account of the matter, appears to me to be the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takes a strong interest in the concerns of his fellow creatures, an internal satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest instincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. It is an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on account of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily involves. But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those affeetions. The heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same moment at which it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes: and the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affections, derives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. We are pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, and for entering, with proper sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. In tragedy, besides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish the painful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our distress is feigned, not real; and we are also gratified by the charms of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the beauty of action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mixture of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much heightened, by the representation of incidents extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to render us averse, either to the reading of such tragedies, or to the beholding of them upon the stage.

Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several scenes which make up the acts of a play.

The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is called a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should be closely linked and connected with each other; and much of the art of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion. Two rules are necessary to be observed for this purpose.

The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should never be left vacant, though but for a single moment; that is, all the persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should never go off together, and be succeeded by a new set of persons appearing in the next scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated,

the act is closed. This rule is, very generally, observed by the French tragedians; but the English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any regard to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the stage with so little connexion; the union of their scenes is so much broken, that, with equal propriety, their plays might be divided into ten or twelve acts, as well as into five. The second rule, which the English writers also observe little better than the former, is, that no person shall come upon the stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for the one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, than for an actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for his appearing in that scene, except that it was for the poet's purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment; or for an actor to go away without any reason for his retiring, farther than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is managing the personæ dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are moved by wires, to answer the call of the master of the show. Whereas the perfection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should be conducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction; where we are let into the secret of all that is passing, where we behold persons before us always busy; see them coming and going; and know perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what they are employed.

All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dramatic action. In order to render the unity of action more complete, critics have added the other two unities of time and place. The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not so necessary. The unity of place requires, that the scene should never be shifted; but that the action of the play should be continued to the end, in the same place where it is supposed to begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, requires, that the time of the action be no longer than the time that is allowed for the representation of the play; though Aristotle seems to have given the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to comprehend the whole time of one day.

The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little as possible, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circumstances in the acting of the play, and to bring the imitation more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of dramatic exhibitions upon the Greek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to a more strict observance of these unities than is necessary in modern theatres. I showed, that a Greek tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning to end. There was no division of acts; no pauses or interval between them; but the stage was continually full; occupied either by the actors or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go beyond the precise time and place of the representation; any more than is allowed during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre.

But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some little time between the acts, has made a great and material change;

gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient strict confinement to time and place less necessary. While the acting of the play is interrupted, the spectator can, without any great or violent effort, suppose a few hours to pass between every act; or can suppose himself moved from one apartment of a palace, or one part of a city, to another: and, therefore, too strict an observance of these unities ought not to be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any other way, than by the transgression of these rules.

On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with many an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities which were then so necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public area, to which all the persons concerned in the action might have equal access. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things as transacted there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, from limiting themselves so much in point of time. Incidents were unnaturally crowded; and it is easy to point out several instances in the Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a song of the chorus, which must necessarily have employed many hours.

But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a strict observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes of time and place; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or country, to another; or making several days or weeks to pass during the course of the representation, are liberties which shock the imagination, which give to the performance a romantic and unnatural appearance, and, therefore, cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer who aspires to correctness. In particular, we must remember, that it is only between the acts, that any liberty can be given for going beyond the unities of time and place. During the course of each act, they ought to be strictly observed; that is, during each act the scene should continue the same, and no more time should be supposed to pass, than is employed in the representation of that act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly observe. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English; to change the place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention of the division of a play into acts. Mr. Addison's Cato is remarkable beyond most English tragedies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited himself, in time, to a single day; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous unity. The scene is never changed; and the whole action passes in the hall of Cato's house, at Utica.

In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic representation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, the impression which he makes on us will always be the more perfect.

Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly essential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt by the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dramatic unities to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed without sacrificing more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, that by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators are deceived into a belief of the reality of the objects which are set before them on the stage; and that, when those unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a Greek or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the whole to be an imitation only; but he requires that imitation to be conducted with skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the entertainment which he expects, the interest which he is to take in the story, all depend on its being so conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the imitation, and to rest on the probability; and the poet, who shocks him by improbable circumstances, and by awkward, unskilful imitation, deprives him of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the theatrical illusion.

QUESTIONS.

