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THE 
 
 Dramatic Unities. 
 
 LUWIN ^jlMl'SON-UAIKIK. 
 
 THIRD MDiTiOff. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 IKUUNLK A CO., LUDt.XII HILL 
 
 1878. 
 
 [AU rights rturvtd. j 
 
I'RINTED BY DALLANTYNE AND COMPANY 
 EUINBURGH AND LONDON. 
 
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 IHE iiwi.vv- which up to this time h«ivc 
 
 appeared of this Httle book have praised 
 
 it far beyond its merits; and the writer 
 
 can only, in modest wonderment, cordially thank 
 
 ^hosc critics who have so over-appreciated his 
 
 tforts to throw a little light on the history ol 
 the dramatic unities. The Atkeneeum re- 
 viewer, indeed, seems to think that the work 
 was superfluous; that the unities had, in Eng- 
 land at least, already been disposed of and laid 
 tn n>t. If this be so, no one can have greater 
 
 lusc tor satisfaction than the present writer. 
 1 he only object of this essay was to show that 
 the unities are not only useless, but absolutely 
 
 rejudicial and detrimental to the dramatic art; 
 
 nd that, consequently, the writer for the stage 
 
 Light to be bound by no other rules than the 
 
 rdinary ones of good taste, probability, and 
 
 ')mmon sense. 
 
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 HE following pages have been suggested 
 by an apparent inclination on the part 
 of some of our leading dramatic critics 
 to revive the old doctrine of the unities of time 
 and place. As it is of importance to present 
 and future dramatists to knov^ whether thev 
 are expected to work in accordance with these 
 unities, it is hoped that this short compilation 
 of authorities on the subject may be found 
 useful, and contribute, in some measure, to- 
 wards a settlement of the question. 
 
THE ORIGIN OF THE LAiuES, 
 
 J I IE dramatic unities took their rise at the 
 court of Leo the Tenths and may be as- 
 cribed indirectly to the impulse given there to the 
 study and imitation of classical literature. Directly, 
 however, their invention, or revival, is traceable to 
 one of the most gifted members of that gifted 
 assemblage, namely, Gian Giorgio Trissino. Ros- 
 coe, in hb " Life of Leo the Tenth," says — 
 
 " Although the study of the ancient languages 
 had long been revived in Italy, yet no idea seems 
 to have been entertained before the time of Leo X. 
 of improving the style of Italian composition by a 
 closer adherence to the regularity and purity of the 
 Greek and Roman writers. Some efforts had indeed 
 been made to transfuse the spirit, or at least the 
 sense, of these productions into the Italian tongue. 
 The ' Metamorphoses * of Ovid, and the ' iEneid * 
 of the Momtuan bard, had thus been translated into 
 prose ; and the * Thebaid ' of Statins, the ' Phar- 
 
2 THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES 
 
 salia ' of Lucan^ and the ' Satires ' of Juvenal, 
 with some detached parts of the writings of Ovid 
 and Virgil, had been translated into Italian verse 5 
 but in so rude and unskilful a manner, as to produce, 
 like a bad mirror, rather a caricature than a resem- 
 blance. As the Italian scholars became more inti- 
 mately acquainted with the works of the ancients, 
 they began to feel the influence of their taste, and 
 to imbibe some portion of their spirit. No longer 
 satisfied with the humble and laborious task of 
 translating these authors, they, with a laudable 
 simulation, endeavoured to rival the boasted remains 
 of ancient genius by productions of a similar kind 
 in their native tongue. . . . The person who is 
 entitled to the chief credit of having formed, and in 
 some degree executed, this design, is the learned^ 
 Gian Giorgio Trissino." — (Chap, xvi.) 
 Of Trissino himself, Sismondi says — 
 '' Born at Vicenza in 1478 of an illustrious family, 
 he was equally qualified by his education for letters 
 and for public business. He came to Rome when 
 he was twenty-four years of age, and had resided 
 there a considerable time, when Pope Leo X., struck 
 by his talents, sent him as ambassador to the 
 Emperor Maximilian. Under the pontificate of 
 Clement VII., he was also charged with embassies 
 to Charles V., and to the Republic of Venice, and 
 was decorated by the former with the order of the 
 
IN THE PRESENT DA K. 3 
 
 Golden Fleece. In the midst of public affairs he 
 cultivated with ardour poetry and the languages, 
 lie was rich, and possessing a fine taste in architec- 
 ture, he employed Palladio to erect a country-house 
 in the best style at Criccoli. He died in 1550, 
 aged seventy-two.'* — (Literature of the Italians, xv.) 
 
 Besides his once celebrated poem on '' Italia 
 Liberata,'* in which he was the first to introduce the 
 vern sciolH, or blank verse of the Italian lan- 
 guage, he composed a poem entitled " I^ Poetica,** 
 probably founded on the ** Poeticon *' of Aristotle ; 
 and it was no doubt this work which suggested to 
 him the idea of writing a tragedy in accordance 
 \vith the unities. This was his " Sofonisba,'* pro- 
 luced in the year 15 15, and the first dramatic piece 
 1 which the rules of Aristotle were strictly observed. 
 i>f this Sismondi says — 
 
 ** The most just title to fame possessed by Trissino 
 is founded on his ' Sofonisba,* which may be con- 
 sidered as the first regular tragedy since the revival 
 of letters, and which we may, with still greater jus- 
 tice, regard as the last of the tragedies of antiquity^ 
 so exactly is it founded on the principles of the 
 Grecian dramas, and, above all, on those of Euri- 
 pides." — (Literature of the Italians, xv.) 
 
 So close an imitation, indeed, was his piece of 
 the Greek drama, that the usual division into acts 
 and scenes was omitted, and a chorus introduced. 
 
4 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 Rucellai presently succeeded his friend Trissino as 
 an imitator of the ancient Greek drama, and was 
 followed by numerous others, all of whom wrote in 
 accordance with the unities. In fact, from the 
 time of Trissino, the rules of classical tragedy were 
 firmly established in Italy, and held undisputed 
 sway for the next three centuries. The works, how- 
 ever, of his immediate followers, however correct 
 in their imitation of the classical drama, were not 
 destined to live beyond their own immediate time. 
 
 '^ The early Italian drama," says Sismondi, 
 ^^ comprises a considerable number of pieces. But 
 the pedantry which gave them birth deprived them 
 from their cradle of all originality and of all real 
 feeling. The action and the representation, of which 
 the dramatic poet should never for an instant lose 
 sight, are constantly neglected 3 and philosophy 
 and erudition usurp the place of the emotion 
 necessary to the scene. . . . Even the names of the 
 dramatic pieces in Italy, in the sixteenth century, 
 are scarcely preserved in the records of literature. 
 . . . These pretended restorers of the theatre con- 
 formed, it is true, to all the precepts of Aristotle 
 from the time of the sixteenth century, and to the 
 rules of classical poetry even before their authority 
 was proclaimed ; but this avails little when they 
 are wanting in life and interest. We cannot read 
 these tragedies without insufferable fatigue j and it 
 
IN THE PRESEfTT DA K. 5 
 
 is difficult to form an idea of the patience of the 
 spectators condemned to listen to these long decla- 
 mations and tedious dialogues, usurping the place 
 of action, which ought to be brought before their 
 eyes." — (Literature of the Italians^ xv.) 
 
 It was probably owing tp the feebleness of these 
 productions, and the little interest they excited 
 abroad, that more than a century passed before the 
 unities made their way into France. When they, 
 in course of time, did so, it was by means of the 
 same piece which had senred to introduce them on 
 the Italian stage. Trissino's '' Sofonisba '* was tran- 
 slated by one Mairet, and produced at Rouen in the 
 year 1629. 
 
 " An author," says Voltaire, " named Mairet 
 was the first who, in his imitation of Tri^ino's 
 * Sophonisba,* introduced the rule of the three uni- 
 ties, which you ** (the Italians) " had taken from 
 the Greeks." ♦ (1) 
 
 And again — 
 
 " Mairet*s ' Sophonisba' was the first piece in 
 France where the three unities appeared.** (2) 
 
 In another place he adds — 
 
 " It is true that the ' Sophonisba * of Mairet had 
 a merit which was then entirely new in France, — 
 that of being in accordance with the rules of the 
 
 * The original passages are given in the Appendix. 
 
b THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 theatre. The three unities of action, time, and 
 place are there strictly observed, and the author was 
 regarded as the father of the French stage." (3) 
 This is confirmed by Laharpe, who says — 
 ^' ' Sophonisba,' imitated from the play of that 
 name by Trissino, was the first of our tragedies con- 
 structed upon a regular plan, and subjected to the 
 three unities." (4) 
 
 These new rules, strict as they were, seem to have 
 been immediately received with great favour in 
 France. On Corneille, who had produced his first 
 piece (^^ Melite") in the same year in which ^^ So- 
 phonisba " was produced, they seem to have made 
 a great impression. He became their vigorous sup- 
 porter and exponent 3 and in all his pieces, from the 
 *'^Cid" (produced in 1636) to ^^Surena" (1674), 
 he made honest, but not always successful, efforts to 
 keep within the prescribed limits of time and place. 
 In 1656 he published, his *' Trois Discours," the 
 last of which is an earnest argument in favour of the 
 use and the necessity of the unities. Followed by 
 Racine, and later by Voltaire, Corneille's principles 
 became a law: which it was looked upon as a heresy 
 to doubt, and to which all French writers for the 
 stage were bound to submit themselves. It is true 
 that in the early part of the eighteenth century the 
 unities were vigorously attacked by a writer named 
 De la Motte, but against such a powerful adversary 
 
IN THE PRESENT DA K 7 
 
 as Voltaire, he had little chance of seeing his opin- 
 ons succeed \ and, indeed, his defeat only served to 
 strengthen the champions of " regularity." 
 
 "One must," says Comeille, "observe the 
 unities of action, time, and place \ there can be no 
 doubt about that." (5) 
 
 And Voltaire, writing in ^^o, says — 
 
 " All nations begin to regard as barbarous those 
 when even the greatest geniuses, such as 
 ; de Vega and Shakespeare, were ignorant of 
 system \ and they even confess the obligation 
 they arc under to us for having rescued them from 
 this barbarism. . . . Even if I had no other answer 
 to give M. de la Motte than the fact that Comeille, 
 Racine, Moh^re, Addison, Congreve, and MafTei 
 have all observed the laws of the stage, that ought 
 to be enough to restrain any one who should enter- 
 tain the idea of violating them." (6) 
 
 For two hundred years then, from the time of ^ 
 Comeille to that of Victor Hugo, the unities 
 reigned supreme in France, and were only finally 
 overthrown on the production of the latter writer's 
 " Heraani," in the year 1830. 
 
 Of the dramatic unities themselves, those of 
 action and time are founded upon passages in 
 Aristotle's " Poeticon," and that of place on what 
 was considered to be the asual practice of the Greek 
 dramatists. The unity of action can scarcely be 
 
8 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES. 
 
 defined in a few words, and the various interpreta- 
 tions put upon it will be given later. In their 
 original form, the unity of time demanded that the 
 action should take place within twenty-four hours, 
 '^or exceed them but little;" while the unity of 
 place required that the scene should not be 
 transferred beyond the bounds of the palace or 
 dwelling where the action was supposed to occur. 
 This unity of place, as will be seen, has been sub- 
 jected to various modifications, and is apparently, 
 in the present day, chiefly understood to mean that 
 no change of scene is allowable within the limits of 
 an act. This, however, will be discussed in its proper 
 place, and we need not refer to it at length here. 
 It may be observed en passant, that, as may be 
 supposed, the student will look in vain for any 
 allusion to the unities in the '*^Ars Poetica " of 
 Horace, unless indeed the following passage may be 
 pressed into the service of the unity of action : — 
 
 *^ Si quid inexpertum scense committis, et audes 
 Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 
 Quails ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet." 
 
II. 
 
 THE UNrT\' OF A err ON. 
 
 IHE passages in ihe " K)ciicon oi Anstoilc 
 from which the unity of action is derived 
 are as follows : — 
 
 "Tragedy, then, is the imitation of a grave and 
 complete action possessing magnitude; (clothed) 
 in pleasing language, independently of the (pleasur- 
 able) ideas (suggested) in its other parts; set forth 
 by means of persons acting, and not by means of 
 narration ; and through^ pity and fear effecting the 
 purification of those passions. . . . The most impor- 
 tant, however, of these (requisites) is the setting 
 together of the incidents." — (vi.) (7) 
 
 "It will then be granted that tragedy is the 
 imitation of a perfect and complete action, possess- 
 ing magnitude ; for there may be a whole which has 
 no magnitude. But a whole is that which has a 
 beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning 
 is that which, of necessity, follows nothing else, but 
 after which something is bound to be^or to be pro- 
 
lO THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 duced. The end, on the contrary, is that which 
 naturally comes after something else, either neces- 
 sarily or for the most part, but after which there is 
 nothing else. The middle, however, is that both 
 before and after which there is something else. It 
 is necessary, then, that well-combined fables should 
 neither begin whence, nor end where, chance may 
 dictate, but should be composed according to the 
 above-mentioned forms." — (vii.) 
 
 ^'It is fit, then, that — just as in other imitative 
 arts, the imitation is the imitation of one single 
 thing — the story also, since it is the imitation of an 
 action, should be that of one whole and complete 
 action ^ and that the parts of the transactions should 
 be so combined that, any of them being either 
 transposed or taken away, the whole would be- 
 come different and disturbed." — (viii.) 
 
 Various interpretations have been placed on these 
 passages, the most important of which we subjoin. 
 Corneille says — 
 
 '^ I maintain, then, that the unity of action con- 
 sists, in comedy, in the unity of the intrigue, or of 
 the obstacles offered to the designs of the principal 
 personages 3 in tragedy, in the unity of peril, 
 whether it be that the hero sinks under it, or 
 extricates himself from it. I do not, of course, 
 maintain that it is not allowable to admit several 
 perils in the one, and several intrigues or obstacles 
 
IH THE PRESENT DAY. II 
 
 in the Other, provided that, in freeing himself from 
 the one, the personage falls of necessity into the 
 other." (8) 
 
 Voltaire, in his remarks on this passage, sajs — 
 
 *' We think that Comeille here understands, by 
 unity of action and of intrigue, a principal action, to 
 which the various interests and the private intrigues 
 are subordinate, forming a whole composed of 
 several parts, which all of them tend to the same 
 object." (9) 
 
 A little further on, however, we find some re- 
 marks which are not quite so dear — 
 
 " Comeille is quite right when he saya that ilicrc 
 ought to be only one complete action. Wc doubt, 
 however, whether one can gain this object other- 
 wise than by means of several imperfect actions.** 
 (10) 
 
 Laharpe; with, probably, some reminiscence of 
 the passage in Horace already quoted, understands 
 the unity of action to lie in the conhistLMicy of the 
 characters. 
 
 " Anstotle desires — and all the legislators on the 
 -subject have followed him in this — that a character 
 1x3 the same at the conclusion as at the commence- 
 ment." (n) 
 
 Lessing, otherwise a bitter enemy of the ui»ilil>, 
 speaks with respect of Aristotle's views on this 
 subject. 
 
1 2 THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES 
 
 '^ There is nothing," he says, "that Aristotle has 
 more strongly recommended to the poet than the 
 proper composition of his story. . . . He defines 
 the story as the imitation of an action, and the 
 action is, in his opinion, the connection of the 
 incidents. The action is the whole, the incidents 
 are the component parts of the whole 3 and as the 
 excellence of any complete whole depends upon the 
 excellence of its several parts and their combina- 
 tion, so also is a tragic action more or less perfect in 
 proportion as the incidents — each for itself, and all 
 conjointly — are in harmony with the purposes of the 
 tragedy." (12) 
 
 Schlegel says — 
 
 " Far, therefore, from rejecting the law of a 
 perfect unity in tragedy as unnecessary, I require a 
 deeper, more intrinsic, and more mysterious unity 
 than that with which most critics are satisfied. 
 This unity I find in the tragic compositions of 
 Shakespeare, in quite as great perfection as in those 
 of -^schylus and Sophocles. I miss it, on the con- 
 trary, in many of those tragedies which are ac- 
 counted correct by critics of a dissecting turn of 
 mind. Logical coherence, the casual connection, I 
 hold to be equally essential to tragedy and every 
 serious drama." (13) 
 
 However, then, we may interpret these passages, 
 there is nothing to which we can take exception. 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY, T 3 
 
 If they mean that a dramatic piece should consist of 
 clear story, clearly told, and with a fixed and.dis- 
 ttnct purpose running through it from beginning to 
 end, every one will agree on that point. It will 
 also be readily granted that the less important 
 actions of the piece should be subordinate to, and 
 not overpower the interest of, the main thread of 
 the story. As to the consistency of the characters, 
 allowing that the unity of time is beneficial, there 
 can be no objections to Laharpe's opinion. It 
 would be unnatural to allow a personage suddenly 
 to change his character within the twenty-four 
 hours. To represent him as supremely good in the 
 morning, and violently wicked in the evening, would 
 tax the laws of probability too far. Granting, then, 
 the unity of time, it would seem to be only right, and 
 even necessary, that a penonage should, within the 
 period of a day, be required to preserve his consis- 
 tency of character. The principle of the unity of 
 action, then, may be allowed to be not only harm- 
 less, but even benefidai. It is of comparatively 
 little importance in comparison with those of time 
 and place 5 and while the one has been allowed to 
 sleep in peace, over the other two angry contests 
 have raged, and bitter battles have been fought, until 
 quite recent times. 
 
III. 
 
