed its origin to an accident. ICARIUS, the proprietor of a village in ATTICA, where it is ſaid the vine was originally cultivated, having one day found a he-goat feaſting on his grapes, killed it and divided it among his peaſants; who, in their merriment, decorated themſelves with branches of trees and danced round the animal deſtined for their banquet. This novelty attracted [29] numbers of ſpectators, who were ſo ſtruck with it, that, at length, it became a cuſtom in ſeveral places during the wine harveſt.

As theſe peaſants grew intoxicated at their feaſts, and the greateſt part of them had reaſon to com⯑plain of ſuch Athenians as had large poſſeſſions in the country, they abandoned themſelves without reſerve to their reſentment, braved their oppreſſors, and called aloud at their doors for redreſs, to the great entertainment of the multitude that ſurrounded them. The chiefs of juſtice even authorized this annual remonſtrance of an oppreſſed people, taking care, however, that the fear of chaſtiſement and the danger of reproach ſhould operate ſo as to prevent violence. This method became a remedy againſt public diſorder, and the feaſt of the goat was at length introduced at ATHENS.

The peaſants were invited from all parts to ap⯑pear at this ſpectacle, which was performed in a field near a grove of poplars called OEgyron, and the branches of the trees, interlaced, ſerved as a ſort of ſcaffold, from whence the performers amuſed the multitude. The field being near the Temple of Bacchus, this entertainment inſenſibly intro⯑duced itſelf as a part of the worſhip of the God of Wine.

[30]During the ſacrifice, the prieſts and the people ſung hymns to the Deity in chorus, which, from the name of the victim, were called Tragedy; or Song of the Goat. Theſe feaſts became general, not only in the temples, but in the villages, where a man, in the character of SILENUS, rode on an aſs, and was followed by a promiſcuous troop of vo⯑taries, who, glaſs in hand, ſung verſes in honour of BACCHUS.

Theſe monotonous hymns, however, grew very tireſome and diſguſting till EPIGENE, a Sicyonian, conceived the idea of giving a new form to this ſpecies of ſpectacle. He produced a tragedy leſs objectionable, which he entitled Bacchus; but it was, however, ſo little to the honour of the god, that the ſpectators, at its firſt repreſentation, cried put, ‘"What has this to do with BACCHUS?"’ This criticiſm proves that though they yet knew but little of the dramatic art, its germ, which afterwards burſt forth and grew to perfection, exiſted at that time in the Greeks.

THESPIS, who, was born at Icaria, a town of Attica, fatigued like the reſt with this barbarous nonſenſe that outraged the underſtanding of the people, and diſhonoured the god it profeſſed to idolize, determined to write pieces and introduce [31] recitation. This novelty pleaſed. He produced ſeveral entertainments of this deſcription, which he and others repreſented from village to village mounted on a cart, from whence they declaimed in groteſque dreſſes, and with faces frightfully painted.

BACCHUS was very ſoon after this left out of the party, for now both THESPIS and EPIGENE em⯑ployed themſelves in expoſing the vices and follies of their countrymen; and to as good a purpoſe as ICARIUS and his companions, who, as we have ſeen, brought their oppreſſors of ATHENS by the ſame method to reaſon and a ſenſe of their duty as citizens.

Theſe laudable attempts, however, were not long attended with ſucceſs, for, though the people, when they became accuſtomed to them liſtened with great ſatisfaction, SOLON oppoſed them as a danger⯑ous innovation. He forbad THESPIS not only to write but to teach the art of compoſing tragedies at ATHENS, probably becauſe he had at that time ſo many jarring intereſts to reconcile^*. This prohi⯑bition [32] ſeems, however, to be but little regarded, for THESPIS after this not only wrote tragedies but had for a ſcholar PHRYNICHUS, an Athenian. He is ſpoken of as the firſt who made hiſtory the ſubject of tragedy, who introduced the characters of wo⯑men on the ſtage, and who invented tetrametre verſe.

PHRYNICHUS was condemned to pay a thou⯑ſand drachms for having produced a piece called Miletus taken by Darius. He was conſidered by the Athenians the more culpable becauſe he had forced tears from the ſpectators at the moment he painted in lively colours the deſolation of that town; and thus he was at once the victim of their pride, and the object of their pleaſure. Notwithſtanding, however, his countrymen perſecuted him for pleaſing them, he afterwards became a general in the army, and to this was, probably, owing the vehemence which appeared to characterize his tragedies.

ALCEUS, another Grecian, held a high rank [33] among the tragic poets of that time. There cannot be collected, however, more than the titles of two of his pieces.

CHOERILUS is ſaid to have written a hundred and fifty tragedies, and to have been thirteen times crowned victor. The prize obtained upon theſe occaſions ſtill adverted to the feaſts of BACCHUS, for it conſiſted of a goat and a meaſure of wine. Nothing is known of theſe pieces of CHOERILUS, except one of them, but he is memorable for be⯑ing the firſt who decorated the ſcene, and habited the actors like the perſons they repreſented^*.

CEPHISODORUS was among the number of the au⯑thors of the ancient tragedy. They attribute to him [34] five pieces, which, like the reſt, were nothing more than a ſort of dithyrambic, begun as we have ſeen by THESPIS, and in ſome degree improved after⯑wards; but it remained for AESCHYLUS, to diſpel this miſt and eclipſe theſe conſtellations which, at his appearance, receded like ſtars at ſun riſe.

CHAP. IV. AESCHYLUS, SOPHOCLES, AND EURIPIDES, AND THE PROGRESS OF TRAGEDY IN GREECE.

AESCHYLUS, who was hailed the Father of Tragedy, ſoon ſimplified and regulated dramatic repreſenta⯑tions. He divided his pieces into acts, or epiſodes, that contained the expoſition of the ſubject, the conduct of the plot, and the development of the cataſtrophe. He reſerved the primitive chorus, no otherwiſe, however, than as an auxiliary, for the pur⯑poſe of rendering the ſubject more intereſting^*.

[36]The degree of perfection to which AESCHYLUS brought the dramatic art in GREECE, procured him great reſpect and conſideration, to which his public conduct, as a citizen, materially contributed. Born of one of the beſt families in ATTICA, he diſtinguiſhed himſelf very early in the field. He was the pupil of Pythagoras, and at twenty-five diſputed the poetic prize. He was the firſt who brought two characters forward on the ſtage at the ſame time; he invented the robe and the buſkin, and conſiderably height⯑ened the effect of his pieces by appropriate deco⯑rations of the perſonages. His improvements were ſo rapid and ſo effectual that he was thought to have been inſpired.

PAUSANIUS ſays, that while AESCHYLUS was aſleep under the ſhadow of a vine, BACCHUS ap⯑peared to him in a dream, and commanded him to write tragedies. This fable aroſe, probably, from his fondneſs for wine, for he wrote as he drank; and upon all occaſions, invoked APOLLO leſs than BAC⯑CHUS, if we believe CALLISTHENES and PLUTARCH. Whatever god inſpired his verſe, it is certainly full of nature, warmth, and energy. He is, however, [37] reproached, and with reaſon, for introducing hard⯑neſſes and crudeties; his images were gigantic and frightful, and the whole drift of his pieces was calculated to inſpire terror rather than pity or delight^*.

It muſt not be forgotten, however, that, tragedy, at the time of AESCHYLUS, was in its infancy, that; it was his offspring, and that he truſted it in the world that it might, by the foſtering care of others, grow to maturity.

It has been warmly inſiſted on, and ſurely with good reaſon, that AESCHYLUS was leſs the perfecter of the works of THESPIS than the imitator of thoſe of HOMER. The Epopoeia is a more natural aſſi⯑mulation to tragedy than thoſe monſtrous rhapſodies which were chanted in honour of BACCHUS; and, though the prieſts, upon this as upon all other oc⯑caſions, were glad enough to beget an intereſt in [38] favour of their Deity, in whoſe name they hood⯑winked the people; yet celebrating the atchieve⯑ments of kings and heroes among a nation of war⯑riors, was more likely to rouſe their feelings as it brought them acquainted with conduct which it was both their inclination and their duty to emu⯑late. Of this, moſt probably, AESCHYLUS was aware, and as he imitated the heroes of HOMER with his ſword, ſo did he HOMER himſelf with his pen.

AESCHYLUS ſerved at the battle of Marathon, and at the ſea fight of Salamis, where AMINIAS his brother commanded a ſquadron of ſhips and ſig⯑nalized himſelf above all the Athenians. To this brother our poet, upon a particular occaſion, was indebted for his life. In one of his pieces he made THETIS, ſpeaking of APOLLO, utter ſome expreſ⯑ſions which were conſidered as blaſphemy, and in another he introduced ſome equivocal pleaſantries in alluſion to the myſteries of CERES. For theſe crimes he was chaſed from the theatre, and would have been ſtoned to death but for AMINIAS; who, throwing aſide his cloak and ſhewing the ſlump of his arm, reminded the people of his gallantry at the fight of Salamis. This moved the ſpectators to pity, and they pardoned AESCHYLUS, who, however, could not ſtomach this indignity, and was, therefore, [39] determined to withdraw from a place where his life had been in danger.

This determination was confirmed by the ne⯑glect of his pieces, and the riſing ſucceſs of SO⯑PHOCLES, who obtained the prize from him, though ſome ſay it was SIMONIDES in an elegy on the bat⯑tle of Marathon^*. He, therefore, retired into SI⯑CILY, and was received into the court of HIERON, who was then building the city of AETNA, which our poet celebrated in a tragedy of the ſame name. Here he reſided three years covered with honours, when his death was occaſioned by a ſingular ac⯑cident.

An eagle having ſoared a great height with a tortoiſe in his talons, let it fall on the head of AESCHYLUS, of which blow he died, and by his death [40] ſeemed to be verified a pretended declaration of the Oracle at DELPHOS, that a blow from heaven ſhould accelerate the death of AESCHYLUS.

It has been ſaid that the ſeats of the theatre broke down during the repreſentation of one of the tragedies of AESCHYLUS; and SUIDAS tells us that it was the cauſe of his retiring into SICILY; but this is abſurd, for the large croud neceſſary to break down the ſeats is a proof of the celebrity of AESCHYLUS; but he means to inſinuate, that with the ſeats the reputation of AESCHYLUS which was eclipſed by SO⯑PHOCLES, fell to the ground.

The operation of this accident, however, pro⯑claims in very loud terms the fame of AESCHYLUS, for from theſe ruins ſprung up thoſe magnificent theatres, which were afterwards ſo nobly imitated by the Romans. They were built circular on one ſide, and ſquare on the other, the ſemi-circle con⯑tained the ſpectators, who were ranged in ſeats, one above another, and in the quadrangle was exhibited the ſpectacle. They had machines of every ſort for the conveyance of gods and goddeſſes, which they ſummoned at pleaſure from the ſea, from hell, or from heaven. Their ſcenes repreſented palaces, and temples, ſquares in perſpective, and towns in the diſtance. They had tranſforma⯑tions, [41] embelliſhments, and every ſpecies of decor⯑ation and ornament to be ſeen on the modern ſtage, but prepared at a much greater expence; and, of courſe, repreſented with infinitely more grandeur^*.

Near that part of the building in which the ſpectators ſat, there were three porticos where they might retire in caſe of bad weather; for it is re⯑markable that the ancient theatres were almoſt en⯑tirely uncovered. On the other hand, to prevent inconvenience from the heat of the ſun, they ex⯑tended veils—ſome of which were very coſtly—by means of cords attached to the extremity of the building; and, that nothing might be omitted that could in the ſmalleſt degree contribute to their pleaſure, ſtatues of excellent workmanſhip were placed in regular order, ſupporting urns, beautifully ornamented; thoſe urns receiving ſtreams deli⯑ciouſly perfumed, which iſſued from pictureſque fountains, the whole variouſly formed, and judici⯑ouſly arranged.

The theatre was ſo capacious that the actors [42] were obliged to wear maſks, which were perfectly a machine calculated to extend the voice, ſo that it might reach every ear in ſo vaſt a ſpace; to faci⯑litate which, there were alſo vaſes of braſs placed in the intervals of the amphitheatre with ſuch art, in ſuch a direction, and compoſed of ſuch tempered materials, that they aſſiſted the tones of the voice and inſtruments; and, by this conſonance, ren⯑dered the ſound ſtronger, more agreeable, and more diſtinct.

All theſe magnificent improvements ſprung from the fall of AESCHYLUS, whoſe theatre, like ANTEUS, touched the earth only that it might riſe with renovated ſtrength^*.

AESCHYLUS had two ſons, and five nephews, all [43] of whom wrote with various ſucceſs for the theatre. BION, his ſecond ſon, was ranked among the poets called Railers, and was, probably, one of thoſe who wrote comedy. They are ſaid to have written among them a prodigious number of pieces, ſome of which are yet to be ſeen; but, as AESCHY⯑LUS eclipſed his predeceſſors, ſo his imitators ſerved only to raiſe the ſuperior fame of SOPHOCLES.

SOPHOCLES was born at COLONOS, a town of ATTICA, in the firſt year of the ſeventy firſt Olym⯑piad, which place he rendered afterwards celebrated by his tragedy of Oedippus of Colonos.

SOPHOCLES operated a ſecond revolution in tragedy. He introduced a third actor, and aug⯑mented the number of the chorus to fifteen inſtead of twelve, at which number AESCHYLUS had fixed it. He alſo allowed the chorus to have an intereſt in the main action, ſo that by this means every thing was of a piece, and all the performers had ſuch parts allotted them as contributed to one uniform and regular deſign.

At the age of twenty-five he bore away the prize from his maſter, AESCHYLUS, in tragedy. An extraordinary occaſion was the cauſe of this con⯑tention. CIMON, the Athenian general, had found [44] the bones of THESEUS, and brought them in ſolemn pomp to the city, on which a trial of ſkill between the tragedians was inſtantly appointed. AESCHYLUS and SOPOHCLES ſtrove nobly for pre-eminence, but, in ſpight of the acknowledged and admired merit of the maſter, the ſuperior fire and eloquence of the ſcholar bore away the palm.

Before SOPHOCLES, the prize was diſputed by four dramatic pieces comprized under the name of Tetralogy. The three firſt were tragedies, and the fourth called Satire, being a ſpecies of comedy; but this SOPHICLES altered, by oppoſing, in all contentions, tragedy to tragedy.

SOPHOCLES did not always appear in his trage⯑dies on account of the weakneſs of his voice. His [...]ame was not, however, diminiſhed by this; for if AESCHYLUS merited the title of Father of Tragedy, SOPHOCLES might, with propriety be called the Maſter of it. The admiration and wonder with which all GREECE ſpoke of his wiſdom induced an opinion that he was the immediate favourite and inti⯑mate of the gods. We are told that AESCHYLUS condeſcended to viſit him at his houſe, and TULLY would have you believe that HERCULES had an equal reſpect for him. APOLLONIUS TYANENSIS, in his oration before DOMITIAN, tells the em⯑peror [45] that SOPHOCLES, the Athenian, was able to check and reſtrain the impetuouſity of the winds.

Certainly he was a genius of tranſcendant merit. His tragedies ſerved as a model for ARISTOTLE's Art of Poetry, PLATO's advances in philoſophy were compared with the improvements of SOPHO⯑CLES in tragedy; TULLY calls him the divine poet and VIRGIL has given him a marking pre⯑ference to all other writers of tragedy. So charm⯑ing was his poetry that he was called the Bee; and to tranſmit this eulogium to poſterity, a hive was carved upon his tomb, not leſs to impreſs the world with an idea of the ſweetneſs of his verſe than the diligence of his induſtry.

SOPHOCLES, like his predeceſſor AESCHYLUS, was ranked among the defenders of his country. He commanded an army in conjunction with PER⯑ICLES to chaſtiſe the rebellious Samians; from which expedition he returned triumphant. His ſame followed him in every thing he undertook, even to old age, at which time, he is reported to have retained his faculties with all the fire and vi⯑gour of youth, and of this there is a remarkable inſtance.

SOPHOCLES had four ſons; who, tired with ſo [46] long a dependance on an old man, repreſented him to the judges as a drivler, and a perſon inca⯑pable of governing his family, or taking charge of his affairs, SOPHOCLES confounded them by a trait which they little expected. He had juſt finiſhed his Oedipus of Colonos, and all his anſwer to this unjuſt accuſation, was a requeſt that the judges would read his tragedy. They did ſo, and found in it ſuch ſtrength of mind, ſuch beauty, ſuch truth, and ſuch perſuaſion, that they diſmiſſed him with an acclamation of praiſe, and his ſons covered with confuſion; nay LUCIAN, who tells the ſtory, adds, that the ſons were voted madmen for having accuſed him.

There are three different accounts of the death of SOPHOCLES. PLINY, and VALERIUS MAXI⯑MUS, ſay that he died of exceſs of joy in his ninety-fifth year, at the ſucceſs of one of his tragedies. Others ſay, that in reciting his tragedy of Anti⯑gonus, he kept his breath ſo long that it ſtopt the action of his lungs; but LUCIAN tells us that he was choked by a grape ſtone^*.

[47]PLUTARCH ſays, that one of the ſons of SO⯑PHOCLES was a cotemporary writer with his father, and from other authors we learn that another of his ſons, and two nephews, wrote pieces both tragic and lyric. We know nothing, however, of theſe pieces, or even of their titles.

EURIPIDES, according to ſome, was born at PHYLA, a town of ATTICA, and according to others at SALAMIS, about the firſt year of the ſeventy-fifth Olympiad. He is ſaid to have been the pupil of ANAXAGORAS, and intimately known to SOCRATES. He fortunately diſcovered the works of HERACLITUS, which were hid in the Temple of Diana; and from this commerce with theſe ſages, and the advantage he reaped from con⯑ſulting them, and reading their works, ſprung that luminous moral which pervaded his tragedies.

SUIDAS ſays, that the mother of EURIPIDES was nobly deſcended; though ARISTOPHANES calls her a cabbage ſeller, and VALERIUS MAXIMUS, taking the aſſertion, which was probably a jeſt, for [48] truth, gravely records it. It ſhould ſeem, how⯑ever, that his parents were perſons of ſome conſi⯑deration, for they conſulted the Oracle of Apollo concerning him before he was born; and, having received an ambiguous promiſe that the world ſhould witneſs his fame, and that he ſhould gain a crown, they bred up their ſon in a proper man⯑ner to qualify him for a wreſtler, under an idea that the Oracle meant no more than that he ſhould ob⯑tain the Athletic crown, which he actually did, at the feaſts in honour of CERES.

The genius of EURIPIDES, however, ſoon im⯑pelled him to abandon the exerciſes of the body for the exerciſes of the mind; and firſt he ſtudied painting, in which he is ſaid to have made a conſi⯑derable progreſs, but morality and philoſophy were the ſtudies moſt congenial to his mind, and as theſe, philoſophy particularly, had not yet been ſo much the drift of dramatic repreſentations as he wiſhed, he determined to add this perfection to the ſtage.

This gift which he poſſeſſed in an eminent de⯑gree, though he improved the ſtage in no other re⯑ſpect, begat for him a moſt extraordinary portion of cotemporary fame. His pieces are not ſpoken ſo highly of as to perfectneſs as thoſe of SOPHOCLES, but the verſes they contained were in the mouths [49] of all countries where the Greeks were known. If priſoners pleaded their cauſe in the language of EU⯑RIPIDES, their reward was life and liberty.

He was called the Philoſophic poet. ALEX⯑ANDER is ſaid to have admired him above all other writers; SOCRATES, who never had been accuſ⯑tomed to viſit the theatre, went there to hear the tragedies of EURIPIDES; DEMOSTHENES learnt de⯑clamation from them, and CICERO was in the act of reading them when he was ſurrounded and aſſa⯑ſinated.

Nevertheleſs it cannot be ſaid that EURIPIDES did ſo much for the poſthumous fame of the drama, or its real intereſt as SOPHOCLES. The chorus which SOPHOCLES had regulated, EURIPIDES al⯑tered and made it entirely independant of the main buſineſs. ARISTOTLE gives SOPHOCLES the pre⯑ference in manners, oeconomy, and ſtyle. DIONY⯑SIUS HARLICARNASSENSIS commends SOPHOCLES for chuſing the moſt, generous and moſt noble paſ⯑ſions for his ſubjects, whereas EURIPIDES choſe diſhoneſt, abject, and eſſiminate paſſions; and, again, becauſe SOPHOCLES never ſays any thing but what is exactly neceſſary, while EURIPIDES amuſes the reader with oratorical deductions.

[50]In ſhort, the general agreement between all thoſe who have written of theſe admirable authors is, that one amuſed, the other convinced; one ap⯑pealed to the paſſions, the other to reaſon; one had the peculiar gift of impoſing any thing for truth, the other had no eloquence but what was derived from truth itſelf.

EURIPIDES, it is ſaid, wrote ninety-two tragedies, but the general belief is, that he wrote no more than ſeventy-five, nineteen of which are extant, and the titles of fourteen others are recorded, but the pieces themſelves are not known. Like AESCHYLUS and SOPHOCLES, he met with an extraordinary death.

About a year after the Sicilians were defeated he left Athens and went to reſide at the court of Macedon, being invited by ARCHILAUS, who was accuſtomed to confer acts of munificence on learned men, and even to raiſe them to very high honours. EURIPIDES, if SOLINUS ſpeaks truth, was made his prime miniſter.

One evening in a wood, whether he had wan⯑dered in deep contemplation, he was ſurrounded by dogs and torne to pieces. Different cauſes are aſſigned for this unfortunate death. Some ſay that [51] the dogs were let looſe upon him by his rivals, who had reaſon enough to be jealous of thoſe high diſ⯑tinctions paid to him by ARCHELAUS; others that the whole was purely an accident, for that having ſtrayed while he was loſt in meditation near a part of the palace, which was guarded by theſe dogs, as a ſecurity againſt depredators, he was there ſurprized and thus became their victim.

Exaggerated accounts go ſo far as to ſay that EURIPIDES was torn to pieces by women in re⯑venge for his having exclaimed againſt them in his tragedies^*, but to this no credit has been given. Indeed the general belief is, that either by accident or deſign he met with the death above related.

With SOPHOCLES, who lived before and died [52] after EURIPIDES^*, died alſo every hope of advance⯑ment in tragedy. A great number of authors are ſaid to have written tragedies, and to have borne away many prizes, but we know nothing of them of ſufficient celebrity to render their names worthy of particular notice; for they grew at laſt into ſuch diſrepute that their productions only ſerved as food for the inſatiate appetite of ARISTOPHANES, by whom none of them were ſpared; and nothing can be ſo ſtrong a proof of degeneracy in tragedy as its falling ſucceſsfully under the laſh of the co⯑mic muſe.

DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of SICILY, was am⯑bitious to be ranked among the tragic poets. LU⯑CIAN ſays that he procured ſome tablets, on which AESCHYLUS had ſet down memorandums, that ſerved as the ground work of his pieces, and, poſ⯑ſeſſed [53] of theſe, he thought he had come at the whole myſtery; but he was miſerably deceived. No one gave him that credit which he flattered him⯑ſelf he merited. To induce a general belief of his talents, he endeavoured to make the poet, PHILOX⯑ENUS^*, whoſe pliability, as a courtier, he had reaſon to count upon, bolſter up his fame, by teſtifying a full approbation of his verſes. In this, however, he failed. The poet, flexible in all other things, was obſtinate when touched on the ſide of his profeſſional judgement. To requite his ſincerity DIONYSIUS committed him to priſon; but after a time, remanded him in hopes that his ſufferings in confinement would make him ſomething more accommodating. Being informed upon what condition he was releaſed, ‘'Carry me back to priſon,'’ ſaid the poet. This firmneſs moved DIONYSIUS who pardoned PHI⯑LOXENUS, and treated him ever afterwards with conſideration and reſpect^†.

[54]He was not, however, cured of his poetic pro⯑penſity; for, though we know nothing of the pieces he wrote, it is allowed there were ſeveral of them; and, though no one has attempted to ſpeak in fa⯑vour of them, PLINY ſays, that, like SOPHOCLES, he died for joy at obtaining a prize, the merit of which PLUTACRH attributes to ANTIPHON, one of the ſons of SOPHOCLES.

GREECE rendered the moſt diſtinguiſhed honours both to the works and the memory of her three tra⯑gic poets. An edict was iſſued to erect their ſtatues. Their works were preſerved, and the greateſt part entered in the archives. PTOLEMY, king of EGYPT, was very anxious to be in poſſeſſion of them, and above all of the works of EURIPIDES, to embelliſh his Alexandrian library; but they were refuſed, and he, in his turn, refuſed corn to the Athenians during a dearth. Neceſſity at length obliged the Athenians to comply with his requeſt, and he, in return, nobly permitted the Athenian merchants to import as much corn as they pleaſed, without pay⯑ing the ordinary tribute.

It was a cuſtom at ATHENS, in the lyric ſpec⯑tacles, [55] to ſing the great actions of their chiefs. THEMISTOCLES was one day aſked which voice pleaſed him the beſt? ‘"That," replied he, "which ſings my praiſes."’

SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES were ſet againſt each other by falſe friends, and their animoſity be⯑came continual amuſement for all the would-be⯑wits of GREECE.—Time, however, convinced theſe great men of their mutual error, as may be ſeen in the following letter from EURIPIDES.

‘"Inconſtancy is not my character. I have re⯑tained every friend except SOPHOCLES; though I no longer ſee him, I do not hate him. In⯑juſtice has alienated me from him; juſtice re⯑proaches me for it. I hope time will cement our re-union. What mortal ill is not cauſed at times by thoſe wicked ſpirits who are never ſo happy as when they ſow diſſention among thoſe who by nature and reaſon are meant to promote the felicity of each other."’

As an inſtance how chaſte and moral the Gre⯑cian poets were obliged to be, EURIPIDES having, in his tragedy of Belephoron, which is now loſt, made one of his characters ſay, ‘"Riches are the ſovereign good of mankind, and may well excite [56] the admiration of men and gods,"’ the ſpectators roſe, and would have baniſhed the poet from the town had they not found, at the finiſh of the piece, that the panegyriſt in favour of riches, by way of poetical juſtice, met with a miſerable and merited death.

Ten judges were choſen at ATHENS to decide what pieces merited the preference. They had places ſet apart for them. They were men of well-known merit, and ſtrict integrity. They took an oath to decide equitably, and without the ſmalleſt regard to ſolicitations from any quarter^*. Their authority extended ſo far that they had a right not only to recompenſe men of merit, but to puniſh, even to whipping, thoſe who were deſtitute of it^†. [57] LUCIAN tells us of one EVANGELUS who was whipped, and it is ſaid that SOPHOCLES was ad⯑judged, upon a certain occaſion, the prefectorſhip of SAMOS.

But the incorporating national events with dra⯑matic poetry ſeems to have been the happieſt and moſt meritorious perfection which the three tragic poets of GREECE attained. Sentiments of greatneſs attributed to one hero often ſpoke the eulogium of another. AESCHYLUS, in the Chiefs before Thebes, ſays, ſpeaking of AMPHIARUS,

When theſe lines were repeated on the ſtage, the eyes of the whole aſſembly were involuntarily fixed on ARISTIDES, to whom this great encomium appeared moſt applicable; and who, in his own conduct had modelled the man upon the ſentiment of the poet.

In ſhort, the Grecian tragedies were a patriotic concern, a public benefit, a bond between men and morals; and was, therefore, ſanctioned by the legiſlature, and maintained at the expence of the nation.

CHAP. V. ARISTOPHANES AND MENANDER, AND THE PRO⯑GRESS OF COMEDY IN GREECE.

THE real pleaſure reſulting from comedy, with⯑out doubt, is founded on that ſpurious pride which delights the human heart when human nature is hu⯑miliated. Strange paradox! Yet clear as light.

Who does not feel himſelf proud when the frail⯑ties of his neighbour are held up to deriſion? Who, that would choke with ſpleen at the expoſition of his own folly, does not rejoice with all his ſoul when the follies of others are laid open to public view? Yet this ever was and is ſtill conſidered as the true drift of comedy; falſely, however, for laſh the manners how you may, you cannot correct them; on the contrary they will grow more callous at every ſtroke, and what is worſe, every ſtroke will become more familiar and conſequently more tolerable.

The fault ſeems to be that comedy has been given a latitude by much too extenſive; and, as human frailties, up from the moſt pardonable folly [59] to the moſt malicious vice, are a field immeaſurable; all thoſe dramatic productions which have traverſed this prodigious ſpace, according as cuſtoms and man⯑ners have varied, according as times and circum⯑ſtances have inclined the public pleaſure, or policy, to tolerate them, and according to a number of other local and temporary circumſtances, have been denominated comedies.

It will be no difficulty, however, even ſo early as when the theatre came to be regulated in GREECE, to ſhew that the particular province of each dramatic production was known and clearly underſtood; and, though in ſpeaking of the pro⯑ductions of ARISTOPHANES, I ſhall be compelled to ſhew that comedy fluctuated and became irre⯑gular, it was only in conformity with thoſe manners of which it was bound to be the faithful repreſen⯑tative, and without which no dramatic writer can be popular.

Although all dramatic repreſentations were con⯑founded for a time in the word tragedy, which we have ſeen had not at all originally the ſignification which we now annex to it, nothing can be clearer than that the ſpecies of performance which the French call a drame, and we a play, was what the Greeks underſtood as the model and criterion of [60] their theatrical productions. The word is derived from the Greek, and ſignifies, literally, action, the moſt honourable deſignation of a dramatic piece, for without action it could have neither intereſt nor life.

Plays repreſent mankind in their common and natural purſuits, tragedies and comedies call them into ſuch actions as they are not accuſtomed to but upon extraordinary occaſions. A play has the pa⯑thetic of tragedy, and the playfulneſs of comedy, and is, in a general acceptation, infinitely more uſe⯑ful, more true, and more intereſting. The end of tragedy is to make you cry, the end of comedy to make you laugh^*; but a play excites both ſenſa⯑tions [61] without violating either of them. To ſtart an involuntary tear, as a tribute of ſympathy to do⯑meſtic woe, is a greater luxury than to expand a torrent of tears at the death of a heroine; and a ſingle benevolent ſmile excited by a benificent ac⯑tion, the reſult of nature and goodneſs, gladdens the mind more than a convulſion of laughter at the pe⯑culiarities of a fellow creature, who, though deformed in his manners, is, perhaps, perfect in his heart.

Plays then, as I ſhall have better opportunity to prove hereafter, are the parent ſtock of the drama; from which, on one ſide, ſprung tragedy, which de⯑generated into bombaſt, and on the other ſide co⯑medy, which degraded itſelf into buffoonery.

Comedy certainly was attempted in GREECE at the time of THESPIS, and, perhaps, earlier. PHRY⯑NICHUS is ſometimes called the Comic Poet, and there are appearances which juſtify this appellation. His pieces, very likely, were kind of Maſques; and, [62] if he was the inventor of the tetralogy, or if it was invented in his time, he, of courſe, wrote ſatire as well as tragedy, and in the original ſatires, which were the foundation of thoſe comedies written by ARISTOPHANES, the names of perſons were not ſpared^*.

The ſatire in particular levelled at PERICLES will ſhew that they were not accuſtomed to uſe ceremony. CRATINAS, TELECIDES, EUPOLUS, and PLATO, all comic poets, were perpetually aim⯑ing their ſatirical ſhafts at this monarch; and as perſonal defects were always unmercifully turned into jeſt, ſo the head of PERICLES, which was diſ⯑proportionably long, and which is, therefore, hid as much as poſſible in all the ſtatues of him by an [63] enormous Helmet, was the conſtant but of their ridicule^*.

Comedy, however, though it was occaſionally introduced, boaſted no great reputation till after tragedy had grown to perfection, and it is not an unlikely conjecture that the fiat of SOPHOCLES, which had broken the tetralogy and kept tragedy apart as a ſeparate province, having reduced co⯑medy to ſhift for itſelf, it, from neceſſity, reſumed ſufficient ſtrength to go alone, for we ſoon after this ſee that it began to be exerciſed ſyſtematically.

Comedy having always been conſidered as a vehicle to hold folly up to ridicule, it took a dif⯑ferent bent according to the ſpirit of the times. When the ſupreme power was in the people, the [64] poets, of courſe, were at full liberty to ſay un⯑ſparingly what they pleaſed, and of whom they pleaſed. Neither quality, office, age or ſex were ſpared; every one was reproached by name^*; and his ſpecies of comedy was called the Ancient, or the Real, becauſe it convinced by ſpeaking truth.

When the people began to loſe their power, and their liberties were veſted in fewer hands, it was no longer ſafe to uſe ſo bold a licenſe. The poets, therefore, had recourſe to a ſecond diſtinction of comedy where the ſubject was real, and the cha⯑racter [65] were feigned; and this was called the Mid⯑dle Comedy, becauſe, though it ſtill contained truth, it could only wound by companion^*.

At length truth, even by compariſon, ſuited ill with the luxury of the times, and the poets were obliged to invent both names and circumſtances; ſo that if an application hit ever ſo hard, no man was obliged to acknowledge the blow he had re⯑ceived; and this ſort of comedy, the whole being fictitious, was called The New. This laſt, however, [66] ill ſuited the temper of the Greeks and it grew into no repute till it was received among the Romans.

ARISTOPHANES, the boldneſs of whoſe writings ſpared neither friend nor foe, gave to the Middle Comedy all the force of the ancient, or real. The place of his birth is conteſted; his enemies, of which he had deſervedly a great number, repreſent him as a ſtranger; and his advocates, who were more ſo out of fear than love, inſiſt that he was an Athenian. His pieces were chiefly written during the Pelopenneſian war, ſo that he was a cotem⯑porary of PLATO and SOCRATES. His reputation aroſe from his being an inveterate enemy to all thoſe who wiſhed to enſlave their country. Though his ſtyle was by no means refined, his imagination was warm and lively, and his railery irreſiſtably keen and cutting, which he laid on unſparingly, and with a ſpirit of unfeeling reſolution.

ARISTOPHANES was remarkable for expoſing the vices of men in power, which he did with uncommon wit and ſeverity. CLEO was the firſt he attacked, for which purpoſe he wrote the comedy of the Equites. None of the actors, however, would venture to perſonate a man who poſſeſſed ſo much power, and, therefore, ARISTOPHANES de⯑termined to perform the part himſelf. This he did [67] with ſo much ſucceſs that the Athenians obliged CLEO to give a fine of five talents to the poet^*.

His comedy of The Clouds ſeems to be the moſt celebrated of all his works, both on account of its ſeverity and the miſchief it occaſioned.

It is by many believed that ARISTOPHANES, in a great meaſure, occaſioned the death of SOCRATES. At any rate that poet was very culpable in pub⯑licly accuſing the philoſopher of impiety in his comedy of The Clouds ^†. It was certainly his moſt [68] celebrated piece, and, therefore, it is ſuppoſed he had ſome ſtrong inducement to take ſo much pains with it. This is ſaid to be the hiſtory of the tranſ⯑action.

ANYTUS and his party left no method untried to compaſs the deſtruction of SOCRATES. But they feared the Athenians, who loved him, would revolt at any ouverte meaſures; they, therefore, had re⯑courſe to ſtratagem, to execute which they em⯑ployed ARISTOPHANES. This artful and habile ſatiriſt, who knew ſo well to apply his arguments that they never failed of their full force, undertook the taſk. He had long looked on the auſtere manners of SOCRATES as a fit ſubject on which to employ the gall that diſtilled from his pen. He accuſed him in the open theatre of being an eloquent ſeducer, who, by the charms of his language and the witchery of his arguments, was ſpeciouſly capable of reconciling every poſſible contradiction. That, through the medium of this winning deceit, he had deluded the people and broached the moſt dan⯑gerous doctrines; that he deſpiſed the gods, and in⯑ſpired all thoſe who liſtened to him with errors, tending to produce the moſt ſerious and alarming conſequences.

ARISTOPHANES played upon the ſubject with [69] the ſame glare of falſe reaſoning of which he had accuſed SOCRATES; and, while he laboured to make it appear that another had impoſed upon them, his own impoſition was but too ſucceſsful. The Athenians had not the ſmalleſt expectation that any one would dare to broach ſuch bold accuſations, and, therefore, at firſt, felt ſome reſentment; but being naturally diſtruſtful of all diſtinguiſhed and extraordinary men, this comedy began to gain ground; and at length, for prejudice knows not where to ſtop, became more celebrated than any thing that had been exhibited in GREECE.

It cannot, however, but be allowed, that though all the ancients admired ARISTOPHANES for the true attic elegance of his ſtyle, and though the moderns have in this, as in other things, very often they knew not why, yielded a blind obedience to the ancients, yet it were better that ARISTO⯑PHANES had never lived, or that he had employed his talents to worthier purpoſes; for, however he might have been admired by St. CHRYSOSTOM, who always laid him under his pillow when he went to bed; however SCALIGER may inſiſt that no one ought to judge of the Attic dialect who had not ARISTOPHANES at his fingers ends; however FRIS⯑CHLIN may have entered the liſts with PLUTARCH [70] in his defence; however RYMER may have been euchanted with ‘"his ſtrange fetches, his lucky ſtarts, his odd inventions, his wild turns, returns and coun⯑ter turns,"’ finiſhing his rhapſody by the anti-climax of comparing him to the mad RABELAIS; and, to bring up the rear reſpectably, however MADAME DACIER might have affected to receive ſo much rapturous delight from that wit which had been the death of a man who was an honour to his country; yet the more poignant his wit, the more brilliant his genius, and the more conſummate his judgment; his indiſcriminate exerciſe of thoſe talents; his wickedly and wantonly confounding SOCRATES with CLEO, and thereby preverting the principles of morality; his parodying SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, turning into ridicule the works of thoſe admirable writers, the ſtudy of whoſe lives had been to make their fellow citizens honeſt and honourable; and, thereby eſtabliſhing, ſtampt with the conſequence of his au⯑thority, to which the people were accuſtomed to look up to as a fiat, a criterion for meaner writers to ridicule every thing noble and worthy; theſe, however they may eſtabliſh his reputation as a writer, muſt deſtroy it as a member of ſociety; and, whatever opinion may be entertained of his wit, a moſt deſpicable one muſt be formed of his morals.

[71]ARISTOPHANES is ſaid to have written above fifty comedies, eleven of which are extant, and ſome of them are printed in different languages. MA⯑DAME DACIER, with all her admiration of him, ſeems to have thought only two worthy of ſelection, which are Plutus, and The Clouds; theſe ſhe pub⯑liſhed with critical notes, and an examination of them according to the rules of the theatre.

We know nothing of when or where ARISTO⯑PHANES died, ſo that all his extraordinary fortune happened to him in his life time.

After ARISTOPHANES the middle comedy gra⯑dually declined; for as the wits that came after him had not the merit to imitate him in his bold and ſatirical ſtyle of writing, their minor abilities na⯑turally turned to the falſe and feeble parts of his works, in which he diſhonoured his genius by pityful parodies of writings, infinitely more valuable to the cauſe of truth and literature than his own.

It was, however, the ſate of GREECE that the ſtage ſhould be once more reſcued from barbariſm. MENANDER, who was born at ATHENS, in the third year of the hundred and ninth Olympiad, intro⯑duced the new comedy, and thereby refined an [72] art that had been exerciſed for fifty years with the moſt unbridled profligacy and licentiouſneſs. His incomparable merit quickly ſpread his name to the remoteſt nations. PLINY ſays, that the kings of EGYPT and MACEDON gave a noble proof of their admiration of him, by ſending ambaſſadors, and even fleets, to bring him to their courts; but MENANDER was too much of a philoſopher to be tempted by the promiſes of the great.

The time continuing, however corrupt, his coun⯑trymen denied him that merit which he was allowed by ſtrangers, and therefore, eſtabliſhed, in his favour, the ſtrongeſt poſſible proof of his ſuperior genius. This contumely he pitied and forgave; and though, through the ignorance and partiality of the judges, he often ſaw the prize awarded to PHILEMON, a miſerable cotemporary poet; he bore it with per⯑fect indifference, the only notice he ever took of it being when he aſked PHILEMON whether he did not bluſh to wear the laurel.

MENANDER is ſaid to have written above a hundred comedies, which are all unfortunately loſt. We can only come at his works, therefore, through TERENCE, who borrowed four plays from him, [73] though ſome ſay ſix, which are allowed to have loſt much of their original ſpirit.

We know, therefore, but little of MENANDER, but that little may ſerve to give an exalted idea of his reputation. He ſeems to have been in comedy what EURIPIDES was in tragedy. The old rhe⯑toricians recommend his works as the true and per⯑fect patterns of every thing beautiful and graceful in public ſpeaking. QUINTILIAN adviſes an ora⯑tor to ſeek in MENANDER for copiouſneſs of in⯑vention, for elegance of expreſſion, and all that uni⯑verſal genius which is able to accommodate itſelf to perſons, things and affections.

MENANDER's wonderful talent of portraying na⯑ture in every condition, and under every accident of life, occaſioned that memorable queſtion of AR⯑ISTOPHANES the grammarian: ‘"Oh MENANDER! Oh nature! which of you have copied the works of the other."’ OVID, and PLUTARCH, have paid the tribute of praiſe to his reputation, but CAESAR, in calling TERENCE a half MENANDER, has ſeemed to give a critical idea of his exellence by allowing him double the merit of the Roman poet, whoſe extraordinary value as a writer he is recording at the minute he makes the remark.

[74]MENANDER died in the third year of the hun⯑dred and twenty-ſecond Olympiad; and, after him there is nothing worthy to be related of the dra⯑matic art in GREECE.

CHAP. VI. ACTORS, AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE GRECIAN THEATRE.

ACTORS were held in honourable eſteem in GREECE; but this is only ſaying that the Greeks honoured all thoſe whoſe purſuits were ſtimulated by any merit⯑orious emulation.

I ſhall, however, pr [...]miſe, that the arts which flouriſhed in perfection at ATHENS were little known or reliſhed in SPARTA, and it cannot but be conſidered as remarkable, that the Greeks, who were, in fact, but one people, ſhould be divided into two kingdoms merely from manners, habits, and modes of thinking.