How has dramatic poetry, among the entertainments of the theatre, rest? all civilized nations, been considered, What account does Aristotle give of and of what has it been judged worthy? the design of tragedy? Of this definiAccording to what, does it divide into tion, what is observed; and what may the two forms of comedy or tragedy? be considered a better one? When does Why has tragedy always been consi- an author accomplish all the moral dered a more dignified entertainment purposes of tragedy? In order to this than comedy? Upon what do they end, what is the first requisite; and why? respectively rest; and what are their What is the object of the epic poet, and respective instruments? Which, there- what follows? How is this illustrated? fore, shall be the object of our fullest From what does it appear that tragedy discussion? When is tragedy a noble demands a stricter imitation of the life idea of poetry? Of what is it a direct and actions of men? How, only, can imitation; and why? Hence, what fol- passion be raised? What, therefore, follows? What is it, or what ought it to lows? What does this principle exclude be? As tragedy is a high species of from tragedy? Why have ghosts maincomposition, so also, in its general strain tained their place? But what is to be and spirit, to what is it favourable? condemned; and why? Of this mixHow is this remark illustrated? What ture of machinery with the tragic acdoes every poet find? Why must he tion, what is observed? In order to sometimes represent the virtuous un-promote that impression of probability fortunate; but what will he always which is so necessary for the success of study to do? Though they may be de- tragedy, what have some critics rescribed as unprosperous, yet of what is quired? Of what tragedies were such there no instance? Even when bad men the subjects? But why cannot our ausucceed in their designs, what follows? thor hold this to be a matter of any What sentiments are most generally great consequence? In order to our beexcited by tragedy; and therefore, ing moved, what is not necessary? what must be acknowledged? Taking How is this position farther illustrated, tragedies complexly, of what is our and what instances are mentioned? author fully persuaded; and, there- Whether the subject be real or feigned, fore, upon what must the zeal which on what does most depend for rendersome pious men have shown against ing the incidents in a tragedy proba

ble? To regulate this conduct, what of what must the poet beware; and famous rule have critics laid down; why? What instance is given to illusand of them, what is observed? But in trate this remark; and of it, what is order to do this with more advantage, observed? What must unity of action what is first necessary? What was the also regulate? What foundation has state of tragedy, in its beginning? the division of every play into five What was its origin among the Greeks? acts? How does it appear to be purely How were these poems sung? In or- arbitrary? On the Greek stage, what der to throw some variety into this en- was totally unknown; and from what tertainment, what was thought proper? does this appear? What was the Greek Who made this innovation; of him, tragedy? How is this illustrated? what is observed; and what is said of What is remarked of the intervals at Eschylus? Of what these actors reci- which the chorus sung? As practice ted, what is remarked? What did this has now established a different plan, begin to give the drama, and by whom about what must the poet be careful? was it soon perfected? What is remark- What should the first act contain, and able; and how is this illustrated? how ought it to be managed? With From this account, what appears; and what does it make them acquainted? of it, what is further observed? To Of a striking introduction, what is obwhat question has this given rise? served? In the ruder times of the draWhat must be admitted; and why ?ma, how was the exposition of the sub The chorus, at the same time, conveyed [ject made; and what instance is menwhat; and of what persons was it tioned? As such an introduction is excomposed? Of this company, what is tremely artificial, what follows? Durfurther remarked? What illustration ing which acts, should the plot graduof this remark is given? But, notwith-ally thicken? Here, what should be standing the advantages of the chorus, the poets great object; and why? yet what is observed; and why? How What should he therefore do? What is this remark fully illustrated? What remark follows; and of whom is this may be confidently asserted? What the great excellence? But of French use might still be made of the ancient tragedians, what is observed? What chorus? What would be the effect of should reign throughout a tragedy; this? After the view which we have and why? Of the fifth act, what is retaken of the rise of tragedy, &c. for marked? What is the first rule conexamining what, is our way cleared? cerning it; and hence, what are faulty? Of these three, which is the most im- What is the next rule; and why? In portant? When was its nature explain- the last place, what is observed; and ed; and in what does it consist? Why how is this illustrated? Of what were is this unity of subject still more essen- the ancients fond? When are such tial to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry? discoveries extremely striking; and What, therefore, follows; and why? what instances are given? What is What may there be? With what ought not essential to the catastrophe of a they to be connected; and for what tragedy; and why? In proof of this reason? Where have we a clear ex-remark, what instances are given? ample of this defect? What is the sub- But in general, to what does the spirit ject of this tragedy; and what is said of English tragedy lean? What quesof Cato himself? But what are mere tion naturally occurs here; and why? episodes; why did the author intro- Of this question, what is observed ? duce them; and what follows?

Of what must we take care? What do unity and simplicity respectively import in dramatic composition? Of the Greek tragedies, what is here observed? How is this remark illustrated from the Edipus and Philoctetes of Sophocles? Yet of these simple subjects, what is observed? Among the moderns, what has been admitted into tragedy; and what has it become? What remark follows? Why is this variety an improvement in tragedy? But

What is the most plain and satisfactory account of the matter? By what are we, in some measure, relieved; and by what are we gratified? What remark follows? At the same time, what must be observed? Having spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts, of what is it necessary also to take notice? What forms a new scene; and of these scenes, what is observed? For this purpose, what is the first rule to be observed? Of this, what is remarked; and why? By whom is this