 THE UNITY OF TIME. 
 
 jjHE unity of time has for its authority the 
 following passage of the " Poeticon:" — 
 
 " Moreover, (the epos differs from tragedy) as 
 regards length 3 for the latter attempts, as far as 
 possible, to restrict itself to a single revolution of the 
 sun, or to exceed it but little 5 whereas the epos is 
 indefinite as regards time, and in this respect differs 
 (from tragedy)." (14) 
 
 But the unities had scarcely begun to gain ground 
 in France, before we find Corneille pleading for an 
 extension of this limit. Writing in 1636, he says — 
 
 ^^ For my part, I find that there are subjects so 
 difficult to confine within the limits of so short a 
 time, that not only would I allow them the full 
 twenty-four hours, but 1 would even take advantage 
 of the liberty accorded by the philosopher to exceed 
 then^ in some measure, and would without hesita- 
 tion go as far as thirty hours." (15) 
 
THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES. 1 5 
 
 Voltaire, however, in his note to this, objects to 
 going beyond the twenty-four hour^ 
 
 *'The unity of time/* he says, " is founded not 
 ./illy on the laws of iVristotle, but on those of nature. 
 It would, in fact, be extremely proper that the 
 action should not extend beyond' the time required 
 for representation. ... It is clear, however, that 
 this merit may be sacrificed to a much greater one, 
 which is that of interesting the audience. If you 
 can cause more tears to flow by extending your 
 action to twenty-four hours, then take a day and a 
 nig)it, but do not go beyond that. In the latter 
 case, the illusion would be too much impaired." (16) 
 
 Comeille had no followers in his attempt, and 
 the hard and fast rule of a day and a night was 
 universally accepted by the French dramatists. 
 Schlegel, however, considers that Aristotle, in the 
 above passage, had no intention of laying down a 
 fixed and absolute law, but was merely mentioning 
 w^at he had noticed as a usual practice of the 
 Greek writers. To this practice, as we shall see 
 {)resently, there are some very notable exceptions ^ 
 but granting that, in the majority of instances, the 
 action of a Greek drama could be made to pass 
 
 ithin the twenty- four hours, it is doubtful whether 
 this took place in obedience to any known canon or 
 precept. It is at least possible that the peculiarity 
 arose from the structure of their pieces, the simple 
 
1 6 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 action of which could easily be supposed to pass 
 within that time. Of plot, in our sense of the word, 
 there is little. No incidents or events of any kind 
 are allowed to disturb the foregone conclusion as to 
 the fate of the principal personage. From the be- 
 ginning to the end, he is the victim of an in- 
 exorable and unavoidable destiny. The spectators 
 know from the commencement the fate which 
 awaits him, and, in most cases, nothing is allowed 
 to modify or alter the inevitable decree. In some 
 dramas the conclusion is announced in the first 
 hundred lines of the play — either that the victim 
 will have to undergo his prescribed fate, or that 
 some god or goddess has taken him under pro- 
 tection, and will deliver him from it. Another 
 thing which adds to the simplicity of the old Greek 
 plots is the fact that love or passion, as understood 
 in modern times, plays no part in their pieces. 
 The relations of the sexes, with all the wonderful 
 complications which spring from them in our day, 
 were things which caused no trouble among the 
 Greeks. A Greek woman lived a life of seclusion 
 as a girl, and lived a life of seclusion as a wife. 
 When the time came for her to be married, a bride- 
 groom was procured, and her marriage ordered and 
 arranged, and imposed upon her by her parents. (17) 
 ^' Are you then, father," says Iphigenia, " going to 
 remove me to the dwelling of another? " 
 
J If THE PRESENT- DAY. 1 7 
 
 *' Be still,** replies Agamemnon, '' it is not be- 
 coming for a girl to know such things.** 
 
 A Greek woman then was simply transferred 
 from the gyn{eceum of her father to that of her 
 husband ^ and outside those walls she could have no 
 cares and no interests — unless, indeed, of an illicit 
 kind. Being then free from all the disturbing 
 elements of love, a Greek tragedy could move on 
 from the beginning to the end in its own simple 
 and dignified manner. It is true that the " Hip- 
 polytus*' of Euripides turns upon the passion of 
 
 i'hoedra** for her stepson Hippolytus; but this 
 pa^ion, as announced by Venus in the opening lines 
 of the play, is only inspired by that goddess as a 
 means of punishing Hippolytus for his neglect of 
 her and exclusive worship of Diana. The first 
 mistake, then, made by the French, was that of 
 applying to their own pieces rules intended for the 
 regulation of a drama, which proceeded from a 
 totally different form of religion, and totally dif- 
 ferent conditions of society. 
 
 But let us now examine the unity of time, as it 
 actually exists in the Greek plays. Some stress is 
 laid by Schlegel on^tbe argument that the rule as 
 regards time ought to apply^o the whole trilogy — " 
 or series of three plays — and not to each of its parts. 
 It will be remembered that no Greek play was ever 
 performed separately. The whole three pieces 
 
1 8 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 forming the trilogy were performed on the same 
 day, and immediately following each other. Schlegel, 
 then, would have us consider the separate plays as 
 something analogous to our acts — not complete in 
 themselves, but as only forming part of a whole. 
 This theory, however, seems scarcely maintainable, 
 from the fact that Aristotle could never have meant 
 that the events of the whole trilogy were to pass 
 within the twenty-four hours. Let us take the 
 ^^ Oresteia " of ^schylus, consisting of the ^''Aga- 
 memnon," the "'^ Coephori," and the ^'Eumenides," 
 as the only perfect example of a Greek trilogy we 
 have received. The story in each case consists of 
 some striking event in the life of one person, or in 
 that of some member of his family. In the 
 "Agamemnon" we have the return of Aga- 
 ^fmemnon from Troy, and his murder, and that of 
 
 M Cassandra, by Clytemnestra. In the "^ Coephori " 
 this murder of his father is revenged on his mother, 
 and her lover ^gisthus, by Orestes. In the "Eume- 
 nides " we have Orestes pursued by the Furies for 
 this matricide, and ultimately, under Apollo's 
 protection, acquitted by the Areopagus. Take, 
 
 ! again, the" CEdipusTyrannus" and "Coloneus" of 
 Sophocles, both of which would appear to belong 
 to the same trilogy. In the first we have an 
 account of his solution of the Sphinx's riddle, his 
 marriage to Jocasta, who is subsequently found to 
 
in THE PRESENT DAY. 1 9 
 
 be his mother, his horror at this discovery, and con- 
 sequent mutilation of his eyes. In the " Coloneus " 
 we find him in Athens, having been banished from 
 Thebes. An attempt is made to induce him to 
 return to Thebes, but he refuses to do so, and is 
 carried off to the shades in a fearful storm. Now 
 in all these plays, except the " Eumenides ** — of 
 which we shall speak presently — the action may 
 very easily be supposed to pass within twenty-four 
 hours ; but not so the whole trilogy. Between the 
 pieces there are, as Schlegel says, ''gaps of time as 
 considerable as those between the acts of many a 
 Spanish drama." This is evident when we re- 
 member that, for instance, in the interval between 
 the '' Agamemnon " and the "Coephori,** Orestes 
 grows up from childhood to manhood. In that 
 between the "Coephori'* and the "Eumenides," 
 he has to perform the journey from Mycenas to 
 Delphi. The same may be said of the " CEdipus 
 Tyrannus" and "Coloneus;*' for in the interval 
 between the two, not only does CEdipus go from 
 Thebes to Athens, but Antigone would seem to 
 have grown up from a child to a woman. It is 
 evident, then, we think, that when Aristotle laid 
 down his rule of twenty-four hours, he intended it 
 to apply to the separate pieces of the trilogy, and 
 not to the whole. 
 
 Another question, however, presents itself in 
 
20 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 considering the " Oresteia/' and that is, what object 
 could the Greek dramatists have had in limiting 
 themselves to the space of twenty-four hours ? As 
 we know, the people went to the theatre at day- 
 break, and remained there till sunset. The per- 
 formance lasted the whole day, and during this time, 
 we are told, three trilogies and an after-piece w^re 
 represented. Supposing, then, that each piece dealt 
 with the occurrences of a day, and each trilogy, con- 
 sequently, with those of three days, we should thus 
 have the events of nine or ten days presented in 
 -succession. But why this particular number ? or 
 rather, why should the dramatists have been restricted 
 to one day, when the events of ten days were re- 
 presented at the same performance ? If the imagina- 
 tions of the spectators could grasp the events of ten 
 days presented in rapid succession, surely they 
 would have been able to realise those of twelve, or 
 fifteen, or twenty, or more. 
 
 But let us now see how far the Greek dramatists 
 themselves observed the unity of time. On this 
 subject, Schlegel has the following remarks : — 
 
 *^But, it will be objected, the ancient tragic 
 writers, at least, observed the unity of time. This 
 expression is altogether inappropriate. It should be 
 the identity of the real time with that represented ; 
 but even then it will not apply to the ancients. 
 What they observed is nothing but the apparent 
 
/JV THE PRESENT DAY. 21 
 
 continuity of time. It is of importance to attend to 
 this distinction, the apparent, for they undoubtedly 
 allow much more to take place during the choral odes 
 than could really happen within their actual duration. 
 In the 'Agamemnon* of i^Elschylus the whole 
 interval from the destruction of Troy to his arrival 
 at Mycenae is included, which evidently must have 
 consisted of a considerable number of days. In 
 the ' Trachiniac* of Sophocles, during the course of 
 the piece the voyage from Thessaly to Euboca is 
 thrice performed. And again, in the 'Suppliants' 
 of Euripides, during a single choral ode the entire 
 march of an army from Athens to Thebes is 
 supposed to take place, a battle to be fought, and 
 the general to return victorious. So far were the 
 Greeks above this sort of anxious calculation. They 
 had, however, #^MurtMBiar reason for observing the 
 apparent continuity of time, and that was the con- 
 stam presence of the chorus. When the latter leaves 
 the stage, the continuous progress is interrupted, 
 as in the striking instance in the 'Eumenides* 
 of iEschylus, where the whole interval is omitted 
 which was required for Orestes to proceed from 
 Delphi to Athens." (i8) 
 
 Again, in the ** Andromache,*' Orestes and 
 Hermione perform the journey from Phthia in 
 Thessaly to Delphi. Not only this, but a messenger 
 returns from there, bearing news of their arrival, and 
 
2 2 THE DRA MA TIC UNITIES 
 
 of the murder of Neoptolemus. All this takes 
 place without any break in the action of the piece. 
 In the '^ Heraclidae/' in the early part of the piece, 
 the herald of the King of Argos departs from 
 Athens threatening him. Before the conclusion of 
 the piece the Argive army has arrived, fights a 
 battle, and is defeated. In the "Iphigenia in 
 Tauris," Iphigenia, in company with Orestes and 
 Pylades, escaping from Tauri, reaches the seashore, 
 embarks for the purpose of making their escape, and 
 is driven back by stress of weather. In the 
 '^ Alcestis,'* that lady and Hercules descend to and 
 return from the lower regions during the course of 
 the piece, but it is true that that journey may not 
 have required any very long time for its accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 From these instances we see, then, that even the 
 letter of the unity of time was frequently violated 
 by the Greek dramatists ; its spirit was still more 
 often infringed. Events bearing upon the action of 
 the piece, and requiring a -considerable time to 
 happen, are related either by the chorus, a messenger, 
 a herald, or a servant. Most of the Greek dramas, 
 and nearly all those of Euripides, are preceded by a 
 long statement for the purpose of clearing the 
 ground for the commencement of the story. Thus 
 it happens that many events, a portion of which 
 should have been presented to the eyes of the spec- 
 
IS THE PRESENT DAY. 23 
 
 tators, are merely related by word of mouth. That 
 this was done to save the unity of time appears 
 improbable, for it is not saving it, it is only evading 
 it. One reason might have been the desire on the 
 part of the dramatist to restrict the number of his 
 characters as much as possible. We know that 
 iflschylus was the first to add a second actor; and it 
 may be that public opinion, even in the time of 
 Sophodes and £uripides, looked upon it as a merit 
 in the dramatist to employ as few personages as 
 poMible. 
 
 But if we turn to the French sii . U( fmd their 
 writers, from the very first, moving cxticmely un- 
 easily in their new fetters. " The unities must be 
 observed, there can be no doubt about that/* says 
 Comeille, " but we must have the thirty hours.*' 
 Even with this extension, Comeille could not make 
 his practice accord with his theory. In the " Cid,** 
 for instance, we have the following events. The 
 father of the heroine gives the father of the hero a 
 box on the ear. He is, therefore, challenged to a 
 duel by the hero, and killed. The heroine, although 
 still loving him, demands his life from the king, who 
 orders him to joit) the campaign against the Moors. 
 From this he returns victorious, having performed 
 prodigies of valour, and taken prisoners two of the 
 hostile kings. The heroine still demands his life, 
 upon which he b ordered to meet in single combat 
 
2 4 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 another lover of the heroine^ and on condition that 
 she shall become the wife of the conqueror. In 
 this he is again successful, having disarmed his 
 adversary and spared his life, v^^hen the heroine at 
 last agrees to forgive him. The hero thus goes 
 through a campaign, two duels, and several love- 
 scenes, all in the space of twenty- four hours. Cor- 
 neille, however, pathetically admits that '^ the rule ' 
 of twenty-four hours presses rather too hard on the 
 incidents of the piece, and that the Cid had well 
 deserved two or three days of rest after his campaign, 
 before being called upon to fight another duel. He is 
 also willing to admit that the second demand of the 
 heroine for justice comes rather too soon after the 
 first one, and that, in fact, fiction would have al- 
 lowed seven or eight days to intervene. ^' But there," 
 he says, ^*^you see the inconvenience of the rule." 
 C^Examen du Cid"). There is something almost 
 touching in the sight of Corneille's genius chafing 
 under these petty bonds. The anxiety with which, in 
 his " Examen," prefixed to each play, he tries to per- 
 suade the reader that the unities are preserved, is 
 half pitiable, half comical. Thus, of" Horace," he 
 remarks that the action is not too hurried, and there 
 is nothing improbable in its passing within the 
 given time. In " Cinna," the unity of time is not 
 incommoded by the necessities of representation. 
 About ^^ Polyencte " there are serious difficulties. 
 
Itf THE PRESEliT DA K. 2$ 
 
 *' When a king grants amnesties, or performs other 
 acts of clemency, his orders are seldom carried out 
 on the same day. However, by a slight stretch of 
 the imagination, the doubts of a good-natured 
 auditor will disappear easily enough." As to '* Pom- 
 p^," " it has been necessary to change into a mere 
 rising of the people a war which could not have 
 lasted less than a year, seeing that, soon after 
 Caesar's departure firom Alexandria, Cleopatra 
 gave birth to Cacsarion." In the " Menteur" 
 the unity of time is not strained, provided you 
 allow the full four and twenty hours. In his 
 other pieces, " Rodogune,** " Heraclius,** " Don 
 Sanche d' Aragon," and •* NicomWe," it is satis- 
 factory to find that everything is right as regards 
 time, but the unity of place still continues to give 
 trouble. 
 
 In fact, on reading over any of the tragedies of 
 Comeille, Racine, or Voltaire, the extreme impro- 
 bability of such a series of events occurring in one 
 day strikes us at once. We are continually re- 
 minded of the judgment passed by the Academy on 
 " The Old." — " The poet, in endeavouring to observe 
 the rules of art, has chosen rather to sin against 
 those of nature.'* And this remark will apply to 
 nearly all the so-called ** regular tragedies.'* It is in 
 some cases possible that the events presented might 
 happen in one day, but very unlikely that they should. 
 
26 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 We have, for instance, conspiracies formed and 
 carried out on the same day 3 persons passing from 
 the extremes of love to those of jealousy, and back 
 again, all on the same day 5 battles fought, and the 
 hero returning victorious on the same day 5 messen- 
 gers going long distances, and the effect of their 
 message being known at the place from which 
 they started on the same day -, and finally, pro- 
 posals of marriage made, the preparations completed, 
 and the wedding either taking place or being pre- 
 vented, all on the same day. Look at the succes- 
 sion of occurrences in Voltaire's " 7j2i\xQ,,'' At the 
 commencement of the piece the heroine makes a 
 confession of love for Orosmane, at the same time 
 stating that she has no intention of becoming his 
 mistress. Later, Orosmane offers her his hand, and 
 the marriage festivities are ordered and prepared. 
 Zaire then discovers her father in the person of one 
 of Orosmane's prisoners, and also the fact that she 
 is a Christian. (It is apropos of this fact, that the 
 curious line occurs which is put into the mouth of 
 Zaire. On being reminded of it, " Pourquoi me 
 rappeler mes ennuis ?" answers the ingenuous 
 maiden.) In accordance, then, with the wishes of 
 her father, she refuses to proceed to the marriage 
 ceremony, without, however, giving Orosmane her 
 real reasons. We are still only in the third act, so 
 the wedding preparations must have required but a 
 
IS THE PRESENT DAY, 2 "J 
 
 V ery short time to complete. In theend^ Orosmane 
 attributes her refusal to infidelity, and discover- 
 ing her in the company of a newly-found brother, 
 he stabs her. Surely this is a startling series of 
 events to occiu' within the space of one day. 
 
 As to the same author's " Merope/' Lessing shall 
 speak of that. 
 
 "It is true/* he sajrs, '' that these writers pride 
 themselves on the most scrupulous 'regularity j ' but 
 if is also they who either put so wide a construction 
 upon their rules, that it is scarcely worth while to 
 ill them rules at all, or they observe them in such 
 Ml awkward and constrained manner, that it gives 
 one a greater shock to see them so observed, than if 
 they did not observe them at all. (19) 
 
 " Now, let any man just consider the events which 
 he (Voltaire) causes to happen in one day, and 
 then say how many absurdities he will have to 
 picture to himself. Let him take the fullest 
 possible day ; let him take the thirty hours which 
 Comeille allows. It is true that I see no physical 
 !)stacles to hinder all the incidents taking place 
 ilhin this time, but I see all the more moral ones, 
 i : is certainly not absolutely impossible that a man 
 may propose for the hand of a woman, and be 
 married to her within the twelve hours — especially 
 when he has the power of dragging her by force before 
 the priest. But when such a thing happens, surely 
 
 V. 
 
 
28 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 we have the right to demand the most forcible and 
 pressing reasons for such extremely violent haste. 
 When, however, we find not a shadow of these 
 reasons, how shall that which is only just physically 
 possible be made probable to us." Then follows 
 a long description of the events in ^'^ Merope," and 
 the absurdity of causing them to pass in one day. 
 He then proceeds — 
 
 '' Of what use is it to the poet that the incidents 
 of each act, supposing them really to happen, 
 should not occupy more time than the performance 
 of the act really demands -, and that this time, to- 
 gether with that allowed for the pauses, should not 
 even extend to a full revolution of the sun ? Is he 
 on that account supposed to have observed the 
 unity of time ? To the words of the rule he has 
 kept, but not to the spirit of it -, for that which he 
 causes to be done in one day may perhaps be done 
 in one day, but no sensible man would do it in that 
 time. The physical unity of time is not enough -, 
 the moral unity must be there too. For the vio- 
 lation of the last is sensible to all 5 whereas the 
 violation of the first, even although it should involve 
 an improbability, is not, on the whole, so ofl:ensive, 
 because by many the improbability will remain un- 
 observed." (20) 
 
 It was in this way, then, that the French drama- 
 tists conformed to those unities which they vio- 
 
tN THE PRESENT DAY, 29 
 
 lently protested to be necessary to every well- 
 constructed tragedy. Voltaire himself^ the inde- 
 fatigable champion of the unities, and to whom 
 Hamlet was a " coarse and barbarous piece, relieved 
 by some traits of genius/* was, of all others, the 
 greatest offender in this respect. He proclaimed 
 loudly the necessity of the unity of time, and, in 
 almost every case, either violated it or evaded it. 
 That he, in common with Comeille and Racine, 
 was sincerely anxious to observe the rule, there can 
 be no doubt. That they honestly and earnestly 
 tried to do so, is certain. If, theri, the difficulty 
 was so great that they could only observe it by 
 evading it, the reflection at once suggests itself. Or 
 what use is the rule ^ 
 
 That the rule regarding time is of no advantage 
 to the dramatist — that it not only does not assist 
 him, but actually impedes him in the execution of 
 his work — will, we think, have been sufficiently 
 shown from the above instances. Let us now 
 inquire whether the laws of probability demand 
 that the dramatist should be tied down to such a 
 rule in the interest of the spectators. It is clear 
 that the unity of time is founded upon the assump- 
 tion, that to present on the stage a succession of 
 occurrences which require more than twenty-four 
 hours for their accomplishment involves an im- 
 probability. In other words, that the imagination 
 
30 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 is unable to follow, or refuses to realise, a longer 
 chain of events, when submitted to it in rapid suc- 
 cession. But is this so ? Let us first take Schlegel's 
 opinion on the subject. 
 
 '* Corneille, with reason, finds this rule extremely 
 inconvenient. He therefore prefers the most 
 lenient interpretation of it, and says that he would, 
 without the slightest scruple, extend the duration of 
 the action to thirty hours. Others, however, insist on 
 the hard and fast rule that the action should occupy 
 no longer a time than that required for its repre- 
 sentation — that is to say, from two to three hours. 
 The dramatic poet, they demand, must be a man who 
 is always punctual to his hour. On the whole, the 
 latter show a better case than the more indulgent 
 critics. For the only basis of the rule can be the 
 observance of a probability supposed to be necessary 
 to the illusion, namely, that the time represented 
 should agree with the real time. If we once allow 
 a difference between the two, such as that between 
 two hours and thirty hours, we may with perfect 
 right go farther. The conception of illusion has 
 caused great mistakes in theories of art. It has 
 often been understood to consist in that mistaken 
 idea, that that which is represented is reality. 
 Were this so, the terrors of tragedy would be a real 
 torture, a load, like the pressure of an Alpine moun- 
 tain, upon the imagination. No^ theatrical illusion. 
 
