It is natural for a writer, who is about to submit his
works to the Publick, to feel a strong inclination, by some Preliminary Address, to
conciliate the favour of his reader, and dispose him, if possible, to peruse them
with a favourable eye. I am well aware, however, that his endeavours are generally
fruitless: in his situation our hearts revolt from all appearance of confidence, and
we consider his diffidence as hypocrisy. Our own word is frequently taken for what
we
say of ourselves, but very rarely for what we say of our works. Were these three
plays, which this small volume contains, detached pieces only, and unconnected with
others that do not yet appear, I should have suppressed this inclination altogether;
and have allowed my reader to begin what is before him, and to form what opinion of
it his taste or his humour might direct, without any previous trespass upon his time
or his patience. But they are part of an extensive design: of one which, as far as
my
information goes, has nothing exactly similar to it in any language: of one which
a
whole life time will be
b[Page 2] limited enough to accomplish; and which has, therefore, a considerable
chance of being cut short by that hand which nothing can resist.

Before I explain the plan of this work, I must make a demand upon the patience of
my
reader, whilst I endeavour to communicate to him those ideas regarding human nature,
as they in some degree affect almost every species of moral writings, but
particularly the Dramatic, that induced me to attempt it; and, as far as my judgment
enabled me to apply them, has directed me in the execution of it.

From that strong sympathy which most creatures, but the human above all, feel for
others of their kind, nothing has become so much an object of man's curiosity as man
himself. We are all conscious of this within ourselves, and so constantly do we meet
with it in others, that like every circumstance of continually repeated occurrence,
it thereby escapes observation. Every person, who is not deficient in intellect, is
more or less occupied in tracing, amongst the individuals he converses with, the
varieties of understanding and temper which constitute the characters of men; and
receives great pleasure from every stroke of nature that points out to him those
varieties. This is, much more than we are aware of, the occupation of children, and
of grown people also, whose penetration is but lightly esteemed; [Page 3]

and that conversation which degenerates with them into trivial and mischievous
tattling, takes its rise not unfrequently from the same source that supplies the rich
vein of the satirist and the wit. That eagerness so universally shewn for the
conversation of the latter, plainly enough indicates how many people have been
occupied in the same way with themselves. Let any one, in a large company, do or say
what is strongly expressive of his peculiar character, or of some passion or humour
of the moment, and it will be detected by almost every person present. How often may
we see a very stupid countenance animated with a smile, when the learned and the wise
have betrayed some native feature of their own minds! and how often will this be the
case when they have supposed it to be concealed under a very sufficient disguise!
From this constant employment of their minds, most people, I believe, without being
conscious of it, have stored up in idea the greater part of those strong marked
varieties of human character, which may be said to divide it into classes; and in
one
of those classes they involuntarily place every new person they become acquainted
with.

I will readily allow that the dress and the manners of men, rather than their
characters and disposition are the subjects of our common conversation, and seem
chiefly to occupy the mul-
b 2[Page 4]titude. But let it be remembered that it is much easier to express our
observations upon these. It is easier to communicate to another how a man wears his
wig and cane, what kind of house he inhabits, and what kind of table he keeps, than
from what slight traits in his words and actions we have been lead to conceive
certain impressions of his character: traits that will often escape the memory, when
the opinions that were founded upon them remain. Besides, in communicating our ideas
of the characters of others, we are often called upon to support them with more
expence of reasoning than we can well afford, but our observations on the dress and
appearance of men, seldom involve us in such difficulties. For these, and other
reasons too tedious to mention, the generality of people appear to us more trifling
than they are: and I may venture to say that, but for this sympathetick curiosity
towards others of our kind, which is so strongly implanted within us, the attention
we pay to the dress and the manners of men would dwindle into an employment as
insipid, as examining the varieties of plants and minerals, is to one who understands
not natural history.

In our ordinary intercourse with society, this sympathetick propensity of our minds
is exercised upon men, under the common occurrences of life, in which we have often
observed them. Here [Page 5] vanity and weakness put themselves forward to view,
more conspicuously than the virtues: here men encounter those smaller trails, from
which they are not apt to come off victorious; and here, consequently, that which
is
marked with the whimsical and ludicrous will strike us most forcibly, and make the
strongest impression on our memory. To this sympathetick propensity of our minds,
so
exercised, the genuine and pure comick of every composition, whether drama, fable,
story, or satire is addressed.

If man is an object of so much attention to man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences
of life, how much more does he excite his curiosity and interest when placed in
extraordinary situations of difficulty and distress? It cannot be any pleasure we
receive from the sufferings of a fellow-creature which attracts such multitudes of
people to a publick execution, though it is the horrour we conceive for such a
spectacle that keeps so many more away. To see a human being bearing himself up under
such circumstances, or struggling with the terrible apprehensions which such a
situation impresses, must be the powerful incentive, which makes us press forward
to
behold what we shrink from, and wait with trembling expectation for what we
dread.² For though few [Page 6] at such a spectacle can get near enough
to distinguish the expression of face, or the minuter parts of a criminal's
behaviour, yet from a considerable distance will they eagerly mark whether he steps
firmly; whether the motions of his body denote agitation or calmness; and if the wind
does but ruffle his garment, they will, even from that change upon the outline of
his
distant figure, read some expression connected with his dreadful situation. Though
there is a greater proportion of people in whom this strong curiosity will be
overcome by other dispositions and motives; though there are many more who will stay
away from such a sight than will go to it; yet there are very few who will not be
eager to converse with a person who has beheld it; and to learn, very minutely, every
circumstance connected with it, except the very act itself of inflicting death. To
lift up the roof of his dungeon, like the Diable
boiteux,³ and look upon a criminal the night before he suffers, in his
still[Page 7]hours of privacy, when all that disguise, which respect for the
opinion of others, the strong motive by which even the lowest and wickedest of men
still continue to be moved, would present an object to the mind of every person, not
withheld from it by great timidity of character, more powerfully attractive than
almost any other.

Revenge, no doubt, first began amongst the savages of America that dreadful custom
of
sacrificing their prisoners of war. But the perpetration of such hideous cruelty
could never have become a permanent national custom, but for this universal desire
in
the human mind to behold man in every situation, putting forth his strength against
the current of adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, or struggling with those
feelings of nature, which, like a beating stream, will oft'times burst through the
artificial barriers of pride. Before they begin those terrible rites they treat their
prisoner kindly; and it cannot be supposed that men, alternately enemies and friends
to so many neighbouring tribes, in manners and appearance like themselves, should
so
strongly be actuated by a spirit of publick revenge. This custom, therefore, must
be
considered as a grand and terrible game, which every tribe plays against another;
where they try not the strength of the arm, the swiftness of the feet, nor the
acuteness of the eye, but the fortitude of the soul. Con-[Page 8]sidered in this
light, the excess of cruelty exercised upon their miserable victim, in which every
hand is described as ready to inflict its portion of pain, and every head ingenious
in the contrivance of it, is no longer to be wondered at. To put into his measure
of
misery one agony less, would be, in some degree, betraying the honour of their
nation: would be doing a species of injustice to every hero of their own tribe who
had already sustained it, and to those who might be called upon to do so; amongst
whom each of these savage tormentors has his chance of being one, and has prepared
himself for it from his childhood. Nay, it would be a species of injustice to the
haughty victim himself, who would scorn to purchase his place amongst the heroes of
his nation, at an easier price than his undaunted predecessors.

Amongst the many trials to which the human mind is subjected, that of holding
intercourse, real or imaginary, with the world of spirits: of finding itself alone
with a being terrifick and awful, whose nature and power are unknown, has been justly
considered as one of the most severe. The workings of nature in this situation, we
all know, have ever been the object of our most eager enquiry. No man wishes to see
the Ghost himself, which would certainly procure him the best information on the
subject, but every man wishes to see one who believes that he sees it, in all the
[Page 9]agitation and wildness of that species of terrour. To gratify this
curiosity how many people have dressed up hideous apparitions to frighten the timid
and superstitious! and have done it at the risk of destroying their happiness or
understanding for ever. For the instances of intellect being destroyed by this kind
of trial are more numerous, perhaps, in the proportion to the few who have undergone
it than by any other.

How sensible are we of this strong propensity within us, when we behold any person
under the pressure of great and uncommon calamity! Delicacy and respect for the
afflicted will, indeed, make us turn ourselves aside from observing him, and cast
down our eyes in his presence; but the first glance we direct to him will
involuntarily be one of the keenest observation, how hastily soever it may be
checked; and often will a returning look of enquiry mix itself by stealth with our
sympathy and reserve.

