The Works of Samuel Johnson in Nine Volumes by Samuel Johnson

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But it would be tedious to draw out to the reader that which he will
already have perceived better than myself. I have no design to
anticipate his reflections; and, therefore, shall only sketch the
picture, which he must finish by himself: he will pursue the subject
farther, and form to himself a view of the common and domestick life of
the Athenians, of which this kind of comedy was a picture, with some
aggravation of the features: he will bring within his view all the
customs, manners, and vices, and the whole character of the people of
Athens. By bringing all these together he will fix in his mind an
indelible idea of a people, in whom so many contrarieties were united,
and who, in a manner that can scarce be expressed, connected nobility
with the cast of Athens, wisdom with madness, rage for novelty with a
bigotry for antiquity, the politeness of a monarchy with the roughness
of a republick, refinement with coarseness, independence with slavery,
haughtiness with servile compliance, severity of manners with
debauchery, a kind of irreligion with piety. We shall do this in
reading; as, in travelling through different nations, we make ourselves
masters of their characters by combining their different appearances,
and reflecting upon what we see.

3. THE GOVERNMENT OF THE ATHENIANS.

The government of Athens makes a fine part of the ancient comedy. In
most states the mystery of government is confined within the walls of
the cabinets; even in commonwealths it does not pass but through five or
six heads, who rule those that think themselves the rulers. Oratory
dares not touch it, and comedy still less. Cicero himself did not speak
freely upon so nice a subject as the Roman commonwealth; but the
Athenian eloquence was informed of the whole secret, and searches the
recesses of the human mind, to fetch it out and expose it to the people.
Demosthenes, and his contemporaries, speak with a freedom at which we
are astonished, notwithstanding the notion we have of a popular
government; yet, at what time but this did comedy adventure to claim the
same rights with civil eloquence? The Italian comedy of the last age,
all daring as it was, could, for its boldness, come into no competition
with the ancient. It was limited to general satire, which was sometimes
carried so far, that the malignity was overlooked in an attention to the
wild exaggeration, the unexpected strokes, the pungent wit, and the
malignity concealed under such wild flights as became the character of
harlequin. But though it so far resembled Aristophanes, our age is yet
at a great distance from his, and the Italian comedy from his scenes.
But with respect to the liberty of censuring the government, there can
be no comparison made of one age or comedy with another. Aristophanes is
the only writer of his kind, and is, for that reason, of the highest
value. A powerful state, set at the head of Greece, is the subject of
his merriment, and that merriment is allowed by the state itself. This
appears to us an inconsistency; but it is true that it was the interest
of the state to allow it, though not always without inconveniency. It
was a restraint upon the ambition and tyranny of single men, a matter of
great importance to a people so very jealous of their liberty. Cleon,
Alcibiades, Lamachus, and many other generals and magistrates were kept
under by fear of the comick strokes of a poet so little cautious as
Aristophanes. He was once, indeed, in danger of paying dear for his wit.
He professed, as he tells us himself, to be of great use by his writings
to the state; and rated his merit so high as to complain that he was not
rewarded. But, under pretence of this publick spirit, he spared no part
of the publick conduct; neither was government, councils, revenues,
popular assemblies, secret proceedings in judicature, choice of
ministers, the government of the nobles, or that of the people, spared.

The Acharnians, the Peace, and the Birds, are eternal monuments of the
boldness of the poet, who was not afraid of censuring the government for
the obstinate continuance of a ruinous war, for undertaking new ones,
and feeding itself with wild imaginations, and running to destruction,
as it did, for an idle point of honour.

Nothing can be more reproachful to the Athenians than his play of the
Knights, where he represents, under an allegory, that may be easily seen
through, the nation of the Athenians, as an old doting fellow tricked by
a new man, such as Cleon and his companions, who were of the same stamp.

A single glance upon Lysistrata, and the Female Orators, must raise
astonishment, when the Athenian policy is set below the schemes of
women, whom the author makes ridiculous, for no other reason than, to
bring contempt upon their husbands, who held the helm of government.

The Wasps is written to expose the madness of the people for lawsuits
and litigations; and a multitude of iniquities are laid open.