This, however, taken one way, may tell to the honour of the Spartans. Their manners were ſo auſtere, and their conduct ſo exact, that they re⯑jected every thing ſuperfluous; and though amuſe⯑ments, poetry and muſic in particular, were but little encouraged among them, yet, ſuch as they had [76] a taſte for, conſiſted of pure ſimplicity and digni⯑fied expreſſion. TERPANDER, who was both a poet and a muſician, PINDAR and other eminent men, though not Spartans, were admired in SPARTA.

Any thing but the mere ſentiment in muſic and poetry, and its force and influence on the mind, the Lacedemonians rejected. Even when LYCURGUS inſtituted the ſenate of thirty, including the two kings, they met in the open air, under an idea that a hall, or building of any kind, prepared for the purpoſe, might amuſe the attention with ſuch trifles as pictures, or ſtatutes, and ſplendid ornaments, in⯑ſtead of occupying it on ſubjects relative to the ge⯑neral welfare.

Theatres, in like manner, were diſcouraged. AGESILAUS, who reigned in SPARTA forty-one years, held the theatre in contempt. One day CALLIPEDES, a celebrated Greek tragedian, ap⯑proached AGESILAUS and paid his reſpects to him, and having waited a conſiderable time in expectation that ſome honourable notice would be taken of him, ſaid, at laſt, ‘"Do you not know me Sir?"’ The king looking at him with a contemptuous diſdain ſaid, ‘"Are you not CALLIPEDES the ſtage player?"’ Another time AGESILAUS was aſked to hear a [77] mimic who imitated the nightingale to perfection. ‘"No," ſaid he, "I have heard the nightingale herſelf."’

Nay, this diſlike, or rather ſeverity of manners, extended even to their ſlaves. When the Thebans invaded LACONIA, they took priſoners a number of the Helotes, whom they ordered to ſing the odes of TERPANDER, ALEMON, or SPENDON, the Lacedemonian; but they excuſed themſelves, ſay⯑ing, that it was forbidden by their maſters^*.

But if the dramatic art was ſlighted in SPARTA, it was careſſed with enthuſiaſm in ATHENS; and, indeed, in all the countries into which the Grecians penetrated. Every general of any eminence had in his camp his poets, his muſicians, and his de⯑clamers. In the camp of ALEXANDER, HE⯑PHESTIAN gave to EVIUS, the muſician, the quar⯑ters deſtined for EUMENES; who, thus affronted, complained to ALEXANDER, and ſaid that he ſaw [78] plainly the beſt way to acquire promotion would be to throw away their arms and learn to play upon the flute, or turn tragedian.

Indeed, ALEXANDER, proud as he was, con⯑ſidered it no degradation to countenance actors, and even to place a confidence in them. Having an opinion of the wit and readineſs, nay the diſcretion and honour of THESSALUS the actor, he ſent him on an embaſy to PEXODORUS, the Perſian governor in CARIA, to break off a match between the eldeſt daughter of that chief and ARIDAEUS.

At ALEXANDER's return to PHOENECIA from EGYPT, the people at the ſacrifices were entertained with muſic, and dancing; and tragedies were alſo performed with the greateſt magnificence. Beſides the perſons uſually choſen by lot from the tribes to conduct thoſe exhibitions, NICOCREON, king of SALAMIS, and PASICRATES, king of SOLI, parti⯑cularly diſtinguiſhed themſelves upon this occaſion. PASICRATES riſked the victory upon ATHENODORUS the actor, and NICOCREON upon THESSALUS. AL⯑EXANDER intereſted himſelf moſt anxiouſly in be⯑half of the latter. He did not, however, leſt the aſſembly ſhould be biaſſed, declare in his favour till ATHENODORUS was proclaimed victor by all the ſuffrages; when he exclaimed, that he com⯑mended [79] the judges for what they had done, but that he would have given half his kingdom rather than have ſeen THESSALUS conquered.

ALEXANDER had an opportunity afterwards of ſhewing how unprejudiced his mind was. When the ſame ATHENODORUS was fined by the Athenians, for not making his appearance on the ſtage at the feaſts of BACCHUS, he entreated ALEXANDER to intercede for him; who, though he did not choſe to write in his favour, paid the fine.

Another time LYCON, the actor, a native of SCARPHIA, finding that his performance delighted ALEXANDER, inſinuated adroitly in his part, that he was in neceſſity for ten talents. ALEXANDER laughed at the conceit, and ordered the actor what he ſo ingeniouſly demanded.

But the inſtances of admiration in which the talents and conduct of the Grecian actors were held are innumerable. We have already ſeen that AESCHYLUS, SOPHOCLES, and EURIPIDES, were all actors, and, indeed, ſo were moſt of the Grecian dramatic writers. Had not ARISTOPHANES been an excellent actor, the world would have loſt the hateful character of CLEO.

Thus declamation at ATHENS was the criterion [80] of oratory. POLUS, an actor, had loſt his only, child, whom he tenderly loved, and he was on that day to perform a part which had an incident ſimilar to his own ſituation. To render his grief more lively and natural, he took an urn containing the aſhes of his ſon, which ſo wrought upon his feel⯑ings that he drew tears from the whole aſſembly.

In ſhort, declamation was eſteemed a great re⯑quiſite towards obtaining a rank in public life. The firſt men of ATHENS did not diſdain to practiſe it. Nevertheleſs actors were not permitted to judge of the merit of public entertainments.

When DEMOSTHENES complained that the worſt orators were heard in the roſtrum in pre⯑ference to him, SATYRUS, the actor, to ſhew him how much, grace, dignity, and action add to the celebrity of a public man, repeated to him ſeveral paſſages from SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, with which DEMOSTHENES was ſo captivated that he ever afterwards modelled his eloquence from the example of the beſt actors^*.

We have now ſeen that the dramatic art is traceable in GREECE to THESEUS^†. That it gra⯑dually [81] came forward till it was perfected by AESCHY⯑LUS; that the admirable talents of AESCHYLUS, SOPHOCLES, and EURIPIDES, were ſuperior, when the infancy of the drama is conſidered, to any trium⯑virate ſince that time; that this great compact once broken, comedy, particularly in the hands of AR⯑ISTOPHANES, degenerated into licentiouſneſs; and that the incomparable talents of MENANDER came too late to ſave the ſinking intereſt of the ſtage.

It remains now only to ſay, that from the paro⯑dies of the tragic writers, began by ARISTOPHANES, and awkwardly imitated by his cotemporaries and ſucceſſors, ſprung mimes, farces, and the groſſeſt buffoonery^*; and, though the Grecian theatre ſtill [82] kept up an appearance of greatneſs, and there was often ſome brilliancy beamed acroſs the hetroge⯑neous maſs which obſcured that truth and nature to which the people were no longer ſenſible; yet the grandeur and magnificence of public exhibitions, viſibly decreaſed; till, at length, the fate of the ſtage too truly foretold the fate of the empire. So certain it is that where the arts are redundant they introduce luxury, and ſap the foundation of a ſtate.

CHAP. VII. ROMAN THEATRE, FROM ITS ORIGIN TO THE TIME OF LIVIUS AN⯑DRONICUS.

WHAT nature was to the Greeks the Greeks were to the Romans^*, and the reſemblance is remarkably perfect; for, as the Greeks attained a ſplendid degree of perfection by a cloſe imitation of nature, the Romans never arrived to any diſtinguiſhed per⯑fection becauſe they imitated man. But, indeed, in greatneſs of ſoul and ſtrength of mind they were in every thing infinitely below the Greeks. A peo⯑ple whoſe luxury was to enjoy a ſpectacle of gla⯑diators were little calculated to liſten to lectures of [84] truth and morality. The ferocious Romans were always rather terrible than great; and the mind ac⯑commodates itſelf ill to a belief that the ſame men could attend with any degree of pleaſure, or in⯑tereſt, to whatever inculcated the mild duties of clemency and beneficence; who, in cold blood, could murder their defenceleſs ſovereign at the foot of the capitol.

All writers agree that the Romans arrived to no degree of perfection in either literature or the arts, and, in particular, the ſtage, but as they copied the Greeks, and that even of the ſtage, their copies are faint indeed. The pompous and phlegmatic SENECA, falſely called the Tragic Poet, with his fettered and dependant ſtyle, lagged far behind the Greek triumvirate. The cold TERENCE, though full of nature and grace, imprinted nothing on the mind congenial to the Roman character. The ſub⯑jects were Greek, but they were enfeebled and ſpiritleſs; and only ſerved to excite regret in thoſe who knew how to taſte the muſe of MENANDER.

The Romans were nearly four hundred years without any ſcenic repreſentations; but it is not to be ſuppoſed that they were ſo long without any ſort of poetry, or that ſome ſelf-born amuſement did not manifeſt itſelf with them as it did with the Greeks; [85] on the contrary monſters of this deſcription were born and nurſed by feaſts and debauches. Their firſt poetry, which was called Saturnine and Feſci⯑nine was hard and crude, reſembling rather proſe in cadence than meaſured verſe. In other reſpects it was full of groſs raillery, and ſung by perſons who accompanied it with geſtures and poſtures the moſt indecent and laſcivious.

This barbarous ſtuff gave place to raillery more refined; but which, however, became ſo ſevere and ſarcaſtic, that thoſe at whom it was levelled not liking theſe ſort of jeſts, retorted the kindneſs manually; till, at length, it cauſed ſo much miſchief that a law was made which condemned to death any perſon who in their verſes ſhould wound the reputation of his neighbour. This law was made in the three hundred and ſecond year of ROME; a certain proof that this licentiouſneſs had obtained and that they had grown ſufficiently civilized at that time to ſuppreſs it.

This reform laſted a hundred years, at the end of which time a public calamity induced them to ſeize every opportunity to appeaſe the anger of Heaven; and thus feaſts in honour of the gods be⯑came, after a time, theatrical performances.

[86]Theſe were, however, according to TITUS LIVY, irregular ſketches made up wholly of imitation. BALADINES, who came from TUSCANY, danced to the ſound of the flute, and exhibited a number of rude geſtures and attitudes in the manner of that country. This amuſement was received with the warmeſt applauſe, and after repeated trials and im⯑provements it became more endurable. Regular troops named Hiſtrions, becauſe in the Tuſcan language a baladine is called Hiſter, performed complete pieces entitled Satires, in which the ac⯑tors and the ſpectators joined promiſcuouſly.

Theſe kind of farces continued about a hundred and twenty years; when the poet ANDRONICUS, about the time ARATUS called in ATICONOUS from MACEDONIA, which proved the ruin of GREECE, about two hundred and forty years after the death of AESCHYLUS, and about a hundred and eighty years after the death of SOPHOCLES and EURI⯑PIDES, brought forward the firſt perfect dramatic piece in Rome.

CHAP. VIII. LIVIUS ANDRONICUS, PACUVIUS, ACCIUS^*, AND SENECA, AND THE PROGRESS OF TRAGEDY IN ROME.

ANDRONICUS, ſurnamed LIVIUS, becauſe he ob⯑tained his freedom through LIVIUS SALINATOR, to whoſe children he was preceptor, was a native of GREECE. It is ſaid, that, deſpairing of any im⯑provement in the Roman Theatre, he ſung his pieces in the manner of his predeceſſors; but one day as he was ſurrounded by the populace, be⯑ing extremely fatigued, he called in the aſſiſtance of a ſlave, who relieved him while he fetched breath. The ſlave, however, not acquitting him⯑ſelf to the ſatisfaction of his maſter, he expoſtulated with him; upon this the ſpectators, ſuppoſing their altercation to be a part of the piece, were ſo en⯑tertained with it that from thence dialogue was adopted.

[88]It is much more probable that being himſelf a Greek, and having eſcaped from the wreck of the Grecian theatre, LIVIUS bore away with him ſuch part of its treaſure as the ſtorm had ſpared; and, as a fit opportunity for his purpoſe occurred at the end of the firſt Punic war, when the Temple of JANUS was ſhut for the ſecond time ſince the foundation of ROME, and when the Romans were in friendſhip with all the world, he took his mea⯑ſures; and, in pity to the wretched ſtate of their dra⯑ma, ventured to innovate upon a more rational taſte.

This he did to ſo good a purpoſe, that, certainly, for a time, the Romans rejected all their former rude and impure dramatic cuſtoms; and, under the tuition of ANDRONICUS, determined to regulate their taſte on the Grecian model; indeed it will be difficult to controvert, that through ANDRONICUS and ENNIUS, whom SUETONIUS tells us were half Greeks, the cauſe of literature at this favour⯑able period became completely eſtabliſhed.

Whatever the merit of ANDRONICUS might have been, except giving to Roman taſte Grecian refinement, is very uncertain. He is ſpoken of in general only collaterally; and but for ENNIUS, with whom he is often coupled, and who, ſome tra⯑gedies tranſlated from the Greek excepted, has no [89] right to be conſidered as a dramatic poet, we ſhould know very little about his particular talents. 'Tis certain, however, that ANDRONICUS turned the tide of opinion for a time, but the Romans, ever changeable, at laſt grew tired of tragedy; which, having for ſome time undergone a ſuſpenſion, was at laſt reſtored by PACUVIUS.

It is not exactly aſcertained when PACUVIUS was born, but he flouriſhed, as a tragic poet in ROME, about ſixty years after ANDRONICUS firſt began to be known; and, if it be true, what ſome contend, tragedy had ſtill a ſmack of its parent ſtock, for he is ſaid to have been the grandſon of ENNIUS.

PACUVIUS, however, though he reſtored tra⯑gedy, as far as the fluctuating manners of the Ro⯑mans would admit, certainly did little more, for we know of nothing he produced of any celebrity; and, though he ſucceſsfuly kept, the Grecian taſte afloat, and thus regulated the wild and extravagant ſallies, which, in ſpight of the beſt care pervaded the Roman ſpectacles; yet, ACCIUS ſeems to have reaped that harveſt of reputation which ANDRO⯑NICUS and PACUVIUS had ſo carefully ſown^*.

[90]ACCIUS was born in the five hundred and eighty-third year of ROME. He became a ſort of diſciple of PACUVIUS, who brought his laſt piece on the ſtage in the very year that ACCIUS produced his firſt. By the advice of PACUVIUS he kept to thoſe ſubjects which had been already brought forward on the Athenian ſtage. Not that he confined himſelf entirely to theſe, for he wrote one piece, the ſtory of which was Roman, and it related to the expulſion of the Tarquins. It was called Brutus. We are alſo informed that he wrote comedies, but we know nothing of their titles.

What, however, ſeems to have given ACCIUS more reputation and conſequence than any thing elſe, was the verſes he wrote in praiſe of DECIMUS BRUTUS, who was honoured with a triumph for his victories in SPAIN; and, who was ſo charmed upon this occaſion with ACCIUS, that he had the verſes in⯑ſcribed at the entrances of thoſe temples which he cauſed to be erected out of the ſpoils of the van⯑quiſhed; and thus we have BRUTUS's word, ſo flattered, that ACCIUS was an excellent poet.

As ACCIUS paſſed through Tarentum, in his way [91] to ASIA, he paid a viſit to PACUVIUS, and read to him his tragedy of Atreus, which, by the advice of his old maſter, he had copied from the Greek. PA⯑CUVIUS told him that his ſtyle was elevated, but that it was rude. ‘"I dont bluſh at that,"’ ſaid ACCIUS, ‘"it will teach me to write better hereafter; for it is with genius as it is with fruit. Apples that are at firſt four become ſweet as they ripen, while thoſe which are unſeaſonably ſoft and diſcoloured rot before they come to maturity."’

Certainly ACCIUS has been cenſured for writing harſh and crude, but in other reſpects he was al⯑lowed to have had conſiderable merit. He was held in ſuch reſpect that an actor was puniſhed for only mentioning his name on the ſtage, and VA⯑LERIUS MAXIMUS tells us, that when JULIUS CAESAR entered the aſſembly of poets ACCIUS never paid him the homage of riſing to receive him; not that he meant to fail in reſpect, but be⯑cauſe he conſidered that the ſuperiority lay on the ſide of literature; and becauſe, in ſuch an aſ⯑ſembly, the queſtion was not whoſe title was the moſt illuſtrious but who was the beſt writer.

ACCIUS was aſked why he who knew ſo well how to enforce ſentiment and eloquence in his tra⯑gedies did not plead. ‘"Becauſe," ſaid he, "at [92] the theatre I make them ſay what I pleaſe, at the bar my adverſaries would ſay what I ſhould diſlike."’

I ſhall ſum up PACUVIUS and ACCIUS in the words of QUINTILIAN; who ſays that thoſe il⯑luſtrious authors united in their tragedies, greatneſs of thought, and energy of ſtyle; and, for the reſt, if they have not expanded more grace through their works, and carried them to a higher degree of perfection, the fault was in the time when they wrote and not in them.

It is not at this moment decided whether the beſt Roman tragedies, which are attributed to an author of the name of SENECA, are written by SENECA, the philoſopher, or him, who for diſ⯑tinction, is called SENECA the Tragic Poet. JUSTUS LIPSIUS, and ERASMUS, give it in favour of the philoſopher. ENNIUS, however, inſiſts that he wrote only the firſt four, his brother, the tragic poet, three, and that the other three are written by three different authors; but this diſpute has given riſe to a hundred conjectures, till, at length, ga⯑thering as it has gone, FATHER BRUMOY will have it that neither of the SENECAS had any hand in theſe pieces, but that they were written by an anonymous author, who concealed his own name to ſubſtitute one much more celebrated in literature.

[93]The probability is, that they had both a con⯑cern in them. All the biographers of SENECA, the philoſopher, agree that he wrote four tragedies; theſe his brother might have fathered, and he might alſo have been aſſiſted in the compoſition of the rest; but the other, being occupied in ſtudies of a more ſublime nature, he might have conceived it improper to enter the liſts on a ſubject that would not only have enticed him from his other purſuits, but have involved him in inconvenient con⯑troverſies.

Leaving this point, however, as it ever will remain undecided, let us examine the tragedies them ſelves; which, though they were in places heavy, turgid, and inflated, have many true beau⯑ties; proving that if taſte was ſacrificed in them, it was as in others, a ſacrifice to the times.

NERO, whoſe ridiculous pretenſions to works of merit, were as vain as his genius was contempti⯑ble, gave a monſtrous and fantaſtic air to all objects around him. The poets took the ſame tone, and SENECA was obliged to conform. Again. The extravagance and falſe dignity with which pieces were at that time repreſented to impoſe upon the people. The ſubject was always taken from re⯑ligion; gods were brought on the ſtage; and it was [94] impoſſible to inſert too much bombaſt in their ex⯑preſſions. The eclat introduced into the muſic of the chorus, the marvellous magnificence of the ſcenes, all, to be of a piece, went prodigiouſly be⯑yond nature.

It was neceſſary in every way to ſtrike the pub⯑lic with aſtoniſhment. In proportion as the thea⯑tres were enlarged, ſo they enlarged the figures of the actors. They walked upon ſtilts, they uſed a porte-voice, and covered their faces with maſques which reſembled thoſe characters they repreſented. All this was neceſſary to delude a nation who panted to turn now and then from the horrible pic⯑tures preſented every day to their ſight by that un⯑natural and inſatiable monſter their ſovereign; who not content with deſtroying an infinite number of the moſt illuſtrious citizens of ROME, conniving at poiſoning his father, attempting to drown his mo⯑ther, and aſſaſinating his wife and his brother, to heap up the meaſure of his abominable crimes, ſacrificed the very man whom he had compelled to throw this veil over the eyes of his ſubjects, that they might be diverted from the juſt and equita⯑ble revenge which at length, to ſave their ſink⯑ing honour, became the reward of his ignorant pride, his deſpicable cowardice, and his diabolical cruelty.

[95]NERO incorporated the natural cruelty of his character with the artificial ſubjects on the ſtage. If a poet would write a piece to pleaſe him it was impoſſible to ſhed too much blood. This monſtrous mixture of barbarity and love for theatrical re⯑preſentations carried him to the moſt extravagant lengths. He inſtituted the feaſts Juvenalia, which were celebrated in honour of his mother, at the very moment that he meditated her deſtruction. The pomp introduced in theſe is inconceivable. Nothing could go beyond the parade except the vanity with which he expoſed his incorrigible folly. Among the reſt he offered the produce of his chin, when he was ſhaved for the firſt time, to JUPITER CAPITO⯑LINUS. He obliged perſons of the firſt diſ⯑tinction to perform different parts. He himſelf ſung the fable of Atis, and the Bacchantes, while BURRHUS and SENECA were commanded to ex⯑cite the ſpectarors to applaud.

SUETONIUS informs, us, that when NERO per⯑formed on the ſtage, he filled his hair with golden powder to reſemble APOLLO; and while he ſung and accompanied himſelf with the lyre, the ſol⯑diers with the point of the ſword extorted ap⯑plauſe from the people.

All this ſerves to induce a belief that however, the ſtoical auſterity and gravity of SENECA might [96] incline him to be ſilent as to the hand he had in thoſe tragedies, they were either written or con⯑nived at by him; and that whatever there is amiſs in them he was compelled to admit, and whatever ex⯑cellent ſprung from his own genius.

It muſt be allowed that they contained, in places, ſome moſt admirable morality. In the choruſes, in particular, there are brilliant ſentences, filled with ſuperb images, and expreſſed in beautiful verſe. Upon the whole, though taken altogether, they can⯑not ſerve as patterns for dramatic writing; though the admirers of the great ſtoic philoſopher, may feel there being attributed to him as degrading to the me⯑mory of their favourite; yet, with all their faults, and with all his high reputation, they contain, clogged, perhaps, and fettered with unworthy and diſgraceful paſſages impelled by the glare of a tyrant's fal⯑chion, ſentiments which might legitimately emanate from the ſoul of SENECA.

There were other tragic poets among the Ro⯑mans, but we know very little of them. MARCUS ATTILIUS wrote tragedies, but his ſtyle was bar⯑barous, for ſo CICERO tells us, and LUCINIUS calls him the Iron Poet.

PUBLIUS POMPONIUS, who was the relation and intimate friend of PLINY, wrote tragedies at [97] the time of the emperor CLAUDIUS who very much admired them. PUBLIUS ſeems to have written with a more independant ſpirit than SENECA; for, FABIUS ſays, that being deſired by the emperor to take certain paſſages out of his pieces, he an⯑ſwered, ‘"I ſhall appeal to the people."’ He was not leſs diſtinguiſhed in the army than on the the⯑atre; for TACITUS tells us, that he was once re⯑warded with the honour of a triumph.

SULPITIUS is ſpoken of as an author of merit CICERO calls him the tragic orator. STRABO ſpeaks of DIODORUS of Alexandria, who acquired con⯑ſiderable reputation in his tragedies. ATHENAEUS tells us of LEONTINE, OVID of TURANIUS, AC⯑RON of ARISTIUS FUSCUS, and PROPERTIUS of PONTHICUS; but, indeed, there was ſcarcely an eminent man among the Romans but had ſomething to do with the theatre. The ancient grammarians have given an account of the Thyeſtus of GRAC⯑CHUS, the Alcmeon of CATULLUS, the Adraſtus of CAESAR, the Ajax of AUGUSTUS, the Octavio of MAECENAS, and the Medea of OVID; but they ſay that theſe tragedies are all loſt, and that the loſs is not worthy to be regretted.

CHAP. IX. PLAUTUS AND TERENCE, AND THE PROGRESS OF COMEDY IN ROME.

TO this moment, perhaps, comedy has not been critically defined. It is not the ancient, or the comedy of PHRYNICHUS and his followers, becauſe there is ſomething ſhockingly revolting in holding up men by their names and proclaiming their vices and follies to the world, and comedy ought not to revolt an audience. It is not the middle, or the comedy of ARISTOPHANES and his followers, be⯑cauſe, though the man is not named, if he be not ſo repreſented as to be known to all the world, the audience cannot be ſatisfied; if he be ſo known, they muſt be ſhocked on the ſide of humanity, and comedy ought not to excite either of theſe conſe⯑quences. It cannot be the new, or the comedy of MENANDER and his followers, becauſe, though in this ſpecies of comedy both names and circum⯑ſtances are feigned, yet the licence is ſo wide and diffuſive, that there is ſcarcely any province in the [99] whole circle of the drama that it might not em⯑brace, and comedy ſhould neither ſoar nor de⯑generate.

Comedy appears then to be the eſſence of ME⯑NANDER's plan applied by an ingenious poet to man⯑ners, time, and place; and ſo managed as to repre⯑ſent common life ſo exact, ſo animated, and ſo faith⯑ful, that the author, the actors, and the ſpectators, may go away ſatisfied with one another. Not a portrait, but a picture; not the likeneſs of an individual, but a reſemblance of the whole audience; nay, of the whole world, of human nature. Every thing above this trenches upon tragedy, every thing below it ſinks into farce.

Merely to laugh and to cry, is to indulge two emotions of the mind derived from the ſame origin, and which have ſo very little to do with the heart that one is not always a ſign of joy, nor the other of grief. When I ſee a character put into all ſituations but thoſe which are natural to it, I think of a groom exerciſing a managed horſe; and after be⯑coming fatigued with his bounds, his leaps, and his caprioles, I long to ſee him walk. In ſhort let no poet expect to produce a real comedy who cannot excite every emotion of the ſoul without unworthily [100] ſurpriſing the heart, or reproaching the under⯑ſtanding.

If this be any thing like the true definition of comedy, we muſt deſpair of finding it in any re⯑pute among the Romans; for TERENCE came very far ſhort of it in one reſpect, and PLAUTUS went very far beyond it in the other; and as to any comic writers but thoſe, what did they produce but pityful farce, and contemptible buffoonery.

Comedy, in ROME, did not eſtabliſh itſelf ſyſte⯑matically and by degrees as it did in GREECE; for PLAUTUS wrote for the theatre during the time of LIVIUS ANDRONICUS, and TERENCE, who was nine years old when PLAUTUS died, muſt of courſe have been cotemporary with PACUVIUS and ACCIUS; ſo that every thing ſerious and comic, good and bad, came at once; and ſo it was but Grecian, found a kind welcome among the Romans. On this account their theatre adopted indiſcriminately every ſpecies of dramatic amuſe⯑ment, from the loftieſt tragedy to the moſt miſerable farce, and that which was abſurdeſt was the moſt admired.

Had the taſte of the Romans admitted of re⯑gularity, PLAUTUS and TERENCE might certainly [101] have gone a great way towards eſtabliſhing a cri⯑terion for comedy; but PLAUTUS, in compliance with the times, proſtituted that real wit which he certainly poſſeſſed, and which, properly and reſo⯑lutely exerciſed, might have ſhamed the people out of thoſe monſtrous ſatires and groſs farces, which diſgraced the ſtage; and TERENCE, determined upon a reform, went to the other extreme and ex⯑hibited, as an object of public admiration, a muſe, correct indeed, in perfect proportion, meaſured and compaſſed to a nicety; but which wanted warmth, animation, and ſpirit; ſerious without intereſt, good without a motive, and virtuous without in⯑ducement.

It was ſaid that the impures of TERENCE ſpoke more modeſtly than the honeſt women of PLAUTUS; therefore both were out of place. It muſt he al⯑lowed, however, that the praiſe of the candid and the ſenſible is eminently due to both theſe poets; but the manners were too corrupt for any reaſonable hope of reformation. The taſk was Herculean; and if ARISTOPHANES, who laid about him ſoundly, ſparing neither friend nor foe, could work no reform in poliſhed GREECE, but on the contrary much miſchief, how ſhould PLAUTUS, without the ſame club, or the ſtrength to wield it, expect a reform in barbarous ROME; and if MENANDER, with the [102] grace of eloquence, the purity of reaſon, and the beauty of truth, could make no impreſſion on re⯑creant minds, once accuſtomed to love virtue, how ſhould TERENCE hope that cions from theſe exo⯑tics, which had drooped and died at home, ſhould flouriſh into ſtrength and beauty in an uncongenial foil.

PLAUTUS has been warmly praiſed and ſeverely cenſured. VARRO ſays, that if the Muſes were to ſpeak Latin they would certainly ſpeak in the lan⯑guage of PLAUTUS^*. It is the opinion of CICERO, GELLIUS, MACROBIUS, LIPSIUS, and others, that his genuine ridicule, the truth of his characters, the pleaſantry and poignancy of his wit, and the force of his ſatire, have ſet him far beyond all the other Roman comic writers. On the contrary, another troop of critics, headed by HORACE, cenſure his wit in the ſevereſt terms, as unintelligible, groſs, ob⯑ſcene, and void of that beauty and truth ſo eſſential in the compoſition of comedy.

[103]PLAUTUS, not being able to do what he wiſhed, did what he could. 'Tis a conſtant, but lamentable excuſe, to ſay all this muſt be done to comply with the taſte of the times. In this caſe an author does not write for the inſtruction of the world, the world inſtruct him what to write. PLAUTUS thus tired out, very ſoon, by the bye, of inſtructing others, was willing enough to take theſe inſtructions himſelf, preferring profit to fame; for which poetic ſin he is ſaid to have been ſeverely puniſhed; for, being a covetous man, after he had amaſſed a fortune by his works, he became a bankrupt, and worked as a jour⯑neyman miller to procure himſelf a ſubſiſtance.

As to TERENCE, though PLAUTUS had cer⯑tainly a ſtronger genius, and a more fervid imagina⯑tion, he will long continue to live in the knowledge and eſtimation of all nations with a certain and decided reputation; and yet it is a reputation that does not excite much envy. It is in vain to deny that without MENANDER there could have been no TERENCE; but yet MENANDER having written plays on a plan which expoſed vice without expoſing individuals, having attempted to ſimplify comedy in GREECE as AESCHYLUS had ſimplified tragedy; the good ſenſe of TERENCE in preſerving this treaſure which he had the fortune to find, and the modeſty to give to the world as free from alloy as poſſible, [104] cannot be enough commended; and it is not becauſe he has laboured to tranſmit to poſterity the reputation of MENANDER that we muſt deny reputation to him.

It is ſaid, that though HOMER ought moſt to be admired, VIRGIL ought moſt to be copied, for, though VIRGIL is an imitator of HOMER, yet the ſtyle of VIRGIL will ever beget him a higher degree of literary reputation; and yet who would not, after all this, rather be HOMER than VIRGIL? And ſo of TERENCE; his dialogue is full of beauty, poliſh, and regularity; his characters are natural, exact, and finiſhed; and his conduct chaſte, proper, and decorous; but he has no variety, his plots have a tireſome ſameneſs, and his ſcene and his characters have nothing to do with one another; all which forces his very admirers to remark that he is only perfect as far as he goes. The fact is, that every thing in TERENCE is Greek except the language.

On the other hand, as TERENCE was not original like MENANDER, and had not the genius, the wit and the fire of MENANDER, though his ſtyle, and the merit of having conveyed the reſemblance of that admirable poet to poſterity, will be gratefully acknowledged by every admirer of diligent induſtry; yet I would rather be MENANDER with all his [105] obligations to TERENCE, than TERENCE with all his obligations to MENANDER.

The diſtinction between PLAUTUS and TE⯑RENCE ſeems to be this. PLAUTUS gave an un⯑bridled licence to his wit, TERENCE curbed his too tightly; cenſurable this in either caſe. CAESAR wiſhes that TERENCE had poſſeſſed the vis comica of PLAUTUS, and yet he acknowledges that it was indelicate and coarſe. QUINTILIAN, PATER⯑CULLUS, and others of the ancients have wiſhed PLAUTUS to have had the urbanity and purity of TERENCE, which ERASMUS ſays may be conſidered as a criterion of the Latin language, and yet this urbanity is allowed to be cold and tame.

Both Engliſh and French critics, ſupporting their opinions by ancient authorities, have written as oppoſitely on this ſubject as froſt is to fire; ſome maintaining that PLAUTUS is neglected, for that he poſſeſſed every neceſſary requiſite of a firſt rate dramatic genius; others that he is a miſerable farce-writer, and beneath contempt or criticiſm; and, as to TERENCE, ſcarcely have you ſhut up one au⯑thority by which you learn that no true beauty or refined elegance can go beyond him, but you open another where he is ſaid to have been ſo dull, that [106] there are but two paſſages in his ſix plays that ſtand the ſmalleſt chance of provoking a ſmile.

Juſtice, therefore, I think, will take a middle courſe, and incline us to believe that though the reputation of PLAUTUS and TERENCE, as imitators of ARISTOPHANES and MENANDER, may admit of a conſiderable deduction; yet had they not been fettered by the falſe taſte of that country in which they wrote, and which would admit of no innovation but what was Greek, they might, from their own in⯑trinſic merit, have eſtabliſhed a much more brilliant reputation.

CHAP. X. FARCES, PANTOMIMES, AND OBSERVATIONS.

OF ROME, where the dramatic art did not come forward in its natural gradation, but where a taſte for tragedy, comedy, farce, pantomime, ſatire, maſque, tragic-comedy, and every thing regular and irregular prevailed, juſt as whim or caprice governed the moment, it is difficult to give a di⯑geſted account of the ſtage.

We have ſeen that groſs ſatires and buffoonery originally prevailed, and that theſe ſatires and this buffoonery were born from drunken feaſts, and, therefore, full of indecency and licentiouſneſs; and that after a time they aſſumed the form of invectives of a moſt vehement kind againſt the ſuppoſed vices of particular perſons. In this ſtate we have ſeen them prohibited; but their ſpirit, however, was never loſt, for in proportion as they were admitted by different legiſlators, ſo they were, at different [108] times, the leading favourites of the people^*, to the rejection, at intervals, of the works of thoſe poets who had, as we have ſeen, laboured with ſo much induſtry, and to ſo little purpoſe to amend a bad taſte.

Pantomimes were alſo, at times, prodigiouſly followed. Theſe flouriſhed in ROME during the reign of AUGUSTUS. Some ſay they originated at that time, but this is not the truth; for there can be no doubt but they were antecedent even to the [109] Grecian Chorus^*. They were introduced at ROME by PYLADES and BATHYLLUS. PYLADES was celebrated for ſerious ſubjects, and BATHYLLUS for comic.

What we are told of theſe pantomimes is beyond meaſure aſtoniſhing. SENECA confeſſes he had a real taſte and paſſion for them. LUCIAN tells us, that though mute and unaſſiſted by either poetry or muſic, they were as affecting as the tragedies and comedies of their beſt writers; but as pantomimes, the only part of the drama in which the Romans im⯑proved on the Greeks, were the laſt and moſt ſe⯑rious innovation, and as they led to all thoſe factions and diſſentions, ſtruggling with which the theatre received its death wound, they ſhall reſt till we have ſeen in what manner poor tragedy and comedy were toſſed about in that agitated ſea of ſwelling, broken, and jarring intereſts, the Roman theatre.

Soon after regular pieces were introduced, ſa⯑tires were neglected, and continued to be ſo during the time the poets themſelves performed in their [110] own dramas. But the youths of ROME, tired of tragedies, at length took poſſeſſion of the theatre, where they performed ſatires by way of interlude, in the place of the chorus. To conciliate alſo the ſuff⯑rages of the Romans for this innovation on dramatic regularity, they produced pieces in imitation of the Greek ſatires, which were partly ſerious and partly comic.

To ſuch a pitch was this carried, that the com⯑mon people, who reliſhed nothing but groſſneſs and buffoonery, in the midſt of the regular performances were continually calling for athletic feats, tumbling, and bear dancing. One of the comedies of TE⯑RENCE is ſaid to have been thus interrupted ſeveral times during the two firſt repreſentations, and the performers were obliged to quit the theatre, to make place for rope-dancers and gladiators; for, had this not been complied with, a further repre⯑ſentation of the comedy would never have been permitted^*.

[111]The tragi-comedies, however, in a great mea⯑ſure reconciled this; and as the performers were freed men, the citizens conſidered them in as re⯑ſpectable a light as the poets. Thus an amneſty was at length agreed on, the chorus was permitted in its place, and they were contented to perform the ſatires by way of after-pieces.

Before the time of SCIPIO, the African—who ſome believe to have had a hand, together with LELIUS his friend, in the comedies of TERENCE—the ſenators and the Roman knights aſſiſted at the ſpectacles promiſcuouſly with the plebeians: the only diſtinction paid to the patricians was, the ple⯑beians were obliged to find every thing in prepara⯑tion for them. Afterwards, however, there was a conſiderable difference made between them, and it was from this time that the theatres grew into regu⯑larity, which ended in the building of amphitheatres in a ſtyle prodigiouſly large and aſtoniſhingly mag⯑nificent. In the amphitheatre built by JULIUS CAESAR we are told that a hundred thouſand perſons could be commodiouſly ſeated. In theſe buildings were placed orcheſtras where the ſenators ſat; and, in a diſtinguiſhed eminence, the emperor and his family: the patricians had alſo places ſet apart for them, and the plebeians occupied the remaining ſpace.

[112]AUGUSTUS added a ſuperb covering of purple to the theatre for the convenience of the ſpectators: he alſo built porticos; and finding that JULIUS CAESAR had loſt ſome of his popularity by not pay⯑ing that attention to their amuſement expected by the public, he himſelf made it his ſtudy to apply very cloſely to whatever could engage their intereſt through the medium of promoting their pleaſures. He was very exact in his attendance at the theatre; and when indiſpoſition, or affairs of ſtate prevented his perſonal appearance, he never failed to ſend ſome of his family to repreſent him and make his excuſes to the people. In this manner, mingling policy with their enjoyments, he inſinuated himſelf with greater certainty into their affections, and carried all his points ſo well by this ingenious and ſenſible conduct, that he never found it difficult to broach meaſures which, had they been introduced in a mode leſs enticing, might have been conſidered as dangerous novelties^*.

The Romans had in their entertainments the moſt ſuperb machines, in ſome of which chariots traverſed the theatre; in others gods deſcended [113] through the roof; and a third ſort were ſo conſtructed ſo as to ſupport characters which appeared to be flying. On theſe they ventured ſo much at hazard, that many dreadful accidents befel them. We are told in SUETONIUS that an actor who was perform⯑ing the part of Icarus, in the preſence of NERO, ſo exerted himſelf that though he fabled the charac⯑ter, he realiſed the cataſtrophe; for falling from a prodigious height, he was daſhed to pieces, and the emperor was covered with his blood^*

Among the Romans it was very frequently the cuſtom for two actors to perform the ſame part in conjunction, that is to ſay, one ſpoke and another acted. The following circumſtance is ſaid to have given riſe to it.

LIVIUS ANDRONICUS, who has been already mentioned as the firſt regular poet, and who per⯑formed in his own pieces, gave the audience ſuch ſatisfaction that they frequently obliged him to re⯑peat the moſt pleaſing paſſages. One day he was encored ſo often that, by mere dint of exertion, he became extremely hoarſe. Rather than fail of their [114] entertainment, the audience made another actor re⯑cite the words, and entreated ANDRONICUS to ſup⯑ply the action. This he did ſo much to their con⯑tent, that they immediately adopted this mode as an improvement on their former plan; for, having now nothing to attend to but the action, they found that the performer was much more animated; which, it will be ſeen, was extremely neceſſary when we conſider how vaſt their theatres were, that they performed in maſks, and that the movement of their mouths and muſcles could not be ſo accurately diſtinguiſhed as to aſcertain whether they ſpoke or not.

When this cuſtom came to be more perfect, a ſinger was choſen whoſe voice had the neareſt reſemblance to that of the actor. This ſinger was placed in a convenient ſituation towards the back of the ſtage. He always ſpoke in a certain meaſure regulated upon fixed muſical principles, which meaſure alſo regulated the geſticulation and deportment of the actor. In addition to this, when ſeveral performers ſung together, a man with iron ſhoes beat time with his feet, which could not fail to be heard by all thoſe who bore a part.

This extravagant propenſity for action intro⯑duced, as we have ſeen, pantomimes. Theſe were found, however, alarming and dangerous. The ex⯑treme [115] paſſion the people had for theſe ſort of enter⯑tainments gave riſe to cabals, and cabals begat fac⯑tions. They even wore uniforms to diſtinguiſh the different ſpecies of pantomime each eſpouſed in imitation of thoſe who conducted the race-chariots at the CIRCUS. They called themſelves the blues and the greens; and, at length, theſe factions ex⯑cited the moſt dangerous tumults.

CHAP. XI. ACTORS, AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE ROMAN THEATRE.

THE manner in which the Romans paid attention to any thing was of ſo rude a kind, that the compli⯑ment was ſeldom either an honour, or an advantage; whereas the Greeks knew how to render a diſtinction more welcome by the mode of conferring it. It is on this account, perhaps, we have been told that the profeſſion of an actor was diſreputable at ROME, though honourable in GREECE^*, for there is no⯑thing elſe that ſeems to lend probability to this report.

The actors in ROME were freed men, and en⯑joyed all the immunities of other citizens; but there were two circumſtances which ſeemed to place them differently in rank to the actors in GREECE. In GREECE, the beſt authors were the beſt actors, [117] and they were beſides, as we have ſeen, very ho⯑nourably employed; whereas few of the Roman authors were actors; and, except in one or two in⯑ſtances, nothing can be ſaid of their rank, for PLAUTUS was a miller's man, and TERENCE was a ſlave^*. The other circumſtance is, that though men of high rank and conſiderable employment, from ediles to emperors, were actors, yet they were not profeſſionally ſo, but in the nature of amateurs; and on this account they could not have kept up their diſtinction off the ſtage had they not affected to look down on thoſe, without whoſe aſſiſtance they would have cut a deſpicable figure on it.

Thus acting in ROME was a profeſſion by itſelf; and it is on this account, probably, it grew into ſuch aſtoniſhing repute. In GREECE it was no un⯑common thing for authors to teach actors their man⯑ner; to note, meaſure, and point the cadence, that the actors might be tutored into reciting and ſinging, as regularly as boys are in a cathedral. In ROME [118] all this was unneceſſary; actors, as to repreſentation, could teach authors.