But it is not in situations of difficulty and distress alone, that man becomes the
object of this sympathetick curiosity; he is no less so when the evil he contends
with arises in his own breast, and no outward circumstance connected with him either
awakens our attention or our pity. What human creature is there, who can behold a
being like himself under the violent agitation of those passions which all have, in
some degree, [Page 10] experienced, without feeling himself most powerfully
excited by the sight? I say, all have experienced; for the bravest man on earth knows
what fear is as well as the coward; and will not refuse to be interested for one
under the dominion of this passion, provided there be nothing in the circumstances
attending it to create contempt. Anger is a passion that attracts less sympathy than
any other, yet the unpleasing and distorted features of an angry man will be more
eagerly gazed upon, by those who are no wise concerned with his fury or the objects
of it, than the most amiable placid countenance in the world. Every eye is directed
to him; every voice hushed to silence in his presence; even children will leave off
their gambols as he passes, and gaze after him more eagerly than the gaudiest
equipage. The wild tossings of despair; the gnashing of hatred and revenge; the
yearnings of affection, and the softened mien of love; all that language of the
agitated soul, which every age and nation understands, is never addressed to the dull
nor inattentive.

It is not merely under the violent agitations of passion, that man so rouses and
interests us; even the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the restless eye,
the
muttering lip, the half-checked exclamation, and the hasty start, will set our
attention as anxiously upon the watch, as the
1[Page 11] first distant flashes of a gathering storm. When some great explosion of
passion bursts forth, and some consequent catastrophe happens, if we are at all
acquainted with the unhappy perpetrator, how minutely will we endeavour to remember
every circumstance of his past behaviour! and with what avidity will we seize upon
every recollected word or gesture, that is in the smallest degree indicative of the
supposed state of his mind, at the time when they took place. If we are not
acquainted with him, how eagerly will we listen to similar recollections from
another! Let us understand, from observation of report, that any person harbours in
his breast, concealed from the world's eye, some powerful rankling passion of what
kind soever it may be, we will observe every word, every motion, every look, even
the
distant gait of such a man, with a constancy and attention bestowed upon no other.
Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds
as though we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of some secret and fearful thing.
If invisible, would we not follow him into his lonely haunts, into his closet, into
the midnight silence of his chamber? There is, perhaps, no employment which the human
mind will with so much avidity pursue, as the discovery of concealed passion, as the
tracing the varieties and progress of a perturbed soul.

[Page 12]

It is to this sympathetick curiosity of our nature, exercised upon mankind in great
and trying occasions, and under the influence of the stronger passions, when the
grand, the generous, the terrible attract our attention far more than the base and
depraved, that the high and powerfully tragick, of every composition, is
addressed.

This propensity is universal. Children begin to shew it very early; it enters into
many of their amusements, and that part of them too, for which they shew the keenest
relish. It tempts them many times, as well as the mature in years, to be guilty of
tricks, vexations, and cruelty; yet God Almighty has implanted it within us, as well
as all our other propensities and passions, for wise and good purposes. It is our
best and most powerful instructor. From it we are taught the propensities and
decencies of ordinary life, and are prepared for distressing and difficult
situations. In examining others we know ourselves. With limbs untorn, with head
unsmitten, with senses unimpaired by despair, we know what we ourselves might have
been on the rack, on the scaffold, and in the most afflicting circumstances of
distress. Unless when accompanied with passions of the dark and malevolent kind, we
cannot well exercise this disposition without becoming more just, more merciful, more
compassionate; and as the dark and malevolent [Page 13]passions are not the
predominant inmates of the human breast, it hath produced more deeds—O many more!
of
kindness than of cruelty. It holds up for our example a standard of excellence,
which, without its assistance, our inward consciousness of what is right and becoming
might never have dictated. It teaches us, also, to respect ourselves, and our kind;
for it is a poor mind, indeed, that from this employment of its faculties, learns
not
to dwell upon the noble view of human nature rather than the mean.

Universal, however, as this disposition undoubtedly is, with the generality of
mankind it occupies itself in a passing and superficial way. Though a native trait
of
character or of passion is obvious to them as well as to the sage, yet to their minds
it is but the visitor of a moment; they look upon it singly and unconnected: and
though this disposition, even so exercised, brings instruction as well as amusement,
it is chiefly by storing up in their minds those ideas to which the instructions of
others refer, that it can be eminently useful. Those who reflect and reason upon what
human nature holds out to their observation, are comparatively but few. No stroke
of
nature which engages their attention stands insulated and alone. Each presents itself
to them with many varied connections; and they comprehend not merely the immediate
feeling which[Page 14] gave rise to it, but the relation of that feeling to others
which are concealed. We wonder at the changes and caprices of men; they see in them
nothing but what is natural and accountable. We stare upon some dark catastrophe of
passion, as the Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon; they, conceiving the track
of ideas through which the impassioned mind has passed, regard it like the
philosopher who foretold the phenomenon. Knowing what situation of life he is about
to be thrown into, they perceive in the man, who, like Hazael, says, "is thy servant
a dog that he should do this thing?"⁴ the foul and
ferocious murderer. A man of this contemplative character partakes, in some degree,
of the entertainment of the Gods, who were supposed to look down upon this world and
the inhabitants of it, as we do upon a theatrical exhibition; and if he is of a
benevolent disposition, a good man struggling with, and triumphing over adversity,
will be to him, also, the most delightful spectacle. But though this eagerness to
observe their fellow-creatures in every situation, leads not the generality of
mankind to reason and reflect; and those strokes of nature which they are so ready
to
remark, stand single and unconnected in their minds, yet they may be easily induced
to do both: and there is no mode of instruction which they will so eagerly pursue,
as
that which lays open before them, in a more[Page 15] enlarged and connected view,
than their individual observations are capable of supplying, the varieties of the
human mind. Above all, to be well exercised in this study will fit a man more
particularly for the most important situations of life. He will prove for it the
better Judge, the better Magistrate, the better Advocate; and as a ruler or conductor
of other men, under every occurring circumstance, he will find himself the better
enabled to fulfil his duty, and accomplish his designs. He will perceive the natural
effect of every order that he issues upon the minds of his soldiers, his subjects,
or
his followers; and he will deal to others judgment tempered with mercy; that is to
say truly just; for justice appears to us severe only when it is imperfect.

In proportion as moral writers of every class have exercised within themselves this
sympathetick propensity of our nature, and have attended to it in others, their works
have been interesting and instructive. They have struck the imagination more
forcibly, convinced the understanding more clearly, and more lastingly impressed the
memory. If unseasoned with any reference to this, the fairy bowers of the poet, with
all his gay images of delight, will be admired and forgotten; the important relations
of the historian, and even the reasonings of the philosopher will make a less
permanent impression.

The historian points back to the men of other ages, and from the gradually clearing
mist in [Page 16] which they are first discovered, like the mountains of a far
distant land, the generations of the world are displayed to our mind's eye in grand
and regular procession. But the transactions of men become interesting to us only
as
we are made acquainted with men themselves. Great and bloody battles are to us
battles fought in the moon, if it is not impressed upon our minds, by some
circumstances attending them, that men subject to like weaknesses and passions with
ourselves, were the combatants.⁵ The establishments of [Page 17] policy make little impression
upon us, if we are left ignorant of the beings whom they affected. Even a very
masterly drawn character will but slightly imprint upon our memory the great man it
belongs to, if, in the account we receive of his life, those lesser circumstances
are
entirely neglected, which do best of all point out to us the dispositions and tempers
of men. Some slight circumstance characteristick of the particular turn of a man's
mind, which at first sight seems but little connected with the great events of his
life, will often explain some of those events more clearly to our understanding, than
the minute details of ostensible policy. A judicious selection of those circumstances
which characterize the spirit of an associated mob, paltry and ludicrous as some of
them may appear, will oftentimes convey to our minds a clearer idea why certain laws
and privileges were demanded and agreed to, than a methodical explanation of their
causes. A historian who has examined human nature himself, and likewise attends to
the pleasure which developing and tracing it, does ever convey to others, will employ
our understanding as well as our memory with his pages; and if this is not done, he
will impose upon the latter a very difficult task, in retaining what she is concerned
with alone.

In argumentative and philosophical writings, the effect which the author's reasoning
produces
c[Page 18] on our minds depends not entirely on the justness of it. The images and
examples that he calls to his aid, to explain and illustrate his meaning, will very
much affect the attention we are able to bestow upon it, and consequently the
quickness with which we shall apprehend, and the force with which it will impress
us.
These are selected from animated and unanimated nature, from the habits, manners,
and
characters of men; and though that image or example, whatever it may be in itself,
which brings out his meaning most clearly, ought to be preferred before every other,
yet of two equal in this respect, that which is drawn from the most interesting
source will please us the most at the time, and most lastingly take hold of our
minds. An argument supported with vivid and interesting illustration, will long be
remembered when many equally important and clear are forgotten; and a work where many
such occur will be held in higher estimation by the generality of men, than one its
superior, perhaps, in acuteness, perspicuity, and good sense.