It may easily be gathered, that, notwithstanding the wise laws of Solon,
which they still professed to follow, the government was falling into
decay, for we are not to understand the jest of Aristophanes in the
literal sense. It is plain that the corruption, though we should suppose
it but half as much as we are told, was very great, for it ended in the
destruction of Athens, which could scarce raise its head again, after it
had been taken by Lysander. Though we consider Aristophanes, as a comick
writer who deals in exaggeration, and bring down his stories to their
true standard, we still find that the fundamentals of their government
fail in almost all the essential points. That the people were inveigled
by men of ambition; that all councils and decrees had their original in
factious combinations; that avarice and private interest animated all
their policy to the hurt of the publick; that their revenues were ill
managed, their allies improperly treated; that their good citizens were
sacrificed, and the bad put in places; that a mad eagerness for judicial
litigation took up all their attention within, and that war was made
without, not so much with wisdom and precaution, as with temerity and
good-luck; that the love of novelty and fashion, in the manner of
managing the publick affairs, was a madness universally prevalent; and
that, as Melanthius says in Plutarch, the republick of Athens was
continued only by the perpetual discord of those that managed its
affairs. This remedied the dishonour by preserving the equilibrium, and
was kept always in action by eloquence and comedy.

This is what, in general, may be drawn from the reading Aristophanes.
The sagacity of the readers will go farther; they will compare the
different forms of government, by which that tumultuous people
endeavoured to regulate or increase the democracy, which forms were all
fatal to the state, because they were not built upon lasting
foundations, and had all in them the principles of destruction. A
strange contrivance it was to perpetuate a state, by changing the just
proportion which Solon had wisely settled between the nobles and the
people, and by opening a gate to the skilful ambition of those who had
art or courage enough to force themselves into the government by means
of the people, whom they flattered with protections, that they might
more certainly crush them.

4. THE TRAGICK POETS RALLIED.

Another part of the works of Aristophanes, are his pleasant reflections
upon the most celebrated poets. The shafts which he lets fly at the
three heroes of tragedy, and particularly at Euripides, might incline
the reader to believe that he had little esteem for those great men, and
that, probably, the spectators that applauded him were of his opinion.
This conclusion would not be just, as I have already shown by arguments,
which, if I had not offered them, the reader might have discovered
better than I. But, that I may leave no room for objections, and prevent
any shadow of captiousness, I shall venture to observe, that posterity
will not consider Racine as less a master of the French stage, because
his plays were ridiculed by parodies. Parody always fixes upon the best
pieces, and was more to the taste of the Greeks than to ours. At
present, the high theatres give it up to stages of inferiour rank; but
in Athens the comick theatre considered parody as its principal
ornament, for a reason which is worth examining. The ancient comedy was
not, like ours, a remote and delicate imitation; it was the art of gross
mimickry, and would have been supposed to have missed its aim, had it
not copied the mien, the walk, the dress, the motions of the face of
those whom it exhibited. Now parody is an imitation of this kind; it is
a change of serious to burlesque, by a slight variation of words,
inflection of voice, or an imperceptible art of mimickry. Parody is to
poetry, as a masque to a face. As the tragedies of Eschylus, of
Sophocles, and of Euripides were much in fashion, and were known by
memory to the people, the parodies upon them would naturally strike and
please, when they were accompanied by the grimaces of a good comedian,
who mimicked with archness a serious character. Such is the malignity of
human nature; we love to laugh at those whom we esteem most, and by this
make ourselves some recompense for the unwilling homage which we pay to
merit. The parodies upon these poets, made by Aristophanes, ought to be
considered rather as encomiums than satires. They give us occasion to
examine whether the criticisms are just or not in themselves; but, what
is more important, they afford no proof that Euripides, or his
predecessors, wanted the esteem of Aristophanes or his age. The statues
raised to their honour, the respect paid by the Athenians to their
writings, and the careful preservation of those writings themselves, are
immortal testimonies in their favour, and make it unnecessary for me to
stop any longer upon so plausible a solution of so frivolous an
objection.

