Tragedy

The English as well as the Spaniards were possessed of theatres at a time when the French had no more than moving, itinerant stages. Shakspeare, who was considered as the Corneille of the first-mentioned nation, was pretty nearly contemporary with Lopez de Vega, and he created, as it were, the English theatre. Shakspeare boasted a strong fruitful genius. He was natural and sublime, but had not so much as a single spark of good taste, or knew one rule of the drama. I will now hazard a random, but, at the same time, true reflection, which is, that the great merit of this dramatic poet has been the ruin of the English stage. There are such beautiful, such noble, such dreadful scenes in this writer’s monstrous farces, to which the name of tragedy is given, that they have always been exhibited with great success. Time, which alone gives reputation to writers, at last makes their very faults venerable. Most of the whimsical gigantic images of this poet, have, through length of time (it being a hundred and fifty years since they were first drawn) acquired a right of passing for sublime. Most of the modern dramatic writers have copied him; but the touches and descriptions which are applauded in Shakspeare, are hissed at in these writers; and you will easily believe that the veneration in which this author is held, increases in proportion to the contempt which is shown to the moderns. Dramatic writers don’t consider that they should not imitate him; and the ill-success of Shakspeare’s imitators produces no other effect, than to make him be considered as inimitable. You remember that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most tender piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage, and that the poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that she dies very unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, two grave-diggers make a grave, and are all the time drinking, singing ballads, and making humorous reflections (natural indeed enough to persons of their profession) on the several skulls they throw up with their spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is, that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the reign of King Charles II., which was that of politeness, and the Golden Age of the liberal arts; Otway, in his Venice Preserved, introduces Antonio the senator, and Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the horrors of the Marquis of Bedemar’s conspiracy. Antonio, the superannuated senator plays, in his mistress’s presence, all the apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite frantic and out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog, and bites his mistress’s legs, who kicks and whips him. However, the players have struck these buffooneries (which indeed were calculated merely for the dregs of the people) out of Otway’s tragedy; but they have still left in Shakspeare’s Julius Cæsar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers and cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus and Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those who have hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage, and especially on the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken notice only of his errors; and that no one has translated any of those strong, those forcible passages which atone for all his faults. But to this I will answer, that nothing is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly impertinences which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a very difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent writers, compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages which display some of the beauties of great geniuses, are of infinitely more value than all the idle rhapsodies of those commentators; and I will join in opinion with all persons of good taste in declaring, that greater advantage may be reaped from a dozen verses of Homer of Virgil, than from all the critiques put together which have been made on those two great poets.

The English and the Spaniards had theatres when the French had only travelling stages. Shakspeare was considered the Corneille of England and lived at roughly the same time as Lopez de Vega. He created, so to speak, the English theatre. Shakspeare had a powerful, fertile genius. He was natural and sublime, but lacked even a spark of good taste and knew no rules of drama. I will now venture a passing observation, but a true one. This dramatic poet’s great merit has been the ruin of the English stage. His monstrous farces, called tragedies, contain scenes so beautiful, so noble, and so terrifying that the plays have always enjoyed great success. Time alone gives writers their reputations, and eventually makes even their faults objects of reverence. Most of this poet’s bizarre, gigantic images have gained the right to pass for sublime simply through age. It has been a hundred and fifty years since he first created them. Most modern playwrights have copied him. But the details and descriptions applauded in Shakspeare are hissed at in these writers. You can easily believe that reverence for Shakspeare grows in proportion to the contempt shown to modern playwrights. Playwrights fail to consider that they should not imitate him. His imitators’ failures do nothing but make him seem impossible to imitate. You remember Othello, Moor of Venice, a deeply moving tragedy. A man strangles his wife onstage, and the poor woman cries out as she is strangled that she dies unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, two gravediggers dig a grave while drinking, singing ballads, and making jokes. Their jokes concern the various skulls they toss up with their spades, and are natural enough for their profession. But you will be surprised to learn that this ridiculous episode has been imitated. Charles II.’s reign was an age of refined manners and the Golden Age of the liberal arts. During that reign, Otway introduced Antonio the senator and Naki, his courtesan, into his Venice Preserved. They appear amid the horrors of the Marquis of Bedemar’s conspiracy. Before his mistress, the aged senator Antonio performs all the monkey tricks of a lewd, impotent libertine, utterly frantic and senseless. He imitates a bull and a dog, and bites his mistress’s legs, while she kicks and whips him. However, actors have cut this clowning from Otway’s tragedy. Indeed, it was designed only for the lowest dregs of society. But they have kept the jokes of the Roman shoemakers and cobblers in Shakspeare’s Julius Cæsar. These characters appear in the same scene as Brutus and Cassius. You will surely complain about those who have discussed the English stage with you, especially the celebrated Shakspeare. They have pointed out only his faults. No one has translated any of those powerful, forceful passages that make up for all his faults. My answer is that nothing is easier than presenting in prose all the foolish nonsense a poet may have written. But translating his fine verse is very difficult. All your academic novices who pose as judges of great writers compile whole volumes. Yet I think two pages showing some beauties of great genius are infinitely more valuable than those commentators’ idle ramblings. And I agree with all people of good taste on one point. A dozen lines of Homer or Virgil offer greater benefit than all the criticism of those two great poets combined.