What aſtoniſhing things we are told of AESOP and ROSCIUS, who were preceptors in eloquence, AESOP in particular, to CICERO. The action of this great man, like that of DEMOSTHENES, was de⯑fective, 'till with unwearied attention he had ſtudied under theſe actors; from whom he imbibed ſuch commanding powers of attracting and perſuading his hearers by the force of his geſture, the modu⯑lation of his voice, and the grace of his action, as to be acknowledged the greateſt orator of an⯑tiquity^*.

AESOP performed tragedy, and ROSCIUS come⯑dy; therefore, juſt as we ſay tragedy and comedy, or GREECE and ROME, giving the ancient title the firſt diſtinction, ſo we ſay AESOP and ROSCIUS, but there can be no doubt but ROSCIUS had more uni⯑verſal merit than AESOP. Of this his rendering CICERO's oration not only perfectly intelligible [119] but greatly intereſting by geſture alone is a moſt aſtoniſhing proof. His judgment is ſpoken of in terms of wonder. He taught acting to all ranks, by which he amaſſed prodigious riches, and never failed at firſt ſight to predict the degree of progreſs his ſcholar would make. He had ſuch ſtrength of mind, and ſuch acute perception, that he penetrated the very receſſes of the heart. No wonder ſuch a man ſhould command the paſſions of his audience^*.

ROSCIUS certainly was immenſely rich. His ſalary was equal to three thouſand pounds a year; and as he performed very late in life, as he made incredible ſums by teaching, and as he had led a pretty regular life, a few freaks with SYLLA and others excepted, by which he was rather likely to gain than to loſe, by the time he arrived to eighty-one, at which age he died, he muſt have realized a monſtrous ſum.

All the great men, who were cotemporary with ROSCIUS and ſurvived him, pay the moſt enthu⯑ſiaſtic tributes of love and eſteem to his memory. CICERO regreted him moſt ſervently. ‘"Where,"’ [120] ſaid he, in one of his moſt celebrated orations, ‘"is the man among us who has ſo hardened a mind, and ſo unfeeling a heart, as not to be deeply af⯑fected at the death of ROSCIUS!"’ CATULLUS compares his form, with all its imperfections, to the refulgent beauty of the riſing ſun. Indeed he might have gone on through the ſplendor of all the ſtages of that luminary; for, if we may credit the nu⯑merous eulogiums on his merit and virtues, he was glorious even in his decline.

The character of AESOP was in every reſpect different. As an actor he confined himſelf to tra⯑gedy, which by this time had gone far beyond de⯑clamation, almoſt the only diſtinction it attained in GREECE; he ſeems to have perfected the acting of tragedy by infuſing into his very ſoul the ſentiments and feelings of the character he had to repreſent. PLUTARCH tells us, that, one day, he performed Atreus; and in that part in which he conſiders how he may beſt kill THYESTES, he worked himſelf into ſuch a pitch of ungovernable anger, that a ſervant happening to paſs by, he ſtruck at him with his ſceptre and laid him dead at his feet.

AESOP was one of the greateſt voluptuaries of his time, and this may ſerve to give an idea of the prodigious riches which were the reward of thea⯑trical [121] talents in ROME. If an actor could have emulated the extravagance of LUCULLUS and others, and refined upon gluttony till the value of a ſingle diſh ſhould amount to five hundred pounds; what muſt have been his emoluments? AESOP is ſaid to have gone on in this profuſion during a long life; and, at length, ſo far from dying inſolvent, to have left his ſon enough to enable him to play the ſame game over again with additions and improve⯑ments; for not content with coſtly diſhes, he added coſtly beverage, preſenting his gueſts with diſſolved pearls^* to waſh down ſtewed tongues of ſpeaking and ſinging birds.

AESOP, owing, perhaps, to his profligate way of living, fell off greatly towards the latter part of his life. This failure of his powers induced him to re⯑tire from the ſtage, and when, with the vanity of a veteran, inſtead of liſtening to prudence, and con⯑tenting himſelf with the well earned laurels he wore, he raſhly expoſed himſelf, many years after he had [122] retired, on the opening of POMPEY's theatre. The Romans received his ineffectual efforts to pleaſe with a mixture of pity and contempt.

What has injured the conſequence of the Roman actors, and, indeed, moſt of their men of genius, is their having ſo far let down their pride as to mix with great men who treated them merely as buffoons. SYLLA could go no where without his herd of poets, muſicians, actors, and mimics; in which frolics ROSCIUS is reproached with having joined in the mummery of SOREX and MATROBIUS.

ANTONY is ſaid to have come reeling to the Senate after ſitting up all night at the wedding of HIPPIAS. The actor SERGIUS had ſuch intereſt with him as to get rewards from him, and make him confer favours; and CYTHERIS, an actreſs, had the addreſs to manage his heart at her capricious will. She attended him in his excurſions; her equipage was prodigiouſly expenſive; till, at length, ſhe be⯑came the mimic repreſentative in ROME, of what CLEOPATRA was afterwards the reality in Egypt^*.

[123]After all, though the merit of the Roman actors muſt have been very great and extraordinary, yet there is ſomething extremely revolting in the ſtrange and inconvenient mediums by which the pieces were repreſented to the audience. One of the actors ſpoke while another accompanied him with proper geſtures. The voice of the reciter was conveyed through a tube of braſs, for other⯑wiſe how could it have been heard by ſo large an aſſembly. In order to give a ſtronger idea than mere muſcular geſticulation could do of the paſſion to be expreſſed, monſtrous maſks were worne, ex⯑preſſing joy on one ſide of the face, and grief on the other; ſo that if the geſticulator did not take [124] good care he might have congratulated his friend with a ſad countenance, or murdered him with a merry one.

Much has been ſaid by various authors concern⯑ing theſe maſks; more, indeed, than the ſubject ſeems worthy of. It has been contended by ſome, that the maſk covered the head and ſhoulders, un⯑der an idea, I preſume, that the head, thus en⯑larged, would throw the whole frame into ſy⯑metry, when the body was raiſed upon ſtilts; but this would have been a miſerable ſhift, becauſe in proportion as the maſk enlarged the head, and the ſtilts lengthened the legs, the arms unfortunately would have been ridiculouſly too ſhort. Others are of opinion that the maſk was hollow from the face; and, by taking a greater circumference, ap⯑peared to enlarge it, to which the helmit gave aſ⯑ſiſtance; but this expedient, when we add the ſtilts, will put the arms in the ſame awkward predica⯑ment they were in before. The moſt probable ac⯑count, therefore, we have is, that the maſk was like gold beaters ſkin, ſo tranſparent, and ſo artfully pre⯑pared and fixed, that the play of the muſcles was plainly ſeen through it, and that the eyes, the mouth, and the ears, were not concealed at all.

On theſe maſks they delineated carefully the features of the very character that was to be repre⯑ſented. [125] In other reſpects, as by the mouth and the eyes are expreſſed the vivacity and diſorder of the paſſions, the movements of the mind were diſernable through this thin veil, and by this means the actor was never before the audience but the character.

Thus, by the help of theſe maſks, age became youth, and uglineſs beauty. PLINY tells us of an actreſs who performed comedy to admiration at a hundred years old, at which age one ſhould ſuppoſe her whole form would need a maſk.

We are, however, far to ſeek in this buſineſs, and the farther we ſeek the leſs we ſhall be ſatisfied. It is probable that maſks of each of theſe deſcrip⯑tions were uſed both in GREECE and in ROME; but it muſt have been entirely to enforce expreſſion on account of the great diſtance of the actor from the remote part of the ſpectators; an expedient, how⯑ever, to remedy an inconvenience is not a per⯑fection; and, in ſpight of numberleſs hiſtorians, who unanimouſly agree that the effect of theſe maſks was beyond conception aſtoniſhing, in ſpight of our conviction, as far as it relates to pantomimic characters, the geſtures of which were, at the time of RICH, wonderfully expreſſive; maſks that co⯑vered the ſhoulders, muſt have been frightful and gigantic, maſks which extended the ſize of the [126] face fantaſtic and groteſque, and tranſparent maſks, by the impoſſibility of leaving the apertures cor⯑rect, and of ſtretching them ſo as to play in uniſon with the muſcles, muſt have exhibited an effect paralytic and ludicrous; and, in ſpight of the pain⯑ter, who on theſe maſks laboured ſo ingeniouſly to portray the mind, the more he came up to the truth and correctneſs of nature, the more we ſhould be induced to ſay, ‘"draw the curtain and let us ſee the picture."’

But there are ſtronger objections than theſe, the beſt acting of AESOP and ROSCIUS was without maſks, and when they came to mere pantomimes, of which we are told ſuch wonderful things, it is im⯑poſſible to have conveyed a thouſandth part of the expreſſion they are reported to have contained, ex⯑cept by an undiſguiſed exertion of the features^*.

In ſhort, every exaggerated expedient, invented [127] by art, and ſubſtituted by neceſſity, muſt have been a departure from nature; and the anſwer of a child might be anticipated, who ſhould be aſked whether ſo groſs a violation could be the perfection of that art which can derive no merit but from its fidelity as a repreſentative of nature.

The vagaries of NERO would claim no right to he mentioned here, being no more than the frantic acts of a magnificent madman, by profeſſion an em⯑peror not an actor, had they not degraded the dra⯑matic taſte, and haſtened the theatre to its diſſolution. Happy had it been, however, for his country, and for humanity, had he contented himſelf with a diſ⯑play of mimic greatneſs on the ſtage; if, for every murder in tragedy he had not perpetrated a hundred murders among his ſubjects; if, with a love of thoſe arts that humanize and correct the heart, he had not unnaturally blended every deteſtable and ſanguinary paſſion that can debaſe and corrupt it.

Poſſeſſed as he was, without the fainteſt ſhadow of [128] either poetical, muſical, or theatrical abilities, he would be conſidered as the moſt conſummate prac⯑titioner in all; and woe to thoſe who did not une⯑quivocally acknowledge his claim. It was enough that it was his fiat, and that he had proclaimed himſelf the firſt artiſt; 'till, in this career of alternate folly and wickedneſs, and growing ſatiated with extorted applauſe at home, he determined not only to make a muſical and theatrical tour of his own empire, but to extend his viſit to GREECE.

Applauſe extorted at the point of the ſword, attended him wherever he went. No one was per⯑mitted to leave the theatre during the time of his performance, and, to manifeſt the indignation that his performance naturally inſpired would have been inſtant death. It is ſaid that the novelty of an em⯑peror on the ſtage had at firſt ſuch an effect, that the audience did not perceive an earthquake which really happened while he was ſinging; yet, when the firſt movements of their curoſity had ſubſided, men leaped privately from the walls to eſcape from ſuch an abſurdity; and women pretended to fall into fainting ſits as an excuſe to be carried out; while the ſoldiers were ſo vigilant in enforcing applauſe that the looks and actions of men were not their own. An old ſenator named VESPASIAN, who had fallen aſleep during one of theſe per⯑formances, narrowly eſcaped with his life.

[129]The arts he uſed to obtain the victory over the performers were truly contemptible. He bribed the judges, ordered his followers to prepare the public mind in his favour, and decry the merit of his competitors. One inconſiderate ſinger who had great vanity, greater abilities, and more indiſcretion than either, ſung ſo much to the ſatisfaction of the people, that NERO ordered him inſtantly to be put to death.

Among the Greeks, however, now effeminated, profligate, and artful, ſo much precaution was un⯑neceſſary. NERO proclaimed himſelf an APOLLO wherever he went; and, though he was thrown out at the Olympic games, he not only obtained the crown, but afterwards at the Iſthmean, Pythian, and the Nemean games, where he performed ſtill worſe. In ſhort, he remained a whole year in GREECE, where all was feigned extacy, and hypocritical rap⯑ture at his different performances; nay, he bore off from thence eighteen hundred crowns earned by his extravagant folly, and given by their political cun⯑ning; and, ſo far was this from ſoftening his mind, the remainder of his life was a ſtudied climax of cruelty.

Dramatic repreſentations became from this period more and more licentious. The panto⯑mimes, which had long prevailed, and which had [130] cauſed ſo much tumult and miſchief, at length fell off and tragic-comedy gained ground. This hetro⯑geneous repreſentation, admitting of every thing monſtrous and ridiculous, deſtroyed by degrees all regularity and order; and, as it grew ruder and ruder, it partook of all the bitterneſs and malignity of perſonal and pointed ſatire^*.

At length the courage of Romans was viſible only in their dramas, for in theſe they boldly ventured to introduce under the maſk of fiction, accuſations which for their lives they dared not openly to broach^†. Strong genius, however, true wit, and genuine humour, having gradually withdrawn from the ſtage, after a time it became deplorable; and, as it followed the example of GREECE in its riſe, ſo did it in its diſſolution.

CHAP. XII. SPANISH THEATRE.

AS the theatre in SPAIN, even to this moment, has never had to boaſt of any thing regularly dramatic, it would be difficult, if not impoſſible, to give a methodical account of it. The wit and humour that have ſo laviſhly pervaded it, manifeſt the moſt luxuriant fertility in the genius of their dramatic writers; whoſe works, crude and irregular as they are, have ſerved like a rich mine for the French, and, indeed, the Engliſh at ſecond hand to dig in. Their wit, however, like their hard dollars, can never be conſidered as ſtaple, but a uſeleſs maſs of no intrinſic value till manufactured into literary merchandize by the ingenuity and labour of other countries.

The Spaniards had ſome knowledge of dramatic entertainments, even when the Romans began firſt to be celebrated for good poetry. The ruins of ſo many ancient theatres—the veſtiges of which are [132] yet to be ſeen in their principal towns—give incon⯑teſtible proofs how much they were delighted with this ſpecies of amuſement; but the Goths, and other Barbarians that overrun the kingdom, drove out the Muſes, and conſequently among them THA⯑LIA. As for MELPOMENE ſhe never even to this hour reſided in SPAIN.

The Arabs, however, brought THALIA back again, and by introducing a rude ſort of ſuperſti⯑tious drama, which was intermingled with groteſque provincial farce, eſtabliſhed the foundation of the firſt Caſtilian plays. The ſubjects were ſometimes the loves of ſhepherds, and ſometimes different points of religion; ſuch as the birth of our Sa⯑viour, the Paſſion, the Temptation in the Deſert, and the Martyrdom of ſome of the Saints. Theſe ſacred pieces were played as intermezzos, and the decorations conſiſted of views of Paradiſe, Hell, the Trinity, the Sacrament, and to make the re⯑ſemblance more intereſting, it was no unuſual thing, in this ſtrange jumble of ſacred and pro⯑phane, to adminiſter benedictions, and ſing Te Deum ^*.

[133]In one of theſe pieces entitled The Creation, ADAM enters on one ſide, and the CREATOR, on the other: CHAOS ſtands in the middle. ADAM entreats GOD to deſtroy CHAOS, and create MAN. In another piece the DEVIL tempts the Chevalier St. JAMES—who is deſcribed to be of a good fa⯑mily [134] —to reject our SAVIOUR becauſe he is only the ſon of a carpenter, and cannot produce letters of nobility. In ſhort, it is impoſſible to imagine a thouſandth part of the inſufferable ignorance and abſurdity theſe ſtrange farragoes contained, which are not to this day entirely aboliſhed.

What aſtoniſhes one moſt is the ludicrous and blaſphemous applications they continually make of the texts of ſcripture. There is ſcarcely any paſſage in the prayers of the church, or in holy writ, but is employed in theſe burleſque ſcenes in the moſt in⯑decent manner. A valet aſks a girl if ſhe be a vir⯑gin. ‘'Yes indeed I am,'’ ſays the girl, ‘'but don't you think ſo yourſelf.'’ The valet with great ſe⯑riouſneſs quotes St. THOMAS, and ſays, ‘'Niſi vi⯑dero, non credam.'’

Theſe extraordinary jumbles, however, are now little performed, except in the remote parts of the kingdom, where prejudice ſtill reigns in all its in⯑fluence;—whereas, at CADIZ, BARCELONA, VA⯑LENCIA, and MADRID—which places are fre⯑quented by ſtrangers, and conſequently more po⯑liſhed—the dramatic entertainments are better re⯑gulated.

At the early period of the Spaniſh drama, while [135] buffoons, jugglers, and hiſtrions, who found their way to SPAIN as well as to ROME, amuſed the peo⯑ple with theſe heterogeneous repreſentations, men of good ſenſe, who noticed the regularity and nature which characteriſed the beſt works of antiquity, be⯑held with diſpleaſure how much theſe monſtrous farces were beneath the wiſdom and the taſte of the ancients.

A ſtrong deſire to remedy this, induced them to compoſe dialogues, which they called comedies; yet theſe were too tedious and unconnected to ad⯑mit of repreſentation. Their tendency, however, was meritorious, but they made little progreſs to⯑wards the cure of the licentious manners of the times. At length theſe plays began to be mixed with that very libertiniſm they were originally written to explode.

Such is the famous comedy of Calixtus and Melibeus, where the deſcriptions are ſo lively, the characters ſo looſe, and the circumſtances ſo laſci⯑vious, that it was conſidered as dangerous to expoſe them to public repreſentation. In other reſpects theſe plays were much too long to be patiently heard to an end; yet as they ardently wiſhed for ſome⯑thing on the ſtage leſs reproachable, ſome tranſla⯑tions in proſe from the Greek and Latin drama ef⯑fected [136] in time a conſiderable reform in the Spaniſh theatre.

LOPES DE RUEDA, a native of SEVILLE, was the firſt who gave reputation to the drama in SPAIN. He was both a poet and a player. CERVANTES ſays that he excelled in paſtoral poetry, which he worked as epiſodes into his dramatic pieces—but the theatre was yet a rude piece of building, con⯑taining only four very long ſeats. The actors were habited in ſkins fringed with gold, and in a large piece of tapeſtry, drawn aſide by two cords, con⯑ſiſted the whole of their ſcenery, machinery, and decoration; but yet they were greatly followed, and RUEDA acquired incredible reputation in parts of ſimplicity, braggadocia, and vulgarity.

The famous author of Don Quixote, ſtarted as a comic writer. With a happy and fertile invention, he wrote ſeveral admirable pieces which might have ſerved as a model to his country. LOPES DE VEGA, on the contrary, deſpiſed the rules of the ancients, and baniſhed probability, regularity, and decency from the ſtage. His heroes came into the world, grew up, became old, and died in the ſame repreſentation. They ran all over the earth; they ſlept in the eaſt, dined in the north, and when he found the world too ſmall for their pranks, he conducted them into [137] the air, to go to bed. His valets ſpoke the lan⯑guage of courtiers, his princes of coxcombs, and his ladies of quality that of fiſh women. His actors made their entrance in a mob, and their exits in confuſion. In one piece probably you have ſixty principal characters^*.

The rules of art were not much better obſerved in CALDERONE. A play is the hiſtory of a man's whole life, which he ſometimes contrives to ſpin out for ſixty years, without plan, preparation, or probability; and, to add to all this barbarous ab⯑ſence of taſte, the more affecting ſcenes are filled with the groſſeſt buffoonery. A Prince, in a ſitua⯑tion of inexpreſſible wretchedneſs, is interrupted by the ſenſeleſs pleaſantry of ſome impertinent ſervant: and yet, in ſpight of theſe defects, CALDERONE is the idol of the Spaniſh theatre; and after all it muſt be confeſſed that you admire in his ſtyle a nobleneſs of diction, an elegance without obſcurity, while his artful manner of keeping the ſpectators in [138] a pleaſing yet continual ſuſpence, has a truly in⯑genious and comic effect.

SOLIS, MORETO, ZAMORA, CANDAMO, and CANIZAREZ, merit praiſe for having approached nearer to regularity. That, however, which we find moſt wonderful in the dramatic authors of this nation is the prodigious, the immenſe quantity of their works. It is impoſſible to hear without ado⯑niſhment that LOPES DE VEGA compoſed two thouſand different pieces for the ſtage; yet, when we conſider the nature and the form of theſe works, the phenomenon is more eaſy to be conceived. The Spaniards have a great number of rhapſodies under the titles of chronicles, annals, romances, and legends. In theſe they find ſome hiſtorical anecdote, ſome entertaining adventure, which they tranſcribe without choice or exception. All the details they put into dialogue and to this compilation is given the diſ⯑tinction, PLAY: thus one can eaſily imagine that a man in the habit of copying with facility, could write forty of theſe plays in leſs time than an author of real genius and regulated habitude could put out of his hands a ſingle act; for the latter is obliged to deſign his characters, to pre⯑pare, graduate, and develope his intrigue, and to reconcile all this to the rules of decency, taſte, probability, and, indeed, cuſtom.

[139]It is curious that the Spaniſh plays, which are no more than romances in dialogue, have been frequently re-transformed into romance. The taſk cannot be difficult: it is only to render the dia⯑logue again into recital. LE SAGE has done this ſeveral times in Gil Blas, and this is not the worſt part of the work. His hiſtory of AURORA DE GUZMAN is tranſlated from a play of MORETO^*. Nor has LE SAGE been the only one who has built a reputation on the plunder of Spaniſh dramatiſts. Madam GOMEZ, SCARRON, and others have done the ſame; and it may be fairly averred, that moſt [140] of the novels which had ſuch ſucceſs in the laſt century in FRANCE, and part of this century in ENGLAND, are nothing more than Spaniſh dramas metamorphoſed into French and Engliſh narrations.

It muſt be allowed that no nation was ever ſo fertile in invention, or ſo wide of regularity as SPAIN: the reaſon is evident. Spaniſh gallantry conſiſts entirely of ſtratagem; and fancy is per⯑petually upon the ſtretch to bring about natural events by extraordinary means. Their manners are derived originally from the Moors, and are tinged with a ſort of African taſte, too wild and extra⯑vagant for the adoption of other nations, and which cannot accommodate itſelf to rule or preciſion.

Impreſſed with an idea of that knight errantry which CERVANTES ſo ſucceſsfully expoſed, Spaniſh lovers ſeem as if they took a gloomy pleaſure in diſappointment. They enter the liſts of gallantry as if they were more pleaſed with the dangers of the tournament than the enjoyment of the reward; and, at length, when they arrive at the poſſeſſion of that object with which they were originally ſmitten with a glance from a lattice, or a regard in a cloiſter through a thick veil; diſappointment ſuc⯑ceeds to admiration, and they grow jealous and outrageous to find that love is the very reverſe of [141] caprice, and that happineſs cannot be enſured but by a long and intimate acquaintance with the heart.

On the other ſide, the lady, immured from the ſight of men, reads romances, and heroically re⯑ſolves to conſider, as her deſtined lover, the firſt who has the addreſs and the courage to reſcue her from her giant father, and her monſter duenna. Reaſon, prudence, mutual intelligence, purity of ſentiment, and affection; theſe have nothing to do in the affair. Fate ſettles the whole buſineſs and her deliverer, be he ugly or handſome, clowniſh or accompliſhed, is ſure to carry her with a coup de main at the very firſt interview^*.

We have no account of even one Spaniſh tra⯑gedy. The authors choſe their characters indiſ⯑criminately; [142] criminately; and it is very common to hear kings, princes, miniſters, peaſants, valets, bravoes, and hangmen trying which ſhall be loudeſt at the ſame ſcene; nay ſometimes the latter claſs have all the intereſting ſituations, while kings and nobles are the buffoons of the piece. It is not that the Spaniards want genius to arrive to this ſpecies of dramatic writing: on the contrary, there is an elevation in their minds, a grandeur in their ideas, and a noble⯑neſs in their ſentiments; but they know little of judgment and taſte, nor can their redundant imagina⯑tions conform to the rules of art.

Except the ſpectacles of the court, the Spaniſh theatres are equally indecent on occount of their obſcenity and their dirtineſs. There are two the⯑atres at MADRID which ſeem to vie with each other which ſhall be the worſt. Their beſt acting is low comedy, their declamation being inſupportably tireſome, and their ſpeaking through the noſe, eſpe⯑cially the women, diſguſting beyond expreſſion. Between the acts they have groteſque intermezzos, which they play extempore. They are naturally performed, but they exhibit a ſtrange mixture of joy, ſentiment, reflection, and ſatire, and ſometimes finiſh with ſongs compoſed in the Italian taſte.—The inſtrumental performers are paſſible, but the ſingers deteſtable.

[143]Although it is not intended to ſpeak of opera as a branch of the dramatic art till it ſhall make a ſe⯑perate article in the French theatre, at which time its origin and progreſs will be particularly traced and followed up; yet it is impoſſible to refrain from noticing here the prodigious avidity with which this ſpecies of amuſement, though by no means excellent, was followed not ſixty years ago under FARINELLI^*, whoſe extraordinary and facinating talent of im⯑poſing upon credulity, will hereafter be enlarged upon in the hiſtory of the Engliſh theatre.

Fortunately for this ſtrange adventurer, after he had gulled the Engliſh to their eternal reproach, and received ſuch a reception from the French, as convinced him they were as well verſed in trick as himſelf, the king of SPAIN happened to languiſh under a complaint for which, according to his phyſi⯑cians there could be no cure but muſic.

This intimation FARINELLI took the advan⯑tage of to ſome tune; for, being ſent for by the [144] queen, he ſo ingratiated himſelf at court that he preſently had a penſion ſettled on him of about three thouſand two hundred pounds a year, and a coach and equipage kept at the king's expence.

Preſents were made him of immenſe value. The king gave him his picture richly ſet with diamonds; the queen preſented him with a ſnuff box with two diamonds of high price in the lid; the prince of ASTURIAS prevailed on him to accept of a diamond button and loop worth a prodigious ſum; and he condeſcended to permit perſons of all ranks to follow in proportion to their ſituations theſe very noble and meritorious examples of their betters.

The length of time that this folly exiſted is incre⯑dible; FERDINAND continued FARINELLI in his ſituation after the death of PHILIP; and, ſtill to go beyond his predeceſſor in liberality, honoured him with a croſs of Calatrava, one of the moſt an⯑cient orders of knighthood in SPAIN^*. This was about the year 1750, and we find that after this, he [145] continued to conduct the opera till the year 1761, when he retired to ITALY with his penſion from the court of SPAIN ſettled on him for life.

We have now ſeen all that is remarkable or worthy to be related of the Spaniſh theatre, which, though a ſtrange hetrogeneous jumble of jarring atoms, will be ſound hereafter to have furniſhed ſome very rich materials which the French and En⯑gliſh theatrical chymiſts have ingeniouſly extracted to ornament their own productions.

They certainly prepared the French to receive a true taſte for the dramatic art; who, without them, would probably never have imitated SOPHOCLES and TERENCE. The very name of the Cid ſhews whence CORNEILLE drew the original; and MO⯑LIERE, who is conſidered as the creator of the French comedy, derived much of his excellence from the ſame ſource.

This ſubject will be hereafter more fully diſ⯑cuſſed, when many of the Engliſh dramatic writers, with BEAUMONT and FLETCHER at their head, will be ſhewn to have had obligations to the ſame quar⯑ter, and will ſerve to prove that the dramatic is truly an imitative art in a larger latitude than its [146] general acceptation warrants; for, though nothing more is meant by the naked expreſſion than that poets ſhould produce a faithful imitation of nature, they have clothed it and very often diſguiſed it by ſervilely imitating one another.

CHAP. XIII. PORTUGUESE THEATRE.

THE moſt celebrated dramatic poet among the Portugueſe was BALTHAZAR, of the iſland of MA⯑DEIRA, who wrote ancient dramas called Auto, of which the greateſt part was made up of pious ſub⯑jects—like the ancient myſteries in FRANCE.—HENRY DE GOMEZ wrote twenty-two comedies, and GIL VINCENT, whom they looked upon as the PLAUTUS of PORTUGAL, ſerved as a model for LOPES DE VEGA and QUIVEDO. It is ſaid that ERASMUS learnt the Portugueſe language on pur⯑poſe to read the comedies of GIL VINCENT.

Spaniſh pieces, however, are thoſe which are ge⯑nerally performed at LISBON; but the theatre be⯑ing extremely diſcouraged, has long languiſhed there. Had it not been for the king's order, no opera would ever have been eſtabliſhed in that capital; and, perhaps, it might as well have been let alone, for when they had their theatre, they had nothing to perform in it; whereas, at that time in [148] FRANCE, they were full of good things without a theatre^*.

The theatre, however, which is ſaid to have been very ſuperb, was overthrown by the famous earth quake, which, by ſome, was conſidered as a public benefit, for they performed in it ſo ſeldom, and at ſuch an expence, that they eſtimated every repreſentation at nearly four thouſand dollars.

CHAP. XIV. ITALIAN STAGE.

DRAMATIC entertainments had birth in modern ITALY under LEO the tenth.—The Sophoniſba of the celebrated Prelate TRISSINO, the pope's nuncio, was the firſt regular tragedy known in Europe after thoſe barbarous ages of which I have already given an account; as was the Calandra of Cardinal BIBIENA, the firſt comedy.

The Italians, however, ſeem to have had as in⯑different a taſte for theatrical repreſentations as the ancient Romans; as may be gathered from the fol⯑lowing account of Radamiſtus and Zenobia. The piece begins with a combat between more than a hundred perſons. They fight on the ſtage, beſiege a place, and carry it by aſſault, and, though the whole drift of the tragedy is intended to be as affect⯑ing as poſſible, Punchello is one of the warriors who frightens the combatants, parodies the beſt ſpeeches, makes a jeſt of the hero, and behaves with all the ridiculous buffoonery of a puppet; and that the [150] heroine may not want as ſtriking a contraſt as the hero, Zenobia's nurſe is repreſented by a man with a black beard, and a wig made out of a lamb's ſkin with the wool on. This tender female talks of vir⯑tue and delicacy, is frightened leſt ſome one ſhould offer violence to her charms, and gives herſelf a thouſand childiſh and coquettiſh airs.

ARIOSTO wrote for the ſtage. It is ſaid that his father one day was, on ſome occaſion, extremely angry with him. ARIOSTO liſtened to him with the moſt ſteady patience, and moſt profound attention. He neither ſaid a ſingle word in contradiction of his father, or juſtification of himſelf; but on the con⯑trary, heard him to an end with an impatient cu⯑rioſity, and ſeemed to wiſh that the lecture had con⯑tinued longer. A friend who was preſent aſked him after his father was gone why he had not ſaid ſomething in his own defence. ARIOSTO anſwered that he had been for ſome days working at a comedy, and on that very morning had been at a loſs how to write a ſcene of a father reprimanding his ſon, that at the moment his father firſt opened his mouth, it ſtruck him as an admirable opportunity to examine his manner with attention, that ſo he might paint his picture after nature, and being thus employed, he had noticed only the voice, the face and the action [151] of his Father, without in the leaſt regarding the truth or falſehood of what he laid to his charge.

In the time of RANUSE FARNESE, duke of Parma, a prince of uncommon underſtanding, an old nobleman blindly gave himſelf up to the arts of an infamous woman. The duke, who had a great regard for his courtier, was touched that he ſhould be a victim to ſo ſhameful a paſſion, and did every thing in his power to cure him of his folly, without informing him of it in direct terms. At length, having made ſeveral attempts without ſucceſs, he cauſed a comedy to be written, wherein the old no⯑bleman's abſurdity was ſo ſtrongly drawn, that it could not be miſtaken; and yet ſo artfully, that it might be known for perſonality only by him whom it was intended to reclaim. The duke took the nobleman to the play, who ſtruck with the reproach, not only turned off his miſtreſs, but privately thanked the duke for a leſſon by which he benefitted as long as he lived.

The Italian tragedies are miſerable indeed. They are languid, verboſe, and unintereſting, unleſs the human mind can be intereſted by ſubjects of hor⯑ror. St. EVREMOND inſtances this, ſpeaking of The Feaſt of the Statue, from which MOLIERE took his ſingular but celebrated piece of Don John; [152] ‘"The moſt patient man,"’ ſays he, ‘"would die with langour at that ſtupideſt of all dull things the Feaſt of the Statue, and I never ſee it without wiſhing the abominable author thunderſtruck with his abominable atheiſt."’

The Italian opera had ſome reſemblance of the theatre in ATHENS. Italian recitative, like ancient declamation, was noted, and ſuſtained ad libitum by m [...]cal inſtruments. The choruſſes, which were added after a time, and which belonged to the body of the piece, and made a part of the general ſubject, were, and indeed are yet, expreſſed by a ſpecies of muſic different from the recitative, in the ſame man⯑ner as the ſtrophe, the epode, and the antiſtrophe of the Greeks [...] ſung in a manner totally different from the declamation. This was yet more cloſely adhered to as theſe ſpectacles became more perfect, for in many of the ſerious operas of the Abbe METASTASIO the unity of time, place, and action, are obſerved; and to this we may add, that theſe pieces are full of that poetic expreſſion and fi⯑niſhed elegance, which embelliſh a natural ſubject without confuſing it, and which the French ſay AD⯑DISON only attained among the Engliſh, and we that RACINE alone arrived to among the French.

TASSO, GUARINI, and others have alſo writ⯑written [153] written comedies, as they were called, which in their way had great beauty and poetical me [...], but they were merely paſtoral, and, therefore, [...] to do with what ought to be conſidered as comedy. The very names of AMINTA, and PASTOR [...]DO, with which pieces every reader of taſte is well ac⯑quainted, will bear me out in this aſſertion^*.

Other writers, however were not of opinion that paſtorals were true comedy; for they acknow⯑ledged nothing under that title that was not a jum⯑ble of every ſpecies; and, as it were, GOLDONI, MACHIAVEL, TASSO, and GUARINI, all beat up together. Thus you had in one piece, in mo⯑dern ROME, all thoſe ſubjects united, which, in an⯑cient ROME, it required ſo many quarrels to keep ſeparate.

Haughty tyrants, languiſhing lovers, bears, devils, [154] cupids, and ſcaramouches were preſented you all in the ſame piece; and every thing was conducted in a manner ſo truly ridiculous, that if their intention was that comedy from that time ſhould be conſidered as nothing more than a dramatic exhibition to excite laughter, they fairly ſucceeded; for, what with the ſtupidity, the abſurdity, or the humour it was im⯑poſſible to avoid laughing throughout the piece. Unfortunately, however, as much as they gained on the ſide of the ſenſes they loſt on the ſide of the heart; for whatever theſe might be to create mirth, there was nothing to create intereſt.

I very much queſtion, however, whether theſe very comedies did not go a great way towards per⯑fecting that ſpecies of dramatic production; for when they come to be incorporated into the French theatre, the hiſtory of which circumſtance will be hereafter particularly related, they diffuſed a light⯑neſs into the French taſte, which had long languiſhed under the verboſity and dullneſs of their comedies, as they were called, conſiſting of ſome ſingle unin⯑tereſting action drawled on through five acts of monotonous verſe.

This lightneſs, infuſing itſelf into general taſte, obliged dramatic writers to become conformiſts; and as it approached nearer to nature than the old [155] ſyſtem, as it became adopted by men of real merit who knew what to preſerve and what to reject, comedy, by degrees, became intereſting as well as amuſing.

It is certain, however, it never attained per⯑fection, a diſtinction it certainly once knew in this country, till we improved, in that as we have done in every effort of genius, on the French; and I ſhall inſtance VANBRUGH's comedy of the Con⯑federacy, which he tranſlated from REGNARD, to prove this aſſertion.

In ſhort, though the Italians continued to breathe the ſame air, and enjoy the influence of the ſame ſun which warmed the Romans, they were no longer diſtinguiſhed by their talents, nor animated with their virtues, for there was nothing left in ITALY of ROME but its vices. Greatneſs, courage, and manlineſs were gone, and nothing but effeminacy, voluptuouſneſs, and licentiouſneſs remained, and thus, if the Roman theatrical repreſentations, by reflecting themſelves, were a mixture of virtue and vice; thoſe of the Italians, through the ſame mirror, were a maſs of vice without the relief of any virtue at all.

ITALY has been famous for the comedies of [156] GOLDONI, though they are the wildeſt rhapſodies that can be conceived. Thoſe of MACHIAVAL have more merit.—In ſhort, ITALY has to boaſt of no theatrical ſpectacles of conſideration, but its operas, which, upon ſome particular occaſions, have been moſt ſuperb and magnificent. All this may be in a great meaſure attributed to the French, who brought the productions of the Italians into greater perfection by incorporating them with their own, of which I ſhall hereafter ſpeak more at large, when I ſhall alſo ſpeak of what was called the Italian can⯑vaſſes, planned by RICOBONI and others, which were imported into FRANCE, and begat the original celebrity of their petit pieces.

CHAP. XV. GERMAN THEATRE.

THE German theatre is about as ancient as the French, and till the times of CORNEILLE and MO⯑LIERE was as brilliant, and abounded as much in good authors. But as the French theatre improved, the German theatre degenerated. GOTTSCHED, of the academy inſtituted at BOLOGNE, and profeſſor of the Belles Lettres, at LEIPSIC, re-eſtabliſhed and entirely changed the ſcene, about the year 1700. He formed young actors, and excited young poets to write^*. CATO, of UTICA, gave, as one may ſay, the ſignal for this revolution.

Finding, however, they were cultivating an un⯑grateful ſoil, they ſoon ſaw nothing of conſequence could be produced original; they, therefore, ſet themſelves down to tranſlations, and ever ſince CORNEILLE, RACINE, VOLTAIRE, MOLIERE, and [158] DESTOUCHES have been the ſupport of the Ger⯑man theatre.

The German opera, ſo much eſteemed in the laſt century, particularly in HAMBURG, BRUNOWIG, WEIFFENFELS, and LEIPSIC, is no more, the Ita⯑lian opera has taken its place.

The theatre at AMSTERDAM owes its origin to two ſocieties of rhetoricians^*, compoſed of an in⯑finite number of diſtinguiſhed perſons, men of let⯑ters, juriſconſults, and magiſtrates. BARDEZIUS, burgomaſter and counſellor, P. C. HOOFT, the cele⯑brated [159] poet, and the famous JOOST VAN VONDEL, were at the head of the confederacy.

Theſe two ſocieties began to diſpute on dif⯑ferent ſubjects about 1584. Their pieces at firſt were only dialogues in verſe on the news of the time, the events of the nation, or mithological fic⯑tions; and ſerved very meritoriouſly as a ſchool to regulate the manners and furniſh the amuſement of a laborious and induſtrious people.

In time, however, they diſagreed. Each ſo⯑ciety ridiculed the proceedings of the other, and their former eloquence degenerated into ſevere in⯑vective and bitter ſatire; till, at length, to obtain order, the magiſtrates came to a determination to ſuppreſs them both. The people were, however, unwilling to give up their favourite pleaſure; and after a variety of difficulties, it was finally agreed that they ſhould unite. This gave ſatisfaction to all parties, and, about 1635, a phyſician of the name of SAMUEL KOSTER, built a theatre where both the ſocieties were incorporated into one body.

KOSTER, however, could not ſupport the ex⯑pence of this theatre, and it was bought of him by the guardians of the orphans and the aged, to whoſe uſe the profits were charitably appropriated; and thus, by converting it into an inſtitution ſo lauda⯑ble, [160] the theatre began to have conſiderable ce⯑lebrity.

The performances, however, with the exception of a very few, were groſs and beaſtly. In one of them, which is a repreſentation of ABRAHAM offer⯑ing up his ſon ISAAC, ABRAHAM having tied ISAAC to a ſtake, very leiſurely takes out an old ruſty horſe piſtol, and meaſuring ſix paces with great de⯑liberation, preſents his piece; when, all of a ſudden, finding ſome wet deſcend into the pan, he looks up and ſees an angel in a certain attitude, who had oc⯑caſioned what he had miſtaken for rain. ABRAHAM is in the greateſt conſternation, when the angel cries out, ‘"Der taiple ABRAHAM will ta te younker ſlauken?"’

Theſe brutal repreſentations made up for a conſi⯑derable time the delight of the Mynheers; till, at length, they improved the ſtage by tranſlations of Spaniſh comedies, and French tragedies, originally introduced by a ſociety of Portugueſe Jews, who eſtabliſhed a theatre, to which the Hollanders were invited gratis, the better to keep up a good under⯑ſtanding between the Portugueſe and the Dutch in commercial negociations.

Their firſt efforts, however, were clumſy enough. If CALDERONE was full of extravagance on the [161] Spaniſh theatre, his curvettes, and his caprioles, were, of courſe, imitated, as awkwardly on the ſtage of AMSTERDAM, as a guinea pig imitates a ſquirrel; and, as for CORNEILLE I cannot re⯑frain from giving one inſtance how adroitly he was rendered into Dutch.

There is a well known paſſage in the Cid, where the father of RODORIGO ſtimulates his ſon to re⯑venge; and, not ſatisfied with the aſſurance he had before given him, ſtopping him ſhort he ſays, ‘"a tu un coeur RODRIGUE?"’ He replies, pointedly, ‘"tout autre che mon pere le trouvera ſur l'heure."’ The Dutchman, determined to be as phlegmatic as the Frenchman was brilliant, has rendered it thus: ‘"Ap ye a hart RODRIGUE."’ ‘"Yaw, papa,"’ cries RODRIGUE.

CHAP. XVI. OBSERVATIONS ON ALL THE PRECEEDING CHAPTERS.

PREPARATORY to the French theatre, which will be the next article, it may not be immaterial to ga⯑ther up, by way of gleanings, all thoſe minute par⯑ticulars which will ſerve to confirm and perfect the crop of intelligence already houſed, and alſo leave a clear field for the harveſt that is to ſucceed it.

Nor can a better figure be deviſed as an object to ſymbol theatrical productions; which ſmack of the country where they are produced as faithfully as corn or wine: not reflecting general truth, but particular manners;^* not holding up the mirror to nature, but to the times; not appealing to the per⯑fection of the human mind, but to its caprice.

[163]It is on this account that the theatre will have ariſen to the trueſt perfection in that country where the principles of the people are an emanation of true virtue, and real patriotiſm; where the public mind is informed and enlightened, and where taſte knows every thing of reaſon and nothing of re⯑proach; but, critically ſpeaking, where is this coun⯑try to be found?