5. FREQUENT RIDICULE OF THE GODS.

The most troublesome difficulty, and that which, so far as I know, has
not yet been cleared to satisfaction, is the contemptuous manner in
which Aristophanes treats the gods. Though I am persuaded, in my own
mind, that I have found the true solution of this question, I am not
sure that it will make more impression than that of M. Boivin, who
contents himself with saying, that every thing was allowed to the comick
poets; and that even atheism was permitted to the licentiousness of the
stage; that the Athenians applauded all that made them laugh; and
believed that Jupiter himself laughed with them at the smart sayings of
a poet. Mr. Collier[1], an Englishman, in his remarks upon their stage,
attempts to prove that Aristophanes was an open atheist. For my part, I
am not satisfied with the account either of one or the other, and think
it better to venture a new system, of which I have already dropped some
hints in this work. The truth is, that the Athenians professed to be
great laughers, always ready for merriment on whatever subject. But it
cannot be conceived that Aristophanes should, without punishment,
publish himself an atheist, unless we suppose that atheism was the
opinion, likewise, of the spectators, and of the judges commissioned to
examine the plays; and yet this cannot be suspected of those who boasted
themselves the most religious nation, and, naturally, the most
superstitious of all Greece. How can we suppose those to be atheists who
passed sentence upon Diagoras, Socrates, and Alcibiades for impiety!
These are glaring inconsistencies. To say, like M. Boivin, for sake of
getting clear of the difficulty, that Alcibiades, Socrates, and Diagoras
attacked religion seriously, and were, therefore, not allowed, but that
Aristophanes did it in jest, or was authorized by custom, would be to
trifle with the difficulty, and not to clear it. Though the Athenians
loved merriment, it is not likely that, if Aristophanes had professed
atheism, they would have spared him more than Socrates, who had as much
life and pleasantry in his discourses, as the poet in his comedies. The
pungent raillery of Aristophanes, and the fondness of the Athenians for
it, are, therefore, not the true reason why the poet was spared, when
Socrates was condemned. I shall now solve the question with great
brevity.

The true answer to this question is given by Plutarch in his treatise of
reading of the poets. Plutarch attempts to prove, that youth is not to
be prohibited the reading of the poets, but to be cautioned against such
parts as may have bad effects. They are first to be prepossessed with
this leading principle, that poetry is false and fabulous. He then
enumerates, at length, the fables which Homer and other poets have
invented about their deities, and concludes thus: "When, therefore,
there is found in poetical compositions any thing strange and shocking,
with respect to gods or demi-gods, or concerning the virtue of any
excellent and renowned characters, he that should receive these fictions
as truth, would be corrupted by an erroneous opinion; but he that always
keeps in his mind the fables and allusions, which it is the business of
poetry to contrive, will not be injured by these stories, nor receive
any ill impressions upon his thoughts, but will be ready to censure
himself, if, at any time, he happens to be afraid, lest Neptune, in his
rage, should split the earth, and lay open the infernal regions." Some
pages afterwards, he tells us, "that religion is a thing difficult of
comprehension, and above the understanding of poets; which it is," says
he, "necessary to have in mind when we read their fables."

The pagans, therefore, had their fables, which they distinguished from
their religion; for no one can be persuaded that Ovid intended his
Metamorphoses, as a true representation of the religion of the Romans.
The poets were allowed their imaginations about their gods, as things
which have no regard to the publick worship. Upon this principle, I say,
as I said before, there was, amongst the pagans, two sorts of religion;
one a poetical, and the other a real religion; one practical, the other
theatrical; a mythology for the poets, a theology for use. They had
fables, and a worship, which, though founded upon fable, was yet very
different.

Diagoras, Socrates, Plato, and the philosophers of Athens, with Cicero,
their admirer, and the other pretended wise men of Rome are men by
themselves. These were the atheists with respect to the ancients. We
must not, therefore, look into Plato, or into Cicero, for the real
religion of the pagans, as distinct from the fabulous. These two authors
involve themselves in the clouds, that their opinions may not be
discovered. They durst not openly attack the real religion; but
destroyed it by attacking fable. To distinguish here, with exactness,
the agreement or difference between fable and religion, is not, at
present, my intention. It is not easy[2] to show, with exactness, what
was the Athenian notion of the nature of the gods whom they worshipped.
Plutarch himself tells us, that this was a thing very difficult for the
philosophers. It is sufficient for me that the mythology and theology of
the ancients were different at the bottom; that the names of the gods
continued the same; and that long custom gave up one to the caprices of
the poets, without supposing the other affected by them. This being once
settled upon the authority of the ancients themselves, I am no longer
surprised to see Jupiter, Minerva, Neptune, Bacchus, appear upon the
stage in the comedy of Aristophanes, and, at the same time, receiving
incense in the temples of Athens. This is, in my opinion, the most
reasonable account of a thing so obscure; and I am ready to give up my
system to any other, by which the Athenians shall be made more
consistent with themselves; those Athenians who sat laughing at the gods
of Aristophanes, while they condemned Socrates for having appeared to
despise the gods of his country.