Our desire to know what men are in the closet as well as the field, by the blazing
hearth, and at the social board, as well as in the council and the throne, is very
imperfectly gratified by real history; romance writers, therefore, stepped boldly
forth to supply the deficiency; and tale writers, and novel writers, of many
descriptions, followed [Page 19] after. If they have not been very skilful in
their delineations of nature; if they have represented men and women speaking and
acting as men and women never did speak or act; if they have caricatured both our
virtues and our vices; if they have given us such pure and unmixed, or such
heterogeneous combinations of character as real life never presented, and yet have
pleased and interested us, let it not be imputed to the dulness of man in discerning
what is genuinely natural in himself. There are many inclinations belonging to us,
besides this great master-propensity of which I am treating. Our love of the grand,
the beautiful, the novel, and above all of the marvellous, is very strong; and if
we
are richly fed with what we have a good relish for, we may be weaned to forget our
native and favourite aliment. Yet we can never so far forget it, but that we will
cling to, and acknowledge it again, whenever it is presented before us. In a work
abounding with the marvellous and unnatural, if the author has any how stumbled upon
an unsophisticated genuine stroke of nature, we will immediately perceive and be
delighted with it, though we are foolish enough to admire at the same time, all the
nonsense with which it is surrounded. After all the wonderful incidents, dark
mysteries, and secrets revealed, which eventful novel so liberally presents to us;
after the beautiful fairy ground, and even
c 2[Page 20] the grand and sublime scenes of nature with which descriptive novel so
often enchants us; those works which most strongly characterize human nature in the
middling and lower classes of society, where it is to be discovered by stronger and
more unequivocal marks, will ever be the most popular. For though great pains have
been taken in our higher sentimental novels to interest us in the delicacies,
embarrassments, and artificial distresses of the more refined part of society, they
have never been able to cope in the publick opinion with these. The one is a dressed
and beautiful pleasure-ground, in which we are enchanted for a while, amongst the
delicate and unknown plants of artful cultivation; the other is a rough forest of
our
native land; the oak, the elm, the hazle, and the bramble are there; and amidst the
endless varieties of its paths we can wander for ever. Into whatever scenes the
novelist may conduct us, what objects soever he may present to our view, still is
our
attention most sensibly awake to every touch faithful to nature; still are we upon
the watch for every thing that speaks to us of ourselves.

The fair field of what is properly called poetry, is enriched with so many beauties,
that in it we are often tempted to forget what we really are, and what kind of beings
we belong to. Who in the enchanted regions of simile, metaphor, [Page 21]allegory
and description, can remember the plain order of things in this every-day world? From
heroes whose majestick forms rise like a lofty tower, whose eyes are lightening,
whose arms are irresistible, whose course is like the storms of heaven, bold and
exalted sentiments we will readily receive; and will not examine them very accurately
by that rule of nature which our own breast prescribes to us. A shepherd whose sheep,
with fleeces of the purest snow, browze the flowery herbage of the most beautiful
vallies; whose flute is ever melodious, and whose shepherdess is ever crowned with
roses; whose every care is love, will not be called very strictly to account for the
loftiness and refinement of his thoughts. The fair Nymph, who sighs out her sorrows
to the conscious and compassionate wilds; whose eyes gleam like the bright drops of
heaven; whose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may say what she pleases with
impunity. I will venture, however, to say, that amidst all this decoration and
ornament, all this loftiness and refinement, let one simple trait of the human heart,
one expression of passion genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will
stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around
it, fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning. With
admiration, and often with enthusiasm we proceed on [Page 22]our way through the
grand and the beautiful images, raised to our imagination by the lofty Epic muse;
but
what even here are those things that strike upon the heart; that we feel and
remember? Neither the descriptions of war, the sound of the trumpet, the clanging
of
arms, the combat of heroes, nor the death of the mighty, will interest our minds like
the fall of the feeble stranger, who simply expresses the anguish of his soul, at
the
thoughts of that far-distant home which he must never return to again, and closes
his
eyes amongst the ignoble and forgotten; like the timid stripling goaded by the shame
of reproach, who urges his trembling steps to the fight, and falls like a tender
flower before the first blast of winter. How often will some simple picture of this
kind be all that remains upon our minds of the terrifick and magnificent battle,
whose description we have read with admiration! How comes it that we relish so much
the episodes of an heroick poem? It cannot merely be that we are pleased with a
resting-place, where we enjoy the variety of contrast; for were the poem of the
simple and familiar kind, and an episode after the heroick style introduced into it,
ninety readers out of an hundred would pass over it altogether. Is it not that we
meet such a story, so situated, with a kind of sympathetick good will, as in passing
through a country of castles[Page 23] and of palaces, we should pop unawares upon
some humble cottage, resembling the dwellings of our own native land, and gaze upon
it with affection. The highest pleasures we receive from poetry, as well as from the
real objects which surround us in the world, are derived from the sympathetick
interest we all take in beings like ourselves; and I will even venture to say, that
were the grandest scenes which can enter into the imagination of man, presented to
our view, and all reference to man completely shut out from our thoughts, the objects
that composed it would convey to our minds little better than dry ideas of magnitude,
colour, and form; and the remembrance of them would rest upon our minds like the
measurement and distances of the planets.

If the study of human nature then, is so useful to the poet, the novelist, the
historian, and the philosopher, of how much greater importance must it be to the
dramatick writer? To them it is a powerful auxiliary, to him it is the centre and
strength of the battle. If characteristick views of human nature enliven not their
pages, there are many excellencies with which they can, in some degree, make up for
the deficiency, it is what we receive from them with pleasure rather than demand.
But
in his works no richness of invention, harmony of language, nor grandeur of [Page 24] sentiment will supply the place of faithfully delineated nature. The poet
and the novelist may represent to you their great characters from the cradle to the
tomb. They may represent them in any mood or temper, and under the influence of any
passion which they see proper, without being obliged to put words into their mouths,
those great betrayers of the feigned and adopted. They may relate every circumstance
however trifling and minute, that serves to develop their tempers and dispositions.
They tell us what kind of people they intend their men and women to be, and as such
we receive them. If they are to move us with any scene of distress, every
circumstance regarding the parties concerned in it, how they looked, how they moved,
how they sighed, how the tears gushed from their eyes, how the very light and shadow
fell upon them, is carefully described, and the few things that are given them to
say
along with all this assistance, must be very unnatural indeed if we refuse to
sympathize with them. But the characters of the drama must speak directly for
themselves. Under the influence of every passion, humour, and impression; in the
artificial veilings of hypocrisy and ceremony, in the openness of freedom and
confidence, and in the lonely hour of meditation they speak. He who made us hath
placed within our breast a judge that judges [Page 25] instantaneously of every
thing they say. We expect to find them creatures like ourselves; and if they are
untrue to nature, we feel that we are imposed upon; as though the poet had introduced
to us for brethren, creatures of a different race, beings of another world.

As in other works deficiency in characteristick truth may be compensated by
excellencies of a different kind, in the drama characteristick truth will compensate
every other defect. Nay, it will do what appears a contradiction; one strong genuine
stroke of nature will cover a multitude of sins even against nature herself. When
we
meet in some scene of good play a very fine stroke of this kind, we are apt to become
so intoxicated with it, and so perfectly convinced of the author's great knowledge
of
the human heart, that we are unwilling to suppose that the whole of it has not been
suggested by the same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning enthusiastick criticks
have given themselves a great deal of trouble in this way; and have shut their eyes
most ingeniously against the fair light of nature for the very love of it. They have
converted, in their great zeal, sentiments palpably false, both in regard to the
character and situation of the persons who utter them, sentiments which a child or
a
clown would detect, into the most skilful depictments of the heart. I can think of
[Page 26] no stronger instance to shew how powerfully this love of nature
dwells within us.⁶

Formed as we are with these sympathetick propensities in regard to our own species,
it is not at all wonderful that theatrical exhibition has become the grand and
favourite amusement of every nation into which it has been introduced. Savages will,
in the wild contortions of a dance, shape out some rude story expressive of character
or passion, and such a dance will give more delight to his companions than the most
artful exertions of agility. Children in their gambols will make out a mimick
representation of the manners, characters, and passions of grown men and women, and
such a pastime will animate and delight them much more than a treat of the daintiest
sweetmeats, or the handling of the gaudiest toys. Eagerly as it is enjoyed by the
rude and the young, to the polished and the ripe in years it is still the most
interesting amusement. [Page 27] Our taste for it is durable as it is universal.
Independently of those circumstances which first introduced it, the world would not
have long been without it. The progress of society would soon have brought it forth;
and men in the whimsical decorations of fancy would have displayed the characters
and
actions of their heroes, the folly and absurdity of their fellow-citizens, had no
Priests of Bacchus ever existed.⁷

[Page 28]

In whatever age or country the Drama might have taken its rise, tragedy would have
been the first-born of its children. For every nation has its great men, and its
great events upon record; and to represent their own forefathers struggling with
those difficulties, and braving those dangers, of which they have heard with
admiration, and the effects of which they still, perhaps, experience, would certainly
have been the most animating subject for the poet, and the most interesting for his
audience, even independently of the natural [Page 29] inclination we all so
universally shew for scenes of horrour and distress, of passion and heroick exertion.
Tragedy would have been the first child of the Drama, for the same reasons that have
made heroick ballad, with all its battles, murders, and disasters, the earliest
poetical compositions of every country.

