The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/105
THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS:
OR, NO MAGIC LIKE LOVE.
A DRAMATIC POEM.
With ſcenes, machines, muſic, and decorations, &c.
THE PREFACE.
Of all public ſpectacles, that which ſhould properly be called an Opera is calculated to give the higheſt delight. There is hardly any art but what is required to furniſh towards the entertainment; and there is ſomething or other to be provided that may touch every ſenſe, and pleaſe every palate.
The poet has a twofold taſk upon his hands in the dramatic and the lyric: the architect, the painter, the compoſer, the actor, the ſinger, the dancer, &c., have each of them their ſeveral employments in the preparation, and in the execution.
The ſame materials indeed, in different hands, will have different ſucceſs; all depends upon a ſkilful mixture of the various ingredients. A bad artiſt will make but a mere hodge-podge with the ſame materials that one of a good taſte ſhall prepare an excellent olio.
The seasoning muſt be ſenſe. Unleſs there is wherewithal to pleaſe the underſtanding, the eye and the ear will soon grow tired.
The French opera is perfect in the decorations, the dancing, and magnificence; the Italian excels in the muſic and voices; but the drama falls ſhort in both.
An Engliſh ſtomach requires ſomething ſolid and ſubſtantial, and will riſe hungry from a regale of nothing but ſweetmeats.
An opera is a kind of ambigu: the table is finely illuminated, adorned with flowers and fruits, and every thing that the ſeaſon affords fragrant or delightful to the eye or the odour; but unleſs there is ſomething too for the appetite, it is odds but the gueſts break up diſſatisfied.
It is incumbent upon the poet alone to provide for that in the choice of his fable, the conduct of his plot, the harmony of his numbers, the elevation of his ſentiments, and the juſtneſs of his characters. In this conſiſts the ſolid and the ſubſtantial.
The nature of this entertainment requires the plot to be formed upon ſome ſtory in which Enchanters and Magicians have a principal part. In our modern heroic poems they ſupply the place of the gods with the Ancients, and make a much more natural appearance by being mortals, with the difference only of being endowed with ſupernatural power.
The characters ſhould be great and illuſtrious; the figure the actor makes upon the ſtage is one part of the ornament; by conſequence the ſentiments muſt be ſuitable to the characters in which love and honour will have the principal ſhare.
The dialogue, which in the French and the Italian is ſet to notes, and ſung, I would have pronounced: if the numbers are of themſelves harmonious, there will be no need of muſic to ſet them off: a good verſe, well pronounce, is in itſelf muſical; and ſpeech is certainly more natural for diſcourſe than ſinging.
Can any thing be more prepoſterous than to behold Cato, Julius Cæſar, and Alexander the Great, ſtrutting upon the ſtage in the figure of ſongſters, perſonated by eunuchs?
The ſinging, therefore, ſhould be wholly applied to the lyrical part of the entertainment, which, by being freed from a tireſome, unnatural recitative, muſt certainly adminiſter more reaſonable pleaſure.
The ſeveral parts of the entertainment ſhould be ſo ſuited to relieve one another as to be tedious in none; and the connexion ſhould be ſuch, that not one ſhould be able to ſubmit without the other: like embroidery, ſo fixed and wrought into the ſubſtance, that no part of the ornament could be removed without tearing the ſtuff.
To introduce ſinging and dancing by head and ſhoulders, no way relative to the action, does not turn a play into an opera, though that title its now promiſcuouſly given to every farce ſprinkled here and there with a ſong and a dance.
The richeſt lace, ridiculouſly ſet on, will make but a fool’s coat.
I will not take upon me to criticiſe what has appeared of this kind on the English ſtage: we have ſeveral poems upon the name of Dramatic Operas by the beſt hands; but, in my opinion, the ſubjects, for the moſt part, have been improperly choſen. Mr. Addiſon’s Roſamind, and Mr. Congreve’s Semele, though excellent in their kind, are rather maſks than operas.
As I cannot help being concerned for the honour of my country, even in the minuteſt things, I am for endeavouring to outdo our neighbours in performances of all kinds.
Thus, if the ſplendour of the French opera, and the harmony of the Italian, were ſo ſkilfully interwoven with the charms of poetry, upon a regular dramatic bottom, as to introduce as well as delight, to improve the mind, as well as raviſh the ſenſe, there can be no doubt but ſuch an addition would entitle our Engliſh opera to the preference of all others. The third part of the encouragement, of which we have been ſo liberal to foreigners for a concert of muſic only, miſcalled an opera, would more than effect it.
In the conſtruction of the following Poem the Author has endeavoured to ſet an example to his rules; precepts are beſt explained by examples; an abler hand might have executed it better: however, it may ſerve for a model to be improved upon, when we grow weary of ſcenes of low life, and return to a taſte of more generous pleaſures.