6. THE MIMI AND PANTOMIMES.

A word is now to be spoken of the _mimi_, which had some relation to
comedy. This appellation was, by the Greeks and Romans, given to certain
dramatick performances, and to the actors that played them. The
denomination sufficiently shows, that their art consisted in imitation
and buffoonery. Of their works, nothing, or very little, is remaining;
so that they can only be considered, by the help of some passages in
authors, from which little is to be learned that deserves consideration.
I shall extract the substance, as I did with respect to the chorus,
without losing time, by defining all the different species, or producing
all the quotations, which would give the reader more trouble than
instruction. He that desires fuller instructions may read Vossius,
Valois, Saumaises, and Gataker, of whose compilations, however learned,
I should think it shame to be the author.

The mimi had their original from comedy, of which, at its first
appearance, they made a part; for their mimick actors always played and
exhibited grotesque dances in the comedies. The jealousy of rivalship
afterwards broke them off from the comick actors, and made them a
company by themselves. But to secure their reception, they borrowed from
comedy all its drollery, wildness, grossness, and licentiousness. This
amusement they added to their dances, and they produced what are now
called farces, or burlettas. These farces had not the regularity or
delicacy of comedies; they were only a succession of single scenes,
contrived to raise laughter, formed or unravelled without order, and
without connexion. They had no other end but to make the people laugh.
Now and then there might be good sentences, like the sentences of P.
Syrus, that are yet left us, but the groundwork was low comedy, and any
thing of greater dignity drops in by chance. We must, however, imagine,
that this odd species of the drama rose, at length, to somewhat a higher
character, since we are told that Plato, the philosopher, laid the mimi
of Sophron under his pillow, and they were found there after his death.
But in general we may say, with truth, that it always discovered the
meanness of its original, like a false pretension to nobility, in which
the cheat is always discovered, through the concealment of fictitious
splendour.

These mimi were of two sorts, of which the length was different, but the
purposes the same. The mimi of one species were short; those of the
other long, and not quite so grotesque. These two kinds were subdivided
into many species, distinguished by the dresses and characters, such as
show drunkards, physicians, men, and women.

Thus far of the Greeks. The Romans, having borrowed of them the more
noble shows of tragedy and comedy, were not content till they had their
rhapsodies. They had their _planipedes_, who played with flat soles,
that they might have the more agility; and their _sannions_, whose head
was shaved, that they might box the better. There is no need of naming
here all who had a name for these diversions among the Greeks and
Romans. I have said enough, and, perhaps, too much of this abortion of
comedy, which drew upon itself the contempt of good men, the censures of
the magistrates, and the indignation of the fathers of the church[3].