We have ſeen then, as far as we have gone, that the theatre has ariſen to no real perfection; for, whether we take it from that reproach to GREECE, the death of SOCRATES, or the combination of every thing worthy and vile, juſt as caprice hap⯑pened to dominate in ROME, confirmed by the ac⯑commodating diſpoſition of PLAUTUS, and the de⯑claration of AUGUSTUS; or the mad frolics of the Spaniards, countenanced by the anſwer of LOPES DE VEGA to CERVANTES, the theatre has hitherto been little more than a pander to the times. With⯑out the theatre, nevertheleſs, thoſe nations we have traverſed, and thoſe manners we have witneſſed, would have lamented a mortifying and uncomfort⯑able chaſm in their time, and a conſiderable defi⯑ciency in their civilization.

What then would have been the theatre had it [164] nobly aſſerted its privilege, had it reſolutely aſſumed its legitimate right, and poſſeſſed itſelf of its real province? It would then have purified thoſe man⯑ners which it too often corrupted, it would have re⯑fined that bad taſte it too frequently tolerated, and have given to literature an active example of having planted reaſon in the human mind.

But how was this to be accompliſhed? Poets did not write for reputation but for hire; they did not chuſe to undertake the romantic taſk of teach⯑ing virtue ſuch as it ought to be and ſtarve, they rather contented themſelves with deſcribing it, ſuch as the people wiſhed it to be, and live voluptuouſly.

Yet we have ſeen the theatre in GREECE an ob⯑ject of real importance; for it is difficult to con⯑ceive a truer picture of exalted greatneſs than that meritorious diſtinction which could at once cor⯑rect diſſipation and conciliate ferocity; and this was exactly the operation of the theatre in its influence over ATHENS and SPARTA immediately before ARISTOPHANES.

But the times were to be thanked for this, and not the poets. The famous ſaying in the theatre of the old Spartan, ‘"that the Athenians knew what virtue was, but that the Lacedemonians practiced [165] it;"’ gives a picture uncommonly beautiful of the effect of a theatrical production at GREECE. The inſtance of ARISTIDES being admired for his vir⯑tues, by implication, in a play, and that ſo delicately as not to wound his feelings although he was preſent, is one fortunate proof among thouſands that the the⯑atre, worthily conducted, is the true medium to promulgate honourable emulation.

But as the manners grew corrupted, the theatre, at the very time it was the poſt of honour, at the moment it was its particular province to ſtem the torrent of licentiouſneſs, cowardly deſerted its ſta⯑tion and was hurried away with the ſtream. It would have been a glorious thing that ſome ME⯑NANDER had ſtarted up at the time of ARISTO⯑PHANES, if it had been only to ſhew, while yet the Greeks retained a recollection of thoſe virtues for which they will ever be quoted as a great example, that the human heart is eaſier moved by conci⯑liation than by menace^*.

[166]From the parodies of SOPHOCLES and EURI⯑PIDES by ARISTOPHANES, may fairly be dated the fall of the ſtage which improved upon from AES⯑CHYLUS under thoſe wonderful authors, wonderful ſurely, conſidering the time in which they wrote, had it gone on to the perfection it was capable of, would certainly have given laws to literature. In⯑ſtead of which it gradually degenerated, and though we have witneſſed many lucid intervals through which it has ſtruggled, it could not be conſidered in any thing like a ſtate of convaleſcence till SHAKE⯑SPEAR^* gave to ENGLAND a more brilliant fame than AESCHYLUS had given to GREECE.

[167]As to the Romans they were too turbulent a people to encourage a real and decided taſte for theatrical productions; beſides there was always a policy among them mixed with every thing public juſt as it ſerved to promote ſome innovation, in⯑trigue, cabal, inſurrection, or aſſaſſination; and thus dramatic repreſentations were a ſpecious lure, a tub to the whale, to divert the minds of the people from ſome impending treachery, and not an excite⯑ment to excellence in paths of true glory and un⯑fullied honour.

It was through this that their dramatic poets held a ſtation below the level of their gladiators, their mimics, and their rope dancers; which the great AUGUSTUS profeſſedly promoted, rather than re⯑ſtrained inſtead of ſtimulating writers of acknow⯑ledged merit by means of the ſtage, to admoniſh the people out of their irregularities.

The Spaniſh theatre, though more irregular than the Roman, was leſs miſchievous, for it corrupted nothing of the nation but its taſte; and I would ra⯑ther ſee twenty FARINELLI's tickle the ears of the Spaniſh nobility till they were gulled out of their money, than one NERO inuring his mind to fictitious murder on the ſtage that it might render him more expert in the murder of his ſubjects. Beſides the [168] Spaniards have left ſomething behind worth imi⯑tating, whereas from the Roman authors we have nothing but a Greek filtration, taſteleſs and inſipid, from the flatulent SENECA to the tame TERENCE, whoſe works a celebrated critic calls comedies for mathematicians.

The Portugueſe theatre is ſwallowed up in the Spaniſh, and the German in the French; ſo that ad⯑mitting, which it is perfectly right to do, the theatres in all countries are not only uſeful but materially eſſential, the ſtage, according to its meritorious eſta⯑bliſhment at the time of AESCHYLUS, and its im⯑provement under SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, de⯑generated, both as to tragedy and comedy in ROME; and, though the Spaniſh comedies have ſupplied a large fund of admirable materials, yet, in proportion as the theatre loſt ſight of GREECE, is loſt ſight of regularity,

There cannot be a properer time than this to enter into a fair examination of the true value of what is called dramatic regularity, and to ſhew how far, rationally, the unities ought to be preſerved, or may be occaſionally broken.

What are theſe rules but a recommendation of what was conſidered as perfection in GREECE? [169] ARISTOTLE has added nothing to this; he has only repeated word for word the methods which regu⯑lated the writings of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, without adding a ſingle idea to theirs but what has confounded the theſis on which he reſts his argument.

He recommends the unity of action, certainly an important precept, but already put in practice before he ſuggeſted it. He excludes from the the⯑atre, as a remark from himſelf, characters purely vir⯑tuous, which are preciſely, not only according to SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, but according to reaſon, the very characters that ought to be intro⯑duced into a dramatic piece.

It was ARISTOTLE who conſecrated that nonſenſi⯑cal opinion that to form an intereſting action it is ne⯑ceſſary to introduce ſome great and celebrated per⯑ſon. This idea is little worthy a philoſopher, who ſhould be the firſt to feel and to acknowledge that private life, or even obſcurity, frequently furniſhes inſtances of exalted virtue and genuine magnanimity unmixed with the remorſe that attends the extermi⯑nation of nations to add to the celebrity of a hero^*. [170] But the preceptor of ALEXANDER was obliged to ſquare his dramatic rules by thoſe which were moſt likely to flatter his diſciple. He, therefore, in this inſtance deſerts his original plan, probably becauſe he trembled under the hand that had ſtrangled CA⯑LISTHENES and PARMENIO, in whoſe plot againſt the life of ALEXANDER he was by the way ſuſ⯑pected to have had a hand.

The ſublime genius of ARISTOTLE made the wonderful diſcovery that there are but four ſorts of tragedy. There are as many ſorts as there are ſub⯑jects, juſt as there are as many faces as there are men. Nature is infinite, and it is ſterility alone that ſearches for excuſes in the abſence of invention.

He inſiſts that tragedy ought to be confined to a ſmall number of families, a reflection evidently that comes from ancient GREECE, very proper for the obſervance, at that time, of that republic, but which, held out to other nations, would reſtrain the art rather than extend it. Thus the inviolable rules of ARISTOTLE, which it is ridiculous to apply ge⯑nerally to other nations, are no more than an enu⯑meration of the beauties he found in the Greek poets; and, as to the faults which he has held up as proper to be exploded, he might as well have been ſilent on the ſubject, for as they are groſs and palpa⯑ble, [171] and ſuch as no man of genius could poſſibly have ſtumbled on.

Thus ARISTOTLE has written nothing new on this ſubject. He has only tranſcribed a notice, and ſtuck it up, one would think by way of a paſqinade by anticipation on his commentators^*; who, enve⯑loped in ancient manners, are loſt in a circle, out of which they have not, even in imagination, been able to extricate themſelves; till, thus bewildered, they have rendered him unintelligible to us, whoſe beauties they fancy they have elucidated, which beauties they falſely conceive were intended for the advantage of poſterity.

I ſhall be told, however, that there are many luminous traits in the poetics of ARISTOTLE; and, among the reſt, that admired precept will be quoted that ‘"the beauty of poetry conſiſts in order and grandeur;"’ but, good heaven! what is this more than a ſelf evident truth which was known long be⯑fore ARISTOTLE was born, and which will be as plain as day light for ages after every preſent in⯑habitant [172] of the world ſhall have periſhed? Are men to have rules to know when the ſun ſhines? But it is not the fault of ARISTOTLE, who little dreamt that, while he was endeavouring to regulate the poetics of a ſmall commonwealth long ſince anihi⯑lated, his rules would beget ſo much controverſy in ſo many countries, to whoſe manners moſt of them were uncongenial, and whoſe men of genius would have been better employed, inſtead of adopt⯑ing dogmatic opinions, in following univerſal truth, and erecting rules for themſelves^*.

But I ſhall leave ARISTOTLE, at preſent, with a declaration, that ſince his rules, hitherto known to us, which have only extended to tragedy, have ſet ſo many learned men together by the ears, as a lover of harmony and good order, I am not one of thoſe who lament that his precepts for co⯑medy did not deſcend to poſterity^†.

[173]The poetics of HORACE appear to be ſtill in⯑ferior to thoſe of ARISTOTLE; nay, it is doubtful to me whether he ever intended them as that univerſal leſſon for which they have been received. But this with his advocates will be an argument in his favour; for, if what he conſidered merely as private inſtruction has been, by the conſent of mankind, generally adopted, it will argue a proof of its intrinſic merit; and this I ſhould willingly conſider as a deciſion that ought to be final were it not that the premiſes will not bear out the fact; but, on the contrary, the more we examine, the leſs reaſon we ſhall have to allow HORACE that ſame which he really did not ſeek, but which the world, or rather public clamour [174] as in the caſe of ARISTOTLE, has been ſo ready to award him.

When HORACE ſays that we ought not to couple ſerpents with birds, or lambs with tygers, or that comic ſubjects ſhould never be mixed with tragic, he clearly addreſſes himſelf to the elder of the PISONS, and not to poets. Where he ſeriouſly affirms that it is wrong to roaſt human entrails on the ſtage, he cannot have had an idea that he held out univerſal inſtruction, becauſe no writer wants to be told that ſuch monſtrous circumſtances are revolting and deteſtable; but no ſuch thing was in his mind; he only in addreſſing the PISONS took an opportu⯑nity, by a ſide wind, of rebrobating the licentiouſneſs of the Roman theatre, which we have ſeen was at that time both cenſured in private and encouraged in public by AUGUSTUS, and which is evidently the reaſon why HORACE was too politic to ſpeak out^*.

[175]Theſe puerilities, added to the grave aſſertion that there is a great difference between a ſlave who ſpeaks and a hero, fairly fatigue us; and ſhew that, however, they may ſerve as inſtruction for youth, they can never be conſidered as a literary treaſure except by pedagogues, who from their own imbe⯑cility will always be happy to find precepts for their pupils ready cut and dried to their hands.

But the moſt curious part of HORACE is his no⯑table diſcovery that art is as neceſſary as genius to form a poem. This narrow maxim, perhaps, might have been advantageous to him, who never gave the world any grand, or ſolid work, but merely in⯑genious, elegant, and finiſhed trifles; but it would be highly abſurd in ſpeaking of poetry in its ex⯑tended ſenſe, the offspring of intuition, the emanation of the ſoul. Where is the poetic art that can form a HOMER, a SOPHOCLES, a EURIPIDES? Theſe created thoſe very rules which ARISTOTLE and HORACE fondly dreamt had been invented by them; in which deluſion HORACE wraps himſelf up; and, inſtead of examining poetic genius as a queſtion of ſublimity that ſoars above all art, he yawns out a declaration that ‘"the union of nature and art pro⯑duces a happy effect."’ This precept becomes a fiat, and every ſchool boy acknowledges with aſto⯑niſhment the rare ſagacity of HORACE.

[176]VIDA, who is preferred by SCALIGER, to HORACE^*, has certainly method, art, and per⯑ſuaſion. He loves poetry, and ſpeaks of it with tranſport, yet his ſentiments, though enthuſiaſtic, are profound as well as lively. He gives his pre⯑cepts not with a biting and dogmatic air, but in a tone, eaſy and perſuaſive, and with all that amiable gaiety which HORACE has every where but in his art of poetry, and which, after all, is an argument both againſt VIDA, and in favour of HORACE, for it proves that VIDA was the beſt critic, and HORACE the beſt poet; and, at laſt, to ſhew how difficult it is to find fetters for the mind, VIDA's poem is but a repetition of what VIRGIL had copied before; and, therefore, a proof that poetic rules cannot be an in⯑vention to enſure future ſucceſs, but only an invi⯑tation to emulate what has ſucceeded already.

As to thoſe rules which more particularly re⯑late to the conſtruction of plays, all countries at all times have occaſionally violated them to ad⯑vantage; and the plain anſwer to thoſe cavillers who have condemned this conduct in the lump, is ſhort and incontrovertible. Let the unities be re⯑gulated by the nature of the ſubject.

[177]This poſition had better reſt till it be exemplified by the works of authors which will be hereafter ſpoken of; in the mean time I ſhall detain the reader from the French theatre no longer than juſt to ſay, that it is eaſier to give your neighbour advice than to take it yourſelf^*; for, notwithſtanding the peremptory [178] mandates of theſe law givers to literature, I don't find that ARISTOTLE, HORACE, VIDA, BOILEAU, or any other of the critics ancient or modern, who have meaſured and cut out plays, have appeared able, however they might have been willing, to write any thing dramatic themſelves.

CHAP. I. EARLY INTELLIGENCE RELATIVE TO THE FRENCH STAGE.

THE dramatic entertainments of FRANCE, origin⯑ally, and for a length of time, ſo rude, ſo mon⯑ſtrous, and ſo ferocious, came in a direct line from the Romans, and were nothing more than a feeble copy of thoſe brutal games which diſgraced the amphitheatres of thoſe conquerers of the world.

If various authorities that corroborate each other may be depended upon, hiſtrions, farcers, dan⯑cers, and cudgelers overrun FRANCE as early as the ſeventh century, who imitated the pieces of the Romans in the infancy of the art, exactly as the Romans in the ſame manner had imitated the Greeks, repreſenting nature in its rudeſt and groſſeſt ſtate.

[180]It is plain that theſe performances, whatever they were, though intended to promote civilization had an effect exactly the reverſe; for they grew to ſuch a licentious height that, in the eighth century, CHARLEMAGNE was obliged to ſuppreſs them; vainly, however, for the habitude had obtained, and the people would not be diverted from their amuſe⯑ment; and ſince they had loſt their pleaſure, becauſe it was conſidered as irreligious, they were determined to make religion itſelf the means of reſtoring it. To this the prieſts had no objection, for in multiplying religious ceremonies they multiplied their own emo⯑luments; till, as the prieſts of BACCHUS encouraged theſe early repreſentations in GREECE, ſo the prieſts of FRANCE willingly turned the churches into the⯑atres, where they permitted ridiculous farces, in⯑decent dances, and ſacriligious buffooneries. The very vaults where the ſaints were depoſited echoed with ſcandalous and impious ſongs.

Upon theſe occaſions the prieſts often turned actors, and ſometimes actreſſes; hiding their ſanctity and their ſacerdotal robes under groteſque habits and ridiculous maſks; in which diſguiſes they very frequently got drunk, quarrelled, and ſought.

Theſe diſgraceful ſpectacles continued more or leſs, according to circumſtances, till about the mid⯑dle [181] of the twelfth century, when EUDES DE SULII, biſhop of PARIS, thundered his anathemas againſt theſe ſacred farces; which, however, were but little ſuppreſſed till the Cruſades, when, the ſpirit of the nation leaning towards every thing religious, the French checked whatever ſerved to render religion ridiculous; beſides it now became meritorious to conſorm to religion and yet act farces. Pilgrimages, and wars with the croſs as their enſign were good theatrical matter. Troops of theſe devout itin⯑erants were conſtantly appearing in the ſquares and in the market places, and no one was conſidered as a capital actor who had not noviciated at NOTRE⯑DAME DU PUY, St. JAMES OF COMPOSTELLA, or JERUSALEM.

Theſe pilgrims, mounted upon ſcaffolds, ſung ſpiritual canticles, which they had compoſed on their journies, and exhibited ſcenes in which they repreſented ſome myſtery of religion, or the life of ſome Saint, till, at length, they formed a ſociety, the particulars of which we ſhall ſee in its place.

In the mean time we will return to the time when SULLI began to anathematize holy buſſoonery, at which epoch it appears that the people, beginning to be diſappointed of their amuſement through the medium of the church, invited writers and per⯑formers [182] to continue it through the medium of thoſe ſavage feaſts in which FRANCE was ſo fond of emu⯑lating the Romans.

The Cours plénieres, the Tournois, and the Ca⯑rouſels were an imitation of the ſanguinary amuſe⯑ments of their ancient maſters, and offered to the eyes of the ſpectator a frightful image of war and all its horrors. By degrees, however, ſtill like the Romans, the French united in their exerciſes, ob⯑jects leſs ſhocking and offenſive, in which they in⯑troduced poetry, which was ſung at their repaſts during the intervals of ſerving the different courſes, and therefore called entremets.

The provincial poets, that is to ſay, thoſe born in the ſouthern provinces of FRANCE and who ſpoke a language derived from the Romans, and called Romane provencale and the French poets born in the northern provinces, whoſe language came from the ſame ſource, but was pronounced differently, and, therefore, called Romane Franſcoiſe, theſe two ſorts of poets were the original authors and per⯑formers of all the ſpectacles which, though bar⯑barous enough in themſelves, relieved thoſe ſavage ſeaſts called the Cours Plenieres.

They choſe ſuch grand circumſtances as the [183] marriages of ſovereigns, or the celebration of cer⯑tain days in the year, either appointed to comme⯑morate great national events, or conſecrated to re⯑ligious purpoſes. The provincial poets were called Troubadours, and the French Trouverres, which word in both dialects ſignifies diſcoverers, finders, in⯑ventors.

Their inventions were called Jeux partis, and were divided into what they called Sirventes and Tenſons. Thoſe called Sirventes were ſatires le⯑velled at all ſorts of people, ſomething reſembling the Saturnines and Feſcenines of the Romans be⯑fore LIVIUS ANDRONICUS, and the Song of the Goat among the Greeks before THESPIS.

In theſe performances called Tenſons the ſub⯑ject was love. They were written in dialogue and executed by ſeveral interlocutors. Furniſhed with a number of theſe pieces, which were lighter, eaſier to perform, and capable of affording more general amuſement than the Sirventes, the Troubadours and Troverres of the eleventh century, went about from town to town, and villa to villa, accompanied by their minſtrels, their juglers, their poſture maſters, and their rope-dancers; who, uniting their different talents, performed entremets, or entertainments, to amuſe large companies.

[184]By degrees theſe ſpectacles were varied and ex⯑tended. Farces and pantomimes were introduced re⯑preſenting ſubjects from hiſtory, and in thoſe pieces were brought forward terreſtrial and aquatic animals, and ſcenes, machinery, and decorations of moſt ingenious execution, and upon an immenſe ſcale.

It is difficult to ſay what were the dimenſions of thoſe buildings where theſe amuſements were per⯑formed, or to eſtimate the prodigious expence they incurred. The mechanic art at that time muſt have arrived to great perfection, and the reſources of thoſe who encouraged it have been immenſe, to have executed ſuch ingenious and extraordinary concep⯑tions, and have defrayed the conſequent expence, eſpecially when we conſider that they were per⯑formed but a few days in one place.

The dramatic art, however, was yet unknown. This itinerant poetry, like thoſe who cultivated it, knew nothing of any fixed rule. It conſiſted of irregular ſongs on the ſubjects of love and arms, or perſonal praiſe or ſatire, performed by troops of vagabonds, who united poets, compoſers, actors, ſingers, and orcheſtra, all, perhaps, in one family.

FONTENELLE ſays pleaſantly enough,

Notwithſtanding this pleaſantry of FONTENELLE, and his kind concern leſt the anceſtors of the FRENCH nobility ſhould have written good poetry, and, therefore, diſhonoured their ſucceſſors, no⯑thing can be more certain than that perſons of the firſt rank, in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, made this amuſement their principal occupation.

We find among the number, ſo early as the year 1100, WILLIAM the Ninth, Count of POITOU, who knew not only how to write verſes, but to ſing them afterwards; and who was ſo witty and ſo pleaſant a companion as conſtantly to keep the table in a roar. This talent was ſo natural to him that at his return from the firſt cruſade, in which he was far from being fortunate, he ſung the fatigues and dangers of that expedition in a poem ſo full of vivacity that it was conſidered both as a juſt ridicule of that ſtrange war, as far as he had wit⯑neſſed it, and a deprecation of its diſgraceful, ca⯑taſtrophe. In 1102, the famous father ABELARD, who was of a noble family, and whoſe talents and [187] misfortunes have excited ſo much admiration and compaſſion, is ſaid to have written and exhibited as a trouverre ^*.

In 1152, BERTRAND—who was attached to the COUNT DE VENTADOUR, and afterwards to ELEO⯑NORE DE GUIENNE wife of LOUIS the Seventh of FRANCE, who married and was divorced from the duke of NORMANDY, ſince king of ENGLAND by the name of HENRY the Second—This BERTRAND, whoſe elogium has been given us by PETRARCH, was one of the moſt celebrated poets of his time. He encouraged the trouverres and wrote for them.

From this period to the year twelve hundred we find a long liſt of noble perſonages, who both coun⯑tenanced theſe ſort of performances and aſſiſted them as authors and actors. Among theſe are the names of the emperor FREDERIC, the dauphin [188] D'AUVERGNE, the Dominican Miſſionary, and Inqui⯑ſitor IZARN, the chevalier SORDEL, who was over⯑whelmed with benefits by St. BONIFACE, and mar⯑ried BEATRICE, through which marriage he was con⯑nected with a ſtring of Italian nobility, the count of VENTADOUR, the counteſs DE DYE, and RICHARD COEUR DE LION, who all compoſed and cultivated poetry.

During the next century the number of poets were ſtill more numerous, and not leſs reſpectable. Among theſe were FOUQUET, biſhop of MAR⯑SEILLES, and afterwards archbiſhop of TOULOUSE, GUILLAUME DE CABESTAN, who periſhed a victim to the jealouſy of RAYMOND CASSEL DE ROUS⯑SILLON DE SEILHANS, to whom he was page, ANSELME FAIDIT, an author and compoſer, of whoſe writings and emoluments BEAUCHAMP en⯑larges a good deal, RAIMOND BERENGER, count of PROVENCE and of FORCALQUIER, ſon of AL⯑PHONSO, king of ARRAGON, who married BEA⯑TRICE, ſiſter of THOMAS, count of SAVOY, by whom he had four daughters, who were all married to kings. MARGARITE to LOUIS the Ninth, king of FRANCE, ELENORA to HENRY the Third, king of ENGLAND, SANCHE to RICHARD, king of the Romans, and BEATRICE, declared by her father heireſs to the county of PROVENCE, to CHARLES, [189] brother to St. LOUIS, who was crowned king of NAPLES and the two SICILIES; GASPER DE PUYCIBOT, a great muſician, and who performed on many ſorts of inſtruments in great perfection; SORDEL MANTOUAN, in whoſe works was mixed much moral inſtruction; PIERRE AUVERGNE, a muſician and a poet; ALBERT, marquis of MALA⯑SPINA; and LE SEIGNEUR BERTRAND D'ALLA⯑MANON, one of the moſt learned men of thoſe times, who dedicated his works to ESTEPHANETTE DE ROMANIN, of the family of GANTELME, and aunt to the celebrated LARUA SADO, miſtreſs of PETRARCH. BERTRAND was greatly eſteemed and patronized by ROBERT, king of NAPLES, and count of PROVENCE, who was called the Father of the provincial poets.

In the 1306, appeared PIERRE CARDINAL, a man of great talents, who wrote poetry in ſeveral languages. The town of TARASCAN aſſigned him ſeveral conſiderable appointments for his trouble in inſtructing youths, who, under him, made great progreſs in learning. He was conſidered by the great as a man proper to be truſted with commiſſions of conſequence, and, among the reſt, by BER⯑TRAND to prevail upon the princeſs BEATRICE, who had retired to the convent of NAZARETH at AIX, to quit her religious habits and appear like the [190] daughter of a king; in which undertaking he ac⯑quitted himſelf ſo well that he conducted her to NAPLES where ſhe married the marquis of EST.

During the next ten years many others made their appearance; and, in the year 1321, PHILIP the Long, count of POITOU, and afterwards king of FRANCE, became celebrated as a votary of the Muſes. He was a prince of a moſt enlightened un⯑derſtanding; his principal delight was to cultivate and protect literature, and, as a remarkable inſtance of it, he gave conſiderable appointments in his houſehold to ten of his dependants becauſe they were poets.

GEOFREY DE LUC, who eſtabliſhed an aca⯑demy, MADAME DE MARCHEBRUC, and her ſon, ANSELME DE MOUSTIER, a great favourite of ROBERT, king of NAPLES, BERNARD ROSCAS, related to the Popes, CLEMENT, and INNOCENT the Sixth, and eſteemed a greater man than either, ARNAUD DE COUTIGNAC, who was eſteemed for his rare prudence, and remarkable for quelling a rebellion for the king of NAPLES, and many others made up the interval from 1320 to 1355, when LE MONGE appeared, who was called the ſcourge of the Troubadours on account of his writings. He fell moſt unmercifully on the poets of his time, [191] ſparing neither friend, nor foe, nor perſuaſion, nor condition; till, at length, he expoſed the tyranny of ſome of the rulers in the provinces, and was aſſaſſinated for his pains.

LE MONGE, however did ſervice both to the cauſe of poetry and his country; ſo much that TARAUDET, who ſucceeded him, and who wrote with equal ſeverity, but more policy, completely effected that reform his predeceſſor had only medi⯑tated. TARAUDET was born a gentleman, and was bred a warrior as well as a poet. Being in treaty with FOULQUES DE PONTENAS for an eſtate, FOULQUES, being a great admirer of poetry, con⯑tented himſelf with giving him an eaſy bargain in conſequence of his dedicating to him a work called, A method to guard the heart againſt the treachery of love.

TARAUDET being now rich and a nobleman, aſſembled the neighbouring nobility and purged PROVENCE of all thoſe petty tyrants that had ſo long deſolated it.

After theſe, BOYER, a mathematician, and who as well as poetry wrote on natural hiſtory, meteoro⯑logy, hydraulics and botany, JEAN DE MEUN, a famous theologiſt, philoſopher, aſtronomiſt, chymiſt, [192] arithmetician, and, above all, a poet, and the il⯑luſtrious LOUIS DE LASCARIS, count DE VINTI⯑MILLE, celebrated for his talents and his valour when the Normands and the Engliſh ravaged PRO⯑VENCE, were at the head of literature in FRANCE; till, about 1375, when BERENGER DE PARASOLS gave a new turn to dramatic poetry, having, it is ſaid, compoſed five regular tragedies.

Of theſe tragedies there is ſo particular an ac⯑count that it is difficult to ſuſpect the truth of his having written them. They have all appropriate names, and the matter of which they are compoſed con [...]ſts of ſatyric particulars relative to the mar⯑riages of princes and princeſſes of thoſe times. BERENGER, according to theſe authorities, dedi⯑cated his tragedies to Pope CLEMENT the Seventh, who recompenced him with a prebendary of PARA⯑SOL, where BEAUCHAMP tells us he ended his days, but PARFAICT ſays he was poiſoned on account of the truths contained in his tragedies, which FON⯑TENELLE ſeems to confirm by hinting that JOAN of NAPLES, hated PARASOLS for having expoſed, in one of his pieces, the circumſtance of her ſtrangling her huſband that ſhe might marry one ſhe thought more amiable.

There is reaſon to believe, that though theſe [193] pieces were called regular they approach very little towards that diſtinction in the ſenſe we underſtand it now, being no more than ſatires in dialogue, and diſtinguiſhed in nothing from thoſe of DANIEL in 1189, and FAIDIT, in 1220, except in their ſtyle.

Theſe poets, together with RICHARD DE BAR⯑BEZIEUX, who joined to poetry rhetoric, theology, and mathematics, and Father BONIFACE, related to the moſt ancient nobility in PROVENCE, and re⯑markable for his attachment to JOAN of NAPLES, and conſequently an enemy of PARASOLS, were the principal among a very large number that made up the literati of the fourteenth century.

In 1408 lived another LE MONGE, from whoſe information, through different channels, are fur⯑niſhed the preceding particulars. He was made librarian of the monaſtery of LERINS, of which ſo⯑ciety he was a member. In the library under his care, which it is ſaid contained a prodigious number of books, he carefully collected the lives and la⯑bours of the provincial poets. Theſe materials he was ſo particular in arranging and digeſting, that his authority has been conſtantly conſidered as au⯑thentic, eſpecially that edition of it corrected and improved by St. CEZARI in 1435.

[194]After this period, to enumerate all thoſe poets that paſs in review upon enquiry, would give this work the air of a catalogue rather than a hiſtory. More than three hundred names might be ſet down that different authors have thought it worth while to celebrate.

Many of theſe lived in the court of TIBALD, where they formed an aſſembly for the purpoſe of examining one anothers works after the manner of that ſchool of poetry firſt inſtituted by GEOFREY DE LUC in 1340, and carried into greater perfection by BERTRAND DE PEZARS in 1348; and which may be conſidered as the foundation of the French academy, afterwards ſo celebrated; though not its origin, for CHARLEMAGNE eſtabliſhed an academy for ſcience and literature in general on his return from ITALY in 781.

Theſe names make but a part, as we are told, though one ſhould ſuppoſe a conſiderable part of the principal inventors, as they are called, or poets in FRANCE; and the ſurrounding nations and pro⯑vinces, where the French language was either cor⯑rectly or imperfectly ſpoken. The principal ſervice theſe authors have rendered to the cauſe of literature is in leaving us an idea of the manner of thoſe [195] times in which they lived; but theſe were ſo bar⯑barous and unpoliſhed, that their labours ſerve more to point out what ought to be avoided than what ought to be imitated as far as it relates to their choice of ſubjects; and, if we ſhould go further and fairly look into their works as an object of criticiſm, though we ſhould find anecdotes and ſhort hiſtories recounted with neatneſs and ſimplicity, and remarka⯑ble for the truth of their images, and the elegance of their ſtyle; yet the groſs indecency, the barbarity, and crudeneſs of the reſt, would render the taſk of ſelection ſcarcely worth the pains; of ſo little value would be the gold, after it were extracted from the filthy concrete in which it is enveloped.

This chapter ought not to be finiſhed without a notice that it is impoſſible, from the contradictions of various authors, to be correct to a year, or, per⯑haps, to twenty years, as to when theſe poets wrote. The ſame circumſtance is frequently related dif⯑ferently, and ſometimes one circumſtance is miſtaken for another. For one inſtance, among many others, the four daughters of BERENGER, Count of PRO⯑VENCE, it is agreed upon on all hands, married four kings, but one author will inſiſt upon it, that one of the huſbands was RICHARD COEUR DE LION, who, by the way, was dead before the thirteenth century, [196] and another fixes the time of the birth of BEREN⯑GER at the year 1245, which is impoſſible, becauſe HENRY the Third married his daughter in the year 1536. The firſt miſtake originates, perhaps, from the name of BERENGARIA the wife of RICHARD, and the other from making 1245 the time of BE⯑RENGER's birth, inſtead of the time he was cele⯑brated as a poet.

As theſe circumſtances concern literature itſelf but very little, I ſhall always, where I find no ma⯑terial contradiction, ſet down events, as they are related, leaving it to the diſcretion and good ſenſe of the reader to diſtinguiſh between what appears to be merely probable and what poſitively authentic.

CHAP. II. DESCRIPTION OF THE ENTREMETS.

AS the amuſements called Entremets, becauſe they relieved the different courſes of feaſts, had ſome⯑thing in them very extraordinary it would be highly improper to paſs by this opportunity of deſcribing them.

Though we have accounts of magnificent ſpec⯑tacles under this title which were performed ſo early as the year 1200; and, again, from the chronicle of ALBERIC of an aſtoniſhing one in 1237. on the marriage of ROBERT, brother of St LOUIS, with MAHAUT, Counteſs of ARTO [...], and daughter of the Duke of BRABANT, beſides many others, I ſhould exceed the bounds I have preſcribed for myſelf did I particularly notice more than two or three of the moſt remarkable.

I ſhall, therefore, carry the attention of the reader to that magnificent and extraordinary ſpecta⯑cle performed in honour of ISABELLA of BAVARIA, [198] queen to CHARLES VI. which was ſolemnized at PARIS with the utmoſt ſplendor, in October 1385. Among the ſetes upon this occaſion was a combat performed before the trinity, illuſtrative of the holy war. The French and Engliſh fought againſt, and, of courſe, beat the Saracens, in preſence of the queen. All the ſtreets were laid with carpets, ſeveral fountains were placed in different ſituations, which ran with wine and other delicious liquors, and upon lofty ſtages erected for the purpoſe, were placed choirs of muſicians, organs, and youths who repreſented different parts of the ancient teſta⯑ment.

Machines were contrived, by means of which infants, dreſſed to repreſent angels, deſcended and placed flowers and ornaments on the head of the queen; but the moſt aſtoniſhing part of the ſpec⯑tacles was the intrepidity of a man who glided down by a cord from the ſpire of NOTRE DAME to the bridge where the queen was to paſs, and placed a crown upon her head, which having ef⯑fected, he returned by the way he came, as if aſcend⯑ing to heaven. This extraordinary tour was the invention of a Genoeſe, who had been a long time contriving it; and what contributed to render it the more remarkable, even at a diſtance from PARIS, being very late in the evening, the man [199] carried a flambeau in each hand, that both the beauty and the temerity of the action might be the more ſtriking.

In 1453, according to the accounts of MATHIEU DE COUCI, and OLIVER DE LA MARCHE, ADOL⯑PHUS, Count of CLEVES, gave a ſpectacle of this kind at LISLE, in FLANDERS, in an immenſe hall filled with tables, or rather with vaſt theatres. In one of theſe was placed a bark with the ſails furled, in which was ſeen a chevalier armed cap a pie. Be⯑fore the bark was placed a ſilver ſwan with a golden collar and chain, with which it ſeemed to tow the veſſel along, and near at hand a caſtle appeared to riſe out of the waves on which a falcon was perched.

Theſe different objects were emblematic of a trait of ancient hiſtory relative to the houſe of CLEVES, in which it is reported that a ſwan tra⯑verſing the RHINE, led, miraculouſly to the caſtle of that family, a chevalier, celebrated by his ex⯑ploits, who became the huſband of the princeſs of the country, and gave an heir to that ancient and illuſtrious houſe, whoſe title would otherwiſe have become extinct.

The ſame year, when MAHOMET the Second, menaced CONSTANTINOPLE, the emperor CON⯑STANTINE, [200] the laſt chriſtian prince that reigned in the Eaſt, demanded ſuccour from all the princes of his religion; and, among others, from PHILIP the Good, then duke of BURGUNDY. PHILIP flattered with this attention, replied oſtentatiouſly to CON⯑STANTINE, that he ſhould prepare a cruſade him⯑ſelf. And to effect this he inſtantly aſſembled his provincial generals, and the commanders of his veſſels, to whom he gave a grand feaſt, at which was performed a magnificent entremets.

Among the different objects introduced in this aſtoniſhing entertainment was a church filled with ſingers, whoſe voices were accompanied by bells; a veſſel fitted with all ſorts of merchandiſe; a ſuperb fountain, with ornaments in glaſs and lead ſo wonderfully conſtructed as to repreſent trees, flowers, verdure, ſtones of all colours, and a figure of St. ANDREW with his croſs, from which iſſued a fountain which fell at his feet and loſt itſelf in a beautiful declivity covered with flowers; and an enormous pie which repreſented a caſtle and con⯑cealed eight muſicians. On the battlements of the caſtle was ſeen a ſerpent, and at the baſe were two fountains, from which iſſued orange flower water which filled the foſſes.

After this was ſeen a wind-mill with a magpie [201] perched on it; two tuns, from one of which flowed a ſweet liquor, and from the other a bitter one; on each of theſe as placed a ſtatue holding a label with theſe words, ‘"Take your choice."’

Then came a view of a deſert; a tyger ſight⯑ing with a ſerpent; a ſavage upon a camel; a peaſant beating the buſhes from which flew a thou⯑ſand birds; a chevalier entertaining his dulcinea under a hedge of roſes; a ſatyr mocking a ſhep⯑herdeſs croſſed in love; a madman upon the back of a bear; and a number of other ſtrange and in⯑congruous objects.

In another place was a lake ſurrounded with villages and caſtles; and further off an impervious foreſt embelliſhed with oriental trees, and filled with a croud of animals of every kind ſo natural that they ſeemed alive. In a niche were placed vaſes of gold enriched with precious ſtones, where ſat the figure of a woman made out of the ſame ma⯑terials, from whoſe nipples iſſued a delicious be⯑verage; a lion was placed by her ſide chained to a column, on which was written, ‘"Touch not the lady.’

After this the company were entertained with [202] the exploits of JASON, who drenched the bulls that guarded the golden fleece with the contents of MEDEA's vial, and employed her marvellous ring to cut off the head and draw the teeth of the ſerpent; after which, he ſowed the teeth in the earth; armed men inſtantly roſe up cap a pie, who maſſacred one another, and all theſe ſcenes were accompanied, ſometimes, by the ſingers in the church, and ſome⯑times by the inſtruments in the pie.

But this was not all. A giant now appeared dreſſed and armed like a Sarcaren conducting an elephant who carried on his back a caſtle, in which ſat a lady dreſſed like a devotee, and appearing moſt deplorable and wretched. She thundered an ana⯑thema againſt the giant, which obliged him to ſtop. This lady repreſented religion. She complained moſt bittterly of the ills ſhe had ſuſtained through the tyranny of the infidels, and lamented the tardi⯑neſs of thoſe who ought to have flown to deliver her.

This lamentation finiſhed, an armed chief pre⯑ceeded by a long ſtring of knights of the golden fleece, and bearing upon his fiſt a pheaſant orna⯑mented with a collar of gold enriched with diamond [...] and pearls, advanced to the Duke of BURGUNDY [203] and preſented two ladies, one of whom repreſented YOLANDE, his natural daughter, and the other ISABELLA of NEUFCHATEL, daughter of the Seigneur DE MONTAIGN. Each of theſe ladies was accompanied by a knight, and the armed chief offered the bird to the duke in the name of the ladies, whom he recommended to the protection of their ſovereign^*.

The duke of BURGUNDY, after liſtening atten⯑tively to the requeſt of the armed chief, held out to him a ſcroll, which was immediately read aloud, and contained a ſolemn vow to GOD, to the VIRGIN, to the ladies, and to the pheaſant, that he would carry war into the territory of the infidels in defence of the oppreſſed church. The duke's vow became [204] immediately a ſignal for his whole court, every member of which, to an infinite number, inſtantly vowed the deſtruction of the Turks, all which ac⯑clamation was accompanied as before by the in⯑habitants of the ſteeple and the pie, and when this ceremony was over a new groupe of characters pre⯑ſented themſelves.

A lady dreſſed in white, in a religious habit, and carrying on her ſhoulder a ſcroll, on which was written, ‘"Thank GOD,"’ entered and paid her acknowledgements to the aſſembly; which done ſhe introduced twelve other ladies, repre⯑ſenting different virtues, who were to accompany theſe knights of the croſs to the holy war as their tutelary guardians. Their names, which they bore on their ſhoulders, were Faith, Cha⯑rity, Juſtice, Reaſon, Prudence, Temperance, For⯑titude, Truth, Liberality, Diligence, Hope, and Vigilence.

Theſe paſſed in review; and, after they had been acknowledged by the knights as the com⯑panions of their voyage, a moſt extravagant dance, full of mummery, and accompanied by muſical in⯑ſtruments, bells, drums, claſhing of ſwords, and other monſtrous and deafening ſounds finiſhed [205] the entertainment; after which they grew intoxi⯑cated at the feaſt, where many of the valorous knights who had ſworn to maſſacre the Saracens at the gates of JERUSALEM, were either killed or wounded in this drunken frolic at PARIS.

CHAP III. DESCRIPTION OF THE MYSTERIES.

IN proportion as chivalry left FRANCE for the HOLY LAND, ſo a taſte for the entremets ſell off; and, when the knights of the croſs returned from JERUSALEM, they were ſo full of adventures that the prieſts thought they could not do better than turn thoſe adventures to the advantage of the church, or rather of themſelves.

Conſcious, however, that a mere relation of that mad buſineſs would have but a diſgracious effect, they ſoon ceaſed to ſing the exploits of kingly prieſts and ſacerdotal generals, and contented themſelves with acting ſacred hiſtory, and perſonifying divine characters.

For this purpoſe they formed themſelves into a ſociety, but not being rich enough to buy ground, much leſs to build a theatre on it, they firſt made proſelytes of ſome of the moſt opulent tradeſmen [207] in PARIS, and afterwards had the condeſcenſion to accept of their money and property, by which means they carried their ſcheme into execution.

They choſe for their ſcene of action the Bourg of St. MAUR DES-FOSSES near PARIS, which had been rendered celebrated by the number of pulgrims who reſorted there from motives of devotion. The firſt myſtery that was performed by this ſociety was called The Hiſtory of the Death of our Saviour, and from this circumſtance they gave themſelves the name of The Confraternity of the Paſſion.