IN THE PRESBirr DAY. 3I 
 
 like every other poetical one, is a waking dream, to 
 which we voluntarily surrender ourselves. To pro- 
 duce it, writer and actor must powerfully work 
 upon the imagination ; the calculation of probabi- 
 lities can give no assistance. This demand of literal 
 deception, pushed to the extreme, would make all 
 poetical form impossible ; for we know very well 
 that mythological and historical personages were not 
 in the habit of speaking our lang^ge, that im- 
 passioned grief does not express itself in verse, &c. 
 Wliat an unpoetical spectator must that one be, 
 who, instead of following in a sympathetic manner 
 the incidents of the piece, were to sit, watch in 
 hand, like a prison warder, counting out to the 
 heroes of the tragedy the minutes they still had to 
 live and act ! Is, then, our soul a clockwork which 
 tells the hours and the minutes with infallible 
 accuracy ? and has it not rather a quite distinct 
 mode of reckoning the hours of amusement and 
 those of ennui ? In the former, time passes quickly ; 
 in the latter, when we feel all our powers clogged, 
 it grows to something quite immeasurable. So it 
 is in the present, but exactly the contrary in re- 
 trospection. In the latter, the hours of dull mono- 
 tony dwindle down to nothing, while those which 
 have been characterised by a host of varied impres- 
 sions grow and increase in the same degree. . . In 
 this measurement of time the intervals of unimpor- 
 
32 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 tant tranquillity go for nothing, and two important 
 moments, even if separated by years, link them- 
 selves inevitably together. Thus, when before 
 going to sleep we have .been actively engaged on 
 any matter, on awaking in the morning we often 
 take up the same chain of thought, and all the in- 
 tervening dreams vanish into their unsubstantial 
 obscurity. So it is with dramatic exhibitions 5 our 
 imagination passes with ease over those periods in 
 which nothing important takes place, and dwells 
 solely on those decisive moments placed before it, 
 and by the concentration of which the poet gives 
 wings to the slow course of hours and of days.*' (21) 
 
 And so also Dr Johnson — 
 
 '^A lapse of time is as easily conceived as a 
 passage of hours. In contemplation, we easily con- 
 tract the time of real actions, and therefore willingly 
 permit it to be contracted, when we only see their 
 irritation." 
 
 Su5>:ly this is evident. If we find no difficulty in 
 transporting ourselves in imagination from this 
 present day to that on which the action is supposed 
 to happen, it is clearly just as easy to transport our- 
 selves from that day to the following, or any 
 succeeding one. In reading history, we easily 
 follow the events of a whole reign, or it may be of 
 a whole century, without moving from our arm- 
 chair. The illusion produced by dramatic exhibi- 
 
/AT THE PRESEirr DA Y, 33 
 
 tions is not different from that produced by histor)% 
 poetry, or fiction. It may be intenser. inasmuch as 
 we see the sufferings and emotions of the characters 
 reproduced by real acton; but it is not different, 
 except perhaps in degree. It requires no argument 
 to show this. Were the audience to take what they 
 see produced upon the stage for real events, they 
 would also look upon the actors representing the 
 characters as the characters themselves. In that 
 case, a spectator leaving the theatre, and meeting 
 the actor who had played the part of Brutus, would 
 have to ask him what his feelings were when he saw 
 Caesar fall, and what his opinion was of his friend 
 Cicero's "Tusculan Disputations;** whether he 
 had supped lately with LucuUas, and whether the 
 Lucrine oysters and the red mullet were good, and 
 the jar of old Falcmian mellow. If, then, the 
 illusion produced by a stage play be not different in 
 character to that produced by history, poetry, or 
 fiction, why should the composer of the former be 
 boimd by severer rules than the composer of the 
 latter ? Take fiction, for instance, and let us try to 
 imagine the unity of time applied to that branch of 
 literature. Each novel would have to commence at 
 10 o'clock on the morning of the day preceding the 
 wedding, and the hero would have to address the 
 heroine in some such terms as these : — (Looking at 
 his watch), '*In twenty-four hours, dearest, we shall 
 
34 I^HE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 be one. I may then now proceed to give you an 
 account of my life, and of all the obstacles which 
 have been placed in the way of our union. This 
 will make the hours flow swiftly by until dinner- 
 time. In the evening you shall give me the history 
 of your previous flirtations, together with an account 
 of all letters, locks of hair, and dried flowers pre- 
 served by you, and which you will deliver up to me. 
 This pleasing retrospect will probably occupy several 
 hours, and bring us far into the night. We can 
 then retire to our respective couches with the proud 
 consciousness of having fully accounted for the 
 twenty-four hours, and thus complied with the 
 unity of time." 
 
 Or, let us go one step further, and try to realise 
 the rule applied to everyday life. A friend, relating 
 the history of some mutual acquaintance, says, " In 
 the year so and so, he was head of his school 5 ten 
 years afterwards he fell in love, and married." 
 " Stop ! stop ! " you would have to answer, "you 
 are infringing the unity of time. You must allow 
 ten years to elapse before you tell me about his 
 marriage." 
 
 But, it is said, the observance of the unities tends 
 to neatness of construction. By this is probably 
 meant that the observance of the rule compels the 
 dramatist to display his story in a short, concise, 
 and easily intelligible manner. This is so to some 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY. 35 
 
 extent, but we contend that it is at the expense of 
 other beauties, which are of uiuch more importance 
 to the spectators. It is evident that there are very 
 few stories which will lend themselves to a com- 
 pression into twenty-four hours. If the rule is 
 really obser^'ed, the play can only deal with a very 
 small portion of the life of the characters. But as 
 the events of that single day have nearly always 
 been brought about by something which has 
 occurred before, and which the dramatist is not 
 allowed to bring upon the stage, he must then have 
 recourse to wearisome messengers or confidants, who 
 relate long and tedious narratives. In other words, 
 he is compelled to put before the audience, by way 
 of narration, a great part of the events which ought 
 to pass before their eyes bn the stage. It is evident 
 that under the unity of time there can be no unwind- 
 ing of a complicated plot, and no development of 
 character ; no course of true — or any other love — 
 depicted as running smooth, or otherwise. That a 
 rigid observance of the rule of time heightens the 
 effect upon the spectator is also to be doubted. 
 The cliances are that very few members of an 
 audience— even among those who are acquainted 
 with the doctrine of the unities — stop to inquire 
 whether the twenty-four hours have been exceeded 
 or not. Let us take Schlegel's illustration of an 
 nthusiastic champion of the unities following a 
 
36 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES, 
 
 performance "watch in hand," and instead of 
 attending to the piece, occupying himself in count- 
 ing the minutes. '''The Countess/' he would say 
 — " the Countess, you know, cannot possibly get over 
 her fit of jealousy in less than six hours. You must 
 certainly allow eight hours between that love-scene 
 and the next. The villain can scarcely make 
 arrangements for the murder under twelve hours j 
 other scenes so and so much 3 total, twenty-eight 
 hours and forty minutes.' The piece won't do." 
 But it cannot be denied that these are the logical con- 
 sequences of the doctrine of time. Should it again 
 become a fixed and rigid law, the dramatist will, at 
 last, have to work according to an authorised dramatic 
 time-table. '' Ten minutes allowed for a proposal 
 of marriage, these being as'much as is necessary for 
 the purpose." '^ A quarter of an hour for the 
 discovery of the rightful heir." *' Five minutes for 
 the scene of ' Bless you both, my children ! ' &c." 
 It must be remembered, however, that the first and 
 last incidents must never occur in the same piece, 
 for, of course, that would be a violation of the 
 unity. 
 
IV. 
 
 THE UNITY OF PLACE. 
 
 |N Aristotle*8 ** Poeticon/' there is, as we have 
 before said, no mention of the unity of 
 >lace. It may, however, be attributed to Trissino, 
 tnd, in its original form, confined the scene to the 
 limits of the same building. Comeille, however, 
 in his " Troisi^me Discours " (1636), pleads for an 
 '•nlargementof the rule, as he had already done for 
 hat of time. 
 
 " I should wish,'* he says, " that that which is 
 represented upon a stage, where there are no means 
 of changing (the scene), should be confined to a 
 chamber, or saloon, according to choice. But that 
 is often so difficult, that it is absolutely necessary to 
 find some extension for the unity of place, as for 
 t hat of timo. ... I still maintain that we ought 
 to seek to observe the unity of place as far as is 
 possible^ but as it cannot be made to fit every kind 
 of subject, 1 would willingly allow that that which 
 
38 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 happened within the boundaries of a single town 
 should come within the unity of place. Of course, 
 I should not wish the stage to represent a whole 
 town J that would be somewhat too vast, but 
 merely two or three particular places enclosed 
 within its walls." (22) 
 
 He then goes on to say that he would not wish the 
 exact spot of the scene to be specified, but only the 
 name of the town where the action takes place, as 
 '^ Paris, Rome, Lyons, Constantinople." Here, then, 
 we have already the old complaints about the diffi- 
 culty of keeping within the requirements of the 
 unity. Voltaire, although a strenuous upholder of 
 the unities, speaks also of the difficulty of complying 
 with that of place, and seems to accept Corneille's 
 theory of extension to the limits of a town. 
 
 ^^We have before said that the imperfect con- 
 struction of our theatres — continued from our ages 
 of barbarism down to the present day, renders the 
 law of place almost impracticable. The conspirators 
 cannot conspire against Caesar in his own cabinet j 
 people do not talk about their most secret interests 
 in a public place 5 the same scene cannot represent 
 at the same time the front of a palace and that of a 
 temple. The stage ought to be so arranged, as to 
 bring before the eye all the particular spots where 
 the scene is laid, without injury to the unity of place. 
 Here a portion of a temple 3 there the vestibule of 
 
IS THE PRESENT DAY. 39 
 
 a palace 5 a public square 5 streets in the background ; 
 in short, everything that is necessary for presenting 
 to the eye all that the ear ought to hear. The 
 unity of place is the whole view which the eye can 
 embrace without difficulty." (23) 
 
 Now, what is Voltaire's meaning here ? At first 
 sight, it seems impossible to suppose that he really 
 means to suggeit that different parts of the stage 
 should represent different parts of a town. But, 
 read by the light of his own practice in some of his 
 [)ieces, this is the conclusion to which we are irre- 
 sistibly led For instance, in "Semiramis** the 
 scene represents "a vast peristyle, at the end of 
 which is the palace of Semiramis. Terraced gardens 
 rise above the palace. Right, the temple of. the 
 Magi ; and left,- a mausoleum ornamented with 
 obelisks." The scene is then changed to *' a cabinet 
 in the palace ; " later, to " a magnificent saloon," 
 into which, by some means or other, the mausoleum 
 of the first scene has managed to find its way \ and 
 lastly, we have the " vestibule of a temple." Now, 
 with the assistance of these stage directions, we see 
 what Voltaire was pleading for. It would have 
 been convenient for him to have all these different 
 spots upon the stage at once, so as to avoid a change 
 of scene, and thereby comply with the unity. But 
 it must be remembered too, that all these scenes 
 would have to be interiors. A stage, simply edged 
 
40 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 round with the exteriors of various buildings would 
 have been no use to him^ as that, after all, would 
 only amount to a representation of a public place 
 or street. We cannot, then, avoid the conclusion 
 that he really means what he says 3 and that, in his 
 violent efforts to observe the unity, he would actu- 
 ally have cut up the stage into bits, each of which 
 should represent a different scene, and all of which 
 should be before the eyes of the spectators at 
 once. 
 
 But w^here did this unity of place, which caused so 
 much trouble to Corneille and Voltaire, come from ? 
 and how did it originate ? There is, as we have said, 
 no mention of it in Aristotle, so it cannot, like the 
 other unities, lay claim to his authority. There 
 can be no doubt, we think, that Trissino evolved 
 it out of the depths of his moral consciousness, in 
 accordance with what he conceived to be the usual 
 practice of the Greeks. That the Greeks in their 
 practice did usually observe the unity of place is true, 
 but here the same arguments will apply as were used 
 in the case of the unity of time. It may be asserted, 
 with tolerable certainty, that their practice arose, not 
 from any obedience to a rule, but from the mere 
 accident of their pieces being very simply con- 
 structed. When a person is to be murdered, or 
 sacrificed, or saved from one or the other fate, it is 
 obvious that no change of scene is required. The 
 
m THE PRESENT DAY, 4I 
 
 scene is brought to the spot of the catastrophe^ and 
 remains there. That, however, the Greek writers 
 had no scruple about changing their scene when 
 they wished to do so— that, in short, they knew of 
 no rule to prevent them doing so, there are facts 
 enough to prove. In .the " Eumenides,** the scene 
 is transferred all the way from Delphi to Athens. 
 In the "Antigone,** the scene is once changed by 
 means of the " Encyclema,'* and in •' Ajax," there are 
 two changes. In none of Euripides' plays is there 
 any change, blit the above instances will be enough 
 to show that the practice was by no means universal 
 or compulsory. There is also another circumstance 
 which will account for the Greek dramatists con- 
 fining themselves to one scene, and that is, that had 
 they wished to transfer it elsewhere, the construc- 
 tion of their stage would render it difficult for them 
 to do so. The last row of scenery, forming the 
 backgroimd, being built up, or what we should call 
 *' a set,** and also being permanent, and the same for 
 all plays, it was impossible to change the scene in 
 our sense of the word. When a great theatrical 
 effect was to be produced, as, for instance, the dis- 
 covery of Orestes surrounded by the sleeping Furies, 
 or that of Ajax among the slaughtered cattle, or 
 later, in the same play, that of his dead body, a 
 machine called the " Encyclema " was used. This, 
 however, only occupied the centre portion of the 
 
42 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 stage, and was not large enough to contain any very 
 great number of persons. It was used to represent 
 the interior of a building, or suddenly to disclose 
 any '^tableau " which the dramatist wished to place 
 quickly before the eyes of the audience. Beyond 
 this, there was no machinery by which a change of 
 scene, in our sense of the word, could be effected, 
 and this may go far to account for the fact, noticed 
 by Trissino, that the Greeks almost invariably con- 
 fined themselves to one scene. 
 
 But if we turn again to the French dramatists, 
 we shall find that they could no more observe the 
 unity of place than that of time. Corneille, in his 
 frank confessions in the '*^ Examination " attached to 
 each of his plays, saves us some trouble, and with 
 extreme candour, not only acknowledges those mis- 
 takes which are apparent, but even others which we 
 should scarcely have found out for ourselves. 
 
 ""The unity of place," he says, speaking of the 
 " Cid," " has given me no less trouble. I have 
 placed the scene at Seville, although Don Fernando 
 was never master of that town. I was, however, 
 forced to this falsification in order to give some pro- 
 bability to the invasion of the Moors, who would be 
 unable to get there as quickly by land as by water. 
 I should, however, not like to assert that the tide 
 comes up as high as that pointy ^ but as in the case 
 * It does not. 
 
/AT THE PRESENT DA Y, 43 
 
 of our Seine, it has farther to go than it would have 
 on the Guadalquivir to reach that town, that fact 
 would suffice to give colour to the probability of its 
 doing so, at any rate to those who have not been 
 on the spot itself. . . . Everything, then, takes place 
 at Seville, and thus some sort of general unity is 
 observed} the particular spot, however, changes 
 from scene to scene, and is, at one time, the palace 
 of the king; at another, the apartments of the 
 Infante; at another, the house of Chimene; and 
 igain, a street, or public place. In the detached 
 scenes it is easy enough to determine it, but for those 
 which have a connection with each other, it is dif- 
 ficult to fix upon a spot which will do for all. 
 The Count and Don Diego get into a quarrel as 
 they are coming out of the palace ; that might take 
 place in the street; but after receiving the box on 
 the ear, Don Diego could not remain in the street 
 relating his injuries, and waiting for his son to come 
 up, without being surrounded by a crowd, and re- 
 ceiving offers of assistance from some of his friends. 
 It would, therefore, be more just that he should be- 
 wail his injuries at home, where he wquld be able 
 to give free course to his feelings. But in that case 
 it would be necessary to separate the scenes, as the 
 Spanish author has done. As they are in my piece, 
 it may be allowable to say that the spectator must 
 sometimes come to the assistance of the stage, and 
 
44 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 supply^ in a favourable sense, those incidents which 
 cannot be represented. Two persons stop in the 
 street to speak with each other ^ it must also be 
 presumed that from time to time they walk onj but 
 this one cannot place before the eyes of the audience, 
 because they might disappear from their view before 
 being able to say that which they have to com- 
 municate to them. Let us then, by a stage fiction, 
 imagine that Don Diego and the Count, on coming 
 out from the palace, advance quarrelling with each 
 other ; and that they have arrived just in front of 
 the house of the former, when he receives the box 
 on the ear, which compels him to go in to seek 
 assistance. If this poetical fiction should not satisfy 
 you, then let us leave him in the public square 5 
 but in that case we must be allowed to say that the 
 crowd around him, and the offers of service which 
 his friends make him, are circumstances which the 
 romance writer certainly ought not to forget 5 but 
 as these subordinate incidents do nothing to assist 
 the principal action, there is no necessity for the 
 poet to encumber himself with them on the 
 stage." (24) 
 
 Now^ this extract is tolerably long, but Corneille's 
 whole explanation is very much longer. The 
 " Cid," as it stands, 'is a noble play (notwith- 
 standing the box on the ear), so that all this special 
 pleading, this petty anxiety about the unities, cause 
 
/JVr THE PRESENT DA K 45 
 
 t he latter to seem somewhat small in our eyes. The 
 chief impression which these elaborate defences 
 make upon lis is one of astonishment that Comeille 
 should ever have consented to be bound by them. 
 But if we turn to the ** Examination '* attached to 
 each of his other plays, we shall find that in almost 
 every case there is some hitch about the unities. 
 Thus in "Horace/* "although the unity of place 
 is observed, it is not without some difficulty. It 
 is a fact that Horatius and Curatius liave no 
 reason for separating themselves from the rest of 
 the family at the beginning of the second a( t. It 
 is, therefore, a piece of theatrical sleight-of-hand to 
 give no reasons at all when one is unable to give 
 good ones. The attention of the spectator tp the 
 action going on before him will often prevent his 
 descending to a strict examination as to whether this 
 is right or wrong ; and it is no crime to take advan- 
 tage of it to dazzle him> when there is a difficulty 
 about satisfying him.** (25) In " Cinna,'* " there is 
 a doubling of the scene of action, which is quite 
 peculiar. One-half of the piece passes at the house 
 of Emilius, and the other in the cabinet of Augustus.** 
 However, after more long explanations, it is satis- 
 factory to find that, after all, the unity is observed, 
 " for the whole of the action might pass, not only 
 in Rome, or in a single quarter of Rome, but even in 
 the palace of Augustus alone, provided that you will 
 
 (l UNIVERSITY 1) 
 
46 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 give Emilius an apartment there, separated from 
 that of Augustus." As to ^^ Polyeucte/' ^'the 
 unity of place is tolerably exact, as everything passes 
 in a saloon or antechamber common to the apart- 
 ments of Felix and his daughter. The proprieties 
 vi^ould seem to be a little strained, in order to pre- 
 serve the unity, in the second act, as Pauline comes 
 to this antechamber for the purpose of meeting 
 Severus, instead of waiting for his visit in her own 
 room." She has, however, her reasons for this, &c. 
 &c. ^^ La mort de Pompee " will pass muster with 
 some explanations j and as regards " Rodogune," 
 none at all are given with reference to the unities. 
 We are, then, rather surprised to find that ^^ Heraclius 
 requires the same indulgence with regard to the 
 unity of place as ^'Rodogune." And further, that 
 as " the majority of pieces which follow also need 
 it, I shall save myself the trouble of repeating this 
 remark in my future ^ Examinations.' " 
 
 It will be seen, then, that in scarcely any single 
 piece of Corneille's is the unity fairly and strictly 
 observed. If you will imagine this, and if you will 
 imagine the other. If you will suppose that he or 
 she comes out of the house, or goes into the house, 
 or is in that particular place, and for that particular 
 reason. In some cases you may select the scene 
 yourself 3 take your choice. If the house should not 
 suit you, try the street 3 but in that case you must. 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY. 47 
 
 in your imagination, suppress the traffic, the passers- 
 by, and the vehicles, and fancy that a man is stand- 
 ing quite alone in a crowded thoroughfare. If you 
 will do all this, then we may say that everything 
 is in order, and that we have observed the unities 
 very cleverly ! 
 