Another set of players were called pantomimes: these were, at least, so
far preferable to the former, that they gave no offence to the ears.
They spoke only to the eyes; but with such art of expression, that,
without the utterance of a single word, they represented, as we are
told, a complete tragedy or comedy, in the same manner as dumb harlequin
is exhibited on our theatres. These pantomimes, among the Greeks, first
mingled singing with their dances; afterwards, about the time of Livius
Andronicus, the songs were performed by one part, and the dances by
another. Afterwards, in the time of Augustus, when they were sent for to
Rome, for the diversions of the people, whom he had enslaved, they
played comedies without songs or vocal utterance, but by the
sprightliness, activity, and efficacy of their gestures; or, as Sidonius
Apollinaris expresses it, "clausis faucibus, et loquente gestu." They
not only exhibited things and passions, but even the most delicate
distinctions of passions, and the slightest circumstances of facts. We
must not, however, imagine, at least, in my opinion, that the pantomimes
did literally represent regular tragedies or comedies by the mere
motions of their bodies. We may justly determine, notwithstanding all
their agility, their representations would, at last, be very incomplete:
yet we may suppose, with good reason, that their action was very lively,
and that the art of imitation went great lengths, since it raised the
admiration of the wisest men, and made the people mad with eagerness.
Yet, when we read that one Hylas, the pupil of one Pylades, in the time
of Augustus, divided the applauses of the people with his master, when
they represented Oedipus; or when Juvenal tells us, that Bathillus
played Leda, and other things of the same kind, it is not easy to
believe that a single man, without speaking a word, could exhibit
tragedies or comedies, and make starts and bounds supply the place of
vocal articulation. Notwithstanding the obscurity of this whole matter,
one may know what to admit as certain, or how far a representation could
be carried by dance, posture and grimace. Among these artificial dances,
of which we know nothing but the names, there was, as early as the time
of Aristophanes, some extremely indecent. These were continued in Italy
from the time of Augustus, long after the emperours. It was a publick
mischief, which contributed, in some measure, to the decay and ruin of
the Roman empire. To have a due detestation of those licentious
entertainments, there is no need of any recourse to the fathers; the
wiser pagans tell us, very plainly, what they thought of them. I have
made this mention of the mimi and pantomimes, only to show how the most
noble of publick spectacles were corrupted and abused, and to conduct
the reader to the end through every road, and through all the by-paths
of human wit, from Homer and Eschylus to our own time.

7. WANDERINGS OF THE HUMAN MIND IN THE BIRTH, AND PROGRESS OF THEATRICAL
REPRESENTATIONS.

That we may conclude this work by applying the principles laid down at
the beginning, and extended through the whole, I desire the reader to
recur to that point, where I have represented the human mind as
beginning the course of the drama. The chorus was first a hymn to
Bacchus, produced by accident; art brought it to perfection, and delight
made it a publick diversion. Thespis made a single actor play before the
people; this was the beginning of theatrical shows. Eschylus, taking the
idea of the Iliad and Odyssey, animates, if I may so express it, the
epick poem, and gives a dialogue in place of simple recitation; puts the
whole into action, and sets it before the eyes, as if it was a present
and real transaction; he gives the chorus[4] an interest in the scenes;
contrives habits of dignity and theatrical decorations: in a word, he
gives both to Tragedy; or, more properly, draws it from the bosom of the
epick poem. She made her appearance, sparkling with graces, and
displayed such majesty, as gained every heart at the first view.
Sophocles considers her more nearly, with the eyes of a critick, and
finds that she has something still about her rough and swelling; he
divests her of her false ornaments; teaches her a more regular walk, and
more familiar dignity. Euripides was of opinion, that she ought to
receive still more softness and tenderness; he teaches her the new art
of pleasing by simplicity, and gives her the charms of graceful
negligence; so that he makes her stand in suspense, whether she appears
most to advantage in the dress of Sophocles, sparkling with gems, or in
that of Euripides, which is more simple and modest. Both, indeed, are
elegant; but the elegance is of different kinds, between which no
judgment, as yet, has decided the prize of superiority.

We can now trace it no farther; its progress amongst the Greeks is out
of sight. We must pass at once to the time of Augustus, when Apollo and
the Muses quitted their ancient residence in Greece, to fix their abode
in Italy. But it is vain to ask questions of Melpomene; she is
obstinately silent, and we only know, from strangers, her power amongst
the Romans. Seneca endeavours to make her speak; but the gaudy show,
with which he rather loads than adorns her, makes us think, that he took
some phantom of Melpomene for the Muse herself.

Another flight, equally rapid with that to Rome, must carry us through
thousands of years, from Rome to France. There, in the time of Lewis the
fourteenth, we see the mind of man giving birth to tragedy a second
time, as if the Greek tragedy had been utterly forgot. In the place of
Eschylus, we have our Rotrou; in Corneille, we have another Sophocles;
and in Racine, a second Euripides. Thus is Tragedy raised from her
ashes, carried to the utmost point of greatness, and so dazzling, that
she prefers herself to herself. Surprised to see herself produced again
in France, in so short a time, and nearly in the same manner as before
in Greece, she is disposed to believe that her fate is to make a short
transition from her birth to her perfection, like the goddess that
issued from the brain of Jupiter.

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