We behold heroes and great men at a distance, unmarked by those small but
distinguishing features of the mind, which give a certain individuality to such an
infinite variety of similar beings, in the near and familiar intercourse of life.
They appear to us from this view like distant mountains, whose dark outlines we trace
in the clear horizon, but the varieties of whose roughened sides, shaded with heath
and brushwood, and seamed with many a cleft, we perceive not. When accidental
anecdote reveals to us any weakness or peculiarity belonging to them, we start upon
it like a discovery. They are made known to us in history only, by the great events
they are connected with, and the part they have taken in extraordinary or important
transactions. Even in poetry and romance, with the exception of some love story
interwoven with the main events of their lives, they are seldom more intimately made
known to us. To Tragedy it belongs to lead them forward to our nearer regard, in all
the distinguishing varieties which nearer inspection [Page 30] discovers; with the
passions, the humours, the weaknesses, the prejudices of men. It is for her to
present to us the great and magnanimous hero, who appears to our distant view as a
superior being, as a God, softened down with those smaller frailties and
imperfections which enable us to glory in, and claim kindred to his virtues. It is
for her to exhibit to us the daring and ambitious man, planning his dark designs,
and
executing his bloody purposes, mark'd with those appropriate characteristicks, which
distinguish him as an individual of that class; and agitated with those varied
passions, which disturb the mind of man when he is engaged in the commission of such
deeds. It is for her to point out to us the brave and impetuous warrior struck with
those visitations of nature, which, in certain situations, will unnerve the strongest
arm, and make the boldest heart tremble. It is for her to shew the tender, gentle,
and unassuming mind animated with that fire which, by the provocation of
circumstances, will give to the kindest heart the ferocity and keenness of a tiger.
It is for her to present to us the great and striking characters that are to be found
amongst men, in a way which the poet, the novelist, and the historian can but
imperfectly attempt. But above all, to her, and to her only it belongs to unveil to
us the human mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed passions,
3[Page 31] which, seemingly unprovoked by outward circumstances, will from small
beginnings brood within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the fair
gifts of nature are borne down before them. Those passions which conceal themselves
from the observation of men; which cannot unbosom themselves even to the dearest
friend; and can, often times, only give their fulness vent in the lonely desert, or
in the darkness of midnight. For who hath followed the great man into his secret
closet, or stood by the side of his nightly couch, and heard those exclamations of
the soul which heaven alone may hear, that the historian should be able to inform
us?
and what form of story, what mode of rehearsed speech will communicate to us those
feelings, whose irregular bursts, abrupt transitions, sudden pauses, and half-uttered
suggestions, scorn all harmony of measured verse, all method and order of
relation?

On the first part of this task her Bards have eagerly exerted their abilities: and
some amongst them, taught by strong original genius to deal immediately with human
nature and their own hearts, have laboured in it successfully. But in presenting to
us those views of great characters, and of the human mind in difficult and trying
situations which peculiarly belong to Tragedy, the far greater proportion, even of
those who may be considered as respectable dramatick poets, [Page 32] have very
much failed. From the beauty of those original dramas to which they have ever looked
back with admiration, they have been tempted to prefer the embellishments of poetry
to faithfully delineated nature. They have been more occupied in considering the
works of the great Dramatists who have gone before them, and the effects produced
by
their writings, than the varieties of human character which first furnished materials
for those works, or those principles in the mind of man by means of which such
effects were produced. Neglecting the boundless variety of nature, certain strong
outlines of character, certain bold features of passion, certain grand vicissitudes,
and striking dramatick situations have been repeated from one generation to another;
whilst a pompous and solemn gravity, which they have supposed to be necessary for
the
dignity of tragedy, has excluded almost entirely from their works those smaller
touches of nature, which so well develope the mind; and by showing men in their hours
of state and exertion only, they have consequently shewn them imperfectly. Thus,
great and magnanimous heroes, who bear with majestick equanimity every vicissitude
of
fortune; who in every temptation and trial stand forth in unshaken virtue, like a
rock buffeted by the waves; who encompast with the most terrible evils, in calm
possession of [Page 33] their souls, reason upon the difficulties of their state;
and, even upon the brink of destruction, pronounce long eulogiums on virtue, in the
most eloquent and beautiful language, have been held forth to our view as objects
of
imitation and interest; as though they had entirely forgotten that it is only from
creatures like ourselves that we feel, and therefore, only from creatures like
ourselves that we receive the instruction of example. ⁸ Thus, passionate and impetuous warriors, who are
proud, irritable, and vindictive, but generous, daring, and disinterested; setting
their lives at a pin's fee for the good of others, but incapable of curbing their
own
humour of a moment to gain the whole world for themselves; who will pluck
d[Page 34] the orbs of heaven from their places, and crush the whole universe in
one grasp, are called forth to kindle in our souls the generous contempt of every
thing abject and base; but with an effect proportionably feeble, as the hero is made
to exceed in courage and fire what the standard of humanity will agree to.⁹ Thus, tender
and[Page 35]pathetick lovers, full of the most gentle affections, the most
amiable dispositions, and the most exquisite feelings; who present their defenceless
bosoms to the storms of this rude world in all the graceful weakness of sensibility,
are made to sigh out their sorrows in one unvaried strain of studied pathos, whilst
this constant demand upon our feelings makes us absolutely incapable of answering
it.¹⁰ Thus, also, tyrants are represented as monsters of cruelty, unmixed
with any feelings of humanity; and villains as delighting in all manner of treachery
and deceit, and acting upon many occasions for the very love of villainy itself;
though the perfectly wicked are as ill fitted for the purposes of warning, as the
perfectly virtuous are for those of
d 2[Page 36] example.¹¹ This spirit of imitation, and attention to effect, has likewise
confined them very much in their choice of situations and events to bring their great
characters into action; rebellions, conspiracies, contentions for empire, and
rivalships in love have alone been thought worthy of trying those heroes; and palaces
and dungeons the only places magnificent or solemn enough for them to appear in.

They have, indeed, from this regard to the works of preceding authors, and great
attention to the beauties of composition, and to dignity of design, enriched their
plays with much striking, and sometimes sublime imagery, lofty thoughts, and virtuous
sentiments; but in striving so eagerly to excell in those things that belong to
tragedy [Page 37] in common with many other compositions, they have very much
neglected those that are peculiarly her own. As far as they have been led aside from
the first labours of a tragick poet by a desire to communicate more perfect moral
instruction, their motive has been respectable, and they merit our esteem. But this
praise-worthy end has been injured instead of promoted by their mode of pursuing it.
Every species of moral writing has its own way of conveying instruction, which it
can
never, but with disadvantage, exchange for any other. The Drama improves us by the
knowledge we acquire of our own minds, from the natural desire we have to look into
the thoughts, and observe the behaviour of others. Tragedy brings to our view men
placed in those elevated situations, exposed to those great trials, and engaged in
those extraordinary transactions, in which few of us are called upon to act. As
examples applicable to ourselves, therefore, they can but feebly effect us; it is
only from the enlargement of our ideas in regard to human nature, from that
admiration of virtue, and abhorrence of vice which they excite, that we can expect
to
be improved by them. But if they are not represented to us as real and natural
characters, the lessons we are taught from their conduct and their sentiments will
be
no more to us than those which we receive from the pages of the poet or the moralist.