 But Voltaire's audacity, with respect to the unity 
 of time, is infinitely more amusing that Comeille' 
 timidity. The latter, at least, gives one the 
 impression of a man tr}'ing to do what he con- 
 ceived to be his duty. Voltaire, on the contrary, / 
 appears as a writer, who, while strenuously main- 
 taining certain theories, knowingly and wilfully 
 evades them, and trusts to the general stupidity of 
 the public not to be found out. We have already 
 seen that Comeille almost always allows himself 
 the full latitude he claims in his " Discours.*' He 
 changes the scene at will within the walls of a 
 town, but does not go beyond that. Now, it is 
 difficult to find out from Voltaire's own words what 
 his notion of the unity of time really was. That he 
 considers the unities to be absolutely necessary: 
 that, from their disregard of them, Shakespeare and 
 the English writers were mere barbarians: that, / 
 through their observance of them, the French v 
 dramatists (including himself) had entirely sur- 
 passed and extinguished the Greek classic writers — 
 all this is clear enough from the various prefaces. 
 
48 THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES 
 
 dedicatory epistles, &c., attached to his plays. In 
 one place he says that '^ the unity of place ought to 
 include the whole area of a palace," but in a passage 
 already quoted he seems to accept Corneille's 
 theory of a whole town being available. Nor does 
 his practice throw much more light on the subject. 
 As far as we can judge, his fixed idea seems to be 
 that the scene ought to be changed as rarely as 
 possible ; for upon no other grounds can we account 
 for the absurdities he allows himself to commit. In 
 ^' Brutus," for instance, the scene is on the Tarpeian 
 Hill. Aruns and Brutus enter, and join the charac- 
 ters already on the stage. The latter, it is to be-i^ 
 presumed, retire, although there is no stage direc-^J 
 tion to that effect. The third scene takes placed 
 between Brutus and Aruns, who "are supposed to 
 have quitted the hall of audience, and gone into 
 another apartment in the house of Brutus." (26) 
 Now, it must be remembered that Aruns and 
 Brutus have never quitted the stage. They are still 
 '' on " when they are *^ supposed " to have entered 
 another apartment. Whether the spectators are 
 also " supposed ' ' to take for an apartment a scene 
 representing an open space, it is impossible to say. 
 Look at it as we will, this stage direction defies 
 explanation. Only one thing is evident, and that 
 is, that Voltaire wished h tout prix to avoid a change 
 of scene. Passing on to '' Zaire " we find that the 
 
IN THE PRESENT DA Y. 49 
 
 scene is laid, and the whole piece played from 
 beginning to end, in the " Seraglio ** of Jerusalem. 
 Men of all sorts, Mohammedans, Christians, and 
 slaves, come in and 'go out, as if the "Seraglio" 
 were merely a synonym for an open street. In the 
 third act of "Merope,** the scene is opened in 
 order to disclose the tomb of Cresphontes. The 
 tomb, however, having done its duty, has to be got 
 rid of again by some means. Now, will it be 
 believed that Voltaire actually turns one of the 
 characters into a scene-shiAer ? Eurycles, in leading 
 off Egisthus, " closes the back of the stage behind 
 him." In "Tancrfede," we have also a change of 
 scene in the middle of the act — but no, we beg 
 pardon, the " scene opens, and discloses Amenaide 
 surrounded by guards." But Voltaire's highest 
 flights are reserved for " Semiramis." The scene, 
 as we have already said, represents an open space, 
 surrounded by certain buildings, and with the tomb 
 of Ninus on the left. Everything goes on very 
 smoothly until the middle of the third act, when 
 the above scene "gives way to a large saloon, 
 magnificently decorated." (27) Thus, then, Semi- 
 ramis, as we suppose, sitting in her chair, is 
 transported in one instant from the open air into the 
 large saloon. But this is not all. The tomb of 
 Ninus, "ornamented with obelisks," which deco- 
 rated the former scene, is positively brought with 
 
50 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 Semiramis into the drawing-room 5 not, we must 
 remember, a mere representation of a tomb, no 
 model of the last resting-place of the departed, but 
 the actual tomb itself, with its owner inside it. 
 After this flight of genius, everything becomes 
 indifferent to us : there is another change of scene 
 to ^^the vestibule of the temple," but we have no 
 energy left to stop to inquire why or wherefore. 
 
 If we have not as yet mentioned Racine, it is 
 because, on the whole, his tragedies are really much 
 more '^correct" than those of Corneille and Vol- 
 taire. Racine allows himself no extension of the 
 unity of place in,^ its original form. He confines 
 himself rigorously not only to the limits of one 
 building, but in most cases to one room. Of course 
 this entails numerous improbabilities 3 but in any 
 case, he does not run about with his scene as Vol- 
 taire does. For instance, in ^*^ Andromaque," the 
 scene is in an apartment of the palace of Pyrrhus. 
 In this apartment in his own palace, Orestes makes 
 love to Pyrrhus's mistress, and announces more than 
 once his intention of killing him, an intention which 
 he subsequently carries out. The same thing occurs 
 in ^^ Britannicus." The plot against the hero is 
 arranged in a room in his own palace. In ^^ Baja- 
 zet," the scene, like that of ^^ Zaire," is laid in the 
 seraglio. Racine is quite aware of the absurdity of 
 this arrangement, for in the opening lines of the 
 
IS THE PRESENT DAY. 5 1 
 
 play he attempts to give an excuse for it. In 
 answer to a very natural question on Osmin's part 
 as to how this happens, Acomat promises to explain 
 the matter to him later, requesting him in the 
 meantime to "cease these superfluous remarks.** 
 When the explanation does come, it may certainly 
 apply to Acomat*8 presence there, but by no means 
 accounts for the fact of Osmin being allowed to run 
 in and out as he likes through five long acts. 
 Racine, too, chose vefy simple subjects. Many of 
 his plays arc modelled on the old Greek drama, and 
 founded on the same stories ; so that their simplicity 
 of plot lent itself more easily to the observance of 
 the unities. But eVen with these advantages, he 
 frequently, as we have seen, found himself in diffi- 
 culties, and often had to sanction improbabilities in 
 order to keep within the law. 
 
 But we have come to that interpretation of the 
 unity of place which finds such general acceptance 
 in the present day, namely, that the scene should 
 never be changed within the course of an act. This 
 idea owes its origin to Comeille, who suggested it 
 in his " Troisi^me Discours.'* His words are — " In 
 order to rectify, to some extent, this doubling of the 
 scene, I would suggest, when it is inevitable, that 
 one should do two things. First, that the scene 
 should never be changed in the same act, but only 
 from one to the other, as is the case with the three 
 
52 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 first acts of ^ Cinna.' " (28) The second suggestion 
 is^ that no particular spot should be given for the 
 scene^ but only the name of the town where it takes 
 place, as Paris, Rome, &:c. Neither of these pro- 
 positions was accepted in Corneille's time, or by his 
 followers. Voltaire, as we have seen, understood 
 the unity of place in quite a different sense, and in 
 point of fact, when he does change the scene, it is 
 almost always in the middle of an act. Corneille's 
 suggestion then seems to have found no favour for 
 more than a century. Nor was it, as far as we 
 know, alluded to by any writer on the subject, until 
 Marmontel's time. The latter, however, seems to 
 have been favourably impressed with the idea, and 
 in his ^' Elements de Litt^rature," strongly recom- 
 mends it for adoption. His words are — 
 
 '^The interval between the acts is an absence 
 both of actors and of spectators. The actors then 
 may easily be supposed to have moved from one 
 place to another during that interval 3 and the 
 spectators also not being tied to one place, are every- 
 where where the action takes place. If, then, the 
 action is moved from one place to another, they 
 move with it. But, moreover, it ought to be shown 
 that this displacement of the action is probable and 
 likely, and for this an interval is necessary. The 
 place, then, ought scarcely ever to be changed from 
 one scene to another, but only in the interval be- 
 
 A 
 
IN THE PRESEITT DA V. S3 
 
 tween two acts. I am quite aware that in order to 
 facilitate a change in the middle of an act, it is quite 
 possible to interrupt the connection of the scenes, 
 and to leave the stage for a moment empty ; but 
 this is not long enough to maintain the sense of 
 reality, especially if the same actors we have just 
 seen appear at once on the new scene of action. 
 After all, it is by no means putting too great a 
 constraint upon dramatists to exact from them a 
 rigorous unity of place for each act, together with 
 the moral possibility of a change from one place to 
 another in the supposed interval.** (29) 
 
 How, however, this interpretation came to be 
 received in the present day was, in all probability, 
 t hrough Sir Wal ter Sc ott's article on the " Drama ** 
 in the Encyclopwdia Britannica, He strongly re- 
 commends the continuity of scene for each act, and, 
 to all appearance, adopted the idea from the above 
 passage in Marmontel. That the rule in this sense 
 was never adopted, or acted upon, until quite 
 recent times, it will be very easy to show. As we 
 have said, Voltaire's changes of scene are almost 
 always in the course of an act. In the only two 
 English tragedies ever avowedly written in accord- 
 ance with the unities, viz., Copgr gye's " Mo urning \J 
 Bride," and Addison's " Cato," the same thing occurs. 
 In the former the scene is changed in the second 
 act from " an able of a temple" to " a place of 
 
54 I' HE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 tombs J " and again in the fifth act, from ^^a room 
 of state" to *^a prison." In '^ Cato/' the scene is 
 changed, in the fourth act, from *^^a garden" to '^before 
 the palace." We see, then, that while the unity of 
 time has remained unaltered, that of place has been 
 subject to considerable modifications. As originally 
 understood by Trissino, it confined the scene to one 
 building. By Corneille and Voltaire this limitation 
 was extended to the whole area of a town ; and at 
 the present day it seems to be understood as for- 
 bidding a change of scene within the limits of an 
 act. Now all these different forms of the rule can 
 only have as their foundation the same theory as 
 the unity of time, namely, that the imagination is 
 incapable of following a rapid transition from one 
 place to another. But, as in the case of unity of 
 time, we ask. Is this so ? If the spectator can in a 
 moment transport himself from his seat in the boxes 
 to the place where the action is laid, surely he is 
 able to transfer his imagination, just as easily and 
 rapidly, from that place to another one. To suppose 
 him unable to do so is only another form of con- 
 tending that the illusion of the stage is a real one, 
 and the fallacy of this we endeavoured to show in 
 treating of the unity of time. Dr Johnson, in his 
 '^ Preface to Shakespeare," has some remarks which, 
 we think, eflTectually dispose of that point. 
 
 "The objection," he says, "arising from the 
 
m THE PRESEl^T DAY. 55 
 
 impossibility of passing the first hour at Alex- 
 andria and the next at Rome, supposes that, when 
 the play opens, the spectator really imagines him- 
 self 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 pro- 
 montory of Actium. Delusion — if delusion be ad- 
 mitted — has no certain limitation. If the spectator 
 can be persuaded that his old acquaintances are 
 Alexander and Caesar; that a room illuminated with 
 candles is the plain of Pharsalia, or the banks of 
 the 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. . . . Itis therefore evident that 
 the action is not supposed to be real ; and it follows 
 that no more account of space or duration is to be 
 taken by the auditor of a drama, than by the reader 
 of a narrative, before whom may pass in an hour 
 the life of a hero or the revolutions of an empire.'* 
 
 But, it will be said, by an observance of the unity 
 of place neatness of construction is promoted. This 
 we take to mean, that, by limiting the change of 
 scene to the interval between the acts, an impression 
 of conciseness is produced, which increases the effect 
 
S6 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 on the spectators. Now, to a spectator uninstructed 
 in the mysteries of the unities, it is a very open 
 question whether this is so. Take the case of ^' The 
 Rivals," for instance. In the third.actof that witty 
 comedy, there are no less than four different scenes j 
 but it is very doubtful whether a spectator who had 
 never heard of the unities would, on that account, 
 find his enjoyment of the piece impaired. It is, in- 
 deed, even possible to imagine a man — again guileless 
 of the unities — who would prefer a frequent change 
 of scene, as giving variety and bustle to the piece. 
 Of course, an enthusiastic defender of the unities will 
 deny this. He will say. The effect of a piece upon 
 me is materially increased by an observance of these 
 dramatic laws 3 while his opponent will allege that 
 to him it makes no difference one way or the other. 
 It is assertion against assertion, and opinion against 
 opinion, and about a matter of opinion there can 
 be no argument. ,^"^^ 
 
 We have seen, then, that the French writers, influ- 
 enced by Trissino's example, incautiously adopted 
 rules which led them into numerous embarrass- 
 ments. Trissino's ^^ Sophonisba," in the simplicity 
 and treatment of its subject, was a close imitation 
 of the Greek model. The French writers, however, 
 found that when they came to apply these rules to 
 more complicated subjects, they could only do so, 
 either by straining them to their utmost limits, or 
 
!N THE PRESENT DAY. 57 
 
 by evading them altogether. We have seen Cor- 
 neille pleading piteouslj for the correctness of his 
 pieces, and even going so far as to give us our choice 
 of scene. We have seen Racine and Voltaire caus- 
 ing the whole action of a play to take place in 
 the Seraglio. We have seen Voltaire ** bringing the 
 places to the persons/* changing the scene while the 
 characters are on the stage, causing his personages 
 to shift the scene for themselves, and positively 
 transporting a tomb from its resting-place outside 
 into the drawing-room. Are we to suppose, then, 
 that should these rules be re-imposed here, the same 
 residts will not follow? Should the dramatist be 
 not allowed to take his audience to the crossing- 
 sweeper's cottage, he will most certainly bring the 
 crossing-sweeper into the palace ; and thereby, as 
 Lessing says, cause the improbability of the observ- 
 ance of the rules to be greater than if they were 
 not observed at all. These are all considerations 
 to which the advocates of the unities should direct 
 their careful attention. They must remember that 
 the weight of proving their case lies with them. 
 The question of the unities has, in England, always 
 been more or less of an esoteric one. It cannot be 
 said that there is, or has ever been, any very general 
 knowledge or appreciation of the subject among the 
 British public. Johnson is, as far as we know, the 
 only English writer who has ever treated of the 
 
/ 
 
 58 rJ^y/^THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES, 
 
 unities, and he disapproved of and opposed them. 
 In the whole school of English writers there are 
 only two instances of plays written avowedly in 
 accordance with the unities. This disregard of 
 
 ' those pedantic rules earned for us the mistaken con- 
 tempt of Voltaire and Laharpe 3 but they, at the 
 same time, gained for us the hearty admiration and 
 
 1 imitation of such writers as Gothe, Lessing, and 
 
 \ Schiller. 
 k It is then for those who lead dramatic criticism 
 ir\ this country to consider whether it be a judicious 
 thing to enforce rules which have, here at least, 
 always been ignored and rejected. They must 
 remember, too, that in order to do this effectually, 
 they ought to be prepared to refer us to works 
 written in accordance with the unities, which we 
 should be willing to exchange for the plays of 
 Shakespeare or the comedies of Sheridan. 
 
W95C^>8^^^ 
 
 V. 
 
 THE UNITIES IN THE PRESENT 
 CENTURY, AND IN ENGLAND. 
 
 [OR three hundred years, then, injtaljr, aifd 
 for "two hundred" in Fran ce, the dramatic 
 uniti(N reigned supreme. It was, too, strangely 
 enough, in Italy, tlu- rmintrv where they liad had 
 their rise, that th< nt was made to throw 
 
 off their authority. A» Trissino's "Sophoriisba ** 
 had been the first piece written in accordance with 
 the unities, so Manzoni*s " II Conte di Carmagnola ** 
 was the first written in defiance of and in opposi- 
 tion to them. This play was produced in the year 
 1820, and from the fact of its being an attempt to 
 overthrow the old established theories, immediately 
 attracted wide notice. On these grounds, it was 
 mentioned favourably by Gothe, who, in his criti- 
 cism of the piece, says — 
 
 *' In his preface the writer farther plainly declares 
 that he has torn himself loose from the severe 
 ordinances of time and place. He quotes August 
 
6o THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 Wilhelm von Schlegel's writings on the subject as 
 conclusive, and points out the injurious effects of the 
 painfully constrained treatment of subjects, which 
 has obtained up to the present time. It is true, 
 that, so far, a German finds nothing which he did 
 not know before 3 he sees nothing which he would 
 wish to contradict. But, notwithstanding, Man- 
 zoni's remarks are worthy of all consideration on 
 our part. For, although this subject has for years 
 been thoroughly discussed and thoroughly disputed 
 in Germany^ yet an intelligent man who finds 
 himself impelled to defend a good cause afresh, and 
 under other circumstances, will always discover a 
 new aspect of the question from which it ought to 
 be regarded and appraised, and will endeavour to 
 weaken and to combat the arguments of his op- 
 ponents b) adducing new considerations. So, too, 
 our author brings forward much which recommends 
 itself to common sense, and pleasurably affects even 
 those who are already convinced." (30) 
 
 Gothe also refers in a later notice of the work to 
 an article in our own Quarterly Review, His 
 chief object is to object to some of the reviewer's 
 opinions of the piece, but the passage is interesting 
 to us as giving an idea of the state of opinion in 
 England at that time with regard to the unities. 
 The reviewer says — 
 
 '' The author of the ^ Conte di Carmagnola,' 
 
11/ THE PRESENT DAY, 6 1 
 
 Alessandro Manzoni, in his preface, boldly declares 
 war against the unities. To ourselves, 'chartered 
 libertines/ as we consider ourselves on the authority 
 of Shakespeare*s example and Johnson*s arguments, 
 little confirmation will be gained from this proselyte 
 to our tramontane notions of dramatic liberty ; we 
 fear, however, that the Italians will require a more 
 splendid violation of their old-established laws,'* 
 &c. {Quarterly Review, December 1820.) 
 
 But let OS now turn to Manzoni*8 preface itself, 
 which also has an interest as being the first protest 
 made by a dramatist against the tyranny of the 
 unities. 
 