We are reproached by foreigners with ſuch unnatural irregularities in our dramatic pieces as are ſhocking to all other nations; even a Swiſs has played the critic upon us, without conſidering they are as little approved by the judicious in our own. A ſtranger who is ignorant of the language, and incapable of judging of the ſentiments, condemns by the eye, and concludes when he hears to be as extravagant as what he ſees. When Oedipus breaks his neck out of a balcony, and Jocaſta appears in her bed murdering herſelf and her children, inſtead of moving terror or compaſſion, ſuch ſpectacles only fill the ſpectator with horror: no wonder if ſtrangers are ſhocked at ſuch ſights, and conclude us a nation hardly yet civilized, than can ſeem to delight in them. To remove this reproach, it is much to be wiſhed our ſcenes were leſs bloody, and the ſword and dagger more out of faſhion. To make ſome amends for this excluſion, I would be leſs ſevere as to the rigour of ſome other laws enacted by the maſters, though it is always adviſable to keep as cloſe to them as poſſible: but reformations are not to be brought about all at once.
It may happen that the nature of certain ſubjects proper for moving the paſſions may require a little more latitude, and then, without offence to the critics, ſure there may be room for a ſaving in equity from the ſeverity of the common law of Parnaſſus as well as of the King’s Bench. To ſacrifice a principal beauty, upon which the ſucceſs of the whole may depend, is being too ſtrictly tied down; in ſuch a caſe ſummun jus may be ſumma injuria.
Corneille himſelf complains of finding his genius often cramped by his own rules: “There is infinite difference,” ſays he, “between ſpeculation and practice: let the ſevereſt critic make the trial he will be convinced by his own experience, that upon certain occaſions too ſtrict an adherence to the letter of the law ſhall exclude a bright opportunity of ſhining, or touching the paſſions. Where the breach is of little moment, or can be contrived to be as it were imperceptible in its repreſentation, a gentle diſpenſation might be allowed.” To thoſe little freedoms he attributes the ſucceſs of hid Cyd: but the rigid legiſlators of the Academy handled him ſo roughly for it, that he never durſt make the venture again, nor none who have followed him. Thus pinioned, the French Muſe muſt always flutter like a bird with the wings cut, incapable of a lofty flight.
The dialogue of their tragedies is under the ſame conſtraint as the conſtruction: not a diſcourſe, but an oration; not ſpeaking, but declaiming; not free, natural, and eaſy, as converſation ſhould be, but preciſe, ſet, formal argumenting, pro and con, like diſputants in a ſchool. In writing, like dreſs, is it not poſſible to be too exact, too ſtarched, and too formal? Pleaſing negligence I have ſeen: who ever ſaw pleaſing formality?
In a word, all extremes are to be avoided. To be a French Puritan in the drama, or an Engliſh Latitudinarian, is taking different paths to be both out of the road. If the Britiſh Muſe is too unruly, the French is too tame: one wants a curb, the other a ſpur.
By pleading for ſome little relaxation from the utmoſt ſeverity of the rules. where the ſubject may ſeem to require it, I am not beſpeaking any ſuch indulgence for the preſent performance: though the Ancients have left us no pattern to follow of this ſpecies of tragedy, I perceive, upon examination, that I have been attentive to their ſtrictest leſſons.
The unities are religiously obſerved; the place is the ſame, varied only into different proſpects by the power of enchantment; all the incidents fall naturally within the very time of repreſentation; the plot is one principal action, and of that kind which introduces variety of turns and changes, all tending to the ſame point; the ornaments and decorations are of a piece with it, ſo that one could not well ſubſiſt without the other; every act concludes with ſome unexpected revolution; and, in the end, vice is puniſhed, virtue rewarded, and the moral is inſtructive.
Rhyme, which I would by no means admit into the dialogue of graver tragedy, ſeems to me the moſt proper ſtyle for repreſentations of this heroic romantic kind, and beſt adapted to accompany muſic. The ſolemn language of a haughty tyrant will by no means become a paſſionate lover, and tender ſentiments require the ſofteſt colouring.
The theme muſt govern the ſtyle; every thought, every character, every ſubject of a different nature, muſt ſpeak a different language. An humble lover’s gentle addreſs to his mistreſs would rumble ſtrangely in the Miltonic dialect; and the ſoft harmony of Mr. Waller’s numbers would as ill become the mouths of Lucifer and Belzebub. The terrible and the tender muſt be ſet to different notes of muſic.
To conclude: this Dramatic attempt was the firſt eſſay of a very infant Muſe, rather as a taſk at ſuch hours as were free from other exerciſes, than any way meant for public entertainment: but Mr. Betterton, having had a caſual ſight of it many years after it was written, begged it for the ſtage, where it found ſo favourable a reception as to have an uninterrupted run of at leaſt forty days. The ſeparation of the principal actors, which ſoon followed, and the introduction of the Italian opera, put a ſtop to its farther appearance.
Had it been compoſed at a riper time of life the faults might have been fewer: however, upon reviſing it now, at ſo great a diſtance of time, with a cooler judgment than the firſt conception of youth will allows, I cannot abſolutely ſay Scripſiſſe pudet.