[Page 38]

But the last part of the task which I have mentioned as peculiarly belonging to
tragedy, unveiling the human mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed
passions, which seemingly unprovoked by outward circumstances, will from small
beginnings brood within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the fair
gifts of nature are borne down before them, her poets in general have entirely
neglected, and even her first and greatest have but imperfectly attempted. They have
made use of the passions to mark their several characters, and animate their scenes,
rather than to open to our view the nature and portraitures of those great disturbers
of the human breast, with whom we are all, more or less, called upon to contend. With
their strong and obvious features, therefore, they have been presented to us,
stripped almost entirely of those less obtrusive, but not less discriminating traits,
which mark them in their actual operation. To trace them in their rise and progress
in the heart, seems but rarely to have been the object of any dramatist. We commonly
find the characters of a tragedy affected by the passions in a transient, loose,
unconnected manner; or if they are represented as under the permanent influence of
the more powerful ones, they are generally introduced to our notice in the very
height of their fury, when all that timidity, irresolution, distrust, and a thou-[Page 39]sand delicate traits, which make the infancy of every great passion more
interesting, perhaps, than its full-blown strength, are fled. The impassioned
character is generally brought into view under those irresistible attacks of their
power, which it is impossible to repell; whilst those gradual steps that lead him
into this state, in some of which a stand might have been made against the foe, are
left entirely in the shade. These passions that may be suddenly excited, and are of
short duration, as anger, fear, and oftentimes jealousy, may in this manner be fully
represented; but those great masters of the soul, ambition, hatred, love, every
passion that is permanent in its nature, and varied in progress, if represented to
us
but in one stage of its course, is represented imperfectly. It is a characteristick
of the more powerful passions that they will encrease and nourish themselves on very
slender aliment; it is from within that they are chiefly supplied with what they feed
on; and it is in contending with opposite passions and affections of the mind that
we
least discover their strength, not with events. But in tragedy it is events more
frequently than opposite affections which are opposed to them; and those often of
such force and magnitude that the passions themselves are almost obscured by the
splendour and importance of the transactions to which they are attached. But besides
being thus confined and[Page 40]mutilated, the passions have been, in the greater
part of our tragedies, deprived of the very power of making themselves known. Bold
and figurative language belongs peculiarly to them. Poets, admiring those bold
expressions which a mind, labouring with ideas too strong to be conveyed in the
ordinary forms of speech, wildly throws out, taking earth, sea, and sky, every thing
great and terrible in nature to image forth the violence of its feelings, borrowed
them gladly, to adorn the calm sentiments of their premeditated song. It has
therefore been thought that the less animated parts of tragedy might be so
embellished and enriched. In doing this, however, the passions have been robbed of
their native prerogative; and in adorning with their strong figures and lofty
expressions the calm speeches of the unruffled, it is found that, when they are
called upon to raise their voice, the power of distinguishing themselves has been
taken away. This is an injury by no means compensated, but very greatly aggravated
by
embellishing, in return, the speeches of passion with the ingenious conceits, and
compleat similies of premeditated thought.¹² There are many other things[Page 41]regarding the manner in which
dramatick poets have generally brought forward the passions in tragedy, to the great
prejudice of that effect they are naturally fitted to produce upon the mind, which
I
forbear to mention, lest they should too much increase the length of this discourse;
and leave an impression on the mind of my reader, that I write more on the spirit
of
criticism, than becomes one who is about to bring before the publick a work, with,
doubtless, many faults and imperfections on its head.

From this general view, which I have endeavoured to communicate to my reader, of
tragedy, and those principles in the human mind upon which the success of her efforts
depends, I have been led to believe, that an attempt to write a series of tragedies,
of simpler construction, less embellished with poetical decorations, less constrained
by that lofty seriousness which has so generally been considered as necessary for
the
support of tragick dignity, and in which the chief object should be to delineate the
progress of the higher passions in the human breast, each play exhibiting a
particular passion, might not be unacceptable to the publick. And I have been the
more readily induced to act upon this idea, because I am confident, that tragedy,
written upon [Page 42] this plan, is fitted to produce stronger moral effect than
upon any other. I have said that tragedy in representing to us great characters
struggling with difficulties, and placed in situations of eminence and danger, in
which few of us have any chance of being called upon to act, conveys its moral
efficacy to our minds by the enlarged views which it gives to us of human nature,
by
the admiration of virtues, and execration of vice which it excites, and not by the
examples it holds up for our immediate application. But in opening to us the heart
of
man under the influence of those passions to which all are liable, this is not the
case. Those strong passions that, with small assistance from outward circumstances,
work their way in the heart, till they become the tyrannical masters of it, carry
on
a similar operation in the breast of the Monarch, and the man of low degree. It
exhibits to us the mind of man in that state when we are most curious to look into
it, and is equally interesting to all. Discrimination of character is a turn of mind,
tho' more common than we are aware of, which every body does not possess; but to the
expressions of passion, particularly strong passion, the dullest mind is awake; and
its true unsophisticated language the dullest understanding will not misinterpret.
To
hold up for our example those peculiarities in disposition, and modes of thinking
which nature has fixed upon us, on which[Page 43]long and early habit has
incorporated with our original selves, is almost desiring us to remove the
everlasting mountains, to take away the native land-marks of the soul; but
representing the passions brings before us the operation of a tempest that rages out
its time and passes away. We cannot, it is true, amidst its wild uproar, listen to
the voice of reason, and save ourselves from destruction; but we can foresee it
coming, we can mark its rising signs, we can know the situations that will most
expose us to its rage, and we can shelter our heads from the coming blast. To change
a certain disposition of mind which makes us view objects in a particular light, and
thereby, oftentimes, unknown to ourselves, influences our conduct and manners, is
almost impossible; but in checking and subduing those visitations of the soul, whose
causes and effects we are aware of, every one may make considerable progress, if he
proves not entirely successful. Above all, looking back to the first rise, and
tracing the progress of passion, points out to us those stages in the approach of
the
enemy, when he might have been combated most successfully; and where the suffering
him to pass may be considered as occasioning all the misery that ensues.

Comedy presents to us men as we find them in the ordinary intercourse of the world,
with all the weaknesses, follies, caprice, prejudices, and absur-[Page 44]dities
which a near and familiar view of them discovers. It is her task to exhibit them
engaged in the busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and perplexing themselves
with the endless pursuits of avarice, vanity, and pleasure; and engaged with those
smaller trials of the mind, by which men are most apt to be overcome, and from which
he, who could have supported with honour the attack of greater occasions, will
oftentimes come off most shamefully foiled. It belongs to her to shew the varied
fashions and manners of the world, as, from the spirit of vanity, caprice, and
imitation, they go on in swift and endless succession; and those disagreeable or
absurd peculiarities attached to particular classes and conditions in society. It
is
for her also to represent men under the influence of the stronger passions; and to
trace the rise and progress of them in the heart, in such situations, and attended
with such circumstances as take off their sublimity, and the interest we naturally
take in a perturbed mind. It is hers to exhibit those terrible tyrants of the soul,
whose ungovernable rage has struck us so often with dismay, like wild beasts tied
to
a post, who growl and paw before us, for our derision and sport. In pourtraying the
characters of men she has this advantage over tragedy, that the smallest traits of
nature, with the smallest circumstances which serve to bring them forth, may by her
be displayed, however ludicrous[Page 45]and trivial in themselves, without any
ceremony. And in developing the passions she enjoys a similar advantage; for they
often most strongly betray themselves when touched by those small and familiar
occurrences which cannot, consistently with the effect it is intended to produce,
be
admitted into tragedy.

As tragedy has been very much cramped in her endeavours to exalt and improve the
mind, by that spirit of imitation and confinement in her successive writers, which
the beauty of her earliest poets first gave rise to, so comedy has been led aside
from her best purposes by a different temptation. Those endless changes in fashions
and in manners, which offer such obvious and ever-new subjects of ridicule; that
infinite variety of tricks and manœuvers by which the ludicrous may be produced, and
curiosity and laughter excited : the admiration we so generally bestow upon satirical
remark, pointed repartee, and whimsical combinations of ideas, have too often led
her
to forget the warmer interest we feel, and the more profitable lessons we receive
from genuine representations of nature. The most interesting and instructive class
of
comedy, therefore, the real characteristick, has been very much neglected, whilst
satirical, witty, sentimental, and, above all, busy or circumstantial comedy have
usurped the ex-[Page 46]ertions of the far greater proportion of Dramatick
Writers.