 ** In Italy," he sap, ** these rules have been 
 followed as laws, as &r as I know, without dis- 
 cussion, and consequently, most likely without 
 examination." (31) 
 
 He then proceeds — 
 
 " Among the varicms ej^>edients imagined by 
 men for getting themselves reciprocally into trouble, 
 one of the most ingenious is that of having, almost 
 for every subject, two contradictory maxims, and 
 each of which is equally looked upon as infallible. 
 Applying this practice to even the unimportant 
 interests of poetry, they say to those who cultivate 
 it, ' Be original,' and, 'Write nothing of which the 
 great poets have not left you the example.' These 
 commands, which render the art still more difficult 
 
62 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 than it was before, deprive also the writer of all 
 hope of being able to do justice to any poetical 
 undertaking. . . . The unity of place, and the so- 
 called unity of time, are not rules founded on a true 
 conception of the (dramatic) art : nor are they con- 
 formable to the nature of dramatic poetry. On the 
 contrary, they proceeded from authorities which 
 were not properly understood, and from principles 
 which were entirely arbitrary. . . . Lastly, the 
 rules render impossible many beauties, and pro- 
 duce many inconveniences.' ' 
 
 If, however, it required nearly a century for the 
 unities to make their way from Italy into France, it 
 was not so with the opposition to them. The re- 
 bellious spirit soon spread into the latter country, 
 and gave rise to those fierce literary conflicts known 
 as the war of the ''^ Classicists," and " Romanticists." 
 Among the foremost champions of the " romantic " 
 school, and who contended for liberty of composition 
 as opposed to the bondage of the unities, were 
 Madame de Stael, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Vigny, 
 Sainte-Beuve, Jules Janin, and Alexandre Dumas. 
 In the year 1827 Victor Hugo published his 
 ^' Cromwell," and in the preface to that play 
 violently attacked the doctrines of the unities, 
 "brushing them," as Janin says, "on one side like 
 spiders' webs." He commences with a somewhat 
 mysterious dissertation upon the "grotesque" in 
 
IN THE PRESENT DA V. 63 
 
 iie drama, and coming at length to the unities, 
 thus proceeds — 
 
 " The wonderful thing is, that the followers of 
 routine profess to found their rule of the two unities 
 upon probability, whereas it is precisely reality which 
 kills it. What, for instance, more improbable, ./ 
 what more absurd than this vestibule, this peristyle, 
 this antechamber, this commonplace scene, where 
 our tragedies condescend to come to upwind 
 themselves } where the conspirators appear, why or 
 wherefore we are ignorant, to declaim against the 
 tyrant, the tyrant against the conspirators — each 
 in his turn, as if they were saying to each other in a 
 bucolic manner-t- 
 
 ' Altemis cantemus : amtnt altema Camenae.* 
 
 The unity of time, too, is just as feeble as the unity 
 of place. The action, imprisoned by force within the 
 space of twenty-four hours, is just as ridiculous as 
 imprisoned in the vestibule. Every action has its own 
 proper duration of time, just as it has its own proper 
 scene. To serve out exactly the same dose of time 
 to all sorts of events ! To apply the same measure 
 to everything ! How we should laugh at a cobbler 
 who wished to put the same shoes upon all feet ! 
 To interlace the unity of lime with the unity of 
 place like the bars of a cage, and then in a pedantic 
 way to force into it by the grace of Aristotle all 
 
64 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 those occurrences, all those nations, all those faces, 
 which in real life Providence puts before us in such 
 overpowering masses — to do this, is to mutilate men 
 and facts, and to put history to grin through a horse- 
 collar. Or let us rather say, nothing can survive 
 this operation 5 and it is in this way that the 
 dogmatic mutilators attain their usual results. That 
 which was full of life in the chronicle, is dead 
 in the. tragedy j and it is thus that, in most cases, 
 the cage of the unities contains nothing more than 
 a skeleton. 
 
 " Again, if twenty-four hours can be compressed 
 into two, it is only logical that four should contain 
 forty-eight. The unity of Shakespeare will then be 
 something different from the unity of Corneille. 
 Pity ! Such, howeyer, are the petifogging obstacles 
 which, for two centuries, mediocrity, envy, and 
 routine have placed in the way of genius. It is thus 
 that they have curtailed the flights of our greatest 
 poets. It is thus that, with the scissors of the 
 unities, they have clipped their wings. And what 
 have they given us in exchange for these eagle's 
 plumes cut from Corneille and Racine ? — Com- 
 pistron." (32) 
 
 We cannot profess to have any knowledge of 
 Compistron or his works, but it appears from a 
 biographical dictionary that he was a contemporary 
 and friend of Racine's. His tragedies, which were 
 
ilf THE PRESENT DAY, 65 
 
 tolerably numerous, were formed on the model of 
 those of Racine, and, according to the biographer, 
 ''possess many beauties," an opinion with which 
 Victor Hugo does not seem to agree. 
 
 Hugo continued, in various publications, to urge 
 his views in favour of what he termed liberty and 
 tolerance in composition, but it was not until the 
 production of " Hemani " at the Th65tre Franpis, 
 the a 1st of February 1830, that the question may 
 be said to have come to a final settlement. The 
 struggle was violent, and the victory for some time 
 doubtful ; but at the conclusion of the performance 
 there was no longer any doubt that it remained 
 on the side of the " Romanticists." 
 
 " The two parties,** sap a French account, " met 
 (ietaient donni rendezvous) , at the first performance 
 of ' Hemani,* as on a field of battle. The ' Rom- 
 anticists,* however, carried the day.** In an 
 English biography of Victor Hugo, we read that 
 "in 1830 hb 'Emani * was played for the first time 
 at the Th^^tre Fran9ais. The indignation of the 
 old, and the enthusiasm of the new, party knew no 
 bounds. The first performance of * Emani * was a 
 scene of riotous confusion, and pugilistic en- 
 counters filled up the intervals between the acts. 
 Meanwhile the drama, which was far superior in 
 construction to ' Cromwell,* succeeded. " 
 
 This performance was decisive as to the fate of 
 
66 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 /the unities in France, and may be considered to have 
 given them their deathblow. From that time up 
 to the present day no dramatist has been expected 
 to guide himself according to the law of the unities, 
 nor has, as far as we know, any critic ventured to 
 recommend or to uphold their maintenance in that 
 or in any other country. 
 
 In attempting to estimate the influence of the 
 unities on English tragedy, we meet with some 
 little difficulty. That they were known in England 
 towards the close of the seventeenth century, there is 
 , abundant evidence to show. Congreve's "Mourning 
 V Bride" (1697) is especially praised by Voltaire for 
 its conformity to the unities, in contradistinction to 
 the other " barbarous " productions of the English 
 stage. If, however, we try to form an opinion from 
 the writings of other dramatists of the period as to 
 how far they were influenced by the unities, it is not 
 always easy to come to a conclusion. It is almost 
 needless to say that we search in„ vain through the 
 works of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, Massinger and Ford, for any traces of the 
 unities. The first piece in English dramatic lite- 
 rature in which they distinctly appear is Otway's 
 fine play " Venice Preserved " (1682) . He is careful 
 to let us know that the first act takes place in the 
 morning or afternoon 5 the second act, as he tells us, 
 just before and after midnight 3 and in the third act. 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY. 6 J 
 
 the events of the second one are alluded to as having 
 happened "last night/* He would then apparently 
 have us suppose that the fourth and fifth acts occupy 
 the morning and afternoon of the second day. If 
 this be so, we must again urge the old objection, 
 namely, that although such a series of events might 
 happen in twenty-four hours, it is very unlikely that 
 they should. As to the imity of time, the frequent 
 changes of scene would be rather puzzling, did we 
 not know that at that time change of scene in the 
 course of an act did not of itself constitute an in- 
 fraction of the unity. Although there are nine scenes 
 in the whole play, and two changes in the second 
 and the fifth acts respectively, yet the action is not 
 allowed to travel beyond the limits of one town ; and 
 this was, at the time, probably looked upon as a 
 fulfilment of the unity. Notwithstanding, how- 
 ever, these numerous changes, it would appear as if 
 still more were required. It seems to be the height 
 of improbability that Belvedera shotdd, in the 
 second act, be allowed to attend the meeting of the 
 conspirators ; and still more improbable that she 
 should be willing to attend it in the place set 
 down for it, namely, ** Aquilina*s house, the 
 Greek courtesan." Again, in the fourth act, it 
 seems very unlikely that she should have had the 
 permission to wander at will about the building 
 where the senate held their sittings, and even into 
 
68 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 the council-chamber during a secret assemblage of 
 the senate. 
 
 If, however, we turn to the same writer's ^' Or- 
 phan," produced two years earlier (1680), it is 
 almost impossible to make out whether the author 
 intended to conform to the unities or not. The 
 changes of scene are not so frequent as in ^' Venice 
 Preserved," and, in the second and third acts, one 
 scene suffices all through. As to the unity of time, 
 we think on the whole that the writer really in- 
 tended the action not to extend beyond one day 5 
 but if so, in this case again the day must have been 
 a most eventful one. 
 
 Southern's *^^ Isabella, or The Fatal Marriage" 
 (1694), also shows signs of the unities. The events 
 might pass in a single day, and we think, from 
 Villeroy's impatience to '^ send for the priest " at 
 once, that the writer intended they should. 
 
 Of ''The Mourning Bride" (i<597), we have 
 already said that the unities are rigidly observed. 
 We next come to Rowe's '' Tamerlane " (170^), in 
 which no traces of the unities are to be found. In 
 the same author's ''Fair Penitent" (1703), it is 
 difficult to say whether they exist or not. The 
 unity of place is observed according to the modern 
 notion of it, there being only one scene for each act. ■ 
 When, however, we come to look for the unity 
 of time, it is not easy to discover the author's inten- 
 
IN THE PRESENT DA Y. 69 
 
 tion. The events of the first four acts might 
 perhaps be made to pass within twenty-four hours, 
 but whether those of the fifth act could becompressed 
 into the latter part of the second day must be a 
 matter of opinion. 
 
 In going through the list of the best English 
 tragedies of the eighteenth century, we find a con- 
 siderable dearth of excellence at its commencement. 
 No piece has been found worthy of preservation, in 
 the best collections of the time, between the years 
 1703 and 1713, the date of the production of 
 "Cato.*' It might have been supposed that the 
 great success of this play would have had the effect 
 of inducing other writers to imitate its obedience to 
 the unities. This, however, does not seem to have 
 been the case. We search in vain for any traces of 
 them in "Jane Shore " (1713), " Lady Jane Grey" 
 ('7'5)» "The Siege of Damascus** (1720), and 
 "The Revenge ** (1721). Fenton's "Mariamne " 
 (1723) would seem to have been written in accord- 
 ance with the unities ; but it is needless to say that 
 our old friend "Greorge Bamweir* (1730) is en- 
 tirely innocent of them. The same writer's " Fatal 
 Curiosity ** (1737) will fell in with them ; but in 
 his other play, " Arden of Feversham " (1739), he 
 again ignores them. In " King Charles I." (1737), 
 and " Gustavus Vasa '* (1738), the unities are also 
 wanting, until we come to Thompson's violent piece, 
 
70 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 *' Tancred and Sigismunda" (1745), where they 
 again appear. This brings us to Dr Johnson's 
 tragedy " Irene," produced at Drury Lane, February 
 1749. Now, from the opinion which, as we shall 
 / presently see, Johnson a few years later expressed 
 with regard to the unities, we should have expected 
 that, in his one tragedy, he would have treated th-em 
 with contempt. This, however, is not the case. 
 The piece is written throughout with a strict regard 
 to those very unities which he, a short time after- 
 wards, so successfully criticised, and, as far as the 
 English stage was concerned, may be said to have 
 utterly demohshed. The date of Johnson's '' Pre- 
 face to Shakespeare," in which this criticism ap- 
 peared, was 1756, and a reference to the following 
 tabulated statement will show that after that date, 
 up to the end of the century, no single tragedy can 
 be pointed out in which the unities are strictly 
 maintained. 
 
 Tragedies written in accordance with the unities. 
 
 Venice Preserved (Otway), 1682. 
 
 Mourning Bride (Congreve), 1697. 
 
 Cato (Addison), 1713. 
 
 Mariamne (Fenton), 1723. 
 
 Fatal Curiosity (Lillo), 1737. 
 
 Tancred and Sigismunda (Thompson), 1745. 
 
 Irene (Johnson), 1749. 
 
 Elfrida (Mason), written 1752, C. G. 1772. 
 
 Caractacus (Mason), written 1759, C* ^- ^11^- 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY, 7 I 
 
 Boftdicea (Glover), 1753. 
 Barbaroftsa (Brown), 1755. 
 
 TVagedits in wkUk the unitia art not maintained. 
 
 Oronooko (Southern), 1696. 
 Tamerlane (Rowc), 1702. 
 Jane Shore (Rowe), 1 7 13. 
 Lady Jane Grey (Rowe), 1715. 
 Distressed Mother (Philips), 1712. 
 Siege of Damascus (Hughes), 172a 
 The Revenge (Young), 1721. 
 The Brothers (Young), 1726. 
 George Barnwell (Lillo), 1730. 
 Arden of Feversham (Lillo), 1739. 
 King Charles I. (Howard), 1737. 
 GusUvus Vosa (Brooke), 1738. 
 Roman Father (Whitehead), t75a 
 Gamester (Moore), 1753. 
 Earl of Essex (Jones), I7S3- 
 Douglas (Home), 1757. 
 Cleone (Dodsley), 1759. 
 Earl of Warwick (Franklin), 1766. 
 Grecian Daughter (Murphy), 1772. 
 Matilda (Brown), 1775. 
 Conntess of Salisbury (Hartson), 1767. 
 Ptercy (Hannah More), 1778. 
 Fair AposUte (Macdonald), 1788. 
 Pizarro (Sheridan), 1799. 
 
 Douht/ul. 
 
 Orphan (Otway), 1680. 
 Isabella (Southern), 1694. 
 , Fair Penitent (Rowe), 1703. 
 
 It will be seen, then, that although after the 
 publication of Johnson's *' Preface to Shakespeare, * 
 
7 2 THE DRA MA TIC UNITIES 
 
 in i<p5^> t^^ unities were tacitly allowed to disappear, 
 yet that between the years 1680 and 1756 they 
 exercised a very undoubted influence on the English 
 stage. The fact seems to have been that many 
 writers, while in reality half disapproving of them, 
 still felt them too strong to be altogether ignored. 
 Of this we have a curious instance in the cases of 
 Addison's ^' Cato " and Johnson's " Irene." In Addi- 
 son's papers in the Spectator on the improvement 
 of the stage (Nos. 39, 40, 42, and 44), he does not 
 venture to recommend the observance of the unities. 
 Now it must be remarked that, at the very time 
 he was writing them (they appeared in April 17 11), 
 he must have been engaged in preparing " Cato " 
 for the stage. In fact, he was actually accused by 
 Dennis of writing these papers in order to influence 
 the public mind for the reception of his piece. In 
 
 * these papers there are a great many useful hints, 
 and a great deal of common sense, but not a word 
 
 ^of the unities. Surely, if he had had such a high 
 opinion of them as we might suppose from his piece, 
 he would have taken this opportunity of defending 
 them, and recommending them for universal adop- 
 tion. The case of Johnson is quite as singular. His 
 tragedy is produced in 1749, and strictly follows 
 the dictates of the unities 3 but seven years later we 
 find him arguing that the unities are by no means 
 essential, butthat they are, on the contrar)% an obstacle 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY, 73 
 
 to many kinds of excellence. We have already 
 quoted part of this criticism on the subjects of time 
 and place, but the reader would do well to refer to 
 its entirety, as an example of vigorous reasoning, and 
 as making out an almost overwhelming case against 
 the unities. The conclusion at which he arrives is 
 as follows : — 
 
 ** The result of my inquiries is that the unities of 
 time and place are not essential to a just drama ; that 
 though they may sometimes conduce to pleasure, 
 they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler 
 beauties of variety and instruction ; and that a play 
 written with nice observation of the critical rules is 
 to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as the 
 product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by which 
 is shown rather what is possible than what is neces- 
 sary." — (Preface to Shakespeare.) 
 
 This criticism was the deathblow to the unities / 
 in England. From that time they disappear and 
 leave no trace behind — unless, indeed, they are to 
 be revived for the benefit of playgoers in the 
 nineteenth century. Even, however, before the 
 appearance of Johnson's crashing arguments, they 
 seem to have been regarded, as far as we can judge 
 from the literature of the time, with a feeling of 
 slightly contemptuoas ridicule. Pope, who fur- 
 nished the prologue to "Cato," had, two years 
 
74 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 before, in his '' Essay on Criticism/' thus spoken of 
 them — 
 
 " Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, 
 A certain bard encountering on the way, 
 Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, 
 As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage, 
 Concluding all were desperate sots and fools 
 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. 
 Our author, happy in a judge so nice, 
 Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice -, 
 Made him observe the subject and the plot, 
 The manners, passions, unities ; what not ? 
 All which exact to rule were brought about, 
 Were but a combat in the lists left out." 
 
 Altogether, as far as we can see, the doctrine of 
 the unities never seems to have gained the public 
 favour in England. 
 
 '* Bold is the man who, in this nicer age. 
 
 Presumes to tread the chaste, corrected stage," 
 
 says Thompson in the prologue to '^ Tancred and 
 Sigismundaj" and Goldsmith's opinion will be 
 found in the following passages from the ^*^ Good- 
 Natured Man : " — 
 
 **^ Honeywood. — We should not be severe against 
 dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the 
 dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic 
 who presumes to despise him. 
 
 *' Miss Rich. — Yet, Mr Honeywood, this does not 
 convince me but that severity in criticism is neces- 
 
IS THE PRESENT DAY. 75 
 
 sar)'. It was our first adopting the severity of the 
 Frencli taste that has brought them in turn to taste 
 us. 
 
 " Honey. — . . . They draw a parallel, madam, 
 between the mental taste and that of our senses. 
 We are injured as much by the French severity in 
 the one as by French rapacity in the other." ^ 
 
 It must, however, be by no means forgotten that 
 no attempt was ever made in this country to apply 
 the theory of the unities to comedy. There is no 
 English comedy, as far as we are aware, of that 
 age, written with the determined purpose of com- 
 plying with the unities. " She Stoops to Conquer " 
 might, at first sight, seem to come under this head, 
 but we think that the passage quoted above is 
 enough to show that it was merely the accident of 
 the subject which gives it this appearance. Besides, 
 it is very improbable that Dr Johnson, after his 
 deliberately expressed opinion as regards the 
 unities, would have allowed his friend *' Goldy *' to 
 attempt the innovation of applying them to 
 comedy. 
 
 There exist then, in the English language, some 
 dozen tragedies which show more or less obedience 
 to the rules of the unities. It must, however, be 
 observed that in most of these the unity of place is 
 treated in a manner which we suppose in these 
 days would be looked upon as extremely defective. 
 
76 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 The changes of scene during the course of an act 
 are very frequent, and the writers evidently consi- 
 dered, that as long as they kept to Corneille's rule of 
 confining themselves within the walls of a town, they 
 could change about inside that town as much and 
 as frequently as they liked. That this also was a 
 defect — if it be a defect — of the old comedies, it is 
 scarcely necessary to state here. Change of scene, 
 whenever the purposes or even the caprices of the 
 writer led him to suppose it necessary, was from the 
 earliest times the undoubted and undisputed privi- 
 lege of the English dramatist. It is possible that 
 in these days we are going to improve all that 3 and 
 no one, we suppose, would object to the improvement 
 if there were any probability that we could by these 
 means again raise our stage to the level of former 
 days. On reading over these old plays, it is melan- 
 choly to see what a noble inheritance has been 
 bequeathed to us, and how sadly we have disgraced 
 it. For two hundred years the English stage was 
 as much above the French as the French, in the 
 present day, is above our own. Such was once our 
 position, and now — we all know what we have 
 come to. But, it is said, the French stage owes its 
 excellence to the extreme liberty accorded to its 
 writers in their choice of subjects. By no means. 
 The French stage is great in spite of its immorality, 
 and not on account of it. Look at the extraordi- 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY. 77 
 
 naiy skill in construction displayed by their writers 5 
 look at the freshness of their plots, and the original- 
 ity of the incidents which tend to its development 3 
 look at those wonderful little surprises, which, like 
 an ''avoidance" in music, excite the interest of the 
 spectators in the highest degree, only agreeably to 
 disappoint them. All these are excellences quite 
 independent of the violation of social laws or the 
 sanctity of the marriage tie. There are quantities 
 of admirable French pieces written with an extreme 
 purity which would satisfy the most rigid prude. 
 Take for instance, " Mademoiselle de la Seigliere,*' 
 " Un Veue dEau," "BataiUe de Dames,*' or " Le 
 Roman d*un Jeune Homme Pauvre.** Take them as 
 specimens of constructive art, or as pictxues of 
 manners, and then say what have we to show against 
 them. But patience ! Already there are signs of 
 better things. In those rare cases, within the last 
 few years, where pieces written with some slight 
 regard for nature and for common sense have been 
 produced, they have been eagerly welcomed. There 
 is no reason to doubt, then, that the public will 
 again, whenever it may get the opportunity, prefer 
 such pieces to the wild nonsense which is usually 
 set before it. 
 
