stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra, for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it.

It will be thought strange, that in enumerating the defects of this writer I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the Unities; his violation of those laws, which have been instituted and established by the joint authority of poets and of critics.

For his other deviations from the art of writing I resign him to critical justice, without making any other demand in his favour, than that which must be indulged to all human excellence; that his virtues be rated with his failings. But, from the censure which this irregularity may bring upon him I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I must oppose, adventure to try how I can defend him.

His Histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not subject to any of their laws: nothing more is necessary to all the praise which they expect, than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be understood, that the incidents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural, and distinct. No other unity is intended, and therefore none is to be sought.

In his other works, he has well enough preserved the unity of Action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed, and regularly unravelled : he does not endeavour to hide his design only to discover it; for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shakspeare is the Poet of Nature. But his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a beginning,

a middle, and an end: one event is concatenated with another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence. There are, perhaps, some incidents that might be spared; as in other poets there is much talk, that only fills up time upon the stage: but the general system makes gradual advances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation.

To the Unities of Time and Place he has shown no regard: and, perhaps, a nearer view of the principles on which they stand will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the veneration, which from the time of Corneille they have very generally received, by discovering that they have given more trouble to the poet than pleasure to the auditor.

• The necessity of observing the Unities of Time and Place arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The critics hold it impossible, that an action of months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the theatre, while embassadors go and return between distant kings, while armies are levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or till he whom they saw courting his mistress shall lament the untimely fall of his The mind revolts from evident falsehood; and fiction loses it's force, when it departs from the resemblance of reality.


From the narrow limitation of Time necessarily arises the contraction of Place. The spectator, who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at a distance to which not the dragons of Medea could in so short a time have transported him: he knows with certainty that he has not changed his place, and he

knows that place cannot change itself; that what was a house, cannot become a plain; that what was Thebes, can never be Persepolis.

'Such is the triumphant language, with which a critic exults over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without resistance or reply. It is time therefore to tell him, by the authority of Shakspeare, that he assumes as an unquestionable principle a position which, while his breath is forming it into words, his understanding pronounces to be false. It is false, that any representation is mistaken for reality; that any dramatic fable in it's materiality was ever credible, or for a single moment was ever credited.

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The objection, arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at Alexandria and the next at Rome, supposes that when the play opens, the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he, that imagines this, may imagine more. He, that can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium. Delusion, if delusion be admitted, has no certain limitation: if the spectator can be once persuaded that his old acquaintance are Alexander and Cæsar, that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of Pharsalia or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of elevation above the reach of reason or of truth, and from the heights of empyrean poetry may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial nature. There is no reason, why a mind thus wandering in ecstasy should count the clock; or why an hour should not be a

century in that calenture of the brains, that can make the stage a field.

The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, and know from the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and that the players are only players. They come to hear a certain number of lines recited with just gesture, and elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an action must be in some place: but the different actions, that complete a story, may be in places very remote from each other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that space to represent first Athens and then Sicily, which was always known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a modern theatre?

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By supposition, as Place is introduced, Time may be extended. The time, required by the fable, elapses for the most part between the acts: for, of so much of the action as is represented, the real and poetical duration is the same. If in the first act preparations for war against Mithridates are represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may, without absurdity, be represented in the catastrophe as happening in Pontus. We know that there is neither war, nor preparations for war: we know that we are neither in Rome, nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates, nor Lucullus, is before us. The drama exhibits successive imitations of successive actions; and why may not the second imitation represent an action, that happened years after the first, if it be so connected with it, that nothing but time can be supposed to intervene? Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious to the imagination: a lapse of years is as easily conceived, as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily contract the time

of real actions, and therefore willingly permit it to be contracted, when we only see their imitation.

'It will be asked, "How the drama moves, if it is not credited?" It is credited, with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, whenever it moves, as a just picture of a real original; as representing to the auditor what he would himself feel, if he were to do or suffer, what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflexion that strikes the heart is, not that the evils before us are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves, unhappy for a moment: but we rather lament the possibility, than suppose the presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe, when she remembers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murthers and treason real, they would please no more.


Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind. When the imagination is recreated by a painted landscape, the trees are not supposed capable to give us shade, or the fountains coolness: but we consider, how we should be pleased with such fountains playing beside us, and such woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the history of Henry V.; yet no man takes his book for the field of Agincourt. A dramatic exhibition is a book, recited with concomitants that increase or diminish it's effect. Familiar comedy is often more powerful on the theatre, than in the page: imperial tragedy is always less. The humour of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace; but what voice, or what

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