The followers of this ſpecies of amuſement were, as we are told, in number beyond all belief. Buſi⯑neſs was ſo at a ſtand, and every public concern neglected for the pleaſure of running after this no⯑velty to ſuch a degree, that, in 1298, the prévôt of the capital iſſued an interdiction to ſuppreſs the pious farces of theſe holy actors. The intereſt of the prieſts however was paramount to that of the prévôt; nay the interference of that magiſtrate was ultimately of ſervice to them; for, upon petitioning the king to take off the interdiction, they were invited to per⯑form before him, and he was ſo delighted with the poetry and the acting, that, in 1402, he eſtabliſhed them at PARIS by his own letters patent, after which it was even faſhionable to become members [208] of this fraternity; for we find that ſeveral of the king's houſehold, nay, the king himſelf, did not diſdain to make a part of the company.

The hoſpital of the trinity, which had been founded in 1100 for the reception of pilgrims, was now converted into a theatre for the repreſen⯑tation of theſe myſteries. The theatre was won⯑derfully well conſtructed for the purpoſe of giving effect to the performances. The front was much in the ſtyle of ours, but the ſtage was upon a very dif⯑ferent principal, being intended to convey an idea of all objects as truly as it was poſſible to exhibit them. Heaven, earth, and hell were their three principal objects, which they contrived to repreſent with great facility. If the ſcene was to be heaven, convolutions of clouds to an immenſe height and ex⯑tent ſurrounded the ſtage, on which angels appeared flying or walking as it beſt ſuited to carry on the amuſement; if earth, the extremity of the theatre ſeemed an immenſe expanſe, on which, at proper diſtances, objects appeared as in nature; and, if hell, the whole ſtage was lifted up like the jaw of a monſtrous dragon repreſenting a tremendous abyſs, and out of the mouth, which vomited fire, came le⯑gions of devils.

Though the Paſſion of our Saviour was the firſt [209] piece performed by this fraternity, which very poſſibly was originally written many hundred years before, for no one has pretended to name the author of it, three cotemporary poets of the thirteenth century, whoſe writings were depoſited among the manuſcripts of CHARLES the Sixth, ſeem to have furniſhed the materials for this brotherhood to work upon.

Thoſe poets were called RUTEBEUF, BODEL, and ADAM DE LA HALLE; and, among the moſt celebrated of their pieces, which were all myſteries, we find The Prodigal Son, The Miracle of Theophilus, The Cruſades, and St. Nicholas, and The Children in the Tub. Theſe three poets had their imitators to the number of fifty or ſixty, ſome veſtiges of whoſe works we have imperfect accounts of. They con⯑ſiſt of ſubjects from ſcripture put into action, and contain, among a heap of rubbiſh, ſome literary jewels of conſiderable value.

It is impoſſible to deny that theſe writers were ſtrongly poſſeſſed with a true knowledge of the dra⯑matic art; for, where the ſubjects, though ſcriptural, are purely domeſtic and ſimple, and have no re⯑ference to religion beyond fair and naked morality, we find for ſuch times many of the requiſites that [210] compoſe a regular piece calculated to convey amuſement and inſtruction.

One of theſe is, The Prodigal Son, written by RUTEBEUF, ſo early as 1240. A ſtory, which if we diveſt ourſelves for a moment of having read it in the New Teſtament as a parable, has nothing to do with religion in any other reſpect than as it is a beautiful leſſon of morality.

RUTEBEUF chuſes to throw into, his piece all the nature and ſimplicity he poſſibly can; and, therefore, feigning to forget, or really forgetting that his buſineſs was to write a religious myſtery, he places his ſcene in a beautiful country, and makes his characters opulent labourers, a people of all others, who are naturally ſtrangers to artificial as well as real want.

Thus in the Prodigal Son has he given a moſt beautiful picture of the reſtleſſneſs of human nature. Bleſt with health and ſtrength, and aſſured of every rational bleſſing for only the trouble of earning it—and what bread is ſo ſweet as that we earn—He makes it the buſineſs of his life to run counter to reaſon. He torments his father in return for his unbounded indulgence, and hates his brother be⯑cauſe [211] he is good and dutiful; till, at length, he demands his patrimony and determines to ſeek his fortune.

Turned looſe in that world of whoſe inhabitants and manners he has no knowledge, the prodigal ſon is not more delighted and aſtoniſhed than he is aſhamed and confounded. The compliments he re⯑ceives on his wit, his grace, and his good ſenſe, though he knows them to be falſe he admits as if they were true. Nay, he begins at laſt to fancy him⯑ſelf perfectly accompliſhed; and, under this idea, is more angry with his father and his brother than ever, who wanted him to conſider himſelf as a clown and to linger out his life in obſcurity. But the de⯑luſion does not laſt long. He goes to an inn where the landlord and waiters fly at his orders. A lady enters, he falls in love with her, the dinner is ſerved, wine and muſic ſucceed, in the midſt of which an⯑other lady is introduced, and he has the inexpreſſi⯑ble pleaſure of ſeeing himſelf an object of con⯑tention between the two ladies. He appeaſes them, and aſſures them he is in love with them both. By this time they, beginning to be tired with their farce, or rather intereſted in bringing on the de⯑nouement, make him drunk as faſt as poſſible, pick his pockets, ſhare the booty with the landlord, and [212] decamp, leaving him aſleep. He afterwards wakes, diſcovers his loſs, and while he is raving about like one diſtracted, the landlord brings the bill, and finding his gueſt has no money kicks him out of the houſe.

We next ſee the prodigal ſon a beggar on the highway. His miſeries have now made him contrite, and he recals to his mind with tears the indulgence and the advice of his father. He thinks of his bro⯑ther, who by induſtry and frugality is in abundance, while he through his profligacy is ſtarving for want. In this wretched plight a peaſant touched with his misfortunes takes him to his hovel and ſets him to take care of his pigs. In this ſituation he has time for reflection, and at length his repentance is con⯑firmed, when he reſolves to return to his father, who receives him with tenderneſs, and the reconciliation takes place exactly as in the parable.

We have here a regular piece. This is no myſtery from ſcripture. It is plain ſelf evident morality. It is a picture of human life ſuch as it ever has been and ever will be; and, as to the poetical requiſites, it is full of them. It conſiſts of a ſingle fable, ſimple, and grand. It has beginning, middle, and end; and there is not a circumſtance throughout the whole but inculcates ſome moral [213] inſtruction. It is true RUTEBEUF does not ſeem to have read ARISTOTLE, but he had read nature, which anſwered his purpoſe better; and, if other authors had paid the ſcripture no worſe a compli⯑ment than bringing it on the ſtage with ſo fair and ſo honeſt a motive—for what ſtore can we ſo properly ſearch to find moral inſtruction—the myſteries ſo far from profaning ſcripture, would have honoured it.

As far as theſe myſteries were conſidered as a vehicle for poetry, there is ſomething in them awful and majeſtic. To give an idea of this let us turn our thoughts to MILTON's Paradiſe Loſt, and then ſuppoſe this poem put into dialogue, and acted on the ſtage; which is the ſtrongeſt caſe in point that can be imagined. What would be the conſequence? The characters, which, while the reader's fancy is fired with the glowing imagery of the poet, are ſa⯑cred and ſublime, would ſink into the moſt miſerable burleſque if attempted to be perſonified; and this bathos would be ſtill more complete in proportion to the beauty of the poetry.

Fortunately, though to be ſure it is a left handed advantage, there was very little in the poetry of theſe myſteries to drive it into any ſuch predicament. It was miſerable enough, GOD knows; but, in return, that the prieſts might be ſure to incur their rightful [214] portion of reprehenſion, the matter was not only the moſt ſacred that could be choſen, but the moſt dangerous to expoſe to ridicule; for when we con⯑ſider that ſuch ſubjects were performed on the ſtage as the Conception of the Virgin MARY, the Paſſion of CHRIST, and the Reſurrection, the mind is of⯑fended to a degree of outrage, and we condemn that country where ſuch an impiety was tolerated, and thoſe prieſts who connived at it.

The myſtery of the Conception is compoſed in fifty three acts, diſtributed hiſtorically, and traced all the way from the prophecy of ISAIAH, to the death of the Innocents; and, without mentioning the choruſſes, has at leaſt a hundred characters.

To go over the plot would be to reiterate all we have read on the ſubject in the New Teſtament, which is on the ſtage tediouſly ſpun out in four feet verſe, with now and their a few awkward Alexan⯑drines, perpetually fiſhing for the ſublime, and catching the bathos. The joy of the human race on the coming of the MESSIAH is truly poetical; ſo is the diſcomfiture of the devils; but if it had not been larded with the jokes of the landlord of the inn at BETHELEM, who is very facecious with MARY about the groaning, and the devils putting new bolts and bars upon limbo for fear our SAVIOUR ſhould [215] let out ADAM and EVE, it would not have been ſeaſoned to the palates of the prieſts.

The jeſts alſo of thoſe who are employed by HEROD to murder the Innocents with the leave of the holy fathers, might as well have been ſpared; nor can we forgive the devils, after they have tempted HEROD with ſo many flattering promiſes of reward, for inſtigating him to cut his throat, and afterwards kicking his ſoul about till they are tired, and then enjoying the pleaſure of ſeeing it bubble in a ſurnace of molten lead.

There are a hundred other abſurdities, the mildeſt epithet that can be given them, and yet this ſtrange incongruous farago is excelled in point of impiety, meant for ſanctity, in the Paſſion, which begins with a ſermon by way of prologue; and yet more in the Reſurrection, which finiſhes with a figure dance between ADAM, EVE, ISAIAH, JERE⯑MIAH, JOHN the Baptiſt, the Good Thief crucified with CHRIST, and an immenſe number of other ſouls, whom the coming of the MESIAH had li⯑berated from limbo.

Theſe myſteries, having obtained incredible re⯑putation in the capital, were very ſoon ſpread throughout the kingdom. ROUEN, ANGERS, LE [216] MANS, METZ, and almoſt every principal town had to boaſt a company of ſtrollers deputed from the confraternity. VILLON, the poet, who is ſaid to have written ſeveral myſteries, became very buſy upon this occaſion as an itinerant. We are told by RABELAIS, that having retired to his friend the Abbe St. MAIXENT, near POITOU, VILLON was very anxious to amuſe the inhabitants of that place with the Paſſion of Our SAVIUOR in the Poitevin dialect^*.

[217]The prodigious number of theſe entertainments it will be here impoſſible to give a correct account of. It may not be amiſs, however, to notice yet ſome few particulars concerning them.

ARNOT GREBAN, canon of MANS, wrote the myſtery of the Acts of the Apoſtles. The title ran thus: ‘"The Triumphant Myſtery of Catholic Works in the Acts of the Apoſtles taken from St. LUKE, evangeliſt and hiſtoriographer."’ Another of theſe curious pieces was called the Hiſtory of the Old Teſtament—This was the title, ‘"The Old Teſtament, in which is ſhewn how the children of ISRAEL paſſed the Red Sea and reached the Land of Promiſe, with ſeveral other hiſtories ſuch as JOB, TOBIT, DANIEL, SUSANNAH, and HESTER."’

A third has, for its title, ‘"The Vengeance of CHRIST in the deſtruction of JERUSALEM, ex⯑ecuted [218] by VESPASIAN and his ſon TITUS; contained in ſeveral Roman chronicles in the reign of NERO, and other fine hiſtories in honour of our SAVIOUR and the court of Paradiſe."’ A fourth is called ‘"The Myſtery of the Patience of JOB, and how he loſt all his wealth by war, and by fortune; how he was reduced to the greateſt poverty, and how every thing was rendered back again by the grace of GOD."’

A fifth was entitled ‘"The Sacrifice of ABRA⯑HAM."’ I take the literal words. It is thus recom⯑mended: ‘"This is a French tragedy, neceſſary to all chriſtians that they may find conſolation in times of tribulation and adverſity."’

This piece no more reſembled a tragedy than any of the preceding ones; but it appeared at a time when the myſteries began to tire. There⯑fore the author, though he could no farther inno⯑vate than to change the deſcription of the piece, was determined to do what he could. The myſte⯑ries, which formerly took each of them four days in the performance, began now to be conſiderably compreſſed; and, wherever any familiar circum⯑ſtances occurred, they were conſidered as properer for the ſtage than thoſe more ſacred ſubjects which were profaned enough by the ceremonies of the [219] church. Nay, it is not very clear that the authors, who were now principally laical, did not attempt as far as they ſafely could to burleſque theſe holy ſub⯑jects, by way of bringing them into contempt; for we find about this time ſuch titles as The Joyous Myſtery of the Three Kings; and The Pleaſant con⯑ceit of the Apocalypſe of St. John of Zebadee, ‘"in which are contained the viſions and revelations of the ſaid St. JOHN in the iſland of PATMOS."’

Thus much has been ſaid to give an idea of the genius, the manners, the art, and the language of French poetry in thoſe times. I ſhall now, as briefly as poſſible, go on to thoſe amuſements called mo⯑ralities which ſucceeded the myſteries.

CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTION OF THE MORALITIES AND OTHER ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE tragedy of Abraham, and another called The Diſcomfiture of the Giant Goliah, ſeem to have ſtruck hard at the myſteries in FRANCE; for, en⯑couraged by the firſt effort at innovation, there ſhortly appeared a piece with the following title: The Myſtery of the Deſtruction of Troy the Great. ‘"The Rape of HELEN, done by PARIS, and com⯑poſed in good French rhime; together with the proweſs, the virtues, and the nobleneſs of the va⯑liant HECTOR; the damnable treaſon committed by the Greeks, and many other hiſtories con⯑taining all the tranſactions between the Trojans and the Grecians."’

This heathen myſtery excited as much curioſity as had the religious tragedy: Curioſity begat con⯑troverſy; and, the ſchiſm once ſown, eſpecially as it had reaſon to nouriſh it, the myſteries were quite at a ſtand. At laſt the prieſts yielded with the beſt grace they could, and the general title of pieces for [221] the theatre no longer aſſumed the term myſtery, but morality.

It was difficult, however, to draw a line as a cri⯑terion for the regulation of ſo wide a field; and, therefore, the ſubjects were ſometimes holy, and ſometimes profane; but, as their general tendency was morality, every thing was permitted.

A Pilot, by name JOHN PARMENTIER, ſup⯑poſed to be the firſt european who ever ſet foot in AFRICA, wrote a morality in honour of the Aſ⯑ſumption; a Cardinal wrote a choice morality called The Reformation of Taverns and Alehouſes, and the Deſtruction of Gluttony; and the Valet de Chambre of LOUIS the Twelfth, wrote a morality which he called The Juſt Man, and the Man of this World, by which he meant the perſonification of virtue and vice; and he ſo completely wound up his plot, that the juſt man was ſent firſt to purgatory and afterwards to heaven, while the devils ran away with the ſoul of the man of this world.

A phyſician, of an honeſter caſt than the phy⯑ſicians afterwards ridiculed by MOLIERE, wrote three moralities, entitled, The Road to Health, The Government of the Human Frame, and A Prohibition of an Indulgence of the paſſions.

[222]LOUISA L'ABBÉ, born at LYONS, and called the French Sappho, at the age of fifteen followed her lover in men's cloaths to the ſiege of PE PIG⯑NAN; and, afterwards, when ſhe had returned and married the man of her heart, wrote a morality called The Folly of Love. She is ſaid to have written poetry in four languages, and her houſe was a ſort of academy for the literati of her time.

But the Prodigal Son of RUTEBEUF became now the great object of imitation. It was per⯑formed with material alterations, and it produced as many imitations of it as there were in ENGLAND of the Beggar's Opera. Scarcely an inſtance of filial piety or ingratitude could be invented but pre⯑ſently it was brought on the ſtage in the ſhape of a morality. The ſubjects of one or two are worth attending to.

The Poor Villager, ‘"written in praiſe and honour of honeſt girls,"’ made its appearance the year after the Prodigal Son was revived. The ſtory is brief. A ſeigneur of a village endeavours to corrupt his vaſſal's daughter; and finding all his arts uſeleſs, is determined to have recourſe to vio⯑lence. In this ſituation, the poor girl promiſes to conſent upon condition previouſly of ſpeaking to her father. The lord ſuſpicious of every thing is [223] determined to overhear the converſation, and hav⯑ing effected his ſcheme without her knowledge, he is witneſs to her imploring her father, in the moſt earneſt manner, to cut off her head rather than let her chaſtity be violated. Struck with remorſe the lord entreats her forgiveneſs, gives her and her fa⯑ther their freedom, and loads them with benefits.

Another has for its title, The Ungrateful Son, who is ſo completely the darling of his parents that they abſolutely ruin themſelves to make his fortune. After a time they are overwhelmed with poverty, and he is rolling in riches; and, when they have recourſe to him as the only benefactor they know where to fly to, he treats them moſt wantonly unnatural, not even permitting them, though they are ſtarving, to eat of a repaſt on which he is feaſting. The father, ſeeing him treat the mo⯑ther contemptuouſly, can forbear no longer; but, lifting his hands and eyes to heaven, curſes him and implores the vengeance of GOD upon his head. Scarcely has he uttered this curſe but a monſtrous toad comes out of a pye and flies at his face which it completely covers, attaching itſelf ſo cloſely that no human art can remove it. The unnatural ſon begins now to relent, and the parents, too ready to forgive, liſten to his contrition. He is, however, in⯑formed that prayer alone can expiate his guilt; [224] they, therefore, ſend him about from prieſt to prieſt, afterwards to the biſhop, and at laſt to the pope; and, by the time he has expended almoſt his whole fortune, he is relieved by exorciſm and exhortation from the frightful reptile and reconciled to his parents.

This piece was followed by another called The Morality of the Child of Perdition, ‘"who killed his father, hanged his mother, and afterwards went mad."’ But theſe inſtances are enough to ſhew the diſ⯑tinction between the myſteries and the moralities; which were the only regular dramatic attractions of the times. We are erroneouſly informed that the clerks of the Bazoche eſtabliſhed a theatre where the beauty of virtue, and the hideouſneſs of vice were perſonified; but the fact is that theſe clerks were no more than the laymen who gave the firſt blow to the myſteries, and who afterwards, in con⯑junction, or rather by the connivance of the prieſts, performed the moralities at the eſtabliſhed theatre, the prieſts being too cunning to ſhut out any op⯑portunity of bolſtering up their own reputation, which at that time began to decline.

We are told of a theatrical ſociety called Les Enſans de Sans Souci; but theſe cannot be re⯑gularly claſſed, being no more than a number of [225] young men of fortune and family who ran after pleaſure, and ſtuck at nothing to procure it. In conſequence of purſuing this career many of them were ruined; and, having talents, they turned their thoughts to the ſtage for a livelihood. They were many of them ſcholars; and, being out of humour with the world, they walked in the footſteps of ARISTOPHANES, and in their pieces laſhed the manners of their time.

This new ſpecies of amuſement ſucceeded, and the intereſt of the Confraternity began again to be menaced. Theſe children of Sans Souci were, therefore, invited to join the regular theatre in the ſame manner as the brotherhood had invited the moraliſts; and thus, this inſatiate vortex, from which, perhaps, originated the idea of the Parſon's Barn, ſwallowed up every thing that came in its way. The ſtage, however, having gradually gone from myſteries to moralities, from moralities to farces, from farces to the groſſeſt buffooneries, and very frequently a mixture of them all, the government took away the theatre from the confraternity, and in the year 1539, the houſe of the trinity became an hoſpital according to its original inſtitution.

FRANCIS the Firſt having accorded the bro⯑therhood, letters patent confirming all the privileges they enjoyed under CHARLES the Sixth, they now [226] ſought for ſome new place of eſtabliſhment; and, for that purpoſe, hired the Hotel de Flandres, where they performed four years; but the king ordered the demolition of this hotel, and ſeveral others near it, and our holy actors were as far to ſeek as ever.

Tired with the conſiderable expences they had incurred by tranſporting their theatrical trappings from place to place, they reſolved to build upon their own foundation. They, therefore, bought ſome ground on which had ſtood the hotel of the duke of BURGUNDY, and there they erected their fourth theatre, which conſiſted of a hall and other edifices, many of which are now to be ſeen.

The parliament, upon ſtrong ſolicitation, gave them permiſſion to eſtabliſh themſelves there upon condition they performed none but profane ſub⯑jects; but nevertheleſs, ſuch as tended to promote the practice of morality.

The Confraternity of the Paſſion, who profeſſed piety, could not content themſelves with performing ſubjects purely profane, and, therefore, in the year 1588, they let their theatre to a troop of French comedians who had juſt then formed, with a view of performing under the permiſſion of the king. The pieces, now exhibited, began to be a little more [227] ſupportable than thoſe of the Confraternity of the Paſſion. By degrees the public taſte became more extended and more pure. Printing being invented in the reign of LOUIS the Ninth, and literature conſiderably more eſtabliſhed under FRANCIS the Firſt, books, of courſe, became common, different languages were generally learnt, and theſe improve⯑ments introduced tranſlations of the tragedies and comedies of the ancients.

CHAP V. FROM THE COMMENCEMENT OF TRAGEDY TO THE TIME OF HARDY.

THOUGH JODELLE is generally conſidered as the AESCHYLUS and the LIVIUS ANDRONICUS of FRANCE, yet the introduction of tragedy is cer⯑tainly owing to LAZARE BAIF, a gentleman of ANGEVIN, who was educated by the celebrated BUDÉ. BAIF travelled to form his heart and his underſtanding. At ROME he ſtudied Greek under the learned MUSURUS; and after he had accom⯑pliſhed every intelligence he thought neceſſary for his purpoſe, he retired to his eſtate at ANJOU to loſe himſelf in ſtudy.

FRANCIS the Firſt, however, unwilling that ſuch talents ſhould be loſt to the world, drew him from obſcurity and ſent him ambaſſador to VENICE, where he fell in love with a young lady of condition, by whom he had ſeveral children. Returned to PARIS, he was promoted by the king to ſome honourable and lucrative ſituations, and the firſt uſe [229] he made of his learning was to tranſlate ſuch works as might be ſerviceable to the ſtate.

The taſk, however, in which he moſt delighted was tranſlating SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES. The tragedy of Electra containing, according to its title, the inhuman and truly piteous death of AGAMEM⯑NON by his wicked wiſe CLYTEMNESTRA, and his cruel adulterer EGYSTHUS, was publiſhed at PARIS in the year 1537.

This tragedy that the French might clearly com⯑prehend the nature of Greek poetry, BAIF tranſlated verſe for verſe; conſequently the ſtyle is barbarous enough. But he tranſlated afterwards the Hecuba of EURIPIDES in a more liberal manner, intending it for the edification of his children. It was printed in 1550, dedicated to HENRY the Second, and it is ſpoken of as an ingenious work.

THOMAS SIBILET, about the ſame time, pub⯑liſhed a tranſlation of the Iphigenia of EURIPIDES, and other authors are ſpoken of who emulated BAI [...]. The French, nevertheleſs, conſider JODELLE as the founder of tragedy; for they ſay that theſe tranſlations only ſerve to point out, at a diſtance, the road that dramatic writers ought to follow. But this is only general opinion. ‘"JODELLE,"’ ſays the [230] duke de VALLIERE, ‘"was the firſt who had the boldneſs to bring forward a tragedy of his own invention. It was called Cleopatra Captive, and publiſhed in 1552; but it was a ſervile imitation of the cut and form of the Greek theatre, and yet he has the glory to paſs for the inventor of French tragedy."’ But let us examine him.

ETIENNE JODELLE, lord of LIMODIN, was born at PARIS in 1532, of a family illuſtrious both by birth and by talents. The delight he took in ſtudying the works of the Greeks and the Romans, induced him to lament that the ſtage had remained ſo long in a barbarous ſtate, and that ſome ſuperior genius had not introduced SOPHOCLES and MENAN⯑DER, SENECA, and TERENCE, into FRANCE. But how to manage? The confraternity were too intent upon deceiving the people to conſent to ſuch a dra⯑matic revolution. JODELLE had influence, and having conſtructed his Cleopatra upon the Greek model, he procured a theatre to be prepared in the court-yard of the hotel of RHEIMS, where his tra⯑gedy was performed before HENRY the Second, and a large concourſe of ſpectators, with the moſt extra⯑vagant applauſe.

JODELLE, being then only twenty, and remarka⯑bly handſome, undertook to perform the part of [231] Cleopatra. He alſo ſpoke the prologue, which was a compliment to the king, and in it he adroitly in⯑ſinuated that the Muſes, having flown from GREECE to FRANCE, implored the protection of ſo great a monarch.

This piece is opened by the ghoſt of ANTONY, who complains that the gods, jealous of his valour and glory when living, had connived with CUPID to render him a ſlave to a paſſion that terminated his life; and, not contented with this, they had made him become odious to the Romans by pro⯑voking him to turn his wife and children out of doors. Since, however, matters are ſo, this ghoſt ſeems determined to keep up the idea of all for love; and, therefore, appears to CLEOPATRA in a dream and adviſes her rather to kill herſelf than be led in triumph and chained to the chariot of CAESAR. The ghoſt, out of regard, probably, to the rules of ARISTOTLE, enjoins her to meet him in the ſhades in leſs than twenty-four hours.

The chorus, at the end of the firſt act, ſing the inſtability of human wiſhes, the fall of TROY once ſo glorious, the wretchedneſs of MEDEA at the loſs of JASON; and, at length, advert to the roſe that laſts but a day, and apply their remarks to the unhappy fate of ANTONY and CLEOPATRA.

[232]In the ſecond act, CAESAR enjoys the idea of CLEOPATRA's captivity. In the third he has an interview with CLEOPATRA, who threatens to kick him and he runs away. In the fourth ſhe kills her⯑ſelf; and in the fifth they deplore her death. PRO⯑CULLUS exclaims ‘"Never did the light of heaven diſcover ſo frightful a day for EGYPT. I found her,"’ ſays he, ‘"in her royal habit and her crown, ſtretched dead and pale, on a rich bed painted and gilt. ERAS, her woman, lay dead at her feet, CHARMION yet breathed, but life was leav⯑ing her. Was this nobly done?"’ ſaid I. ‘"Yes,"’ cried the faithful CHARMION, ‘"it was nobly done; and every ſucceeding king of EGYPT ſhall bear teſtimony of it. This ſaid, ſhe ſtaggered, ſell, and died."’

I conſidered it neceſſary to ſay ſo much of this tragedy as it was looked up to as the chef d'oeuvre of its time, and a model for every thing that was to ſucceed it. Its reception encouraged JODELLE to go on, and he ſoon after produced The Sacrifice, of Dido, taken as cloſely as poſſible from the Aeneid of VIRGIL, which had conſiderable ſucceſs; and after that a comedy called Eugene; or the Rencoun⯑ter, which are ſuppoſed to make up the whole of his dramatic works, for they are printed, together with ſome miſcellanies of his, in one volume in 1574.

[233]He appears, however, to have left behind him ſomething more in manuſcript; for DE LA MOTTE ſays, ‘"I have the tragedies and comedies of JO⯑DELLE in my poſſeſſion, ſome finiſhed, ſome hung upon the hooks; theſe were commanded either by the queen, or madame, the king's ſiſter; but were deferred on account of the troubleſome times."’ DE LA MOTTE alſo ſpeaks of him as a man of univerſal knowledge, and greatly eſteemed by all ranks of people.

A number of dramatic authors followed JODELLE with various ſucceſs; but no ſingle effort proved any thing equal to the model from which they copied, till, in GARNIER, JODELLE found a moſt powerful rival. There is ſomething ſo very extra⯑ordinary in the particulars of that man's life that I ſhall briefly relate them.

ROBERT GARNIER was born at FERTE BER⯑NARD, in LE MAINE. He was intended for the law, the ſtudy of which profeſſion he very little re⯑garded, his inclination leading him wholly to elegant and claſſical literature. It was not, however, till after JODELLE had obtained conſiderable repu⯑tation that GARNIER was known as a poet; but as ſoon as his name came fairly before the public, he [234] was conſidered as a French SOPHOCLES, born to eclipſe their AESCHYLUS, JODELLE^*.

The report of his fame ſoon reached the court, and CHARLES the Ninth was very anxious to attach him to his ſervice; but he preferred the comfort and tranquility he enjoyed in the boſom of his fa⯑mily, to the anxiety and uneaſineſs attendant on the followers of kings. HENRY the Second made an⯑other attempt to entice him to court, alluring him with large offers to forward his fortune. He had, however, the courage to reſiſt this ſecond tempta⯑tion, and pronounced upon this occaſion as he had upon the other, a harangue of thanks which proved him a good orator, a true philoſopher, an excellent poet, and a zealous citizen.

He was, nevertheleſs, prevailed upon by his friends for the good of his country, which ſtood in need at that time of every honeſt man's aſſiſtance, to accept a charge in the grand council of the na⯑tion; and, for this purpoſe, he eſtabliſhed himſelf at PARIS. He had not been long in the capital with his wife and his children, whom he tenderly [235] loved, when the plague almoſt deſolated that city by its ravages. This was about 1580; and, in ad⯑dition to the danger he had to apprehend to himſelf and his family, a moſt horrible plot was deviſed againſt him by his ſervants, who formed the mon⯑ſtrous and dreadful project, for the purpoſe of plun⯑dering the houſe, of poiſoning him, his wife, and his children, under an idea that their ſeveral deaths might be lain upon the plague.

This ſhocking plot was detected and its perpe⯑trators convicted and puniſhed; but it operated on poor GARNIER and his family, only as a lingering death inſtead of an inſtant one; for, no ſooner had the wife of GARNIER lifted the poiſon to her lips, by which means the diſcovery was made, but ſhe felt its cruel effects; and though every aſſiſtance was given her ſhe fell into a weakneſs and a langour that at length terminated her life. GARNIER ſurvived her but a ſhort time, leaving his inconſolable children to the care of friends indeed, but without a father or a mother.

His tragedies, eight in number, are evidently imitations of the Greek and Latin poets. He has choſen ſubjects ſuitable to the times in which he wrote, and calculated to inſpire horror at thoſe civil wars with which FRANCE was convulſed during [236] his life. This he conſidered to be his duty as a poet and a patriot; and while his zeal in the cauſe of his country added animation to his genius, he at once wrote leſſons for the conduct of his country⯑men, and examples for the enlargement of their un⯑derſtandings.

‘"No pieces,"’ ſays his biographer, ‘"were at that time equal to thoſe of GARNIER. His ſub⯑jects are noble, his perſonages are great charac⯑ters, his ſtyle is harmonious, and ſometimes energetic. The critics, however, have reproached him with preferring the manner of SENECA to that of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, and to have given in dialogue, which ſhould be as near to nature as poſſible, ſometimes the familiarity of epiſtle, ſometimes the epic pomp of the epopoeia, ſometimes the pindaric flights of ode, and ſome⯑times the paſtoral images of eclogue. In a word, to have forged new expreſſions, chequered with Greek and Latin; but, in ſpight of theſe faults,"’ continues this writer, ‘"GARNIER will always hold a conſiderable rank as a dramatic poet."’

CHAP. VI. FROM HARDY TO CORNEILLE.

FROM GARNIER to HARDY, comprehending al⯑moſt the laſt half of the ſixteenth century, FRANCE produced many authors, ſome of whom were men of original invention; but far the greateſt part were either tranſlators, or imitators of the ancients, or elſe of their cotemporaries in other countries. I ſhall not, therefore, ſpeak particularly of any of theſe, for they were remarkable for nothing but their ſtrict conformity to the bad taſte and puerility of many of thoſe who had gone before them.

To keep this matter, therefore, as intereſting as poſſible, it will be better altogether to paſs by this dramatic chaſm, and come at once to HARDY; who, by his aſtoniſhing ſecundity, by the new character and particular conduct of his tragedies, ſome of which are now to be procured, certainly wrought a remarkable epoch in the hiſtory of the French drama.

[238]ALEXANDER HARDY was born at PARIS, but it is very uncertain in what year, who were his parents, or how he paſſed his youth. All we cer⯑tainly know is, that about the year 1600, he was cele⯑brated for his dramatic talents, and at that time we find him a retainer to a ſtrolling company, whom he, in an aſtoniſhing manner, perpetually ſupplied with novelty^*.

His reputation, however, ſoon attracted the at⯑tention of the comedians of PARIS, who, at their eſtabliſhment, when they came to a reſolution of performing three times a week, found they could not carry their ſcheme effectually into execution without the aſſociation of this poet, who appeared to be ſo capable of furniſhing continual novelty. HARDY undertook the taſk, and performed it with ſuch ſucceſs, that he continued their almoſt ex⯑cluſive writer to his death, which happened ſome⯑time between 1628 and 1632; for, at the firſt of thoſe dates, he was certainly alive, having at that time publiſhed himſelf the ſixth volume of his works; and, at the latter, he was dead, for his widow was then obliged to commence a law ſuit againſt [239] the managers for having ſhamefully rejected to fulfil their contract with him.

HARDY is ſaid to have written eight hundred pieces. This is extremely improbable, and indeed it is very much doubted. Many authors of repu⯑tation, however, for though they ſeem very little to regard him, are yet anxious about his works, agree that he had an invention incredibly fertile; and, in⯑deed, if it be true, that he almoſt wholly ſupplied the theatre for nearly thirty years; his productions muſt have been immenſe in point of number, what⯑ever they were in point of merit.

SCUDERY, who inſiſts that HARDY wrote eight hundred dramatic pieces, adds that he was a great man in ſpight of the envy that purſued him^*; that, had he worked for his amuſement inſtead of through neceſſity, his productions would have been inimita⯑ble, but as he unfortuaately ſtruggled with poverty, too often to the reproach of the world, an attendant on poetry, in neglecting HARDY, the age in which he lived has ſubſcribed an indelible record of its own ignorance.

[240]PERFAICT ſays^*, that if SCUDERY for inimi⯑table had ſubſtituted the word paſſable, this eulo⯑gium on HARDY would have been literally truth; adding, that one proof, not only of his merit but his influence was, that he eſtabliſhed a regular price for dramatic pieces, which no author had ever been able to accompliſh before him. ‘"For the reſt,"’ continues PERFAICT, ‘"it is very eaſy to ſee that his ſubjects are without choice, or diſernment, that his verſification is poor and low, and that he has ill obſerved the rules of decency and decorum, ſo eſſentially neceſſary in dramatic poetry; but, with all his faults, it cannot be de⯑nied that he was born with diſtinguiſhed talents; which, it is to be lamented, his miſerable ſituation and his unfortunate propenſity to write verſe ſo rapidly, almoſt deprived him of the power to make an anvantageous uſe of. It may be ſaid further, that he certainly underſtood effect on the ſtage more naturally, and in a manner more per⯑fect, than any of the poets who preceded him; and he gave ſo new a form to the theatre at PARIS, that thoſe ſpectacles, which began with him to be [241] performed three times a week, before his death were performed every day."’

GUERET, in a work, entitled The War of the Authors, ſays that HARDY wrote verſe with ſuch facility, that he would often produce two thouſand lines in twenty-four hours, and that, in three days, he would write a comedy, the comedians would get perfect in it, and it would appear before the public^*.

FONTENELLE, ſpeaking of HARDY, writes more ſoberly, ‘"His fecundity,"’ ſays he, ‘"cer⯑tainly is marvellous; but then neither his verſes nor the diſpoſition of his pieces have coſt him much pains. Nothing comes amiſs to him. Every ſubject is good. Whether it is the death of ACHILLES, or a tradeſman's wife that the huſband catches in adultery, it is all the ſame to HARDY. [242] Every thing is equally tragedy. Nor have man⯑ners or decorum any thing to do in the buſineſs. Now we ſee a proſtitute in her bed who ſupports her character very naturally; now we are enter⯑tained with a rape; and, now, a married woman meets her lover at the place of aſſignation, and they fairly tell the audience that they are going to bed together."’

FONTENELLE is alſo very angry with HARDY for the immorality of his expreſſions, which, he ſays, not only hurt his cauſe but his reputation. To call a woman a ſaint, is not only irreligious, but unpoetic. ‘"If he called her a goddeſs,"’ ſaid FONTENELLE, ‘"it would be perfect poetry, and the very fiction that is permitted to lovers. It is too ſerious to ſport with truth. There are ſaints but there are no goddeſſes^*."’

‘"However,"’ continues FONTENELLE, ‘"it muſt be confeſſed that the pieces of HARDY have not that tireſome and unſupportable tame⯑neſs [243] of the greateſt part of thoſe that have gone before them. But this is all the merit we can allow them; for, though the ſubjects give them ſometimes greater ſtrength and intereſt, the poetry is not written with proportionable force."’

The reader will very readily, from theſe re⯑marks, form a pretty correct judgment of HARDY. Certainly the French ſtage has ſingular obligations to him; but it is prudent, however, to obſerve that, though he has general merit he has particular faults; which, to do him juſtice, no one was more ready to point out than himſelf; endeavouring, at all times, in very laudable ſelf defence, to throw the odium on his unfortunate ſituation, which obliged him to write more than he had an opportunity to correct; and this ſhould ſeem, really, to prove that his ge⯑nius and his talents were ſuperior to what the world had a right to ſuppoſe them^*.

[244]As to the number of pieces written by HARDY, we know by name but of forty-one. SCUDERY, as we have ſeen, inſiſts that he wrote eight hundred, and GUERET has a much higher notion of the matter; but SCUDERY is a writer who was remarka⯑ble for exaggeration, and GUERET, very probably, as his Battle of the Authors, like SWIFT's Battle of the Books, is a ſatire, only meant to ridicule what he did not believe.

HARDY himſelf, in his preface to his works, ſpeaks of ſix hundred and more; which FON⯑TENELLE pleaſantly obſerves, was no number at all when it is conſidered that his cotemporary, LOPES DE VEGA, had given to SPAIN two thouſand. It ſhould ſeem, as he himſelf printed an edition of his works, that over and above the forty-one pieces that edition contained, his productions were, per⯑haps, irregular, or unfiniſhed, or written to ſerve ſome local or temporary purpoſe, or of ſome other deſcription that rendered them unfit for publication, and, therefore, whatever might have been their number, he thought none of them worthy of ſe⯑lection.

[245]Certainly HARDY muſt have paved the way for that reputation the French ſtage ſo ſoon afterwards experienced; for we ſee, in his life time, not only ſo great an avidity in the public to frequent the the⯑atre that from three times a week plays were per⯑formed every day; but ſoon after he got almoſt an excluſive poſſeſſion of the drama, on account of the prodigious concourſe of ſpectators, the comedians, for the accommodation of the public, ſeperated into two companies, one continuing in their old theatre, Le Hotel de Burgogne, and the other removing to a new one au Marais ^*.

Indeed, the more we conſider the circumſtance, the more we ſhall have to admire that HARDY ſingle handed could ſuſtain the prodigious taſk of furniſh⯑ing novelty to the theatre with improved ſucceſs for nearly thirty years, when we ſhall ſee that it re⯑quired not leſs than twenty celebrated men to keep it up to any pitch of excellence for the following fifty years, during which period the ſtage flouriſhed under the great CORNEILLE.

[246]On taking leave, therefore, of JODELLE, GAR⯑NIER, and HARDY, it may be remarked, that JO⯑DELLE merited all the praiſe he received for emu⯑lating BAIF, and, thereby, reſcuing the French ſtage from barbariſm by introducing the ancients; for though he muſt have found inſurmountable dif⯑ficulties in attempting to ſuit the harmony of the Greek language, and the majeſty of the Roman, to tierceneſs of the French; yet thoſe traits of na⯑ture and ſimplicity to which he was able to give force and effect, were not only admirable in them⯑ſelves, but ſerved as a model for his ſucceſſors, which foundation for fame ought not to be denied him; for though it was only ſowing a harveſt for others to reap, yet it muſt be allowed that his la⯑bours, though not perfect, were highly meritorious, and that had he lived a century later he would cer⯑tainly have been a celebrated writer.

To GARNIER another ſpecies of praiſe is due, which places his character, as a great genius, even above that of JODELLE; for, though he took his ſubjects from the ancients, his applications were all at home, certainly the firſt and moſt perfect pro⯑vince of tragedy; and which gives a writer oppor⯑tunity to blend the patriot with the poet. He in⯑ſpired FRANCE with a juſt horror of domeſtic diſ⯑ſentions, by repreſenting the entrails of ROME torne [247] by her proper citizens. He combatted pride, envy, and cruelty in the Romans, that they might be de⯑teſted by the French. A pen like this is the club of HERCULES, and does more towards eſtabliſhing domeſtic tranquility than a thouſand armies. Theſe deſtroy men, the other deſtroys monſters.

The praiſe of a bold and ſucceſsful attempt at this reformation is due to GARNIER; who, had he been able to have accompliſhed that extreme diffi⯑cult taſk of imitating without becoming a manneriſt, would, to the force of his writings, have added taſte and ſtyle; but the French language had not at that time been ſufficiently filtered to be limpid. It required that JODELLE and GARNIER ſhould be perfected by CORNEILLE, and RACINE; who, admirable as they were, experienced advantage in finding the ſource already explored to their hands.

As to HARDY, we can add no more than that, had he given himſelf time he muſt have greatly eclipſed his predeceſſors; and, taking in the idea, that there was no competitorſhip, nothing to excite emulation in him; but, on the contrary, that his invention was conſtantly on the ſtretch, and that his whole employment was to exhauſt his fertile and [248] productive mind, and all this for no induce⯑ment but general applauſe, for he was always poor, it is impoſſible to deny that his genius was inexhauſtible, his induſtry meritorious, and his patience exemplary.

CHAP VII. SCUDERY, TRISTAN, MAIRET, DU RYER, ROTROU, AND OTHER HARBINGERS OF CORNEILLE.

WE are now come to the time when the dramatic art in FRANCE began to look proudly forward to⯑wards perfection; an era which, in any country, cannot be expected but from a grand aſſociation of talents. This event nature ſeems at that time to have conſidered herſelf indebted to FRANCE, for the fifty years during which CORNEILLE adorned literature, produced a larger liſt of eminent dra⯑matic writers than any other country in the ſame period ever had to boaſt.

As this great luminary was ſurrounded with many ſatelites at his birth, who ſhone with ſome brilliancy as they followed him through his career, it will not be improper, in a ſummary manner, to ſpeak of their merits the better hereafter to il⯑luſtrate his.