 It is almost needless to say that on the dramatic 
 literature of the. present century the unities have, 
 up to our day, exercised an all but imperceptible 
 
78 THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 influence. In fact, the century may be said to com- 
 mence with plays than which nothing could be 
 more opposed to the spirit of the unities, namely, 
 the strange productions of the younger Colman. 
 We may remark en passant that nothing could 
 exceed the poverty of the English stage between 
 the years 1800 and 1830. At first this may have 
 been owing to the long and severe war in which the 
 country was engaged, but it is difficult to see why, 
 after the peace of 1815, the stage should have had 
 any difficulty in recovering itself. With the exception 
 of '^ohn Bull" (1803), and '^ Paul Pry" (1825), 
 there are scarcely any pieces of this period which are 
 known even to the student of plays. Judging from 
 the titles of the pieces produced at this time, melo- 
 drama of the ferocious type of the "Castle Spectre " 
 was in the ascendant, while, a little later, begin to 
 appear those adaptations of novels and of foreign 
 plays (principally operas) from the effects of which 
 we are still suffering. As to the unities, they had 
 very little chance in such company, and even when 
 we arrive at a rather better state of things, their in- 
 fluence is still all but invisible. We find no traces 
 of them in "Bubbles of the Day," " Retired from 
 Business," "The Housekeeper," or in any of Douglas 
 Jerrold's pieces. In the "Duchess dela Valliere," 
 " Lady of Lyons," and "Money," they are equally 
 wanting. The five acts of " Richelieu " are, we are 
 
IN THE PRESENT DAY, 79 
 
 told, divided into four days, but this will scarcely 
 bring us nearer to the unities. ^* Not so bad as we 
 seem/* observes the unity of time, but violates that 
 of place. Jn Mr Tom Taylor's best pieces there is 
 no question of the unities. " Plot and Passion," 
 ** Two Loves and a Life,*' '* Masks and Faces," and a 
 " Lesson for Life,"are ail equally regardless of them. 
 That admirable play, ''Still Waters run Deep," 
 observes the unity of time almost to the minute; 
 but this may possibly arise more from the accident 
 of the subject than from any preconceived design. 
 We are the more inclined to this opinion from the 
 fact that the unity of place is a little strained in the 
 change of scene in the second act, and where suf- 
 ficient time is scarcely allowed to Mildmay to appear 
 on the new scene after leaving the previous- one. 
 This, however, is hypercriticism worthy of a 
 champion of the imities, and, on the whole, we are 
 thankful to say, Mr Tom Taylor has throughout 
 his plays rated the unities at their proper worth. 
 In Mr Dion Boucicault's plays, and in the late Mr 
 Robertson's comedies, the unities are also entirely 
 disregarded. We now, however, come to the only 
 ' play, as far as our knowledge goes, of the present 
 century, written avowedly in accordance with the 
 unities. This is Mr Gilbert's graceful piece, " The 
 Wicked World." Although described in the play- 
 biit^is a "fairy comedy," the same authority assures 
 
8o THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 
 
 US that the action is comprised within the space of 
 twenty-four hours. As there is only one scene, 
 this is equivalent to saying that all the unities are 
 strictly followed. But as regards time, is this so ? 
 For a young lady to be in the morning speculating on 
 the nature of love, to be in the afternoon a prey 
 to a violent passion, and in the evening to hate the 
 object of that passion as intensely as she before 
 loved him — is surely causing events to move with 
 a somewhat unnatural rapidity. Not that Mr 
 Gilbert is singular in this. The same objection may, 
 as we have tried to show, be urged against ninety- 
 nine out of every hundred plays which attempt to 
 observe the unities. " The Wicked World," more- 
 over, requires no assistance from the unities. It is 
 a good piece, original in conception, and graceful in 
 execution, and we are quite sure that no spectator 
 will ever interrupt his enjoyment of it to inquire 
 whether the unities are maintained in it or not. 
 
 We have thus endeavoured to trace the history of 
 the unities, from the time they were first elaborated 
 by Trissino out of the maxims of Aristotle, down to 
 the present day. Any one who carefully studies 
 the pieces in which they are followed can, we 
 think, scarcely avoid coming to the conclusion that 
 they are useless in themselves, a hindrance to the 
 dramatist, and an encumbrance on the effect and 
 the natural development of a play. They throw 
 
W THE PRESENT DAY. 8 1 
 
 a dull and frigid tone over everything they touch, 
 and leave room for nothing but mere declamation, 
 to the exclusion of the higher beauties of dramatic 
 composition. Good verses are possible under their 
 sway, but, beyond this, nothing. Action, variety of 
 interest or of incident, development of story or of 
 character, are alike impossible. In no plays are 
 these defects more conspicuous than in the only 
 two English plays which we know for a certainty to 
 have been written in accordance with them, namely, 
 " The Mourning Bride " and '* Cato/' Excellence 
 of composition, stirring and vigorous verses, are 
 present in both of them, but the whole efiect is 
 dull, cold, and depressing. The same remark 
 applies to the greater number of French tragedies. 
 They are often pedantic, bombastic, and, in some 
 cases, silly ; until our only wonder is that some of 
 them, weighed down, as they were, by the unities, 
 should be so good as we still find them to be. 
 Nor can the defenders of the unities bring forward 
 uch a weight of authority as can be shown on the 
 other side. On the one hand, we have Comeille, 
 Racine, Voltaire, and Alfieri, against Shakespeare, 
 Lopez di Vega, Calderon, Gothe, Lessing, Schiller, 
 Manzoni, and Victor Hugo. Nor, as regards 
 criticism, are they in a bettei^position. Dr Johnson, 
 Lessing, Schlegel, Gdthe, Victor Hugo, and Jules 
 Janin, may safely be matched against Comeille, 
 
 >9 
 
82 THE DRAMA TIC UNITIES 
 
 ^Voltaire, Laharpe, and Dennis. We would, then, 
 try to induce our critics to pause before they endea- 
 vour to resuscitate the unities from that oblivion to 
 which they were forty years ago consigned. They 
 must remember that, even in France and Italy, 
 where for two hundred years they reigned supreme, 
 they have, since the year 1830, been utterly 
 repudiated. In Spain they never were known, or, 
 if known, disregarded. In Germany, after careful 
 and minute examination on the part of such men 
 as Lessing and Gothe, they were entirely rejected. 
 In England, except in one or two instances, they 
 were never acknowledged, and it may be said that 
 the great bulk of the English public has at all 
 times treated them with marked disdain. We 
 quite admit that it is only natural that gentlemen 
 of classical training and scholarly attainments 
 should have a sort of weakness for the unities of 
 their youth 3 but the question is, whether it be 
 judicious to wish to apply to the light comedy of a 
 day rules suitable only to tragedies formed on the 
 classical model. A lover of Horace is delighted 
 when he hears a correct or appropriate quotation 
 from his favourite poet 3 but he ought not, on 
 that account, to insist upon all poetry being written 
 after the manner of Horace. But, it may be 
 answered, although our opinions are in favour of the 
 unities, you are not bound to follow them. But 
 
tH THE PRESENT DA Y. 83 
 
 this is not so. From the moment that a dramatist 
 finds the observance of the unities praised as a merit 
 by his critics, he will certainly endeavour to model 
 his plays after them, to the detriment, probably, of 
 his subject, and certainly to the detriment of his 
 audience. At the best, he will attempt to confine 
 himself only to such subjects as will fit in with the 
 unities^ to the exclusion of others equally, and 
 perhaps more, worthy of dramatic treatment. We 
 appeal, then, we repeat, to those who lead dramatic 
 criticism in the present day. The future is in their 
 hands. Should they continue to recommend the 
 maintenance of the unities, they will be maintained -, 
 but it is a question for their consideration whether 
 t be judicious, and for the interests of the drama, 
 to impose this extra burden on a stage which is 
 already in by no means a satisfactory condition. 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 The following facts in support of the writer's argument have 
 been brought to his notice through the kindness of valued 
 correspondents and friends. 
 
 In treating of the unity of time, sufficient stress has scarcely 
 been laid on the frequent and remarkable violations of it on 
 the part of the Greek dramatists. The more these are con- 
 sidered, the more, apparently, do they point to the fact that 
 the rule of the unity of time, as laid down by Aristotle, was 
 unknown to those writers. Either they recognised no such 
 canon or precept, or, if they did recognise it, they reserved 
 to themselves the right to ignore it whenever the exigencies 
 of their pieces seemed to make it necessary or advisable. 
 The single instance in the ** Agamemnon '* of iEschylus, 
 even if it stood alone, would be almost sufficient to prove • 
 this. In the opening scene, we have the watchman posted 
 on the roof^ intently looking out for the beacon-fire which 
 is to announce to him the fall of Troy. Presently the 
 flame appears, and he proceeds to announce the joyful news 
 to his mistress, Clytemnestra. The latter, in a subsequent 
 dialogue with the chorus, explains the arrangement of the 
 t>eacon-fires which were to convey her the news, and tells 
 them that ** this very day Troy is in the possession of the 
 Greeks." After a chorus, a herald is introtluced, who con- 
 firms the account of the fall of Troy, having travelled from 
 thence since the event ; and subsequently Agamemnon 
 
 /~ 
 
S6 ■ ADDENDA, 
 
 appears, who has also performed that journey. Now, the 
 distance from Troy to Argos must, roughly speaking, have 
 been some two hundred miles, and it is evident that such a 
 journey in those times must have required many days for its 
 accomplishment. That then the Greek dramatists were, as 
 Schlegel says, quite above such petty anxieties of minute cal- 
 culation as the strict observance of the unity of time would 
 entail upon them, seems to be certain ; and there can be no 
 doubt that, in endeavouring to discover how far they con- 
 sidered themselves bound by the rule, we may put the 
 widest and most liberal interpretation upon the " 6'rt 
 fxaXia-Ta " of Aristotle. 
 
 This view is shared by Dr Miiller Striibing, a learned 
 writer, whose perfect knowledge of the Greek stage renders 
 his authority of considerable weight. In discussing the 
 question whether a change of scene takes place in the 
 " Acharnians " of Aristophanes, he says — 
 
 33. *^But that effect which the writers of all ages have 
 produced by means of a change of scene — in other words, by 
 the suspension of the continuity of place — was, to a certain 
 extent, obtained on the Greek stage by the interruption of 
 the dramatic action. By this means, too, they break off at 
 the same moment — so far as the spectator is concerned — the 
 continuity of time, and thereby gain what is an absolute 
 •necessity for the drama — an illimitable ideal course of time, 
 instead of a fixed and limited period measurable by the 
 exercise of the reason. And here I am reminded of the 
 wonderful art with which yEschylus in his ' Agamemnon ' 
 has suspended the flow of time, and rendered all calculation 
 on that point impossible. But it is in the works of the 
 greatest master of dramatic art — of that poet who, above all 
 others, possessed the deepest sense of — I might almost say, 
 an innate sense for — stage effect, namely, Shakespeare, that 
 one will find hundreds of instances where, after a change of 
 scene, the next scene is connected in the most direct manner 
 with the preceding one, and where yet something takes 
 
ADDENDA, 87* 
 
 place which infera the passage of a considerable lapse of 
 time during the change.** (M iiller Striibing, " Aristophanes.") 
 In another passage, the author warns us against imputing 
 to the early Attic writers a " too childish conduct as regards 
 time and place ; *' and the object of his argument is to prove 
 that which we have been endeavouring to show, namely, 
 that the Greek dramatists, whenever it was convenient to 
 them, had no scruples about changing their time and place ; 
 and that Trissino, when he elaborated his celebrated rules, v 
 
 cither overlooked or ignored the namerous instances in 
 which they had done so. 
 
 II. 
 In arranging the list of those English tsagedies which 
 were written in accordance with the unities, it entirely 
 escaped the writer's memory that Lord Bjrron's tragedy of y^ 
 *'Sardanapalus" came under that head, and ought to have 
 been included in the catalogue. The writer can scarcely 
 blame himself enough for this serious oversight, and is 
 especially grateful to the correspondent whose kindness 
 prompted him to point it out, and enabled him to refer to 
 it here. As Lord Byron himself telU us, he attempted in 
 ** Sardanapalus " "to observe," and in " The Two Foscari " 
 " to approach, the unities ; conceiving thai with any very 
 distant departure from them, there may be poetry, but can 
 be no drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this 
 notion in present English literature ; but it is not a system 
 of his own, but merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, 
 was the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so 
 in the more civilised parts of it." Now, to any one who has 
 endeavoured to appraise the influence of the unities on / 
 dramatic literature, it will occur that Lord Byron's estimate V/ 
 of them is altogether an exaggerated one. When he says 
 that without them "there may be poetry, but can be no 
 drama," it will appear to many that the sentence would be 
 more accurate were it reversed. Had he said, " under the 
 
88* ADDENDA. 
 
 unities there may be poetry, but can be no drama," the 
 opinion would, we think, have been nearer the truth, and 
 the critics of the ** romantic" school would have been 
 obliged to him for putting their case in so neat a form. It 
 is evident that the unities can have no influence one way or 
 the other upon the versification of a play ; they can neither 
 inspire good verses, nor impede them. But it is also as 
 evident that there might be cases in which their influence 
 would by no means contribute to the production of a * ' good 
 drama." To wish to contract all subjects into the same 
 space of twenty-four hours, or to the limits of a single dwell- 
 ing or town, — to try, as Victor Hugo says, **to fit all feet 
 with the same shoes," — was certainly not a very eflicacious 
 means of ensuring complicated interest of story, ingenious 
 development of plot, multiplication of modifying incidents, 
 or any of those other elements which serve to make a good 
 play influence the emotions of the spectators. As to the 
 unities "being, not very long ago, the law of literature 
 throughout the world," to what extent this was the case, and 
 especially in England, we have already endeavoured to show. 
 What, however. Lord Byron meant by the words, "and is 
 still so in the more civilised parts of it," we are quite at a 
 loss to conceive. What particular country, in the year 1821, 
 was in the favoured position of being more civilised than 
 England, it would be difficult to say. Politically, England 
 stood, at that period, at the head of Europe ; and as regards 
 her place in literature, the following opinion was expressed 
 by Gothe a very few years later (December 1824) in his 
 " Conversations with Eckermann." 
 
 34. "It is of importance," said Gothe, "that you bring 
 together a capital which will never fail you. This you will 
 attain in that study of the English language and literature 
 which you have already commenced. Persevere in it, and 
 take advantage, every hour of the day, if possible, of the 
 opportunities afforded by the presence here of the young 
 Englishmen. The ancient languages have, for the most 
 
ADDENDA, 89* 
 
 part, escaped you in your youth ; therefore seek a support 
 in the literature of that able nation — the English. Our 
 own literature, moreover, has sprung chiefly from theirs. 
 Where do our tragedies and our noveb come from, but from 
 Shakespeare, Fielding, and Goldsmith? And where can 
 you find in Germany, at the present time, three literary 
 heroes to set by the side of Lord Byron, Moore, and Walter 
 Scott ? Once again, then, make yourself strong in English ; 
 nerve your powers to something good, and avoid everything 
 which can do you no credit, or which is unworthy of you." 
 Other passages might be quoted to show that Gothe — of all 
 men then living, perhaps the one best qualified to judge — 
 pbced our literature, even of that day, at the head of all 
 others. It is possible, however, that what was passing 
 through Lord Byron's mind was some reminiscence of cer- 
 tain passages in Voltaire*s writings, and some of which we 
 have already quoted. It will be remembered that in these 
 passages the civilisation or barbarism of a nation depends 
 upon its acceptance or rejection of the unities. Those 
 nations which have submitted to the yoke of the unities are 
 great, enlightened, and glorious ; while those which have 
 ignored or refused it, are dull, ignorant, and barbarous. 
 According to this view, then, the most civilised nations 
 could, at that time, only have been Italy and France. But, 
 as we have seen, Manxoni had already attempted to break 
 through his bonds, in Italy ; while, in France, that reaction 
 was already setting in which was to culminate in the victory 
 of Victor Hugo and the " Romanticists. " 
 
 The passage in which Lord Byron says that he has in one 
 Iragedy attempted to " approach " the unities, refers, as we 
 have already said, to ** The Two Foscari," which was pub- 
 lished, together with " Sardanapalus," in December 1821. 
 It is somewhat difficult to discover what Lord Byron meant 
 by the word ** approach." Granted the falsification of 
 history which makes both father and snn die on the same 
 day, the tragedy unfolds itself with all possible obedience 
 
90* ADDENDA. 
 
 and submission to the unities. It was, perhaps, to this that 
 Lord Byron referred, although the slight perversion of the 
 real facts in the interest of the tragedy would seem to be 
 fairly allowable. Jacopo Foscari was put to the torture, 
 and condemned to exile, by the Council of Ten, in the year 
 1445. Having, in spite of his sentence, returned to Venice 
 in the month of July 1456, he was again imprisoned, and 
 died in the month of August or September in the same year. 
 Francisco Foscari was summoned to resign the office of Doge, 
 which he had held for 34 years, in October 1457. Having 
 refused to do so, he was, as is correctly brought forward in 
 the tragedy, dismissed, and three days afterwards died of a 
 broken heart Supposing the liberty taken with the story 
 to be the only violation of the unities, most critics will pro- 
 bably be of opinion that the fault or blemish was by no 
 means an unpardonable one. Anything that Jeffrey wrote 
 with regard to Lord Byron's productions, must be received 
 with a certain degree of suspicion ; for his bias against, or 
 personal dislike to,. this author, is always more or less evi- 
 dent. There is, however, a certain degree of truth in his 
 remarks about *'The Two Foscari," which compel us, 
 rather against our will, we confess, to agree with him. He 
 says — 
 
 " The disadvantage, and, in truth, absurdity, of sacrificing 
 higher objects to a formal adherence to the unities, is strik- 
 ingly displayed in this drama. The whole interest here 
 turns upon the younger Foscari having returned from 
 banishment, in defiance of the law and its consequences, 
 from an unconquerable longing after his own country. 
 Now, the only way to have made this sentiment palatable, 
 the practicable foundation of stupendous sufferings, would 
 have been to have presented him to the audience, wearing 
 out his heart in exile, and forming his resolution to return, 
 at a distance from his country, or hovering, in excruciating 
 suspense, within sight of its borders. We might then have 
 caught some glimpse of his motives, and of so extraordinary a 
 
ADDESDA. 91* 
 
 tharaclcr. But as this would hare been contrary to one of 
 the unities, we first meet with him led from the * Question/ 
 and afterwards taken back to it in the ducal palace, or cling- 
 ing to the duBgeon-walls of his native city, aad expiring 
 from his dread of leaving them ; and therefore feel more 
 wonder than sympathy when we are told that these agonis- 
 ing conseqaences have resulted, not from guilt or disaster, 
 but merely from the intensity of his love for his country." — 
 Edinburgh Knritw^ February 1822. 
 