I have ventured to translate some passages of the most celebrated English poets, and shall now give you one from Shakspeare. Pardon the blemishes of the translation for the sake of the original; and remember always that when you see a version, you see merely a faint print of a beautiful picture. I have made choice of part of the celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as follows:—

I have dared to translate some passages by the most celebrated English poets. Now I will give you one from Shakspeare. Forgive the translation’s flaws for the sake of the original. And always remember that a translation is only a faint print of a beautiful picture. I have chosen part of the famous soliloquy in Hamlet. As you may remember, it goes as follows:

My version of it runs thus:—

My version goes like this:

Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare in a servile manner. Woe to the writer who gives a literal version; who by rendering every word of his original, by that very means enervates the sense, and extinguishes all the fire of it. It is on such an occasion one may justly affirm, that the letter kills, but the Spirit quickens.

Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare by slavishly following his words. Woe to the writer who translates word for word. By reproducing every word of the original, the writer weakens its meaning and puts out all its fire. In such a case, one may rightly say that the letter kills, but the spirit gives life.

Here follows another passage copied from a celebrated tragic writer among the English. It is Dryden, a poet in the reign of Charles II.—a writer whose genius was too exuberant, and not accompanied with judgment enough. Had he written only a tenth part of the works he left behind him, his character would have been conspicuous in every part; but his great fault is his having endeavoured to be universal.

Here is another passage from a celebrated English tragic playwright, Dryden, a poet during the reign of Charles II. His genius was too abundant, and he lacked the judgment to control it. If he had written only a tenth of the works he left behind, his talent would have shone throughout them. But his great fault was trying to excel in every kind of writing.

The passage in question is as follows:—

The passage in question reads as follows:

I shall now give you my translation:—

Now I'll give you my translation:

It is in these detached passages that the English have hitherto excelled. Their dramatic pieces, most of which are barbarous and without decorum, order, or verisimilitude, dart such resplendent flashes through this gleam, as amaze and astonish. The style is too much inflated, too unnatural, too closely copied from the Hebrew writers, who abound so much with the Asiatic fustian. But then it must be also confessed that the stilts of the figurative style, on which the English tongue is lifted up, raises the genius at the same time very far aloft, though with an irregular pace. The first English writer who composed a regular tragedy, and infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it, was the illustrious Mr. Addison. His “Cato” is a masterpiece, both with regard to the diction and to the beauty and harmony of the numbers. The character of Cato is, in my opinion, vastly superior to that of Cornelia in the “Pompey” of Corneille, for Cato is great without anything like fustian, and Cornelia, who besides is not a necessary character, tends sometimes to bombast. Mr. Addison’s Cato appears to me the greatest character that was ever brought upon any stage, but then the rest of them do not correspond to the dignity of it, and this dramatic piece, so excellently well writ, is disfigured by a dull love plot, which spreads a certain languor over the whole, that quite murders it.

It is in these isolated passages that the English have excelled so far. Most of their plays are crude and lack propriety, order, or plausibility. Yet these plays contain brilliant flashes that amaze and astonish. The style is too inflated, too unnatural, and too closely modeled on the Hebrew writers, whose work abounds in Asian grandiloquence. But we must also admit that the stilts of figurative language lift English expression to great heights. They also raise creative genius far above the ordinary, though its progress is uneven. The first English writer to create a well-structured tragedy, elegant in every part, was the illustrious Mr. Addison. His “Cato” is a masterpiece, both in its language and in the beauty and harmony of its verse. In my opinion, Cato's character is far superior to Cornelia's in Corneille's “Pompey”. Cato is great without any grandiloquence, while Cornelia sometimes slips into bombast. Besides, Cornelia is not essential to the play. Mr. Addison’s Cato seems to me the greatest character ever brought to the stage. But the other characters do not match Cato's dignity. And this superbly written play is marred by a dull love story. That love story spreads a lifelessness over the whole play that utterly kills it.

The custom of introducing love at random and at any rate in the drama passed from Paris to London about 1660, with our ribbons and our perruques. The ladies who adorn the theatrical circle there, in like manner as in this city, will suffer love only to be the theme of every conversation. The judicious Mr. Addison had the effeminate complaisance to soften the severity of his dramatic character, so as to adapt it to the manners of the age, and, from an endeavour to please, quite ruined a masterpiece in its kind. Since his time the drama is become more regular, the audience more difficult to be pleased, and writers more correct and less bold. I have seen some new pieces that were written with great regularity, but which, at the same time, were very flat and insipid. One would think that the English had been hitherto formed to produce irregular beauties only. The shining monsters of Shakspeare give infinite more delight than the judicious images of the moderns. Hitherto the poetical genius of the English resembles a tufted tree planted by the hand of Nature, that throws out a thousand branches at random, and spreads unequally, but with great vigour. It dies if you attempt to force its nature, and to lop and dress it in the same manner as the trees of the Garden of Marli.

Around 1660, the habit of forcing love into plays at every opportunity spread from Paris to London. Our ribbons and wigs crossed over with it. The ladies who grace the theater world there, just as here, allow conversation to have no subject but love. The sensible Mr. Addison showed a womanish eagerness to please by softening the sternness of his dramatic character. He did so to suit the manners of the age. But in trying to please, he completely ruined a masterpiece of its kind. Since his time, plays have followed the rules more closely, audiences have become harder to please, and writers more careful and less bold. I have seen some new plays that followed the rules very closely, but were also very dull and lifeless. One might think the English had so far been made to produce only beauties that break the rules. Shakspeare’s dazzling monsters give infinitely more pleasure than the carefully judged creations of modern writers. So far, English poetic genius resembles a leafy tree planted by Nature’s own hand. The tree sends out a thousand branches at random and grows unevenly, but with great vigor. It dies if you try to force its natural growth, pruning and shaping it like the trees in the Garden of Marli.