GEORGE SCUDERY, who we have already known [250] as the panegryiſt of HARDY, ſeems to have been in need of a ſimilar panegyriſt himſelf; for, in endea⯑vouring to out-do his favourite, he fell into much more unpardonable errors himſelf. He was not con⯑tented with writing very faſt, and conſequently very imperfect, but he thought proper to chuſe ſubjects that were unintereſting, and plots that were inex⯑plicable. His ſcenes are, therefore, alternately wonderful and tireſome, and his ſtyle beautiful and bombaſtic.

His dramatic pieces, eight in number, were pub⯑liſhed at various times, as well as a variety of other productions, all which are ſaid to have had a great ſale^*.

SCUDERY was born of a noble family, in 1601, at HAVRE DE GRACE, and died at PARIS in 1667. He ſerved in the army, obtained a high rank, and was admitted of the French academy.

[251]FRANCIS TRISTAN, ſurnamed the Hermit, and ſuppoſed to have ſprung from the famous PIERRE LE HERMITE, author of the firſt cruſade, was born in the Chateau de Souliers, in the provence DE LA MANCHE, in 1601. His character ſeems to have been ſomething ſimilar to our SAVAGE the poet, for he poſſeſſed ſimilar merit, laboured under ſimi⯑lar misfortunes, and endured ſimilar poverty.

TRISTAN was placed near the perſon of the marquis DE VERNEUIL, natural ſon of HENRY the Fourth; but, having had the misfortune to kill an officer in a rencounter, he fled to ENGLAND, where he firſt imbibed a taſte for letters. After a time he returned, and marſhal DE HUMIERES ſee⯑ing him at BOURDEAUX, preſented him to LOUIS the Thirteenth, who granted him a pardon, and GASTON D'ORLEANS took him for one of his gen⯑tlemen in ordinary.

Gaming, wenching, and poetry filled the time of poor TRISTAN, but not his pockets. His po⯑verty was extreme. BOILEAU tells us that he paſſed his ſummers without a ſhirt, and his winters without a coat. He died in 1655, after having led a life agitated and full of events, which he himſelf has given an account of in his romance called The Diſgraced Page.

[252]TRISTAN wrote a great variety of things, but he is chiefly ſpoken of for his dramatic productions, of which there are eight known to be his, and two attributed to him. His merit was of a ſuperior ſtamp to SCUDERY and others. His tragedy of Mariamne has certainly conſiderable merit. Indeed this piece, as well as ſome others of his writings, furniſhed matter for the imitation of more cele⯑brated men, and there can be no doubt, had not his life been chequered with ſo much madneſs and folly, had he not neglected his friends, trifled with his reputation, and diſgraced his ſituation, for he was noble by birth, and had the diſtinction of a ſeat in the French academy, TRISTAN would have made a diſtinguiſhed figure in literature^*.

Of MAIRET there is very little to ſay. He was born two years before CORNEILLE, and died [253] two years after him. He ſeems as if he had kept his reputation by his connections; for being at⯑tached to the admiral MONTMORENCY, he was created a nobleman for his valour. As to any pre⯑tentions to rank as a poet he had none but what were very ſlender indeed. His pieces, which amount to twelve, are in general tragi-comedies, and clothed in very indecent language. They are bold and broad, but have neither conduct, nor regularity. His Sophoniſba, however, in which he has obſerved the rule of twenty four hours, excited ſome curioſity; nay it is even ſaid that VOLTAIRE, on that account, attempted to repair it; but he deſiſted, ſaying, that it was like an old houſe; it might be pulled down and rebuilt with the aſſiſtance of better materials, but that it was impoſſible to repair it.

DU RYER, who was born in PARIS, of a noble family, in 1605, was admitted into the academy in 1656. He was ſecretary to the duke DE VENDÔME, and obtained late in life the brevet of hiſtoriogra⯑pher of FRANCE with a ſuitable penſion. A diſ⯑proportionate marriage reduced him to work by the ſheet as a poet. This is enough to prove that what⯑ever his merit might have been it had not fair play. He left behind him nineteen dramatic pieces, and five more are attributed to him. Alcionée, Saul, and Scevole, are ſaid to have conſiderable merit. L'Abbe [254] D'Aubignac, ſays Alcionée, is full of beauty and grandeur; MENAGE conſiders it as a chef d'oeuvre, and CHRISTIAN, queen of SWEDEN, was ſo en⯑amoured of it, that ſhe had it conſtantly read to her three times a day^*.

DU RYER is generally allowed a conſiderable ſhare of reputation; which, if it was his due, ſhackled and trammelled as it was, muſt have been much greater had he written up to his feelings and not at the command of a taſk maſter.

ROTROU was born at DREUX, in 1609, three years after CORNEILLE; but, as he died thirty years before that great poet, it will be proper that he ſhould be ſpoken of here. ROTROU would have been invited to become a member of the French academy had he been a reſident in PARIS, which regulation, except to honorary members, was in⯑diſpenſible. As it was he was obliged to decline this diſtinction, conſidering it his duty to write at DREUX, where he had ſeveral honourable em⯑ployments, to the duties of which he fell a ſacrifice; for, conceiving his preſence neceſſary for the better regulation of the inhabitants during a peſtilential [255] fever, he was himſelf carried off by the diſorder he had been ſo ſolicitous to avert.

In nineteen years ROTROU produced thirty-ſix pieces; in which, as his labours were entirely de⯑voted to the valuable purpoſe of rendering tragedy natural and intereſting, and as there are a great number of poetic beauties to be found in his pro⯑ductions, there can be no doubt but he may be fairly conſidered as the neareſt at that time, in point of intrinſic merit, to CORNEILLE.

ROTROU, nevertheleſs, wrote too faſt. His ſoible was gaming, and whenever he had a bad chance he repaired it by writing a play. Thus his pieces have not all the ſame force and beauty. It cannot, however, be denied that in moſt of them there is an elevation in the deſigns; the ideas are novel, grand, and bold; and the conduct announces a judicious taſte, and a well informed mind.

His errors are the errors of the times, from which even CORNEILLE was not free. His ſources, like the ſources of other poets, were, as occaſion ſerved, Greek, Roman, Italian, Spaniſh, and En⯑gliſh. Tragi-comedies were at that time the pre⯑vailing taſte, and theſe were taken from romances, ill conſtructed, ſtuffed with triſling characters, frivo⯑lous [256] epiſodes, and every thing unneceſſary and ex⯑traneous. Combats, meetings, partings, diſguiſes, and other fantaſtic and extravagant circumſtances, outraged common ſenſe and propriety, deſtroyed ſober and rational expectation, and gave the piece more an air of knight errantry than nature.

In this extravagance, perhaps, ROTROU too much indulged himſelf; but it was only going with the herd, and it does not preclude him from the honeſt ſhare of praiſe due to his real merit, which was great and commanding, and which, had he lived to have curbed the mettle of his volatile muſe, might have confirmed him a reputation, perhaps, but little inferior to his great cotemporary.

It will be proper to follow ROTROU with ſome account of DASMARETS, COLLETET, and BOISRO⯑BERT, which ſour, together with CORNEILLE, aſſiſted cardinal RICHELIEU in the fabrication of ſeveral miſerable performances, in which it is al⯑lowed he had a hand, but which were moſt probably originally written by him and retouched by thoſe five poets, who fathered theſe plays that the repu⯑tation of the cardinal as a great ſtateſman might not be ſcandalized.

DESMARETS, who was born in 1595, ſeems to [257] have had ſome wit, but much more cunning. He was called Le Bel-eſprit of viſionaries, and the viſionary of Les beaux-eſprits. He managed, however, his viſions ſo well that they realized for him ſeveral lucrative ſituations under cardinal RICHELIEU, through whoſe ſolicitation he was alſo one of the firſt members of the French academy. He publiſhed ten very indifferent dramatic pieces, in many of which the cardinal is ſuppoſed to have had a hand, particularly thoſe under the titles of Europe, and Mirame.

COLLETET, counſellor, and one of the forty members of the French academy, was neither ſo fortunate, nor ſo prudent as DESMARETS; for, though he was a great favourite of the cardinal, and condeſcended to take his ſhare of the odium which attached to him and his colleagues in conſe⯑quence of the folly of RICHELIEU, who vainly fan⯑cied it was as eaſy to become a poet as a ſtateſman, he had not wherewithal to bury him when he died.

BOISROBERT, who, being one of RICHELIEU's favourites, was given a conſiderable place, and alſo introduced among the members of the French aca⯑demy, ſeems to have had a fertile genius, and leſs ſervility than DESMARETS and COLLETET. He publiſhed twenty dramatic pieces, ſome of which re⯑ceived [258] no advantage from the aſſiſtance of the cardinal.

There was alſo a man of very inconſiderable merit, of the name of CHAPELAIN, who ſeems to have been the ſervant of all work in his buſineſs. He was compiler, amanuenſis, prompter, in ſhort any thing; but the moſt convenient among his ac⯑commodating qualities was his fathering all ſuch miſerable paſſages of the cardinal as the reſt of the fraternity thought would diſgrace them.

RICHELIEU, no doubt had a hand in many of the writings of DESMARETS and BOISROBERT; but the pieces ſuppoſed to have been firſt written by him, and afterwards fitted to the ſtage by the five poets, as they were then called for diſtinction, were Europe, Mirame, and the Tuilleries; ſome particu⯑lars relative to which pieces it may not be unenter⯑taining to relate.

After the cardinal had written Europe, he ſent it by BOISROBERT to the French academy, compoſed principally of his creatures, and entreated their opinion without flattery; begging alſo they would honeſtly correct any thing that militated againſt the rules of the theatre, or poetry in general. The academy flattered by the unlimited conditions [259] given them, and, perhaps, pleaſed at an opportu⯑nity of vaunting their own conſequence, forgot the deference due to the cardinal's patronage, and diſ⯑figured the manuſcript with ſo many alterations that it was all one blot, like the picture of PRA⯑XITELES.

BOISROBERT having with extreme difficulty and caution made his report to his principal, the poor cardinal, who could ſtand unmoved when any diſaſter happened to the ſtate, fairly ſunk under this diſaſter that had happened to his play; and, in the firſt paroxyſm of his deſpair, he tore the copy to pieces, threw it into the chimney, and in a ſtate of the greateſt deſpondency went to bed.

Happily, being ſummer, there was no fire on the hearth, and this the wretched cardinal, with the true tenderneſs of a father for his dear offspring, re⯑collected. He got up, ſent for CHEREST, his ſecre⯑tary, ordered him to collect all the ſcraps that had been thrown into the chimney, and aſked him to get ſome paſte, or if there was none in the houſe, to go to the laundry and fetch ſome ſtarch. CHEREST in⯑ſtantly obeyed his maſter's orders, produced the ſtarch, and they paſſed the greateſt part of the night [260] together ſtarching and patching the play till, at length, it wore a pretty legible form.

Next morning the play was copied in the car⯑dinal's preſence, who ordered the corrections made by the academy to be changed, except ſome few of the moſt immaterial; and, in this ſtate, he ſent it back by BOISROBERT, with directions to inform the academy that they might ſee he had profited by their advice; but, as it was poſſible they might not be more infallible than him, he had not altogether abided by their alterations.

This proceeding had the deſired effect; for the academy, perhaps at the inſtance of BOISROBERT, DESMARETS, and the reſt, having by this time con⯑ſidered, that, however, ſcouting the cardinal's play might, as a ſet of literary characters add to their reputation, yet applauding it would as politicians add more to their intereſt, they thought proper to return it without any further correction, together with a letter expreſling their unanimous approbation.

The cardinal, however, had a more impartial and, certainly, a more juſt ordeal to paſs than the academy. The public, awed by no conſideration of intereſt, damned the piece; and both the car⯑dinal [261] and the academy were ſo aſhamed of them⯑ſelves that, not prevailing upon any of the five to acknowledge a concern in the play, it was attributed by conſent to a man of the name of St. SOURLIN, a creature of the cardinal.

As for Mirame, the cardinal gave a ſenſible proof that he was its author, for it coſt him a hun⯑dred thouſand crowns to bring it on the ſtage. He aſſiſted at the firſt repreſentation, and was in an agony of deſpair at finding it did not ſucceed. When he went home he ordered DESMARETS to attend him. Poor DESMARETS fearing to face his patron alone, took with him a friend, whoſe name was PETIT, and who had ſome humour, and more preſence of mind.

The moment the cardinal ſaw them, ‘"Well,"’ ſaid he, ‘"will the French, do you think, ever have any taſte? Do you know they were not de⯑lighted with Mirame."’ DESMARETS was con⯑ſounded, but PETIT knowing better how to humour the cardinal, ‘"It was not I aſſure you monſeigneur,"’ ſaid he, ‘"the fault of the play, which is admirable, It was the fault of the actors. Your eminence muſt have perceived that they were not only imperfect in their parts, but they were all drunk."’ ‘"I thought ſo,"’ ſaid the cardinal; ‘"well, we [262] ſhall ſee what is to be done on the next repre⯑ſentation."’

DESMARETS and PETIT, were ſo ſatisfied by this hint, that they packed an audience, who were not only admitted gratis^*, but paid for going; and we [263] are told by PELISSON that the cardinal enjoyed this hired applauſe with the moſt enthuſiaſtic rap⯑ture, ſometimes ſhewing himſelf to the audience, that they might be induced to applaud, ſometimes loudly applauding himſelf, and ſometimes com⯑manding ſilence, that his favourite paſſages in the play might be the better attended to. Poor BOIS⯑ROBERT, however, with all his zeal, ſuffered ſe⯑verely [264] upon this occaſion; for, not being able in ſo much hurry and buſtle to diſcriminate as to the characters of thoſe volunteers for whom he, toge⯑ther with his colleagues, had beat up under the banner of the cardinal, he unfortunately introduced ſome ladies of equivocal character into the box where ſat the ducheſs of AIGUILLON, who was ſo outraged and offended at this conduct, that RICHE⯑LIEU moſt ungratefully baniſhed him at her requeſt. The academy, however, who knew, to their ſhame, how little reaſon the cardinal had really to be diſ⯑pleaſed with BOISROBERT, ſent a deputation to de⯑mand his recall; which, however, was not effected till RICHELIEU, being ill, principally from chagrin, aſked his phyſician for a recipe, who anſwered that his beſt recipe would be the preſence of BOIS⯑ROBERT.

The comedy of The Tuilleries was performed in the cardinal's palace, who arranged all the ſcenes himſelf. CORNEILLE, who, perhaps, felt himſelf a little awkward upon this occaſion, wanted to alter ſomething in the third act; but RICHELIEU told him qu'il falloit avoir un eſprit de ſuite, meaning that the genius for him muſt be one ſubſervient and accommodating.

The prologue of this comedy, which was written by the cardinal, but fathered by CHAPELAIN, [265] praiſed all the authors, who were ſeated upon this occaſion very conſpicuouſly among the audience. COLLETET, after the manu [...]pt of the comedy was finiſhed, read it to the [...]al; who, having heard four lines, was ſo en [...]d that he imme⯑diately laid him down fifty pi [...]es, bidding him ſtop there, for that the king's revenue could not furniſh enough to pay for the reſt in proportion. The fol⯑lowing are the lines which ſo enchanted the cardinal:

RICHELIEU, when he became more acquainted with theſe lines, thought he could improve them, [266] and ſent for COLLETET to talk to him upon the ſubject. COLLETET wiſhed to know what alter ation he thought proper to make, and the cardinal ſaid the ſecond line, La canne s'humecter de la bourbe de l'eau, ought to run La canne barboter dans la bourbe de l'eau; barboter, which means to muddle, being a better phraſe than humecter, which means to moiſten. COLLETET affected to think the mat⯑ter worthy mature conſideration, and promiſed to write to the cardinal upon the ſubject. This pro⯑miſe he performed, ſubmitting to his patron whether the word muddle was not too low and unworthy an application for the chaſte paſſion of a duck and a drake^*.

The cardinal, who was extremely angry with this letter, had ſcarcely read it, when he was waited on by ſeveral courtiers, who came to announce to him a brilliant victory, the meaſures of which had been taken by his advice and the whole conducted under his direction. They addreſſed him in a ſtyle full of flattery, ſaying nothing could reſiſt the au⯑thority of his eminence. ‘"You are miſtaken,"’ ſaid the cardinal, ‘"that ſcoundrel COLLETET reſiſts me. [267] I did him the honour to alter a line in his verſes, and he has the impudence to write me a long letter, in which he endeavours to prove I am in the wrong."’

It can be eaſily underſtood how ſuch men as DESMARETS, COLLETET, and BOISROBERT, came to be RICHELIEU's poetic drudges; but it is ex⯑traordinary that CORNEILLE, or even ROTROU, ſhould notoriouſly join ſuch a confederacy. It appears, however, that they conſented to it with extreme reluctance, for they were by no means active in the buſineſs, and withdrew themſelves as ſoon as they could. Nay, it ſhould ſeem that RICHELIEU felt this poignantly, for he did every thing in his power to injure CORNEILLE; and, indeed, meditated a revenge which he thought would accompliſh his ruin.

It, however, diſgraced the cardinal moſt ſignally, which the reader will eaſily allow when it is known that this meditated revenge was no leſs than ven⯑turing a ſecond repreſentation of Europe, which had been damned, in oppoſition to CORNEILLE's popular tragedy of The Cid. Europe was thus performed under the influence of the cardinal; but when the actor came to give it out again he [268] was hiſſed off, and nothing further was ſuffered till the performers promiſed the Cid for the next night's repreſentation.

RICHELIEU is excuſed by his biographer for all this abſurdity under an idea that he patronized theſe poets, but the reverſe happens to be the fact; for, according to what we have read, they patro⯑nized him. Inſtead of allowing to them the in⯑fluence of his name, and protecting every valuable line they wrote, he made them his tools that he might vaunt under their ſanction every miſerable line written by him. Is this patronage? No. Give me that ſpontaneous diſintereſted patronage that, without any ſelfiſh views or pretentions, diſtin⯑guiſhes merit, foſters it, brings it to light, ſanctions it, recommends it; and, thereby, confers an ho⯑nourable pleaſure on the patron, and proves a mu⯑tual advantage to the poet and the public.

But, putting every other conſideration out of the queſtion, there cannot be any thing ſo ſilly as the idea of ſeveral men writing in conjunction^*. [269] Here the application is particularly in point; for though every one of theſe men, except the cardinal, produced, ſingle handed, plays which had ſucceſs; yet, when they worked together, nothing could be more contemptible than the iſſue of their labours.

CHAP VIII. DRAMATIC EVENTS FROM THE BIRTH OF COR⯑NEILLE TO THE DEATH OF CARDINAL RICHELIEU.

THE great CORNEILLE, an appelation that ad⯑mirable writer very honourably merited, was born at ROUEN, the twenty-ſixth day of June, 1606. He brought out his comedy of Melite in 1625, at the age of nineteen, and he died the firſt of October, in 1684.

He was intended for the bar, but his genius was too elevated for that profeſſion; at the ſame time it was difficult to divine what bent his mind would take, as he manifeſted no extraordinary gifts of na⯑ture. The ſpark, however, only lay dormant. It remained to be rouſed into action by love. A young man took his friend with him to viſit his miſtreſs; the lady choſe the friend and rejected the lover; the friend, charmed with this preſerence, be⯑came a poet upon the ſpot. Hence the comedy of Melite, and hence the emancipation of the great CORNEILLE.

[271]There was treachery in the caſe certainly; but the lady, who was the ſubject of the comedy, and who went a long time in ROUEN by the name of MELITE, was principally to blame; yet, whatever anger the lover of this lady might harbour againſt his miſtreſs, the public were willing to acknowledge the higheſt obligations to her, for they ſeemed from that moment to have a taſte for dramatic entertain⯑ments unknown to them before.

The particulars of this great man's life, which for ſuch a man are rather confined, will gradually come in with the accounts of his dramatic ſucceſs; which, for a time, I ſhall now uninteruptedly follow. His ſecond piece was a tragi-comedy called Cli⯑tandre, which he wrote to correct the too great ſimplicity that, with all its merit, the public com⯑plained of in Melite. This effort, however, had better have been let alone; for, if Melite was too ſimple, Clitandre was too extravagant; and RO⯑TROU having two years before brought out his firſt comedy, The Bague de L'oubli, with ſucceſs, and ſoon after his comedy of The Hypocondriaque, the public had pauſed upon the merit of CORNEILLE, which doubt Clitandre unfortunately did not ſerve to clear up.

His third piece called La Veuve, which was a [272] comedy, did not make its appearance till 1634, and in the interval between Clitandre and that, RO⯑TROU had brought out Doriſtée et Cléagénor, l'Hereuſe Conſtance, Les Occaſions Perdues, Les Ménechmes, which ſerved afterwards as a ſubject for REG⯑NARD, and Celemene, which was again retouched by TRISTAN, and at length written anew and brought out by ROTROU, with prodigious ſucceſs, under the title of Venceſtas in 1647^*.

Thus ROTROU had by this time made a for⯑midable ſtand againſt CORNEILLE, which circum⯑ſtance neither La Veuve nor, La Galerie du Palais, a comedy performed the ſame year, had power ma⯑terially to affect; nor even another comedy called La Suivante, the principal merit of which is, if we [273] believe a French author, that the five acts are ſo exactly of a length that there is not a ſingle line in any one more than any other.

It is very poſſible that this extraordinary effort of bringing out three pieces in one year, evidently excited by the ſucceſs of his rival, and, after all, meeting with but indifferent ſucceſs himſelf, in⯑duced CORNEILLE to join the cardinal's confederacy, for it was on the following year that The Tuilleries was performed, in which our author notoriouſly aſſiſted as one of the five. We muſt, however, do him the juſtice to believe that he very ſoon grew ſick of the connection, for Europe did not appear till 1637^*, and, for Mirame, it was not performed till 1639; and as we know that the cardinal and CORNEILLE were at enmity when the Cid was pro⯑duced, which was in 1636, it is almoſt reduced to a certainty that this coalition, as far as our poet was concerned in it, did not laſt much more than a year, and that he would never have joined it at all but under the expectation of meeting with a liberal pa⯑tron, [274] in which expectation he was completely diſ⯑appointed.

In 1635 appeared, written by CORNEILLE, a comedy called La Place Royale, and his firſt tra⯑gedy called Medée, neither of which had by any means capital ſucceſs; and early in 1636, came out a comedy called L'Illuſion, which CORNEILLE him⯑ſelf confeſſes he wrote by way of diverting his mind from the gloom of having written Medée, and, there⯑fore, he declares it deſerves but little notice. In the interim ROTROU, always at work, had ſurprized the public with L'Heureuſe Naufrage, and four or five other pieces, ſo that their ſucceſs was hitherto upon the whole pretty nearly equal, but it was very ſoon decreed that the genius of CORNEILLE ſhould gain ſo complete a triumph as to leave all his com⯑petitors at an immenſe diſtance, for in two months after the appearance of L'Illuſion came out that admirable performance. The Cid.

This piece, which has many ſtriking beauties, and many glaring faults, is nevertheleſs, upon the whole, a moſt extraordinary effort. The Cid was celebrated before CORNEILLE brought it out. He himſelf acknowledges that he is much indebted upon this occaſion to GUILLIN DE CASTRO, a Spaniſh poet, and FONTENELIE ſays that there was [275] no nation, however barbarous, where the Cid was unknown. It muſt be confeſſed, however, the Cid itſelf muſt have been as barbarous as thoſe people who cheriſhed it, till it came poliſhed from the hands of CORNEILLE, who alone was intended as the lapidary to ſhew the luſtre of this diamond.

Never had a tragedy more celebrated ſucceſs. It was repeated by heart, taught to children, and it was the cuſtom to ſay beau comme le Cid. Cardinal RICHELIEU, we are told, had an ambition to be known as the author of it; but CORNEILLE, fonder of fame than fortune, rejected the propoſal with contempt. That all powerful miniſter in other things, defeated in this, inſiſted that the academy ſhould examine it, who preſently, in their officious zeal to oblige their principal, found out that all the rules of the drama were violated. CORNEILLE's partizan agreed to this, but drew from theſe pre⯑miſes a moſt powerful concluſion in its favour.

All the poets, however, influenced by either the bribes or menaces of the cardinal, joined in this hue and cry againſt the Cid, with the ſingle exception of ROTROU, who with a generous diſdain refuſed to join the league. ROTROU called CORNEILLE his father, his inſtructor, and never ceaſed to manifeſt [276] the higheſt veneration for his character, which gives no little luſtre to his own when we conſider how long he had been his powerful rival, and how nobly generous it was to place himſelf the palm upon the head of his competitor.

It is hardly poſſible, and if it were poſſible it is almoſt ridiculous, to enumerate the neſt of envious hornets which were rouſed by the extraordinary merit and ſucceſs of this piece. The academy, through the influence of the cardinal, ſat as gravely and as ſolemnly to examine its merits as if the wel⯑fare of the nation had depended upon the iſſue of their deliberation; but, as if they feared the ill conſequence of this officiouſneſs, they affected to proceed with all poſſible caution and delicacy.

It is thought that the cardinal's averſion to this piece proceeded from ſome ſentiments it contained which expoſed the undue influence of miniſters, and reprobated their injuſtice and rapacity; it was impoſſible, therefore, for him to act too warily. He firſt procured SCUDERY to abuſe the work, and then repreſented, through BOISROBERT, to COR⯑NEILLE that it would be a high advantage to permit his piece to paſs through an examination by the aca⯑demy, by way of ſilencing every clamour; to which CORNEILLE, ſeeing the drift of the application, an⯑ſwered, [277] that if the judgment of the academy would give the cardinal the ſmalleſt amuſement he cer⯑tainly ſhould not oppoſe it.

This was conſtrued into a full conſent on the part of CORNEILLE. Commiſſioners were imme⯑diately appointed to examine the Cid, and, that every thing might wear an appearance of impartiality, SCUDERY's remarks were alſo to be examined. After this the obſervations of the commiſſioners were re⯑ported and deliberated on in full aſſembly. It was a long time, however, though they had ſeveral de⯑bates before they came to a concluſion, but at length they agreed on reducing the Cid to that form in which they thought it ought to have been repre⯑ſented. It was in this ſtate given to a printer, and the firſt ſheet was ſent to the cardinal for his opinion, who found they had gone from one extreme to the other; for, inſtead of pointing out the faults and amending them, they had taken out the beauties and rendered the faults ſtill more glaring than ever.

RICHELIEU, finding he ſhould only expoſe himſelf, ſent to ſtop the impreſſion, becauſe what but blind malice could prompt a ſtep at which the indignant public muſt naturally revolt. Being, therefore, a better politician than thoſe he em⯑ployed, he contented himſelf with a few inconſi⯑derable [278] alterations, which CORNEILLE had too much good ſenſe to oppoſe, and thus the matter was compounded, and the piece has remained in that ſtate to this hour.

This play, however, though one of the moſt celebrated that has even to this moment appeared upon the French ſtage, underwent a thouſand com⯑ments. The academy ſet the example, and it be⯑came the mode to cenſure the Cid. SHAKESPEAR himſelf, and that is a bold word, never was more roughly handled. Some lines were ſaid to be im⯑moral, others puerile, others bombaſtic, and others ridiculous. Even RACINE when he came for⯑ward as a poet, did not fail to turn the Cid into ridicule. He parodied in his piece called Les Plai⯑deurs, the following line ſpoken in the Cid by DON DIEGO.

RACINE's line runs thus:

‘"How is this,"’ ſaid CORNEILLE, ‘"is it permitted to a young man to ridicule people's beſt verſes?"’ But in this RACINE only took up the idea of the academy, whoſe remark was, that wrinkles do not mark exploits, they only mark years.

Poor BARON, as I have already noticed, like [279] AESOP, quitted the ſtage and appeared on it thirty years afterwards. He was then very infirm, but had been ſo great a favourite that the public ſuffered any thing from him. One evening, however, when he repeated the following lines, they burſt into an involuntary laugh.

BARON diſregarded the riſible effect this had upon the audience, and gravely repeated the paſſage, when they laughed louder than before; upon which he came forward and ſeriouſly addreſſed the paterre. ‘"Gentlemen,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I ſhall now begin for the third time; but if I hear any one laugh, I ſhall quit the theatre immediately, never to return."’ This had its effect, and they took particular care to offend him no more, although the ſame evening when kneeling at the feet of his miſtreſs, ſhe bid him riſe, he was obliged to entreat the aſſiſtance of two ſcene ſhifters before he could get on his legs.

But the famous expreſſion, ‘"A tu du coeur,"’ has been more cavilled at than any thing in the piece. It has, which is ſaying a great deal, been twiſted and turned as many ways as SHAKESPEAR's ‘"put out the light^*."’ This expreſſion has been [280] contended was altered by the academy from ‘"a tu un coeur;"’ and to confirm this, ſome of the edi⯑tions have it ſo; and I myſelf heard it uſed to LE KAIN. The arguments in ſavour of this laſt reading are ſhrewd and ſenſible. A tu du coeur is ſimply, ‘"Haſt thou courage?"’ Which is a tame queſtion indeed to be put to the valorous RODRIGUE, from his father too. A tu un coeur is, ‘"Haſt thou a heart?"’ Which may be conſtrued, Haſt, thou na⯑ture, affection, family pride, haſt thou, in ſhort, reſolution, dear as the daughter is to thee, to avenge the wrongs of thy father by deſtroying her's? Is thy affection to thy father proof againſt thy love for her to this degree? And his anſwer begining ‘"Tout autre que mon pere,"’ is heightened by giving it this turn.

But vainly were the tongues and pens of ſo many writers and critics at work to decry the merit [281] of this piece. It triumphed over all its enemies. This DESPREAUX notices in the following lines:

The only hope that now remained with the cardinal of cruſhing CORNEILLE was that his following pro⯑ductions might be ſo inferior to the Cid as to lower his reputation; but he was completely baffled in theſe very charitable expectations; for Horace, which was his next performance, confirmed that fame the Cid had acquired; and, in ſpight of the in⯑trigues of the academy, who again ſat in judgment on him, the public laughed their puny attempts to ſcorn; and, in proportion as their favourite was calumniated, they ſtrove to render him the juſtice his merit deſerved^*.

Horace appeared early in 1639, and a few months afterwards CORNEILLE brought out Cinna, a tra⯑gedy of conſiderable celebrity; ſome ſay it is his beſt work, others have declared for Polieucte, and he himſelf preferred Rodogune.

[282] Cinna wrought an effect on LOUIS the Four⯑teenth, very honourable for its author, and to the dramatic art. The Chevalier de ROHAN had con⯑ſpired againſt the ſtate, and the king had conſtantly refuſed to grant his pardon to the moſt powerful and preſſing ſolicitations. The night before the exe⯑cution of the chevalier, LOUIS was at the repreſen⯑tation of Cinna; many paſſages of which piece ſtruck him ſo forcibly, particularly the ſpeech of AUGUSTUS in the fifth act, where he congratulates himſelf on having obtained a conqueſt over his paſſions, that though, from pride, or ſome political conſiderations, he did not revoke the ſentence of ROHAN, yet he frequently afterwards declared that if, at that moment, he had been ſolicited to ſave his life under any colourable pretext, he certainly ſhould have conſented.

This tragedy drew tears from the eyes of the great CONDE at the age of twenty, of which LOUIS augured ſo well that he conſidered it as a preſage of his future greatneſs.

Polieucte, which was the next production of CORNEILLE, came out in 1640. This piece had very nearly been conſigned to oblivion, or rather ſmothered in its birth. CORNEILLE ſent it to the theatre for the approbation of the actors, who re⯑fuſed [283] to perform it. One of the performers, who was entruſted to return it to the author, one day re⯑peruſed a part of it as he walked about in his lodg⯑ings, but being diſpleaſed with a paſſage he met in it, he threw it careleſsly from him, and the copy fell upon the teſter of the bed. He gave himſelf no further trouble about it, and nobody knew for a conſiderable while, what was become of the play. After it had been miſlaid eighteen months an up⯑holſterer took down the bed, and reſcued Polieucte from oblivion.

Previous to the repreſentation of Polieucte on the ſtage, CORNEILLE read that piece at the Hotel de Rambouillet, which was then the ſovereign tri⯑bunal in all literary matters. The piece was ap⯑plauded in the preſence of CORNEILLE, out of that reſpect which they thought due to the merit of ſo great a man, but VOITURE was privately en⯑joined to inform CORNEILLE, which he did in the moſt delicate manner, that Polieucte had not found that warm encouragement that might have been ex⯑pected, and that in particular thoſe paſſages which concerned religion had moſt diſpleaſed. COR⯑NEILLE, alarmed at this, would have withdrawn his piece, but was at length perſuaded to leave it in the hands of the actors, which, however, he would [284] not do till one of them promiſed that it ſhould not be performed. This promiſe was broke, which, probably, gave no diſpleaſure to the author, and Polieucte made its public appearance.

In the fourth act of Polieucte, there is a ſcene where SEVERUS, ſtruck with the unity of GOD, diſ⯑covers to FABIAN his doubts concerning the Pagan religion, which admits of many deities at once. BELLEROSE, who performed SEVERUS, in convey⯑ing theſe ſentiments, adopted a tone of ſuch mo⯑deration and good ſenſe, that the public, who had before ſeen nothing but extravagance and bombaſt, were greatly ſtruck with this new manner, ſo much more like nature; and, as the ſubject was very awful on which BELLEROSE exerted himſelf, it was not only prodigiouſly admired, but begat a reſpect and conſideration for actors which had not before been attached to their characters.

What SEVERUS ſays is no more than the vague doubt of a Pagan, to whom the extravagance of his religion rendered it an object of ſuſpicion, but who had not the ſmalleſt knowledge of thoſe proofs which render the chriſtian religion more reſpectable than paganiſm. On this account CORNEILLE was very much blamed for printing it, for it was ſaid [285] that notwithſtanding his delicate and proper inten⯑tions, they might be miſinterpreted.

Polieucte, however, as I have already ſaid, be⯑gan to open the eyes of the public as to the reſpec⯑tability of dramatic entertainments, conſidered in a moral light.—This circumſtance, joined to another altogether as extraordinary, no leſs than that the actors, from the moment they were conſidered as more reſpectable, actually became ſo procured, on the ſixteenth of April, 1641, the following favour⯑able arret.

‘"In caſe the ſaid comedians regulate the action of their performances, ſo as to be entirely ex⯑empt from impurity, we will that their exhibitions—as by this means they will innocently amuſe the public—be conſidered as void of blame and reproach, and alſo that their occupation ſhall not be pleaded as an impediment to the exerciſe of any buſineſs, or connection in public commerce."’

In 1641, CORNEILLE produced Pompée, and in 1642, in which year cardinal RICHELIEU died, ap⯑peared Le Monteur, certainly CORNEILLE's beſt comedy, ſo that the cardinal lived long enough to ſee the man againſt whom he had ſhewn ſo much rancour, merely becauſe he was poſſeſſed of ſu⯑perior [286] talents to himſelf, which talents he diſdained to proſtitute for patronage, ſecure in a firm and per⯑manent reputation, which all his infidious arts had not been able to deprive him of.

As to other dramatic events from the birth of CORNEILLE to the death of RICHELIEU, they conſiſt principally of contentions for fame between different poets, among whom there were a great variety of pretenders, indeed ſo many that the re⯑gular theatres could not entertain their productions; in conſequence of this, ſeveral attempts were made to eſtabliſh a third theatre, one of which in 1632 partially ſucceeded.

A party of theſe diſappointed poets, through various intereſts, prevailed on the lieutenant civil to grant them permiſſion to open a theatre at the Ten⯑nis-court in the ſtreet Michel-de-comte for two years. This theatre being ſituated in a part of PARIS where the ſtreets were very narrow, and the ſur⯑rounding inhabitants of the loweſt order it became a neſt for all manner of thieves and ſharpers, and alſo a market for the vent of the moſt execrable literary traſh. It was, therefore, repreſented to the parliament as a nuſance, and in leſs than a twelve-month from its eſtabliſhment it was ſhut up by au⯑thority.

[287]Of the confederacy who wrote in the pay of RICHELIEU, we have partly ſeen the ſucceſs; it may not, however, be improper to go over ſuch particulars as may ſerve to ſhew the complexion of the times as to the encouragement of the drama during that period.

SCUDERY between the birth of CORNEILLE and 1642, brought out fifteen pieces with various ſucceſs. His firſt performance was a tragi-comedy called Ligdamon et Lidias, for which he thus apo⯑logizes: ‘"I have paſſed,"’ ſays he, ‘"more years among armies than hours in my cloſet, and have uſed more matches to fire guns than to light lamps. I can range ſoldiers better than words, and know more adroitly to halt a battalion than to round a a period."’ Of theſe truths this piece gives abundant proof, for it is certainly a moſt miſerable performance, and ſhould not have been mentioned here but for the opportunity of noticing what dwarfiſh ſeconds RICHELIEU had recourſe to when he combatted the giant CORNEILLE.

When SCUDERY produced his L'Amour Tyran⯑nique, a very indifferent performance, the cardinal fought knee deep for it. He declared that this piece ſpoke its own eulogium; and SARRAZIN, to curry ſavour, printed a diſcourſe at the head of it [288] addreſſed to the French academy, where he endea⯑voured to point out the beauties of the play, and the talents of the author. In conſequence of this all PARIS crouded to it, and at their return home laughed at themſelves for their credulous folly. Upon the whole his Mort de Céſar ſeems to have been his beſt play, and VOLTAIRE was ſo much of that opinion that he certainly borrowed many paſ⯑ſages from it.

The pieces of DU RYER, during this period, eight in number, are of a better kind than thoſe of SCUDERY; but they give proof in how very barbarous a ſtate the ſtage ſtill continued. We have ſeen FONTENELLE incenſed againſt HARDY for the proflgacy of his muſe and the indecent ſituations into which he has thrown his characters, but the Lucrece of DU RYER will ſhew that even the commanding genius of CORNEILLE had not been able to give the theatre that poliſh without which it cannot be conſidered in a ſtate of per⯑fection.

The plot of this piece is ſimply the Roman ſtory. TARQUIN, with a poignard in his hand, demands of LUCRETIA the ſacrifice of her virtue. She ſtruggles and eſcapes behind the ſcenes, the audience preſently hear her cries, and ſoon after [289] ſhe comes on in the utmoſt diſorder and fairly tells the ſpectators that her honour is violated^*.

To MAIRET certainly very little praiſe can be due, if we are to credit, which is generally admitted, that Sophoniſba, which as we have ſeen VOLTAIRE thought it worth his while to retouch, was written by THEOPHILUS VIAUT, and the Vioſinaries by DESMARETS, with the aſſiſtance of RICHELIEU; but this laſt may be a miſtake, owing to the ſimi⯑larity of the names.

There is ſomething in the ſtory of VIAUT, that it may be worth while to relate. His manners were [290] ſo licentious that he was baniſhed FRANCE. He had, nevertheleſs, ſome friends; and after he had reſided a few years in ENGLAND, where he im⯑bibed an inclination for the dramatic art, he was re⯑called. He was always of the perſuaſion of the country where he happened to live. In GERMANY he was a Calviniſt, in England a Proteſtant, and in FRANCE a Roman Catholic. He was, neverthe⯑leſs, in every place a libertine; and as he wrote poetry with great facility, he never failed to laſh the roguery of prieſts with great aſperity. On his re⯑turn to FRANCE he wrote a ſevere poem called Parnaſſe Satyrique, which work was conſidered ſo very licentious that he was condemned to be burnt. He eſcaped and was burnt in effigy. As he was wandering, however, from one retreat to another, he was arreſted at CATELET, and ſhut up in the ſame dungeon with RAVAILLAC. The parliament commenced anew their proceſs againſt him, and he had ſuch addreſs that his trial was alternately put off and renewed until the expiration of two years; when, through the great intereſt made for him, his ſentence was meliorated to perpetual baniſhment.

He retired to the eſtate of the duke of MO⯑MORENCY, where he lived in a more reaſonable manner, and declared to his laſt hour that he was [291] innocent of the charge that had been brought againſt him.

He was intimate with MAIRET, who was alſo protected by MOMORENCY; and if DESBARREAUX is to be credited, who was the friend and intimate of them both, THEOPHILE left behind him in the poſſeſſion of MAIRET his tragedy of Sophoniſba; which, with the deduction of the Viſionaires, ſinks MAIRET's fame materially.

Of the productions of ROTROU I have ſpoken more at large, that poet's reputation having been the neareſt to that of CORNEILLE. In 1642, he had brought out twenty-ſix of his plays, many of which had conſiderable merit, and nothing can give ſtronger proof of this fact than that, though he is at preſent very little known on the ſtage by his own proper writings, yet the materials that compoſed them are ſo good, the characters ſo natural, and the ſubjects ſo dramatic, that the moſt celebrated writers ſince his time have not diſdained to take him for their model; witneſs The Thébaide of RACINE, which is an imitation of his Antigone, The Inès of DE LA MOTTE, taken from his Laure Perſecutée, and Les Soeurs Rivales of QUINAULT, which is but little more than a copy of his Deux Pucelles.

[292]It would be prolix and tireſome to notice any thing further concerning the theatre during the time it was patronized, if I may ſo call it, by RICHE⯑LIEU. A man, as SHAKESPEAR ſays, ſpeaking of his brother cardinal, of an unbounded ſtomach; who, not content with governing FRANCE almoſt abſolutely, with lowering the pride of AUSTRIA, and regulating the movements of Europe at his own will, added, to all this deſire of ſtirring up na⯑tional commotions, a perpetual wiſh of fomenting commotions in the theatre. When the Cid came out, he was as much alarmed as if the Spaniards had been at the gates of PARIS. What then muſt have been his miſerable condition, if FONTENELLE is to be believed, who ſays, ‘"that after the Cid, CORNEILLE became more elevated in Horace, ſtill more in Cinna, and ſtill more in Polieucte; beyond which no merit can reach."’

It cannot be denied that this ſtruggle of RICHE⯑LIEU to attain dramatic fame certainly aſcertained what dramatic fame was. The cardinal's favour being naturally ſought after, all thoſe who fancied they had literary talents put what little merit they had to the teſt, all thoſe who really had genius, ſtrained every nerve to excel one another. This emulation in a ſhort time did wonders. It purified [293] the taſte, mended the ſtyle, and regulated the con⯑duct of dramatic entertainments.

The choruſes, which had been introduced by JODELLE, and ſcrupulouſly obſerved by the dra⯑matic poets till 1629, were afterwards baniſhed from the theatre. Inſtrumental performers were ſubſti⯑tuted in their place, who were firſt ſituated between the wings on the ſtage, afterwards in the upper boxes, after that in the lower boxes, till, at length, it was thought proper to ſituate them between the audience and the ſtage, where they are now con⯑ſtantly ſeated.

For theſe and other circumſtances, which con⯑tributed to perfect the theatre, and which could not in ſo ſhort a ſpace as twelve years have wrought ſuch a reform without the aſſiſtance of ſome high and commanding influence, the French nation are certainly indebted to RICHELIEU; who, though he in himſelf found a wide difference in the talents ne⯑ceſſary to form a great writer and a great ſtateſman, was certainly the cauſe of bringing forward to pub⯑lic notice that merit in others which he envied but could not imitate.

All this FONTENELLE, though his beſt apologiſt, allows; but he adds, that ‘"he recompenſed as a [294] miniſter that merit of which he was jealous as a poet; and that, however, his great mind might have had weakneſſes, he ſeldom failed to repair his faults by ſomething noble."’ Surely when FONTENELLE made this remark he forgot that he was writing the life of CORNEILLE.

CHAP. IX. FROM THE DEATH OF RICHELIEU TO THE DEATH OF ROTROU.

THOUGH the great reputation of CORNEILLE, at the death of RICHELIEU, could not have received much additional celebrity, for nothing is ſo fair an object of public encouragement as that which is pri⯑vately oppreſſed, yet after that period, by being more unreſtrained, it grew more commanding. His pieces, in the opinion of the public, threw all others at a diſtance, and thoſe four tragedies which FONTE⯑NELLE declared nothing could exceed, continually occupied the theatre, adding at each performance a new trophy to his well earned fame.

The ſucceſs of the Menteur induced CORNEILLE to follow it up with a ſequel, which like the original was an imitation of Lopes de Vega. This ſequel ſeems to have ſhewn its author that, however he might be capable of writing comedy, it was either not his forte ſo properly as tragedy, or that comedy was not in FRANCE arrived at that perfection to which [296] he and others had brought tragedy. Indeed this taſk remained to be performed by MOLIERE.

The Suite du Menteur, though it received ap⯑plauſe, not, however the applauſe to which COR⯑NEILLE had been accuſtomed, and though, when it was better underſtood upon a revival, it had ſtill greater ſucceſs, determined CORNEILLE to return to tragedy. He pauſed, however, probably that he might do nothing unworthy the fame he had ſo ho⯑nourably acquired, and did not venture to produce another play until 1646, when the public teſtified the higheſt ſatisfaction at his tragedy of Rodogune.

I have noticed already that CORNEILLE rather inclined to think this his beſt work. Let us ſee what he ſays himſelf on the ſubject. ‘"I have been often aſked,"’ ſays he, ‘"which of all my dramatic poems I eſteem the moſt, and I have generally found that thoſe who have put the queſtion to me were prejudiced either in favour of Cinna, or The Cid. I have, therefore, been cautious of declaring my real ſentiments, which are certainly in favour of Rodogune. This pre⯑ference is, perhaps, in me the effect of that blind partiality which parents ſometimes entertain for one child rather than another; perhaps it may be tainted with a little ſelf love becauſe this [297] tragedy is more properly my own than any thing that has preceded it, on account of the incidents being new, original, invented, and ſuch as had never before been placed on a theatre; and, if this reaſon ſhould be juſt, it eſtabliſhes a fact which confirms the propriety of my partiality."’ I ſhall have good opportunity to prove that COR⯑NEILLE was not ſingular in this opinion.

This preference for Rodogune ſeemed a preſenti⯑ment to CORNEILLE that his reputation was at its height; for, from the time that tragedy was pro⯑duced till 1653, when CORNEILLE left the theatre in diſguſt the particulars of which we ſhall ſee here⯑after, though his general fame kept an honourable ſtand, his productions were reviewed with leſs warmth than he had been accuſtomed to experience. His tragedy of Theodore, produced the latter end of 1646, had very indifferent ſucceſs, conſidering it was the production of the great CORNEILLE. Her⯑aclius, brought out in 1647, though admired by the judicious, the world affected not to underſtand, and Andromede was obliged for the aſtoniſhing reception it met with to ſcenery, machinery, and a living Pegaſus, the beſt performer, according to public opinion, in the whole piece.

The fact is that CORNEILLE was born to be the [298] ſport of cardinals. RICHELIEU endeavoured to overwhelm him by turning the tide of prejudice one way, and MAZARINE endeavoured to leave him aground, and the theatre with him, by diverting it another^*.

I have noticed that Theodore was cooly received. Heraclius was of itſelf a ſingular production; but by the inattention of the public, who began to be tired of every thing regular and ſtriking, it was con⯑ſidered as a very heteroclite performance, and in⯑capable of affording pleaſure equal to the pains it took to pay it proper attention.

The fact is, CORNEILLE had been ſo charmed with that originality on which he ſo warmly congratu⯑lates himſelf in Rodogune, that he was determined to be ſtill more original in Heraclius. In conſequence of this he has certainly in places obſcured what he meant to elucidate. The Abbé PELEGRIN whim⯑ſically [299] calls Heraclius the deſpair of all the tragic authors, and DESPREAUX archly ſays it is not a tra⯑gedy but a logogryphe ^*.

Let us ſee what CORNEILLE himſelf ſays upon this ſubject. ‘"This tragedy,"’ ſays he, ‘"is more an effort of invention than Rodogune, and I may dare ſay that it is a happy original, of which there will be many copies."’ He then goes on, ex⯑plaining the nature of the incidents, in what manner they are knit together, how involved in difficulty and intricacy, and, at length, ſays that they certainly cannot be comprehended but by reflection after the finiſh of the piece, and, perhaps, they are not to be enjoyed with taſte till the ſpectators have witneſſed a ſecond repreſentation. Certainly this, however it may recommend the piece to a peruſal in the cloſet, [300] cannot be in its favour as a dramatic production, where every thing ſhould be comprehended at once. But this piece has given his enemies a handle, as well as ſome ſcenes in Pompée, to cavil at COR⯑NEILLE, under the idea of comparing his writings to the turgidneſs, the flatulency, and the obſcurity of SENECA, rather than the nature, the ſimplicity, and the beauty of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, which opinion FONTENELLE does not altogether contradict.

It was not, however, ſo much the fault of Hera⯑clius as the times, that the public attention, which had been ſo unremittingly paid to CORNEILLE, began to waver. MAZARINE, who found that his predeceſſor had been indebted, if not for his po⯑pularity at leaſt for his notoriety, to poets and ac⯑tors, was determined to ſee what fame he could derive from compoſers and ſingers. In ſhort it was in 1647 that MAZARINE eſtabliſhed the opera in FRANCE, the particulars of which, how⯑ever, I ſhall defer till I have gone on with the French theatre to the death of ROTROU.

[301]It was neceſſary, however, to introduce the opera here, becauſe it immediately became the rage to ſuch a degree that no dramatic ſpectacle from that time ſtood the ſmalleſt chance of ſucceſs that was not recommended to the public by ſplendid ſcenery, machinery, and decorations; by which tide of folly we ſee CORNEILLE borne away as well as the reſt; for in 1650, came out Andromede uſhered to the public by all the foppery of the Venetian opera.

It would be pityful and unworthy to deſcribe all the particulars of that puppet ſhew through which the public were now to admire the brilliant talents of the great CORNEILLE. One principal object of admiration was a living pegaſus, ſlung in a way ſo peculiar, that he ſprung into the air and ſeemed loſt in the clouds. The poor horſe it ſeems was kept without food till he was almoſt ſtarved, and in that condition faſtened in the flies to a cord with pullies ſo conſtructed that by a counterpoiſe his own weight could carry him to the other ſide of the ſtage. When it was the proper time for this pegaſus to exhibit, a man on the other ſide, ſo concealed as not to be ſeen by the audience, held in ſight of the famiſhed animal a ſieve of oats. The creature in⯑ſtantly began neighing and pawing; and when he had been ſufficiently irritated, the rope that had re⯑ſtrained [302] him was looſened and the effort threw him into the air till he arrived at his ſtable in the clouds where he was recompenſed by a good ſupper for his dexterity.

‘"'Tis true."’ ſays the author of this article, ‘"we have ſeen living horſes in the Italian opera, but none of them had to boaſt the warlike ardour of the pegaſus in CORNEILLE's tragedy of An⯑dromede, his movements were admirable, and cer⯑tainly contributed very materially to the ſucceſs of the piece."’ Having ſettled CORNEILLE ſo comfortably upon his pegaſus, or rather upon the hobby horſe of cardinal MAZARINE, I ſhall now go over ſuch circumſtances as paſſed from 1642 to 1650, and particularly numerate the various ſucceſs of ROTROU.

TRISTAN during this interval produced four plays, which had tolerable ſucceſs, but not equal to his Mariamne, which I have already mentioned as a celebrated piece. SCUDERY brought forward only one, which was his laſt. It was a tragi-comedy called Axiane, and written in proſe^*. This piece was pro⯑duced [303] in 1643, and though SCUDERY lived till 1667, we hear no more of him as a dramatic writer.

SCARRON, who was born in 1610, and died in 1660, brought out his firſt piece called Jodelet; or the Maître Valet, in 1645; and four others before 1650. The laſt of theſe, L'Heritier Ridicule, pleaſed LOUIS the Fourteenth, when he was young, to ſuch a degree that he had it performed three times in one day. It will be neceſſary hereafter to ſpeak of this extraordinary man and his productions.

L'ETOILE, a very laboured writer, brought out one piece in 1643, and another in 1647. He is ſaid to have aſſiſted RICHELIEU, and ſome authors will have it that he was one of the five who ſat as the oſtenſible authors of Les Tuilleries, by which it ſhould appear that CORNEILLE did not ſuſtain that diſgrace; but I am afraid that we muſt not flatter [304] ourſelves with any ſuch hopes, for VOLTAIRE, and many other authors have taken ſo much pains to aſ⯑certain the fact, that it is my unwilling duty, as a hiſtorian, to ſet it down for truth.

LA SERRE, a curious author, and a whimſical character, brought out in 1643, a tragedy called Sainte Catherine, and another the following year called Théſée. He wrote five other wretched plays, ſome of which, however, through the influence of RICHELIEU, had great ſucceſs; in particular Thomas Morus, firſt performed about ſix months before the cardinal died. It was repreſented at the Palais Royal, and ſeems to have been one of the cardinal's laſt efforts to injure the reputation of CORNEILLE^*.

[305]LA SERRE was librarian to Mounſier, brother of LOUIS the Thirteenth, and had a ſuperficial knack, in conſequence of his acquaintance with catalogues and the names of authors, of writing a great deal without method or coherence. Nobody, however, felt or acknowledged this more readily than he did himſelf; for, being totally without diſguiſe, he al⯑lowed that his propenſity was the cacoethes ſcri⯑bendi and nothing more; which, as it turned to ſuch good account, he indulged in order to catch the at⯑tention of ſo profitable a patron as the cardinal. Having attended one day to a very long and tire⯑ſome public diſcourſe, he embraced the orator as he deſcended from the roſtrum. ‘"My dear friend,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I did not think ſuch a thing was poſſible."’ ‘"What?"’ ſaid the other. ‘"What!"’ replied LA SERRE, ‘"why you have uttered more nonſenſe in an hour than I have been able to write in twenty years, and yet I have tried hard too."’

LA SERRE uſed to ſay that he boaſted one ad⯑vantage that no author had ever done before him; ‘"for,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I get rich by writing wretched productions, while men of merit are dying of hunger^*."’ When he was reproached with the [306] promptitude with which he wrote, he anſwered that his pegaſus had golden wings and would not be re⯑ſtrained, ‘"So I even,"’ ſaid he, ‘"throw the rein over his neck for I have ſo little reliſh for what is called fame that I would rather get a fortune and ſpend it merrily than be miſerable in this world and ſave up money to build a monument for me after I die^*."’

This ſtrange character, who appears to be more knave than fool, but who certainly was the in⯑different writer he himſelf repreſents, would never have examined books any further than to duſt them, if he had not been induced to try his hand at the inſtance of RICHELIEU.

LA CALPRENEDE, who enjoyed, in ſome degree, the favour of RICHELIEU, and who was, as report goes, much indebted to the great CONDE for ſome epiſodic parts of his pieces, was a native of GAS⯑CONY, and a dramatic poet. He produced in all thirteen pieces, four or five of which appeared be⯑tween 1642 and 1650. To his patrons, however, he is indected for his reputation, if it may be ſaid [307] that he had any. He read his comedy of Clariente one day to RICHELIEU, who told him that the piece was tolerably good upon the whole, but that the expreſſions were lache; a word ſignifying, as to writings, looſe, careleſs, negligent, and, as to men, cowardly. ‘"Cadeſis,"’ ſaid the author, in the true gaſconade ſtyle, ‘"I would have your eminence know that nothing lache ever belonged to the houſe of CALPRENEDE."’

GOMBAULT, of whom there is nothing re⯑markable but that he was one of the members of Beaux-eſprits, formed under CONRADE, which gave riſe to the French academy, brought out two pieces during the intermediate period at which we are arrived. He was certainly a man of talents, but he was rather a general poet than a dramatic writer.

I come now to ſpeak of THOMAS CORNEILLE, who was born at ROUEN, it has been ſaid on the very day, certainly in the ſame year, that his bro⯑ther brought out his comedy of Melite.

He followed the ſame career of his brother, but with leſs ſucceſs, though ſome think he ad⯑hered more ſtrictly to the rules of the theatre, a [308] negative merit which, upon proper occaſions, the great CORNEILLE knew how to deſpiſe. ‘"DES⯑PREAUX,"’ ſays a French author, ‘"did right to call him the Norman younger brother, but wrong to ſay he has written nothing reaſonable. This ſatiriſt had, perhaps, forgotten that many of his pieces keep the ſtage with reputation^*."’

As theſe brothers go on hand in hand, I ſhall have plenty of opportunity to notice their different merits. At preſent I ſhall only ſpeak of ſuch pieces as T. CORNEILLE brought out before the year 1650. His firſt piece a comedy, called Les Engagements du Hazard, came out in 1647, it was taken from two pieces of CALDERONE; one hav⯑ing the ſame title, and the other The houſe that has two doors it is difficult to guard. His next comedy produced in 1649 called Les Feint Aſtrologue, is alſo taken from a play of CALDERONE under the ſame title, El Aſtrologo Fingido; which, two years before, had however been brought forward at the theatre by D'OUVILLE, brother of BOIS⯑ROBERT, whom I ſhall preſently have occaſion to mention.

Theſe pieces, and Don Bertrand de Cigarral, [309] which came out early in 1650, are all I ſhall ſpeak of at preſent from T. CORNEILLE, which as the firſt and ſecond were taken from CALDERONE, and the other from DON FRANCISCO DE ROXAS, and after all was a mere farce, though in the minority of LOUIS the Fourteenth, it was certainly performed at court more than twenty times, amount yet to no⯑thing that promiſes for him a reputation likely to keep pace with his brother.

D'OUVILLE was an author of inconſiderable merit, and it well might be ſo if he was as he is re⯑preſented to have been much inferior to his brother. The pieces he brought out from 1642 to 1650, were Jodelet Aſtrologue, almoſt copied as abovementioned by T. CORNEILLE, The Coeffeuſe a la Mode, and Les Soupçons ſur les Apparence, in all which he is ſuppoſed to have been aſſiſted by BOISROBERT.

BOISROBERT in 1646 brought out L'Inconmic, which was taken from CALDERONE, and almoſt in the ſame manner with T. CORNEILLE's firſt piece Les Engagemens du Hazard. This did T. COR⯑NEILLE but little ſervice, but he excuſed himſelf by ſaying that he had long written it but had reaſons for keeping it back. BOISROBERT brought out be⯑fore 1650 alſo La Jalouſe D'elle Méme, tranſlated from Lopes de Vega.

[310]BENSERADE, a writer of merit, about this time produced two or three plays. He was born of a no⯑ble family in NORMANDY, in 1612, and intended for the church, of which body he was expected to have made a very reſpectable member, but his deſtiny decided otherwiſe; for having ſeen Madamoiſelle BELLEROSE, a beautiful woman, and a favourite ac⯑treſs, he ſoon exchanged his breviary for a caſt book, and his ſaints for the muſes. It is aſtoniſhing with what avidity he cultivated his theatrical employments. Nothing came amiſs, as we ſhall ſee when we find him compoſing Ballets in conjunction with QUIN⯑AULT and LULLY. By the liberality of the queen, cardinal MAZARINE, and ſeveral other perſons of rank, he acquired a large fortune, which he enjoyed uninteruptedly till his death, which happened, at the age of eighty, in an extraordinary manner.

He had ſuffered ſome time the greateſt agonies from the ſtone; which, notwithſtanding his advanced age, he was determined to get rid of by cutting. His courage, however, was put to a proof ſtill more extraordinary, for a ſurgeon, who by way of pre⯑paration had been inſtructed to bleed him, wounded an artery and was ſo alarmed for fear of the conſe⯑quences that he fled without binding up the arm. BENSERADE, therefore, bled to ſuch a degree that aſſiſtance came too late, and they had juſt time to [311] call in a confeſſor when he expired with great firm⯑neſs in the arms of his friends.

When we have ſeen the ſucceſs of ROTROU's re⯑maining pieces, we ſhall have before us every thing of any material conſequence that was oppoſed to CORNEILLE from the death of RICHELIEU till 1650. PARIS at that time ſwarmed with authors, and ſo indeed it has from that time to this; but my limits will not permit me to give more than the lead⯑ing features of dramatic productions and events.

ROTROU brought out ten pieces during the in⯑terval we are ſpeaking of, and all with a conſiderable degree of reputation particularly Coſroes, which has been often revived with ſucceſs, Don Lopes de Cardonne which was proclaimed worthy the pen of CORNEILLE, and Venceſtas; which, in addi⯑tion to what has been ſaid of it already, was re⯑vived by MARMONTEL, and begat a literary diſ⯑pute, that I ſhall notice in its place, highly honour⯑able to the reputation of ROTROU.

In ſhort, taking in all the circumſtances, we muſt certainly place ROTROU as a dramatic writer of eminence. He poſſeſſed all the requiſites of a poet of this deſcription. He knew character, con⯑duct, and diſcrimination; he had the good ſenſe to [312] reject, as much as the times would permit him, that barbarity which characteriſed the French ſtage; and, though his own talents were not of weight and conſequence enough to attempt the Herculean taſk of cleanſing this augean ſtable, yet when he found CORNEILLE had reſolutely undertaken this labour, he certainly lent him a reſpectable helping hand. So that we may fairly ſay, if CORNEILLE had never lived, ROTROU would have enjoyed the firſt rank in his time as a dramatic poet; but CORNEILLE having lived, ROTROU moved only in a ſecondary ſphere, although his reputation derived more ſplen⯑dour from the reflection of this luminary than it ever could have boaſted from its own proper power. At the ſame time it muſt be acknowledged that the reputation of CORNEILLE derived no mean ad⯑dition from the literary race, in which he was very often hard run, that with ſtrenuous exertion he gained from ROTROU.

CHAP. X. THE OPERA, AND CORNEILLE'S FIRST RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE.

AS the opera very materially deranged the ſtate of the theatre about this period, it is neceſſary it ſhould be mentioned here, but I ſhall defer the account I mean to give of its origin till I have brought the French ſtage forwarder, leſt it ſhould prove too much a digreſſion, and ſo cool the intereſt that na⯑turally riſes from a progreſſive account of tragedies and comedies.

I ſhall, therefore, content myſelf with intro⯑ducing this ſpecies of entertainment, which ren⯑dered the French ſtage a model for ſcenery to the neighbouring nations, which has been the ſource from whence our opera has been ſupplied with dan⯑cers; and which firſt conquered ſenſe in favour of ſound, and afterwards ſound in favour of agility, by quoting the words of VOLTAIRE.

‘"It is to two Cardinals,"’ ſays he,

[319]We have here from VOLTAIRE a pretty, lively picture, generally taken, of the opera, which I ſhall take leave of for the preſent, to releaſe CORNEILLE from the ungracious ſituation in which we left him, and ſee what became of Thalia and Melpomene.

The extraordinary ſucceſs of Andromede, ſo little to the taſte or the reputation of its author, gave an entirely new complexion to tragedy, and it ſeemed no longer to rely on its intrinſic merits. Simplicity, beauty, ſtrength in the ſtyle, art, ma⯑nagement, and conduct in the ſituations, and nature, force, and intereſt, in the incidents had nothing to do with the matter; the machines were the object, and the play was only a vehicle to introduce them.

What then muſt become of CORNEILLE, who could neither paint flying dragons, nor mount a paſteboard mermaid upon the back of a leathern [320] dolphin. He ſeemed ſo aſtoniſhing with his prance in the air that when he came upon the ground he forgot how it was to walk naturally.

It is wonderful how men of the firſt abilities will conform to bad taſte. At that moment; alone, independent, adored by the public, and his re⯑putation at its ſummit, if CORNEILLE had met this innovation half way, if he had acknowledged that ſcenery in FRANCE had been defective, that it was a grand, a ſober, a decorous appendage to tragedy, giving aſſiſtance to the action of the piece, and, therefore, proper to be encouraged, but that, nevertheleſs, he ſhould reſiſt with all his influ⯑ence the introduction of machines and other me⯑chanical operations, which, though ingenious in themſelves, diſgraced tragedy, and lowered it to the level of pantomime; he would not only have kept his own ſame up to its legitimate ſtandard, but all other writers, who ſeeing CORNEILLE miſled, were glad enough to have recourſe to this new ve⯑hicle to ſame to bolſter up their own rickety re⯑putation, would have remained at their poſts. By this means tragedy would have kept within the pale of its own province.

As it was, did CORNEILLE do this? No. If the Mountain had refuſed to go to Mahomet, Mahomet [321] would have been glad enough as formerly to have gone to the Mountain. But this was not the caſe, CORNEILLE, immoveable, had he choſe to have remained ſo, fluctuated, trimmed, and accommo⯑dated himſelf to the caprice of the times.

Andromede was followed up in 1651, by a heroic comedy called Don Sanche D'arragon; which, by the uſual aſſiſtance of machines, had ſome eclat, but was ſoon withdrawn and performed only in the provincial towns. This piece was not in the ſtyle of CORNEILLE, being taken from two Spaniſh plays, which had been firſt romances, and it would have been better for his reputation if it had never been produced.

CORNEILLE himſelf attributes the want of ſuc⯑ceſs in this piece to its having been prohibited. Why he does not tell us. His excuſes, however, are but lame, for he confeſſes that by his taking his piece from the Spaniſh ſtories he was entangled in the laſt act, that he was obliged to bring a man from the clouds to make the neceſſary diſcovery for the cataſtrophe. The fact is, CORNEILLE giv⯑ing into the new taſte turned projector. The piece is properly neither tragedy nor comedy, and, there⯑fore, heterogeneous and unworthy CORNEILLE.

[322] Nicomede, which came out in 1652, was another experiment. CORNEILLE ſeems at this time to have grown tired. He owns that this piece is upon an extraordinary conſtruction. ‘"But,"’ ſays he, ‘"it is my twenty-firſt production; after having written forty thouſand verſes, it was not very eaſy to find any thing new without going out of the high road of nature to ſearch for ſuch ideas as are excited by extraordinary objects."’ This decla⯑ration might have ſerved BOISROBERT, or RICHE⯑LIEU, but CORNEILLE ſhould have diſdained it.

‘"Tenderneſs, and the paſſions,"’ continues he, ‘"which are the ſoul of every tragedy, has nothing to do with this."’ Upon what then could he ground his ſucceſs? ‘"Grandeur and courage only are to be found here, ſuch grandeur and ſuch courage as have no other ſupport than that love of virtue which is imprinted in the heart of nations."’ Without tenderneſs! Strange doctrine.

This piece, but for ſome applications to a popu⯑lar event, which parts of it contained, would have had but indifferent ſucceſs. CORNEILLE, how⯑ever, was at all times ſo idolized by the people, that ſome time after when BARON, who was con⯑ſidered as the French Roſcius, and almoſt permitted [323] to do any thing, attempted to alter ſome paſſages in a way as he thought more to the public taſte, the houſe, as with one voice, inſiſted that the diction of CORNEILLE ſhould not be violated, and obliged him to repeat his part exactly as it had been origi⯑nally written.

Pertharite, his next piece, produced in 1653, was literally damned, and CORNEILLE immediately retired from the theatre, with a declaration that he would never return to it. This reſolution he kept ſix years, which time I ſhall take to ſpeak of MO⯑LIERE, who brought out his firſt play in the very year when CORNEILLE had declared he had brought out his laſt.

CHAP. XI. MOLIERE AND THE STAGE TO CORNEILLE'S RETURN.

JEAN BAPTISTE POQUELIN, ſo celebrated under the name of MOLIERE, was born at PARIS in 1620. He brought out his firſt piece in 1653, and died in 1673^*. Birth, which in no inſtance that ever was read of either conferred or precluded ta⯑lents, was not among the advantages MOLIERE had to boaſt. Both his grandfather and his father were valets des chambres and tapeſtry-makers to LOUIS the Thirteenth, and his fate would have been to cut up tapes and bindings, and hang parlours and bed-chambers, had not his genius induced him to con⯑ſider theſe only as ſecondary objects, and ſuch as might humbly ſerve to decorate thoſe better repre⯑ſentations of nature with which ſhe had given him the talent of ornamenting his country.

MOLIERE for the firſt fourteen years followed [325] the buſineſs of his father, and a patent was even taken out for him as ſucceſſor to his father's charge, but he would neither yield to this nor would thoſe friends, many of whom was celebrated characters about the court, who witneſſed the growing merit of this youth, conſent to his remaining uninſtructed in thoſe ſtudies by means of which they were ſa⯑tisfied he would arrive to ſome extraordinary re⯑putation in either literature or the ſciences.

He was in conſequence ſent to a college at CLERMONT, where he got intimate with CHA⯑PELLE, BERNIER, and CYRANO^*, who were all pupils of the famous GASSENDI, from whom the young POQUELIN imbibed with great avidity thoſe precepts of philoſophy which taught him after⯑wards ſo well to reaſon, and which ſerved as the [326] foundation of that reputation which guided him through the greateſt part of his works.

A taſte for dramatic entertainments having per⯑vaded all FRANCE in conſequence of RICHELIEU's patronage of the ſtage, many ſocieties in the nature of our private theatricals, a little upon the principal of the old title of Les Enfans Sans Souci, united in domeſtic parties to perform plays. POQUELIN made one in a ſociety of this deſcription, which was called the Illuſtrious Theatre.

Here he changed his real name for that of MO⯑LIERE, which circumſtance of changing names was extremely common in FRANCE among the poets and actors, but in MOLIERE is ſaid actually to have ariſen from a fear of contaminating the race of valets des chambres and tapeſtry-makers, who thought it a greater honour to remain blockheads and receive chriſtian burial, than to amuſe and en⯑lighten mankind and be rewarded with a ſentence of excommunication^*.

[327]In this ſociety MOLIERE became acquainted with a woman of the name of LE BEJART, who had been a country performer; and as he found her ſentiments of the ſame caſt as his own, he agreed that they ſhould form a company and go to LYONS, where L'Etourdi was firſt performed. This was in 1653, and its ſucceſs was ſo prodigious that it fairly ruined the other company of comedians eſtabliſhed in that town; many of whom begged leave to join MOLIERE, who, with his company thus ſtrengthened, went to LANGUEDOC, and offered his ſervices to the Prince of CONTI, who then held his court at BEZIERS^*.

This prince had known MOLIERE at college, and had not only been preſent when he performed at PARIS, but had very often invited him to his palace. L'Etourdi, with the protection of this prince, experienced at BEZIERS new ſucceſs. He [328] brought out alſo ſome farces, one of which was called Le Docteur Amoreux, and another Les Trois Docteurs; which, being trifles, he very properly afterwards ſuppreſſed.

Having travelled with his company to GRENO⯑BLE, he went firſt to ROUEN, and afterwards to PARIS, where he determined, if poſſible, to fix. By his connections he got acceſs to Monſieur, who preſented him to the king and the queen-mother; they ſaw him and his company perform, and granted him permiſſion to exhibit in the Guards of the old Louvre, and afterwards in the Palais Royal. At length his company was retained in the ſervice of the king, in 1665, and this was the commencement of a real taſte for comedy in FRANCE.

Le Depit Amoureux, which had been performed at BEZIERS in an imperfect ſtate, was brought out at PARIS in 1658, with great ſucceſs; but Les Preci⯑èuſes Ridicules was the firſt comedy that permanently fixed the reputation of MOLIERE. At the finiſh of the firſt nights repreſentation of this piece, a crony of his, took our old acquaintance CHAPELAIN by the hand, ‘"You and I,"’ ſaid he, ‘"approved all thoſe ſubtle criticiſms which abounded formerly in compliment to our old friend the cardinal; but believe me we have been taught to night ſo much [329] real taſte, that we ought to burn all we have ad⯑mired, and to admire all we have burnt."’

The ſucceſs of this piece fairly ſhewed MO⯑LIERE upon what ground he ſtood. ‘"I will no longer be reproached,"’ ſaid he, ‘"with copying PLAUTUS, and TERENCE, and ſtudying ME⯑NANDER. In future I have nothing to do but ſtudy the world."’

The Precièuſes Ridicules was performed at court, though the royal family were at that time on a journey to the PYRENEES. On their return the price to MOLIERE's theatre was doubled. Ad⯑miſſion to the parterre before that time had been only ſix ſols.

I ſhall now ſpeak of QUINAULT, who for a con⯑ſiderable time was not allowed that ſhare of merit he certainly poſſeſſed; nay, to this moment, ſuch is the force of prejudice, that his name in the ge⯑neral idea of French literature is ſeldom claſſed reſpectably, though there can be no doubt but that upon the whole he was the beſt lyric poet FRANCE ever knew^*; a ſpecious of merit ſurely that ſtands very high in the gradation of literary fame.

[330]We have ſeen already that VOLTAIRE con⯑ſidered QUINAULT as a man of abilities. This opinion many other French writers have unequivo⯑cally confirmed, but a better proof, a peruſal of his works, will eſtabliſh for him that reputation which has been ſo often denied him; for, in thoſe works, among a great deal of traſh written to hu⯑mour LULLY, is to be found great and ſtriking poetical beauties, ſuch as BOILEAU, with all his bitterneſs and invective againſt a man who had never offended him, had neither the ſoul nor the capacity to write.

QUINAULT, however, in great meaſure deſerved every ſyllable that has been ſaid againſt him. His permitting an arrogant, impudent muſician to appro⯑priate to himſelf quietly and comfortably that ge⯑nius and thoſe talents which were legitimately in the poet and not in him, was as unpardonable as it is inconceivable. But it ſhould ſeem that if LULLY laughed at QUINAULT, QUINAULT laughed at LULLY; for, pardoning every advantage the mu⯑ſician took on the ſide of reputation, the poet had [331] his revenge on the ſide of profit, or rather prudence, for while LULLY diſſipated his emoluments, QUIN⯑AULT took care of his affairs. He married the widow of a merchant, who had been his kind friend, with a fortune of forty thouſand crowns; he bought a conſiderable charge in the auditory of accounts; he was admitted into the French academy; he was honoured with the Cordon de St. Michel; and died in PARIS in 1688, at the age of fifty three, with a fortune of more than a hundred thouſand crowns.

As QUINAULT employed his talents more for the opera than the theatre, we ſhall have but little to ſay of him at preſent. His tragedies, except L'Aſtrate, and L'Agrippa, have diſappeared from the theatre, and even thoſe are weakly written: his heroes are no more than gallants, and his ſubjects are no higher than paſtoral and romance. His comedies are ſuperior to his tragedies, and his Mere Coquette, and one or two others, give good expectation that if he had purſued this ſtyle of writing he would not have cut an inconſiderable figure even by the ſide of MOLIERE.

QUINAULT's firſt piece for the regular theatre was a tragi-comedy called Les Rivales. It came [332] out in 1653, and cauſed a conſiderable change in the mode of recompencing dramatic authors for their labours. It had been the cuſtom to buy per⯑formances of authors for ſuch prices as ſhould be agreed upon, which was ſometimes regulated ac⯑cording to the merit, but oftener according to the reputation of the writer, for the merit and the re⯑putation are now and then diſtinct things. In ge⯑neral, however, theſe productions were ſold low enough, the actors at that time having had the ſame hold of the authors in FRANCE as the bookſellers have now in ENGLAND.

This comedy of Les Rivales, which was little more than a copy from ROTROU, TRISTAN, of whom QUINAULT was the eleve, undertook to read to the ac [...]ors under an idea that he could make a better bargain for his pupil than his pupil could have done for himſelf. The actors charmed with the piece, and upon a ſuppoſition that it was written by TRISTAN, offered a hundred crowns for it. Being undeceived, however, they told TRISTAN, that though QUINAULT appeared to have talents, yet as he had no eſtabliſhed reputation, they could not riſk that ſum for the piece, but would, at all ad⯑ventures, give fifty crowns; TRISTAN would not ſuffer QUINAULT to accede to this, and the matter was compounded by an agreement to give the au⯑thor [333] a ninth of every night's receipt during the run of the play, provided that afterwards it ſhould be⯑long excluſively to the actors.

Theſe terms were accepted, and the propoſal appeared ſo fair and judicious, both on the part of authors and actors, that it has been ſtrictly obſerved ever ſince; after-pieces, by way of proportion, bearing only the value, thoſe in two acts of a twelfth, and thoſe in one of an eighteenth.

QUINAULT after producing three plays with paſſable ſucceſs, brought out, in 1656, a piece called Les Coups de L'amour and de Fortune; but SCAR⯑RON tells us that this play is not at all attributable to QUINAULT, for that TRISTAN wrote the firſt four acts, and that he himſelf wrote the fifth after TRISTAN died.

SCARRON's pieces, from 1653 to 1659, were Don Japhet D'Arménie, L'Ecolier de Salamanque, and two others. The firſt he introduced by the following burleſque dedication to the king:

L'Ecolier de Salamanque, which came out in [335] 1654, gave riſe to a moſt bitter quarrel between SCARRON and BOISROBERT. SCARRON had a cuſtom of reading his works to his acquaintance, one of whom was BOISROBERT, who was ſo ſtruck with the circumſtances of this play as he heard it piece meal, that he did not ſcruple to build his Genereux Ennemis upon this foundation; which, indeed, was not all, for T. CORNEILLE worked The Genereuſe Ennemis into The Illuſtres Ennemis, and both theſe copies of SCARRON's play came out before the play itſelf; ſo that it had to encounter all the diſadvantage of the firſt and ſecond impreſſion of it. But it did not ſtop here, for BOISROBERT did his utmoſt to decry the merit of L'Ecolier de Salamanque, and abuſed SCARRON for ſtealing it from him, whereas he knew the contrary to have been the fact.

This treatment SCARRON never pardoned; and, being a much better writer than BOISROBERT, he threw out his invectives againſt him in a ſtrain of ſuch ſevere and bitter ſatire that BOISROBERT felt their effects as long as he lived.

T. CORNEILLE during his brother's abſence ac⯑quired ſome celebrity. From my laſt accounts of him to 1659, he produced eight pieces. The firſt three had merely paſſable ſucceſs, and the fourth [336] called Les Illuſtres Ennemis, was even leſs att [...]ended to on account of its being borrowed, as I have al⯑ready ſaid from BOISROBERT, who ſtole it from SCARRON. His fame from thence, however, be⯑gan to riſe, and, indeed, to wear ſo new an aſpect that he no longer ſeemed to be the ſame writer^*.

The tide of T. CORNEILLE's reputation took a a moſt extraordinary turn in 1656, when he pro⯑duced, [337] Au Marais, Timocrate, which piece, though its merit is indiſputable, was ſo eagerly followed and ſo ſuddenly dropt that the circumſtance will ever re⯑main a monument of French capriciouſneſs. This tragedy was performed eighty times in regular ſuc⯑ceſſion without the intervention of a ſingle per⯑formance. For the laſt twelve or fourteen nights the actors attempted to announce other plays. The audience would not hear a ſingle ſyllable. Timocrate was called for, and Timocrate they were ob [...]iged to perform. At laſt an actor came forward and ſaid, ‘"Ladies and gentlemen, if you are not tired of ſeeing Timocate, we are really tired of performing it. We run the riſque of forgetting all our other pieces, and the ſtage will ſuſtain the greateſt in⯑jury. Permit us to repreſent ſomething elſe."’ This permiſſion was granted, and Timocrate was never afterwards performed at that theatre^*.

Nay, the circumſtance is ſtronger yet. When [338] this piece was in this extraordinary manner laid by at the theatre Au Marais. The company of the Hotel de Bourgogne, by infinite degrees the beſt per⯑formers, took it up; but there ſeems to have been facination in the ſtupid and impolic ſpeech of the actor juſt mentioned; for after two or three inef⯑fectual attempts to attract the audience they totally withdrew it.

Nevertheleſs Timocrate is well ſpoken of. T. CORNEILLE's friends adviſed him to ſtop there, for that his reputation was ratified. The king went to the theatre on purpoſe to ſee it, and ſpoke of it in the higheſt terms; and people in general began to declare that the retirement of the great CORNEILLE was no longer a loſs to the theatre. By what I can learn it was a cold regular piece, and owed half its ſucceſs to the idea that the great CORNEILLE was concerned in it; for ſo little did his friends con⯑tinue in opinion that it was his beſt production, that it is not among his works now printed, and I am told that it was loſt to the world ſoon after it was loſt to the theatre.

T. CORNEILLE's next piece, Berenice, a tra⯑gedy, was brought out in 1657; he brought out Commode in 1658, and Darius in 1659. Commode was the greateſt favourite of theſe three but they [339] all received a reputable degree of applauſe. The theatre, however, ſeemed at this time to want a counter balance in tragedy to the ſtrides that MO⯑LIERE was taking in comedy, and every intereſt was made, and at laſt effectually, to prevail on the great CORNEILLE to reſume his ſituation as ſu⯑preme director in the empire of MELPOMENE.

CHAP. XII. FROM CORNEILLE'S RETURN TO 1663.

AFTER Pertharite, CORNEILLE, as we have ſeen, retired from the ſtage; and as every material trait in the character of ſo great a man is of conſe⯑quence to the public, I hope it will not be con⯑ſidered as extraneous if we ſee how he employed his time.

Having been all his life a devout chriſtian, and particularly intimate with ſome Jeſuits, which body were ever remarkable for profound erudition and claſſical taſte, he undertook at their particular inſtance to tranſlate a celebrated work called The Imitation of Jeſus Chriſt, which he is allowed to have rendered very finely. It had prodigious ſucceſs, and made him ample amends in point of profit for the loſs he had ſuſtained by quitting the theatre. But the beſt judges agree that it was not a work properly in his ſtyle, and the nature, the ſimplicity, and the truth of the original, was loſt in that pomp and grandeur [341] that every where pervaded the great mind of COR⯑NEILLE.

FONTENELLE ſays, in the true ſtyle of a writer properly ſkilled in literary beauty, ‘"This book, though for grandeur and force the fineſt that ever came from the hand of man, has ſo little of the Evangeliſt that it cannot, like that, penetrate im⯑mediately to the heart, nor ſeize the mind with that force, ſo natural and tender, which ſome⯑times is greatly aſſiſted by a negligence of ſtyle^*."’ I hardly know if FONTENELLE complimented moſt himſelf, by the candour, or CORNEILLE by the truth of this obſervation.

It is not known whether it was by the perſuaſion of his friends, or through the bent of his own pro⯑penſities, which after all muſt have inclined him to⯑wards the ſtage, that CORNEILLE was induced once more to take up the pen as a theatrical writer. Both theſe conſiderations might probably have had ſome [342] weight, of which it is not impoſſible but MOLIERE's rapid progreſs towards dramatic fame in ſome de⯑gree accelerated the preponderance.

It is certain, however, that FOUQUET, ſuperin⯑tendant of the finances, applied very warmly to COR⯑NEILLE upon this occaſion, and that his application was backed by others in power; nay, when the poet complained that he ſhould find himſelf awkward in an employ to which he had been ſometime unac⯑cuſtomed, and remarked that he had not even thought of a ſubject, the financier, fertile in expe⯑dients, propoſed three ſubjects; the firſt of which he agreed to treat, the ſecond he recommended to his brother, and we have no account of what the third was, or whether it was adopted or not.

Oedipe, which had prodigious ſucceſs, completely reconciled CORNEILLE to the theatre and the pub⯑lic. La Toiſon D'or was performed in 1660; and here I am obliged already to remark that COR⯑NEILLE could not with all his merit reſiſt that furor for machinery and decoration which then raged in FRANCE; for on the contrary he allied himſelf with the very marquis DE SOURDEAC, of whom we have heard VOLTAIRE ſpeak with ſuch contempt.

The Toiſon D'or was performed originally at the [343] Chateau de Neubourg, in NORMANDY, at the ſeat of the marquis DE SOURDEAC, in honour of the mar⯑riage of LOUIS the Fourteenth, and the peace with SPAIN. This nobleman, beſides the perſons ne⯑ceſſary to execute the different departments of this ſpectacle, entertained five hundred gentlemen of that province for two months at his own expence, during which time the Toiſon D'or was repreſented every day.

In Sertorius, performed in 1662, CORNEILLE appeared more himſelf. It was greatly admired and deſervedly. It diſplays a magnificent portrait of Ro⯑man grandeur, in which the ſentiments, the manners, the very minds of thoſe ferocious heroes are de⯑picted in a ſtyle peculiarly vernacular; but, in⯑deed, in treating Roman ſubjects, CORNEILLE is every where at home. Marſhal TURENNE is ſaid to have exclaimed at the repreſentation of this piece, ‘"Where could CORNEILLE have learnt ſo per⯑fectly the art of war."’

BOILEAU, however, never contented, will have it that the ſcene between POMPEY and SERTORIUS, which FONTENELLE, who by the by was a better writer and a more ſenſible man, thinks one of the fineſt in the French language, did not deſerve to have been ſo much applauded. ‘"It is full of [344] ſpirit,"’ ſays he, ‘"I grant; but it has neither reaſon nor nature to ſupport it, for who to SERTORIUS, an old and experienced captain, would compare POMPEY, who is hardly man enough to have a beard^*."’

Sophoniſba was the next tragedy produced by CORNEILLE; it came out in 1663. This ſubject had been treated frequently on the French theatre, and there can be no doubt but the original model was a tragedy, under the ſame title, written in Ita⯑lian by the Prelate TRISSINO, ſo early as 1514, af⯑terwards [345] imitated by MARMET, MONCHRETIEN, DE MONTREUX, and MAIRET, or, as has been already explained, VIAUD THEOPHILE, which laſt piece kept the ſtage with celebrity.

On this account CORNEILLE has been blamed for bringing out a tragedy on the ſame ſubject, and, indeed, envy, at the ſucceſs of MAIRET, has been kindly conſidered as his motive; but not only the known character of CORNEILLE contradicts this invidious report, it is completely refuted by his own declaration, in which he pays a compliment to his predeceſſor more flattering to his reputation than the play was capable of procuring him, and which he ought to have been very proud of, even van⯑quiſhed as he was by his more able competitor.

But let us look after MOLIERE. It ſhould be known that MOLIERE occupied with his company, a third theatre Au Petit Bourbon, with the permiſſion of the king, where he performed alternately with the Italians, of whom I ſhall at a proper time give the hiſtory. This theatre was afterwards pulled down to build the grand entrance to the Louvre, and the king then took him into the Palais Royal, firſt called his company La Troupe de Monſieur, and afterwards La Troupe du Roi.

[346] La Cocu Imaginaire came out in 1660. This little piece is taken from an Italian comedy callled It Cornuto per Opinione. It was performed forty times in ſucceſſion, though in ſummer and during the abſence of the court^*.

Don Garcia de Navarre was produced in 1661, MOLIERE performed the part of DON GAR⯑CIA; and finding that ſerious acting was by no means his forte, had the good ſenſe to make a re⯑ſolution not to perform any but comic parts from that time. This piece, which was a heroic co⯑medy, though chaſtely written, did not ſucceed; and the reputation of MOLIERE, through the in⯑duſtry of his enemies, of whom he had at all times undeſervedly a plentiful number, ſuffered for a time from this diſgrace. A ſhort time, however, for the ſucceſs of his next piece amply conſoled him for the mortification he had ſuſtained by the fall of this.

[347] L'Ecole des Maris made its appearance in 1661. It was the firſt piece that MOLIERE brought out at the theatre du Palais Royal, and the firſt that he printed. In quality of chief of the company of Monſieur, he, therefore, dedicated it to that prince.

This comedy, which ſerved as a model for Engliſh and other authors, is taken from a Tale by BOCACE, which every body knows. The only dif⯑ference in the two plots is that, in BOCACE, a wo⯑man in love with a young man makes her confeſſor the go-between, who carries letters and preſents un⯑der an idea that he ſerves the purpoſes of devotion; and, in MOLIERE, an old man is ſubſtituted for the confeſſor, who is duped in the ſame manner by a girl he is in love with and to whom he is the tutor.

L'Ecole des Femmes, MOLIERE's next comedy, was performed for the firſt time in 1662. So di⯑vided began to be the French at this time as to MOLIERE; that under the idea, probably, of his commencing ARISTOPHANES, and iſſuing perſon⯑alities from the ſtage, whereas he in fact perſonated men only by perſonating manners, he ſuſtained all ſorts of affronts. The public were extremely di⯑vided as to the merit of this play. It gained ground, however, and brought a great deal of money. Theſe [346] [...] [347] [...] [348] cabals induced MOLIERE in the following year to write a piece which he called L'Critique de L'Ecole des Femmes.

This piece was the firſt of the kind that ever appeared on the French theatre. It is rather a dialogue than a comedy; MOLIERE, however, is to be commended for having written it, for he very happily, while he points out the faults of his play, turns its enemies into ridicule. The Mercure Galant, conducted by a man of the name of VISE, who was conſtantly ſticking in MOLIERE's ſkirts, has the kindneſs thus to criticiſe this piece by anticipation.

‘"We are to ſee in a ſhort time a piece entitled La Critique de L'Ecole des Femmes, where the au⯑thor, ſoi diſant, is to enumerate all the faults in his piece, and to excuſe them at the ſame time. Curious, that a man ſhould take ſo much pains to defend a piece which is not his own, but written by the Abbé du BUISSON, who is one of the moſt gallant men of the age. But MOLIERE has the audicity to deny this. He ſays that the Abbé certainly did write a piece on this ſubject and bring it to him, and that he could not help allowing it conſiderable merit, though he had his reaſons for not performing it. What does all this ſay? That this cunning comedian, whoſe beſt merit is to know how to take advantage, diſ⯑cerned [349] in the Abbé's piece ſomething that could pleaſe the public, and ſo palmed it upon them as his own."’

The Abbé might have written a piece upon this ſubject, but it was perfectly unneceſſary that MO⯑LIERE ſhould copy that piece, for he had only to go to the ſame ſource where the Abbé derived his ma⯑terials, which was a book entitled Le Nuits facetieuſes du Seigneur Straparole; which is a hiſtory of a man who communicates to his friend all that paſſes be⯑tween him and his miſtreſs, not knowing that his friend is his rival.

But it now became pitiable to ſee pieces on the theatres in the ſhape of disjointed critiques; and really it is to be regretted that MOLIERE, in imi⯑tation of the ſun when the flies wanted to put him out, did not ſhine on inſtead of condeſcending to notice the ſwarm of tiny critics that ſurrounded him. As it was, the cabal againſt him, though it did not injure him, gave him great inconvenience, and more than one critique, which would have died away forgotten, became noticeable to the public by his pointing it out.

BOURSAULT, a writer of real merit, and who was now coming forward, took occaſion to render [350] himſelf popular by bringing out at the Hotel de Bourgogne, a piece called Le Portrait du Peintre, which was not only a critique of L'Ecole des Femmes, but produced at the ſame time; and contained, as far as he could learn or imagine, the ſame matter of MOLIERE's piece under that title^*.

MOLIERE now began really to be piqued, and he brought out in the ſame year his Inpromptû de Verſailles, levelled directly at BOURSAULT, whom he treated with the greateſt contempt and deriſion; reſerving to himſelf, however, a degree of nobleneſs; for this contempt, and this deriſion went no further than the genius and talents of BOURSAULT, whereas BOURSAULT has deſcended in his ſtrictures on MO⯑LIERE to attack his private character.

This piece alſo is a moſt ſevere and ſucceſsful ſatire on the performers at the Hotel de Bourgogne, whom MOLIERE conſiders as having inſtigated BOURSAULT to ridicule him; and, indeed, though [351] no one could commend this ſpirit of party between two bodies whoſe buſineſs was only to entertain the public, yet MOLIERE received and deſerved great praiſe for the able manner in which he conducted this controverſy; for, in anſwer to their pityful invec⯑tives which he ſcorned to imitate, he contented him⯑ſelf with pointing out their faults as performers, par⯑ticularly the ſleepy monotony of their declamation, which he did with ſuch judgment that the ridicule which followed this diſcovery drove them into a cor⯑ner and they were obliged to correct their faults or be laughed at; and thus MOLIERE, in reſenting a private injury, did a public benefit.

BOURSAULT, whom I ſhall now introduce, was one of thoſe extraordinary proofs that ſhew us how infinitely genius ranks before education. He was born at BOURGOGNE in 1638, and died in PARIS in 1701. We find him at the age of twenty-three bringing out ſucceſsful comedies, and two years afterwards entering into a controverſy with a man of MOLIERE's wonderful talents, though he could ſpeak nothing but a provincial jargan called Patois, no more like French than Erſe or Iriſh is to Engliſh, at thirteen, and had then firſt to learn to write, and afterwards to chuſe what language he ſhould write in.

[352]It was not long, however, after he came to PARIS, which was in 1651, before he taught himſelf to write and ſpeak French elegantly; and, what may appear very extraordinary, without knowing a word of Greek or Latin, his ſtyle was fraught with the native purity of the ancients. But I cannot find any thing irreconcileable in this. Nature taught them, nature taught him. Neither they nor he had been tainted with the foppery of the ſchools.

His conception was ſo ſtrong, his ideas were ſo true, and his fancy was ſo pliant, that he had nothing to do but to think and write. His happy genius accommodated itſelf to every ſtyle. His tragedies manifeſt a firm mind and a ſtrength of conception equal to a deſcription of the nobleſt paſſions. His comedies contain lively pictures of men and man⯑ners ſuitable ſo all ranks, all ages, and all times. He is ſerious, comic, moral, and lively without vio⯑lating the rules of taſte.

It muſt now be recollected that I am ſpeaking of his beſt and lateſt productions. In his early ones, there is certainly, and it would be wonderful if there were not a great deal of traſh; but there are traits of genius every where, and he arrived at laſt to a taſte ſo pure, and a ſtyle ſo chaſte, that ‘"he was [353] correct without affectation,"’ to uſe the words of various French writers, ‘"and ought to be conſidered as the literary lawgiver to the language of that nation."’

There is ſomething ſo peculiar in a character of this deſcription that I cannot help dwelling on BOURSAULT a little longer. His fame ſoon reached the court, and having at the expreſs deſire of LOUIS the Fourteenth, written a book called La Veritable Etude des Soverains, by the way a bold undertaking, the king was ſo charmed with it that he appointed him preceptor of Monſeigneur, but he could not ratify the appointment becauſe BOURSAULT knew nothing of Latin, an indiſpenſible qualification for that poſt.

The Ducheſs of ANGOULEME made BOUR⯑SAULT her ſecretary, and engaged him to write a Weekly Gazette in verſe. LOUIS and his court were greatly entertained with this work, but BOUR⯑SAULT having aimed ſome ſatiric tracts againſt the Franciſcans in general, and the Capucins in parti⯑cular, the queen's confeſſor uſed ſuch powerful in⯑tereſt that the Gazette was ſuppreſſed, and the au⯑thor's penſion of two thouſand livres taken away, and had not very high friends interfered this poetical newſmonger would have gone to the Baſtile.

[354]All the time BOURSAULT had this controverſy with MOLIERE, in which there is certainly a great deal of the vivacity and folly of a young man, he had beſides his Portrait du Peintre, brought out three pieces, all which ſucceeded. They had, however, glaring faults, but gave wonderful promiſe of ſome⯑thing better.

CHAP. XIII. FURTHER SUCCESS AND DEATH OF MOLIERE.

AS MOLIERE's career for the next ten years, at the end of which he died, makes up a very brilliant interval in the French dramatics, I ſhall follow it unmixed with any other circumſtances but ſuch as reſult from it, in order to do every juſtice to a man of ſuch uncommon merit.

La Princeſſe D'Elide was performed in 1664, and made up a part of thoſe ſuperb entertainments which LOUIS the fourteenth, in compliment to his mother and his own queen, gave under the title of Des Plaiſirs L'Iſle enchantée. Theſe fetes, which continued ſeven days, and were conducted with great magnificence and taſte, united all that could be got together of the true and the marvellous, in ſhort, a kind of entremets regulated and diſpoſed ſo as not to outrage the underſtanding. The Italian VIGARANI, an ingenious mechaniſt, furniſhed the decorations, the celebrated LULLY compoſed [356] the muſic, the Preſident de PERIGNY wrote the complimentary odes, BENSERADE produced a va⯑riety of light and lively eulogiums, and MOLIERE introduced this comedy, all which, with the aſſiſtance of various appropriate devices and well timed ap⯑plications, contributed to render this fête very celebrated.

The king gave MOLIERE but a very ſhort time to prepare his comedy. He borrowed the fable from Auguſtin Moreta, and was ſo preſſed that he could only put the firſt act and part of the ſecond into verſe.

Le Mariage Forcé was performed in 1664. This piece originally came out at the Louvre, ac⯑companied by a ballet under the ſame title, in which LOUIS the fourteenth danced^*.

[357] Le Feſtin de Pierre made its appearance as written by MOLIERE in 1665. This ſtrange ſub⯑ject has been ſo often treated, and in ſo many lan⯑guages and ſhapes, that it is unneceſſary to ſay much about it. It was firſt brought out on the Italian ſtage, afterwards on the Spaniſh, then on the French, by at leaſt five authors, MOLIERE and T. COR⯑NEILLE two of them, and at laſt the Engliſh, whoſe good ſenſe would have revolted at witneſſing a re⯑preſentation of it in dialogue, have contented themſelves with ſeeing this abominable ſubject danced throughout the kingdom from the opera to all the puppet ſhews. MOLIERE has nevertheleſs thrown great ſtrength and beauty into this horrid piece, on purpoſe, one ſhould imagine, to ſhew that the worſt ſubject may be treated well by a good maſter of his art.

L'Amour Medecin came out in 1665. MOLIERE all his life had been an enemy to all the tribe of GALEN. His motives have been variouſly attri⯑buted, but it is moſt probable that they originated from his inveterate hatred to every ſpecies of hy⯑pocricy. [358] He defines a phyſician to be a man who chatters nonſenſe in the bed-chambers of the ſick either till nature has cured, or phyſic killed the pa⯑tient. To give this piece all the effect he could, MOLIERE had maſques which were likeneſſes of all the court phyſicians, and thoſe he wore as he repre⯑ſented different medical characters.

The names alſo pointed out who were meant. Desfonandres, which ſignifies man-killer, was meant for De FOUGERAIS, who always preſcribed violent medicines; Bahis, which ſignifies to yelp, was de⯑ſigned for M. ESPRIT, who ſtuttered; Macraton was pointed at GUENAUT, becauſe he ſpoke remarkably ſlow; and Tomés which means a bleeder, was le⯑velled at D'AQUIN, who upon all occaſions ordered phlebotomy.

Le Miſanthrope in five acts, and in verſe, was performed for the firſt time in 1666. This piece failed at its firſt repreſentation; but MOLIERE with⯑drew it and brought it forward again in a month preceded by the Fagotier, or Médecin malgre lui; which had ſuch ſucceſs that it was performed three months in ſucceſſion, but always with The Miſan⯑thrope. The farce ſaved the comedy.

This play, however, ſoon made its way by its [359] own proper merit. It has not only been conſidered as the beſt of MOLIERE's productions but the beſt comedy ever written; but enthuſiaſtic praiſe is in general an injury to authors. MOLIERE's enemies who could not bear this warmth in his adherents, ſet themſelves to work every way to lower his piece in the opinion of the public. Ridiculou [...]y enough, however, and without ſucceſs^*.

Melicerte, a heroic paſtoral, made its appearance in 1666. MOLIERE wrote only the firſt and ſecond acts of this piece, and in that unfiniſhed ſtate it was performed at St. GERMAIN. It was afterwards en⯑larged by GUERIN, ſon to the actor of that name, but neither then, nor before, was it conſidered as a dramatic production of much conſequence.

Le Tartuffe, a comedy in five acts, and in verſe, came out in 1667. Nothing, perhaps, ever made more noiſe than this comedy; nor was ever thea⯑trical repreſentation more ſeverely perſecuted. Fops, phyſicians, miſers, fools, and other general [360] characters, were even ſeen to laugh at themſelves, and kiſs the very hand from which they received their caſtigation; but hypocrites are a ſpecies of men, more vindictive and more numerous, conſe⯑quently more ſevere and more powerful.

The hypocrites took this comedy as a decla⯑ration of war againſt human nature; for where is there to be found, ſaid they, a body of men among whom hypocricy is not practiſed? In ſhort this ex⯑poſition was a crime not to be pardoned, and the piece was beſet with an induſtry and ſeverity incre⯑dible. It was artfully inſinuated that it attacked re⯑ligion; that the Tartuffe was an impious inſult againſt GOD himſelf; that it was abominable, and that it ought to be burnt by the hands of the hangman.

The three firſt acts of the Tartuffe having been privately repreſented before the king on the twelfth of May, 1664, his majeſty defended MO⯑LIERE againſt his perſecutors, and that this might have the better colour, he ordered that the piece ſhould be examined by the moſt celebrated writers of the time, whoſe determination in its favour he beſpoke by ſaying that he himſelf ſound nothing in it but what was perfectly harmleſs, and, indeed, meritorious.

The hypocrites finding MOLIERE ſo greatly [361] ſupported, were indefatigable to procure a cabal againſt the Tartuffe; for they inſiſted, after all, that neither kings nor learned men, but the public alone, were to judge of dramatic repreſentations.—Devo⯑tees were conſulted, who being generally weak men, joined ſincerely in a cauſe which they thought did honour to religion and virtue. A poor infatuated curate undertook, at all hazards, to pronounce that it was a work full of profaneneſs and impiety, and that in quality of prieſt he had a right to anathema⯑tize the author.

The king, on the other hand, permitted the piece to be performed, but in order to qualify the matter—for though he diſapproved of his people's folly, he wiſhed to conciliate their affection—he adviſed that it ſhould be called L'impoſteur, and that the prin⯑cipal character ſhould appear as one of the laiety^*.

[362]MOLIERE read the Tartuffe, before its repre⯑ſentation, to Madam NINON DE L'ENCLOS, who taſted its drift in a very ſenſible and competent manner. She ſaid that this ſpecies of hypocricy had been her particular ſtudy, that nothing could be ſo meritorious as to detect it; and enlarged upon the ſubject with ſo much judgment and ex⯑perience, that MOLIERE declared ſhe was more ca⯑pable of treating it than he was^*.

[363]Though MOLIERE founded his character of the Tartuffe upon hypocriſy and bigotry in general, yet it is univerſally allowed that the Abbe ROQUOTTE, Biſhop of Autun, ſat for the portrait, and that thoſe particulars in his character, of which MOLIERE was ignorant, were furniſhed by DESPREAUX, not imme⯑diately in communication to MOLIERE, but through a letter, written however expreſsly for his informa⯑tion, and addreſſed to Monſieur GUILLERAGNES.

On the ſecond repreſentation of the Tartuffe, there came an order of parliament for its ſuppreſſion. The court, for probably political reaſons, did not imme⯑diately interfere; but, however, two years afterwards, the king gave a peremptory order that it ſhould be performed, which order was never after diſputed.

[364]MOLIERE was now flattered by his enemies. The oppoſers of the Tartuffe either pretended to eſpouſe its intereſt, or retired diſcomfited, and in diſgrace.—While, however, the public clamour ran high, it is inconceivable how loudly this comedy was repro⯑bated. The famous Father BOURDALOUE preached againſt it, and as ſuch a circumſtance has ſomething uncommon in it, I ſhall extract a paſſage from his ſermon^*.

‘"As,"’ ſays he,

To the confuſion, however, of thoſe prieſts who wrote againſt the Tartuffe, many others countenanced it as a moſt valuable work, which placed virtue in its right light, and cenſured none but thoſe who felt themſelves pointed at as hypocrites and bigots.

But nothing can prove ſo ſtrongly the abſurdity of this conduct as the toleration given at this time to other dramatic pieces, which were really full of impiety. In a piece called Scaramouche Hermite, an anchoret, dreſſed like a monk, pays a viſit to a married woman's bed-chamber by a ladder of ropes, and, like RANGER's ‘"Up I go,"’ as he aſcends, re⯑peats very ludicriouſly Queſto per mortificar le carne.

During the ſuſpenſion of the Tartuffe, this piece [366] was one night performed in the preſence of the king, who, on quitting his box, ſaid to the great CONDE, ‘'I ſhould be glad to know why thoſe who think themſelves ſo ſcandalized by MOLIERE's Tartuffe, ſhould ſo quietly ſuffer, nay even loudly applaud Scaramouche Hermite?'’ ‘"For the beſt reaſon in the world, Sire,"’ anſwered the prince, ‘"Scara⯑mouch only laughs at religion, which theſe holy gentlemen do not care a farthing about; but the Tartuffe laughs at themſelves, which they can never forgive."’

Le Sicilien was performed in 1667, and written by MOLIERE to retrieve that reputation which he fancied he had loſt by joining with BENSERADE and others, as we have ſeen in the productions of ſuch pieces as were merely written to aſſiſt machinery and decoration. The Sicilien is a charming trifle, and was greatly received.

Amphitrion appeared in 1668. This ſubject, which had been frequently treated ſince PLAUTUS, and by ROTROU in particular, with great judgment, proved, even in the hands of MOLIERE, of an un⯑favourable nature. We have ſeen it on our ſtage, and every body knows its indelicate tendency. Even in FRANCE it revolted the audience, though every body admired the poetry. Madame DACIER wrote a diſertation to prove that the Amphitrion of PLAU⯑TUS [367] was greatly ſuperior to that of MOLIERE; but upon hearing that MOLIERE intended to produce his Femmes Sçavantes, ſhe thought proper to ſup⯑preſs it.

George Dandin was brought out in 1668; firſt before the king at VERSAILLES, with airs and muſic, and afterwards at PARIS merely as a comedy. This piece, which was irreſiſtably laughable, had conſi⯑derable ſucceſs^*.

L'Avare, in five acts, made its appearance alſo in 1668. This celebrated comedy had very nearly been damned becauſe it was written in proſe, the very reaſon which ought to have enſured its ſucceſs; for as no man wrote more naturally than MOLIERE, ſo his verſe, though admirable for French poetry, took off all the ſpirit and warmth of the dialogue; a fault attributable, without exception, to all the French writers of comedy in verſe. L'Avare, how⯑ever, after a time became a great favourite, and was variouſly tranſlated for the purpoſe of exhibition in other countries.

[368] Pourceaugnac, in three acts, was performed in 1669. It was interſperſed with dances and ſongs. The muſic by LULLY^*.

Les Amans Magnifique, in five acts, in proſe, made its firſt appearance in 1670, with ſinging and dancing. The muſic by LULLY.

BENSERADE had attacked MOLIERE on account of the jealouſy that had taken place at the time of the Fete at VERSAILLES in 1664. This begat a quarrel, which at different times broke out and ſub⯑ſided; till, at length, MOLIERE determined to take a pleaſant revenge. BENSERADE was protected by a nobleman of the higheſt rank, who had often ſcornfully inſiſted that MOLIERE could not write ſuch verſes as BENSERADE. When, therefore, MOLIERE brought out his Amans Magnifique, he wrote one entire ſcene ſo much in the manner of BENSERADE that his patron, believing it abſolutely to be his, declared that MOLIERE did well to court the aſſiſtance, of a writer ſo ſuperior to himſelf. In the interim, BENSERADE, conſcious that he had no hand in it, did not know how to act. At laſt he bra⯑zened it out and received the compliments of all his [369] patron's friends with as much ſatisfaction as if he had really been the author of the ſcene; till MOLIERE, who watched for this opportunity, declared publicly that BENSERADE had neither written, nor been con⯑cerned any way in the piece, and thus held up both the poet and his patron to public ridicule.

Pſyché, a kind of tragi-comedy, in five acts, in⯑terſperſed with ſongs and dances, was performed in 1670.

MOLIERE wrote only the firſt act, part of the ſecond, and part of the third of this piece, the reſt was written by the great CORNEILLE, QUINAULT, and other friends. The muſic was compoſed by LULLY. It was written for the king, and there was ſo little time allowed, that MOLIERE was obliged to call in the aſſiſtance of theſe allies.

Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme firſt appeared in 1670. It had prodigious ſucceſs, and has always been con⯑ſidered as one of the moſt celebrated plays on the French theatre^*.

[370] Les Fourberies de Scapin, in three acts, and in proſe, was brought out in 1671. This piece is no⯑thing more than one of thoſe farces improved, which MOLIERE wrote in PROVINCE, under the title of Gorgibus dans le Sac. The wits were very ſevere againſt MOLIERE when this piece came out. BOI⯑LEAU, who ſeems never to have been pleaſed in his life, inſerted in his Art of Poetry theſe lines:

This piece was taken partly from the Phormio of TERENCE, and partly from one of the pieces of a farce writer called TABARIN, with which circum⯑ſtance in another place BOILEAU reproaches MO⯑LIERE in theſe words: ‘D'avoir, a TERENCE, allie TABARIN.’

He was alſo accuſed of having ſtolen two ſcenes from the Pedant Joué of CYRANO; but he anſwered [371] to this that he originally lent theſe ſcenes to CYRANO, and that it was lawful for a man to take his own goods wherever he might find them. The fact is, by intro⯑ducing proſe, he endeavoured to introduce nature; and, therefore, diſpleaſed a people who delighted in every thing artificial.

Les Femmes Sçavantes, a comedy in five acts, and in verſe, was produced in 1672, and very ſhortly be⯑came celebrated. A combination of circumſtances induced MOLIERE to write this play. He had been peſtered with ſo many ignorant and vain ſtrictures, which were levelled at him entirely from malignant and envious motives, that he reſolved to revenge him⯑ſelf; a propenſity, by the by, that he oftener in⯑dulged than was either wiſe or prudent^*.

[372] Le Comteſſe D'Eſcarbagnas, a piece in one act, was brought out in 1672, and intended as a pleaſant ridicule of provincial manners. It revolted thoſe who, like COTIN, affected to have taſte, but the public in general admitted it as a fair and merited laugh againſt peculiarity and abſurdity.

Le Malade Imaginaire, the laſt production from the pen of MOLIERE, and generally allowed to be the moſt perfect, appeared in February 1673. Its ſucceſs, which had been warm and univerſal, was in⯑terrupted on hits third repreſentation by a moſt fatal accident; indeed nothing leſs than the death of the author. MOLIERE had been long afflicted with an aſthmatic complaint which he encreaſed by intenſe application to the duties of his ſituation^*. He was [373] more than uſually incommoded on the day he died, and his friends entreated him, his wife, and his friend BARON in particular, to take repoſe. ‘"What,"’ ſaid he, with that philanthrophy which was the peculiar mark of his private character, ‘"is to become of ſo many poor wretches who ſcarcely get bread by my means? I ſhould reproach myſelf were I to neglect them for a ſingle day."’

He grew better about noon, and prepared for the performance; and by the time he appeared on the theatre, the concern of his friends was a good deal diſſipated. His efforts, however, to give effect to his part, viſibly augmented his complaint; and when in the divertiſſement in the third act, he pronounced the word juro, he fell into a ſtrong convulſion. He was immediately carried home; where, in ſpight of every aſſiſtance and attention, he grew worſe; till having fallen into a violent fit of coughing, he irrupted a veſſel and was inſtantly ſuffocated with blood.

MOLIERE being dead, the actors were deter⯑mined to bury him with unexampled magnificence. HARLAI, archbiſhop of PARIS, would not, however, conſent to his having chriſtian burial. The wife of MOLIERE, as ſoon as ſhe heard this, went to VER⯑SAILLES and threw herſelf at the feet of the king, [372] [...] [373] [...] [374] and complained in the bittereſt terms of the injury done to the memory of her huſband, who, ſhe ſaid, deſerved an altar raiſed to him, for that he had ſerved the cauſe of morality more than a hundred biſhops. The king gently reproved her, and told her that the matter depended entirely on the archbiſhop, but pro⯑miſed to ſee what could be done; which promiſe he ſo well kept, that HARLAI the next day revoked his decree, upon condition that the ceremony ſhould be performed privately and without eclat.

Two prieſts were appointed to conduct the fu⯑neral, but forbid to ſing, leſt the matter ſhould be made too public. This injunction, however, had no effect, for a prodigious concourſe of friends with flambeaux attended MOLIERE to the grave, his wife at their head exclaiming as ſhe went ‘"No wonder hypocrites ſhould refuſe the rights of ſepulture to a man who was all his life a ſcourge to hypocrites^*.’

Excluſive of the pieces enumerated here, MO⯑LIERE wrote, at the time his company performed at PROVENCE, ſeveral farces, the matter of which, how⯑ever, or at leaſt a great part of it, he took into his different comedies.

The rank MOLIERE held in literature has been [375] long eſtimated and decided. We have nothing to do but to compare his works with whatever we know of, perfect and admirable, in the ancients, and we ſhall find him in every point of view riſing greatly ſuperior to them all. He has all the pointed ſeverity of ARISTOPHANES, without his wickedneſs and his malignity; he has to the beauty, the fidelity, the por⯑traiture of MENANDER, added higher and more finiſhed graces of his own; he has the nerve and ſtrength of PLAUTUS without his groſſneſs and his obſcenity; and he has a thouſand times more ele⯑gance from nature and genius, aſſiſted by philoſophic obſervation, than TERENCE.

Nature, and the abſurdities of the age in which he lived, ſupplied him with an inexhauſtible ſource of materials. Comedy took a new form in his hands, and became a ſcourge for the vices and follies of all ranks, to the truth of which all were implicitly obliged to ſubſcribe; and there can be but little doubt, if he could have written independantly, and have been independantly attended, but he would have carried comedy, true comedy as correct as it can be defined, to a higher degree of perfection than any author has done either before or ſince.

MOLIERE, however, was a reformer; and reformers in any way dare not innovate all at once. Could he have done this, he would have written no dialogue in verſe, he would have made his characters at once [376] ſpeak the language of nature. But there are higher crimes to accuſe him of. Pure morality would proba⯑bly have been laughed at by a people full of intrigue and given up to every licentiouſneſs; on this account, and I moſt ſincerely believe on no other, did MO⯑LIERE introduce his naive and natural humour, his ſtrong remarks, and his ſterling truths, through me⯑diums which neither his heart nor his underſtand⯑ing at all times approved.

To make children ridicule their parents, deride their obſervations, laugh at their age, and inſult their infirmities, are circumſtances true comedy ſhould re⯑ject with contempt; to introduce adultery, and en⯑deavour, by ſubtle devices and inſinuating perſuaſion, to imprint on young minds a love of vice, is revolt⯑ing to true comedy; to recommend knavery, by giv⯑ing it a faſhionable air, and permitting it at laſt to triumph over ſimplicity and honeſty, has nothing to do with true comedy; ‘"but,"’ ſays a French author, ‘"MOLIERE, though truly honourable, was an actor and a manager. It was therefore neceſſary he ſhould think of the receipt of the houſe, and this receipt too often impoſed ſilence on his veracity, and of courſe diminiſhed his real glory. It was neceſſary to make the pit laugh. Oh that ſo great a genius ſhould be ſunk to ſo low a degree of humiliation."’

If, however, vice, through MOLIERE, became at times winning and ſeducing, he did not fail at other [377] times to expoſe it to contempt and ridicule; but, whenever he did ſo, it was ſure to raiſe him up a hoſt of enemies. This, in his dependent ſituation, as we have ſeen, gave him throughout his life a thouſand vexations, and induced him ſometimes to conform to the age rather than revolt againſt it. In ſhort, when he conſidered himſelf merely as a poet, he fell into the errors of poets; when as a philoſopher, he ſhone with all the truth of a moraliſt, and the dignity of a man.

For the reſt. As an actor he poſſeſſed a noble figure, a marking and an expreſſive face, and a clear and commanding voice; through theſe he conveyed the utmoſt force of comic expreſſion into his cha⯑racters, regulated by an underſtanding correct, powerful, and commanding. As a manager he made it the ſtudy of his life to conſider the intereſt of all thoſe who were embarked with him in his under⯑taking, according to their reſpective abilities. He tempered authority with indulgence, determination with affability, and conſidered himſelf at the head of his company, as the father of a family by whom he was beloved and revered.

As a man, he was an affectionate huſband and a warm friend; honeſt, punctual, and juſt. He was admired by the great, eſteemed and valued by his equals, and almoſt adored by his inferiors, to whom as far as his abilities permitted, he was a generous benefactor.

CHAP. XIX. RACINE AND THE STAGE TO THE DEATH OF CORNEILLE.

AS RACINE ran the principal part of his career during the life of CORNEILLE, it would be totally out of regularity to omit an account of that ad⯑mirable poet and his works in this place; eſpecially as the new turn he gave to dramatic productions, inclined, in ſome meaſure, his fluctuating country⯑men to neglect his great competitor, whoſe infinitely ſuperior abilities had created what remained for RA⯑CINE to perfect.

JEAN RACINE was born at FERTE-MILON, De⯑cember, 1639. At what age he went to ſchool hiſ⯑torians are not agreed upon; but one ſhould ſup⯑poſe not very young, for it is inſiſted that in leſs than a year he read Sophocles, and Euripides, with taſte in their own language. He is ſaid to have manifeſted early in life an extraordinary genius for poetry, and that his memory ſurpaſſed any thing that ever was heard of^*.

[379]The poetic merit of RACINE appeared evidently in a variety of minor productions, though his Latin poetry injured his reputation, thanks, probably, to thoſe pedants who are the only judges of the beauty of a language no longer ſpoken. At length, in 1660, the king's marriage ſet all the poets at work; and upon this occaſion RACINE produced a poem called La Nymphe de la Scine, that bore away the palm from all its competitors. RACINE from this time deli⯑vered himſelf up entirely to poetry, except when out of complaiſance to his uncle, with whom he lived, he dipped into theology. Neither that ſtudy, how⯑ever, nor logic, to which he had deeply attended, could prevent him from giving way to his poetic propenſity; and becoming acquainted with MO⯑LIERE, and afterwards with BOILEAU, he deter⯑mined to try his hand at the drama.

Thébaide, RACINE's firſt piece, came out in 1664, for which piece MOLIERE is ſaid to have furniſhed him with the materials. This, however, cannot be true, for when it appeared it was little more than a reviſion of L'Antigone of ROTROU, which RACINE had adjuſted to the theatre, thinking he could not do better than reſcue a good performance from obſcu⯑rity. Afterwards, however, he altered it conſidera⯑bly, and with the aſſiſtance of his verſe, which was at all times correct and harmonious, it became ce⯑lebrated.

[380] Alexandre appeared in 1666. RACINE read this tragedy to CORNEILLE, who told him very honeſtly, for CORNEILLE was incapable of jealouſy, that he ſaw in it wonderful talents for poetry, but not for tra⯑gedy. RACINE brought out this piece at MOLIERE's theatre. It was damned. He was afterwards pre⯑vailed on to offer it to the Hotel de Bourgogne; where, with aſſiſtance of Madmoiſelle PARC, one of MO⯑LIERE's beſt actreſſes who was enticed away from him upon this occaſion, it had good ſucceſs. This treachery begat a coldneſs between MOLIERE and RACINE which laſted as long as they lived, though it has always been allowed they upon all occaſions did each other juſtice as authors.

Andromache came out in 1667. This tragedy is re⯑markable for having occaſioned two extraordinary cir⯑cumſtances. Madamoiſelle CHAMPEMELE, of whom RACINE had a very indifferent opinion, ſo won him that he fell violently in love with her; and MONT⯑FLEURY, in endeavouring to perſonate ORESTES in his madneſs, which required the moſt ſtrenuous ex⯑ertions, was taken ſo ill that he ſoon after died.

Les Plaideurs, a comedy in three acts and in verſe, made its appearance in 1668. This is RACINE's only attempt at comedy. A domeſtic circumſtance is ſaid to have given riſe to the ſtory, and the characters, as we are told, are all from real life. This comedy had little ſucceſs at firſt. MOLIERE, however, did it [381] juſtice, and ſaid, that thoſe who railed at that co⯑medy ought to be railed at themſelves. At length the king ſaw it and ſpoke favourably of it, after which it did tolerably well.

Britannicus was performed in 1669. This piece in ſpight of its merit failed on its eighth repreſenta⯑tion. RACINE uſhered it into the world with a pre⯑face in which he very imprudently treated COR⯑NEILLE with ſeverity; he, however, became ſenſi⯑ble of his error and afterwards ſuppreſſed it.

Bérénice came out in 1671. The ſiſter in-law of LOUIS the fourteenth, induced RACINE to write a piece on the parting of TITUS and BERENICE, that circumſtance having a reſemblance to the ſeparation of her and her brother. RACINE engaged too haſtily to comply with this requeſt, and BOILEAU told him that if he had been on the ſpot he ſhould not have given his word. The ſubject certainly was not a ſa⯑vourable one; and though, perhaps out of deſerence to thoſe whom it was intended to compliment, it was pretty well followed, yet it was parodied and quoted ſo ludicrouſly that RACINE, always very irritable, became truly ſorry he had written it.

Bajazet was brought forward in 1672. This tra⯑gedy had good ſucceſs, but there is ſcarcely an in⯑ſtance in all RACINE where character is not ſacri⯑ficed to verſification.

[382] Mithridate made its appearance in 1673. The Pulchérie of CORNEILLE, performed the year be⯑fore, which fell in ſpight of its author's great name, lifted RACINE into conſiderable fame; he brought out Mithridate when this great man, who had per⯑fected every ſpecies of dramatic entertainment in FRANCE, was ungratefully ſhunned and neglected. He might have ſaid with POMPEY, ‘"Doſt thou not ſee that all eyes are turned towards the riſing ſun!"’

Iphigene was performed in 1674. RACINE, and the new taſte he had introduced here gained ground and ſo completely conquered CORNEILLE and na⯑ture, that on the following year that great writer re⯑tired from the theatre. I ſhall, therefore, now take him up where I left him, and employ the ſhort re⯑mainder of this volume to ſpeak of him and his works.

Othon appeared in 1664. ‘"In which,"’ ſays FON⯑TENELLE, ‘"CORNEILLE has fairly placed TACITUS on the French ſtage."’ The Marſhal de GRAM⯑MONT ſaid, ‘"that in Othon CORNEILLE was the the breviary of kings."’ BOILEAU, however, who was at this time attached both to the writings and the perſon of RACINE, was not contented with this tra⯑gedy becauſe, perhaps, it had none of that tinſel with which he and others at that time corrupted the French taſte.

Ageſilas was performed in 1666. This piece is ſaid [383] by ſome not to have been written by CORNEILLE, but FONTENELLE contends that it was, and points out a ſcene that he ſays could not have been written by any body elſe. The controverſies about it, how⯑ever, prove that it came from no other pen^*.

Attila came out in 1667. CORNEILLE piqued at the preference given to RACINE by the company of the Hotel de Bourgogne, carried this tragedy to the Palais Royal, where MOLIERE received it with great ſatisfaction. The celebrated THORILLIERE performed Attila, and Madame MOLIERE repre⯑ſented Flavie. It was well received at firſt, but the gout for RACINE and declamation carried every thing before it, and Attila was ſoon neglected.

Tite et Berenice, repreſented in 1671, yielded [384] the victory to RACINE's tragedy under the ſame title. They were both written to pleaſe the vanity of a wo⯑man, and RACINE, being a perfect courtier and a young man ſucceeded beſt. It was impoſſible any thing but nature could dictate to CORNEILLE; RA⯑CINE perpetually ſuffered himſelf to be dictated to by the reigning taſte and his friend DESPREAUX.

Pulcherie, brought out in 1672, gave RACINE an⯑other triumph. There is, however, a ſtrength of cha⯑racter in it which RACINE never reached; but the tide of prejudice was now ſo ſtrong againſt COR⯑NEILLE that he ventured but one more play and then retired.

Suréne was that play. It was performed in 1674, and has ſome ſtrokes of the maſter which, perhaps, has not been ſince equalled; but it failed, and COR⯑NEILLE determined to retire from the buſy world and make up his mind to die like a man and a chriſtian^*.

CORNEILLE was at the height of his glory when he retired in 1653. The advantage taken of his ab⯑ſence to model the theatres to the rules of art, ſo enervated the drama, that what it gained on the ſide [385] of taſte and refinement, it loſt on the ſide of ſim⯑plicity and nature. The grandeur of tragedy in par⯑ticular ſunk after MOLIERE had taught them how to admire true comedy, and the ſoftneſs and effiminacy, introduced by RACINE, which, in proportion as it ſunk to mere ſtyle and regularity loſt ſight of the ſublime, enchained the theatre in the ſhackles of complaiſance and ſervility; till women, the univer⯑ſal rulers of French faſhions, became the arbiters of dramatic excellence, and the courtier bore away the victory from the philoſopher, who was now in deriſion called Old CORNEILLE.

He, however, proudly diſdained to adopt this new taſte. Not becauſe he could not have excelled RA⯑CINE, nor becauſe his age had enfeebled his mind—both of which obſervations have been urged againſt him—for in thoſe ſcenes of Pſyche, which he wrote, but did not acknowledge, he has purpoſely aban⯑doned himſelf to an exceſs of tenderneſs which RA⯑CINE would have found it difficult to imitate.

CORNEILLE was of a portly ſtature, he had an agreeable countenance, a large noſe, a handſome mouth, and eyes full of fire; the whole effect lively, and marking, and proper to be tranſmitted to poſ⯑terity either in a medal or a buſt. He knew, as a perfect maſter, Les Belles Lettres, hiſtory, politics, and every other elegant and erudite ſtudy; but his great and favourite object was the theatre; for any [386] thing elſe he had neither leiſure, nor curioſity, nor much eſteem. He ſpoke, even on ſubjects he well underſtood, diffidently, and to know the great CORNEILLE he muſt be read.

He was grave, but never ſour; his humour was plain, but never rude; he was a kind huſband, a fond parent and a faithful friend. His temperament in⯑clined him to love, but never to libertiſm. He had a firm and independent mind, without ſuppleneſs, but was little calculated to make a fortune at a French court^*, whoſe manners he deſpiſed. He was ſenſible of praiſe, but he deteſted flattery; diffident of his own merit, and forward to encourage the merit of others. To great natural probity, he joined a fervid but not a bigotted love of religion; and, indeed, ſuch was his public talents, and his private virtues, that it is diffi⯑cult to ſay which was predominent in this truly great and juſtly celebrated character, the man, or the writer.