 Hut to return to "Sardanapalvs." The myUgLXBOaJft 
 this piece, the obfect of Lord Bvwf r'* ^TtttiT^f tCP*^^" and 
 care, as may be seen fromhU letters to Mr Murra y. ** I 
 have," he says in oM^lace, "siridlf preserveJ* all the 
 tmitiet hitherto, aad mean to continue them in the fifth, if 
 possible." Again, ** You will remark that all the unities 
 are strictly presented ; " and, when the drama was com- 
 pleted, " Print away, and publish." lie writes, " Mind the 
 unities, which are my great object of research." Now, it 
 will be remembered, *' Sardanapalus " is dedicated to 
 Gothe. Could Byron, in inscribing to Gothe a work 
 \%Titten with the strictest regard to the unities, have had 
 any special motive? He must have known that Gothe 
 was either ignorant of the UBitie^ which was scarcely to be 
 supposed, or had deliberately refected them. Mis " Faust" 
 alone would be enough to show that. Then why did Bjrron 
 deliberately select, as the vehicle for a compliment to Gothe, 
 a production, the chief glory of which was, in his own eyes, 
 its adherence to a set of rules of which he knew Gothe to 
 disapprove ? Did he suppose that he might possibly con- 
 vert Gothe to his own way of thinking? or did he, with a 
 touch of vanity, wish to show him what could be done even 
 while observing the uoities? Of course there is the other 
 alternative that Lord Byron, with characteristic carelessness, 
 thought nothing at all about the matter. He wished to pay 
 a compliment to Gothe by dedicating one of his works to 
 bim, and he took that one which came to hand first, or. 
 
92* ADDENDA, 
 
 more probably, the first one he completed after forming his 
 resolution. This may be so ; but the curious fact remains 
 that here was a book, intended as a glorification of the 
 unities, inscribed to one of their greatest and most resolute 
 opponents. That Gothe was gratified by the compliment, 
 we may very easily believe ; and, in fact, an extract from 
 some work of Gothe's, prefixed to Moore's edition of the 
 tragedy, tells us as much. The original of the extract we 
 have not been able to find, but it is, no doubt, authentic ; 
 and the fact is certain that Gothe had the highest admira- 
 tion for Lord Byron's genius, as many passages in *' Ecker- 
 mann's Conversations *' will show. That, however, the fact 
 of the tragedy adhering to the unities, failed to cause him any 
 gratification — rather the contrary, if anything, a somewhat 
 stfong passage from Eckermann will be quite sufficient to 
 prove. 
 
 35. "Gothe said I was right, and then began to laugh 
 about Lord Byron; a man, he said, who never having sub- 
 jected himself to anything, had, at last, submitted to the 
 silliest of all laws — those of the three unities. He under- 
 stood, said Gothe, no more about the foundation of those 
 laws than all the rest of the world. The intelligible is the 
 proper foundation, and the three unities are only of use as 
 far as they enable one to attain it. Given, however, that 
 they obstruct the intelligible, it is foolish to look upon them, 
 and to obey them, as laws. Even the Greeks, from whom 
 they sprung, did not always observe them. In the 
 ' Phaethon ' of Euripides, as also in other pieces, the scene 
 of action is changed ; and we see from this that the due 
 representation of their subject was of more importance to 
 them than a blind respect for a law which of itself was of no 
 great consequence. Shakespeare's pieces go beyond the 
 unities of time and place as far as it is possible for them to 
 go, but they are intelligible, nothing more so ; and for that 
 reason, even the Greeks would have held them to be irre- 
 proachable. The French poets are the strictest of all in 
 
ADDENDA. 93* 
 
 their endeavours to obey the law of the unities, but they 
 sin against the intelligible, inasmuch as they solve a dramatic 
 law, not in a dramatic manner, but by way of narration.** 
 
 If then, as Gothe says, the principal object of the dram- 
 atist ought to be to put his story before the audience in a 
 clear and intelligible manner, it would appear that he ought 
 to be the best judge as to how this object is to be effected. 
 Should he fail in it, he lays himself open to criticism and to 
 blame, but the means ought to be left to his own diiicretion. 
 Ail restrictions which apply the same inflexible rule to all 
 subjects, can only, in most caaet, seriously impede the pro- 
 duaion of satisfactory dramas. There are stories, of course, 
 which will bear compression into the space of twenty-four, 
 or even two, hours, and which could find no difficulty in 
 developing themselves within the limits of a single building, 
 or even of a single room. But, in contradistinction to these, 
 it is evident that the majority of plots will refuse to be bound 
 by such restricted limits. If this be so, it is then dear that 
 MarmonteKs theory of one scene for each act, and which 
 appears to be widely accepted in the present day, rests on no 
 better theoretical foundation than the older forms of the unity 
 of place. Many stories will lend themselves easily enough to 
 this restriction, but many again can only be brought within 
 it by causing events to happen on a certain scene which 
 ought to happen elsewhere, and by bringing certain of the 
 characters into places where their presence is improbable and 
 unnatural. The connection of the unity of place with that of 
 time is very evident When the action of a piece was restricted 
 to tw^enty-four hours, it was easy enough, in most cases, to 
 make it happen within the four walls of some certain build- 
 ing. On the other hand, by restricting the unity of place, 
 you restrict that of time. By confining the dramatist to a 
 certain number of scenes, you in all probability compel him 
 to leave unrepresented, a portion of that which he would 
 wish to place before his audience. Supposing, however, 
 that he alioulJ insist upon including these events in his 
 
94 APPENDIX. 
 
 X^citnafime ben ©reigniffen gu fclgett, it)ie ein ®efangentt5drter 
 tie U^v ober ba^ (Stunbengta^ in ber §anb, ben §e(ben be^ 
 2!rauerfpiel^ bie ©tunben ^u^d^tte, bie fie no(^ ju ]^anbeln unb 
 gu leben l^aBen ! , . . ©o ^^jiegen toir, iDenn tt)ic »t>r bem (^in^ 
 fd^Iafen leb^^aft xssxi irgenb ett»a^ Befc^dftigt toaren, '^ix'xsi @r^ 
 tt)ad^en biefelbe ©ebanfenrei^e fogleid^ hjieber aufgune]§men, unb 
 bie bajujtfc^en liegenben Xrdume treten m irefenlofe^ ^un!el 
 gurutf. (Sben fo ijl e^ nun mit ber bratnatifd^en 2)arftel(ung : 
 unfre (iiuBilbung^fraft ge:^t Itx^i uber bie 3eiten ^init»eg, 
 toel^e t)crau0gefe^t unb angebeutet, aBer itjeggelaffen it)erben, 
 tceit ni(^t^ Sebeutenbe^ barin »orgel^t ; jie \iii \\^ einjig an 
 bie »orgejlet{ten entfd^eibenben ^lugenBlicfe, burd^ beren Bufant^ 
 menbrdngung ber S)i(^ter ben trdgen ®ang ber ^tunben unb 
 ^ge bepgelt." — Schlegel, Vorlesungen, xviii. 
 
 IV. 
 
 22. " Je souhaiterois . . . que ce qu'on lui fait voir sur 
 un theatre qui ne change point put s'arreter dans une chambre 
 ou dans une salle, suivant le choix qu'on en auroit fait : mais 
 souvent cela est si malaise, pour ne pas dire impossible, qu'il 
 faut de necessite trouver quelque elargissement pour le lieu 
 comme pour le temps. . . . 
 
 ** Je tiens done qu'il faut chercher cette unite exacte autant 
 qu'il est possible ; mais comme elle ne s'accommode pas avec 
 toute sorte de sujets, j'accorderois tres volontiers que ce qu'on 
 feroit passer en une seule ville auroit I'unite de lieu. Ce 
 n'est pas que je voulusse que le theatre representat cette ville 
 toute entiere, cela seroit un peu trop vaste, mais seulement 
 deux ou trois lieux particuliers enfermes dans I'enclos de ses 
 murailles." — Corneille, Troisi^me Discours, 
 
 23. *' Nous avons dit ailleurs que la mauvaise construction 
 
APPENDIX. 95 
 
 de DOS th^fttres, peq>etii^ dq>ais nos temps de barbarie jns- 
 qa'^ nos jours, rendait la loi de Tanit^ de liea presque impra- 
 ticable. Les conjures ne peuvent pas oonspirer oontie C^sar 
 dans sa chambre ; on ne s*entretient pas de ses intMts secrets 
 dans one pkce publique ; la m^e deration ne pent repr^- 
 senter k la fois U facade d*un palais et celle d*un temple. II 
 iandrait que le th^tre fit Toir anx yeux tous les endroits par- 
 ticnlicrs oil la sc^ne se passe^ sans nuire 4 I'unit^ de lieu : ict« 
 une partie d*un temple: U» le vestibule d^nn palais; une 
 place publique, des trues dans Tenfoncement ; enfin tout ce 
 qui est n^oessatre poor montfor k Foeil tout ce qac Toreille 
 doit entendre. L*iintt^ de lias est Kmt le spectacle que VwX 
 pent embrasser mus peine.**— VoLTAiai, Jdmarfua smr U 
 Drmsihu Diuomn. 
 
 34. ^ P^Mont k celle de Tiinit^ de lieu, qui ne m*a pas 
 moins donn^ de gtee en cette piice. Je Tai plac^ dans Se- 
 ville, bien que Don Femand n*en ait jamais ^t^ le matue ; et 
 j'ai ^t^ oblig^ a oette falsification, pour former quelque vnii- 
 semblance k la d^scente des Manres, dont Tarm^ ne poovait 
 Tcnir ta vite par terre que par ean. Je ne vondrois pas as- 
 surer tootefois que le flux de la mer monte effBcthreMenC 
 jusque-U^ ; mais comme dans notre Seine fl fiut enooie ptas 
 de chemin qu*il ne lui en faut faire sur le Guadalquivir pour 
 battre les murailles de cette ville, cela peat suffire k fonder 
 quelque probability parmi nous, poor ceoa qui n*oat pas ^ 
 sur Ic lieu m^e. . . . 
 
 " Tout s'y passe done dans Seville, et garde ainsi quelque 
 espto d'unit^ de lieu en g^n^ral ; mais le lien particuiier 
 change de sc^e en sc^ne, et tantdt c'est le palais du roi, tan- 
 t6t Tappartement de I'infante, tant6t la maison de Chim^ne, 
 et tantot une rue ou place publique. On le determine aise- 
 ment pour les sc^es d^tacbto; mais pour celles qui ont 
 leur liaison ensemble, comme les quatre demises du premier 
 acte, il est malaise d'en choisir un qui convienne ^ toutcs. 
 Le Comte et Don Di^gue se querellent au sortir du palais ; 
 
96 APPENDIX, 
 
 ' cela se peut passer dans une rue : mais, apres le soufflet re9U, 
 Don Diegue ne peut pas demeurer dans cette rue a faire ses 
 plaintes, en attendant que son fils survienne, qu'il ne soit 
 tout aussitot environne de peuple, et ne re9oive I'offre de 
 quelques amis. Ainsi il seroit plus a propos qu'il se plaignit 
 dans sa maison, oil le met I'Espagnol, pour laisser aller ses sen- 
 timents en liberte ; mais en ce cas il faudroit delier les scenes 
 comme il a fait. En I'etat ou elles sont ici, on peut dire 
 qu'il faut quelquefois aider au theatre, et suppleer favorable- 
 ment ce qui ne s'y peut representer. »Deux personnes s'y 
 arretent pour parler, et quelquefois il faut presumer qu'ils 
 marchent, ce qu'on ne peut exposer sensiblement a la vue, 
 parcequ'ils echapperoient aux yeux avant que d'avoir pu dire 
 ce qu'il est necessaire qu'ils fassent savoir a I'auditeur. Ain- 
 si, par une fiction de theatre, on peut s'imaginer que Don 
 Diegue et le Comte, sortant du palais du roi, avancent tou- 
 jours en se querellant, et sont arrives devant la maison de ce 
 premier lorsqu'il re9oit le soufflet qui I'oblige a y entrer pour 
 y chercher du secours. Si cette fiction poetique ne vous 
 satisfait point, laissons le dans la place publique, et disons 
 que le concours du peuple autour de lui apres cette offense, 
 et les offres de service que lui font les premiers amis qui s'y 
 rencontrent, sont des circonstances que le roman ne doit pas 
 oublier, mais que ces menues actions ne servant de rien a la 
 principale, il n'est pas besoin que le poete s'en embarasse sur 
 la scene."— CoRNEiLLE, Examen du *' Cid^^ 
 
 25. ** Pour le lieu, bien que I'unite y soit exacte, elle n'est 
 pas sans quelque contrainte. II est constant qu' Horace et 
 Camille n*ont point de raison de se separer du reste de la 
 famille pour commencer le second acte ; et c'est une adresse 
 de theatre de n'en donner aucune, quand on n'en peut donner 
 de bonnes. L'attachement de I'auditeur a I'action presente 
 souvent ne lui permet pas de descendre a I'examen severe de 
 cette justesse, et ce n'est pas un crime de s'en prevaloir pour 
 
APPRSDtX, 97 
 
 r^blouir, qaand il est malaise de le satisfaire.** — CoRNBiLLB, 
 Examen d* Horace. 
 
 26. ScfcNE III. 
 
 Arons., Albin. 
 
 (Qm soni supposh it re emirh de la salU d*audimci dans un 
 auirt appartemint de la maison de Brutus,) 
 
 37. ** Le cabinet oil ^tait Semiramti fait place 4 on grand 
 salon magnifiqaement orn^" 
 
 38. "Pour rectifier en quelqoe fa^on cette duplicity de 
 lieu, qnand elle est ineYitablc, je voudrois qa*on fit deux 
 choses ; Tune, que jamais on ne changeAt dam le mtoe acte, 
 mais settlement de Tun k Tautre, comme il ae fait dans les 
 trois premiers de Cinna." — Corneillk, TVvisi^me Diseours. 
 
 29. ** L*entr*acte est one absence des actenn et des tpecta- 
 teurs. Les actenrs peuvent done avoir chang^ de lieu d*un 
 acte k Tautre ; et let tpectateurs n*ayant point de lieu fixe, 
 ils sont partout oii se passe Taction : si elle change de lieu, 
 ils changent avec elle. Ce qui doit ^tre rraisemblable, c'est 
 que Taction ait pu se d^lacer ; et pour oela il faut un inter- 
 Talle. Ce n'est done presque jamais d*nne seine k Tautre, 
 mais seulement d*un acte k Tautre, que pent s*op^r le 
 changement de lieu. Je sais bien que pour le faciliter au 
 milieu d un acte on peut rompre Tenchalnement des scenes 
 et laisser le theitre vide un instant ; nuds cet instant ne 
 suffirait point k la vraisemblance, surtout si les m^es acteurs 
 qu*on vient de voir passaient incontinent dans le nouveau 
 lieu de la sc^ne. Apr^ tout, ce n^est pas trop g6ner les 
 poetes, que d'exiger dVux k la rigueur Tunit^ de lieu pour 
 chaque acte, avec la possibilite morale du passage d'un lieu 
 k un autre dans Tintervalle suppose." — Ma&montel, i£//> 
 meftls de IMUrature, Art. " Unites:' 
 
 O 
 
98 APPENDIX. 
 
 V. 
 
 30. „ 3n gebac^ter SSorrebe erfldrt er feruer cl)ne §c^l, baf 
 ci* ftd^ i»on ben flren^eu ^ebinpngeu beu 3eit imb be^ Dvte0 
 lo^fage, fii^rt 5lugufl SSir^elm <Sc^le^e(^ 5leuf erungeu lf)tevuBer 
 al^ entf(f)eibetib an, unb jci^t bie 9^a(^t^ei(e bev bi^^evigen, angft? 
 H(^ bef(^rdu!ten ^e^aublun^. §ier finbct freiUd) ber fDeutfd^e 
 nur ba^ Befannte, if)m Be^e^^net \\\^i^, bent er njiberfpre^en 
 moc^te ; aKein bie ^emerfungen bej? fyxxw 30^an^oni finb ben^ 
 no^ af(er 5lufmer!fantfett au^ bei un^ i\)evtf). 2)enn obgleid^ 
 biefe Sln^ele^enfjeit in ^eutfd^lanb lange cj^tn^ bnrc^^efprod^en 
 imb burd^gefod^ten it?crben, fo finbet bed) ein cjeiftreidCjer 2)^ann, 
 ber eine gute @ad)e anf^ DZene, unter anbern Untftdnben, §n V)er; 
 t^eibigen angeregt n?irb, intmer n>ieber eine frifd)e ^^xii, \?cn 
 ber jte ju betra(!^ten unb ^u bifligen \\\, unb fud^t bie §lrgu^ 
 tttente ber ©egner mit neuen ©ritnben ^u entfrdften unb ^u 
 iDieberlegen ; nne benn ber ^erfajfer einige^ anbringt, tt>eld)e^ 
 ben gemeinen SKenfc^en^erjlanb anldd^elt, unb felbft bem f^cn 
 Ueberjeugten it)of)lgefdnt." — Goethe, // Co7ite di Carmag- 
 no la, Bd. 26. 
 
 31. *'Traivani espedienti die gli uomini hanno trovati 
 per imbrogliarisi reciprocamente, uno del piii ingegnosi e 
 quelle d'avere, quasi per ognl argomento, due massime 
 opposte, tenute egualmente per infallibili. Applicando 
 quest' uso anche ai piccoli interessi della poesia, essi dicono 
 a chi la esercita, ' Siate originali, e non fate nulla di cui i 
 grandi poeti non vi abbiano lasciato 1' esempio.' Questi 
 commandi die rendono difficile 1' arte piu di quelle die e gia, 
 levano anche a un scrittore la speranza di poter rendere 
 ragione d' un lavoro poetico. . . . L' unita di luogo, e la 
 cosi detta unita di tempo, non sono regole fondate nella 
 ragione dell' arte, ne connatural! all' indole del poema drani- 
 matico, ma sono venute da una autorita non bene intesa, e 
 da principi arbitrari. . . . 
 
 " Finalmente queste regole impediscono molte bellezze, e 
 producono molti inconvenienti." — Allessandro Manzoni, 
 Frefaziofie al " Conte di Carmagnola,^' 
 
32. *'Ce qu'il y a dVtran^e, c'est que les routiniers pr^- 
 tendent appuyer leur r^le des deux tinit& sur la vraisem- 
 blance, tandis que c*est precisement le reel qui la tue. Quoi 
 de plus invraisemblable et de plus absurde en eflfet que ce 
 vestibule, ce peristyle, cette aDtichambrc, lieu banal oil nos 
 tragedies ont la complaisance de venir se derouler ; oil am- 
 vent, on ne sait comment, les conspirateurs pour d^damer 
 contre le tyran, le tyran pour declamer contre les conspira- 
 teurs, chacun k leur tour, comme s'ils s'etaient dit bucolique* 
 ment — 
 
 " ' AJtcmU caatemus; anuat altcma Cameiuc.' 
 