In Satirical Comedy, sarcastick and severe reflections on the actions and manners
of
men, introduced with neatness, force, and poignancy of expression into a lively and
well supported dialogue, of whose gay surface they are the embossed ornaments, make
the most important and studied part of the work : Character is a thing talked of
rather than shewn. The persons of the drama are indebted for the discovery of their
peculiarities to what is said to them, rather than to any thing they are made to say
or do for themselves. Much incident being unfavourable for studied and elegant
dialogue, the plot is commonly simple, and the few events that compose it neither
interesting nor striking. It only affords us that kind of moral instruction which
an
essay or a poem could as well have conveyed, and, though amusing in the closet, is
but feebly attractive in the Theatre.¹³

In what I have termed Witty Comedy, every thing is light, playful, and easy. Strong
decided [Page 47] condemnation of vice is too weighty and material to dance upon
the surface of that stream, whose shallow currents sparkle in perpetual sun-beams,
and cast up their bubbles to the light. Two or three persons of quick thought, and
whimsical fancy, who perceive instantaneously the various connections of every
passing idea, and the significations, natural or artificial, which single
expressions, or particular forms of speech can possibly convey, take the lead thro'
the whole, and seem to communicate their own peculiar talent to every creature in
the
play. The plot is most commonly feeble rather than simple, the incidents being
numerous enough, but seldom striking or varied. To amuse, and only to amuse, is its
aim: it pretends not to interest nor instruct. It pleases when we read, more than
when we see it represented; and pleases still more when we take it up by accident,
and read but a scene at a time.

Sentimental Comedy treats of those embarrassments, difficulties, and scruples, which,
though sufficiently distressing to the delicate minds who entertain them, are not
powerful enough to gratify the sympathetick desire we all feel to look into the heart
of man in difficult and trying situations, which is the sound basis of tragedy, and
are destitute of that seasoning of the lively and ludicrous, which prevents the
ordinary transactions of comedy from becoming insipid. In real life, those who, [Page 48] from the peculiar frame of their minds, feel most of this refined
distress, are not generally communicative upon the subject; and those who do feel
and
talk about it at the same time, if any such there be, seldom find their friends much
inclined to listen to them. It is not to be supposed, then, long conversations upon
the stage about small sentimental niceties, can be generally interesting. I am afraid
plays of this kind, as well as works of a similar nature, in other departments of
literature, have only tended to encrease amongst us a set of sentimental hypocrites;
who are the same persons of this age that would have been the religious ones of
another; and are daily doing morality the same kind of injury, by substituting the
particular excellence which they pretend to possess, for plain simple uprightness
and
rectitude.

In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those ingenious contrivances of lovers,
guardians, governantes and chamber-maids; that ambushed bushfighting amongst closets,
screens, chests, easy-chairs, and toilet-tables, form a gay varied game of dexterity
and invention; which, to those who have played at hide-and-seek, who have crouched
down, with beating heart, in a dark corner, whilst the enemy groped near the spot;
who have joined their busy school-mates in many deep-laid plan to deceive, perplex,
and torment the unhappy mortals deputed to have the charge of them, cannot be [Page 49] seen with indifference. Like an old hunter, who pricks up ears at the
sound of the chace, and starts away from the path of his journey, so, leaving all
wisdom and criticism behind us, we follow the varied changes of the plot, and stop
not for reflection. The studious man who wants a cessation from thought, the indolent
man who dislikes it, and all those who, from habit or circumstances, live in a state
of divorce from their own minds, are pleased with an amusement in which they have
nothing to do but to open their eyes and behold; the moral tendency of it, however,
is very faulty. That mockery of age and domestick authority, so constantly held
forth, has a very bad effect upon the younger part of an audience; and that continual
lying and deceit in the first characters of the piece, which is necessary for
conducting the plot, has a most pernicious one.

But Characteristick Comedy, which represents to us this motley world of men and women
in which we live, under those circumstances of ordinary and familiar life most
favourable for the discovery of the human heart, offers to us a wide field of
instruction, adapted to general application. We find in its varied scenes an exercise
of the mind analogous to that which we all, less or more, find out for ourselves,
amidst the mixed groupes of people whom we meet with in society; and which I have
already mentioned as an exercise universally pleasing to
e[Page 50]man. As the distinctions which it is its highest aim to discriminate, are
those of nature and not situation, they are judged of by all ranks of men; for a
peasant will very clearly perceive in the character of a peer, those native
peculiarities which belong to him as a man, though he is entirely at a loss in all
that regards his manners and address as a nobleman. It illustrates to us the general
remarks we have made upon men; and in it we behold, spread before us, plans of those
original ground-works, upon which the general ideas we have been taught to conceive
of mankind, are founded. It stands but little in need of busy plot, extraordinary
incidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. It naturally produces for itself
all that it requires; characters who are to speak for themselves, who are to be known
by their own words and actions, not by the accounts that are given of them by others,
cannot well be developed without considerable variety of judicious incident; a smile
that is raised by some trait of undisguised nature, and a laugh that is provoked by
some ludicrous effect of passion, or clashing of opposite characters, will be more
pleasing to the generality of men, than either the one or the other when occasioned
by a play upon words, or a whimsical combination of ideas; and to behold the
operation and effects of the different propensities and weaknesses of men, will
naturally call up in the mind of the spectator [Page 51] moral reflections more
applicable, and more impressive, than all the high-sounding sentiments, with which
the graver scenes of Satirical and Sentimental Comedy are so frequently interlarded.
It is much to be regretted, however, that the eternal introduction of love as the
grand business of the Drama, and the consequent necessity for making the chief
persons in it such, in regard to age, appearance, manners, dispositions, and
endowments, as are proper for interesting lovers, has occasioned so much insipid
similarity in the higher characters. It is chiefly, therefore, on the second and
inferiour characters, that the efforts, even of our best poets, have been exhausted;
and thus we are called upon to be interested in the fortune of one man, whilst our
chief attention is directed to the character of another, which produces a disunion
of
ideas in the mind, injurious to the general effect of the whole. From this cause,
also, those characteristick varieties have been very much neglected, which men
present to us in the middle stages of life; when they are too old for lovers or the
confidents of lovers, and too young to be the fathers, uncles, and guardians, who
are
contrasted with them; but when the are still in full vigour of mind, eagerly engaged
with the world, joining the activity of youth to the providence of age, and offer
to
our attention objects sufficiently interesting and instructive. It is to be regretted
that strong
e 2[Page 52] contrasts of character are too often attempted, instead of those
harmonious shades of it, which nature so beautifully varies, and which we so greatly
delight in, whenever we clearly distinguish them. It is to be regretted that in place
of those characters, which present themselves to the imagination of a writer from
his
general observations upon mankind, inferiour poets have so often pourtrayed with
senseless minuteness the characters of particular individuals. We are pleased with
the eccentricities of individuals in real life, and also in history or biography,
but
in fictitious writings, we regard them with suspicion; and no representation of
nature, that corresponds not with some of our general ideas in regard to it, will
either instruct or inform us. When the originals of such characters are known and
remembered, the plays in which they are introduced are oftentimes popular; and their
temporary success has induced a still inferiour class of poets to believe, that, by
making men strange, and unlike the rest of the world, they have made great
discoveries and mightily enlarged the boundaries of dramatick character. They will,
therefore, distinguish one man from another by some strange whim or imagination,
which is ever uppermost in his thoughts, and influences every action of his life;
by
some singular opinion, perhaps, about politicks, fashions, or the position of the
stars; by some strong unaccountable love for [Page 53] one thing or aversion from
another; entirely forgetting, that such singularities, if they are to be found in
nature, can no where be sought for, with such probability of success, as in
Bedlam. Above all it is to be regretted that those
adventitious distinctions amongst men, of age, fortune, rank, profession, and
country, are so often brought forward in preference to the great original
distinctions of nature; and our scenes so often filled with courtiers, lawyers,
citizens, Frenchmen, &c. &c. With all the characteristicks of their
respective conditions, such as they have been represented from time immemorial. This
has introduced a great sameness into many of our plays, which all the changes of new
fashions burlesqued, and new customs turned into ridicule, cannot conceal.

In comedy, the stronger passions, love excepted, are seldom introduced but in a
passing way. We have short bursts of anger, fits of jealousy and impatience; violent
passion of any continuance we seldom find. When this is attempted, however,
forgetting that mode of exposing the weakness of the human mind, which peculiarly
belongs to her, it is too frequently done in the serious spirit of tragedy; and this
has produced so many of those serious comick plays, which so much divide and distract
our attention.¹⁴ Yet we all
know from [Page 54] our own experience in real life, that, in certain situations,
and under certain circumstances, the stronger passions are fitted to produce scenes
more exquisitely comick than any other; and one well-wrought scene of this kind, will
have a more powerful effect in repressing similar intemperance [Page 55] in the
mind of a spectator, than many moral cautions, or even, perhaps, than the terrifick
examples of tragedy. There are to be found, no doubt, in the works of our best
dramatick writers, comick scenes descriptive of the stronger passions, but it is
generally the inferiour characters of the piece who are made the subjects of them,
very rarely those in whom we are much interested; and consequently the useful effect
of such scenes upon the mind is very much weakened. This general appropriation of
them has tempted our less-skilful Dramatists to exaggerate, and step, in further
quest of the ludicrous, so much beyond the bounds of nature, that the very effect
they are so anxious to produce is thereby destroyed, and all useful application of
it
entirely cut off; for we never apply to ourselves a false representation of nature.

But a complete exhibition of passion, with its varieties and progress in the breast
of man has, I believe, scarcely ever been attempted in comedy. Even love, though the
chief subject of almost every play, has been pourtrayed in a loose, scattered, and
imperfect manner. The story of the lovers is acted over before us, whilst the
characteristicks of that passion by which they are actuated, and which is the great
master-spring of the whole, are faintly to be discovered. We are generally introduced
to a lover after he has
6[Page 56] long been acquainted with his mistress, and wants but the consent of
some stubborn relation, relief from some embarrassment of situation, or the clearing
up some mistake or love-quarrel occasioned by malice or accident, to make him
completely happy. To overcome these difficulties, he is engaged in a busy train of
contrivance and exertion, in which the spirit, activity and ingenuity of the man is
held forth to view, whilst the lover, comparatively speaking, is kept out of sight.
But even when this is not the case; when the lover is not so busied and involved,
this stage of the passion is exactly the one that is least interesting, and least
instructive: not to mention as I have done already, that one stage of any passion
must shew it imperfectly.

From this view of the Comick Drama I have been induced to believe, that, as
companions to the forementioned tragedies, a series of comedies on a similar plan,
in
which bustle of plot, brilliancy of dialogue, and even the bold and striking in
character, should, to the best of the authour's judgment, be kept in due
subordination to nature, might likewise be acceptable to the publick. I am confident
that comedy upon this plan is capable of being made as interesting, as entertaining,
and superiour in the moral tendency to any other. For even in ordinary life, with
very slight cause to excite them, strong passions will foster [Page 57] themselves
within the breast; and what are all the evils which vanity, folly, prejudice, or
peculiarity of temper lead to, compared with those which such unquiet inmates
produce? Were they confined to the exalted and the mighty, to those engaged in the
great events of the world, to the inhabitants of palaces and camps, how happy
comparatively would this world be! But many a miserable being, whom firm principle,
timidity of character, or the fear of shame keeps back from the actual commission
of
crimes, is tormented in obscurity, under the dominion of those passions which set
the
seducer in ambush, rouse the bold spoiler to wrong, and strengthen the arm of the
murderer. Though to those with whom such dangerous enemies have long found shelter,
exposing them in an absurd and ridiculous light, may be shooting a finely-pointed
arrow against the hardened rock; yet to those with whom they are but new, and less
assured guests, this may prove a more successful mode of attack than any other.

It was the saying of a sagacious Scotchman,¹⁵
'let who will make the laws of a nation, if I have the writing of its ballads.'
Something similar to this may be said in regard to the Drama. Its lessons reach not,
indeed, to the lowest classes of labouring people, who are the broad foundation of
society, which can never be gene- [Page 58] rally moved without endangering
everything that is constructed upon it, and who are our potent and formidable ballad
readers; but they reach to the classes next in order to them, and who will always
have over them no inconsiderable influence. The impressions made by it are
communicated, at the same instant of time, to a greater number of individuals, than
those made by any other species of writing; and they are strengthened in every
spectator, by observing their effects upon those who surround him. From this
observation, the mind of my reader will suggest of itself, what it would be
unnecessary, and, perhaps, improper in me here to enlarge upon. The theatre is a
school in which much good or evil may be learned. At the beginning of its career the
Drama was employed to mislead and excite; and were I not unwilling to refer to
transactions of the present times, I might abundantly confirm what I have said by
recent examples. The authour, therefore, who aims in any degree to improve the mode
of its instruction, and point to more useful lessons than it is generally employed
to
dispense, is certainly praiseworthy, though want of abilities may unhappily prevent
him from being successful at his efforts.

This idea has prompted me to begin a work in which I am aware of many difficulties.
In plays of this nature the passions must be depicted [Page 59] not only with
their bold and prominent features, but also with those minute and delicate traits
which distinguish them in an infant, growing, and repressed state; which are the most
difficult of all to counterfeit, and one of which falsely imagined, will destroy the
effect of a whole scene. The characters over whom they are made to usurp dominion,
must be powerful and interesting, exercising them with their full measure of
opposition and struggle; for the chief antagonists they contend with must be the
other passions and propensities of the heart, not outward circumstances and events.
Though belonging to such characters, they must still be held to view in their most
baleful and unseductive light; and those qualities in the impassioned which are
necessary to interest us in their fate, must not be allowed, by any lustre borrowed
from them, to diminish our abhorrence of guilt. The second and even the inferiour
persons to each play, as they must be kept perfectly distinct from the great
impassioned one, should generally be represented in a calm unagitated state, and
therefore more pains is necessary than in other dramatick works, to mark them by
appropriate distinctions of character, lest they should appear altogether insipid
and
insignificant. As the great object here is to trace passion through all its
varieties, and in every stage, many of which are marked [Page 60] by shades so
delicate, that in much bustle of events they would be little attended to, or entirely
overlooked, simplicity of plot is more necessary, than in those plays where only
occasional bursts of passion are introduced, to distinguish a character, or animate
a
scene. But where simplicity of plot is necessary, there is a very great danger of
making a piece appear bare and unvaried, and nothing but great force and truth in
the
delineations of nature will prevent it from being tiresome.¹⁶ Soliloquy, or
those overflowings of the [Page 61] perturbed soul, in which it unburthens itself
of those thoughts which it cannot communicate to others, and which in certain
situations is the only mode that a Dramatist can employ to open us to the mind he
would display, must necessarily be often, and to considerable length, introduced.
Here, indeed, as it naturally belongs to passion, it will not be so offensive as it
generally is in other plays, when a calm unagitated person tells over to himself all
that has befallen him, and all his future schemes of intrigue or advancement; yet
to
make speeches of this kind sufficiently natural and impressive, to excite no degree
of weariness nor distaste, will be found to be no easy task. There are, besides
these, many other difficulties peculiarly belonging to this undertaking, too minute
and tedious to mention. If, fully aware of them, I have not shrunk back from the
attempt, it is not from any idea that my own powers or discernment will at all times
enable me to overcome them; but I am emboldened by the confidence I feel in that
candour and indulgence, with which the good and enlightened do ever regard the
experimental efforts of those, who wish in any degree to enlarge the sources of
pleasure and instruction amongst men.

It will now be proper to say something of the particular plays which compose this
volume. But, in the first place I must observe, that as I pretend [Page 62] not to
have overcome the difficulties attached to this design, so neither from the errours
and defects, which, in these pages, I have thought it necessary to point out in the
works of others, do I at all pretend to be blameless. To conceive the great moral
object and outline of a story; to people it with various characters, under the
influence of various passions; and to strike out circumstances and situations
calculated to call them into action, is a very different employment of the mind from
calmly considering those propensities of our nature, to which dramatick writings are
most powerfully addressed, and taking a general view upon those principles of the
works of preceding authours. They are employments which cannot well occupy it at the
same time; and experience has taught us, that criticks do not unfrequently write in
contradiction to their own rules. If I should, therefore, sometimes appear in the
foregoing remarks to have provided a stick wherewith to break mine own pate, I
entreat that my reader will believe I am neither confident nor boastful, and use it
with gentleness.

In the two first plays, where love is the passion under review, their relation to
the
general plan may not be very obvious. Love is the chief groundwork of almost all our
tragedies and comedies, and so far they are not distinguished from others. But I have
endeavored in both [Page 63] to give an unbroken view of the passion from its
beginning, and to mark it as I went along, with those peculiar traits which
distinguish its different stages of progression. I have in both these pieces grafted
this passion not on those open communicative impetuous characters, who have so long
occupied the dramatick station of lovers, but on men of a firm, thoughtful, reserved
turn of mind, with whom it commonly makes the longest stay, and maintains the hardest
struggle. I should be extremely sorry if, from any thing at the conclusion of the
tragedy, it should be supposed that I mean to countenance suicide, or condemn those
customs whose object is the discouragement of it, by withholding from the body of
the
self-slain those sacred rites, and marks of respect commonly shewn to the dead. Let
it be considered, that whatever I have inserted there, which can at all raise any
suspicion of this kind, is put into the mouths of rude uncultivated soldiers, who
are
roused with the loss of a beloved leader, and indignant at any idea of disgrace being
attached to him. If it should seem inconsistent with the nature of this work, that
in
its companion the comedy, I have made strong moral principle triumph over love, let
it be remembered, that without this the whole moral tendency of a play, which must
end happily, would have been destroyed; and that it is not my intention to[Page 64] encourage the indulgence of this passion, amiable as it is, but to restrain it.
The last play, the subject of which is hatred, will more clearly discover the nature
and intention of my design. The rise and progress of this passion I have been obliged
to give in retrospect, instead of representing it all along in its actual operation,
as I could have wished to have done. But hatred is a passion of slow growth; and to
have exhibited it from its beginnings would have included a longer period, than even
those who are least scrupulous about the limitation of dramatick time, would have
thought allowable. I could not have introduced my chief characters upon the stage
as
boys, and then as men. For this passion must be kept distinct from that dislike which
we conceive for another when he has greatly offended us, and which is almost the
constant companion of anger; and also from that eager desire to crush, and inflict
suffering on him who has injured us, which constitutes revenge. This passion, as I
have conceived it, is that rooted and settled aversion, which from opposition of
character, aided by circumstances of little importance, grows at last into such
antipathy and personal disgust as makes him who entertains it, feel, in the presence
of him who is the object of it, a degree of torment and restlesness [sic] which is insufferable. It is a passion, I believe
less frequent than any other of [Page 65] the stronger passions, but in the breast
where it does exist, it creates, perhaps, more misery than any other. To endeavour
to
interest the mind for a man under the dominion of a passion so baleful, so unamiable,
may seem, perhaps, reprehensible. I therefore beg it may be considered that it is
the
passion and not the man which is held up to our execration; and that this and every
other bad passion does more strongly evince its pernicious and dangerous nature, when
we see it thus counteracting and destroying the good gifts of heaven, than when it
is
represented as the suitable associate in the breast of inmates as dark as itself.
This remark will likewise be applicable to many of the other plays belonging to my
work, that are intended to follow. A decidedly wicked character can never be
interesting; and to employ such for the display of any strong passion would very much
injure instead of improving the moral effect. In the breast of a bad man passion has
comparatively little to combat, how then can it shew its strength? I shall say no
more upon this subject, but submit myself to the judgment of my reader.

It may, perhaps, be supposed from my publishing these plays, that I have written them
for the closet rather than the stage. If upon perusing them with attention, the
reader is disposed to think they are better calculated for the first than
f[Page 66] the last, let him impute it to want of skill in the authour, and not to
any previous design. A play, but of small poetical merit, that is suited to strike
and interest the spectator, to catch the attention of him who will not, and of him
who cannot read, is a more valuable and useful production than one whose elegant and
harmonious pages are admired in the libraries of the tasteful and refined. To have
received approbation from an audience of my countrymen, would have been more pleasing
to me than any other praise. A few tears from the simple and young would have been,
in my eyes, pearls of great price; and the spontaneous, untutored plaudits of the
rude and uncultivated would have come to my heart as offerings of no mean value. I
should, therefore, have been better pleased to have introduced them to the world from
the stage than from the press. I possess, however, no likely channel to the former
mode of publick introduction; and upon further reflection it appeared to me that by
publishing them in this way, I have an opportunity afforded me of explaining the
design of my work and enabling the publick to judge, not only of each play by itself,
but as making a part likewise of the whole; an advantage which, perhaps, does more
than over-balance the splendour and effect of theatrical representation.

[Page 67]

It may be thought that with this extensive plan before me, I should not have been
in
a hurry to publish, but have waited to give a larger portion of it to the publick,
which would have enabled them to make a truer estimate of its merit. To bring forth
only three plays of the whole, and the last without its intended companion, may seem
like the haste of those vain people, who as soon as they have written a few pages
of
a discourse, or a few couplets of a poem, cannot be easy till every body has seen
them. I do protest, in honest simplicity! it is distrust and not confidence, that
has
led me at this early stage of the undertaking, to bring it before the publick. To
labour in uncertainty is at all times unpleasant; but to proceed in a long and
difficult work with any impression upon your mind that your labour may be in vain;
that the opinion you have conceived of your ability to perform it may be a delusion,
a false suggestion of self-love, the fantasy of an aspiring temper, is most
discouraging and cheerless. I have not proceeded so far, indeed, merely upon the
strength of my own judgment; but the friends to whom I have shewn my manuscripts are
partial to me, and their approbation which in the case of any indifferent person
would be in my mind completely decisive, goes but a little way in relieving me from
these apprehensions. To step beyond the
f 2[Page 68] circle of my own immediate friends in quest of opinion, from the
particular temper of my mind I feel an uncommon repugnance: I can with less pain to
myself bring them before the publick at once, and submit to its decision.¹⁷ It is to my
countrymen at large that I call for assistance. If this work is fortunate enough to
attract their attention, let their strictures as well as their praise come to my aid:
the one will encourage me in a long and arduous undertaking, the other will teach
me
to improve it as I advance. For there are many errours that may be detected, and
improvements that may be suggested in the prosecution of this work, which from the
observations of a great variety of readers are more likely to be pointed out to me,
than from those of a small number of persons, even of the best judgment. I am not
possessed of that confidence in mine own powers, which enables the concealed genius,
under the pressure of present discouragement, to pursue his labours in security,
looking firmly forward to other more enlightened times for his reward. If my own
countrymen [Page 69] with whom I live and converse, who look upon the same race of
men, the same state of society, the same passing events with myself, receive not my
offering, I presume not to look to posterity.

Before I close this discourse, let me crave the forbearance of my reader, if he has
discovered in the course of it any unacknowledged use of the thoughts of other
authours, which he thinks ought to have been noticed; and let me beg the same favour,
if in reading the following plays, any similar neglect seems to occur. There are few
writers who have sufficient originality of thought to strike out for themselves new
ideas upon every occasion. When a thought presents itself to me, as suited to the
purpose I am aiming at, I would neither be thought proud enough to reject it, on
finding that another has used it before me, nor mean enough to make use of it without
acknowledging the obligation, when I can at all guess to whom such acknowledgments
are due. But I am situated where I have no library to consult; my reading through
the
whole of my life has been of a loose, scattered, unmethodical kind, with no
determined direction, and I have not been blessed by nature with the advantages of
a
retentive or accurate memory. Do not, however, imagine from this, I at all wish to
insinuate that I ought to be acquitted of every obligation to preceding authours;
and
that when [Page 70] a palpable similarity of thought and expression is observable
between us, it is a similarity produced by accident alone, and with perfect
unconsciousness on my part. I am frequently sensible, from the manner in which an
idea arises to my imagination, and the readiness with which words, also, present
themselves to clothe it in, that I am only making use of some dormant part of that
hoard of ideas which the most indifferent memories lay up, and not the native
suggestions of mine own mind. Whenever I have suspected myself of doing so, in the
course of this work, I have felt a strong inclination to mark that suspicion in a
note. But, besides that it might have appeared like an affectation of scrupulousness
which I would avoid, there being likewise, most assuredly, many other places in it
where I have done the same thing without being conscious of it, a suspicion of
wishing to slur them over, and claim all the rest as unreservedly my own, would
unavoidably have attached to me. If this volume should appear, to any candid and
liberal critick, to merit that he should take the trouble of pointing out to me in
what parts of it I seem to have made use of other authours' writings, which according
to the fair laws of literature ought to have been acknowledged, I shall think myself
obliged to him. I shall examine the sources he points out as having supplied my own
[Page 71] lack of ideas; and if this book should have the good fortune to go
through a second edition, I shall not fail to own my obligations to him, and the
authours from whom I may have borrowed.

How little credit soever, upon perusing these plays, the reader may think me entitled
to in regard to the execution of the work, he will not, I flatter myself, deny me
some credit in regard to the plan. I know of no series of plays, in any language,
expressly descriptive of the different passions; and I believe there are few plays
existing in which the display of one strong passion is the chief business of the
drama, so written that they could properly make part of such a series. I do not think
that we should, from the works of various authours, be able to make a collection
which would give us any thing exactly of the nature of that which is here proposed.
If the reader, in perusing it, perceives that the abilities of the authour are not
proportioned to the task which is imposed upon them, he will wish in the spirit of
kindness rather than of censure, as I most sincerely do, that they had been more
adequate to it. However, if I perform it ill, I am still confident that this (pardon
me if I call it, noble) design will not be suffered to fall to the ground; some one
will arise after me who will do it justice; and there is no poet, possessing genius
for such a work, who will not at the same [Page 72] time possess that spirit of
justice and of candour, which will lead him to remember me with respect.

I have now only to thank my reader, whoever he may be, who has followed me through
the pages of this discourse, for having had the patience to do so. May he, in going
through what follows (a wish the sincerity of which he cannot doubt) find more to
reward his trouble than I dare venture to promise him; and for the pains he has
already taken, and that which he intends to take for me, I request that he will
accept of my grateful acknowledgments. ¹⁸