 ..." Lunit^ de temps n*est pas plus solide que I'unit^ 
 de lieu. Uaction encadree de force dans les vingt-quatrc 
 heures est anssi ridicule qa'encadr^ dans le vestibule. Toute 
 action a la dor^ propre comme son lieu particulier. Verser 
 la m^me dose de temps k tous les ev^nements ! On rizait 
 d'uu cordonnier qui voudrait mettre le m^me Soulier k tous 
 les pieds. Croiser Tunite de temps k Tunit^ de lieu comme 
 les barreaox d'une cage, ct y faire pedxuitesquement entrer, de 
 par Aristote, tons ces (aits, tous ces peuples, toutes les figures 
 que la Providence d^roule k li grandes masMs dans la r^it^ t 
 C*est mutiler hommes et choses, c'est faire grimacer riiistoire. 
 Disons mieux ; tout cela moorra dans I'operation ; et c*est 
 ainsi que les mutilateurt dogmattques arrivent k leur resultat 
 ordinaire ; ce qui ^tai vivant dans la chronique, c*est mort 
 dans la trag^ie. Voila pourquoi, bien souvcnt, la cage de^i 
 unit^ ne renferme qu*une squelette. £t puis si vingt-quatre 
 heures peovent £tre comprises dans deux, il serait logique 
 que quatre heures puissent en contenir quarante-huit. L'unt- 
 t^ de Shakespeare ne sera done pas I'unitc^ de Comeillc. 
 Piti^ ! ce sont li pourtant les pauvres chicanes que depuis 
 deux siecles la m^iocrit^, I'envi, et la routine font au genie ! 
 C'est ainsi qu*on a bom6 I'essor de nos plus grandes poetes. 
 C'est avec les ciseaux des unites qu'on leur a coupe Taile. 
 £t que nous a-t-on donne en ^change de ces plumes d'aigle 
 retranch^ k Comeille et k Racine? Campistron ! — Vic- 
 tor Hugo, *^^ Preface to Cronrwell'^ 
 
lOO APPENDIX. 
 
 33. „ !Dettn au(f> burc^ eine fold^e UnterBred^ung ber 
 bramatifc^en ^anblung hjitb auf bcr ©ried^if^en S6ul)ne Bi^ 
 gu einem geiDiffen @rabe ba^ errei(^t, tra^ bte bramatifd^en 
 JDid^tev aKer Beitcn butd^ ben ^eccratbn0it)ecf)fcl, ba^ t)etft, 
 burd^ bie Sluf^ebung ber (5inl)eit beg Otaum^, fjen^orgeBra^t 
 l^aBen ; fie unterbred^en bamit fur bag ®efut)l beg Bufd^auerg 
 gugleid^ bie ©Dntinuitdt ber Beit, l^eBen fie auf, unb gett^innen 
 ftatt ber burcf> Otefiection uteparen bie fiir bag JDrama unent^: 
 Belf)rlicf)e incommenfuraBIe, ibeale Beit. a)iag nun 3)i!aic:polig 
 auc^ nod^ Brummenb uBer bag, \(i^^ eBen in ber 33ol!g»erfatttmi 
 lung gef^el)en ift, toieber auftreten, mag i()n auc^ ber riicffel^renbe 
 5lnt^'f)itI)eog mitten vx biefem ©ebrumme unterBred)en, bag 
 fd^abet nii^t ; n^d^^renb beg ©cenemved^fetg ^)qX biefer bo^ bie 
 "^txi ge^aBt, bie Oteife nad^ (S^jarta I)in unb ^urucf ^u madden. 
 
 Wi^Xi fefje nur nac^ \it\ bem grof ten SO^eifter aKer bra? 
 
 matifd^en ^unj^, Bei bem ^id)ter, ber bag feinfle @efii:f)t, \^ 
 mod^te fagen, ben angeBcrnen Snftinct grabe fiir 58ti^nenn)ir; 
 fung l^at, n^ie !ein Slnberer (menigfteng irie fein neuerer ^idf^ter 
 — \^ ben!e, inbem \^ bieg |)in5ufe|e, an 5lifd^t)log, nament^ 
 lic^ an bie n)unben)oI(e ^unft, mit ber er im 5lgamemnon bie 
 Beit aufget)cBen unb bem §crer bag ^eredCjnen unmcglid^ 
 gemad^t t)at) : alfo Bei @fya!efpeare itjirb man §unberte toon 
 S3eif)3ie(en finben bafiir, baf nad^ einem ^ecorationgh3ed)fel \)Vt 
 ndd^fte <Scene fid^ auf ber einen (Seite gan^ unmittelBar (xn bie 
 eBen tocrfjergegangene anfd^lieft, unb ba^ bod^ fogtetd^ ii\Ci^^ 
 eintritt, n?ag bag S^erjiief en einer Idngeren Beit n?dl)renb ber 
 SSeriranblung tooraugfe^t." — Muller Strubing, Aristo- 
 phanes^ p. 695. 
 
 34. „ @g fommt barauf an, \\x\)x ©cetfje fort, bag (Sic fid^ 
 ein ©a^ital Bilben, bag nie auggel)t. ^iefeg toerben @ie 
 eriangen in bem Begonnenen (Stubium ber englifd^en (Sprad^e 
 unb !&iteratur. §aUen @ie fid^ baju unb Benu^en @ie bie 
 trefftid^e ©elegen^eit ber jungen (S'ngidnber gu jeber @tunbe. 
 ^ic aiten (Sprad^en finb Sljnen in ber Sugenb grogtentl^eilg 
 
APPENDIX, lOI 
 
 fntc^an^m, tcg^lb fud^en 6ie in ber Sittratur einer fo tu(^tid(n 
 9{dticn, trie tie (Jn^Unter, einen ^\i, 3utem ifl {a unferc 
 ei^ene Siteratur ^rc^tent^eild au^ bet i^ri^en ^r^efcmmen. 
 Unfcte dtomane, unfere Irauerfrirle, ipc^ ^ben ttir fie 
 benn: old von d^clbfi^mitt, gicUin^ unb S^ffpeare? Unb 
 ncd^ heut |n 'Xai^, ipo looHen 6ic benn in !Deutf(^(anb brei 
 literarifc^e ^(ben flnbtn, bic bem Sorb IBt^ron, Wocre unb 
 Qoltcr €cott an bte €eite )u fe^u n^dren ? Mfo no<^ einmal, 
 befejiidm @te fid^ im Chiglifc^en, ^Iten 3ie 3^re Jtrdfte )u ettvod 
 Vk^iv^fm, jufammen unb Uffen €ie alle^ fa^ren, nsia fitr €ie 
 frine Sfol^e ^t unb 3^nen nic^t gentJig \^r — Gesprdcki mit 
 Eckirwuum^ lUn December 1824. 
 
 35. ^ (Bod^ ^b mit 9te(l^t unb Ud^tc uber Sorb 18Qrcn, 
 baf et, bet ft(^ im Sebrn nie ^efti^t unb ber nie nad^ einem 
 <9ffe( gefra^t, f{(^ entlid^ bem bummften C^efc^ ber brei (Sin< 
 ^iten untenvorfen ^ht. « 9r ^t ben (ifrunb biefetf ®efe^ 
 fo toeni^ oertlanben, fa^te cr, aid bie fibrii^e ^UU. !^6 Sag^ 
 lid^ itl ber (Mrunb, unb bic brei Qin^iten ftnb nur in fo fern 
 ^ut, al0 tiefcd turd^ fie erreid)t irirb. iSinb fie aber bem 
 ffa§lidKn ^interltc^, fc tfl e« immer unverfiiinbi^ fie aid (^efe^ 
 betra^ten unb befcl^en )u n?c((en. 8elbtl bie C^ried^en, von 
 benen biefe dir^el au^in^ ^b<n 3ie nid^t immer befol^t ; im 
 $^H^n bed duripibed unb in anberen Stucfen n^ed^felt bet 
 Drt, nnb man fie^t alfo, ba$ bie gute l^arjidlung i^rrd (Me^en; 
 ffanbed i^nen me^r %x\\, aid ber Hinte 9iefpect vcr einem (^efc^, 
 bod an R(^ nie viel )u beteuten \^iXt, ^\t €^!frear'f(^en 
 €tii(fe grben iiber bie (Sin^it ber 3(it unb bed Drtd fo n>eit 
 ^inaud, aid nur mc^Ud^ ; aber fie finb fa^lid^, ed ifl ni(^td 
 fa$li(^er o{^ fie, unb beg^Ib tt»urben au(^ bie @rie(^en fie 
 untateli^ finben. iDie fran^cfifc^en Xid^ter ^ben bem 
 0efe^ ter brei (Sin^iten am Orenc^ften gol^e )u leiflen flffuc^t, 
 aber 6ie funti^en ge^en bad ga^lic^e, inbem <Sic ein bra^ 
 matif(^edQ)efe^ ni(^t bramatifc^ l?fcn,fonbern bur A CfruiMniit^." 
 — ECKERMANN, Gesprdchc mit Coihe^ 1825 
 
REVIEWS. 
 
 *'The phrase, •Dramatic Unities,* is one which, we fancy, 
 is occasionally used by writers without exact comprehension 
 of all that is implied by that once potent formula, and when 
 there U a disposition among dramatic critics to revive it, 
 as, according to Mr Simpson, is the case at present in Eng- 
 hind, it is only proper that their claim should be carefully 
 considered. For this purpose this little volume will be found 
 to be admirably fitted. It quotes from Aristotle the passages 
 which are assumed to be the basis of the theory, and at the 
 same time points out their application in the work of Gian 
 Giorgio Trissino, one of the court of Leo X., and later 
 writers. It is shown that the Greek tragedians did not 
 comply with the laws afterwards promulgate<i from their 
 plays ; and there follows an excellent summary of the argu- 
 ments on the matter, with quotations from the French critics 
 who supported it, and from Schlcgel, Lcssing, Gothe, and 
 I>r Johnson on the other side. There are also admirable 
 illustrations of the difhcultics of exact compliance with the 
 rules enforceil upon the French tragedians. Statistics are 
 given of the efforts of English plajrwrighis to cut themselves 
 free from all the traditions of their wonderful dramatic litera- 
 ture, and to fashion their work after the requirements of un- 
 natural laws. As the matter now stands, it would seem to 
 be beginning at the wrong end to attempt to reform the 
 defective play-writing of the present day, by imposing novel 
 and difhcuh rules upon a clas3 of authors who are for the 
 most part incapable of rising above abject triviality. The 
 general principle we ca|i look at with great equanimity ; the 
 battle has been fought, and the absolute power of the 
 dramatic unities has been broken, but there is no one who 
 would condemn a good play because the author had choj^en 
 
REVIEWS, 
 
 to observe them. To demand them, however — to insist on 
 them — is a very different and a most mischievous thing. 
 One might as well ask of our artists that they paint nothing 
 but Madonnas. How small is the foundation on which the 
 "theory rests is clearly and temperately shown in this little 
 book. We hope it may be read, if for no other purpose 
 than to see how a pretentious and bastard formula can im- 
 pose for a long time on literature." — New York Nation. 
 
 *'The only fault of Mr Simpson's clever and instructive 
 book upon the unities is that it comes a day too late for the 
 fair. In England, and indeed throughout the Continent, the 
 unities, those of place and time, by which alone the drama 
 is repressed, are abandoned. If the unity of action still sur- 
 vives, it is in a form very different from that assigned it in 
 the time of Corneille. So far as it holds a place at all, it is 
 axiom.atic in truth ; and those who fight its wider application 
 are fighting a shadow. In bringing together all the authori- 
 ties on the subject, in giving a history of the growth and 
 decay of faith in the unities, and in showing their influence 
 upon dramatic art, Mr Simpson supplies a treatise useful to 
 students, and contributes an interesting chapter to literature. 
 He is careful in advancing his authorities. Messrs Triibner 
 & Co. are the publishers." — Athenceum. 
 
 " A volume on the dramatic unities is something of a sur- 
 prise in these days, in which all questions concerning them 
 might fairly be supposed to be dismissed. ' An apparent 
 inclination on the part of some of our leading dramatic 
 critics to revive the old doctrines of the unities of time and 
 place ' has induced Mr Simpson to publish a volume which 
 contains at once a condemnation of the use of the unities 
 and a history of their rise and growth. Without stopping 
 to inquire whom the cap fits, or to ask whether there is, 
 indeed, in reference to the unities in theatrical criticism, any 
 intention more serious than that of airing a little erudition, 
 we may say at once that the publication of a short but com- 
 prehensive treatise upon the unities is a boon to all concerned 
 with or interested in dramatic history. Ask a moderately 
 well-informed man what are the unities ? and it is a chance 
 
R£y/E»rs, 
 
 whether he can tell yoa anything about them. Most pro- 
 bably he will assert they hare something to do with the 
 time over which the action of a play may extend, and will 
 add that they are an invention of Aristotle. General 
 readers will be thankful for information upon a subject on 
 which they are assumably ignorant, and will be glad to 
 be put in a position to understand the frequent references 
 which are made to them in disquisitions upon theatrical 
 subjects. The best way to obtain full information is, of 
 course, to turn to the book. This is the course we recom- 
 mend to all whose interest in the question is deep. For 
 thote, however, whom a smattering of information will 
 satisfy, we proceed to dissect Mr Simpson's work. Aristotle 
 is, of cou'ne, so far responsible for the unities that warrant 
 for them is drawn from hb * Poetics.' Minds not accus- 
 tomed to deductions of this class are a little at a loss to 
 know how far the premises warrant the conclusion. The 
 works of Aristotle are indeed in this respect like Holy Writ, 
 seeing that men of the most contrary and conflicting opinions 
 may find justification for their respective views. Some words 
 in the * Poetics ' suggest the unities of time at having been 
 aimed at by timgediam. The unity of place is, however, as 
 difficult to evolve from Aristotle as Dr Cumming's notions 
 of the often postponed end of the world taken from the 
 .Apocalypse. 
 
 " The unities are supposed to be three — those of time, pUce, 
 and action. The last of these may be speedily dismissed. 
 What Aristotle meant is but imperfectly understood, and 
 critics have written pages of learned rubbish upon it So 
 far as it can be shown to mean anything, it means what 
 every one will admit, that the action must be clear and pro- 
 gressive, that minor intrigues must be subordinated to the 
 principal motive, and that the characters should be con- 
 sistent The unity of time is the most important and the 
 most oppressive. Aristotle, drawing a distinction between 
 the tragedy and the epos, says * tragedy attempts, as far as 
 possible, to restrict itself to a single revolution of the sun, or 
 to exceed it but little, whereas the epos is indefinite as 
 
REVIEIVS. 
 
 regards time, and in this, respect differs (from tragedy).' 
 Upon this notion the advocates of the unities determined 
 that the action of a serious play must not exceed twenty- 
 four hours, which Corneille extended to thirty. Some 
 profound sticklers for orthodoxy went further than this, and 
 maintained that a play to be regular in construction and 
 worthy of praise must take in presentation exactly the time 
 which the real events would require for their accomplish- 
 ment. From this rule to that expressing the unity of place 
 was a natural transition. By this third of the unities the 
 action must continue where it began. A spectator must not, 
 as in our Shaksperian plays, be in London in one scene and, 
 it may be, in Salisbury or in Paris in the next. At the 
 same time, as a too rigid adherence to the room in which 
 the story commenced would bring about absurdities and 
 improbabilities much more offensive than those it was 
 intended to remove, Corneille, the great adherent to the 
 unities, fixed the limits of a town as those the dramatist 
 might not overpass. Having now briefly told what are the 
 unities, we may give Mr Simpson's account of their origin. 
 They were first heard of at the court of Leo X., and are to 
 be ascribed to the influence of the revived taste for classical 
 literature manifested in Italy during the period of the 
 ascendancy of the Medici. ' Directly,' says Mr Simpson, 
 ' their invention or revival is traceable to one of the most 
 gifted members of that gifted assemblage (the court of Leo 
 X.) — namely, Gian Giorgio Trissino.' This is so far true 
 that the 'Sofonisba' of Trissino is built upon the model of 
 ancient tragedy, the form of which it copies with an almost 
 servile spirit of imitation. That Trissino mentioned the 
 unities by name does not appear. He is, however, certainly 
 entitled to the credit of having set an example, which fol- 
 lowed, first by his countrymen, then extended to France, 
 Germany, Holland, and Northern Europe, exercised for a 
 couple of centuries the most baneful influence i-ipon the 
 drama of half the civilised world, crippling that of France, 
 and choking that of other countries wherein the dramatic 
 spirit was less powerful to bear up against its burdens. Spain 
 
and England it practically scarcely reached. While, accord- 
 incrly. for centuries the drama languished elsewhere under 
 cLi>>ical trammels, Spain and England produced a thoroughly 
 national and vigorous drama, which anticipated by more 
 than two centuries the freedom French writers subsequently 
 won. During tlie seventeenth and eighteenth centuries 
 P'rench dramatists consented to be bound by their rulers, 
 nnd French critics extolled them to the skies. The drama 
 of England and Spain, known as the romantic drama, was 
 'reated as barbarous, and the productions of Shakespeare 
 were pronounced the works of an inspired madman. About 
 the thinl decade of the present century the appearance of a 
 hand of young writen brought a change. After a fierce 
 fight, in which the new school was led by men like Victor 
 Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, De Maioet and De Vigny among 
 jKJCts, and Sainte Ikuve and Tlieophile Gautier among critics, 
 for the poems of the latter come later, and those of the 
 ft>rmer are of little account, the old school was defeated and 
 the unities were relegated to the limlx> of vanities. 
 
 "It is useless to dwell long upon the abnunlity of these rules 
 as binding in art. In England we have always, until a few 
 years ago, when the national spirit first began to give signs 
 of sleepiness, kicked against unnecessary restrictions. * Thus, 
 though there are a few pUys written in conformity with the 
 unities, not one of them preserves its position as an acting 
 play, and none can claim to be counted among the works of 
 which an Englishman is proud. There is, of course, some- 
 thing to be sakl in favour of the idea on which they are 
 based. Few notions that have exercised a strong influence 
 over the minds of many men are wholly without value. 
 Wlien an action can pass without frequent change of scene, 
 and within the limits of a given and probable time, it is, of 
 course, easy to accept. The effort, however, to bring arbi- 
 trarily action within certain limits produces always results 
 more preposterous than would accrue under any excesses of 
 imagination on the part of the spectator. No play written 
 in conformity with the unities enjoys a higher reputation than 
 *The Cid' of Comeille. In order to bring the action of 
 
REVIEWS. 
 
 this play within the range of time he fixes — namely, thirty 
 hours — Corneille presents the following things as occurring 
 within that space of time. First, we see the Cid obscure, as 
 yet winning the favour of the heroine ; next we see him 
 challenging the first soldier of Spain for an insult to his 
 father and slaying him. Then, after a considerable space 
 spent in lovemaking and listening to the rebukes of Ximena 
 and debates as to what punishment, if any, is to be adminis- 
 tered, he fights a desperate battle against the Moors, conquers 
 them, and brings in their monarchs captive. Even now his 
 labours are not ended. He has to hear the compliments of 
 the King, make love again, fight another duel, and at length 
 win back the avowal of the love of Ximena. The spectator 
 simply refuses to accept any such sequence as possible with- 
 in the space. Equal difficulty attends the unity of time. A 
 spectator can as easily be transferred from Italy to Egypt as 
 he can from England to Italy, There is, however, no need 
 to fight shadows which these once formidable unities have 
 now become. It is, however, just to say that in one respect. 
 English dramatists now submit to a restriction for which 
 these things are in part — though only in part — responsible. 
 The unities of time and place seem now to circumscribe the 
 act. Most acts in a new play have one scene only, and the 
 time never exceeds twenty-four hours. Such a rule as this, 
 however, is only to be regarded while it remains convenient. 
 No genuine playgoer ever felt the changes of scene in ' As 
 You Like It' disturb for one moment his enjoyment. When 
 discussing this subject it is but just to Mr Simpson to say 
 that his industry and cleverness of view are equally to be 
 commended. From all sources — Greek, Latin, Italian, 
 French, German, and English — he has gathered every scrap 
 of information bearing upon his subject. He writes clearly, 
 convincingly, and well. The result is a book which, while 
 to the critic it is an invaluable little manual, is fruitful to the 
 general reader both o fpleasure a nd instruction." — Sunday 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY