Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/aristotlestheoryOObutc 4 m ARISTOTLE'S THEORY OF POETRY AND FINE ART AEISTOTLE’S THEORY OF POETRY AND PINE ART WITH A CRITICAL TEXT AND TRANSLATION OF THE POETICS BY S. H. BUTCHER' PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH J FORMERLY FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, AND OF UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, OXFORD ; HON. LL.D. GLASGOW ; HON. LITT.D. DUBLIN SECOND EDITION Hontian MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1898 All rights reserved First Edition 1895 Second Edition 1898 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION The present volume has grown out of certain chapters relating to the Poetics in the first edition of 6 Some Aspects of the Greek Genius.’ These chapters have been enlarged, and partly re-written ; and further questions, not touched on in the earlier volume, and bearing on Aristotle’s theory of tragedy, are here discussed. A text and a translation of the Poetics are prefixed to the Essays. It is just a hundred years since a critical text of the Poetics has been published in Great Britain. Tyrwhitt’s edition, which appeared at Oxford in 1794, was, indeed, the work of an admirable scholar ; but since that time much light has been thrown on almost every page of this treatise. And yet even to-day, after all the labours of German scholars, no editor can hope to produce a text which will not provoke dissent on the part of com- petent critics. For my own part, I find myself more frequently in agreement with William Christ on questions of reading, than with any previous VI POETRY AND FINE ART editor. Susemihl, to whom every student of Aris- totle is profoundly indebted, appears to me to carry conjecture too far, more especially in the trans- position of sentences and the omission of words. On the other hand, Vahlen’s adherence to the Parisian MS. (A c ) borders on superstition, — if one may dare so to speak of the critic who in a pre- eminent degree has contributed to the elucidation of the Poetics. The superiority of the Parisian over all other extant MSS. is beyond dispute ; still I cannot share the confidence with which the best editors now speak of it as the sole source from which the rest are derived. It is true there are no decisive passages by which the independent value of these latter can be established. But that some of them have an independent worth is rendered highly probable by two considerations. First, by the appearance in them of words which are omitted in A c , but are necessary to complete the sense. The missing words are not unfrequently such as a copyist could hardly have supplied. Secondly, by the number of instances in which the true reading is hopelessly obscured in A c , but preserved in some of the so-called ‘ apographa.’ No ordinary scribe could have hit on such happy corrections. While doubting, however, whether A c is indeed the arche- type of all extant MSS., I have, for the sake of convenience, retained in the critical notes the usual PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION Vil abbreviation ‘apogr.,’ to denote any MS. or MSS. other than A c . The conjectures of my own which are admitted into the text are few in number. They will be found in iii. 3. 1448 a 33, xix. 3. 1456 b 8, xxiii. 1. 1459 a 17, xxiv. 10. 1460 a 35, xxv. 4. 1460 b 17, xxv. 14. 1461 a 28, xxv. 16. 1461 a 35. 1 The emen- dation in xxiii. 1, evl pierpfp fu/jLr)Tifcr)<; for iv p^erpM fUjirjTLKrj ? will, I hope, appear as plausible to others as it is convincing to myself. In ix. 5 ( ovtco t a rv^ovra ovopuara ), though I have not altered the traditional reading, yet for reasons stated in note 2, p. 349, I suspect we ought to read ov ra tv^ovtcc ovopiara , and I venture to press this suggestion. In a certain number of passages I have bracketed words, hitherto retained by the editors, which I take to be glosses that have crept into the text. The passages are these — iii. 1. 1448 a 23, vi. 18. 1450 b 13, xvii. 1. 1455 a 27, xvii. 5. 1455 b 2 2. 2 But the detailed treatment of these and other questions of criticism and interpretation must be reserved for the more fitting pages of a com- mentary. Fortunately, the general views of Aristotle on Poetry and Art are not affected by the minor 1 Of these the conj. in iii. 3 is withdrawn in Ed. 2 ; that in xxv. 14 gives place to (Tucker). 2 In vi. 18 I read in Ed. 2 rwv Xeyopkvuv (Gomperz) instead of [rwv pXv Xoyoiv], and in xvii. 5 Tts avros (Bywater) for [T6vas aijTos]. Vlll POETRY AND FINE ART difficulties with which the Poetics abounds. In- complete as our material is when all scattered references have been brought together, the cardinal points of Aristotle’s aesthetic theory can be seized with some certainty. But his Poetics must be read in the light of his other writings ; we must trace the links which connect his theory of Art with his philosophic system as a whole ; we must discover the meaning he attaches to ‘ Imitation ’ as an aesthetic term, — a somewhat infelicitous term, it must be owned, inherited by him from his pre- decessors, but henceforth charged with a new meaning. Such an inquiry will dispel the vulgar notion that still survives in popular manuals, that by ‘ Imitation ’ Aristotle means a literal copy, a mere facsimile of the world of experience. The clue to his real thought is to be found in the assertion that Poetry is an expression of the 4 universal ’ ; that is, of the universal element in human life. In interpreting the full significance of this conception frequent reference will of neces- sity be made to the wider principles of the Aristo- telian philosophy. In the following pages I have attempted to bring out some of the vital connexions which are thus suggested between Aristotle’s theory of Poetry and other sides of his comprehensive thought. In endeavouring to state his views and estimate their worth candidly and without exaggeration, I have PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION IX not forgotten that Aristotle, more than any other writer, has suffered from the intemperate admiration of his friends. There have been periods when he was held to be infallible both in literature and in philosophy. A sovereign authority has been claimed for him by those who possessed no first- hand knowledge of his writings, and who certainly were not equipped with sufficient Greek to in terpret the text. A far truer respect would have been shown him had it been frankly acknowledged, that in his Poetics there are oversights and omissions which cannot be altogether set down to the frag- mentary character of the book ; that his judgments are based on literary models which, perfect as they are in their kind, do not exhaust the possibilities of literature ; that many of his rules are tentative rather than dogmatic ; that some of them need revision or qualification ; that, for example, the requisites laid down in chap. xiii. for the character of the tragic protagonist would exclude from the first rank of art some of the noblest figures of the Greek drama, — Antigone, Clytemnestra, and possibly Prometheus. On the other hand, we may well wonder at the im- partiality of mind, which lifted him above some, at least, of the limitations of his age, though he could not wholly emancipate himself from the external rules and usages of the Athenian theatre. Above all we may admire his insight into the X POETRY AND FINE ART essential quality of Poetry, as a concrete expression of the universal. To this result he was led by a penetrating analysis of the imaginative creations of Greece itself. Universality is, indeed, their characteristic note. The accidents of human nature seem here to fall into the background, while its larger lineaments are disengaged. A list of the more important works which treat of the Poetics will be found on page xxix. I desire, however, here to mention the books which have chiefly aided me in the preparation of the Essays : E. Muller, Geschichte dev Kunst bei der Alten , Breslau, 1834. Yahlen, Beitrdge zu Aristoteles' Poetik , Wien, 1865. Teichmiiller, Aristotelische Forschungen, Halle, 1869. Rein- kens, Aristoteles iiber Kunst , Wien, 1870. Doring, Die Kunstlehre des Aristoteles , Jena, 1870. Ber- nays, Zwei Abhandlungen iiber die Aristotelische Theorie des Drama , Berlin, 1880. I owe, more- over, special and personal thanks to Prof. A. C. Bradley for valuable criticisms on my earlier volume, which I have here turned to account. I have reason also gratefully to acknowledge the singular care and skill displayed by Messrs. R. & R. Clark’s Reader. Edinburgh, November 1894 . PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION The chief alterations in this edition, as compared with the first, consist in the enlargement of the Critical Notes and a careful revision of the Trans- lation. Minor changes and additions will be found in the Essays. A third Index also has been added containing a list of the passages in Greek authors referred to in the volume. In making use of the mass of critical material which has appeared in recent years, especially in Germany, I have found it necessary to observe a strict principle of selection, my aim still being to keep the notes within limited compass. They are not intended to form a complete Apparatus Criticus, still less to do duty for a commentary. I trust, however, that no variant or conjectural emendation of much importance has been over- looked. Of my own conjectures, printed in the text of the first edition, one or two appear to have carried general conviction, in particular that in xxiii. 1. Xll POETRY AND FINE ART Two have been withdrawn (see p. vii.). One, which I previously relegated to the notes, while putting in a plea for its acceptance in the preface, has since won the approval of many scholars, including the distinguished names of Professor Susemihl and Professor Tyrrell, and it is with some confidence that I now insert it in the text. I refer to ov (oi/tco MSS.) ra rv^ovra ovo/iara in ix. 5. 1451 b 14 ( = b 13 Bekk.), where the Arabic has ‘ names not given at random.’ For the copyist’s error cf. ix. 2. 1451 a 38 ( = a 36 Bekk.), where A c has ovtco, though ov to rightly appears in the ‘ apographa ’ : and for a similar omission of ov in A c cf. vi. 12. 1450 a 32 ( = a 30 Bekk.), ov iTOL^crei o rjv rrjs rpajMSla^ epyov, the indispensable negative being added in ‘ apogr.’ and found in the Arabic. The emendation not only gives a natural instead of a strained sense to the words ra Tvyovra ovopbara, but also fits in better with the general context, as I have argued at some length, pp. 367-9 (note). Another conjecture of my own I have ventured to admit into the text. In the much disputed passage, vi. 8. 1450 a 14 ( = a 12 Bekk.), I read < 7T CLVT6S > GO? ellTelv for ov/c oXuryoc avrcbv co? eforelv of the MSS., following the guidance of Diels and of the Arabic. I regard ov/c oXcyoc avrcbv as a gloss which displaced part of the original phrase (see Crit. Notes). As a parallel case I have adduced PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION xil Rhet. i. 1. 1354 a 12, where ovSev ehrelv, the reading in the margin of A c , ought, I think, to be substituted in the text for the accepted reading oX'iyov. The word oXlyov is a natural gloss on ovSev cw? ehrelv, but not SO ovSev eo? ehrelv on oXiyov. In two other difficult passages the Rhetoric may again be summoned to our aid. In xvii. 1. 1455 a 30 ( = a 27 Bekk.) I have (as in the first edition) bracketed rov Oearrjv, the object to be supplied with iXavOavev being, as I take it, the poet, not the audience. This I have now illus- trated by another gloss of a precisely similar kind in Rhet . i. 2. 1358 a 8, where XavOavovcriv re [tou? afcpoaras'] has long been recognised as the true reading, the suppressed object being not the audience but the rhetoricians. Once more, in xxiv. 9. 1460 a 26 ( = a 23 Bekk.), where A c gives the meaningless aXXov Se, I read (as in the first edition) aXX * ovSe, following the reviser of A c . This reading, which was accepted long ago by Vettori, has been strangely set aside by the chief modern editors, who either adopt a variant aXXo Se or resort to conjecture, with the result that TrpocrOelvcu at the end of the sentence is forced into impossible meanings. A passage in the Rhetoric , i. 2. 1357 a 17 ff., appears to me to determine the question conclusively in favour of aXX ’ ovSe . . . avayKT] . . . 7 rpocrOelvcu. XIV POETRY AND FINE ART The passage runs thus : iav y dp y tl tovtcov yvdopt- /jLOV, ovSe Xeyeuv avros 7 ap tovto TrpocrTiQyfJiv 6 aKpoaTTjs, olov ore Acoptevs crrecpavLTyv dycova vev'ucyicev, i/cavbv eiirelv on 'QXvpiria yap vevlfcy/cev, to 8’ on areepaviry 9 ra ^OXypuna, ovSe Set 'jrpocrOelvar yiyvoa- (T/covai yap Trdvre ?. The general idea is closely parallel to our passage of the Poetics , and the expression of it similar even to the word ov$e (where the bare ov might have been expected) in the duplicated phrase ovSe Set Xeyeuv, ovSe Sel 7 rpoa- OelvaL. One difficulty still remains. The subject to elvau rj yevecrOac is omitted. To supply it in thought is not, perhaps, impossible, but it is exceedingly harsh, and I have accordingly in this edition accepted Professor Tucker’s conjecture, dvay/cTj elvat rj 7 eveaOai, The two conjectures of my own above mentioned are based on or corroborated by the Arabic. I ought to add, that in the Text and Critical Notes generally I have made a freer use than before of the Arabic version (concerning which see p. 4). But it must be remembered that only detached passages, literally rendered into Latin in Professor Margoliouth’s Analecta Orientalia (D. Nutt, 1887), are as yet accessible to those like myself who are not Arabic scholars ; and that even if the whole were before us in a literal translation, it could not safely be used by any one unfamiliar with Syriac and Arabic, save with the utmost caution and PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION xv subject to the advice of experts. Of the precise value of this version for the criticism of the text, no final estimate can yet be made. But it seems clear that in several passages it carries us back to a Greek original earlier than any of our existing MSS. Two striking instances may here be noted : — (1) i. 6-7. 1447 a 29 ff., where the Arabic confirms Ueberweg’s excision of eTroTroda and the insertion of dvcovvfjLo? before rv^dvovcra, accord- ing to the brilliant conjecture of Bernays (see Margoliouth, Analecta Orientalia , p. 47). (2) xxi. 1. 1457 a 41 ( = a 35 Bekk.), where for fieyaXicoTMv of the MSS. Diels has, by the aid of the Arabic, restored the word Maao-aXicorcov, and added a most ingenious and convincing explana- tion of f E piioKcdico%av6os (see Grit. Notes). This emendation is introduced for the first time into the present edition. Professor Margoliouth tells me that Diels’ restoration of eVeufa/^ez/o? in this passage is confirmed by the fact that the same word is employed in the Arabic of Aristotle’s Rhetoric to render ev^eo-Ocu. Another result of great importance has been established. In some fifty instances where the Arabic points to a Greek original diverging from the text of A c , it confirms the reading found in one or other of the 4 apographa,’ or conjectures made either at the time of the Renaissance, or in XVI POETRY AND FINE ART a more recent period. It would be too long to enumerate the passages here ; they will be found noted as they occur. In most of these examples the reading attested by the Arabic commands our undoubting assent. It is, therefore, no longer possible to concede to A c the unique authority claimed for it by Yahlen. I have consulted by the side of Professor Margoliouth’s book various criticisms of it, e.g. by Susemihl in Berl. Phil. Wochenschr. 1891, p. 1546, and by Diels in Sitzungsber. der Berl. Akad. 1888, p. 49. But I have also enjoyed the special benefit of private communication with Professor Margoliouth himself upon a number of difficulties not dealt with in his Analecta Orientalia. He has most generously put his learning at my disposal, and furnished me, where it was possible to do so, with a literal translation. In some instances the Arabic is itself obscure, and throws no light on the difficulty ; frequently, however, I have been enabled to indicate in the notes whether the exist- ing text is supported by the Arabic or not. In the following passages I have in this edition adopted emendations which are suggested or con- firmed by the Arabic, but which did not find a place in the first edition : — ii. 3. 1448 a 15, cocnrep ol rovs vi. 7. 1450 a 18 ( = a 17 Bekk.), <6 8e /3 lo, omitting KOi evSoLLfJLOVLaS KOL Yj €v8(U/JLOV l 'a of the MSS. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION XVII xi. 6. 1452 b 10, [ to4twv Se . . . eipyrcu] xviii. 6. 1456 a 26 ( = a 24 Bekk.), cikos xx. 5. 1456 b 39 ( = b 36 Bekk.), a vey xxi. 1 . 1457 a 38, [/cat a o-rjfjiov]. The literal trans- lation of the Arabic is ‘and of this some is compounded of significant and insignificant, only not in so far as it is significant in the noun ’ xxi. 1. 1457 a 41 ( = a 36 Bekk.), MaorraAtwrcov (see above, p. xv.) XXV. 17. 1461 b 14, I hesitate to add to this list of corroborated conjectures that of Dacier, now admitted into the text of xxiii. 1. 1459 a 24 ( = a 21 Bekk.), teal purj OJULOLCIS iaTOpLCLLS Td? (TwOecreiS, for Kdl fJLT} O/AOldS IdTopids to? o-wr/Oeis of the MSS. (In defence of the correction see note, p. 165.) The Arabic, as I learn from Professor Margoliouth, is literally ‘ and in so far as he does not introduce (or, there do not enter) into these compositions stories which resemble.’ This version appears to deviate both from our text and from Dacier’s conjecture. There is nothing here to correspond to o-vvijOeis of the MSS. ; on the other hand, though awOeae^ may in some form have appeared in the Greek original, it is not easy to reconstruct the text which the translation implies. Another conjecture, com- municated privately to me by Mr. T. M‘Vey, well deserves mention. It involves the simpler change of o/jLOLds to o7a?. The sense then is, e and must not be like the ordinary histories ’ ; the demonstr. b XV111 POETRY AND FINE ART tolovtovs being sunk in o7a?, and, by attraction, olai laroplai al GvvrjOeLS becoming ota? iaTopias a£is) is the primary element according to Aristotle : meaning of ‘ Action ’ Next come ‘ Ethos ’ and ‘ Dianoia ’ : these two factors together con- stitute Character in its largest sense ...... Emphasis with which Aristotle subordinates other elements to ‘ Action ’ This doctrine has been frequently disputed An inquiry into the meaning of the term ‘ dramatic ’ bears out Aris- totle’s main contention ........ PAGE 283 288 291 293 294 296 302 310 317 319 322 325 327 330 336 339 340 CONTENTS xxvii But the intimate relation between Action and Character needs to be more clearly brought out Another objection considered. Plot, it is said, overpowered Character in the ancient drama ; not so in the modern Senses in which the modern drama lays increased stress on the delineation of Character The artistic principle of the drama discovered by the Greeks . CHAPTER X The Generalising Power of Comedy Senses of the word ‘ idealise. ’ In what sense Tragedy and Comedy respectively idealise life The pleasure of the ludicrous as explained by Plato and by Aristotle Aristotle selects Comedy as an example of the universalising faculty of Poetry A distinction should be drawn between the generalisation proper to Tragedy and to Comedy The line, however, that severs these two kinds of Poetry is less sharply drawn by modem dramatic art : humour and pathos . Comedy, in its purely sportive form, creates personified ideals, Tragedy, idealised persons CHAPTER XI Poetic Universality in Greek Literature Aristotle’s principles of Art reflect the spirit of Greek Art and Literature Oriental Art not included in his survey ...... The Greek imagination under the control of reason .... The Sanity of the Greek genius intimately connected with its Universality Poetic Universality as shown in the delineation of female character in Greek Poetry Poetry and Philosophy in relation to the universal .... Poetry and History : ‘ Myth ’ or heroic history is one of the chief means by which the Greek poets ascend from the individual to the universal, by which they idealise the real .... PAGE 345 347 349 357 359 364 367 373 376 377 379 382 383 388 389 391 392 EDITIONS, TRANSLATIONS, ETC. The following is a list of the chief editions and translations of the Poetics , and of other writings relating to this treatise, arranged in chronological order : — Valla (G.), Latin translation. Venice, 1498. Aldine text, in Rhetores Graeci. Venice, Aldus, 1508. Latin translation, with the summary of Averroes ( ob . 1198). Venice, Arrivabene, 1515. Pazzi (A.) [Paccius], Aristotelis Poetica , 'per Alexandrum Paccium, patri- tium Florentinum , in Latinum conversa. Venice, Aldus, 1586. Trincaveli, Greek text. Venice, 1536. Robortelli (Fr.), In librum Aristotelis de Arte Poetica, explicationes. Florence, 1548. Segni (B.), Rettorica e Poetica d’ Aristotele tradotte di Greco in lingua vulgare. Florence, 1549. Maggi (V.) [Madius], In Aristotelis librum de Poetica explanationes. Venice, 1550. Vettori (P.) [Victorius], Commentationes in primum librum Aristotelis de Arte Poetarum. Florence, 1560. Castelvetro (L.), Poetica d' Aristotele vulgarizzata. Vienna, 1570 ; Basle, 1576. Piccolomini (A.), Annotationi nel libro della Poetica d’ Aristotele , con la traduttione del medesimo libro in lingua volgare. Venice, 1575. Casaubon (I.), edition of Aristotle. Leyden, 1590. Heinsius (D. ) recensuit. Leyden, 1610. Goulston (T.), Latin translation. London, 1623, and Cambridge, 1696. Dacier, La Pottique traduite en Frangais, avec des remarques critiques. Paris, 1692. Batteux, Les quatres Poetiques d' Aristote , d' Horace, de Vida , de Des- preaux , avec les traductions et des remarques par V Abb6 Ratteux. Paris, 1771. XXX POETRY AND FINE ART Winstanley (T.), commentary on Poetics. Oxford, 1780. Reiz, De Poetica Liber. Leipzig, 1786. Metastasio (P. ), Estratto dell’ Arte Poetica d’ Aristotele e considerazioni su la medesima. Paris, 1782. Twining (T.), Aristotle's Treatise on Poetry , translated with notes on the translation and on the original , and two dissertations on poetical and musical imitation. London, 1789. Pye (H. J.), A Commentary illustrating the Poetic of Aristotle by examples taken chiefly from the modern poets. To which is prefixed a new and corrected edition of the translation of the Poetic. London, 1792. Tyrwhitt (T. ), De Poetica Liber. Textum recensuit , versionem refinxit , et animadversionibus illustravit Thomas Tyrwhitt. Oxford, 1794. Buhie (J. T.) recensuit. Gottingen, 1794. Hermann (Godfrey), Ars Poetica cum commentariis. Leipzig, 1802. Grafenham (E. A. W.), De Arte Poetica librum denuo recensuit, commen- tariis illustravit, etc. Leipzig, 1821. Raumer (Fr. v.), Ueber die Poetik des Aristoteles und sein Verhaltniss zu den neuern Dramatikern. Berlin, 1829. Spengel (L. ), Ueber Aristoteles ' Poetik in Abhandlungen der Munchener Akad. philos.-philol. Cl. II. Munich, 1837. Ritter (Fr.), Ad codices antiquos recognitam, latine conversam, com- mentario illustratam edidit Franciscus Ritter. Cologne, 1839. Egger (M. E.), Essai sur Vhistoire de la Critique chez les Grecs , suivi de la Poetique d' Aristote et d' extraits de ses Problemes, avec traduction franqaise et commentaire. Paris, 1849. Bernays (Jacob), Grundzuge der verlorenen Abhandlung des Aristoteles iiber Wirkung der Tragodie. Breslau, 1857. Saint-Hilaire (J. B.), Poitique traduite en frangais et accompagnee de notes perpituelles. Paris, 1858. Stahr (Adolf), Aristoteles und die Wirkung der Tragodie. Berlin, 1859. Stahr (Adolf), German translation, with Introduction and notes. Stutt- gart, 1860. Liepert (J.), Aristoteles iiber den Zweck der Kunst. Passau, 1862. Susemihl (F.), German translation, with Introduction and notes. Leip- zig, 1865 and 1874. Yahlen (J.), Beitrage zu Aristoteles ’ Poetik. Vienna, 1865. Spengel (L.), Aristotelische Studien IV. Munich, 1866. Yahlen (J. ) recensuit. Berlin, 1867. Teichmiiller (G.), Aristotelische Forschungen. I. Beitrage zur Erklarung der Poetik des Aristoteles. II. Aristoteles ’ Philosophie der Kunst. Halle, 1869. Ueberweg (F.), German translation and notes. Berlin, 1869. EDITIONS, TRANSLATIONS, ETC. xxxi Reinkens (J. H.), Aristoteles uber Kunst , besonders uber Tragodie. Vienna, 1870. Doring (A.), Die Kunstlehre des Aristoteles. Jena, 1870. Ueberweg (F.), Ars Poetica ad fidem potissimum codicis antiquissimi A c {Parisiensis 17^1). Berlin, 1870. By water (I.), Aristotelia in Journal of Philology, v. 117 ff. and xiv, 40 ff. London and Cambridge, 1873 and 1885. Vahlen (J.) iterum recensuit et adnotatione critica auxit. Berlin, 1874. Moore (E.), Vahlen’s text with notes. Oxford, 1875. Christ (W. ) recensuit. Leipzig, 1878 and 1893. Bernays (Jacob), Zwei Abhandlungen uber die Aristotelische Theorie des Drama. Berlin, 1880. Brandscheid (F.), Text, German translation, critical notes and com- mentary. Wiesbaden, 1882. Wharton (E. R.), Vahlen’s text with English translation. Oxford, 1883. Margoliouth (D.), Analecta Orientalia ad Poetieam Aristoteleam. Lon- don, 1887. Benard (C.), L'EstMtique d'Aristote. Paris, 1887. Gomperz (T.), Zu Aristoteles' Poetik, I. (c. i.-vi.). Vienna, 1888. Heidenhain (F.), Averrois Paraphrasis in librum Poeticae Aristotelis Jacob Mantino interprete. Leipzig, 1889. Prickard (A. O.), Aristotle on the Art of Poetry. A Lecture with two Appendices. London, 1891. La Poetique d'Aristote, Manuscrit 1741 Ponds Grec de la Bibliotheque Nationale. Preface de M. Henri Omont. Photolithographic de MM. Lumiere. Paris, 1891. Carroll (M.), Aristotle's Poetics in the Light of the Homeric Scholia. Baltimore, 1895. Gomperz (T.), Aristoteles' Poetik. Uebersetzt und eingeleitet. Leipzig, 1895. Gomperz (T.), Zu Aristoteles' Poetik, II., III. Vienna, 1896. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS ANALYSIS OF CONTENTS I. ‘ Imitation ’ (/ iln^cns ) the common principle of the Arts of Poetry, Music, Dancing, Painting, and Sculpture. These Arts dis- tinguished according to the Medium or material Vehicle, the Objects, and the Manner of Imitation. The Medium of Imitation is Rhythm, Language, and £ Harmony ’ (or Melody), taken singly or combined. II. The Objects of Imitation. Higher or lower types are represented in all the Imitative Arts. In Poetry this is the basis of the distinction between Tragedy and Comedy. III. The Manner of Imitation. Poetry may be in form either dramatic narrative, pure narrative (including lyric poetry), or pure drama. A digression follows on the name and original home of the Drama. IV. The Origin and Development of Poetry. Psychologically, Poetry may be traced to two causes, the instinct of Imitation, and the instinct of Harmony and Rhythm. Historically viewed, Poetry diverged early in two directions : traces of this twofold tendency are found in the Homeric poems : Tragedy and Comedy exhibit the distinction in a developed form. The successive steps in the history of Tragedy are enumer- ated. V. Definition of the Ludicrous (jb yeXoiov), and a brief sketch of the rise of Comedy. Points of comparison between Epic Poetry and Tragedy. (The chapter is fragmentary. ) B 2 ARISTOTLE’S POETICS VI. Definition of Tragedy. Six elements in Tragedy : three external, — namely, Scenic Presentment (6 tt)s 6\pews Kbar/xos or Lyrical Song ( ixe\oiroda ), Diction (X^ts) ; three internal, — namely, Plot (/ xvdos ), Character (ijdos), and Thought (di&voia). Plot, or the representation of the action, is of primary import- ance ; Character and Thought come next in order. VII. The Plot must be a Whole, complete in itself, and of adequate magnitude. VIII. The Plot must he a Unity. Unity of Plot consists not in Unity of Hero, but in Unity of Action. The parts must be organically connected. IX. (Plot continued.) Dramatic Unity can be attained only by the observance of Poetic as distinct from Historic Truth ; for Poetry is an expression of the Universal, History of the Par- ticular. The rule of probable or necessary sequence as applied to the incidents. Certain plots condemned for want of Unity. The best Tragic effects depend on the combination of the Inevitable and the Unexpected. X. (Plot continued.) Definitions of Simple (a7rXot) and Complex (7re7 r\ey/xbvoi) Plots. XI. (Plot continued.) Sudden Reversal or Recoil of the Action ( irepi - Trireia), Recognition (avay vd)pL = * * _ t = the Parisian manuscript (1741) of the 11th century : generally, but perhaps too con- fidently, supposed to be the archetype from which all other extant MSS. directly or in- directly are derived. one or more of the MSS. other than A c . the Arabic version of the Poetics (Paris 882 A), of the middle of the 10th century, a version independent of our extant MSS. It is not directly taken from the Greek, but is a trans- lation of a Syriac version of the Poetics by an unknown author, now lost. (The quotations in the critical notes are from the literal Latin translation of the Arabic, as given in Mar- goliouth’s Analecta Orientalia.) the Greek manuscript, far older than A c and no longer extant, which was used by the Syriac translator. (This symbol already employed by Susemihl I have taken for the sake of brevity.) It must be remembered, therefore, that the readings ascribed to 2 are those which we infer to have existed in the Greek exemplar, from which the Syriac translation was made. the Aldine edition of Ehetores Graeci , published in 1508. Vahlen 5 s text of the Poetics Ed. 3. a conjecture of Vahlen, not admitted by. him into the text. words with manuscript authority (including A c ), which should be deleted from the text. a conjectural supplement to the text. a lacuna in the text. words which are corrupt and have not been satis- factorily restored. API2TOTEAOY2 IIEPI IIOIHTIKH2 API2TOTE AOY2 IIEPI IIOI HTIKH2 I II epl TroLrjTuerjs avrr)<; re /cal tmv elBcov avrfjs, rjv tivcl 1447 a^,/ e / ^ \ n 5 . n / r\ \ ovvapbtv e/cacrrov £%£i, Kai 77-6,9 ° 6i GWKTTaaruai rov 9 10 el pbeWec /caXcbs e^ecv rj 7roL7jac<;, eri Be e/c ttogcov /cal Troicov icrrl pboplcov, opbolco ? Se /ecu 7 repl tcov aWcov ocra tt )? CLVTYjS i Tvyyavovcia pbe^pb rod vvv 7 10 ovBev yap av e^obpbev ovopbdcrab /coivov tov 9 ^cbcf)povo<; /cal S evdp^ov pbipbovs /cal tov 9 ^coKpan/cov 9 koyovs, ovBe el TC 9 &a TpopueTpco v rj ekeyelcov rj tcov akkcov Tbvcov tcov tolov- tcov 7 tololto ttjv pblpbrjcrbv 7 rkrjv oi dvOpcorrol ye avvd'KTOVTes tco pbeTpco to Troielv ekeyeboirobovs , tov 9 8e eirorrobovs ovopbd- 1 5 fyvo'bv, ov% a >9 /caTa t^z/ pblpLijcrbv TTObrjTas dkkd /cobvfj /caTa to pbeTpov TrpoaayopevovTes. /cal yap av laTpucov rj (j^vcn/cov 8 tc 8 ca tcov pbeTpcov i/ccpepcocnv , outo) Kakelv elcbQacrbV ovBev Be kolvov eGTiv f O pbrjpco /cal ’E pbireBo/cXei irkrjv to pbeTpov • Bib tov pbev irobTjTrjv Bi/catov Kakelv, tov Be <£ vabokoyov pbakkov 20 V Troir)Tr)v % opbobcos Se /cav el tz -9 airavTa Ta pbeTpa pbbyvvcov 9 7 tololto ttjv pblpbr)crLV KaOdirep Xabprj pbcov iirobrjcre K evTav. pov pbb/CTTjv payfrwBlav ef arravTcov tcov pbeTpcov , /cal tovtov 25. Tiryx&vowiv apogr. : rvyx&wtnv A c . roiavrai add. apogr. : habuit codex 2, unde Syrus- Arabs ‘alias artes similes vi.’ 26. r£ ai )t$ bk 2 male (Margoliouth). /uu/jlovvtcu del. Spengel, quod confirmat Arabs. 27. rj apogr. : ‘ ars instrumenti saltationis ’ Arabs : oi A c : ol Gomperz : oi < xapi&'res > Zeller. 6pxv aT P& v 2 male (Margoliouth). 29. tiroiroda seclus. Ueberweg, om. iam 2. \pi\oLs -J) Tois fjLtrpoLs : rols 1 pi\ois /u^rpois coni. Yahlen. 1447 b 9. ai'Cbvvp.os add. Bernays, confirmante Arabe ‘quae sine nomine est adbuc.’ 15. Kara rrjv apogr. : ttjv Kara A c . 16. (pvaiKbv Heinsius : ‘ re physica ’ Arabs. ‘ Idem praestat Averroes ’ (Margoliouth) : pLovcLKbv codd. 22. puKT 7jv om. 2 : fjuKrrjv papipblav delere voluit Tyrwhitt. Kal tovtov apogr.: Kal A c , Yahlen: Kal om. 2: koLtol Rassow, Gomperz. Loci difficultatem transpositions verborum tollere vult Susemihl ; 20-22 dp.ol.oj s dt . . . tujv pi^Tpevv post 12 ToiotiTuv collocat, commate ad toloijtuv ARISTOTLE’S POETICS I. 4 — 9 9 Thus in the music of the flute and the lyre, 'harmony’ and rhythm alone are employed ; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd’s pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used 5 without £ harmony ’ ; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and action, by rhythmical movement. There 6 is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that either in prose or verse — which 1447 b verse, again, may either combine different metres or consist of but one kind — but this has hitherto been without a name., • Tor there is no common term we could apply to 7 the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand ; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar metre. People do, indeed, add the word £ maker ’ or £ poet ’ to the name of the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even 8 when a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet is by custom given to the author ; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle, even if a writer in his poetic 9 imitation were to combine all metres, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of metres 10 I. 9— II. 4. 1447 b 23—1448 a 15 TTOtrjTrjV TTpOfiayOpGVTGOV. 7 T€pl pGV OVV TOVTGOV BiCOplcrOo) TOVTOV TOV TpOTTOV GLCrl Bg TLVG<$ CU 7 TCLCTt % pCOVTCU TOC9 GlpT)- IQ 2 5 pivots, \gjco Bg olov pv6pd> /cal pi\Gt /cal peTpep, wcrTrGp f) TG TGOV Btdvpapfil/CCOV TTOiTjai 9 KoX 7] TWV VOpLCOV /Cat 7] tg TpaycpBla /cat rj /cwpcpBta' Btaej^Gpovat Bg otl at pGv apa Traertv at Bg Kara pGpos. ravra 9 pGv ovv \gjco tcW Btacjropas tcov TG'xy&Vy iv ol 9 7 Toiovvrat ttjv plp^atv. II gttgI Bg ptpovvTat ol ptpovpGvot irpaTTOVTa?, dvdy/cr] Bg 448 a tovtov 9 rj crirovBaiovs rj (j>av\ov 9 Gtvai (ra yap rjOrf ct^gBov del tovtols clko\ov 6 gl povois, /ca/cla yap /cal dpGTrj Ta rjOrj Bta(f>Gpovo-L tcclvtgs), rjTOi pG^Ttovas rj /ca6 '* rjpas rj elpova 9 5 rj teal tolovtov 9 , waTTGp ol ypa^Gts’ UoXvyvcoTos pGv yap /cpGtTTOvs, Tlavacov Bg %Gtpov 9, Alovihtios Bg opolovs Gt/ca^GV BrjXov Bg otl /cal tmv Xg^Oglctmv G/edaTy ptprjcrGcov g%gl 2 TavTas Ta 9 Btaepopas /cal GerTat GTGpa tg 3 GTGpa ptpGtaOat tovtov tov TpoTrov. /cal yap iv op^r/aGt /cal avXrjcrGL /cal 3 10 KtOaptaGt gcttl yGVGcrOat TavTas Ta9 dvopoioTr)Ta$ % /cal [to] TTGpl tov 9 X07009 Bg /cat ttjv yjrtXopGTplav, olov ''Opr]po$ pGv / 3 g\tlov<;, K \GO(pwv Se opolov 9 , 'Jlyrjpcov Bg 6 © d < xco9 o t«9 TrapepBtas TTOtrjaa 9 TTpWTOs /cal N tKO'ydpr]^ o Trjv A rfkt- aBa 'xplpov 9 * opotays Bg /cal TTGpl tov$ Bt0vpdp/3ov$ /cal TTGpl 4 15 T009 vopov 9, dicrTTGp ol tov 9 Kt//c\&)7ra9 Tt/£o0eo9 /cal posito, deleto 13 rroioiro ttjv p.lfiyacv et 22 /cat rroiyryv : sic efficitur ut verbis 9 poo poov poev ovs ]. iv rpocrl Brj ravrao 9 Boacjoopao 9 r\ pooporjcros 2 25 icrrov, ft) 9 eorropoev /car dp%ds, iv 00s re /cal a /cal 00 9. wcrre yaez' 0 avros et'77 pooporjrr ] 9 'Oporjpcp 'Zocjoo/cArjs, poopoovvrao yap apocfoco cnrovBaiovs , rfj Be 'Apocrocjodveo, irparrovras yap poopoovvrao /cal Bpcovras apocfoco. oQev /cal Bpdpoara /ca\eo- 3 crOao rove? avrd cfoacrcv, on poopoovvrao Bpcovras. 800 /cal 30 dvrorvooovvrao rrjs re rpaycoBcas /cal rrjs KcopocoBoas ol Aco- poeo 9 (rrjs poev yap /ccopocpBlas ol ALeyapeos ol re ivravOa do 9 eVl rrjs irap avroos Brj poo/c par las yevopoevrjs, /cal ol i/c lio/ceXlas, i/ceoOev yap rjv ^vrl^appoos 6 7 roorjrrjs 7 roXXdo irporepos cov XocovlBov /cal M.dyvrjTOS , /cal rrj 9 rpaycoBlas 35 eVtot rcov iv TIe\o 7 rovvr)(T(p) • 7 rooovpoevoo ra ovopoara arjpoeoov • avrol poev yap Kcopoas ras Trepooo/clBas /caXeov cjoacro v, "A6rj- valovs 8e Bijpoovs, do 9 /ccopocoBovs ov/c arvo tov /ccopod^eov \e- 16. [jUiyU^craiTo av rts] seel. coni. Vahlen. rrj avrrj 5b Yettori: ‘in eadem discrepantia ’ Arabs : rabrri 5b rfj M. Casaubon : avrrj 5b rrj codd. 18. rCov vvv om. ut videtur 2. 21. orb /xbv . . . 717 vo/xevov \ <■¥)> orb /xbu arrayybXKovra corb 5’> 'brepbv tl ycyvb/xevov Bywater secutus Gumposch, recte, ut opinor. Eodem fere pervenit Arabem secutus Margoliouth. tl seclus. Zeller, Spengel. 23. rvdvras fort, secludendum (By water) : rrdvra I. Casaubon. robs fu/xov/aevovs seclusi : olim seclus. Vahlen : tuetur 2. 25. Pro Kal & teal Cos, avay/calios 2 (Margoliouth) : Kal & add. apogr. 35. < 5’ > tvioi Bywater. 36. avrol et ’Adrjvaiovs Spengel (cf. 1460 b 38) : ’AOrjvalovs iam editio Oxoniensis 1760 : oSrot et adrjvaboL codd. : ’AdrjvaloL tuentur Wilamowitz, Gomperz. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS II. 4— HI. 3 13 Timotheus and Philoxenus differed in representing the Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy from Comedy ; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life. Ill There is still a third difference — the manner in which each of these objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects the same, the poet may imitate by narration — in which case he can either take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person, unchanged — or he may present all his characters as living and moving before us. These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the 2 three differences which distinguish artistic imitation, — the medium, the objects, and the manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same kind as Homer — for both imitate higher types of character ; from another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes — for both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of £ drama * is given 3 to such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megarians, — not only by those of Greece proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy, but also by the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the evidence of language. Villages, they say, are by them called Kco/iac, by the Athenians Brj/ioi : and they assume that Comedians were so named not from Kco^d^eiv, ‘ to 14 III. 3 — IY. 6. 1448 a 38 — 1448 b 23 yQevras dWa rfj xara xcopias rfXavp dnpia^opLevov' ? ex 1448 b TOV aCTTGMS, KCJLl TO 7 TOiCiV CLVTol pLGV BpCiV, ’ AQtJVCLIOVS Be 7T pCLTTGLV TT pOCTayOpeVGiV . 7T6pl pLGV OVV TWV Bid(j)Opcbv 4 xal rroaai xal rives rrjs papbrjaecos elprjcrOcD ravra. IY eoixacn Be yevvrjaai jxev oXcos rrjv Troirjnxrjv alriai Bvo 5 nves xal avrai (f>vaixai. to re yap pupbelaQai avpu fivrov 2 tols dvOpcoiroLS ex iraiBcov eari, xal rovrcp Biac^epovcn roov aXXcov ^oocov on papbpnxdrarbv ecrn xal ras pbaOrj- creis rroielrai Bid pbipbrjaecos ras rrpcoras, xal to yaipeiv rocs pbipbrjpbacn irdvras. crrjpbelov Be rovrov ro o-vpif 3 aivov 3 io eirl rwv epycov • a yap avra Xvirrjpws opcopue v, rovrcov rds elxovas ras pbdXiarapxpi^copbevas % aipopuev Oecopovvres,olov Or/picov re pboptyas rwv dnpbordnov xal vexpwv. aXnov Be 4 xal rovrov, on pbavQdvebV ov pibvov rocs tyiXocrbtyobs rjBicrrov dXXa xal rots aXXois opboicos, dXX’ irrl / 3 pa%v xoivcovovaiv 1 5 avrov. Boa yap rovro yaipovcn ras elxovas opwvres, bn 5 crvpbftaiveb Oecopovvras pbavOaveiv xal avXXoyi^ecrOai ri exa- crrov, oiov on ovros exeivos , errel edv p/rj rv^rj Trpoecopaxcos , °^X V P'ip' r U Jia r noir)(jei rrjv rjBovrjv dXXd Bid rrjv airep- yaaiav rj rrjv %poidv rj Bid robavrrjv nva dXXrjv alriav. 20 xara (fivabv Brj ovros rjpZv rod pbipelcrOai xal rrjs appbovias 6 xal rov pvOpbov, ra yap pberpa on pbopia rcbv pvOpbcov ean cfravepov, e£ dp^rjs 7 refpvxores xal avra pbdXiara xara puxpov irpoayovres eyevvrjaav rrjv iroirjcnv ex rwv avroa^e- 1448 b 1. /cal rb rroielv . . . rrpoaayopeTjeiv om. Arabs. 4. 6'Xws om. Arabs. 5. avra i apogr. : atfral A c . 13. rotirov apogr. : confirmat Arabs : rovro A c : [/cal rotirov ] Zeller : /cal [rotfrou] Spengel : /cal <\6yos> rotjrov Bonitz. 18. ovx y Hermann, iam 2, ut videtur : otf%l codd. rrjv rjdovyv om. Arabs. 20. dy coni. Yahlen (Beitr.) : db codd. 22. /cal avra : rrpbs avra Aid. , Bekker : els avra Kal Gomperz : /cal ai )ra post p.&\i ifitfiovvTo irpd^et^ Kal Tfl? TWV TOtOVTWV, 01 8k €VT€\eCTT€pOi Ta$ TWV (j)av\wv, 7 TpW- tov yjroyov 9 7 rotovvres, wairep arepot v/ivov<; /cat iyKWfita. twv fie v ovv 7 Tpo 'Ofirfpov ovBevo ? e^o/iev elirelv tolovtov 8 7T0L7] fia, elfcbs 8e etvat ttoWovs, anro 8e 'Ofirjpov dp^afievots 30 eortv, olov e/cetvov 6 M apytTrj? /cal ra Totavra. ev ot? /cal to apfioTTOv [ tafi/ 3 etov ] rfxOe fierpov , 810 /cal tafiftetov /ca- XetTat vvv, otl ev tw fieTpw tovtw idfiftt^ov dWrjXovs' /cal 9 iyevovTO twv TraXatwv ol fiev rjpcot/ccov ol 8e ldfi/ 3 cov irot'r}- Tal . wenrep 8e /cal Ta cnrovSata fidXtaTa irotrjTT]^' Ofirjpos 35 rjv, ptovo ? yap ov% otl ev d\X \otl\ /cal fitfir\eret^ 8pafia- Tt/cas eTToiifcrev , ovtws /cal tcl t?}? KWfiwStas cr^rjfiaTa TrpwTos vireSet^ev, ov tyoyov dWa to yeXotov SpafiaTo- 'TroLrjcras • o yap M.apytTrp ; dvdXoyov fyet, wenrep ’IXta? 1449 a /cal r\ ’O Svaereta 7 Tpo? ra? TpaywStas, ovtw /cal ovtos 7 rpo? Ta? /c(Dfi(p8la e/caTepav ttjv ttoltjctlv opfiwvTes icaTa tt]v ol/celav (fivenv ol fiev clvtI twv tdfi/3wv Kw/iw8o7rotol eye- 5 vovto , ol 8e clvtI twv eircov Tpayw8o8t8d ovz' a7r’ 12 10 apxrjs avroa^eSia(7TLKri, Kal avrrj /cal rj KcopicpBia, /cal rj piep a'lro rob v i^ap^ovrcov rbv BiOvpapiftov, rj Be drro rabv ra (f>aX- XiKa a en /cal vvv ev 'jroXXais robv 7 roXecov Biapuevei vo- pu^opiepa, /cara puKpov rjv%rj6rj 7 Tpoayovrcop ocrov eylyvero cj) ape pop avrrjs, /cal 7roXX X^ews Christ. Omissum vocab. collato Arabe id esse Margoliouth suspic. cuius vice Graeculi vprjyopla usurpant. 27. el-dperpa : rerpdperpa Winstanley. els XeKriKrjv dppovlav Wecklein (cf. Rhet. iii. 8. 1408 b 32) : codicum lect. tutatur Arabs. Hunc locum 25 arjpeiov — 28 appovlas suadente Usener seclus. Susemihl. 28. Post TrXrjdr) punctum del. Gomperz. &XXa d/s apogr. : AXXios A c : (LXX a ols Hermann. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS IV. II— 14 19 types or not; and whether it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience, — this raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy — as also Comedy 12 — was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the leaders of the dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs, which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees ; each new element that showed itself was in turn developed. Ha ving passed through many changes, it found its natural form, and there it stopped. Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he dimin- 13 ished the importance of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. It was not 14 till late that the short plot was discarded for one of greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the satyric order, and had greater affinities with dancing. Once dialogue had come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. Bor the iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial : we see it in the fact that con- versational speech runs into iambic form more frequently than into any other kind of verse ; rarely into hexameters, and only when we drop the colloquial intonation. The number of ‘ episodes ’ or acts was also increased, and the other embellishments added, of which tradition tells. 20 IV. 15 — V. 4 * J 449 a 2 9 — x 449 b n &>? eKCLGTa Koo-fiTjOr/vac Xeyercu ccttco tj/jlIv elpT] /lever 3° 7roXu az> IVco? epyov eirj Bie^cevac /cad' e/cacTov. V rj Be K(DpL(p8ia icrrlv Mairep ehropuev pilpujcn^ cpav- \oTepcov pie v, ov puevroi Kara jracrav /ca/ciav, dWa tov alaxpov ecrTL to yeXolov pboptov to yap yeXolov ecrrcv apLapTTjpid tl /cal aicryos dvooBvvov /cal ov (f/daprc/cov, olov 35 evdvs to yeXolov irpocranrov alaxpov tl /cal Biear papupuevov avev oBvvrj?. at pie v ov v rrjs rpaycpBuas pieTaftdcreLS /cal 2 Bl mv eyevovTO ov XeXrjOacnv , rj Be /CMpicpBia Bed to pir) 1449 b onrovBd^ecrOai ef dp'xfjs eXaOe v‘ /cal yap opov /CMpicpBcov oyjre i tot€ o ap^oov eoM/cev, aXX eueXovTai rjerav. rforj oe cr^rjpiaTd Tiva avTTjs e^ovar]^ ol \ey opievoL avTrjs 7TOLrjTal pivrjpiovevovTaL. Tt? Be TrpoGMira direBM/cev rj TrpoXoyovs 3 5 rj TrXrjdr] viro/cpLTMV /cal ocra TOtavTa, rjyvorjTat. to Be pivOovs Troielv [’E 7 TiyappjO^ /cal <&oppus] to pdev ef dp^rj? e/c 'Zi/ce\la<; rj\0e, tmv Be 'AOr/vrjaLV KpaT??? 7 t/owto? r/p^ev dcjzepievos Trp ? lapL&L/crjs iBea$ /caOoXov iroLelv Xoyov? /cal pivOovs. v) pie v ov v eiroiroila Trj TpaycpBla pieyjpi pie v tov 4 10 pieTa pieTpov [pieyd\ov\ piipirjo-LS elvat GirovBaiMV rj/coXov- Orjaev' tm Be to pieTpov aTrXovv e^eev /cal aTvayyeAiav 29. irepl pev odu totjtwv Toaavra add. Aid. ante &xru>. 32. dXX’ 7 j tov alaxpov Friedreich.: aXXd -c/card rb y e\oiov,> tov<§’> alaxpov Christ : ‘ sed tantnm res ridicula est de genere foedi quae est portio et ridicula ’ Arabs (Margoliouth), i.e. aXXd pdvov rb yeXoiov iart. tov alaxpov 8 pbpibv eari Kal rb yeXoiov 2 (Susemihl), quod ex duabus lect. conflatum esse censet Susemihl (1) aXXd p.6piov pdvov to yeXoidv iaTi tov alaxpov , (2) aXXd tov alaxpov pbpibv iaTi Kal ab yeXoiov. 1449 b 3. oi XeybfxevoL : 6\Lyoi p,kv ol Castelvetro : 6\lyoi /ikv [ot] Usener. 4. vpo\6yovs A c : irpbXoyov Christ : \6yovs Hermann. 6. ’EirlxappLos Kal $6p/u$ seclus. Susemihl : < iKeWev yap ijaTTjv > ’E'lrlxapP'Os Kal $6p/us post 7j\de Bywater, coilato Themistio, Or. xxvii. p. 337 A, recte, ut opinor. 9. A^xpi pibvov pieTpov peyaXov codd. : p4xP l P^ v T °v P Le ‘rb' pieTpov Thurot (cf. Arab. ) : p^xP L P^ v T °v p-^pep < 4v p'f/Kei > pieydXip coni. Susemihl : p4xp L pkv tov p^Tpip Tyrwhitt : P^XP 1 pbvov pfrpov pieydiXov Ueberweg. 10. Pro pieydXov codd., pieTa \6yov Aid. et, ut videtur, 2. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS IV. 15— V, 4 21 These we need not here discuss ; to enter into them in 15 detail would, doubtless, be a large undertaking. V Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type, — not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain. The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, 2 and the authors of these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first 1449 b treated seriously. It was late before the Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet ; the performers were till then voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic poets, distinctively so called, are heard of. Who introduced masks, or prologues, or increased the 3 number of actors, — these and other similar details re- main unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily ; but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who, abandoning the ‘ iambic ’ or lampooning form, generalised his themes and plots. Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an 4 imitation in verse of characters of a higher type. They differ, in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of metre, and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in the 22 Y. 4— YI. 4. 1449 b 12—35 elvcu , ravrrj Bta firjKei , rj peev otl pcCkiGTa ireLpaTCU vtto pLav 7 repLoBov rjX'iov elvcu rj piKpov i^aWarreov, y Be eiroiroLia aopurros to) yjpovcpy 15 Kal rovrcp BiatyepeL' kclltol to irpWTOv opo'iws ev rat? rpaycpBicus tovto erroiovv Kal ev rot? h recnv. pepy S' 5 ecrrl rd pev tclvtcl, ra Be tBea tt}? TpaycpBuas. Bioirep octtls irepl rpayqyBlas olBe arirovBaias /cal (jyavXys, olBe Kal 7 repl eirdyv a pev yap eivoivoua e^ee, 20 vi rap'^ei ry TpaywBea, a Be avTrj, ov rravra ev rr) i , Tro r iroda . YI 7 repl ovv tt}<$ ev e^apeTpois pipyTiKys Kal irepl KcojupBia? vcrrepov epovpev, irepl Se TpaywBla? Xeycopev dvaXaftovTes avTy 9 eK twv elpypevcov tov yivopevov opov 25 Tys ovaias. ecrTLv ovv TpaycpBla p upycns Trpd^eco^ cnrov- 2 Baias Kal reXeias peyeOos e^ovcry^j yBvapevw \byco 'Xjcopls eKacTTco tw v elBoyv ev to?? popioi 9, Bpcovrcov Kal ov Be d7rayye\la<; } Be eXeov Kal (jyb/3ov irepalvovcra rrjv tcov tolovtcov TraOypaToyv KaOapcrev. Xeyco Be yBvcrpevov pee v 3 30 \6yov rbv e%ovTa pvOpov Kal dppoviav Kal pe\os, to Be %copl i] p.&v coni. Yahlen : rj p.kv yap apogr. 15. di-acpepovffiv Christ. 16. h reaiv et diraji var. lect. 2 (Diels), c in omnibus epesi’ Arabs. 20. avrrj l A c : aurrj apogr. : avrrj Reiz. 24. dva\aj36vres Bernays : drroKaftbvTes codd. 27. eKdarip Tyrwhitt : eKdarov codd. 29. 7ra drjp.drwv corr. apogr., habuit iam 2: jiadrjp,druv A c . 30. ^ie\os : pLerpov Yettori : Kal //.eXos seclus. Tyrwhitt. 31. fibvov : p.6pia S (‘ partes ’ Arabs). ARISTOTLE’S POETICS V. 4 — VI. 4 23 length of the action : for Tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this limit ; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a second point of difference ; though at first the same freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry. Of their constituent parts some are common to both, 5 some peculiar to Tragedy. Whoever, therefore, knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows also about Epic poetry: for all the elements of an Epic poem are found in Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem. VI Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal definition, as resulting from what has been already said. Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is 2 serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude ; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play ; in the form of action, not of narrative ; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By 3 ‘ language embellished/ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘ harmony/ and song enter. By ‘ the several kinds in separate parts/ I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again wdth the aid of song. Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it 4 necessarily follows, in the first place, that Scenic equip- ment will be a part of Tragedy. Next, Song and Diction, for these are the medium of imitation. By ‘ Diction ’ 24 VI. 4 — 9* 1449 b 36 — 1450 a 16 fl6V aVT7)V TTjV TCO V fieTpCOV GVvOeCTLV, fJL6\07T0LiaV 8e o rrj v Bvvapav cftavepav e%ei 'iracnv . eirel Be irpd^ews earl 5 fjLipLr)crL<$, rrpdrrerai Be vi to nvwv irparrovrcov, ot)? dvayKrj irotov ? Tivas eivai Kara re to r)6o<; Kal rrjv Bidvoiav 1450 a (^ca rovrcov Kal Ta? 7 rpd^eis eivai cfrapiev rroids Tim?, 7 recj>v/cev Be alria ? 8uo rwv irpd^ecov eivai, Bidvoiav Kal rjSos, Kal Kara ravra? Kal rvyyavovai Kal drrorvyydvova 1 7 rdvre?), eanv Brj rrj? piev irpa^eco? 6 5 0 pivOo? 7] pj'ipj7)(ji<$' \eyco yap pivOov tovtov rrjv avvOeaiv rwv 7rpaypidrcov, ra Be rjOrj, Kaff o rroiov? nva? eivai cjrapiev rov? rrpdrrovra?, Bidvoiav Be, ev oaoi? Xeyovre? drroBeiKvvaaiv tc rj Kal diro^aivovrai yvdpnjv. dvayKrj 7 ovv rraarj? rpaywBia? pieprj eivai e%, Ka& a rroid n? 10 earlv rj rpaycpBla* ravra 8 ’ iarl pivOo ? Kal rjOrj Kal \e£i? Kal Bidvoia Kal oyfn? Kal pie\o 7 roiia. 01? piev yap pupiovvrai, Bvo pieprj iariv, do? Be pupiovvrai, ev, a Be pupiovvrai, Tpia, Kal rrapd ravra ovBev. rovroi? piev 8 ovv do? elirelv Ke^prjvrai roi? eiBeaiv Kal yap 15 oyjrei? e%ei rrav Kal rj6o ? Kal pivOov Kal \e£iv Kal pieXo? Kal Bidvoiav ooaavroo?. pieyiarov Be rovrcov earlv rj rcov 9 36. pierpoov: bvop.droov Hermann, collato 1450 b 16. 37. iracnv Maggi : irao’av codd. 40. Std Si Zeller. 5cd yap rodroov . . . iravres in parenthesi Thurot. 1450 a 2. irecpvKev Si apogr. : iricpvKev A c . alrlas Christ : atria codd. 3. Kal Kara . . . iravres nescio an post iroias nv as transponere praestet (Christ). 4. Si] Eucken : Si codd. 5. tovtov: to vto Maggi : seclus. Christ (cf. Arab.). 6. Kadb A c : Kad' d apogr. 9. Kadoiroia A c : Kad ’ & iroid apogr. 14. ovk SXtyoi avrCov Cos elirelv codd. : dXlyov avrCov c ttiravres > Cos elirelv By water : oihc oXlyoi airCov < aXXa iravres > cos elirelv Bursian : ovk oXlyoi avrCov om. 2, sed irdvroos (? = irdvres) add. 2 (vid. Margoliouth). Deleto igitur tanqnam gloss, ovk dXlyoi avrCov, scrips! cos elirelv : cf. Rhet. i. 1. 1354 a 12, dXlyov codd., ovSiv cos elirelv A c in marg., ubi SXlyov glossema esse suspicor, veram lect. ovStv ws elirelv. Yiam monstravit Diels, qui tamen irdvres quoque omisso, rovrois /xkv odv ws elirelv scripsit : ovk oXlyoi avrCov < dXX ’ iv iracn irdvres > Gomperz : ovk dXlyoi avrCov < aXXd irdvres irdai > Zeller: < irdvres iv iracnv a vrr)s> Susemihl. 15. irav iure suspexeris. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS VI. 4~ 9 25 I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words : as for ‘ Song/ it is a term whose sense every one under- stands. Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action ; and an 5 action implies personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought. 1450 a It is these that determine the qualities of actions them- selves; these — thought and character — are the two natural causes from which actions spring : on these causes, again, all success or failure depends. Hence, the 6 Plot is the imitation of the action : — for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which 7 parts determine its quality — namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought, Scenery, Song. Two of the parts con- stitute the medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these complete the list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by 8 the poets to a man ; in fact, every play contains Scenic accessories as well as Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought. But most important of all is the structure of the 9 26 VI. 9 — 14- I 45° a 1 7 — 4° 7 rpaypidrcov avaTaai^ • rj ev 'irpd^ei earlv real to reXo? irpd^ tl 7 evoiro rpaywBia, avev 11 Be r) 6 d)V yevoir av. at yap tw v vecov tw v rrXeiarcov drjOeis rpaycoBiai elcrlv Kal o\co 9 rroir^ral 7 roWol roiovroi , olov /cal rd) v ypatyecov Zev^is rrpos UoXvyvcorov rreirov- Oev 6 pie v yap YLoXvyvcoros dyaOos rjOoypatyos, rj Be 30 Zev^iBos 7 paef/rj ovBev eyei rjOos. en edv ns icpe^rjs 12 #97 prjcreis r) 6 ucd 9 /cal \e£ei /cal Biavoia ev 'irerroirjpievas, ov Troir\(Tei o rjv rrjs rpaycoBias epyov , aWa 7 roAo paWov rj /caraBeecrrepov ; rovrois Keypr\ pievrj rpaywBia, eyovera Be pivdov /cal avaraaiv repay pidrcnv. rrpos 13 35 Be rovrois ra piey icrra ols yfrvyaycoyei 97 rpaywBta , too pivOov pieprj ecrriv, ai re rrepirrereiai Kal dva- yvwpicrev en crrjpieiov oti Kal 01 eyyeipovvres rroieiv 14 rrporepov Bvvavrai rrj \e£ei Kal rois r) 6 eaiv aKpiftovv rj ra rrpaypiara crvviardvai, olov Kal 01 rrpcbroi rroirjral 40 cryeBov arravres. dpyrj piev ovv Kal olov 'yfrvyrj 6 piv 6 o 9 18. aXXa 7rp(££ea)s Kal (3lov Kal evdaipovlas Kal i] KaKobaipovla tv tt pa£ei codd., sed alio spectat Arabs (‘sed in operibus et vita. Et est in opere’) ; nnde Margoliouth aXXd irpd^em Kal filov, <6 dt (3los> tv 7 rpd&i, quod probant Diels, Zeller, Susemihl. Codicum lect. ita supplet Yahlen, Kal ev8aip.ovlas Kal rj KaKodaip.ovta. € L 22. Tp&TTOvaLv : TTparrovrai wolovciv coni. Yahlen. (rvpLirapa\ap,(3dvovcri Guelf. : (rvp.irapa\apLfidvovevy ei m Bioirep ov/c e^ovcriv r)0o<; tcov Xoycov ev oh ov/c ecrTi BrjXov rj iv oh pirjB' oXcos ecrTiv 6 Ti [7 Tpo]aipetTai rj evyei 6 Xeycov , Bidvoia Be, ev oh airoBeiKVVovcri ti o >9 ecrTiv rj C09 ov/c ecrTiv rj /caOoXov ti dir ocf) aivovTai. TeTapTov Be tcov Xeyopievcov r\ Xeft9* 18 15 Xeyco Be, ioairep irpoTepov eiprjTai, Xe^iv elvai tt\v Bid T/79 ovopiacrias eppirjveiav, o Kal iirl tcov epipieTpcov Kal eirl tcov Xoycov T V V a ^ T V v Bvvapnv . tcov Be Xoiircov 19 [ irevTe ] 1 7 pieXoiroiia pieyicrTov tcov rjBvcrpidTcov, 77 Be oyfris \]rvx a ycoyiKov piev, aTe^voTaTOV Be Kal rjKicrTa oiKeiov 20 rrj 9 iroirjTiKrj 9* &)9 7 dp Trj 9 TpaycoBias Bvvapas Kal avev dycovos Kal viroKpiTcov ecrTiv, eTi Be KvpicoTepa irepl 41. Trap puev 7 rpo? 6 tov 9 aycova? /cal rrjv aiaOrjaLv ov tt}? re^vr)^ ierr Iv • el yap eBec etcarov TpaywBias aywvifyaOat, 777)09 /cXeyjrvBpas av rjycovl^ovTO, cbairep i rore /cal aXXoTe eicbOacriv. 6 Be 7 io /car avT 7 ]V rrjv (pvauv tov irpaypiaTO 9 opos, ael pcev 6 pLei^cov P'tXP 1 T °v crvyBr/Xos elvai /caXXlcov earl Kara to pieyeOos' 009 Be cnrXws BioplcravTa? elirel v, ev oacp pieyeOei /caTa to el/co 9 rj to avay/calov ecf/e^rj 9 yiyvopievcov avpiftaivei eh evTVXpav etc Bvgtv^ t «9 r) ef eurtn^ta 9 efc 15 BvcTTV^lav pLeTaftaWeiv, bcavos opo<; eaTiv tov pieyeOovs. VIII pivOos Bl eaTLV eh ov % wenrep Tive 9 oXovTai iav 7 repl eva rj % iroXXa yap /cal aireipa too evl avpifiaivei, ef a>v eznooi'J ovoev ecrTiv ev ovtco 9 oe /cat 'Trpageis evos 7 roXXal elaiv, ef o 5 z> pita ovBepila yiveTai irpafys. Blo 2 20 iravTes eol/caai v apiapTaveiV ocroi tmv irotr]TMV f Hpa- /cXrjlBa (drjo-rjlBa /cal Ta TOiavTa TroarjpiaTa TreTroiTj/cacnv oiovTai yap, eirel eh rjv 6 'Hpa/cXrjs, eva /cal tov puvdov elvai 7rpocrr}fceLv. 6 8 ’ ''Opurjpos wenrep /cal Ta aXXa 3 Biacpepet /cal tovt eoi/cev /caXw 9 IBelv t/tol Bta Teyyr) v 25 rj Bta (fiver iv ’ OBvacreuav yap Troicov ov/c eiroiTjae v clty avT a oaa avTco avvej3r), olov TrXr\yrjvai puev ev Ttp Ylapvaaaip, pcavrjvai Be irpoaTroirjGaaOai ev too ayeppio), 6. 6 add. Bursian : irpbs /ih apogr. 8. k\ epvbpav apogr. 9. eiibdacrii' M. Schmidt : ‘ sicut solemus dicere etiam aliquo tempore et aliquando ’ Arabs : opei(r6ai, cf. de Div. 2, 464 b 13 : dicupdetpeo-Ocu coni. Margoliouth. : habuit fort, utramque lect. S, ‘ corrumpatur et confundatur ’ Arabs. 36. ttol€i , tirldrfKov Cos apogr. 38. ov rb apogr. : oVtco A c . 40. [Kal ra dvvara] Maggi. 1451 b 4. roivry ... rip apogr. : tovto . . . tCo A c : tovto . . . t6 Spengel. 10. t6 apogr. : t6u A c . ARISTOTLE’S POETICS VIII. 3 — IX. 5 35 the host — -incidents between which there was no necessary or probable connexion : but he made the Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to centre round an action, that in our sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other 4 imitative arts, the imitation is one, when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of the whole. K. It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen, — what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The 2 t poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of history, with metre no less than without it. The true difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and 3 a higher thing than history : for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. By the universal 4 I mean how a person of given character will on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she attaches to the personages. The particular is — for example — what Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent : for here 5 the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of prob- 36 IX. 5 —io- i 45 1 b 14— 36 ei/corcov ov ra rv^ovra ovofiara viroTiOedcnVy Kdl ov% 15 docnrep ot IdpbftoTroLol 7 repl tov /ca 6 ’ eKacrrov 'ttolovctlv. eirl Se tt}? t pay cpS ids toov yevopbevcov ovopbdToov dvT- 6 kyOVTCLl . dLTLOV S’ OTL TTbOdVOV GCTTL TO SwdTOV, Td pbev ovv purj yevopuevd ovirco TnaTevopbev elvdt SvvdTa, to, Be yevopuevd (jodvepov on SvvdTd, ov ydp av eyeveTO , el 20 rjv aBvvdTd. ov pbrjv aX\d kcli ev Tat? TpdyaBidis ev 7 evidis pbev ev rj Svo too v yvoopipbcov icrnv ovopbaTcov, tcl oe aAAa 7re7rotr]pLevd, ev evi at? oe ovh ev 3 ocov ev T(p 'AydOcovos dvOeu • opboioos yap ev tovtcd tcl tg 7rpaypbdTd fCdl Td OVOpbdTd 7re7T0irjTdL, Kdl OvSkv TJTTOV eiHppdLVeO' 2 5 ooctt ov iravToos elvau tyjTTjTeov toov irdpdSeSopbevoov 8 pbvOoov, 7repl ovs at TpdyaoSidb elaiv, dvTe^eaOdi. Kdl yap yeXocov tovto f yrecv , eirel Kdl ra yvc optpbd oXlyocs yvcopcpbd icTTLV d\)C opbcos evcjopdiveb TrdvTds. Srj\ov ovv 9 GK TOVTCOV OTL TOV 7 TOLTjTTjV pbdWoV TOOV pbvOoOV GbVdi Set 30 7 TOLTjTTjV rj TOOV pLGTpGOV, 0(T(p TTOLTJTTjS KdTd TTjV jJbbpbTjCTbV etJTLv, pupLGLTdi Se Tfl? 7 t payees. Kav apd v apogr. 20. iv bvlais apogr., Susemihl : bvLais A c . 22. iv rip ’Ayadwvos dvdei : ‘ quemadmodum si quis nnum esse bonum statuit * Arabs : male Syrus legisse videtur £v rb dya Obv 6s dv drj (Margoliouth). Pro dvdei coni. ’Avdei (dat. ’ Avdebs ), cf. Parthenins nepi bpwnicQv TradrjfxaTWv , Mackail. 25. eli/at seclus. Spengel. 26. a i rpayipdlai coni. Vahlen. 34. Kal Sward Susemihl: /cat Sward yevi- adai seclus. Yorlander, ora. Arabs. 36. ruv 8b &W uv Tyrwhitt : ru>v 8b dirX&v codd. : d7rXtSs Sb rCiv Castelvetro. 'ARISTOTLE’S POETICS IX. 5—10 37 ability, and then inserts characteristic names; — unlike the lampooners who write about particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the reason being 6 that what is possible is credible : what has not happened we do not at once feel sure to be possible : but what has happened is manifestly possible ; otherwise it would not have happened. Still there are some tragedies in which 7 there are only one or two well known names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known, — as in Agathon’s Flower, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the received 8 legends, which are the usual subjects of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it ; for even familiar sub- jects are familiar only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all. It clearly follows that the poet or ‘ maker ’ 9 should be the maker of plots rather than of verses ; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take an historical subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some events that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their poet or maker. Of all plots and actions the epeisodic are the worst. 10 38 IX. io — X. 3. 1451 b 37 — 1452 a 20 eoalv yelp oar ao. XeyM K i 7 reoaoBocbBrj povOov ev m ra eireoaoBoa poer dWrjXa ovr eo/cb<$ ovr dvdy/crj elvcu. TOLCLVTCU Be TTOLOVVTCLL VI TO poeV TMV (fxivXcOV 7TO07JTMV Bi 40 avrovs, vi to Be tmv dya0MV Boa rovs viro/cpordv dyMvo- apoara yap 7rooovvre$ /cal 7 rapd rrjv Bvvapoov 'irapareo- 1452 a vovres povOov 7 roWd/cos Boaarpecf/eov dvay/ca^ovrao to i(f>et;rj<;. ei rel Be ov pobvov reXeoas earl rrpd%eM<$ rj poopoTjac? 11 dWa /cal cj)o/3epMV /cal eXeeovcov, ravra Be yoverao [/cal] podXoara orav yevrjrao rrapa rr/v Bo%av, /cal poaXXov 5 Bo aXXrjXa • ro yap Oavpoaarov ooro)? etjeo 12 poaXXov rj el diro rov avropodrov /cal rfjs rvyrjs, 67 rel /cal tmv airo rvyr\$ ravra Oavpoaaocbrara Bo/cel baa Mairep eir'cr^Be? tya'overao yey ovevao, olov to? 6 dvBpoas 6 rov MfcTuo? ev 5/ Apyeo drre/creovev rov aoroov rov Oavdrov tm 10 M ltvc, Oecopovvro epoireaMV eoo/ce yap ra rooavra ov/c el/cfj yeveaOao. Mare avdy/cr\ robs rooovrovs elvao / caWoov 9 povOov?. X €oal Be rcbv /. lvOmv 00 poev dirkol 01 Be 'jre'TrXeypoevoo, /cal yap al irpa^eos mv pooporjaeo 9 00 povOoo elaov virapyov- 15 aov ev 6 v$ ovaao roiavrao. XeyM Be aTrXrjv poev rrpa^ov 2 779 yovopoevrjs Mairep Mpoarao avveyovs /cal pooas avev rreporrereoa 9 rj dvayvMpoapoov rj poerdftaaos yoverao , 'TreTfXeypoevr] K iarlv 779 poera dvayvMpoapoov rj 7 repo- rrereoa^ rj dp,cj)oov rj poerd/ 3 aav ? earov. ravra Be Bel 3 20 yoveaOao e’f avrfjs rrj 9 avaraaeM 9 rov povOov, Mare e/c 40. vTOKpLTas A c : Kpiras apogr. 41. rraparelvovres apogr., Bekker : iraparelvavres A c . 1452 a 2. i] seclus. Gomperz. 3. Kal seclus. Susemihl. Kal yudtXKrra Kal fxaWov 8rav yivrjrai rrapa rr]v d6£av codd. : correxit Reiz : codd. lect. tuetur Tucker, Kal k&Wiov scripto pro Kal /aaWov : [/cal fiaWov] vel [ Kal yudXtcrra] Spengel. 18. 5’ iarlv fjs Susemihl : 5^ X^ts A c : 5i ianv itj fjs (h. e. 5^ m /\ * e^rjs) Yahlen : di 4£ vel Si rrpa£is apogr. : 8£ irpa^is Ueberweg. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS IX. io— X. 3 39 I call a plot ‘ epeisodic ’ in which the episodes or acts suc- ceed one another without probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their own fault, good poets, to please the players ; for, as they write show pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its 1452 a capacity, and are often forced to break the natural con- tinuity. But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of all complete action, but of events terrible and pitiful. Such an effect is best produced when the events come on us by surprise ; and the effect is heightened when, at the same time, they follow from one another. The tragic 12 wonder will then be greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident ; for even coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem not to be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles are necessarily the best. X Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction. An action which is one and 2 continuous in the sense above defined, I call Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Beversal (or Becoil) of the Action and without Becognition. A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Beversal, or by Becognition, or by both. These last should arise from the internal 3 structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the 40 X. 3 — XI. 4* I 45 2 a 21 — 1 45 2 b 2 tcov irpoyeyevi^pevcov avpj^aiveiv rj eg dvay/cr)^ rj Kara to el/co? yiyveaQat ravra • Biacjoepei yap n to\v to ylyve- c6ac raBe Sect raBe rj peTa rdBe . XI e r /rep elprjTai crvpfiaivei, /cal el Treirpaye tis rj py Terr pay ev ecrTiv dvayvcoplaai * aXXC 40 V pdXicrTa tov pvOov /cal r) paXiaTa Trjs irpagecos r) elprjpevi 7 icTTiv * rj yap ToiavTTj dvayvcopicris /cal TrepL - 4 1452 b 7 reTeia rj eXeov egei rj (p>b/3ov, olcov 7 rpdgecov f) TpaycpBia plprjais viro/ceirar cti Se Kal to cuTvyeiv /caX to evTvyeiv 22. ravra : ravavrla Bonitz : ra varepa Gomperz. 25. nadairep eiprjrai, tanquam gloss, ad wenrep \iyofiev seclus. Zeller, Gomperz : < i) > Kad’ & Trporjprjrai deleto commate post /lera/SoX^ Essen, proban te Susemihl. 34. Post %xQp av add. i) dWo n Gomperz. 35. ap.a Trepurerelq Gomperz. 36. Fort, diav Bywater. 38. iarlv ibairep A c : tcrriv 6're &s <6>irep Spengel : £anv 66' <.&>rrep Gomperz. i Tvpt.paLveiv apogr. : (rvp,(3abei A c . 39. ^ /zi? apogr. : ei /at) A c . 41. Kal Trepurtreia seclus. Susemihl. Kal c/a^AioV eav Kai> Trepnrtreia ?7 £\eov coni. Yahlen. 1452 b 1. oiW apogr. : olov A c . 2. in 5^ : t it€l8t] Susemihl, pos. commate post vTr6iceirai. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS X. 3— XI. 4 41 necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or post hoc. I Eeversal (or Recoil) is a change by which a train of action produces the opposite of the effect intended, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity. Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him from his alarms about his mother, but by reveal- ing who he is, he produces the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to slay him ; but the outcome of the action is, that Danaus is killed and Lynceus saved. Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from 2 ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident with a Reversal (or Recoil), as in the Oedipus. There are indeed other forms. 3 Even inanimate things of the most trivial kind may some- times be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognise or discover whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said, the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined with Reversal, will 4 b produce either pity or fear ; and actions producing these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy repre- sents. Moreover, it is upon such issues that fortune or 42 XI. 5 — XII. 3. i45 2 b 3 “ 2 7 iul tcov toiovtcov avpbftrjaeTai. iuel Brj r\ dvayvcopiai? 5 nvct) v iaTiv dvayvcbpiai?, at piev Oarepov upos rov erepov 5 piovov, orav fj BrjXos arepos ti$ iaTiv, ore Be dpicfroTepovs Bei dvayvcopiaai, olov rj piev ’I (jnyeveia t&5 ’O pearrj dveyvcoptadrj etc t?)? 7 re/n|re&)9 tt)^ eiriaro\rj 9, eKe'ivov Se 737509 ttjv ’Icfuyeveiav aWrjs eBei dvayvcoptaew 9. Bvo piev ovv rov pivQov piepr] nrepl ravr earl, Trepi- 6 10 rrrereia Kal dvayvcopiai?, rpirov Se irbOos. [tovtcov Se uepiireTeia piev Kal avayvoopiais 6 iprjrai,\ ttclOos Se ian Trpafys (frOapTifcrj rj oBvvrjpd, olov 01 re iv to 3 cjxivepq) Odvaroi Kal al uepicoBvviai /cal Tpibaeis /cal baa Toiavra. XII [yLte/9 ? f Se TpaywBla? oh piev co 9 eiBeai Bei %/ prjaOai 16 Trporepov ehropiev, Kara Se to 7 roaov Kal el$ a BiaipeiTai Keycopiapieva TaBe iaTiv, 73790X0709 iueiaoBiov efoSo? yopiKov, Kal tovtov to piev uapoBos to Se aTaaipiov Koiva piev duavTcov TavTa, iBia Se tgl duo Trjs aKr\vr]<; 20 kcu Kopipioi. eaTiv Se 77750X0709 piev piepo<; okov Tpaycp- 2 Bta 9 to 7 rpo y opov 7 rapbBov, iueiaoBiov Se piepos oXov TpaycpBias to pieTa^v o\cov yopiKwv pieXcov, efoSo9 Se piepos oXov TpaycpBias pieO' o ovk eaTi yopov pieXos, y opiKov Be udpoBo<; piev rj 7 rpcoTij Xef^9 oXrj yopov, 25 aTaaipiov Be pieXos yopov to avev dvauaiaaov kcu Tpoyaiov, Kopipios Be Oprjvos kolvo 9 y opov Kal duo aK 7 )vr\^ % piepr] Be TpaycpBlas 01 9 piev <09 eiBeai Bei 3 3. i7rel dr/ 7 ) A c : tireidr) apogr. : iwel 5’ 7} Bekker. 4. Erepov : ercupov 2, ut videtur. 5. (Lrepos Bernays : firepos codd. 7. iieetvov Bywater : biteivip codd. 9. Trepi seclus. Maggi : nrepl non habuisse videtur 2 (Margoliouth) : nrepl ravra Twining. 10. rotiruv — etprjrai seclus. Susemihl, om. Arabs. 12. ol re apogr. : fire A c . 15. Totum hoc cap. seclus. Ritter, recte, ut opinor. 19. Koivk p.kv . . . K.bp.p.oL del. Susemihl. 24. fi \?7 Westphal : fiXou A c . 26. t&v add. Christ praeeunte Ritter. 27. oh p£v ws e’ldeai 5eT apogr. : oh fxkv del A c . ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XI. 5— XII. 3 43 misfortune will turn. Recognition, then, being between 5 persons, it may happen that one person only is recognised by the other — when the latter is already known — or it may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the sending of the letter ; but another act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to Iphigenia. Two parts, then, of the Plot — Reversal and Recogni- fi tion — turn upon surprises. A third part is the Tragic Incident. The Tragic Incident is a destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds and the like. XII [The parts of Tragedy, which must be treated as elements of the whole, have been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts — the separate parts into which Tragedy is divided — namely, Prologue, Episode, Exodos, Choric song ; this last being divided into Parodos and Stasimon. These are common to all plays : peculiar to some are the songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi. The Prologos is that entire part of a tragedy which 2 precedes the Parodos of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is between complete choric songs. The Exodos is that entire part of a tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parodos is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus : the Stasimon is a Choric ode without anapaests or trochees : the Commos is a joint lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be treated 3 44 XII. $ — XIII. 3* I 45 2 b 2 8 — 1453 a 12 % prjcrOai 7rpoT6pov eforapiev, Kara Be to ttoctov /cal els a BiaipelTai /ceycopicrpieva ravr ecrrtV.] XIII wv Be Bel crToyd^earOai /cal a Bel evXaftelcrOai crvv- 31 LcrravTa s tovs pivQovs /cal iroOev ecrrac to ttjs TpaywBlas epyov, icf/e^rjs av el'77 Xe/CTeov toIs vvv elprjpievois. ei reiBrj 2 ovv Bel ttjv crvvOecriv elvai ttjs koXXI(tttjs TpaycpBla s jjltj difkrjv aXXa TreTrXeyjxevrjv /cal TavTrjv of3ep(bv /cal 35 iXeeivwv eivai pupbrjTi/CTjv , tovto yap iBiov tt )s ToiavTrjs pa pur} crews ecrTiv , 7 rpwTOV piev BtjXov otl ovTe tovs eirteucels dvBpas Bel pieTaftdWovTas (f/alvecrOai e £ evTvylas els BvcTTvyiav , 02) 70/3 (f>oj3epbv ovBe eXeeivov tovto aXXa puapov icrTLV ovTe tovs pioy6rjpovs aTvylas els 40 evTvylav, aTpaywBoTaTOV yap tovt eaTl 1 rdvTcov ovBev 1453 a yap eyei wv Bel , oore yap (ju\dv0pco7rov ovTe eXeeivov ovTe (f>o/3epov ecrTiv • ouS’ ay tov crcjyoBpa irovrjpbv ei \ evTvylas els BvcrTvylav pjeTairiirTeiv • to 70-/3 tA- dvOpwTrov eyoi av tj TOiavTTj crvcrTacris aU’ ovTe eXeov 5 oi!>Te cj)C)/3ov, 6 jiev yap irepl tov dva^iov ecrTiv Bvcttv- yovvTa, 6 Be irepl tov opioiov, eXeos pie v Trepl tov dva^iov, (f)bj3os Be Trepl tov opioiov, cocrTe ovTe eXeeivov ovtc ( frofiepbv ecrTai to crvp,/3alvov. 6 pieTa^v apa tovtcov 3 Xoittos. eciTi Be toiovtos b pufjTe dpeTrj Biac^epcov /cal 10 Bi/caioavvrj, purjTe Bid /ca/clav /cal pboyOr/plav pbeTaftdXXwv els ttjv BvcrTvylav aXXa Bi dpiapTiav Tivd , twv ev pieydXrj Bb£j) ovtcov /cal evTvyla , olov OlBi7rovs /cal 30. &v apogr. : d>s A c . 34. TreTrXey/ihriv seclus. Susemilil. 1453 a 2. aft t6p apogr. : ab rb A n '. 6. £\eos /xbv . . . rbv H/jlolov seclus. Hitter, quod non confirm. Arabs (Margolioutb). 12. Oidhrovs apogr. : SIttovs A c . ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XII. 3— XIII. 3 45 as elements of the whole have been already mentioned. The quantitative parts — the separate parts into which it is divided — are here enumerated.] I As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his plots ; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be produced. A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged 2 not on the simple but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought from prosperity to adversity : for this moves neither pity nor fear ; it merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity : for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy ; it a possesses no single tragic quality ; it neither satisfies the moral sense, nor calls forth pity or fear. ISTor, again, should the downfall of the utter villain be ex- hibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear ; for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these two 3 extremes, — that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty. He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous, — a 46 XIII. 3 — 8 . 1453 a 13—39 ©uecrT?7? teal ol i/c tw v tolovtmv yevcbv imfyavels avBpes. dvdy/crj apa tov koXms e^ovra ptvOov aTrXovv etvat 4 1 5 ptaWov rj 8l7t\ovv, cbcnrep Ttves (f>aon, /cal pbeTaj3d\\eiv ov/c els evTvylav i/c BvaTv^las dWa TovvavTtov ii~ ei/TV^las els BvaTV^lav, ptrj Sod pto^Orjplav dWa Bt dptapTtav pteydXrjv rj olov eiprjrcu rj /Beknovos ptaWov rj %elpovos. arjpbetov Be /cal to ytyvoptevov irpwTOV ptev 5 20 y dp ol 7roi7jTal tovs TvyovTas ptvOovs dirrjplOpbovv, vvv Be rrrepl oXtyas ol/clas ai [/caW^rat] TpaycpBlat gvvtl- OevTdL, olov 7 Tepl ’ Ak/cptaiMva /cal OIBlttovv /cal ’O peaTrjv /cal M.ekeaypov /cal © vecrrrjv /cal Trjketyov /cal ocrois aXkots avpb/ 3 e^rj/cev 7) iraOelv Betva rj irotYjaat. 97 pbev 25 ovv Kara rrjv Te^vrjv /caWlcrTrj TpaytpBla i/c TavTTjs rrj s crvardaecos icrrl, Blo /cal ol l&vpnrlBr) iy/cakovvTes 6 tovt avro dpbaprdvovcnv , on tovto Bpa iv Tats TpayM- Btats /cal 7 roXkal avrov els Bvarvyiav TekevTMGtv. tovto yap icTLV (bd'irep ebprjTat bpOov. arjpbetov Be 30 pueyLCTTOV iirl yap tmv cncrjVMV /cal tw v dycovcov Tpayt- /cdtTaTai at TotavTat alvovTat, civ /caTopOcoOcocnv, /cal 0 ^vpbir'iBrjs el /ccii Ta aWa pur) ev ol/covoptet dWa Tpayi/ccoTaTos ye tmv irotrjTMV (f/alveTat. BevTepa 8' rj 7 7T pcoTij \eyopbevrj vn to tlvmv iaTtv [ crvaTacns ] rj 8t7r\r)v 35 T6 T7jv avcTTacnv e^ovaa, tcaOdirep r) ’O Bvaaeta, /cal Te\evT(bcra i£ ivavnas Tots fteXTiocn /cal yelpocnv . Bo/cet Be elvat tt pcoTrj Btd ttjv tcov OeaTpMV dcrOevetav d/co\ov6ovcrt yap ol TrotrjTal /caT e.vyr]v irotovvTes toIs OeaTals . eaTtv Be ov% avTrj diro TpaycpBtas rjBovrj 3 21. k&Wlo-tcu seclus. Christ, om. iam 2. 27. tovt ax Wb Thurot : ai/Tol Reiz: t 6 ax>Tb codd. Yahlen, secludendum coni. Margoliouth collato Arabe. 28. 7roXXai Knebel : ? ir oXXai Tyrrell. 34. criXrrao- is seclus. Twining. 37. Oe&Tpojv A c et S, ut videtur (cf. 1449 a 9, Herod, vi. 21 & d&upva ^weae t 6 6£r)Tpov, Aristoph. Eq. 233 to yap 6ea Tpov Senior) : OeaT&v apogr. 39. avTrj coni. Yahlen. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XIII 3—8 47 personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such families. A well constructed plot should, therefore, be single 4 in its issue, rather than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as the result not of vice, hut of some great error or frailty, in a character either such as we have described, or better rather than worse. The practice of the stage bears out 5 our view. At first the poets recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, tragedies are founded on the story of a few houses, — on the fortunes of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they are in error 6 who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in dramatic competition, such plays, if they are well represented, are the most tragic in effect ; and Euripides, faulty as he is in the general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets. In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which 7 some place first. Like the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best because of the weakness of the spectators ; for the poet is guided in what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The 8 pleasure, however, thence derived is not the true tragic 48 XIII. 8 — XIV. 4- 1453 a 4° — -*453 b 20 1453 b 40 dWd jbbaWov Trj$ KcopicpBias oiKGia' gkgl yap ot av G^OlCTTOL WCTLV GV Tft) pbV 0 (py OLOV *0 p€(TT 7 ]$ KCLL AXyiirQoSy (f)t\oL ycvopLGvoi Girl reXet'T?}? i^ep^ovrai kcll dTroOvrjiTKGi >£\ f » > P* / 0l/06t9 07T OVOGVOS. XIY gcttlv /lev ovv to (j)o/ 3 epbv /cal gXgglvov i/c Trjs o^eo)? yiyvGcrOaiy gcttlv 8e /cal ef avTrjs Trjs ctv outg) crvvGiTTdvai tov pvOov, 5 wcrre tov d/covovTa Ta irpdypaTa yivopGva kcll cppiTTCiv /cal i\CGLV G/C TCOV CTVpl/ 3 aiV 0 VTC 0 V * CUTTGp OLV TTClOoL Tl$ a/COVCOV TOV TOV OlBlTTOV pivOoV . TO 8e Bid TT)$ O^GCD? 2 TOOTO 7T apa(T KGVO^GLV aTG^VOTGpOV KCLl % OprjyLa 9 BGOpLCVOV GCTTLV. 01 Bg pirj TO C^O^GpOV Bid TT}? 0^€&)9 aWa TO io TGpaTcbBGs fiovov 7r apaa kgvcl^ovtgs ovBgv TpaycpBla KOLVCO- vovctlv ov yap irdcrav Bgl £ tjtglv rjBovrjv diro TpaycpBla? aXha tt) v oiKGiav. gttgl og ttjv airo gXgov Kai cpopov o Bid pupiriiTGGOs Bgl rjBovrjv tt apacr kgvcl^glv tov TCoir\Tr)v, (fravGpov 009 tovto iv tol? TTpaypiacriv i purr oltjt gov. Trola 1 5 ooz/ Bciva rj Trola oiKTpa cfraivGTai toov crvpjTriTrTovTwVy \d/ 3 copLGv. dvdyKrj Brj rj cj)l\(Dv Givai Trpo 9 dWrjXov 9 4 t «9 TOiavTa? 7 rpdi~Gi? rj i^Opcov rj /iTjBGTGpcov. av /igv ovv i^Opo? i'xOpbvy ovBgv [gAgglvov ovtg 7 roicov OVTG piiWcoVy 7 r\r)v KaT avTO to ttglOo?' ovB ’ az> firjBGTGpco 9 20 &XpvTG 9* 0Taz> 8’ eV Tat 9 cpiXlai? GyyivrjTai Ta 7 ra 6 rj, 40. o£ cli' Bonitz : S.t' ot codd. : /ccU o£ Spengel. 1453 b 8 . aTexvb- repov apogr. : arexv&Tepov A c . 1 6. 5r? Spengel : 5^ codd. £xOpt> v : txOpbv airoKTeiyri Bekk. praeeunte Pazzi. oi)5’> fKeeivbv Ueberweff. 18. Pkeeivbv : < (pofiepbv ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XIII. 8— XIV, 4 49 pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies — like Orestes and Aegisthus — quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays or is slain. XIY Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means ; 1453 b but they may also result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes place. This is the impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But to produce this 2 effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of the terrible but of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of Tragedy ; for we must not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And since the pleasure which the poet should 3 afford is that which comes from pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon the incidents. Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as terrible or pitiful. Actions capable of this effect must happen between 4 persons who are either friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the intention, — except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between those who are near or dear to E 50 XIV. 4—8. 1453 b 21—1454 a 3 olov el dSeXcfibs dBe\(f)bv rj vibs irarepa rj pLrjTrjp vlbv 7) vlos fiijrepa diro/CTelvei rj pueWeL 77 tl aWo tolovtov Spa, ravra J r]T7]Teov . too? puev ovv irapeCXr) pbpievovs 5 pivOovs Aveiv ov/c ecTTLv, \eyco Be olov ttjv K XvTaipbvrjCTTpav 25 diroOavovcrav vi to tov ’O pearov /cal tt\v ’E pLcjrvXrjv viro rod ’A X/cpuaLcovos, avrov Be evpla/ceLV Sec /cal rot? 7 rapa- SeSopievois 'XprjcrOaL /caAcb?. to Be /caXcbs tl Xeyopuev, etircopLev cracjreaTepov. eL\lav, coairep 6 Xocjro/cAeov? OlSLirov?' tovto puev ovv €%(D tov SpdpLaTos, iv S' avTjj Ty TpaycpSla olov 6 35 ’ AX/cjiaicov 6 ’A crTvSdpiavTos rj 6 T 77 Ae^yoyo? o iv tQ> TpavpuaTia 'OSvcro-ei. ctl Be TptTOv irapa TavTa to 7 pieWovTa 7 rooelv tl tcov dvrj/ceaTcov Si dyvoiav dvayvco- picrai 7 rplv iroLrjcrai. /cal irapa TavTa ov/c eaTiv aAAo)?. rj yap irpa^ai avdy/cr\ 7) pLTj /cal etSora? 7) pbrj elSoTas. 40 tovtcov Be to pbev ycvcbcr/covTa pbeXkrjcraL /cal pur) irpa^ac yeLpLGTOv' to Te yap puapov e^ec, /cal ov Tpayucov' 1454 a diraOes ydp. Sboirep ovSels irocel opbolcos, el pbrj o\iyd/CL$, olov ev ’ AvTiyovrj tov KpeovTa 6 Abpbcov. to Be irpd^at 8 SevTepov. f3e\Tiov Be to dyvoovvTa puev irpa^ac, irpa^avTa 21. el a5e\(f)bs Sylburg: J) aSe\ coni. Yahlen : irapa ravra seclus. M. Schmidt. rb Bonitz : rbv A c . 1464 a 3-7. Hums loci ordinem ita restituendum censet Susemihl : fib'hnov 8b rb reXevralov , \byio 8b olov . . . aXX’ dvey- vwpiaev' Kpdncrrov 8b rb dyvoovvra p.& v • • • dvayvuplaai’ rb re ydp / uapov . . . bKir\r]KTiK&v. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XIV. 4—8 51 one another — if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done — these are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends — the 5 fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon — but he ought to show invention of his own, and skilfully handle the traditional material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant by skilful handling. The action may be done consciously and with know- 6 ledge of the persons, in the manner of the older poets. It is thus indeed that Euripides makes Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friend- ship be discovered afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the drama proper ; but cases occur where it falls within the action of the play : one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case, where some one is just 7 about to do some irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before it is done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done or not done, — and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, a therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is 8 that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that 52 XI Y. 8 — XV. 3. 1454 a 4 — 25 Be dvayvwpicraL • to tc yap puapov ov irpoaecmv /cal rj 5 avaryv cop tens i/cTr\nj/cTi/cbv. Kpanarov Be to TeXevTalov, 9 Xeyco Be olov ev to 3 Kpeo- T ° 0X009 cfravXov ecrTiv. BevTepov 8e Ta dppuoTTOVTa % ecrTiv yap 2 dvBpelov pbev tl rjOos, oXX’ ovx dppbOTTOV 7 vvaucl to 25 dvBpeiav rj Beivrjv eivai. TpiTOV Be to opboiov. tovto 3 5. Kparei <5£ 7r\ei> y coni. Yahlen (? cf. Arab.) : <.ty>Tiva y By water: 7 } (frvyrjv Diintzer : 7 rpoalpecriv nva < £ x 0VTa > birola ns hv > y Gomperz : jrpoalpeaLv nva , (pavXov /ikv £av (patiXy y, xp^brrbv k.t.X. apogr. 23 . to appibTTovTa coni. Yahlen, probante Gomperz. 24 . rt Hermann : rb fjdos codd. rb apogr. : *twi A c : outojs Yahl. collato Pol. iii. 4, 1277 b 20. Desunt in Arabe verba np avbpelav . . . eivai, quorum vicem supplet haec clausula, ‘ ne ut appareat quidem in ea omnino ’ (Margo- liouth). Unde Diels rip avdpeLav . . . eivai glossema esse arbitratus quod veram lectionem eiecerit, scribendum esse coni ware alve ’Odvaaius By water. 33. Exemplum rov dvopiolov post prjai. s intercidisse coni. Yettori ; cf. Susemihl, Christ. 37 et 38. y avaymlov Hermann. 38. Kal tovto Bywater, fort, recto. 39. tup /vuQuv : tup i]duv 2, ut videtur (Margoliouth). 1454 b 3. awowXovp apogr., 2; aw \ovp A c . 5. Commate post va repov disting. W. R. Hardie, qui dyy e\las ad 6aa wpb tov refert, wpoayopetiaeus ad baa varepov. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XV. 3—7 55 this is a distinct thing from goodness and propriety, as here described. The fourth point is consistency : for though 4 the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type, he inconsistent, still he must he consistently inconsistent. As an example of character gratuitously bad, we have 5 Menelaus in the Orestes: of character indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of Melanippe : of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis, — for Iphigenia the suppliant in no way resembles her later self. As in the structure of the plot, so too in the por- 6 traiture of character, the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus a person of a given character should speak or act in a given way, by the rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is therefore evident that the unravelling 7 of the plot, no less than the complication, must arise out b of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the Dens ex Machina , — as in the Medea, or in the Eeturn of the Greeks in the Iliad. The Beus ex Machina should be employed only for events external to the drama, — for antecedent or subsequent events, which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be 56 XV. 7— XVI. 3 . 1454 b 6—29 dyyeXtas * airavra yap dir 0 B 1 B 0 pbev to£? 6eol<$ opav. dXoyov Be pbrjBev elvai ev Tot? 7 Tpdypbacnv, el Be pbtf, efa> tt ) 9 TpaycoBias, olov to ev rc 3 OlBbTroBi tw 2 o<£o/eXeoi/?. eVet 8e pblpbrjcrA eartv r) TpaycoBia fieXriovcov 8 10 r)pbd$, 8 e£ pbipbeiaOai tov 9 ayaOov 9 elfcovoypa^ovv /cal yap etcelvoi aTroBiBovres rrjv IBiav p,opov<7LV‘ ovtco /cal tov 7roir)Tr)V pbipbov- pbevov Kal opyikovs Kal padvpbovs /cal raWa ra Toiavra eyovTas eirl tcov rjdcdv, tolovtovs ovras ernei/cels iroielv • 15 \rrapdBeiypba a K\r]poTr)TO^\ olov tov ’ A^iWea ' Ay a6cov ical ''Opbrjpos. TavTa Brj Bel BiaTrjpelv /cal 7 rpo? tovtols 9 Ta? Trapa Ta e% dvay/cr)s a/coiXovOovcras abcrOrjcrebs tt} TTOLrjTUcfj • /cal y dp /caT ai/Tcis eaTiv dpbapTaveiv iroAkd- /a?, eipr)Tai Be 7 repl avTcov ev toIs e/cBeBopbevous Xoyoi? 20 l/cavd) 9. XYI dvayvcopicn ? 8 e tL pbev eaTiv, eXpr\Tai 7 rpoTepov elBrj Be dvayvcopicrecos, irpcioTr] pbev rj aTe^voTCLTr} /cal y TrXeiaTr] % pSiVTai Bi CLTTOpLaVy 7 } Bid TCOV (T 7 ]pie[(OV. tovtcov Be Ta 2 pbev avpLcpVTa, olov “ Xoy^rjv rjv cjropovai Trjyevels ’* rj 25 aaTepas otou? ev tg 3 QveaTrj lAapKivos, Ta Be e.'rriKTTjTa, Kal tovtcov Ta pbev ev to 0 acopbaTi, olov ovXai, Ta Be c/cto?, Ta TrepiBepaia Kal olov ev tt) T vpol Bid t% aKacjirjf;. eaTiv Be Kal Toirrot? % prjadai rj fieXTiov rj % elpov , olov 3 O Bvaaevs Bid tt}? 00A?}? aXXcos aveyvcopiaOr] in to t?}? 8. rb vel t< 2 apogr. : r6 ? A c : ra Aid. 9. kcl 9’ rj/xa s Stahr, Mar- goliouth collato Arabe : rjpids codd. 15. TrapdSeiypia axXrjpSTrjTOS seclus. Bywater. 16. dr] del Aid., Bekker : Sr] A c : Set apogr. 17. t as Trapa ra vel rd wapd. ra s apogr. : ras Trapa ras A c . 22. drex^wrar?; apogr. pauca. 7] TrXeiaTr] apogr. : r/ TrXeiaTr] A c . 23. r] apogr. : r) A c . 27. TrepiStpaia Pazzi et apogr. pauca : TrepiStppea A c : t repl 84paia Aid. olov apogr. : ol A c . axdr]s : ‘ ensis * Arabs, arrdOr]S 2, ut videtur (R. Ellis). 29. ’OSvaaetis Bywater. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XV. 7— XVI. 3 57 reported or foretold ; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element in the Oedipus of Sophocles. Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who 8 are above the common level, the example of good portrait- painters should be followed. They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer. These are rules the poet should observe. Nor should 9 he neglect those appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the concomitants of poetry ; for here too there is much room for error. But of this enough has been said in the published treatises. XYI What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its kinds. First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most commonly employed — recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital, — such as ‘ the spear which 2 the earth-born race bear on their bodies/ or the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired after birth ; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars ; some external tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery is effected. Even 3 these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is 58 XVI. 3—6. 1454 b 30—1455 a 12 30 rpo(f>ov /cal aX\(o$ viro tojv crvftoTwv elal yap al p,ev ' ttl(tt 6(0 ? eve/ca are^voTepai, /caX al Toiavrai irdcraL , al he i/c 7 r e p Lirere ia $ , coanrep rj iv to£? Nt 7 TT/oot 9 , fleXrlovs. hevrepai he al TreiroLripievaL vi to tov Troirjrov, hto are^vot. 4 olov 'OpecrTTjs iv Trj ’I (jyirjevela dveyvoctpiaev otl * Opearij ?• 35 e/eelvr] p,ev yap hia, tt}? i'lTMTTdXris, i/celvoq he auro? \eyei a /3ov\erai 6 7 roirjrrjs aXX* ov% 6 pivOos' hto iyyvs tl tt}? elprjpbevrjs apLaprlas icrrlv, i^rjv yap civ evia /ecu ivey/celv. /cal iv rep 2 o<^o/cXeot>? T rjpel rj tt}? /cep/clhos 1455 a cjxovtf. rj rplrrj hia pLvrjpLrj^ tg3 alaOecrdaL tl Ihovra, 5 , otl opLOibs tl ? i\rj\v6e v y opLOLO? he ov0els aXXi 7 ) 6 ’ OpecrTT ]< ?, o 5 to? apa i\rj\vOev. /cal rj II0A1/- elhov tov ao(j)L(TTov irepl Trjs ’I (^Lyevela^* el/cos yap tov O pecrTTjv orvWoylcraaOaL, otl rj t dhe\(j)r) iTvOrj /cal 10 avTco avpiftalveL OvecrOaL. /cal iv tc 3 ®eo8e/cToy TuSeF, otl i\6cbv d ) 9 evpr/crcov vlov avTO$ cnrbXkvTaL . /cal r\ iv toI 9 QiveLhaw, IhovcraL yap tov tottov aweXoylcravTo ttjv 34. ’OpeVr^s Bywater : 'Opea-TTjs seclus. Diels sec. Arabem. aveyvw- pladr) Spengel. 36. 5ib iyytis tl Yalilen, cf. Arab, ‘quam ob causam fit vicinum’ : 5l6tl iyytis A c . 38. Alia 2 legisse videtur, ‘haec sunt in eo quod dixit Sophocles se audiisse vocem radii contempti ’ (Arabs) ; fort- tolcujtti 5’ iv rip 2o0o/cXeoi;s Type? 7] rrjs Kepiddos (pwvrj “ dripcos” : unde W. R. Hardie coni, tol^tt] 5’ 7) iv rtp [2o0o/cXeoi;s ?] Taipei “ttjs dvatidov,” (pTjai, “ Kepiddos (pwvTiv kXvcj.” 39. i] Tpira] Spengel: JjroL ttjl A c : r p'ltt) t) apogr. &xQ e(y ® aL Gomperz. 1456 a 2. rots apogr. : tt) s A c . 3. d7ro\6yip apogr. : d wd \6ywv A c . 6. XorjipbpoLs Yettori : X^07j(/)6poLS A c . 7. IloXueidou apogr. : noXvefSous A c . 12 . $Lveld cut Reiz: rbv [dearrjv] Gomperz, emendationis meae, credo, inscius : rbv 7roLrjT^v Dacier, Susemihl. 33. an abrrjs rfjs Tyrwhitt : codd. lect. confirmare videtur Arabs (Margoliouth). ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XVI. 6— XVII. 2 61 women, on seeing the place, inferred their fate ‘ Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast forth.’ Again, there is a recognition combined with a false in- 7 ference on the part of one of the characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A man said he would know the how, — which, however, he had not seen. This remark led Odysseus to imagine that the other would recognise him through the bow, thus suggesting a false inference. But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises 8 from the incidents themselves, where the startling dis- covery is made by natural means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to despatch a letter. These recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or necklaces. Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning. XVII In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed, the audience being offended at the oversight. Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with appropriate gestures ; for 2 those who feel emotion are most convincing by force of 62 XVII. 2 — 5 . 1455 a 34—1455 b r 7 elcnv /cal ^ sifiaivei 6 %eipia%bpievo<; /cal ydXeTvalvei 6 35 opyt^o/uevos dXrjOivcoTaTa. Bib evifivovs r) Tvoir)Ti/cr) icrTIV T) fJLCLVLKOV * TOVTOOV yap Oi pie V ei/'TrXaCTTOi oi Be eKcrraTUCoi elcnv. tovs re Xoyov? /cal tov 9 3 1455 b r /Te r Koi'Y]pjevov<$ Bel /cal avrov Troiovvra e/CTiOecrOai /caO- oXov, elO ’ oi/Tft)? €7 reicroBiovv /cal 7 raparelveiv. Xeyco Be ovtcds av OecopelcrOao to /caOoXov, olov tt}? ’I cf/iyevelav TvOe'iarj 9 tlvos /coprjs /cal d(pavia6el(rrj(; aBrjXws rot? 5 Ovcracnv, IBpvvOelcrrjs Be €t? aXXrjv % copav , ev fj vopio 9 rjv tov 9 %evov$ Oveiv Trj 6eap, TavTrjv ea%e ttjv iepco- avvijv %p6v(p Be vaTepov tgu dBeXcfxp 9 IloXua&o? eTroiTjaev, /caTci to el/cb$ €i7rcov otl ov/c apa piovov ttjv dBeXcfrrjv dXXa /cal avTov eBet Tvdrjvai, /cal evTevOev rj acoTTjpla. pceTci TavTa Be rjBrj viroOevTa Ta ovopcaTa eireicroBiovv, 4 1 5 07TG)9 B>e ecTTai ol/cela tcl en reicroBia, olov ev tm * OpeaTrj 7] pcavia Bi rj 9 eXrjcfiOr) /cal rj crooTrjpla Bid Trj 9 /caddp- cre&)9. ev pcev ovv Tofc Bpdpiacnv Ta eireiaoBia avvTopia, 5 36. Var. lect. etiifkaaToi et d^XacrroL habuisse videtur 2 (Diels). 37. iKaraTLKol cod. Yettori : e£eracrrt/co/ codd. robrovs re rods vel rods re apogr. : robrovs re A c (Vahlen, Christ), sed ne Graece quidem dicitur. 38. irapeCkrifjLiitvovs coni. Vahlen. 1456 b 2. Traparelveiv Yettori : Tcepi- relveiv A c . 9. KadbXov : fort. /ibdov Vahlen. 10. /abdov : fort. KadbXov Vahlen. Secludendum videtur aut iXdeiv iKei (Bekker ed. 3) aut tov KadbXov (Duntzer, Susemihl). dveyvupLadr) M. Schmidt, et olim Vahlen. 17. dpdp. aaiv (vel do-p-aai) apogr. : dpp. aaiv A c . ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XVII. 2—5 63 sympathy. One who is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most life-like reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character ; in the other, he is lifted out of his proper self. As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready 3 b made or constructs it for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may he illustrated by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed ; she disappears mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her ; she is transported to another country, where the custom is to offer up all strangers to the goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the play. The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper. However, he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyeidus, in whose play he exclaims very naturally : — ‘ So it was not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to be sacrificed ’ ; and by that remark he is saved. After this, the names being once given, it remains 4 to fill in the episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the case of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture, and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the episodes are short, but it is these that 5 64 XVII. 5— XVIII. 2. 1455 b 18—38 y 8’ eTTOTTOLia tovtocs fir)Kvv€Tcu. ttjs 7 dp ’O hvaaetas pia/cpos 6 X070? icTTiv' dir ohy ptovvTos tlvo s errj 20 7 roWa /cal 7 rapa(f)v\aTTOfjLevov vn to tov Tloaethobvos /cal piOVOV OVTOS, 6 TL he TO) V Oi/COl OVTCOS iyOVTtoV WCTT6 TCL X, prjpLara vi to ptvyaTypcov dvaXla/ceaOat /cal tov vlov e'lrt^ovXeveaOat, avTos hy d(j)t/cvetTat %eLp,acr 6 el$ /cal dvayvoop'taas oTt avTos eirtSepievo s avTos pie v iacody tovs 258’ e'xppovs htecf) 0 etpe. to piev ovv thtov tovto, Ta 8’ aWa eiretabhta. XVIII ecrTi he Tvdays Tpaycphlas to piev heats to he Xvats, Ta ptev e^coOev /cal evta toov eacoOev 'rroWd/cts y heats, to 8e Xotirov y Xvats . Xeyoo 8e heatv ptev etvat Tyv 30 air dpyrjS ^XP 1 tovtov tov ptepovs o eayaTov eaTtv e% ov pteTa/ 3 atvetv els evTVxlav> Xvatv he Tyv otto ttjs dpx >7? ttjs pteTa/ 3 aaecos P'GXpi' Te\ovs‘ obairep ev to3 Avy/cet t&> ®eohe/CTOv heats ptev Ta 7 6 TTpoTreTTpa^pueva /cal y tov 7 rathtov Xyyfns 35 /cal iraAtv "f" y avTobv 817 * * “f* diro ttjs alTtaaeoos tov OavctTov piexpi tov TeXovs. Tpaytphlas he 2 ethy etal Teaaapa, \roaavTa yap /cal Ta piepy £Xex@V>] y piev TreirXeypievy, ys to oXov eaTlv 19. puKpbs apogr. : paKpos A c : ‘ sermo non est longus’ Arabs, h. e. ov paxpbs (Margoliouth). 20. Trapa^vXarropbvov . . . Tlo Gomperz, alios secutus : ctrvppalvet ij £% ebrvx^s els tiv addenda esse coni. Yahlen. 35. rj avrQv dr) carrayioyif), Xtiais 8’ 7 )> coni. Yahlen: rj avrdv 8if)cXco(ns, Xtftris S’ r)> Christ, quod confirmare videtur Arabs, ‘ et ea quae patefecit, solutio autem est quod fiebat’ etc. (Margoliouth). 36. rov davdrov : fort, rov Aavaov (Yahlen et Spengel). 37. roaaura yap . . . eX^x^V seclus. Susemihl ed. 1. ra v^PV : P-vQuv Tyrwhitt : ra psvdov Sus. ed. 2 sec. Ueberweg. 38. ij p-bv caTrXrj rj db > Zeller (cf. Yahlen, qui post dvaypupuns 39 ci) 5 b arrXri> cum definitione deesse susp.). ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XVII. 5— XVIII. 2 65 give extension to Epic poetry. Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is absent from home for many years ; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight — suitors are wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he arrives and reveals his true self; he attacks his enemies, destroys them and is himself preserved. This is the essence of the plot ; the rest is episode. XVIII Every tragedy falls into two parts, — Complication and Unravelling (or Denouement). Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication ; the rest is the Unravelling. By the Complication I mean all that comes between the beginning of the action and the part which marks the turning-point to good or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which comes between the beginning of the change and the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the seizure of the child, and then again * * extends from the accusation of murder to the end. There are four kinds of Tragedy, — first, the < Simple, 2 then> the Complex, depending entirely on Eeversal and F 66 XVIII. 2—5- 1455 b 39— 145 6 a 20 TrepLireTeia /cal dvayv&picris, rj Se 'rraOrjTi/crj, olov ol re 1456 a A tavre? /cal ol ’Iftooe?, rj Se rjOucrj , olov at ^OiooTiSes teal 6 TlrjXevs. i* to Se reraprov orj<; *f* olov at re taco? <&>?> tg3 pvOcp* tooto 10 Se, mv rj ai/TT) 7 fXo/crj /cal Aocri?. ttoWoI Se 7 rXefaoTe? 60 A vovari /ca/cw<$' Set Se apcjrco del /cpaTetaOat. y^prj 4 Se orrep etprjTat 7 roXAa/a? pepvrjaOat /cal prj irotelv eiroirou/cov avaTrjpa rpaywStav. iTTOTrott/cbv Se \eyco m to mroXvpvOov, olov et T£? tov rrjs ’I XtaSo? oXov 1 5 irotol pvOov. e/cel pev yap Sea to prj/cos Xap/3dvet ra peprj to TTpeirov peyeOo ?, ev Se to?? Spdpaat 7 roAo 7 rapd ttjv v'/roXrj'^rtv dirofiaivet. arjpetov Se, oaot rrepatv 5 ’iAioo oXrjv eiroirjaav /cal prj /caTa pepos wairep Eo- pi r rriSr) ISUofirjv /cat prj toarrep Ala^yXo^, rj i/c- 20 'KiTCTOvaiv rj /ea/cw? dycovl^ovTat, iirel /cal 'AydOcnv ef- 1456 a 2. rb 5b riraprov orjs : rb 5b reparQSes Schrader : rb 5b reparQSes Wecklein : rb 5b rbraprov c rj clttXt), olov * * irapeKfiaens 5b rj TepaT(I)>5r] s Susemihl : rb 5b rbraprov 6\f/is (cf. 1468 a 6) By water ; sed ra elSrj in hoc loco eadem utique esse debent quae in xxiv. 1. 5. re apogr. : ye A c . 7. eK&crov apogr. : 'bKaarov A c . 9. obSevl foios cos Bonitz : obSevl cos Zeller : obSbv ftreos rip codd. rovro : ravro Teichmiiller : robrip Bursian. 11. Kpareiadai (cf. Polit. iv. (vii.) 13, 1331 b 38) Yahlen : habuit iam 2, ‘prensarunt utrumque’ Arabs : Kpo- reiad ai codd. 14. 5b om. apogr. 19. t) add. Yahlen : t) ’lo, such as the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and tragedies whose scene is in the lower world. The poet should endeavour, if possible, to 3 combine all poetic merits ; or failing that, the greatest number and those the most important ; the more so, in • face of the cavilling criticism of the day. Eor whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their several lines of excellence. In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and Unravelling are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it ill. Both arts, how- ever, should always be mastered. Again, the poet should remember what has been often 4 said, and not make a Tragedy into an Epic structure. By an Epic structure I mean one with a multiplicity of plots : as if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the drama the result is far from answering to the poet’s expectation. The proof is that 5 the poets who have dramatised the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like Euripides ; or who have taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor success on the stage. Even Agathon 68 XVIII. 5 — XIX. 2. 1456 a 21 — 1456 b 1 67T€(T€V £v TOVTCp pLOVCp' £v Be T 6 U 9 7rept7T€T€LCU<; [/Cdl £v to? 9 a7rXot9 'Tpajpuacn ] (jToya^eTai wv fiovkovTai Oav- piacrTM^' Tpaji/cov jap tovto /cal cj)iXdvOp(07rov. eanv 6 Be tovto , OTav 6 aocpos [/aez'] pieTa irovriplas e^anTaTr^Orj, 25 cocrirep 'Xlo-vcf/os, /cal 0 dvBpelos pkv aBi/cos Be 97 TTrjdr ) . e(TTLV Bb tovto el/cos wairep ’ AjdOcov Xejec, ei/cos jap jlvecrOai 7 roWa /cal 'irapa to el/cb$. /cal tov X°pov 7 Be eva Bel in ro\a/3elv twv inro/cpiTcbv, /cal pibpiov eivai tov o\ov /cal crvvajwv'i^ecrOai piy wairep E vpnr'iBr) aAA’ 30 tocrirep 2 o(f>o/c\el . Tot9 Be konrols tcl aBopieva piaXkov tov pbvOov rj aWr) 9 TpajcpBla 9 £cttlv‘ Bio epu- /3o\ipia aBovaiv irpd/TOV ap^avTOs ’ Ajadcovo 9 tov tolov- tov, /caiTOL tv Biacj^epei rj epi/3b\ipia aBeiv rj el prjcnv ££ aXkov et 9 aWo dppuoTTOi rj £7reicrbBiov okov ; XIX 7 repl puev ovv tcov dWcov rjBrj etprjTai , konrbv Be 36 rrrepl \efeft>9 /cal Biavolas ehrelv . Ta pdev ovv 7 Tepl tt]v Bidvoiav ev toIs 7 repl pr}TOpi/cr)<; /ceiaOco, tovto jap iBiov pbaWov e/celvrj 9 ttj 9 pbeOoBov. ecrTi Be /card ttjv Bidvoiav TavTa , o eUbs Susemihl, qui TpayiKov . . . rpiXdvOpwirov post ijTTTjdrj collocat : Kal ante et/cds confirm. Arabs. 29. wairep . . . wairep : wairep Trap ’ . . . wairep irapa Aid., Bekker. 30. Xoiirois : iroXXois Margoliouth cum Arabe. q.bbp.eva Maggi, * quae canuntur ’ Arabs : didbfxeva A c . ovdiv add. Yahlen, habuit iam S (‘nihil . . . aliud amplius ’ Arabs) : ov add. Maggi. 32. toloijtov : ‘ poeta ’ Arabs, ttoltjtov 2, ut videtur. 35. ijdri apogr. : ^5’ A c : eldeQv ut videtur 2 (Margoliouth). 36. Kal Hermann : ^ codd. 41. irddi) seclus. Bernays, tuetur Arabs. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XVIII. 5— XIX. 2 69 has been known to fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the Action, however, he shows a marvellous skill in the effort to hit the popular taste, — to produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is 6 produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is out- witted, or the brave villain defeated. Such an event is, moreover, probable in Agathon’s sense of the word : c it is probable,’ he says, * that many things should happen contrary to probability.’ The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the 7 actors ; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes, — a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another? £ It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy having been already discussed. Concerning Thought, we may assume what is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by speech ; in particular, — 2 proof and refutation ; the excitation of the feelings, such b as pity, fear, anger, and the like ; the suggestion of 70 XIX. 3 — XX. 2. 1456 b 2 — 24 oaa TOiavra, Kal ctl pbeyeOos Kal pLLKpOTrjTa ?. BrjXov 3 Be otl Kal [eV] rot? TTpaypLaaLV cnro twv avrcov IBecov Bel xpfj&Ocu, orav r) eXeeLva rj Bglvcl rj pieydXa rj el/cora 5 Bey Trapacnceva^eiv 7 tXtjv toctovtov Soacfrepei, otl tcl pcev Bel (pacvecrOcu dvev SiSao-KaXlas, tcl Be ev tgo \byco vi to tov XeyovTos 'jrapacr/cevd^ecrOac Kal 7 rapa tov Xoyov ylyveaOaL. tl yap dv elr\ tov XeyovTO? epyov, el (jralvoLTo 77877 a Bel Kal pirj Bca tov A ,oyov ; tcov Be 7 repl ttjv 4 10 \e%iv ev pbev gcttlv elBo ? OewpLas tcl a^ppuaTa T77? Aefeo)?, a gcttlv elBevac tt}? vi TOKpLTLKrjs Kal rov ttjv roiavTTjv g^ovtos dpyiTeKToviKTjv , olov tl ivroXrj Kal tl ev^f) Kal BLrjypcrLs Kal aireCXp Kal ipborpo-LS Kal diroKpiGL ? Kal el tl aWo tolovtov. 1 rapa rydp rrj v 5 15 tovtcov yvwcrLV rj ayvoiav ovBev eh Tpv iroLpTLKpv eTTLTLpbppLa (freperai o tl Kal d^Lov aTrovBrjs. tl yap dv Tt? vi ro\d/3oL ppLapTrjadaL a UpcoTayopa ? eTTLTLpba, otl evyecrQaL olopbevo 9 eirLTciTTeL ehrcov “ pbrjvLv deLBe 6 ed to yap KeXevcraL cjrpcrlv ttolgIv tl rj pup eircTa^h 20 gcttlv. Blo 'irapelcrOco go? aWr 7? Kal ov t?7? iroLpTLKps ov Oecdpppba. XX [t?7? Be Aefeo)? dirdcrps toB? gcttI tcl puepr 7, GTOLyelov avWaj 3 p crvvBecr pios ovofia prjpLa [ apOpov ] tttwctls Ao tipOpov dvop-a prjpa Stein thal. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XIX. 3 — XX, 2 71 importance or its opposite. Further, it is evident that 3 the dramatic incidents must he treated from the same points of view as the dramatic speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance, or prob- ability. The only difference is, that the incidents should speak for themselves without verbal exposition ; while the effects aimed at in a speech should be pro- duced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech. For what were the need of a speaker, if the proper impression were at once conveyed, quite apart from what he says ? Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry 4 treats of the Modes of Expression. But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of Declamation, and to the masters of that science. It includes, for instance, — what is a command, a prayer, a narrative, a threat, a question, an answer, and so forth. To know or not 5 to know these things involves no serious censure upon the poet’s art. For who can admit the fault imputed to Homer by Protagoras, — that in the words, ‘ Sing, goddess, of the wrath,’ he gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer? For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We may, therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art, not to poetry. XX [Language in general includes the following parts : — the Letter, the Syllable, the Connecting word, the Noun, the Verb, the Inflexion or Case, the Proposition or Phrase. A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such 2 sound, but only one which can form part of a group of 72 XX. 2—6. 1456 b 25 — 1457 a 2 25 ef ^9 7 recjntfce crvvOerr) ec 0 cu (j)G)vr)‘ Kal ryap tcov Orjpicov eicrlv aBiaiperoi crTOL^elov. TavTrjs Be fieprj to re (pcovfjev Kal to rjpLitycovov /cal 3 acovov. ecTTiv Be avev 7 Tpoaj 3 o\rj(; eyov (jxovrjv a/covaTrjv, rj/JLicjxDvov Be to pueTa irpoaPo\rj^ 30 e X ov 4 >(OV V v a/covcrTrjv, olov to 2 /cal to P, a(f>covov Be to pieTa 7 Tpoo-/ 3 o\r) pie(T(p‘ irepl a>v KaO * eKaaTov ev tols pceTpiKOis irpoarjKei Oecopelv. o-vWa/3r] Be Icttlv (fxovrj acrrjpLos 5 crvvOeTT] e£ a(j)covov # # /cal (frcovrjv e^ovTos. Kal ryap to TP avev tov A (TvXkaftr) aAAa /aera tov A, 40 olov to rPA. aWa Kal tovtcov Oecoprjaai ra9 Biatyopas tt ) 9 pueTpLK 779 eaTLV, crvvBecrpLOS Be icrTtv cfroovr) aarjpLO<; 6 1457 a ^ 01/T6 KO)\veo ovTe Troiei (jxovrjv pitav crrjpLavTLKrjv e/c TfXeiovu)V (pcovwv, TvefyvKvla \_avv~\Ti0ecr6ai Kal ei rl tcov 25. '"aw 9 erf apogr., Arabs 1 compositae voci ’ avverf A c . 38. Post a(pwvov intercidisse videtur < t) 4% acpwvov Kal r)pi(p&vov > . Post (piovyv 4x°vtos coni. Christ c$) irkeibvwv acp&vuv Kal . Kal yap rb TP dvev tov A avXXarf Kal /xerox rod A, A c : : nam T et P sine A non faciunt syllabam, quoniam tantum hunt syllaba cum A ’ Arabs (Margoliouth), unde restituit Susemihl quod in textum recepi : Kal yb.p rb TA dvev tov P avXXarf Kal /xerd tov P Tyrwhitt : Kal yap r6 A dvev tov TP cruAAa/3 7 ; Kal /xerox tov TP M. Schmidt. 1457 a 1-8. Locus valde impeditus. Codicum fide ita vulgo legitur : t) otfre KcSXdei oilre 7TOLCL VKViaV (JVVtI- Oeadai, Kal ei rl tQv &Kpiov Kal 4irl tov p4aov, t)v prj dppbTTei (fjv pr) appbTTT) apogr., Bekker) iv apxy Tidtvat. Kad ’ aiiTbv (avT'pv Tyrwhitt), olov pev , ^roo, 5^ (vel 5r/). ?} (fxovr) darjpos ?) £k TrXeibvuv pbv VKev plav cypavTiKyv (ptov'qv. dpdpov 8’ ia tI cj)wv7] aairjpos, i) A 670 U apxw rtXos i) diopuxpbv drjXol, olov Tb dptpl (^. p. 1. A c : (pr/pL Aid., Bekker) Kal t 8 irepL Kal Ta dXXa. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XX. 2—6 73 sounds. For even brutes utter indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean may be 3 either a vowel, a semi-vowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semi-vowel, that which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and E. A mute, that which with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished according to the form 4 assumed by the mouth, and the place where they are produced ; according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short ; as they are acute, grave, or of an inter- mediate tone ; which inquiry belongs in detail to a treatise on metre. A Syllable is a non-significant sound, composed of a 5 mute and a vowel and a vowel : for GE without A is not a syllable, but with A it is, — GEA. But the investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science. A Connecting word is a non-significant sound, which 6 a neither causes nor hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound ; it may be placed at either In Ed. 1 secutus sum. Susemihl (praeeunte Hartung), nec quicquam hie mutavi. Sed nescio an Doring verum viderit qui locum sic restituit : i Tijudecr/Mos S4 ianv vKviav] avvrLdeadcu, < dAV > 7 ) Xbyov apxw V t4Xos rj SiopiVK€v puiav 5 arjpiavTiKrjv (pcovrjv, olov to apical real to irepi real Ta aXXa • (fxovrj darjpio<; rj \ 6 yov dpyrjv rj TeXo? rj 7 Sioptapbov StjXoc, rjv per] dppLOTTec iv dpyfj Xoyov TiOevai rca 6 * avTrjv, olov puev, rjTOi, Se. [rj (jxovrj darjpuos rj ovt€ KcoXveo ouT 6 TTOL 6 L (fxovrjv pdav crrjpLavTtKrjv ere 10 TrXeiovcov (f)(ovcov TretyvKVia TiOeaOai real i 7 rl tcov arcpcov real iirl tov p ceaov.] ovopua Se iaTi (freovrj avvOeTrj 8 crjpLavTi/cr] avev ypovov 97? piepo? ovSev eaTi naff avTO arjpLavTircov iv yap rot? SlttXols ov ypeopieda &)? /cal avTO read * avTO ar/pbalvov, olov iv tg3 © eoScopco to Swpov 15 ov arjpialvei. pr/pca Se (pcovrj avvOeTrj arjpLavTUcr) pieTa 9 ypovov rjs ovSev piepo ? arjpialvei rcaO ’ avTO, ioairep real iirl tcov ovopLaTcov to puev yap avOpwiros rj Xevrcov ov arjpbaivei to iroTe, to Se ^aSl^et rj f 3 e/ 3 aSi/cev Trpoa- arjpLaivei to puev tov irapovTa ypovov to Se tov Trap- 20 eXrjXvOoTa. TTTwan ; 8’ iaTlv ovopuaTos rj prjpbaTOS r) 10 pie v to KaTa to tovtov rj tovtw arjpLalvov real oaa ToiavTa , rj 8 e KaTa to evl rj 7 roWols, olov avOpwiroi rj avOpooTTOs, rj Se KaTa Ta vTTOKpLTLKa, olov KaT ipcoTrjacv, iiriTa^LV' to yap iftaSuaev rj (SaSi^e 25 7TTW(7t? prjpiaTOS KaTa TavTa Ta elSr] iaTiv. X070? Se 11 c pcovrj avvOeTrj arjpiavTiKrj r)$ evta pcepr] KaO ’ avTa arjpbalvei tl % ov yap airas X0709 e/e prjpLaTcov Kal ovopLaTcov avyKeiTai, olov “ 6 tov dvOpcoirov opLapLOs”* dW’ ivSeyeTac avev prjpLaTcov elvat \oyov. puepos 8-11. 7 ) . . . vtcov seclus. Reiz, Hermann. 18. 7r or£ Spengel. fiadLfei apogr. : (3a8L£eiv A c . 21. Alterum to add. apogr. 24. add. Yahlen. /3aSi£e apogr. : tfiddifev A c . 29. Kal add. Gomperz, quem secutus sum etiam in loci interpunctione. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XX. 6— n 75 end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a non-significant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them signi- ficant, is capable of forming one significant sound, — as a/Mpi, 7 repL, and the like. Or, a non-significant sound, 7 which marks the beginning, end, or division of a sentence ; such, however, that it cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence, — as fiev, rjroi, Se. A Xoun is a composite significant sound, not marking 8 time, of which no part is in itself significant; for in double or compound words we do not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant. Thus in Theodorus, ‘ god-given,’ the Scopov or ‘ gift ’ is not in itself significant. ; A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking 9 time, in which, as in the noun, no part is in itself signi- ficant. For e man,’ or ‘ white’ does not express the idea of ‘ when ’ ; but ‘ he walks,’ or ‘ he has walked ’ does connote time, present or past. Inflexion belongs both to the noun and verb, and 10 expresses either the relation ‘ of,’ ‘ to,’ or the like ; or that of number, whether one or many, as 'man’ or ‘ men ’ ; or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g. a question or a command. ‘ Did he go ? ’ and ‘ go ’ are verbal inflexions of this kind. A Proposition or Phrase is a composite significant 11 sound, some at least of whose parts are in themselves significant ; for not every such group of words consists of verbs and nouns — ‘ the definition of man,’ for example — but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will 76 XX. ii — XXL 4. 1457 a 30 — 1457 b 9 30 pievTot del tl crjpiaivov e^ec, olov “ ev tw /3aBl^et v,” “ KXecov 6 K \ecovos” eh Be ecrTi Aoyo? fj yap 12 0 ev arjpiaLveov, fj 6 e/c TrXeiovcov avvBeapicp, olov f\ ’IXta? piev crvvBecrpiw eh, 0 Be rod avOpcoirov to5 ev arjpLaLveLv.\ AA 1 ovopbaros be ecbrj to piev airXovv, aTrXovv be Xey co o 36 pbrj e/c arjpiatvovTcov avy/ceiTac, olov yfj, to Be Bi7r\ovv" tovtov Be to piev i/c arjpialvovTO ? /cal ao-rjpiov (ttXtjv ov/c ev Tco ovopbaTi arjpiaivovTo ? [/cal aarjpLov]), to Be e/c crrjpLaivovTCDV avy/cetTat. eirj S’ av /cal TpiifXovv /cal 40 TeTpaifkovv ovopia /cal iroXXaTrXovv, olov Ta iroXka 1457 t> tmv M acrcraXLCDTWv • f E ppio/cai/c6i;avOos . airav Be ovopia iaTiv fj /cvpiov fj yX&TTa rj 2 pieTacfropd rj /cocrpios rj 7re7roirjpievov fj iire/CTeTapbevov rj vcjryprjpbevov rj i^rjWaypievov, \eyco Be /cvpiov piev o5 3 5 XpwvTai, eicacrTOL, yX&TTav Se co erepoc, wcrre (jravepov 0 Ti /cal yXwTTav /cal /cvpiov eivai BvvaTov to avTo, pcrj Toh avToh Be" to yap atyvvov Kl» 7 rploi? piev /cvpiov, 9 )pilv Be yXwTTa. pieTaefropa Be icrTiv ovopiaTO? dWoTplov 4 i7ri(popd fj diro tov yevov 9 iirl elBos fj airo tov 30. fiadlfeLv A c : (3a5l£ei apogr. 31. KX^wi' 6 K\£uv codd. : rb ELXiuv Bigg: olov iv r£ “ (3adtfe i K Xicov” 6 KXeuv plerique edd. : olov “ ev Tip padLfriv,” “KXeuv b KXeoovos” M. Schmidt: (habuit 2 KXecopos). 32. Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, 2 or ornamental, or newly -coined, or lengthened, or con- tracted, or altered. By a current or proper word I mean one which is 3 in general use among a people ; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country. Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but not in relation to the same people. The word cr'iyvvov, ‘ lance/ is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one. Metaphor is the application of an alien name by 4 transference either from genus to species, or from species 78 XXL 4—8. 1457 b 10—35 J/£ » \ V / A » \ f* J/£ 5 V ,\ 10 etoovs gtti to yGVO$ rj airo rov eioov 9 eiri gloo 9 rj Kara to dvdAoyov. Xeyco Bg diro 7 gvovs [xev Girl gIBos, 5 olov “ vrjvs Bg fjioi r/8* gctttjkgv • ’* to 7 dp opjmelv gcjtlv k I 5 GCTTlV, CD VVV CLVTL TOV 7 ToWoV KG^pTjTai. dlT GlBoVS 8 e Girl et3o9 otoz) “ yaXKcp airo 'xfrv^rjv dpvcras ” /cat ff Tapcbv aTeipki ^aA/cco.” evTavOa yap to /aez> dpvcrai TapGiv , to 8 e TapjG.lv dpvcrai GiprjKGV* dpcf)(o yap d(f>G\Giv t'i gcjtlv . to 8 e dvdXoyov Xkyco, oTav opolco<; g^tj to 8 GVTGpov 6 20 77/009 TO TTpMTOV Kal TO TGTapTOV 7T/00 9 TO TpiTOV ipGL yap dvTl TOV ^GVTGpov TO TGTapTOV rj dvTl TOV TGTapTOV TO BcVTGpOV, Kal GVLOTG TTpOCTTL0GaCTLV dvO ’ OO XkyGL 77/00 9 o gctti. Xkyco Bg olov opolco^ g yGi (f>id\rj nrpo 9 A ibvvaov Kal dairls 777)09 ''Apy ipGi tolvvv tt]V cfnaXTjV dcririBa 25 A lovvctov Kal ttjv dairiBa cfridATjv 5 , A/oea> 9 . rj o yrjpas 77/009 / 3 toi>, Kal GGTTGpa 77/009 rjpkpav • ipGl To'lVVV TTjV GCTTTGpaV yppa 9 fjpiGpas Kal to 7 07/009 GCTTTGpav / 3 lov rj, cocrTTGp , E/Lt77e8o/cA79, 8007x09 fiiov. iviois 8’ 00/c IcrTtD ovopa 7 KGLpGVOV TMV aVaKoyOV, Ax’ OvBgV rjTTOV opolcos \G%0y- 30 CTGTai * oloV TO TOV KapTTOV pGV d(f)lGVai CTTTGLpGLV, TO Bg ttjv cfrAoya diro tov rjXiov avcowpov AX’ opolco 9 e^et TOVTO 77/009 TOO IjklOV Kal TO CTTTGLpGLV 77/009 TOV KapTTOV , 8 to GipijTai u (JTTGipcov 0 go kt lctt av cjiAoya GCTTI Bg tm 8 TpoTup tovtm Trp ; pGTatyopas '%prj(T0ai Kal dWcos, TTpocr- 35 ayopGvaavTa to dWoTpiov d7rocj)rjcrai tmv olkgicov tl, 10. t<5 om. apogr. 14. r£ add. Twining. 27. v^pas . . . dvapias apogr. : rj/x^pas rep ’^jp.'rredoKXijs /cat to yrjpas e(nr£pav (3lov f) dvapidis (3Lov A c , Yahlen. 29. rtD^ A c : to apogr., Bekker. 32. rbu Kapirbv Castelvetro. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXL 4—8 79 to genus, or from species to species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as : ‘ There lies 5 my ship * ; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to genus, as: ‘ Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought ’ ; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large number generally. From species to species, as : 4 With blade of bronze drew away the life/ and ‘ Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.’ Flere apvacu , ‘ to draw away/ is used for t a fie tv, 1 to cleave/ and rafietv again for apvaau , — each being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to the 6 first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called ‘ the shield of Dionysus/ and the shield ‘ the cup of Ares.’ Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be called ‘ the old age of the day/ and old age, 4 the evening of life’ or, in the phrase of Empedocles, ‘life’s setting sun.’ In some cases one of the terms of the proportion has no 7 specific name ; still, the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing : but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet, ‘ sowing the god-created light.’ There is another way in which this 8 kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper 80 XXL 8 — XXII. i. 1457 b 36 — 1458 a 21 olov el ttjv dairlBa ehroi (pidXyv piy >r ApeMS aX)C aoivov. TreiroiypLevov 8’ icrrlv o o\ms piy /caAovpievov vi ro tivmv 9 ai/Tos TiOerat 6 iroiyTys, Bo/cei yap evia elvai Tocavra, olov ra rcepara epvvyas /cal top lepea dprjrrjpa. iire/c- 10 1458 a rerapievov Be eaTiv y dypypievov to fiev eav §MvyevTi pua/cporepcp /ce^pypievov y rod ol/celov rj avWa/3y epifte- /3\ypievy, to Be dv dcftypypievov tl y avrov , eire/cTeTapievov piev olov to 7 ro\eo>? ivokyos /cal to UyXeos UyXyidBeM, dcfrypypievov Be olov to /cpl /cal to Bm /cal “ pita ylverai dpicj)OTepMV oty” e^yWaypievov 1 1 8 ’ earlv OTav tov ovopia^opievov to pcev /caTaAeiTry to Be iroiy, olov to “ Be^LTepov zcaTa pia^ov ” clvtI tov Be^iov. [avTcov Be too v ovopcaTcov Ta puev appeva Ta Be 6rj\ea 12 ioto Be pieTa^v, appeva piev oaa Te\evTa els to N /cal P /cal 2 /cal ocra etc tovtov avy/ceiTai, TavTa 8 ’ eaTiv Bvo, /cal a, 6y\ea Be ocra i/c tmv (pcovrjeVTCOv eis Te Ta del pia/cpd, olov els H /cal fl, /cal tmv err e/cTeivo piev mv els A* McrTe la a avpi/3alvei rrXyOei els oaa tcl appeva /cal Ta 1 5 OyXea. to yap /cal to 3 TavTa eaTiv. els Be acj^Mvov ovBev ovopia TeAevTa, ovBe els (pMvyev ftpa^v. els Be to I Tpla piovov, pieXi Kopupa Tveirepi. els Be to T 7 revTe. Ta Be pbeTa^v els TavTa /cal N /cal 2 .] XXII Xefeo>9 Be apeTrj aacpy /cal piy Taireivyv elvai. aa- 20 cfyeaTaTJ) piev ovv eaTiv y i/c tmv /cvpiMV ovopiaTMV, dWa TaTreivy. irapaBeiypia 8 e y KAeocj^MVTOs Tvolyais /cal y 36. d\\’ &olvov Yettori: &\\a o’lvov codd. 1458 a 2. Kexpv^os Hermann. 4. II77A770S /cai to II^AeiSou add. M. Schmidt. 6. 6\p Yettori: drjs A c (h. e. oils vel d^Is). 11. koI 2 apogr., Maggi, Arabs : om. A c . 12. £k seclus. Ueberweg. 14. 7rA rjdeL apogr. : Trkr]dr) A c . 15. ante raura add. rip 2 Tyrwhitt. 17. post 7 rtvre add. apogr. rb ttCjv rb vairv rb y bvv rb dbpv rb & ovoptaTCOv avvOecrtv ov% 30 olov T6 tovto TroLycraL, /caTa Be Tyv pueTacfiOpav ivBe^eTat, olov " dvBp * elBov 7 rvpl % aX/cov eV’ dvepi /coWyaavTa /cal ra ToiavTa. i/c tcov e? tt}9 ^ co? to /cvpcov, irapa to eca)0o9 ytyvo- 5 ptevov, to /-w) IBlcotl/cov 7 TotyaeL, Bta Be to /cotvcovetv tov elcoOoTos to ra A c . 7 tol’t/cti apogr. : noiTjaai A c . 29. coni. Margoliontli, collato Arabe ‘ reliqua nomina ’ : Kvpluv Heinsius. 32. ante vel post 2k . . . j3ap/3api wp yXuTTuv Tucker. 33. KeKpacrdau Maggi e cod. Lampridii, habuit iam S (cf. Arab. ‘ si mis- centur baec’): KCKpLadai ceteri codd. 1458 b 1. avpipaWerai A c : avpiPdWovTcu apogr. 10. ijra x^P lv A c : ’Ett lx&PW Bursian praeeunte Tyrwbitt (’H 7 rLx&pyv) : 2irl x&P lv 2, ut videtnr (‘appellatum cum favore’ Arabs). eldov apogr. : tdov A c : 15 uv Gomperz. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXII. 1—5 83 on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the common- place which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened, — anything, in short, that differs from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is either a 2 riddle or a jargon ; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors ; a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. Bor the essence of a riddle is to express true facts under im- possible combinations. Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of meta- phor it can. Such is the riddle : — ‘ A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze by aid of fire,’ and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, 3 therefore, of these elements is necessary to style ; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes 4 1458 1> more to produce a clearness of diction that is remote from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial con- formity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, 5 therefore, are in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at will. He caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction, as in the verse : 84 XXII. 5 — 7- I 45^ b ii — 29 M apaOwvaBe ftaBi^ovTa,” /cal “ ov/c av y epapievos tov e/ce'ivov eWefiopov.” to piev ovv (^aiveo-Oau 7 ro>? ^pcopievov 6 TOVTW TO) TpOTTCp yeXoiOV, TO Be pLCTpOV KOIVOV CUTTaVTUSV icTTL tco v piepwv' /cal yap pLGTacj) opals /cal yXoc/TTais /cal 15 to?? aXXoz? eiBecri % pcopievo ? 7 reb$ /cat eVtT^e? e7rl Ta yekola to avTo av cnrepydaaiTo. to Be dppiOTTOv 7 ocroz) Bia^epec ezrl tcov eircov 6 ecope'ia 6 co evTiOepievcov tcov ovopuaTCOv ec? to pueTpov . /cal eirl Tr\<$ yAgottt?? 8£ /cal iirl tcov pLCTatyopwv /cal eVl tcov aXkcov IBecbv 20 pieTaTiOel ? az> tz? Ta /cvpia ovopuaTa /caTiBoi otl a\r) 6 fj Xeyopiev olov to ai/TO Troir)cravTos iapifieiov A Icr^vXov /cal ^ivpnriBov, ev Be piovov ovopia pbeTaOevTos, clvtI [/ cvpLov\ eicoSoTO? yXdiTTav, to pie v (paiveTai rcaXov to 8* eoTeXe?. Azcr^uXo? puev yap ev tg3 ^zXo/ct^t? 7 iiroLrjcTe 25 c^ayeBaiva <8’> 77 yaou crap teas icrOiei 7 ro8o?, o 8e az/Tt toO ecrOlet to SoivaTai p^eTeOrj/cev . /cal za)z/ 8e ya’ eebz/ 0X170? T6 /cal ovTiBavos /cal dez/c^?, 1 €t tz? \eyoi Ta /cvpia pieTaTiOels vvv Be pi icbv pu/cpos Te /cal dcrOevi/cos /cal aeiBr}$' 1 Odyss. ix. 515, pup 5^ yu.’ Aby oXlyos re Kal ovTidavos Kal tiicucvs. 11. 7’ epdyevos apogr. : dv yepdyevos A c : yevvayevos Tyrwliitt: %pid- pt-evos Gomperz. 12. ttws : dirpeTrCos Twining : irdvrus Hermann : dvcucrdriTus Tucker. 15. ivl rd yeXoia seclus. Gomperz. 16. dpybTTov apogr. : dpybTTOvros A c . 17. iirCov : iweKrdcrewv Tyrwhitt. 18. Kvpiu v coni. Yahlen. 21. A laxdXcp JZvpnrldov Essen. 22. yeradbvTos Aid. : /uercmfleVros A c . 23. Kvpiov vel eiioObros secludendum coni. Yahlen: Kvpiov dcodbros Heinsius. 25. 5’ (vel r’) add. Ritter: (paytbaiv del Nauck. 27. aei/oys Castelvetro (var. lec. Odyss. 1. c.), Arabs ‘ut non conveniat’ : deiS^s codd. : (Lklkvs Odyss. 1. c. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXII. 5—7 85 ’E7 rt^dprjv elBov M apaOcovaBe (BaBi^ovra, or, ov/c av y ipdpbevo 9 rov eiceivov i\\e/ 3 opov. To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, 6 grotesque; but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech, would produce the like effect if used without propriety, and with the express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a differ- 7 ence is made by the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange (or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation will be manifest. For example Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes says : c fia rj pbov crap teas iaOiet 7roSo9* Euripides substitutes OoLvarau ‘ feasts on ’ for ecrOieb ‘ feeds on.’ Again, in the line, vvv Be pu ibov o\L \6yois Gomperz : oSois 2, ut videtur (Ellis), cf. Arab, ‘quot usurpant homines in via.’ ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXII. 7—10 87 Or, if for the line, 8{,?, and the like. It is precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom that they give distinction to the style. This, however, he failed to see. It is a great matter to observe propriety in these 9 several modes of expression — compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, — for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances. Of the various kinds of words, the compound are 10 best adapted to dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse, which reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate words are those which are found even in prose. These are, — the current or proper, the meta- phorical, the ornamental. Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action, this may suffice. 88 XXIII. i—3- 1459 a 19—1459 b 1 XXIII nrepl Be tt}? BirjyTjpianKris Kal ev pLerpw pupiTj- 20 Tucrjs, on Bel tou9 pivOov 9 KaSarrep iv rah TpaycpBiais avveardvai BpapianKov 9 Kal 7 repl puiav irpa^iv oXrjv teal reXelav, e^overav dpyr)v Kal pieaa Kal TeXo 9 , iv wenrep %(pov ev oXov Troijj Trjv ol/celav rjBovrjv, BrjXov’ Kal purj opLoias laropiai^ ra? avvOecreis elvai, iv ah avdy/crj ov^l 25 puas TTpaf-ecos rroielaQai B'tjXcoaiv aXX’ evos %p 6 vov, oaa iv tovtcd Gvveftrj rrepl eva rj 7 rXeiovs, wv eKacrrov w? eTvyev 7 rpo? dXXTjXa. ebarrep yap Kara robs abrobs 2 Xpovovs rj t iv XaXapilvi iyevero vavpia^la teal rj iv 'ZtKeXla l^apj^Bovlwv pid^rj ovBev 7 rpo? to avro awrel- 30 vovaai T€\o?, ovreo /cal iv roh icfre^fjs %povoi<; ivlore ylverai Odrepov puera Oarepov, ef wv ev ovBev ylverai reXo9. a^eBov Be ol 7roXXot tw v rroirjrcbv rovro Bpwcn. Bio, cb(T 7 rep ehropiev r/Brj, teal ravrrj Oearrecno^ av (pavelrj 3 r, Opir]po 9 7 rapa rob 9 aXXov 9, rw ^7786 toz' 7 roXepiov ica'nrep 35 eyovra dp'yrjv Kal reXo<; i r Ki'^eipr\(iai rroielv oXov Xlav yap av pieyas real ovk evcrvvoirro 9 epieXXev ecrecrOai, rj to) pieyeOei puerpia^ovra Kara'jre'irXeypbevov rrj rroiKiXia. vvv 8’ ev piepo(; aTroXaftbov irreiaoBlois /ce^prjrai avrwv 7 roXXo? 9 , olov vecov KaraXoycp /cal aXXoi<; irreiGoBiois, oh 40 BiaXapb/ 3 dvei rrjv Trolrjaiv. ol B aXXoi 7 repl eva rroiovai 1459 b Kal 7 repl eva y^povov Kal pilav rvpa^iv rroXvpiepr}, olov 6 19. evl (vel iv evl) piirpip conieci (cf. 1449 b 11, 1459 b 36) : iv e£a piirpip Heinsius : iv piirpip codd. 21. crwearavai coni. Yahlen : cvviaravcu A c . 24. iaroplais ras avvOiaeis Dacier, confirmare videtur Arabs : iaroplas ras orvvrjOeis codd. 28. vavpax^ apogr. : vavpaxos A c . 31. pera Odrepov Castelvetro, Hermann : pera daripov codd. 34. rip apogr. : rb A c . 36. piya (rec. corr. piyas) . . . evTTa<$ Kal piera(j)opd<; Be^erao piaXtara * 7 repirrr] yap 40 /cal rj BirjyrjpiaTiKrj pilpurjcn^ tcov aWcov). to 1460 a Se lapi/ 3 eiov Kal TeTpdpieTpov KivrjTiKa, to pie v bp^qaTiKov to Be TvpaKTiKov. eTi Be aToircoTepov, el payvvoi Tt 9 6 avTa , cocnrep Xaipqpicov. Bio ovBels piaKpdv crvaTacnv iv aWco Tve r Koir)Kev rj tg 3 rjpcoco, aU* cocnrep eliropiev 5 ai)Trj r] cfrvo’is BiBacTKec to dppiOTTOV \avTrf\ [&-] aipelcrOai. f/ 0 pirjpos Be aWa Te 7 roWd d£ios iiraivel- 7 crOau Kal Brj Kal otl pibvos tcov 'ttoo^tcov ovk dyvoel o Bel TTOtelv avTOV. avTov yap Bel tov 7 roi 7 ]Tr)V eXdyiGTa \eyeiv % ov yap icrTi KaTa TavTa papirjTrjs. 10 ol piev ovv dXkoi avTol pie v Be o\ov dycovl^ovTac, 40. Kal codd. : Kal tcujtt} Twining : kolv tcujtcus Bywater. /at/arjcris apogr.: Klvrjcis A c . 1460 a 1. Kivr]Tt.Kai A c : klvtitlkA Aid., Bekker : KLvrjTiKa Kal Vahlen : klvtjtlkA , el Gomperz. 2. puyvvoi Aid. : puyvAei apogr.: /xr/yuvri A c (fuit /arj, et 77 extremum in litura corr.) : yu .77 yvolr\ 2, cf. Arab, ‘si quis nesciret’ (Margoliouth). 5. avrrj apogr.: ai jtt] A c : seclus. Gomperz. aipeladai. Bonitz, confirmare videtnr Arabs (Margoliouth) : dLaLpeTadai A c . ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXIV. 4—7 93 carried on at one and the same time ; we must confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many events simultaneously transacted can be presented ; and these, if relevant to the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, also diverting the mind of the hearer and relieving the story with varying episodes. Eor sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on the stage. As for the metre, the heroic measure has proved its 5 fitness by the test of experience. If a narrative poem in any other metre or in many metres were now com- posed, it would be found incongruous. Eor of all measures the heroic is the stateliest and the most massive ; and hence it most readily admits rare words and metaphors, which is another point in which the narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the other a hand, the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures, the latter being akin to dancing, the former expressive of action. Still more absurd would it be to 6 mix together different metres, as was done by Chaeremon. Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other than heroic verse. Nature herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper measure. Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit 7 of being the only poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself. The poet should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not this that makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon 94 XXIY. 7 — io. 1460 a 11 — 32 fUfiovvTcu Be oXlya Kal oXcyaKiS' 6 Be oXlya (jrpoipua- aa/juevo 9 ev6 09 elcrdyet avBpa rj yvval/ca rj aXXo Ti \r)6o<$\ Kal ovBev arjOr) dXX' eyovTa rjOrj. Bel poev 8 ovv ev rals TpaycpBiai? iroielv to SavpiaaTOV, pbdXXov 158’ ivBe%erai ev rrj iiroTroua to aXoyov, Bi o crvpL- f Salvei pudXt(TTa to OavpcaaTOv, Bid to purj opav eh tov 7 TpaTTovTa* errel Ta irepl ttj v "JLfCTOpo? Blco^iv eirl crKrjvrjs ovTa yeXola av (pavelrj, ol puev 6 < 7 twt 69 Kal ov BiboKovTes, 6 Be dvavevcov , ev Be toI 9 eirecnv XavOdvet. 20 to 8e OavpbacTTov rjBv' arjpLelov 8e* irdvTes yap irpocrTi- OevTes dirayyeKXovaiv obs ^api^opcevoi. BeBlBa^ev Be 9 pjdXiCTTa "OpLrjpos Kal tovs aXXovs yjrevBrj Xeyetv 0)9 8et. ecrTL 8e tovto 7rapaXoyio-pib$. oXovTai yap dvOpoairoi , OTav tovBI 0W09 toBI rj rj ycvopoevov ylvrjTai, el to 25 vcrTepov ecrTLV, Kal to 7 rpoTepov elvac rj yiveadai' tovto oe ecrTL Yevoo 9. Oio or), av to 7 rpcoTOV yeooo 9, aXX ovBe, tovtov 0W09, dvdyKi) < KaKelvo> elvac rj yevecrOai [^] 7 rpocrOelvai’ Bid yap to tovto elBevai aXr) 6 es ov, 'irapaXoyl^eTai rjpMV rj tyv^f) Kal to 7 rpcoTov o >9 ov. 30 rrapaBecypia Be tovtov eK tcov Nt 7 rTpcov. TrpoaipelaOai 10 T€ Bel dBvvaTa ecKOTa puccXXov rj BvvaTa dirlOava' tov 9 T6 X07009 per) avvlcTTacrOai €K piepcov dXoycov, dXXa 13. fjdos om. Reiz, liabuit iam S : eldos Bursian. obdiv d'qOr) apogr. : ovdiva ijdrj A c . %x ovTa ^ os coni. Christ. 14. Post odv add. Christ, fort, recte : kclv toll s Gomperz. 15. dXoyov Yettori : avdXoyov codd., 2 . 81’ 6 Yettori : 8lo codd. 17. iirel tol apogr. : iireLra tol A c , Z. 24. rj ^ apogr. : f/v A c , rec. corr. rj. 25. yevicrdcLL coni. Christ. 26. drj : dec Bonitz, Christ. dXXov di A c : dXX’ ovdi rec. corr. : dXXo di cod. Robortelli, Bonitz : dXXo 8 ’ 8 Yahlen : dXXo, 6 Christ : kolkolvo add. Tucker. : Cum verbis aXX’ ovdi . . . dv&yKr] . . . irpoadeivaL contulerim Rhet. i. 2. 13, 1357 a 17, i av yap 77 ti tovtwv yv&pipLov, ovdi del Xiyeiv • afirbs y dp tovto irpoaTl- 6i)(tlv 6 dKpoaTrjs, et 18, t6 8 ’ 6 'n tov fjbv6evfiaro<;, toairep OlBlirovs to fjbrj elBevau irdis 0 A dcos 35 d'jreOavev, akka purj iv tco BpapuaTi, wan rep iv ’H ke/CTpa ol Ta TLvOia aTrayyekkovTes, rj iv Mi/crot? 6 acjxovos etc ^eyeas els ttjv klvcrlav rj/ccov. ware to keyecv otl avyprjTO av 0 jivOos yekolov’ ef dp^fjs 7 dp ov Sec GWLCTTacrOaL tolovtov 9' av Be Or) /cal (paivyrac evkoyco- 40 Tepcos, ivBeyecrOai teal cltottov ’ eVel /cal tcl ev ’ OBvaaela akoya ra rrepl rrjv e/cOeaiv co 9 ov/c av rjv 14601* ave/cTCL Brjkov av yevoiTO , el avra cf>avkos 7T0Lrjrrj 9 7 roirjcreie' vvv Be toIs akkoc 9 dyaOols 6 'iroirjTrjs dcpavl^ec r)Bvvcov to arorrov. ttj Be ke^et Bet Biairovelv ev toIs 11 dpyols piepecr iv /cal perjTe rjOc/cols perjTe BcavorjTL/cols • 5 aTTO/cpvTTTeL yap rrakiv rj kiav kapeirpa ke%LS Ta re rjOrj /cal Tas Bcavolas. XXY 7 repl Be TTpo/SkypeaTcov /cal kvcreoov, i/c 7rocro)v re /cal 7TOLOOV elBcov ecTTLVj a>8’ av Oecopovacv yevoiT av (j)avepov. irrel yap Ictti pupbrjTrjs 6 iroLrjTrjs cbcnrepavel ^coypdcfros 10 i) tls akkos el /cov otto cos, dvdy/crj papeelcrOai Tptwv ovtcov tov dpiOpeov ev tl del, rj yap ola rjv rj e/JTLV, rj old (fyacnv /cal Bo/cel, rj ola etvai Bel. ravra 8’ i^ayyek- 2 kerac ke%et r/ /cal ykcoTTacs /cal pLera(f)o pals’ /cal 7 rokka rraOrj rrjs ke^ecos earl, BlBopeev 34. OidLirovs By water. 40. dwodex^OciL apogr. 6v addidi. 1460 b 2. noi'qaeie Heinsius : iroiT/aei codd. : tirolr/aev Spengel. 5. re apogr. : 5b A c . 8 . ttoLojv eldQv apogr. : 7 roluv &v eldCov A c . 11. tov dpiOphv vel T

coni. Vahlen : <77 Kvplq> Gomperz sec. Yahlen. 14. ical 6a d\\a TraOrj coni. Yahlen. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXIV. io— XXV. 2 97 irrational should, if possible, be excluded ; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play (as, in the Oedipus, the hero’s ignorance as to the manner of Lams’ death) ; not within the drama, — as in the Electra, the messenger’s account of the Pythian games ; or, as in the Mysians, the man who comes from Tegea to Mysia without speaking. The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous. Such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once it has been framed and an air of likelihood im- parted to it, the absurdity itself should be tolerated. Take the irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore of Ithaca. How in- tolerable even these might have been would be apparent 1460 d if an inferior poet were to treat the subject. As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the poetic charm with which the poet invests it. The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of 1 1 the action, where there is no expression of character or thought. For, conversely, character and thought are merely obscured by a diction that is over brilliant. XXV With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and nature of the sources from which they may be drawn may be thus exhibited. The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of necessity imitate one of three objects, — things as they were or are, things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be. The vehicle of expression is language, — either current 2 terms or, it may be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many modifications of language, which we H 98 XXY. 3 — 6. 1460 b 15 — 37 15 yap ravra TO69 rroeyrals. irpo 9 Be tovtois ovy y avry 3 opOori 79 early rys 'iro\LTUcrj<; /cal t % rroeyreKys ovBe aXXys reyvys /cal rroeyreKrp ?. avrys Be rfjs rroeyreKys Berry dpeaprea, y peev yap /caff avryv , 97 Be Kara avpefte- ftrjKos. el peep yap rrpoeeXero peepeyaaaOae dBvvapeeav, avry<; y dpeaprea • 66 Se ro irpoeXeaOae pey 6p6ws, dXXa rov 'ernrov apecjxD ra Be£ea rrpoftefiXyKbra y ro Ka& eKaary v reyvyv apedprypea olov ro Kar larpeKyv y aXXyv reyvyv dBvvara rrervoiyrae\ biroeavovv , ov KaO ’ eavryv . «ctt6 25 Ta eir ere pey pear a iv T069 7 rpo/3Xypeaaev €K rovrcov errecTKO'irovvra Xveev. Trpcbrov pee v el 7 rpo? avryv ryv 5 reyvyv dBvvara rzerroeyrae, ypedpryrae, dXX* opOcos ey ee , el rvyydvee rov reXov 9 toO avrys (to 7 yrrov eveBeyero vi rdpyeev Kal Kara ryv rrepl rovrcov reyvyv, [ ypeapryaOae ] ovk bp6cb< ?• 8e£ 7 19. ri addidi. jut? dpdus . . . 81 addidi : post /ufiT/aacrdoiL coni. Vahlen dpd&s, ijpLapTe 8 ’ iv ry pupLrjaacrdcu 8i\ 21. ei apogr. : 7 ) A c . 5 ta add. Ueberweg. 22. t i/i add. Vahlen. 24. i) aStivara 7reTrolriTou seclus. Diintzer : rix vr l v oiroiavovv [!)] advvara 7reTrotrjTcu Christ. 26. ei : ra A c , ei sup. scr. ra irpos air^v ttjv rix v V v " plerique edd. 27. ei add. Vahlen ante adtivara. 28. eipr/rcu : evprjTcu Heinsius : rrjpeLTCu M. Schmidt. 31. i) fxrj ?} ttov Ueberweg, ij ttov A c : ^ 9/ttov rec. A c , Vahlen. 32. ^ua/)r?7o-0ai seclus. By water, Ussing : ^dpr^rai Aid., Bekker: tt]v irepl toijtuv rexvrjv 7]fxapTrj(rdcu , Tucker. 37* ws coni. Vahlen. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXV. 3—6 99 concede to the poets. Add to this, that the standard of 3 correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any more than in poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there are two kinds of faults, — those which touch its essence, and those which are accidental. If a poet has proposed to himself to imitate something, 4 through want of capacity, the error is inherent in the poetry. But if the failure is due to the thing he has proposed to do — if he has represented a horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or introduced technical inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art — the error is not essential to the poetry. These are the points of view from which we should consider and answer the objections raised by the critics. First we will suppose the poet has represented things 5 impossible according to the laws of his own art. It is an error; but the error may be justified, if the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that already mentioned), — if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit of Hector. If, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without violating the special rules of the poetic art, the error is not justified : for every kind of error should, if possible, be avoided. Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some accident of it ? For example, — not to know that a hind has no horns is a less serious matter than to paint it inartistically. Further, if it be objected that the description is not 6 100 XXV. 6 — io. 1460 b 38—1461 a 16 Bel — olov /cal Xocjro/cXrjs ecfrrj avTos fie v oiovs Bel Tvoielv, T&vpi7TL8rjv Be oIol eiaLv — ravry XvTeov. el 8 e firjBeTepcos, 7 40 otl ovtco cjraalv • olov Ta irepl Oeco v, lctcos yap ovre /3e\rLov ovtco Xeyecv ovt d\rj6r }, aXX eTvyev I46iawcr7rep aevocjrdvei' d\\’ ovv cjracn. ra Be taco? ov /3e\Toov fiev, d)OC ovtco 9 el%ev } olov Ta 7 repl tcov o7r\cov, ey yea be crcpiv Up v ei n aavpcoTrjpos • 1 ovtco yap tot ivopu^ov, cocrirep /cal vvv ’I XkvpioL irepl Be tov 8 5 /caXcds rj firj /caXcos rj ecprjTal tlvl rj Treirpa/CTai , ov fiovov cnce'KTeov els ai/TO to rreirpayfievov rj elprjfievov j3\en rovTa, el airovBalov rj vXa/cas, /cal tov AoXcova “os p rj too elBos fie v erjv /ca/co 9 ” 3 ov to acbfia daijfi/ieTpov dXXa to TTpocrcoirov ala^pov, to yap evetBe 9 01 JZprjTes evi rpoa- 15 co7rov /caXovat • /cal to “ ^copOTepov Be /cepaie ” 4 ov to a/cpaTOV cos olvocjrXviijtv dXXa to Oclttov. to Be /caTa 10 1 Iliad x. 152. 2 lb. xxiii. Ill, 115 (Verrall), potius quam i. 50. 3 lb. x. 316. 4 lb. ix. 203. 39. Evpnrldrjv Heinsius: €vpurldr)s codd., tuetur Gomperz, cf. 1448 a 37 ( ddrjvaloi codd.). 40. ovtco apogr. : oiire A c . 41. el coni. Yahlen. 1461 a 1 . ^evocfodvec vel ^evocpdvrjs apogr. : £ evocpdvt) A c : irapd Eevofpdvec Ritter. odv Tyrwhitt : oi) A c , ovv rec. A c : ovtco Spengel. 7. el apogr.: A c . 8. Commate distinxi post Xlyovra: Tpbs 8v Carroll. olov i) A c : olov el apogr. 9. f) rec. A c add. 16. t6 8b A c : rd 8b Spengel. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXV. 6—9 101 true to fact, the poet may perhaps reply, — ‘ But the objects are as they ought to be ’ : just as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be ; Euripides, as they are. In this way the objection may be met. If, 7 however, the representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer, — ‘ This is how men say the thing is/ This applies to tales about the gods. It may well be that these stories are not higher than fact nor yet true to a fact : they are, very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, ‘ this is what is said/ Again, a description may be no better than the fact : ‘ still, it was the fact ’ ; as in the passage about the arms : ‘ Upright upon their butt-ends stood the spears/ This was the custom then, as it now is among the Illyrians. Again, in examining whether what has been said or 8 done by some one is poetically right or not, we must not look merely to the particular act or saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must also con- sider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, in whose interest, or for what end ; whether, for instance, it be to secure a greater good, or avert a greater evil. Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the 9 diction. We may note a rare word, as in ovpr/as puev 7 TpwTov, where the poet perhaps employs ovprjas not in the sense of mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of Dolon : ‘ ill-favoured indeed he was to look upon/ It is not meant that his body was ill-shaped, but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word evecSes, ‘ well- favoured/ to denote a fair face. Again, J coporepov Se Kepcue, ‘ mix the drink livelier/ does not mean * mix it stronger ’ as for hard drinkers, but ‘ mix it quicker. 102 XXV. io — 14. 1461 a 17 — 29 pLera(f>opav eLprjrcu, olov “ 7 rdvre<; pie v pa Oeou re /cal dvepe 9 E£8o*/ 7 ravvvyioi '” 1 apua Be c^T/acv “ rj toi or e? 7 reBlov to Tpcoc/cov dOpyjaeiev , AvAwv o-vplyycov O’ 20 opuaBov” 2 to Zcopa re irplv /ce/cpyroA Ta Be dpL(f>Lj 3 oXla, “ irapcp'^rj/cev Be irXeco 13 vvl; • ” 6 to 7 olvov 1 Iliad ii. 1, aXXoi p.bv pa deoL re Kal avbpes ITnroKopvaral eddou iravvijxt-oi. lb. x. 1, aWoi pbv 7r apa vrjvalv apiaries Havaxadv e88ov iravv^xi-OL. 2 Ib. x. 11, 9) tol 6V Trebiov Tb T pwiKbv adp'qaeiev, 6 at, aa$ev tt vpb. ttoXXcl ra Kaiero ’IXi60i irpb, avXtov avpL yyiov r ivoTrjv 8pa86v r’ avdp&Tuv. 3 lb. xviii. 489, o’lrj S’ dpp.op6s ban Xoerpwv ’Sltceavoio. 4 lb. xxi. 297, Sibopev 8e ol eSxos apeaOai. Sed in lliade ii. 15 (de quo hie agitur) Tpioeaai 8b icr/be erprjTrraL. 5 Ib. xxiii. 328, rb pbv ov KarairbideraL 8p.fipip. 6 lb. x. 251, paXa yap vb% dverai, byy 66 l 8’ tjios, tiarpa 8b Srj irpo^bp^Ke, Trapipx r l Kev ^ irXbuv vb£ rQv Svo poipd wv, rpiT&Tr] 8 ’ bn polpa XbXenrrai. 17. 7 ravres Grafenhan : HXXol A c . 18. iTnroKopvaral post avbpes add. Christ, habuit iam 2, cf. Arab. ‘ ceteri quidem homines et dei qui equis armati insident.’ 20. rod apogr. : om. A c . 26. elvai add. Yettori collato Athenaeo, x. 423. fapd Athenaeus : codd. re < S, > ir plv Gomperz sec. Bergk. 27. KeKprjTO A c , 1 rec. sup. scr. : KbicpLTo apogr. : &Kpr)ra Karsten ed. Empedocles. rrXeco A c : irXeov apogr.: irXeuv Aid. 28. irXeLoj : TrXeiov vel irXeov apogr. 29. olovovv add. Tucker. <8aa> tCjv KeKpap-evuv Vahlen: c8aa tto>tuv KeKpa/mevoju Ueberweg: nav KeK.pap.bvov Bursian : < bvia > olim conieci ante olvov. j ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXV. 10—14 103 Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as ‘ Now all 10 gods and men were sleeping through the night/ — while at the same time the poet says : ‘ Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marvelled at the sound of flutes and pipes.’ ‘ All ’ is here used metaphorically for ‘ many/ all being a species of many. So in the verse, — ‘ alone she hath no part . . / oXrj, ‘ alone/ is metaphorical; for the best known may be called the only one. Again, the solution may depend upon accent or 11 breathing. Thus Hippias of Thasos solved the difficulties in the lines, — BiBofiev (BiBo/nev) Be ol , and to fiev ov ( ov ) fcCLTCLTTvO 6TCLL 0/ji/3pCp. Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, 12 as in Empedocles, — ‘ Of a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to be immortal, and things un- mixed before mixed.’ Or again, by ambiguity of construction, — as in 13 r Kap(p n £r)icev Be ifXeco vv f, where the word irXeco is ambiguous. Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed 14 drink is called oho$, e wine.’ Hence Ganymede is said 104 XXV. i4 — 17- 1461 a 30 — 1461 b 11 30 aarLV elvai, \66ev TreiroiyTai “ /cvypus veoTev/cTOv /caa- crLTepoLo”~\ 1 06 ev eiprjrai 6 TavvpLrjBrjs “ A u oivo'^oevei? 2 ov ttlvovtwv olvov, /cal %a\/cea$ T009 tov crLBypov epya- fypLevovs. eXy 8’ av tovto ye Kara pberacpopdv. 15 Bel Be /cal orav ovopud tl VTrevavTLCOpud tl Bo/crj aypuaiveiv, 35 eiricncoTrelv Troaay&s av crrjpLaivoi tovto ev t&> elpypLevw, olov to “ Trj p eayeTo % dX/ceov e /f y%09,” 3 to TavTy /ccoXv- 16 Ofjvat 7rocra^w9 evBe^eTai. d>Bl <8e> [ fj <09] ploXlctt 1461 b av t ^9 v 7 ro\dj 3 oL, /caTa ttjv /caTavTL/cpv rj cb 9 TXav/ccov Xeyeo, otl evia dXoyco 9 TrpovTroXapi^dvovcnv /cal avTol /caTayfrTjcf/LcrdpLevoi, crvXXoy'i^ovTai /cal C09 elpy/coTos o to B o/cel eir ltl pbd)(T lv , av vrrrevavTiov y ttj avTcov olycret. 5 tovto Be ireirovOe Ta Trepl ’ l/cdpcov . oXovTai yap avTov Ad/ccova elvar cltottov ovv to puy ivTvyelv tov T-^Xe- pia^ov avT(p els A a/ceBaipbOva eXOovTa . to B ’ tcro)9 e%ei (bcnrep 01 lLe(f>aXrjve^ . . . rb radrri KwXvdrjvai [7ro(raxa)s] ^j/Se%erai durXQs, 7 ) 7ra)s paXiar’ &v ns k.t.X. M. Schmidt. 37. db addidi: 7 ) cos seclus. Bywater. <1 )5l 7 ) , ws coni. Yahlen: evS^x €T at ‘ &Si i) cos p dXtcrr’ dv ns vv oX&(3ol, Ueberweg. Interpunxerunt post cbdl et viroXdpoL plerique edd. 1461 b 2. £via : 6vlol Yettori. 3. elprjKbTos 6 tl Castelvetro : elpTjpbres 6n A c . 4. clvt&v Heinsius : avrCjv codd. 8 . avrcov Bekker : avrQv codd. 10 . 5l dpdpTTjpa Maggi: diapapTripa coda., Bekker. SrjGomperz: db codd. cIk6s banv Hermann, fort, recte: (cf. ec/c6s ban Gomperz). 11. 7r pbs Aid., Bekker, fort, recte. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXY. 14—17 105 ‘ to pour the wine to Zeus/ though the gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called %aX/cea<;, or workers in bronze. This, however, may also he taken as a metaphor. Again, when a word seems to involve some incon- 15 sistency of meaning, we should consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage. For 16 example : ‘ there was stayed the spear of bronze ’ — we should ask in how many ways we may take ‘being checked there.’ The true mode of interpretation is the b precise opposite of what Glaucus mentions. Critics, he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions ; they pass adverse judgment and then proceed to reason on it ; and, assuming that the poet has said whatever they happen to think, find fault if a thing is inconsistent with their own fancy. The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The critics imagine he was a Lacedae- monian. They think it strange, therefore, that Tele- machus should not have met him when he went to Lacedaemon. But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true one. They allege that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and that her father was Icadius not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that gives plausibility to the objection. In general, the impossible must be justified by 17 reference to artistic requirements, or to the higher 106 XXV. 17 — XXVI. I. 1461 b 12—31 rj 777)09 T7jv Bb£av Bee ddvyecv. 777)09 T6 7 dp rrjv Trolrjcnv alpercorepov TreOavov dBvvarov rj dirlOavov Kai Bvvarov. tolovtov 9 elvae, dlov 9 ZeOfj-9 15 eypacfrev, dWa fteXnov to 7a/) rrapaBeiypia Bel virep- e^ecv. 777009 < 8 ’> a (/xktlv, raXoya' ovtcd re /cal otl 7TOT6 OO/C CtXoyOV i(TTLV €L/cb$ yap Kai TTapd TO 66/C09 7 iveaOat. ra B ’ virevavricD^ elprjpieva ovtcd cncoirelv , 18 cbcnrep 01 iv Tot9 Xoyoc? eXey^ot, el to auTo /cal 777)09 to 20 aoTO /cal (baavTcos, ware /cal Xvreov rj irpos a avros Xeyee rj o av (frpovopbos VTToOrjrai . opOrj B * erriTipj^ai^ 19 /cal dXoyla /cal pLo^drjpla, orav perj dvay/cr 79 ovcrrjs purjOev ^pyarjTai too dXoycp, ebenrep ILvpnrlBv)? too Alyet, rj rfj Trovrjpla , ebenrep iv * Opearrj rod ALeveXaov. rd peev ovv 20 25 imTLpjrjpiaTa i/c rrevre elBcbv cftepovcriv, rj yap 009 dBvvara fj cb 9 aXoya rj 009 /3Xa/3epd rj cb 9 vi revavrla rj cb 9 Trap a rrjv bpOorrjTa rrjv Kara re^vrjv. al Be XvcreL<$ i/c twv elprjpeevcov dpeOpeMV (TKeirreae , elcrlv Be BcbBe/ca. XXVI 7 rorepov Be / 3 eXrLcov rj iiroTTOUKr] f. upurjo-Ls rj rj Tpayuci ], 30 BiairopYjaeiev av T 69 . et 7a/) ?7 rjrrov (jyopri/cr) fteXTicov, TOiavTTj B ’ rj 777009 / 3 eXrlov 9 Oeara 9 iaruv del , Aiaz> BrjXov 14. Gomperz, sec. Margoliouth, collato Arabe (‘fortasse enim impossibile est . . .’): /cat et abivarov iam coni. Vahlen. oi'ous Aid., Bekker : oZ'oj' codd. 16. 5’ add. Ueberweg (coni. Yablen). 18. v-irevavrius Twining, cf. Arab, ‘quae dicta sunt in modum contrarii ’ : us virevavria Heinsius : inr evavrla us codd. 20. (bare Kai axnbv codd. : (bare Kai \vt£ov M. Schmidt : outus re Kai et /ca0’ avrbv coni. Christ. 21. pirjdbv Gomperz. 23. rip Aiyei J) ry apogr. (margo) : ru aiyei'fjTri A c . 29. fieXrluv apogr. : P^Ktiov A e . 31. 5’ rj apogr. : 5tj A c . det, \lav Yahlen : beCKlav codd. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXY. 17— XXVI. 1 107 reality, or to received opinion. With respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to be preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again, it may be impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. Wes/ we say, ‘but the impossible is the higher thing ; for the ideal type must surpass the reality. 5 To justify the irrational, we appeal to what is commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational sometimes does not violate reason ; just as 'it is probable that a thing may happen contrary to probability. 5 Things that sound contradictory should be examined 18 by the same rules as in dialectical refutation — whether the same thing is meant, in the same relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve the question by reference to what the poet says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence. The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity 19 of character, are justly censured when there is no inner necessity for introducing them. Such is the irrational element in the Aegeus of Euripides, and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes. Thus, there are five sources from which critical 20 objections are drawn. Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or morally hurtful, or contra- dictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The answers should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned. XXYI The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of audience, 108 XXVI. i — 4. 1461 b 32 — 1462 a 17 otl rj airavTa pLLpLovpLevrj tyopTUcr)' &)? yap ov/c alcrOavo- puevcov av pur] avros irpocrOf), 7 rokkrjv /CLvrjGLV Kivovvrai , olov oi (pavkoL avkrjTal rcvkLopLevoL av Blareov Bey pLLpeeZ- 35 dOaiy KaX ek/covTes rov rcopvejiaZov av 2 rcvkkav avkwaLV' 97 peev ov v TpaywBla TOLavTy iarlv, w? real ol irpOTepov 2 rov 9 i icrTepovs avTMV (povro vTTorcpiTas' klav yap vi rep/3dWovra irlOrj/cov 6 M vvvlcncos rov }LaXkLirir IBrjv 1462 a i/edkeL, TOLavTij Be Bo^a real 7 repl YltvBapov rjv 009 8’ ovtol eyoven irpb? avTovs, 97 oky Teyvrj 77-/009 ttjv eiroiroLLav eyer rrjv peev ovv 77/009 Oeara 9 eirLeLrceZs (fiaertv elvai ovBev Beovrac tw v cryypLdTCDV, Tyv Be rpayt,- 5 reyv 7 T / 0 O 9 (fravkov 9 * el ovv efropTL/cy, yelpcov Bykov otl av 3 eerj. irpwTov peev ov Ty 9 iroLyTL/cys y reaTyyopla dkka T979 VTroiepLTLierjs, eirel eari irepLepyd^eaOaL toZ 9 ( TypLeioL? teal pa'^rwBovvra, 07rep [ecrTt] 2 ooo-/< 7 T/ooto 9 , /cat BtaBovra , oirep ei rolec IS/LvacriOeos 6 ’ Oitovvtlo 9 . etTa 10 ou8e nivycrLS aira&a diroBorcLp^acrTea , elVe/o /0978 opyrjcrLS, dkk’ 97 9 ou/c ekevOepas yvvaZrcas pupLovpuevcov. ctl 97 rpayeoBla real avev ravrjerews iroiel to ai)Tys, cocrirep 97 eiroiroda * 8m 70-/0 too dvayLvcba/eeLV (pavepa oirola Tt 9 15 ifiTLV' el ovv ecrTL tcl y dkka /cpelrrcov, tovto ye ovre dvayreaZov avrrj virdpyeiv. ccttl 8 ’ ei rel tcl irdvT eyeL 4 oaairep 97 iiroiroLLa, real yap too /aeT/oco e^ecrTL ypycrOaL, 33. tavovvrai apogr. : kivovvtol A c . 1462 a 2 . £% ou(ri apogr. : 5’ ^Xoi'ct A c . avTobs Hermann : avrovs codd. 4. oi' add. Yettori : eirel Christ. 5. el apogr. : rj A c . 6. o&v add. Bywater, Ussing. 8. tori seclus. Spengel. 9. diydovra apogr. : 8iad6vra A c . 13. avrrjs apogr. : ai jrrjs A c . 16. avrrj apogr. : airy A c . lari 5’ lirel rd Gomperz : ‘lari 5’, 8n Usener : lireira 5i6n codd. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXVI. 1—4 109 the art which imitates anything and everything is manifestly most unrefined. The audience is supposed to he too dull to comprehend unless something of their own is thrown in by the performers, who therefore indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if they have to represent ‘the quoit-throw/ or hustle the coryphaeus when they perform the ‘ Scylla.’ Tragedy, 2 it is said, has this same defect. We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their suc- cessors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides ‘ ape ’ on account of the extravagance of his action, and the same 1462 a view was held of Pindarus. Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture ; Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being then 3 unrefined, it is evidently the lower of the two. Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic hut to the histrionic art ; for gesticulation may he equally overdone in epic recitation, as by Sosi- stratus, or in lyrical competition, as by Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned — any more than all dancing — but only that of bad per- formers. Such was the fault found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are censured for representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces its effect even without action ; it reveals its power by mere reading. If, then, in all other respects it is superior, this fault, we say, is not inherent in it. And superior it is, because it has all the epic 4 elements — it may even use the epic metre — with the 110 XXYI. 4 — 8. 1462 a 18 — 1462 b 20 real eri ov pu/epov puepos Tyv pLovero/eyv /cal t«? by/rei?, Bt a? at yBoval crvviarTavTai ivapryearara, elra /cal to 20 evapyes e^ei /cal iv ry avayvoaaei /cal £7 rl tcov epycov. 1462 b en tg 3 £v eXaTTOvi puy/cei to reXo? tt}? pupLyaeco^ elvar 5 to yap aOpocorepov tjBlov rj 7 toXXm /ce/cpapuevov tc 3 y^povcp' Xeyco 8 ’ olov el tl$ tov OlBlirovv Oely tov 2 ocf>o/cXeovs £v eireauv ocrot? y 'TXlcls. ere tjttov [77] pbla pLipLyaL? y 6 5 rcb v iiroTvoioiV' aypuelov Be' £/c yap orroiaaovv [pupiycrecos] irXeiovs rpaywBlai yivovTai • wcrTe puev eva puvOov 'Troiwaiv, y / 3 pa%ecos Beucvvpuevov puvovpov cfralvecrOai, rj a/coXovO ovvt a tg 3 crvpupueTptp puy/cet vBapy. * * Xeyco Be olov £av e/c TrXetovcov Trpa^ecov y avy/ceopLevy, ibcrirep y 10 ’I Xias 7 roXXa roiavra pulpy /cal y ’O Bvaaeca a /cal / caO * eavra e^ei pueyeOov /calrob ravra ra irobypuara avvecrry/cev co? ivSe^erac apiara /cal otl puaXiara puas TTpa^ecos puipuycrLS. el ovv tovtol 9 re Biatyepet iracnv /cal 7 €tl to 3 Tys Te'xyy? epyco (Set yap ov Tyv Tv^ovaav yBovyv 1 5 7 roielv avras aXXa Tyv elpypuevyv), cjravepov otl /cpetTTcov av ely puaXXov tov TeXovs Tvyyavovcra Trj 9 eTTOTOiias. 7 repl puev ovv TpaycpBlas /cal £tt otto ila<$, /cal avTcbv 8 /cal tmv elBcbv /cal tmv puepcov, /cal irocra /cal tl Bcac/repei, /cal tov ev rj puy Tive 9 alriai, /cal Trepl £7 TiTipuyarecov Kal 20 Xvcrecov, elpyaOco ToaavTa. *- * * 18. Kal ras fleets seclus. Spengel : collocavit post ivapyiarara Gomperz, qui 5 C legit: Kal tt)v 6\piv Aid., Bekker. di &s vel ats coni. Yahlen: be fjs codd. 20. avayvi baei Maggi : dvay vioplaei A c . 21. rep : rb Winstanley, Gomperz. 1462 b 2. i)biov if) Maggi : rjdelov •¥) apogr. : ■f]bovT) A c . 3. del.7] deiri A c . 4. Alt. rj om. Aid. 5. /up-rjaecos seclus. Gomperz. 7. pelovpov Gomperz praeeunte Tyrwhitt, fort, recte. 8. avp/jArpip Bernays : tov ptrpov codd. Post vdapr), < iav di i rXefovs > Aid., Bekker : < \iyu di olov * * civ di prj, ov pda rj plp^cris > supplendum coni. Yahlen: dav di tt \ dovs, oti pea i] pLprjcrLs> Teichmiiller : c&Wios di ttolklKov > Gomperz. 10. & add. apogr. 11. Kalrot ravra rd Aid. : Kal roeavr drra A c et plerique codd. 19. 1) apogr. : el A°. ARISTOTLE’S POETICS XXVI. 4—8 111 music and scenic effects as important accessories ; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further, it has vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation. Moreover, the art attains its end within 5 1462 b narrower limits ; for the concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as long as the Iliad ? Once more, the Epic imitation 6 has less unity ; as is shown by this, — that any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several tragedies. Now if the story he worked into a unity, it will, if concisely told, appear truncated ; or, if it conform to the Epic canon of length, it will seem weak and watery. # # # What I mean by a story composed of several actions may be illustrated from the Iliad and Odyssey, which have many parts, each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect as possible in structure ; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation of a single action. If, then, Tragedy is superior to Epic poetry in all these 7 respects, and, moreover, fulfils its specific function better as an art — for each art ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it, as already stated — it plainly follows that Tragedy is the higher art, as attaining its end more perfectly. Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic 8 poetry in general ; their several kinds and parts, with the number of each and their differences ; the causes that make a poem good or bad ; the objections of the critics and the answers to these objections. # * # ARISTOTLE’S THEORY OF POETRY AND THE FINE ARTS CHAPTER I ART AND NATURE Aristotle, it must be premised at the outset, has not dealt with fine art in any separate treatise, he has formulated no theory of it, he has not marked the organic relation of the arts to one another. While his love of logical distinctions, his tendency to rigid demarcation, is shown even in the province of literary criticism by the care with which in the Poetics he maps out the subordinate divisions of his subject (the different modes of recognition, the elements of the plot, etc.), yet he nowhere classifies the various kinds of poetry ; still less has he given a scientific grouping of the fine arts and exhibited their specific differences. We may con- fidently assert that many of the aesthetic problems which have been since raised never even occurred to his mind, though precise answers to almost all such questions have been extracted from his writings i 114 POETRY AND FINE ART by the unwise zeal of his admirers. He has how- ever left some leading principles which we shall endeavour to follow out. There is a special risk at the present day at- tending any such attempt to bring together his fragmentary remarks and present them in a con- nected form. His philosophy has in it the germs of so much modern thought that we may, almost without knowing it, find ourselves putting into his mouth not his own language but that of Hegel. Nor is it possible to determine by general rules how far the thought that is implicit in a philo- sophical system, but which the author himself has not drawn out, is to be reckoned as an integral part of the system. In any case, however, Aristotle’s Poetics cannot be read apart from his other writings. No author is more liable to be misunderstood if studied piecemeal. The careless profusion^with which he throws out the suggestions of the moment, leaving it to the intelligence or the previous knowledge of his readers to adjust his remarks and limit their scope, is in itself a possible source of misapprehension. It was an observation of Goethe that it needs some insight into Aristotle’s general philosophy to understand what he says about the drama ; that otherwise he confuses our studies ; and that modern treatises on poetry^have gone astray by seizing some accidental side of his doctrine. If it is necessary, then, to ART AND NATURE 115 interpret Aristotle by himself, it will not be unfair in dealing with so coherent a thinker to credit him with seeing the obvious conclusions which flow from his principles, even when he has not formally stated them. To bring out the lines of attachment which subsist between the correlated parts of his system is a very different thing from discovering in him ideas which, even if present in the germ, could only have ripened in another soil and under other skies. The distinction between fine and useful art was first brought out fully by Aristotle. In the history of Greek art we are struck rather by the union between the two forms of art than by their independence. It was a loss for art when the spheres of use and beauty came in practice to be dissevered, when the useful object ceased to be decorative, and the things of common life no longer gave delight to the maker and to the user. But the theoretic distinction between fine and useful art needed to be laid down, and to Aristotle we owe the first clear conception of fine art as a free and independent activity of the mind, outside the domain both of religion and of politics, having an end distinct from that of education or moral improvement. He has not indeed left us any continuous discussion upon fine art. The Poetics furnishes no complete theory even of poetry, nor is it probable that this is altogether due to the 116 POETRY AND FINE ART imperfect form in which this treatise has come clown to us. But Aristotle is a systematic thinker, and numberless illustrations and analogies drawn from one or other of the arts, and scattered through his writings, show that he had given special attention to the significance of art in its widest sense ; and that as he had formed a coherent idea of the place which art held in relation to nature, science, and morality, so too he had in his own mind thought out the relation in which the two branches of art stood to one another. ‘ Art imitates nature ’ (rj rexvrj fufieirai rrjv (frvatv), says Aristotle, and the phrase has been repeated and has passed current as a summary of the Aristotelian doctrine of fine art. Yet the original saying was never intended to differentiate between fine and useful art ; nor indeed could it possibly bear the sense that fine art is a copy or reproduction of natural objects. The use of the term 4 nature ’ would in itself put the matter beyond dispute ; for nature in Aristotle is not the outward world of created things ; it is the creative force, the productive principle of the universe. The context in each case where the phrase occurs determines its precise application. In the Physics 1 the point of the comparison is that alike in art and in nature there is the union of matter ( vXrj) with constitutive form (eZSo?), and that the knowledge 1 Phys. ii. 2. 194 a 21. ART AND NATURE 117 of both elements is requisite for the natural philosopher as for the physician and the architect. In the Meteorologica 1 the reference is to cooking as an artificial mode of producing results similar to those produced by the spontaneous action of heat in the physical world ; digestion (7 re^t?) itself (according to the medical theory of the day) being given as an instance of a process of cooking carried on by nature within the body. In the instances above quoted 4 art ’ is limited by the context to useful art ; but the analogy does not rest there. Art in its widest acceptation has, like nature, certain ends in view, and in the adaptation of means to ends catches hints from nature who is already in some sort an unconscious artist. While art in general imitates the method of nature, the phrase has special reference to useful art, which learns from nature the precise end at which to aim. In the selection of the end she acts with infallible instinct, and her endeavour to attain it is on the whole successful. But at times she makes mistakes as indeed do the schoolmaster and 1 Meteor, iv. 3. 381 b 6. The phrase ‘Art imitates Nature 5 is also found in de Mundo 5. 396 b 12, which, however, cannot be reckoned among the genuine Aristotelian writings. There the order of the universe is explained to result from a union of opposites ; and three illustrations, derived from painting, music, and grammar, are added of the mode in which art, in imitating nature’s diversity, works out harmonious results. 118 POETRY AND FINE ART the physician ; 1 failures rather than mistakes they should be called, for the fault is not hers ; her rational intention is liable to be frustrated by inherent flaws in the substances with which she is compelled to work. She is subject to limitations, and can only make the best of her material . 2 The higher we ascend in the scale of being, the more does nature need assistance in carrying out her designs. Man, who is her highest creation, she brings into the world more helpless than any other animal, — unshod, unclad, unarmed . 3 But in his seeming imperfection lies man’s superiority, for the fewer the finished appliances with which he is provided, the greater is his need for intellectual effort. By means of the rational faculty of art, with which nature has endowed him richly, he is able to come to her aid, and in ministering to his own necessities to fulfil her uncompleted purposes. Where from any cause nature fails, art steps in. Nature aims at producing health ; in her restorative processes we observe an instinctive capacity for self-curing . 4 But she does not always succeed, and the art of the physician makes good the defect. 1 Phys. ii. 8. 199 a 33. 2 Cf. de Part. Anim. iv. 10. 687 a 15, rj Se (fivcris €k twv ivbe^o/ievwv 7roiei to /3iX,TL(TTov. 3 De Part. Anim. iv. 10. 687 a 24. 4 Phys. ii. 8. 199 b 30, dxrr 5 et iv tyj ri\vrj evecrri rb eve/ca tov , Kttt iv (favo'ei. fiaXoTTa Se SrjXov orav ns larpevr) avros iavrov TOVTIQ yap €01K€V rj vcreL ttoXitlkov fyov. 3 Pol. iv. (vii.) 17. 1337 a 1—2, irdara yap re^vr] Kal iracdeLa to TTpoaXetTrov f3ovXerat tt)s (frvcre cos dvarrXrjpovv. The context here, in its reference to education, limits the scope of tc ^ vt / to useful art. In Phys. ii. 8. 199 a 15, rj Te\vrj t7ip,a, elfccov). 2 Thus the creations of art are, as it were, pictures which exist for the ‘ phantasy/ Of this faculty, however, Aristotle does not give a very clear or consistent account. He defines it as 4 “ the movement which results upon an actual sensation ” : more simply we may define it as the after-effect of a sensation, the continued presence of an impression after the object which first excited it has been withdrawn from actual ex- perience/ 3 As such it is brought in to explain the illusions of dreaming and other kindred 1 De Interpret, i. 1. 16 a 3, ecrrt plv ovv ra kv rrj (fnovfj rwv kv rrj ipvxj] TraOrjpaTitiv crvpfloXa , koll t f JLara ov 7ro lovct lv opoievs. Again in Probl. xix. 27. 919 b 26, the similar question 8ia rt to olkovcttov povov rjQovcrLv /xaAAov. Plato Tim. 47 D ,rj 8k ap/xovta ^vyyeveis eyovva (fropas Tats e v rjpLtv rrjs xpv^rj^ 7T€/hoSois. 1 Physiognom. i. 2. 806 a 28, e/c re yap twv KLvrjcrewv vcrLoyvo )- pLOVovcn , /cat e/c twv cr^/xartov, /cat e/c tw v ^pw/xarwv, /cat e/c twv rjOwv twv €7rt tov TTpocrwirov e/x<£atvo/xe va>v. 806 b 28, ra 8k (T^r/iiara /cat ra TradrjpLara ra €7rt<£atro/xeva e7rt twv TrpocrwTvwv Kara ras o/xoiorryras Aa/x/3averat tw 7ra#et. ‘ IMITATION ’ AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 135 Aristotle no doubt holds that sound is unequalled in its power of direct expression, but he does not deny that colour and form too have a similar capacity though in an inferior degree. The instinctive move- ments of the limbs, the changes of colour produced on the surface of the body, are something more than arbitrary symbols ; they imply that the body is of itself responsive to the animating soul, which leaves its trace on the visible organism. Painting and sculpture working through an inert material cannot indeed reproduce the life of the soul in all its variety and successive manifesta- tions. In their frozen and arrested movement they fix eternally the feeling they portray. A single typical moment is seized and becomes representative of all that precedes or follows. Still shape and line and colour even here retain something of their significance, they are in their own degree a natural image of the mind ; and their meaning is helped out by symmetry, which in the arts of repose answers to rhythm, the chief vehicle of expression in the arts of movement. Aristotle does not himself notice the analogy between dancing and sculpture, which is brought out by later writers, but he would have perfectly apprehended the feeling which sug- gested the saying , 4 The statues of the classic artists are the relics of ancient dancing .’ 1 The corres- 1 Athen. xiv. 26 p. 629, ecrrt 8e kol tcjl t wv apya'aov Srjpuovpywv ayaXpara rrjs 7raAcuas XtL\pava. 136 POETRY AND FINE ART pondence lies in the common element of rhythmic form. This, which was the soul of Greek music and Greek dancing, would not on Aristotle’s general principles lose all its expressive power when trans- ferred to the material of the plastic arts, modified though it may be in the transference. Even dancing, we read in the Poetics , x imitates character, emotion, action. The expressive power of dancing, admitted by Aristotle and by all Greek tradition, receives its most instructive commentary in Lucian’s pamphlet on the subject, which, when due allowance is made for exaggeration and the playful gravity so characteristic of the writer, is still inspired by an old Greek sentiment. Rhetori- cians and musicians had already written treatises on the art, and Lucian in handling the same theme imitates their semi-philosophic manner. Dancing is placed in the front rank of the fine arts, and all the sciences are made contributory to it. The dancer must have a fine genius, a critical judgment of poetry, a ready and comprehensive memory ; like Homer’s Calchas he must know the past, the present, and the future. Above all he needs to have mastered all mythology from chaos and the origin of the universe down to Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, and to be able to reproduce the legends in their spirit and their details. He must avoid the ‘terrible solecisms’ of some ignorant performers. Like the orator he 1 Poet. i. 5. ‘ IMITATION 5 AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 137 should aim at being always perspicuous ; he must be understood though he is dumb and heard though he says nothing. Dancing is not inferior to tragedy itself in expressive capacity ; it is descriptive of every shade of character and emotion. Moreover it harmonises the soul of the spectator, trains the moral sympathies, and acts as a curative and quieting influence on the passions. Poetry unlike the other arts produces its effects (except such as depend on metre) through symbols alone. It cannot directly present form and colour to the eye ; it can only employ words to call up images of the objects to be represented ; nor need these words be audible ; they may be merely written symbols. The sign too and the thing signified are not here so linked together by obvious suggestion that their meaning is at once and everywhere appre- hended ; they vary with race and country, they cannot claim to be a universal language. Yet poetry, though it makes use of symbols which have to be interpreted by the mind, is no exception to Aris- totle’s principle that fine art is not a body of symbols. The image it presents is not one which through artificial means or remote associa- tion reminds us of a reality already known. Though signs are the medium of expression, the representation is not purely symbolical ; for the signs are those significant words which in life are the natural and familiar medium by which thought 138 POETRY AND FINE ART and feeling are revealed. The world which poetry creates is not explicitly stated by Aristotle to be a likeness or o/jiOLoo/jua of an original, but this is implied all through the Poetics. The original which it reflects is human action and character in all their diverse modes of manifestation ; no other art has equal range of subject matter, nor can present so complete and satisfying an image of its original. In the drama the poetic imitation of life attains its perfect form ; but it is here also that the idea of imitation in its more rudimentary sense is at once apparent ; speech has its counterpart in speech, and, if the play is put on the stage, action is rendered by action. Indeed the term imitation, as popularly applied to poetry, was probably suggested to the Greeks by those dramatic forms of poetry in which acting or recitation produced an impression allied to that of mimicry. Poetry, music, and dancing constitute in Aris- totle a group by themselves, their common element being imitation by means of rhythm — rhythm which admits of being applied to words, sounds, and the movements of the body . 1 The history of these arts bears out the views we find expressed in Greek writers upon the theory of music ; it is a witness to the primitive unity of music and poetry, and to the close alliance of the two with dancing. 1 Poet. i. 2—5. On the unity of this group cf. Prickard, Aristotle on the Art of Poetry (Macmillan 1891), pp. 19-21. ‘ IMITATION ’ AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 139 Together they form a natural triad, and illustrate a characteristic of the ancient world to retain as indi- visible wholes branches of art or science which the separative spirit of modern thought has broken up into their elements. The intimate fusion of the three arts afterwards known as the ‘ musical ’ arts — or rather we should perhaps say, the alliance of music and dancing under the supremacy of poetry — was exhibited even in the person of the artist. The office of the poet as teacher of the chorus demanded a practical knowledge of all that passed under the term ‘ dancing/ including steps, gestures, attitudes, and the varied resources of rhythmical movement. Aeschylus, we are told , 1 ‘ was the in- ventor of many orchestic attitudes,’ and it is added that the ancient poets were called orchestic, not only because they trained their choruses, but also because they taught choral dances outside the theatre to such as wished to learn them. 4 So wise and honourable a thing,’ says Athenaeus , 2 c was dancing that Pindar calls Apollo the dancer,’ and he quotes the words : ’O pxw t '> ayTuria? dvdaaoov, eupv(f)dp€Tp ’ roWov. Improvements in the technique of music or in the construction of instruments are associated with many names well known in the history of poetry. The poet, lyric or dramatic, composed the accom- paniment as well as wrote the verses ; and it was 1 Athenaeus i. 40. 2 xiv. 26. 140 POETRY AND FINE ART made a reproach against Euripides, who was the first to deviate from the established usage, that he sought the aid of Iophon, son of Sophocles, in the musical setting of his dramas. The very word 7 TOLrjrrjs £ poet ’ in classical times often implies the twofold character of poet and musician, and in later writers is sometimes used, like our ‘ composer/ in a strictly limited reference to music. Aristotle does full justice to the force of rhythmic form and movement in the arts of music and dancing. The instinctive love of melody and rhythm is, again, one of the two causes to which he traces the origin of poetry, 1 but he lays little stress on this element 1 I take the two out tat voukcu ( Poet. iv. 1 ) of poetry to be ( 1 ) the instinct of /xt/^o-is, regarded as a primitive mode of learning (iv. 2-5), and (2) the instinct for ap/Aovca and pv6p.os (iv. 6 ). The whole passage gains much by this interpretation. The objection to it is the abruptness with which the instinct for harmony and rhythm is introduced in § 6 , so as to suggest a doubt whether there is not after § 5 a lacuna in the text, in which harmony and rhythm were mentioned as the second cause. Mr. R. P. Hardie (in Mind , vol. iv. No. 15) would account for the abruptness of § 6 in another way : ‘ I would suggest that the transition to the second airca is to be found in the preceding sentence, which is to the effect that when an object imitated has not been seen before, so that the pleasure of recognition cannot be present, there may still be pleasure, which “ will be due, not to the imitation as such, but to the execution ( aTrepyavia ), the colour- ing (xpoid), or some such cause.” Here plainly two kinds of pleasure which are necessarily independent are referred to, and there is no difficulty in supposing an-epyaa-La and \poid to be intended by Aristotle to correspond roughly in ypa(fnKrj to app,ovia and pvOpios in ^ 0177 x 1 / 07 .’ The ordinary interpretation makes the two cur tat to be the ‘ IMITATION 5 AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 141 in estimating the finished products of the poetic art. In the Rhetoric 1 he observes that if a sentence has metre it will be poetry ; but this is said in a popular way. It was doubtless the received opinion, 2 but it is one which he twice combats in the Poetics , insisting that it is not metrical form that makes a poem. 3 In one of these passages (ch. i. 7-9) he goes a step farther and presents what instinct of imitation, and the pleasure derived from imitation. This interpretation is open to the objection that it gives us not two independent ah loll but two tendencies, both of which are referred to the same alrta, — namely, the natural love of knowledge. 1 Rhet. iii. 8. 1408 b 30, Slo pvOpov Seu e^etv tov Aoyov, fierpov Se par)' Troirjpa yap ecrrat. 2 Cf. Plato Phaedr. 258 E, ev phpcg ws ttoltjttjs, fj avev perpov ws iSaoTrjs : and Repub. x. 601 B on the KTjXrjo-is of melody and rhythm : stripped of these adornments poetical compositions are like faces from which the bloom of youth is gone. Gorg. 502 C, €t tls TrepikXoiTO rrjs 7rot^crews 7rdcrr]S to re peXos Kal rov pvOpov Kal to perpov , dAAo tl t) Xoyoi ycyvovrai to Xenropevov ; 3 Poet. i. 6-9 ; ix. 2, cf. 9. See also the quotation from Aristotle preserved in Athenaeus xi. 112 (where, however, the text as it stands is hardly sound), ’A/ho-totcA^s Se kv ro> 7 re pi 7 toly)T(ov ovtqjs y packet “ ovkovv ov8e kpptTpovs (?) tovs KaXovpevovs '2w(f)povos plpovs pr) (fatopev elvai Xoyovs Kal pcpr/a-eis rj robs 5 AAe£a pevov tov T rjiov tovs 7 rpwrous (? i rpoTepov) ypakvTas twi/ EwKpaTtKwv StaAdycov ; 55 ‘ Are we therefore to deny that the mimes of Sophron ’ (whose very name shows that they are imitative or mimetic), ‘ though in no way metrical, — or again the dialogues of Alexamenus of Teos, the first (?) Socratic dialogues that were written, — are prose and at the same time imitations (and hence, poetic compositions) ? ’ On this passage see Bernays, Zwei A bhand- lungen iiber die Aristotelische Theorie des Drama , p. 83. Cf. Diog. Laert. iii. 37, (farjal S’ ’ Apio-TOTeXgs tyjv tCjv Aoywv ISkav a vtov (nAdrwvos) ptTa^v TTOirjpaTos ecvac Kal 7 re£ov Xoyov. 142 POETRY AND FINE ART appears to have been at the time an original view. Poetry, he explains, is a form of artistic and its essence lies rather in the 4 imitation ’ of the idea than in the mere versification. Within the field of literature he recalls actual examples of such artistic ‘imitation/ even in prose writings, and notes the want of a common term which would embrace every imaginative delineation of life that employs language as its medium of expression. In illustration of his point he mentions different kinds of literary composition, which have not hitherto been brought under a single distinctive designation, — (1) the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the dialogues of Plato, all of them prose compositions of a dramatic or semi-dramatic character : (2) verse compositions, whether written in a single metre or in heterogeneous metres. The obvious suggestion of the passage is that the meaning of the word ‘ poet ’ should be widened so as to include any writer, either in prose or verse, whose work is an 6 imitation 5 within the aesthetic meaning of the term. 1 1 The general sense of the passage (Poet. i. 6-9) is clear, though the text offers difficulties in detail. In § 6 XJeberweg’s deletion of €7ro7roua and Bernays’ admirable conjecture dva>vv/jLos are both confirmed by the Arabic version and may be accepted without hesitation. Again in § 6 (jlovov rots Adyois I understand to mean ‘ by language alone ’ (i.e. without music), x//lXols 1 without metre ’ (as e.g. Rhet. iii. 2. 1404 b 14 where kv Se tols xpiXots Aoyots is opposed to €7 rt tmv fxerpo)v\ ipcXos as usual implying the absence of some accompaniment or adjunct which is suggested by the ‘ IMITATION ’ AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 143 The general question whether metre is necessary for poetical expression has been raised by many modern critics and poets, and has sometimes been answered in the negative, as by Sidney, Shelley, context. The order of words 701s Aoyois xpcXots instead of 701s \pi\oLS Aoyois is due to the pause in the sense at /zovov rots Aoyois, at which point xJ/lXols comes in with a predicative force as if the whole phrase were to be i/aAois rj kpL^erpois : rots fierpo is, however, is substituted for ippcerpoLs. In § 9 o/xoiws Se k). 2 Aristotelische Forschungen, ii. 364. ‘ IMITATION 5 AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 147 is said in verse, the other in prose. There are some lyrics which have lived and will always live by their musical charm, and by a strange magic that lies in the setting of the words. We need not agree with a certain modern school who would empty all poetry of poetical thought and etherealise it till it melts into a strain of music ; who sing to us we hardly know of what, but in such a way that the echoes of the real world, its men and women, its actual stir and conflict, are faint and hardly to be discerned. The poetry, we are told, resides not in the ideas conveyed, not in the blending of soul and sense, but in the sound itself, in the cadence of the verse. Yet, false as this view may be, it is not perhaps more false than that other which wholly ignores the effect of musical sound and looks only to the thought that is conveyed. Aristotle comes peril- ously near this doctrine, and was saved from it, we may conjecture — if indeed he was saved — only by an instinctive reluctance to bid defiance to the traditional sentiment of Greece. His omission of architecture from the list of the fine arts may also cause surprise to modern readers ; for here, as in sculpture, the artistic greatness of Greece stands undisputed. In this, however, he is merely following the usage of his countrymen who reckoned architecture among the useful arts. It was linked to the practical world. 148 POETRY AND FINE ART It sprang out of the needs of civic and religious life, and the greatest triumphs of the art were connected with public faith and worship. To a Greek the temple, which was the culmination of architectural skill, was the house of the god, the abode of his image, a visible pledge of his pro- tecting presence. At the same time, — and this was the decisive point — architecture had not the c imitative ’ quality which was regarded as essential to fine art. Modern writers may tell us that its forms owe their origin to the direct suggestions of the physical world — of natural caverns or forest arches — and in the groined roof they may trace a marked resemblance to an avenue of interlacing trees. Such resemblances, however, are much fainter in Greek than in Gothic architecture ; apart from which the argument from origin would here be as much out of place, as it would be to main- tain, in relation to music, that the reason why people now enjoy Beethoven is, that their earliest ancestors of arboreal habits found musical notes to be a telling adjunct to love-making. Be the origin of architecture what it may, it is certain that the Greeks did not find its primitive type and model in the outward universe. A building as an organic whole did not call up any image of a world outside itself, though the method of architecture does remind Aristotle of the structural method of nature. Even if architecture IMITATION ’ AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 149 liad seemed to him to reproduce the appearances of the physical universe, it would not have satisfied his idea of artistic imitation ; for all the arts imitate human life in some of its manifestations, and imitate material objects only so far as these serve to interpret spiritual and mental processes. The decorative element in Greek architecture is alone 4 imitative ’ in the Aristotelian sense, being indeed but a form of sculpture ; but sculpture does not constitute the building, nor is it, as in Gothic architecture, an organic part of the whole. The metopes in a Greek temple are, as it were, a setting for a picture, a frame into which sculptural repre- sentations may be fitted, but the frame is not always filled in. The temple itself, though con- structed according to the laws of the beautiful, though realising, as we might say, the idea of the beautiful, yet is not ‘ imitative ’ ; it does not, according to Greek notions, rank as fine art. From the course of the foregoing argument we gather that a work of art is an image of the impressions or ‘ phantasy pictures ’ made by an independent reality upon the mind of the artist, the reality thus reflected being the facts of human life and human nature. To this we must make one addition, which contains the central thought of Aristotle’s doctrine. Imitative art in its highest form , namely poetry , is an expression of the 150 POETRY AND FINE ART universal element in human life. 1 If we may expand Aristotle’s idea in the light of his own system, — fine art eliminates what is transient and particular and reveals the permanent and essential features of the original. It discovers the ‘ form ’ (elBo?) towards which an object tends, the result which nature strives to attain, but rarely or never can attain. Beneath the individual it finds the universal. It passes beyond the bare reality given by nature, and expresses a purified form of reality disengaged from accident, and freed from conditions which thwart its development. The real and the ideal from this point of view are not opposites, as they are sometimes conceived to be. The ideal is the real, but rid of contradictions, unfolding itself according to the laws of its own being, apart from alien influences and the disturbances of chance. We can now see the force of the phrase to fieXriov, as applied in the Poetics 2 to the creations of poetry and art. It is identical in meaning with the ola elvcu Bel of ch. xxv. § 1, and the olovs Bel (? elmt) 3 of § 6. The ‘better’ and the ‘ ought to be ’ are not to be taken in the moral, but in the aesthetic sense. The expression ‘ the better ’ is, indeed, almost a technical one in Aristotle’s general philosophy of nature, and its meaning and associations in that connexion throw light on the 1 Poet. ix. 3. 2 xxv. 17, cf. 7. 3 See p. 361. ‘ IMITATION ’ AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 151 sense it bears when transferred to the sphere of Art. Aristotle distinguishes the workings of inorganic and organic nature. In the former case, the governing law is the law of necessity : in the latter, it is purpose or design ; which purpose, again, is identified with 4 the better ’ 1 or 4 the best .’ 2 Nature, often baffled in her intentions , 3 thwarted by unfavourable matter or by human agency, yet tends towards the desirable end. She can often enlist even the blind force of necessity as her ally, giving a new direction to its results . 4 Wherever organic processes are in operation, order 1 De Gen. Anim. i. 4. 717 a 15, trav f) (frvcrLS rj Sea to avayKcuov Troiei rj 8i a to fdiXTiov, the distinction being that between (fricris dvayKrjs Trocovera , the inorganic processes of nature, and <£uo-ts eveKa tov rroiovo-a, organic processes. So avdyKrjs is opposed in de Gen. Anim. iii. 1. 731 b 21 to did to /3eXrLOv Kat rrjv alr'iav TTjv eveKd Tivovo-tv. Phys. viii. 7. 260 b 22, to Se (diXTtov del vrroXapfddvopev iv Trj cfrvcrei U7rap^€tv, av rj Svva tov: viii. 6. 259 a 10, iv yap tois cjrvo’e i 8ei to Trerrepacrpivov Kai to ftiXTLOVy av iv8iyrjTat, vTrdpyeiv paXXov. 2 De Ingr. Anim. 8. 708 a 9, tt)v vcr is ovOiv drrofddXXeLV e’icoOev i£ uv eWi Trotrjo-al tl xprjcrTOV. 152 POETRY AND FINE ART and proportion are in varying degrees apparent. The general movement of organic life is part of a progress to the £ better,’ the several parts co-operating for the good of the whole. The artist in his mimic world carries forward this movement to a more perfect completion. The creations of his art are framed on those ideal lines that nature has drawn : her intimations, her guidance are what he follows. He too aims at something better than the actual. He produces a new thing, not the actual thing of experience, not a copy of reality, but a /3e\riov, or higher reality — 4 for the ideal type must surpass the actual ’ ; 1 the ideal is 4 better ’ than the real. Art, therefore, in imitating the universal imitates the ideal; and we can now describe a work of art as an idealised representation of human life — of character , emotion , action — under forms manifest to sense. 4 Imitation,’ in the sense in which Aristotle applies the word to poetry, is thus seen to be equivalent to 4 producing ’ or 4 creating according to a true idea,’ which forms part of the definition of art in general. 2 The 4 true idea ’ for fine art is derived from the elSo?, the general concept which the intellect spontaneously abstracts from 1 Poet. xxv. 17, dAAa fikXnov' to yap 7rapd8€Lypa 8ei V7rep- kyeiv. See also p. 168. 2 Eth. Nic. vi. 4. 1140 a 10, /xera A oyov dXrjdovs 7TOLr]TLK'r']. ‘ IMITATION 5 AS AN AESTHETIC TERM 153 the details of sense. There is an ideal form which is present in each individnal phenomenon but im- perfectly manifested. This form impresses itself as a sensuous appearance on the mind of the artist ; he seeks to give it a more complete ex- pression, to bring to light the ideal which is only half revealed in the world of reality. His distinctive work as an artist consists in stamping the given material with the impress of the form which is universal. The process is not simply that which is described by Socrates in the conversa- tion he is reported to have held in the studio of Parrhasius, by which the artist, who is no servile copyist, brings together many elements of beauty which are dispersed in nature . 1 It is not enough to select, combine, embellish, — to add here and to retrench there. The elements must be harmonised into an ideal unity of type. ‘ Imitation/ so understood, is a creative act. It is the expression of the concrete thing under an image which answers to its true idea. To seize the universal, and to reproduce it in simple and sensuous form is not to reflect a 1 Xen. Mem. iii. 10 . Cf. Arist. Pol. iii. 11 . 1281 b 10 , tovtco Siaepov(riv ol cnrovSaLOL rcov dv8p£)v eKacrrot rwv 7roAAa>v, dxnrep Ko.1 t wv pr) KaXCiv tovs kclXovs awts) . . • Kal ro etSos Kal rj over la' tovto 8* eerrt to reAos Trjs yevecrecos. Hence (of the development of tragedy) Poet. iv. 12, ttoAAoIs /xera- fio Aas /xera^aAoocra rj Tpay(o8ta hravvaTO , e7ret ecr)(€ r rjv avTrjs °cra * v r °VTa) (rvve/3rj rrepl eva rj TrXeLOVs, wv e/cacrror ws eTu^ey ’*X 6L aXXrjXa. The reading of the MSS. to-Toptas tcls crvvrjOeis makes an intolerably harsh form of inverted comparison, and Dacier’s conjecture above given is most probably right : ‘ the structure (of the epic) should not resemble the histories. . . .’ The Arabic version, as I learn from Professor Margoliouth, has no equivalent for o-vvrjOebs and seems to point, but by no means certainly, to crvvOeveis. 2 Poet. ix. 1 . 3 Poet. xv. 6, XPV ^ KaL * v rjOectv kocnrep /cat kv rrj tcov tt pay paruiv (TvcrTacrei del fr/reiv rj to avay/catov rj to €t/cos, wcttc tov Toto vrov tol to tairra Xeyeiv rj irparTeiv rj avayKalov rj €lkos, Kal tout o /xerd tovto ykvecrOai rj avay/catov rj et/cos. 166 POETRY AND FINE ART the inner law which secures the cohesion of the parts. The 4 probable 9 is not determined by a numerical average of instances ; it is not a condensed expres- sion for what meets us in the common course of things. The ehcos of daily life, the empirically usual, is derived from an observed sequence of facts, and denotes what is normal and regular in its occurrence, the rule, not the exception . 1 But the rule of experience cannot be the law that governs art. The higher creations of poetry move in another plane. The incidents of the drama and the epic are not those of ordinary life : the persons, who here play their parts, are not average men and women. The 4 probable 9 law of their conduct cannot be deduced from commonplace experience, or brought under a statistical average. The thoughts and deeds, the will and the emotions of a Prometheus or a Clytemnestra, a Hamlet or an Othello, are not an epitomised rendering of the ways of meaner mortals. The common man can indeed enter into these characters with more or less intelligence, just because of their full humanity. His nature is for the moment enlarged by sympathy 1 Analyt. Prior, ii. 27. 70 a 4, 6 yap ? Set), not what is.’ 1 Poetry, he means to say, is not concerned with fact, but with what transcends fact ; it represents things which are not, and never can be in actual experience ; it gives us the 4 ought to be ’ ; the form that answers to the true idea. 2 The characters of Sophocles, 3 the ideal forms of Zeuxis, 4 are unreal only in the sense that they surpass reality. They are not untrue to the principles of nature or to her ideal tendencies. It would seem that in Aristotle’s day it was still generally held that 4 real events ’ — under which were included the accepted legends of the people 5 — were alone the proper subjects for tragedy. Names and incidents were alike to be derived from this source. The traditional practice was critically defended by an argument of this kind : — 4 what has happened is possible : what is possible alone is TuOavov, — likely, that is, to gain credence.’ 6 In ch. ix. Aristotle 1 Poet. xxv. 6 and 17. In § 17 a threefold division of to dhv- voltov is, as I take it, implicit, and a triple line of defence offered : (i.) dvdye.iv 7rpos rr]v ttolt^o-lv, an appeal to the general principle of poetic imitation, or the t eXos of the art, which prefers the ttlO avov even if it is aSvva rov : (ii.) avdyeiv 7 rpos to (d'eXriov , an appeal to the principle of ideal truth or the higher reality ; (iii.) avayeiv Trpbs TYjv Sogav or 7 rpos d <£ao-tv, an appeal to current tradition or belief. The dSvvara under (ii.) and (iii.) correspond to the ovk dXrjOrj of §§ 6-7, to (deX tlov of § 19 being equivalent to the cos Set, otous Set (^ emu), of § 6 and to the /3£Xtiov of § 7, while tt]v So£av of § 19 answers to ovto) <£acrtv of § 6 and aXX ’ ov v (jiao-c of § 7. Vahlen and Susemihl take the passage otherwise. 2 See pp. 150 ff. 3 Poet. xxv. 6. 4 Poet. xxv. 17. 5 See p. 393. G Poet. ix. 6. POETIC TRUTH 169 pleads for an extension of the idea of the £ possible,’ from ra yevopeva to ola civ y evouro, from the Sward of history to those 4 universal ’ Sward where the law of causation appears with more unbroken effi- cacy and power. He would not restrict the poet’s freedom of choice. At the same time he guards himself against being supposed utterly to condemn historical or real subjects. Indeed from many passages we may infer that he regarded the con- secrated legends of the past as the richest store- house of poetic material, though few only of the traditional myths satisfied, in his opinion, the full tragic requirements. The rule of ‘ what may happen ’ does not, he observes, exclude ‘ what has happened.’ Some real events have that internal probability or necessity which fits them for poetic treatment . 1 It is interesting to notice how guarded is his language — ‘ some real events,’ as if by a rare and happy chance . 2 And, no doubt, in general the poet has to extract the ore from a rude mass of legendary or historical fact : to free it from the accidental, the trivial, the irrelevant : to purify it, 1 Poet. ix. 9, rwv yap yevopkv ojv evia ouSer KcoXveL roiavra diva t ota av etKos yevecrOai /cat Svvara yevkaOai = roiavra ola av Kara to etKos yevotTo Kal Svvara (kern) yevkcrOai. This virtually resolves itself into the formula of ix. 1, ota av ykvono Kal ra Svvara Kara to etKos rj to avayKalov. 2 Cf. the similar rule laid down in Plato for to 7rt Oavov in oratory: Phaedr. 272 E, ovSe yap av ra npayOevra Seiv Xeyecv evtoTe, kav p^rj et/coTOis y ttztt payp.lv a. 170 POETRY AND FINE ART in a word, from the dross which always mingles with empirical reality. Even those events which possess an inherent poetical quality, which are, in some sense, poetry ready made for the dramatist, are poetical only in certain detached parts and incidents, not penetrated with poetry throughout. They will need the idealisation of art before they can be combined into the unified structure of the drama. The hints given in subsequent chapters for treating the traditional legends show how all- important in Aristotle’s eyes is the shaping activity of the artist, even when he is dealing with the most favourable material. Greek tragedies, though ‘ founded on fact ’ — as the phrase goes — transmute that fact into imaginative truth. The truth, then, of poetry is essentially different from the truth of fact. Things that are outside and beyond the range of our experience, that never have happened and never will happen, may be more true, poetically speaking, — more profoundly true than those daily occurrences which we can with confidence predict. These so-called dhvvara are the very Sward of art, the stuff and substance of which poetry is made. ‘ What has never anywhere come to pass, that alone never "rows old .’ 1 O 1 Alles wiederholt sich nur im Leben, Ewig jung ist nur die Phantasie, Was sich nie und nirgends hat begeben Das allein veraltet nie. — Schiller. POETIC TRUTH 171 There is another class of 4 impossibilities ’ in poetry, which Aristotle defends on a somewhat different ground. It is the privilege, nay, the duty, of the poet yjrevSrj Xeyecv &>? Set, 4 to tell lies skilfully ’ : he must learn the true art of fiction . 1 The fiction here intended is, as the context shows, not simply that fiction which is blended with fact in every poetic narrative of real events . 2 The reference here is rather to those tales of a strange and marvellous character , 3 4 which are admitted into epic more freely than into dramatic poetry. In this art of feigning, Homer, we are told, is the supreme master ; and the secret of the art lies in a kind of irapaXoyKTfws or fallacy. The explanation added, though given in a some- what bald and abstract manner, renders the nature of the fallacy perfectly plain . 4 At the outset the 1 Poet. xxiv. 9. 2 Cf. Hor. A. P. 151 (of Homer), atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet. 3 See Twining ii. 346 sqq. 4 The fallacy, namely, of inferring that because a given thing is the necessary consequent of a given antecedent, the consequent necessarily implies the antecedent. Antecedent and consequent are wrongly assumed to be reciprocally convertible ; cf. de Soph. Elench. 167 b 1 sqq., an example being, ‘if it rains, the ground is wet : the ground is wet : therefore it rains.’ Similarly in Rhetoric, the skilled speaker adopts a certain appropriate tone and manner which leads the audience to infer that the facts he states are true : Rhet. iii. 7. 1408 a 20, 7ri#avot Se to Tzpaypa kcu rj otKeia A.e£is" TrapaXoyL^eraL yap rj ^vyr] . POETIC TRUTH 179 death : the speechless journey of Telephus from Tegea to Mysia : 1 the scene already mentioned of the pursuit of Hector. A material improbability may itself, again, often be resolved into one of the moral kind. Where the events either in themselves or in their sequence appear irrational, they are frequently the outcome of character inwardly illogical. Though Aristotle does not distinguish between moral and material improbability or im- possibility, it falls in with his teaching to recognise in the first a grave artistic defect, which is not necessarily inherent in the second. In the un- broken chain of cause and effect which he postulates for the drama, each of the links is formed by the contact of human will with outward surroundings. The necessity which pervades his theory of tragedy is a logical and moral necessity, binding together the successive moments of a life, the parts of an action, into a significant unity. Since it is the office of the poet to get at the central meaning of facts, to transform them into truths by supplying vital connexions and causal links, to set the seal of reason upon the outward semblances of art, it follows that the world of poetry rebels against the rule of chance. Now, accident (to or chance in Aristotle, exhibiting itself under two forms not always strictly 1 Poet. xxiv. 10. 180 POETRY AND FINE ART distinguished, 1 owes its existence to the uncertainty and variability of matter. 2 It is the negation (crreprjo-Ls) of Art and Intelligence, and of Nature as an organising force. 3 Its essence is disorder (araf/a), 4 absence of design (to eve/cd too), 5 want of regularity (to w? eVl to 7 ro\v). It even borders on the non-existent.® Its sphere is that wide domain of human life which baffles foresight, 7 defies reason, abounds in surprises : and also those regions of Nature where we meet with abortive efforts, mistakes, strange and monstrous growths, 1 Namely as rvyr] , ‘fortune,’ and to avroparov, ‘spontaneity.’ Cf. Poet. ix. 12, a7rb tov avroparov kol rrjs r v\r) s iirl to iroXv aXXios , rov c rvpf3e/3rj kotos. 3 Viewed as rvyrj it is the crreprjcris of rexvrj and vous : viewed as to avroparov it is the crTeprjo-is of (f)vcri s. 4 Met. ix. 8. 1065 a 25, Xeyiv 8e to Kara o-vpfte/SrjKos' rov tolovtov S’ araKra Kai air^ipa ra airia. De Part. Anim. i. 1. 641 b 22, tov ovpavov . . . kv o) arro tu^^s koi ara^ias ovb’ otiovv (fralverai. 5 Anal. Post. ii. 11. 95 a 8, a7ro to^s 8* ovSev eVc/ca tov yiverai. 6 Met. v. 2. 1026 b 21, aiverai yap to crvpfief3r)Kbs iyyvs ti tov prj ovros. 7 Met. ix. 8. 1065 a 33 (of rvyrj), Sio abrjXos avOponriviy XoyicrpvcrLKOLv(riv 8’ ov rraorav aXXd rrjv ws k-irl to ttoXv. The mere reparuSes in tragedy is emphatically condemned Poet. xiv. 2, ot Se prj to o/3epov 8l a rrjs o^ews aXXd to reparkodes povov Trapao-Kevafovres ooSev TpaywStct koivoivovctlv. 2 Etli. Nic. vi. 4. 1140 a 19, KaSarrep Kal ’Ay a 0(vv (frrjo-t. reyyrj tv^v ecrrep^e Kal rvx ^ reyyrjv. 3 Poet. xiv. 9, fyrovvres yap ovk arro Te^v^s aXX’ arro to^s evpov to tolovtov TrapavKeva^eiv kv tols pvOoc €ikovcriv etv at Tpoirov tlvol Kara cf>vcriv. 3 “ Poetry, with reference to Aristotle’s Poetics ” ( Essays , Critical and Historical). POETIC TRUTH 183 ‘ the anomalies of experience,’ are in fact the ‘ improbable possibilities ’ 1 which Aristotle dis- allows. For chance with its inherent unreason is as far as possible banished by him from the domain of poetry, — except indeed where the skill of the poet can impart to it an appearance of design . 2 Nor does this exclusion hold good only in the more serious forms of poetry. It has been held by some modern writers, that comedy differs from tragedy in representing a world of chance, where law is suspended and the will of the individual reigns supreme. But this is not in accordance with the Poetics . The incidents of comedy — at least of such comedy as Aristotle approves — are 4 framed on lines of probability .’ 3 The connexion of incidents is, no doubt, looser than in tragedy ; the more rigorous rule of 4 probability or necessity ’ is not prescribed : and the variation of phrase appears to be not without design. Yet the plot even of comedy is far removed from the play of accident. To sum up in a word the results of this discussion. The whole tenor and purpose of the Poetics makes it abundantly clear that poetry is not a mere re- production of empirical fact, a picture of life with 1 Poet. xxiv. 10, Svvara airtOava. 2 Poet. ix. 12, €7T€t KOL Ttol/ (X7 TO TV\T ] S TOLVTa OoLV/JLCUTHjJTaTa Sokzl 6(ra tocnrep 67rtrrySes <£guv€tcu yeyovevcu. 3 Poet. ix. 5, (TV(TTrjcravT€S yap tov p,vdov 8td rwv €lkotwv k. T.\. 184 POETRY AND FINE ART all its trivialities and accidents. The world of the possible which poetry creates is more intelligible than the world of experience. The poet presents permanent and eternal facts, free from the elements of unreason which disturb our comprehension of real events and of human conduct. In fashioning his material he may transcend nature, but he may not contradict her ; he must not be disobedient to her habits and principles. He may recreate the actual, but he must avoid the lawless, the fantastic, the impossible. Poetic truth passes the bounds of reality, but it does not wantonly violate the laws which make the real world rational. Thus poetry in virtue of its higher subject matter and of the closer and more organic union of its parts acquires an ideal unity that history never possesses ; for the prose of life is never wholly eliminated from a record of actual facts. The Baconian and the Aristotelian view of poetry, instead of standing in sharp contrast as is sometimes said, will be seen to approximate closely to one another. The well- known words of Bacon run thus : — 4 Therefore, because the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude which satisfieth the mind of man, Poesy feigneth acts and events greater and more heroical ; . . . because true history representeth actions and events more ordinary and less interchanged, therefore Poesy endueth them with more rareness : so as it appeareth that Poesy POETIC TRUTH 185 serveth and conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and delectation. And, therefore, it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind, whereas Reason doth buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things/ 1 It may be noticed that the opposition between the poet and the historian in the Poetics is incidentally introduced to illustrate the sense in which a tragedy is one and a whole . 2 These two notions as under- stood by Aristotle are not identical. A unity is composed of a plurality of parts which cohere together and fall under a common idea, but are not necessarily combined in a definite order. The notion of a whole implies something more. The parts which constitute it must be inwardly con- nected, arranged in a certain order, structurally 1 Bacon de Aug. Scient. ii. 13. The still more vigorous Latin deserves to be quoted : ‘ Cum res gestae et eventus, qui verae historiae subiciuntur, non sint eius amplitudinis in qua anima humana sibi satisfaciat, praesto est poesis, quae facta magis heroica confingat. . . . Cum historia vera, obvia rerum satietate et simili- tudine, animae humanae fastidio sit, reficit earn poesis, inexpectata et varia et vicissitudinum plena canens. Quare et merito etiam divinitatis cuiuspiam particeps videri possit ; quia animum erigit et in sublime rapit ; rerum simulacra ad animi desideria accommo- dando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit et historia) submittendo.’ In the sentence above omitted Poetry is said to correct history, setting forth ‘ exitus et fortunas secundum merita et ex lege Nemeseos.’ This is not Aristotelian. 2 Poet. ix. 1, (fravepov Se £k twv elprjpievoiv k.t.X. 186 POETRY AND FINE ART related, and combined into a system. A whole is not a mere mass or sum of external parts which may be transposed at will, any one of which may be omitted without perceptibly affecting the rest . 1 It is a unity which is unfolded and expanded ac- cording to the law of its own nature, an organism which develops from within. By the rule, again, of beauty, which is a first requirement of art, a poetic creation must exhibit at once unity and plurality. If it is too small the whole is perceived but not the parts ; if too large the parts are per- ceived but not the whole . 2 The idea of an organism evidently underlies all Aristotle’s rules about unity ; 3 it is tacitly assumed as a first principle of 1 Met. iv. 26. 1024 a 1 , ocojv fiev /irj ttolcl rj Oecris Staffropav, 7rav Xeyerat, ocrcov Se Trotet, oXov. Ibicl. 1023 b 26, oAov Aeyerat ov re fJL7]Sev a7 recrt p.epos Aeyerat oXov <£ucrei k.t.X. Cf. Poet. viii. 4, 6 yap irpocrov rj p.rj tt pouov p.'qbev 7rotet eTriSrjXov, ouSev p.opiov tov oXov ecrriv. 2 Poet. vii. 4-5. Cf. the rules laid down for the size of a city in Pol. iv. (vii.) 4. 1326 a 34 sqq. 3 Cf. Stewart Eth. Nic. i. 194: ‘Living organisms and works of art are (r^para, definite after their kinds, which Nature and Man respectively form by qualifying matter. The quantity of matter used in any case is determined by the form subserved ; the size of a particular organ, or part, is determined by its form, which again is determined by the form (limiting the size) of the whole organism or work. Thus animals and plants grow to sizes determined by their separate structures, habitats, and conditions of life, and each separate organ observes the proportion of the whole to which it belongs. The painter or sculptor considers the symmetry of the whole composition in every detail of his work. The conductor of a choir is forced to exclude a voice which sur- POETIC TRUTPI 187 art, and in one passage is expressly mentioned as that from which the rule of epic unity is deduced. ‘ The plot must, as in a tragedy, be dramatically constructed ; it must have for its subject a single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It will thus resemble a single and coherent picture of a living organism , and produce the pleasure proper to it .’ 1 passes all the others conspicuously in beauty. Pol. iii. 8. 1284 b 8, ovre yap ypa(f)evs eacreiev av rov vrrepfSaXXovra rroSa rrjs crvppe- rpi a? e^ecv to £woy, ov8’ el Stacfiepoi to kolXXos' ovre vav7rrjybs 7 rpvpvav rj rtov aXXcov n pop'nov rtvv rrjs vews* ovSe 8rj -^opoSiSa- CTKaXos tov pei^ov Kal k(xXXlov rov TravTo? ^opon 4* Oeyyopevov eao-et vcru According to this interpretation of vii. 4-5, one of the con- ditions of to KaXov, namely a certain peyeOo s, is illustrated by a comparison between painting and poetry. For other examples of f(£ov in a similar sense cf. Plato Laws , ii. 669 A, 7ravT€s pevr 3 av . . . ra /caAa r yeypappeva. Cf. Polit. 277 C, where the discussion is compared to the sketch of a £toov in a painting : dAA’ dre^ytus d Aoyos rjpiv ajorrep £wov rrjv e£u >0ev pev POETIC TRUTH 189 passage above quoted from the Poetics is a remark- able echo of the words of the Phaedrus ; and indeed the idea may be said to be at the basis of his whole poetic criticism. A work then of poetic art, as he conceives it, while it manifests the universal is yet a concrete and individual reality, a coherent whole, animated by a living principle — or by something which is at least the counterpart of life — and framed according to the laws of organic beauty. The artistic product is not indeed in a literal sense alive ; for life or soul is in Aristotle the result of the proper form being impressed upon the proper matter . 1 Now, in art the matter depends on the choice of the artist ; it has no necessary relation to the form which is impressed on it. That form it passively receives, but it is not thereby endowed with any active prin- ciple of life or movement. The form or essence lives truly only in the mind of the artist who con- ceived the work, and it is in thought alone that it is transferred to the dead matter with which it has no natural affinity. The artist, or the spectator who has entered into the artist’s thought, by a 7T€pLypa(f)r)V eoLKev lkolvios ex^tv, t rjv Se olov ro?s (frappaKOLS kcll rrj crvyKpdcrei rw v xpuparoiv kvdpyeiav ovk aTrecXy^kvai i no. 1 Cf. de Part. Anim. i. 1. 640 b 32 sqq. A dead body has the same outward configuration as a living one, yet it is not a man ; so too a hand of brass or of wood is a hand only in name. In de Gen. Anim. ii. 4. 740 a 15 works of art are spoken of as gvXivojv y XtOiviov {o5a)v, and are contrasted with the truly living organism. 190 POETRY AND FINE ART mental act lends life to the artistic creation ; he speaks, he thinks of it as a thing of life ; but it has no inherent principle of movement ; it is in truth not alive but merely the semblance of a living reality. 1 Returning now to the discussion about poetry and history we shall better understand Aristotle’s general conclusion, which is contained in the words so well known and so often misunderstood : 4 Poetry is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history,’ 2 where airov^atorepov denotes 4 higher in the scale ; ’ 3 — not 4 more serious,’ for the words apply even to comedy, nor, again, 4 more moral,’ which is quite alien to the context ; — and the reason of the higher worth of poetry is that it approaches nearer to the universal, which itself 1 Cf. Stewart Eth. Nic. ii. 42 : l re\v7] realises its good in an external epyov , and the elBos which it imposes on vXr) is only a surface form — very different from the forms penetrating to the very heart of the vX 77 , which <£ixrts and aperrj produce (cf. Eth. Nic. ii. 6 . 9, rj 8’ aperr) 7racrrjvcns: Met. 30. 1070 a 7, rj piev ofiv re\vrj dp\rj ev aXX(p, f) Be cfivcris dp\rj ev a vtco). } 2 Poet. ix. 3, Bib /cat (JnXoc roefnorepov /cat cnrovBaioTepov 7 rot^crts to-roptas ecTTiv' 7) piev yap Tro'nqcns paXXov ra KaOo Xov, rj 8 * tcrro/ota ra KaO’ e/cacrrov Xeyei. 3 Teichmiiller, Aristot. Forsch. ii. 178, who illustrates this sense of cnrovBaios from Eth. Nic. vi. 7. 1141 a 20, v juev tt/dos rdvayKaia twv Se irpos Siayioyrjv oucrwv, del cro(fnDTepovs rots tolovtovs €K6LV(ov viroXapfiavopev, Sia to pxj Trpos xprjCTLV eivai ras €7rto*T^jU,as avrwv. The liberal arts which adorn life and minister to pleasure are here said to be 7 rpos Stay o>y 771/, synonymous with which we find irpos rjSovr/v b 21. Cf. Met. i. 2. 982 b 23, 7rpo s %X eLV SoKti' avairavcrei yap eoiKev rj 7ratSta, dSvvarovvres 8e 7rovetv avaTravcreojs Seovrau. ov 8rj reAos rj ava7ravo-L<$' yiverac yap evtKa rrjs evepyecas. 2 Pol v. (viii.) 5. 1339 b 13-17 ; 6. 1340 b 30. 3 See note 1 p. 310. 4 Eth. Nic. x. 6. 1177 a 3. 200 POETRY AND FINE ART from it is of corresponding quality, it ranks with the other pleasures of sport or recreation. But art in its highest idea is one of the serious activities of the mind which constitute the final well-being of man. Its end is pleasure, but the pleasure peculiar to that state of rational enjoy- ment in which perfect repose is united with perfect energy. It is not to be confounded with the pleasure found in the rude imitations of early art, arising from the discovery of a like- ness. One passage of the Poetics might indeed if it stood alone lead us to this inference . 1 The instinct for knowledge, the pleasure of recogni- tion, is there the chief factor in the enjoyment of some at least of the more developed arts. But the reference appears to be rather to the popular appreciation of a likeness than to true aesthetic enjoyment. This is perhaps borne out by the explanation elsewhere given of the pleasure derived from plastic or pictorial imitations of the lower forms of animal life . 2 These objects do not come within the range of artistic imitation as understood 1 Poet. iv. 3-5, Cf. Rhet. i. 11. 1371 b 4, e7ret Se to pavQaveiv re y8v /cat to Qavpatjtiv, /cat rd TotaSe dvdyKy y8e a efvat olov to T€ pipovpevov, tocnrep ypacfnKy /cat dvSpiavroTroua kcll rroLyriKy , /cat 7rdv o av ev pepipypevov y, kolv y py y8v a vro to pepipypevov. ov yap €7rt tovto) yatpei aAAa crvWoy ccrpos ecmv otl tovto £k€lvo , wcttc pavdaveiv tl (rvp/3aivei. 2 See the passage quoted p. 155 from de Part. Anim. i. 5. 645 a 4 sqq., especially the words Tas p\v €t/cova? avrcov Oeiopovvns yatpopcv otl ryv 8ypiovpyyv Aoyoov e^et rrjv a vryv SvvapLv. THE END OF FINE ART 209 we must do so by reference to the content of the activity. But the work of art and its effect being- inseparable, the artistic object can loosely be spoken of in terms of the emotion it awakens. 1 This view does not, however, make the function of art to depend upon accident and individual caprice. The subjective emotion is deeply grounded in human nature, and thence acquires a kind of objective validity. As in ethics Aristotle assumes a man of moral insight (6 fypovLfj.os) to whose trained judgment the appreciation of ethical ques- tions is submitted, and who, in the last resort, becomes the 4 standard and the law ’ of right, 2 so too in fine art a man of sound aesthetic instincts (6 is assumed, who is the standard of taste, and to him the final appeal is made. He is no mere expert, for Aristotle distrusts the verdict of specialists in the arts 3 and prefers the popular judgment, — but it must be the judgment of a cultivated public. Both in the Politics and in the Poetics he distinguishes between the lower and 1 Similarly Schiller finds the essence and end of tragedy in the effect it produces. See his Essay ‘Ueber die tragische Kunst,’ and a letter to Goethe of Dec. 12, 1797, ‘ Als dann glaube ich auch eine gewisse Berechnung auf den Zuschauer, von der sich der tragische Poet nicht dispensieren kann, der Hinblick auf einen Zweck, den aussern Eindruck, der bei dieser Dichtungsart nicht ganz verlassen wird, geniert Sie, u.s.w. 5 2 Eth. Nic. iii. 4. 1113 a 33, the cnrovSaLOs is oxr7rep kclvwv Kal perpov. 3 Cf. Pol iii. 11. 1282 a 1-21. P 210 POETRY AND FINE ART the higher kind of audience . 1 The ‘ free and educated listener ’ at a musical performance is opposed to one of the vulgar sort. Each class of audience enjoys a different kind of music and derives from the performance such pleasure as it is capable of. The inferior kind of enjoyment is not to be denied to those who can appreciate only the inferior type of music — better that they should like this music than none at all — but the lower pleasure is not to be taken as the true end of the musical art . 2 In the theatre, again, it is noted that tragic poets are tempted to gratify the weakness of their audience by making happy endings to their tragedies. The practice is not entirely forbidden ; only, it is insisted, such compositions do not afford 1 Pol. v. (viii.) 7. 1342 a 18-28, e-nrel 6 Oearrjs Sittos, 6 pkv kXevOepos Kal TreTra&evpkvos, 6 8e <£oprtKos k.t.A. In Poet xxvi. 1, rj 7 rpos /3eX.TLov opriKYj . Cf. Plato Laws ii. 658 E, eK€Lvrjv emu Moocrav kocAAictt^v, t/tls rots /3eArc- crrovs kcu tKavws 7r€7Tcu8evpevovs rkpirci. In Ehet. i. 3. 1358 a 37 the reAos of the art is in relation to the aKpoarrjS : crvyKetTcu pev yap ck rpiwv 6 Aoyos, e/c re tov A eyovros kcu 7repl ov Aeyet kcu 7 rpos ov, Kal to re Aos 7 rpos tovtov ecrrt, Aeyco 8\ tov aKpoarr/v. 2 In Pol. v. (viii.) 5. 1340 a 1-2, the universal pleasure given by music is called rj kolvt) r)8ovr) and is cfrvcrLKrj. It is distinct from the higher kind of pleasure. In Probl. xviii. 4. 916 b 36, the art of the musician and of the actor aims only at pleasure : 8ia tl prjropa pev Kal cnpar^yov Kal y^pr)paTi(TTr]v A eyopev 8eiv6v, avXrjTrjv 8e Kal vT?OKpLTr]V ov A eyopev ; Yj 6 tl TOiV p.ev rj 8vvapis avev 7rAeove£ias ( y)8ovrjs yap CTToyacrTLKrj € a7ro rpay(v8ias rj8ovrj aXXa paXXov rr } s Kco/xwStas oLKeia. For the phrase rrjv rwv Oearpiov acrOeveiav cf. Eliet. iii. 18. 1419 a 18, ov yd p oiov re 7roXXa ipwrav 8ia rrjv acdevecav tov aKpoarov , i.e. you cannot (in debate, etc.) put a series of questions on account of the incapacity of a popular audience to follow a long chain of reasoning. Ehet. iii. 1. 1404 a 8, 8ia t r]V tov aKpoarov p,oy6rjp'iav. 2 Poet. xiv. 2, ov yap rracrav Set ^r/reiv rj8ovr]v cbro rpaywScas aXXa rrjv oiKeiav. xxvi. 7, 8el yap ov tyjv rv^ovo-av rj8ovrjv ttolzlv avras (i.e. tragedy and epic poetry) aXXa rrjv tiprjpLevrjv: with which cf. Pol. v. (viii.) 5. 1339 b 32, exet yap ttrws r)8ovr)V riva ko \ to reAo?, aXX ov rr)v rv^ovcrav. 212 POETRY AND FINE ART this quality must be impressed by the poet on the dramatic material ; 1 and if it is artistically done, the peculiar pleasure arising out of the union of the pitiable and the terrible will be awakened in the mind of every one who possesses normal human sympathies and faculties. The test of artistic merit in a tragedy is the degree in which it fulfils this, its distinctive function. All the rules prescribed by Aristotle for the tragic poet flow from the same primary requirement, — those which determine the proper construction of the plot, the character of the ideal hero, the best form of recognition and the like. The state of pleasurable feeling is not an accidental result, but is inherently related to the object which calls it forth. Though the pleasure of the percipient is necessary to the fulfilment of the function of any art, the subjective impression has in it an enduring and universal element. 1 Poet. xiv. 3, €7T€t 8e rrjv a7rb iXeov koll 6/3ov Slol pupr/pews 8ei rjSovrjV 7rapacrK€vd^€LV rov ttol r^rrjv, (fiavepov ws tovto kv rots TTpaypacnv kpiroir^Teov. CHAPTER V ART AND MORALITY The question as to the proper end of fine art was discussed in Greece in its special application to poetry. Two views were currently held. The traditional one, which had gained wide acceptance, was that poetry has a direct moral purpose ; the primary function of a poet is that of a teacher. Even after professional teachers of the art of con- duct had appeared in Greece the poets were not deposed from the educational office which time had consecrated. Homer was still thought of less as the inspired poet who charmed the imagination than as the great teacher who had laid down all the rules needed for the conduct of life, and in whom were hidden all the lessons of philosophy. The other theory, tacitly no doubt held by many, but put into definite shape first by Aristotle, was that poetry is an emotional delight, its end is to give pleasure. Strabo ( circa 24 b.c.) alludes to the two conflicting opinions. Eratosthenes, he says, maintained that ‘ the aim of the poet always 214 POETRY AND FINE ART is to charm the mind not to instruct .’ 1 He him- self holds with the ancients ‘ that poetry is a kind of elementary philosophy, which introduces us early to life, and gives us pleasurable instruction in reference to character, emotion, action .’ 2 The Greek states, he argues, prescribed poetry as the first lesson of childhood ; they did so, surely, not merely in order to please, but to afford correction in morals . 3 In carrying the same discipline into mature years they expressed their conviction, that poetry as a regulative influence on morals was adapted to every period of life. In course of time, he observes, philosophical and historical studies had been introduced, but these addressed them- selves only to the few, while the appeal of poetry was to the masses . 4 Eratosthenes ought to have modified his phrase and said that the poet writes partly to please and partly to instruct, instead of which he converted poetry into a privileged racon- teuse of old wives’ fables, with no other object in view than to charm the mind . 5 If, however, poetry is the art which imitates life by the medium of speech, how can one be a poet who is senseless 1 Strabo i. 2. 3, 7roir)rr)v yap e(f)rj iravra (TTO)(d£ecr0aL \pvya- ■ycoytas ov SiSacrKaXtas. 2 l.c. TovvavTiov 8 3 ol iraXaiol (fnXocro(f)iav nvd Xeyovcri tt pd)T7]V TTjV TT0i7)TLKrjv ^ladyovcrav els tov ftiov ?)/xas 4 k veiov kgu 8t8d~ (TKOvaav y')dr) kcu 7rd0q Kai 7rpd£eL6ev ipiXrjs dXXd o-wcfipo- viapov. 4 lb. i. 2. 8. 5 lb. i. 2. 3. ART AND MORALITY 215 and ignorant of life ? The excellence of a poet is not like that of a carpenter or a smith ; it is bound up with that of the human being. No one can be a good poet who is not first a good man . 1 2 This remarkable passage accurately reflects the sentiment which persisted to a late time in Greece, long after the strictly teaching functions of poetry had passed into other hands. It is to be met with everywhere in Plutarch. 4 Poetry is the preparatory school of philosophy .’ 2 4 It opens and awakens the youthful mind to the doctrines of philosophy .’ 3 When first the young hear these doctrines they are bewildered and reject them. ‘ Before they pass from darkness into full sunshine they must dwell in a kind of twilight, in the soft rays of a truth that is blended with fiction, and so be prepared painlessly to face the blaze of philosophy without flinching .’ 4 The novice requires wise guidance 4 in order that through a schooling that brings no estrangement he may, as a kindly and 1 Strabo i. 2. 5, rj 8e ttoltjtov [apery)] o-vve^evKTcu rrj rov dv0pu)7rov, kou oi>x oTov re ayaOov yevkcrOai Troirjrrjv /xrj 7 rporepov yevrjOkvr a avSpa dyaQov. 2 Plutarch de Aud. Poet. ch. 1, kv 7ro6^aa*t TrpocfuXoo-ocfyr)- T€OV. 3 lb. ch. 14, ert 8k irpoavoiyei kou irpoKLvei rrjv too vkov \pv\rjv to ts kv cfn\o(ro(j)La Aoyots. 4 Lc. ov8e v7rop.kvovTa (OTi kou KeKpapikvrjs pLvdocs dXrjOelas a vyrjv e^ovn piaXOaKr)v, dXvTraiS 8ia/3Xe7reLV ra rotavra kou pLY] cfyevyeiv. 216 POETRY AND FINE ART familiar friend, be conducted by poetry into the presence of philosophy .’ 1 How deeply the Greek mind was impressed with the moral office of the poet, is shown by the attitude which even Aristophanes feels constrained to take up in relation to his art. He proclaims that the comic poet not only ministers to the enjoyment of the community and educates their taste, he is also a moral teacher and political adviser . 2 4 Comedy too is acquainted with justice .’ 3 It mixes earnest with its fun . 4 In the Parabasis of the Acharnians Aristophanes claims to be the best of poets for having had the courage to tell the Athenians what was right . 5 Good counsel he gives and will always give them ; as for his satire it shall never light on what is honest and true . 6 He likens himself else- where to another Heracles, who attacks not ordinary human beings, but Cleons and other monsters of 1 l.c. ad fin., tva firj 7rpo8La/3X7]6els aAAa paXXov TrpoirauStvOels €Vp,€Vr]S Kal <£iAo$ Kal OLK6LOS V7 TO 7TOL7JTiKrj<5 krrl cfuXo(ro(f)Lav 7r poire piTrrjTCU. 2 Frogs 1009-10, otl /3eXrtovs re TroiovpLev rots avdpioTrovs kv rous TroXeviv. This claim is put into the mouth of Euripides. 3 Acharn. 500, to yap 8iKaiov oT8e Kal rpvyo)8ca. Frogs 686—7, rbv lepov ^ opov Sikguov eo^rt -^pycrra ry ttoXcl ^ vpL-rrapaiveiv Kal 8i8a(TK€LV. 4 Frogs 389—90, Kal 7roAAa p,ev yeAoia p * ei- Trelv, 7roAAa Se cnrov8aia. 5 Acharn. 645, ocrrts 7rap€KLv8vv€vF elrrelv kv ’AOyvaiOis ra 8'iKata. 6 Acharn. 656-8. ART AND MORALITY 217 the earth, and who in ridding the city of such plagues deserves the title of 4 cleanser of the land. ’ 1 The censure he passes on Euripides is primarily a moral censure. Even where the judgment may seem to be of an aesthetic kind a moral motive underlies it. Euripides is to him a bad citizen and a bad poet. In him are embodied all the tendencies of the time which the older poet most abhors. He is the spirit of the age personified, with its restless- ness, its scepticism, its sentimentalism, its unsparing questioning of old traditions, of religious usages and civic loyalty ; its frivolous disputations, which unfit men for the practical work of life, its lowered ideal of courage and patriotism. Every phase of the sophistic spirit he discovers in Euripides. There is a bewildering dialectic which perplexes the moral sense. Duties whose appeal to the conscience is immediate, and which are recognised as having a binding force, are in Euripides subjected to analysis. Again, Euripides is censured for exciting feeling by any means that come to hand. When Dicaeopolis in the Acharnians is about to plead his case with his head on the block, he borrows from Euripides the rags and tatters of his hero Telephus. He carries off with him all the stage properties of woe, so that Euripides exclaims, ‘ My dear sir, you will rob me of my tragedy .’ 2 Tragic pity, 1 Wasps 1029 - 45 . 2 Acharn. 464 avOpunr’ , d(f)aLprjcr€L /xe tt)v TpayuSiav. 218 POETRY AND FINE ART Aristophanes implies, is debased in Euripides to an ignoble sentimentalism. Genuine misery does not consist in a beggar’s rags or in a hobbling gait. Euripides substitutes the troubling of the senses for genuine tragic emotion. We are not here concerned with the fairness of the criticism but only with the point of view of the critic ; and the coincidence of the moral and aesthetic judgment in Aristophanes is especially noteworthy. He puts into the mouth of Aeschylus, his ideal tragedian, the saying that the poet is the instructor of grown men as the teacher is of youth ; 1 and even the comic stage is, according to the theory if not the practice of Aristophanes, the school of the mature citizen. Aristotle’s treatment of poetry in the Poetics stands in complete contrast to this mode of criti- cism. In the Politics he had already dealt with the fine arts as they present themselves to the statesman and the social reformer. He allows that for childhood the use of poetry and music is to convey moral instruction, and that some forms of poetry, like some kinds of plastic art, exercise a 1 Frogs 1054-5, rots pev yap TraiSaptoLcnv €(tti SiSda-Ka Ao? octtls cjrpa^eL, rois rjf3{ocnv Se Trovgrai. Cf. Plato Lys. 213 E , rj 8e eTpa7rrjpev 8 ok€l poi xprjvai L * vaL -> (tko 7rovvTa Kara rots iroirjTa'i'’ ovtol ydp rjp.Lv wcnrep rrarepes ttjs (TO cf)ia<$ rj prj Ka\u>s rj eiprjTai tlvl t) TreTrpaKrou , ov povov a-Ke7rr€ov els avTo to 7re7r pay pevov t) elpy pevov fiXeirovra k.t. A., as referring to the morality of the poetic representation. But the arguments adduced by Mr. M. Carroll in his valuable Thesis Aristotlds Poetics c. xxv. in the Light of the Homeric Scholia (Baltimore, 1895), pp. 33—40, prove, I think, that there is an aesthetic not a moral reference here in 7repl Se tov koAcos rj /at) ka0\o? of fccucia — can denote any one that is good or excellent in his kind or in his special line. Similarly, and with like freedom, it can be applied to any object, animate or inanimate. 2 In its reference to a person, the particular sphere of his excellence is expressed by a limiting phrase or adverbial addition (o-ttou&uo? tl or 7 repL tl), or by the agreement of the adjective with some noun indicating the range of its applica- tion (cr7rov8aLOav\ovs clvai (ra yap rjOrj (r^eSov del tovtois OLKoXovOei povois, KaKia yap Kal apery to i yOrj 8l a- (frepowi 7ravT€s). 2 Is the /3ov\.€Tai here a limiting expression, leaving room for the admission under certain circumstances of a vicious character in tragedy ? Of. Treiparai in v. 4. 3 Not ‘well marked 5 — the impossible interpretation put upon it by Dacier, Bossu, Metastasio, and others — nor, in a merely aesthetic sense, ‘ elevated. 5 The moral meaning is here again not to be evaded. So in xv. 1 a xpr) arrov rjOos depends on a XPW T V 7rpoatp€cris, which is equivalent to cnrovSaia 7rpoaipe)s Trpoaipecris of Nic. Eth. vii. 11. 1152 a 17. In xv. 8 eVteiK^s is not perceptibly different from the preceding XPW T ° S - ART AND MORALITY 227 same view is reflected everywhere in Plato. In the Laws the taste of the judges ( /cpiral ) at the theatrical competitions is commented on adversely. They ought to be the instructors, they are the mere disciples of the theatre. Their influence reacts upon the poets. Consequently the audience 4 when they ought to be hearing of characters morally better than their own , and receiving a higher pleasure, are affected in an entirely opposite manner.’ 1 Again the objects that music 4 imitates ’ are 4 the characters of men better or worse,’ 2 — a distinction verbally the same as in the Poetics ch. ii. Yet Aristotle, while using the traditional phrases, is feeling after some more satisfactory and vital distinction. The very instances he adduces to illustrate his meaning show that the moral formula is strained to the point of breaking. The characters of Homer (§5) are ‘better’ (/3e\- Ttou?) than those of ordinary reality, or than those who figure in epic parody, not solely or chiefly through a superior virtue, but by powers of willing and feeling, doing and thinking, which raise them above the common herd of men. The example drawn from painting suggests a like conclusion. 1 Laws ii. 659 C, Seov yap avrovs ael /^eArtw rwv a vtojv rjOojv aKovovTas /3e\rL0) ti)v rjSovrjv tcr\€LV } vvv avrois SptoaL 7 rav TovvavTiov £vp,(3aivei. 2 Laws vii. 798 D, ra Trepl rots pvOp ovs Kal Traaav povo-iKrjv kern rpoirniv pLLp.rjpaTa /3eX.TL6vo)V Kal yeipovuv avOpuTTbiv. 228 POETRY AND FINE ART Three contemporary painters of an earlier date are mentioned, each typical of a certain mode of artistic treatment. 4 Polygnotns depicted men as nobler (/ cpeirrovs ) than they are, Panson as less noble (^eipoi;?), Dionysius drew them true to life ( ofjLOiov ?).’ 1 Evidently these differences do not correspond to purely ethical distinctions. Roughly we may say that idealistic treatment is exempli- fied in Polygnotus, realistic in Dionysius, and the tendency to caricature in Pauson. His own examples might have led Aristotle to discard the moral formula, and to seek elsewhere the differ- entiating marks of artistic representation. As it is, his precise thought is not difficult to discover. Obviously, a perfect art does not, in his view, imply characters of faultless virtue. The sketch of the ideal tragic hero in ch. xiii. 3-4 itself pre- cludes such a notion. Another decisive passage is ch. xv. 8. Defective characters — those, for instance, who are irascible or indolent ( opylXoi /cal paOvfjbOi ) — may be ennobled (ernei/cels nroielv^ by poetic treatment. One of the examples given is the Achilles of Homer, whose leading defect is a passionate temperament, and who would, 1 Poet. ii. 2. Here Polygnotus is spoken of as a portrayer of good rjOrj, in vi. 11 he is a good portrayer of rjOrj, ayaObs rjOo- ypd6/3ov 'irepaivovcra rrjv rwv toiovtuv TraOr^pLaTOiV Kadapcnv. 2 twv roiovro) v has given rise to much misunderstanding. It is not ‘ all such emotions ’ or ‘ these and suchlike emotions/ hut by a frequent and idiomatic use ‘ the aforesaid emotions/ namely, pity and fear. It is with these, and these only, that tragedy is concerned throughout the Poetics. There is probably, as Reinkens (p. 161) says, a delicate reason here for the preference of rwv t olovtojv over the demonstrative. The e'Aeo? and cf)6/3oo/3r]TLKOvs kou rots oAcos TraOrjTLKovs-) . . . kou Troian yiyvtcrdai nva Kadapcnv kcll Kovfit^e- arOai fioQ 3 rjSovrjs. Here nva Kadapcnv implies that the katharsis in all cases is not precisely of the same kind. Hence we see the force of the article in the definition of tragedy, rrjv rwv tolovtcov 7ra0yp,dTO)v Kadapcnv , the specific katharsis , that which is appropriate to these emotions. There is nothing in the Poetics to bear out the assumption of many commentators that epic poetry excites precisely the same emotions as tragedy. THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 247 words : ‘ What we mean by Jcatharsis we will now state in general terms ; hereafter we will explain it more clearly ( epovfxev aa^eo-repov) in our treatise on Poetry/ 1 But in the Poetics , as we have it, the much desired explanation is wanting ; there appears to be a gap in the text at this most critical point. We are therefore driven back upon the Politics itself as our primary authority. The tone of the passage and particular expressions show two things plainly — first, that the term there is consciously metaphorical ; secondly, that though its technical use in medicine was familiar, the meta- phorical application of it was novel, and needed elucidation. Moreover, in the words last quoted, — ‘ all undergo a katharsis of some kind/ — it is pretty plainly implied that the katharsis of pity and fear in tragedy is analogous to, but not identical with, the katharsis of 4 enthusiasm/ Now, Bernays transferred the katharsis of the Politics almost without modification of meaning to the definition of tragedy. He limited its reference to the simple idea of an emotional relief, a pleasur- able vent for overcharged feeling . 2 * This idea, no 1 Pol . v. (viii) 7. 1341 b 39. 2 Keble’s theory of poetry — of the * vis medica poeticae/ as he calls it — deserves to be compared. It is expounded in his Praelec- tiones Academicae , and also in a review of Lockhart’s Life of Scott, which has been republished in Keble’s Occasional Papers and Reviews. The most important pages of the review are quoted in Prickard (Aristotle on the Art of Poetry), pp. 102 sqq. W. Lock 248 POETRY AND FINE ART doubt, almost exhausts the meaning of the phrase as it is used in the Politics . It also expresses, as has been above explained, one important aspect of the tragic hatharsis. But the word, as taken up by Aristotle into his terminology of art, has prob- ably a further meaning. It expresses not only a fact of psychology or of pathology, but a principle of art. The original metaphor is in itself a guide to the full aesthetic significance of the term. In the medical language of the school of Hippocrates it strictly denotes the removal of a painful or dis- turbing element from the organism, and hence the purifying of what remains, by the elimination of alien matter . 1 Applying this to tragedy we observe (Biography of Keble ) sums up the theory thus : ‘ Poetry is essentially for him a relief to the poet, a relief for overcharged emotion. It is the utterance of feelings which struggle for expression, hut which are too deep for perfect expression at all, much more for expression in the language of daily life.’ Having pointed out that Keble’s theory rests mainly on the Poetics he adds : ‘ But Aristotle writes as a critic and is thinking of the effect upon the readers ; Keble, as a poet, dwells primarily on the effect upon the poet, and secondarily on that upon the readers.’ 1 K€VQ)o-Ls in the Hippocratic writings denotes the entire removal of healthy but surplus humours (rtuv otKetW otolv v7T€p/3dXXr) r<£ TrX'gOeC ) ; KdOapans the removal of ret Xv7rovvTa and the like, — ‘ of qualitatively alien matter ’ (tw aXXorptoiv Kara 7rotor^ra, Galen). Thus Galen xvi. 105, /cevaxris orav v Xv7tovvt(i)v Kara ^ TOLorgra Kevuxris : cf. [Plato] "Opot 415 D, Kadapo'is a7TOKptcrts x €L P° V(Jl)V /? € ^- TLOViOV. KaOatpeLv admits of a double construction. It takes — THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 249 that the feelings of pity and fear in real life contain a morbid and disturbing element. In the process of tragic excitation they find relief, and the morbid element is thrown off. As the tragic action pro- gresses, when the tumult of the mind, first roused, has afterwards subsided, the lower forms of emotion are found to have been transmuted into higher and more refined forms. The painful element in the pity and fear of reality is purged away ; the emotions themselves are purged. The curative and tranquillising influence that tragedy exercises follows as an immediate accompaniment of the transformation of feeling. Tragedy, then, does (i) An accusative of the disturbing element which is expelled or purged away : e.g. to Trep'iTTivpa, rot Xvttovvtcl, ra aXXo- Tpca. The idea here uppermost is the negative one of removing a foreign substance. (ii) An accusative of the object which is purged by this process of removal : e.g. tov dvOponrov , to crwpa, rrjv ^v^v, to, TraOrjpaTa. The idea here uppermost is the positive one of purifying or clarifying the organism, organ, or portion of the system from which the morbid matter is expelled. Corresponding to this twofold use of the accusative with the verb we have a twofold use of the genitive with the noun Ka6apcrLS : — (i) Ka6apcriv Xv7tovvtwv, tov 7repLTT(jopaTO6/3os \v7rr) tis r) Tapa)(r) £k (fxivTacrtas peXXovros kclkov cfaOapriKOV r/ \v7rrjpov. 2 lb. ii. 8. 1385 b 13, ecrro) 8rj eXeos XvTrrj tis Ittl cfxuvopLevcp kclku) (pOaprcKa Kal Xv7rrjp

aivr)rai. Cf. 1386 a 28, h ret S’ lyybs cfaaivopeva ra irdOrj lAeetva icrTLVy ra 8e pvpLox o poiios, k.t.X. 3 lb. ii. 8. 1386 a 17, iXeovcn 8e to'us r€ yvaipipovs, av prj o-(f)68pa eyyvs wcrtv otKetorr^rt* Trepl 8e tovtovs dxnrep irepl avrovs peXXovras €\ov(TLV. 252 POETRY AND FINE ART should fear for ourselves . 1 Those who are incapable of fear are incapable also of pity . 2 Thus in psychological analysis fear is the primary emotion from which pity derives its meaning. Its basis is a self-regarding instinct ; it springs from the feeling that a similar suffering may happen to ourselves. It has in it a latent and potential fear. But it is a wrong inference to say, as Lessing does , 3 that fear is always an ingredient in pity, — that we fear for ourselves whenever we feel pity for another. The Aristotelian idea simply is that we would feel for ourselves if we were in the position of him who is the object of our pity. The possible fear may never become actual, but the strength of the pity is not thereby impaired. Still the tacit reference to self makes the pity of the Rhetoric sensibly different from the pure instinct of compassion, the unselfish sympathy with others' 1 Rhet. ii. 8. 1386 a 27, ocra e<£’ avrtov fyofiovvTai ravra h / dXXov yuyvopLtva eAeova’tv. ii. 5. 1382 b 26, a>s S’ a,7rAc os elireiv, (faoftepa kcTTLV ocra k erepuv yiyvopeva rj p^eXXovra eXeewa €CTTIV. 2 lb. ii. 8. 1385 b 19, 8io ovre ol TravreXus d7roX(oXoT€S cXeovo-LV ovSev yap av ert iraQeiv otovTcu, TreTrovOacn yap • ovre ol v7rep€vSaipiov€LV olop,evoi , aAA s yfiptfovcriv. Of. ii. 5. 1383 a 9. 3 Lessing Hamb. Dram. Trans. (Bohn) pp. 409, 415, 436. The view that the mention of fear in the definition is superfluous, fear being implicit in pity, is strangely inconsistent with the position he takes up against Corneille, that pity and fear are the tragic emotions, pity alone being insufficient. THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 253 distress, which most modern writers understand by pity . 1 * The conditions of dramatic representation, and above all the combined appeal which tragedy makes to both feelings, will considerably modify the emotions as they are known in actual reality. Pity in itself undergoes no essential change. It has still for its object the misfortunes of c one who is undeserving ’ (o amfio?) ; which phrase, as interpreted by Aristotle {Poet, ch. xiii.), means not a wholly innocent sufferer, but rather a man who meets with sufferings beyond his deserts. The emotion of fear is profoundly altered when it is transferred from the real to the imaginative world. It is no longer the direct apprehension of misfortune impending over our own life. It is not caused by the actual approach of danger. It 1 Cf. Mendelssohn, ‘Pity is a complex emotion composed of love for an object and displeasure caused by its misery . 3 * Schopenhauer held pity to be at the root of all true morality. Aristotle himself in the Rhetoric marks a distinction between the disinterested and generous e'Aeos of the young and the self- regarding e'Aeos of the old: ii. 12. 1389 b 8, the young are eXerjTLKol Slot to 7ravras Xprjo-Tovs Kai /3eA.TLOV6/3os to retain this sense in spite of 7repi, which in the particular context would naturally suggest another object for (f>6/3o6/3os to be primarily fear for ourselves and our common humanity, or fear for the hero, the two feeliugs become closely interwoven in tragedy. In proportion as the hero is opo to? we experience the same sympathetic thrill or shudder (cf. ^ptrretv, Poet. xiv. 1 ; Plato Rep. iii. 387 C, ocra . . . cf>pLTT€iv Srj iroiei . . . too? aKovovras) that we do in beholding the misfortunes of those whom we love or count as one of ourselves ; and the awakening of fear as distinct from mere pity depends, it would seem, on this close identification between the hero and our- selves rather' than on the time-distinction alluded to above. 1 In Poet. xiii. 2 (see last note) <£o/?os is 7 repl rov opoiov, while e'Aeos is 7repL rov avagtov. In Rhet. ii. 8. 1386 a 24, rov s opotovs iXeovcnv Kara r^XcKtav , Kara rjQr) k.t.A., the reason, however, being added that such similarity of conditions suggests fear for ourselves. 256 POETRY AND FINE ART The resemblance on which Aristotle insists is one of moral character. His hero ( Poet . ch. xiii.) is a man not of flawless perfection, nor yet of consum- mate villainy ; by which we must not understand that he has merely average or mediocre qualities. He rises, indeed, above the common level in moral elevation and dignity, but he is not free from frailties and imperfections . 1 His must be a rich and full humanity, composed of elements which other men possess, but blended more harmoniously or of more potent quality. So much human nature must there be in him that we are able in some sense to identify ourselves with him, to make his misfortunes our own. At the same time he is raised above us in external dignity and station. He is a prince or famous man who falls from a height of greatness. Apart from the impressive effect of the contrast so presented, there is a gain in the hero being placed at an ideal distance from the spectator. We are not confronted with out- ward conditions of life too like our own. The pressure of immediate reality is removed ; we are not painfully reminded of the cares of our own material existence. We have here part of the refining process which the tragic emotions under- go within the region of art. They are disengaged from the petty interests of self, and are on the way to being universalised. 1 See infra ch. viii. THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 257 The tragic fear, though modified in passing under the conditions of art, is not, in Aristotle, a languid sympathy. Being refracted through pity, it differs from the crushing apprehension of personal disaster. It is true that in reading or witnessing the Oedipus Tyrannus we are not seized with the apprehension that we may commit the same errors as Oedipus, or be overtaken by the same calamities . 1 Yet a thrill runs through us, a shudder of horror or of vague foreboding . 2 The object of dread is not a definite evil threatening us at close quarters. But the vividness with which the imagination apprehends possible calamity produces the same intensity of impression as if the danger were at hand . 3 We are brought into a mood in which we feel that we too are 4 liable to suffering .’ 4 In the 1 Corneille (Disconrs ii. De la Tragedie ) argues from the absence of any such dread that the Oedipus Tyrannus excites pity only, and not fear. But if fear is rightly understood, it is par excellence a tragedy of fear. 2 Poet. xiv. 1, Set yap Kal dvev tov opav ovto) (TvvecrTavai rov pvOov, pLTT€Lv Kal 4A eeiv 4k twv (rvp/3aLv6vTwv ai rep av irdOot rts olkoviov tov tov 018l7tov pvOov (cf. supra p. 255, note). 3 This fact as the result of dramatic presentation is stated by Aristotle with regard to eAeos, Rhet. ii. 8. 1386 a 31, dvdyKrj rots orwo.7repya£op€Vovv kcu Eupt7rtd^ rt? Aeyot, to? kirLcrTarai rrepl crpiKpov 7rpay paros pr/cre 19 7rappYjKets Troieiv /cat Trepl peyaXov rravv erpiKpas , orav re /3ov\r)Tou OLKrpds , /eat Touvavrtov' av o(3ep6v ecrn : ovre eX eov ovre ofiov (e yoi av ) : ovtc eXeeuvov ovre cf)ol3epbv ecrrai to crvpfia Ivov : none of the plots here referred to has any of the elements of tragedy, much less can the full tragic effect be thus produced. 1 Printed by Vahlen and Susemihl at the end of their editions of the Poetics , and commented on in detail by Bernays, pp. 142 sqq. 2 Voltaire quotes with approval the observation of Saint- Evremont that in French tragedy tenderness takes the place of pity and surprise the place of fear. ‘ It cannot be denied,’ he says, 4 that Saint-Evremont has put his finger on the secret sore of the French theatre.’ The idea of fear, again, was frequently the horrible or frightening. Thus in France in the seventeenth century the conception of the tragic had come to be the union of the sentimental and the horrible. 3 Rhet. ii. 8. 1386 a 21, to yap Seivov erepov rov eXeewov Kai eKKpovo’TLKov rov cAeou. Cf, ii. 8. 1385 b 33, ov yap eXeovcriv ol eKTreTzXrjypevoi 8ia to eivai 7rpo oiKeico ivaOei. THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 261 though it may send an inward shudder through the blood, does not paralyse the mind or stun the sense, as does the direct vision of some impending calamity. And the reason is that this fear, unlike the fear of common reality, is based on an imagin- ative union with another’s life. The spectator is lifted out of himself. He becomes one with the tragic sufferer, and through him with humanity at large. One effect of the drama, said Plato, is that through it a man becomes many, instead of one ; it makes him lose his proper personality in a pantomimic instinct, and so prove false to him- self. Aristotle might reply : True ; he passes out of himself, but it is through the enlarging power of sympathy. He forgets his own petty sufferings. He quits the narrow sphere of the individual. He identifies himself with the fate of mankind. We are here brought back to Aristotle’s theory of poetry as a representation of the universal. Tragedy exemplifies with concentrated power this highest function of the poetic art. The characters it depicts, the actions and fortunes of the persons with whom it acquaints us, possess a typical and universal value. The artistic unity of plot, binding together the several parts of the play in close inward coherence, reveals the law of human destiny, the causes and effects of suffering. The incidents which thrill us are intensified in their 262 POETRY AND FINE ART effect, when to the shock of surprise is added the discovery that each thing as it has happened could not be otherwise ; it stands in organic relation to what has gone before . 1 Pity and fear awakened in connexion with these larger aspects of human suffering, and kept in close alliance with one another, become universalised emotions. What is purely personal and self- regarding drops away. The spectator who is brought face to face with grander sufferings than his own experiences a sympathetic ecstasy, or lifting out of himself. It is precisely in this transport of feeling, which carries a man outside his individual self, that the distinctive tragic pleasure resides. Pity and fear are purged of the impure element which clings to them in life. In the glow of tragic excitement these feelings are so transformed that the net result is a noble emotional satisfaction. The katharsis , viewed as a refining process, may have primarily implied no more to Aristotle than the expulsion of the disturbing element, namely, the pain , 2 which enters into pity and fear when aroused by real objects. The mere fact of 1 Poet. ix. 11, where the point lies in the union of the 7rapa r rjv 8o£av with the 8 1 aXXrjXa. 2 Cf. Plut. Symp. Qu. iii. 8 (in reference to the musical katharsis ), uicnrep r/ 0pr)V(y8la kou 6 eTnrr]8eios avXos ev dpyrj ^ddos Kivei kcu 8dt8l(i } Xviras ydovoSs ap,a KepavvvcrOai , /cat kv a Wo is 8rj pLvpiois. Cf. 48 A, ras ye rpayiKots deaypr/creis, orav a/xa ^at povres k\ooi)0’l. 264 POETRY AND FINE ART is not what Aristotle meant, it is at least the natural outcome of his doctrine ; to this conclusion his general theory of poetry points. Let us assume, then, that the tragic katharsis involves not only the idea of an emotional relief, but the further idea of the purifying of the emotions so relieved. In accepting this interpre- tation we do not ascribe to tragedy a direct moral purpose and influence. Tragedy, according to the definition, acts on the feelings, not on the will. It does not make men better, but removes certain hindrances to virtue. The refinement of feeling under temporary and artificial excitement is still far removed from moral improvement. Aristotle would probably admit that indirectly the drama has a moral influence, in enabling the emotional system to throw off some perilous stuff, certain elements of feeling, which, if left to themselves, might develop dangerous energy, and impede the free play of those vital functions on which the exercise of virtue depends. The excitation of noble emotions will probably in time exert an influence on the will. But whatever may be the indirect effect of the repeated operation of the katharsis , we may confidently say that Aristotle in his definition of tragedy is thinking, not of any such remote result, but of the immediate end of the art, of the aesthetic function it fulfils. THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 265 It is only under certain conditions of art that the homoeopathic cure of pity and fear by similar emotions is possible. Fear cannot be combined with the proper measure of pity, unless the sub- ject matter admits of being universalised. The dramatic action must be so significant, and its meaning capable of such extension, that through it we can discern the higher laws which rule the world. The private life of an individual, tragic as it may be in its inner quality, has never been made the subject of the highest tragedy. Its con- sequences are not of far-reaching importance ; it does not move the imagination with sufficient power. Within the narrow circle of a bourgeois existence a great action is hardly capable of being unfolded. The keenest feeling of pity may be elicited by the conditions of such a life ; the action may even be represented with much dramatic force : but it is open to question whether it will not of necessity retain some traces of littleness, which hinder the awakening of tragic fear, — still more of that solemnity and awe which is the final feeling left by genuine tragedy. Some quality of greatness in the situation as well as in the characters appears to be all but indispensable, if we are to be raised above the individual suffer- ing, and experience a calming instead of a disquiet- ing feeling at the close. The tragic katharsis requires that suffering shall be exhibited in one 266 POETRY AND FINE ART of its comprehensive aspects ; that the deeds and fortunes of the actors shall attach themselves to larger issues, and the spectator himself be lifted above the special case, and brought face to face with universal law and the divine plan of the world. In order that an emotion may be not only excited but also allayed,— that the tumult of the mind may be resolved into a pleasurable calm, — the emotion, stirred by a fictitious representation, must divest itself of its purely selfish and material elements, and become part of a new order of things. It is perhaps for this reason that love in itself is hardly a tragic motive. The more exclusive and self-absorbed a passion is, the more does it resist kathartic treatment. The feelings excited must have their basis in the permanent and objective realities of life, and be independent of individual caprice or sentiment. In the ordinary novel the passion of love in its egoistic and self-centred interest does not admit of being generalised, or its story enlarged into a typical and independent action. The rare cases where a love story is truly tragic go to prove the point which is here enforced. In Romeo and Juliet the tragedy does not lie merely in the unhappy ending of a tale of true love. Certain other conditions, beyond those which contribute to give a dramatic interest, are required to produce the tragic effect. There is the THE FUNCTION OF TRAGEDY 267 feud of the two houses, whose high place in the commonwealth makes their enmity an affair of public concern. The lovers in their new-found rapture act in defiance of all external obligations. The elemental force and depth of their passion bring them into collision with the fabric of the society to which they belong. Their tragic doom quickly closes in upon them. Yet even in death the consequences of their act extend beyond the sphere of the individual. Over the grave of their love the two houses are reconciled. Tragedy, as it has been here explained, satisfies a universal human need. The fear and pity on and through which it operates are not, as some have maintained, rare and abnormal emotions. All men, as Aristotle says , 1 are susceptible to them, some persons in an overpowering measure. For the modern, as for the ancient world, they are still among the primary instincts ; always present, if below the surface, and ready to be called into activity . 2 The Greeks, from temperament, circum- stances, and religious beliefs, may have been more sensitive to their influence than we are, and more likely to suffer from them in a morbid form. Greek tragedy, indeed, in its beginnings was but a wild religious excitement, a bacchic ecstasy. This aimless ecstasy was brought under artistic law. 1 Pol. v. (viii.) 7. 1342 a 5-7. 2 Cf. Some Aspects of the Greek Genius , pp. 154-5. 268 POETRY AND FINE ART It was ennobled by objects worthy of an ideal emotion. The poets found out how the transport of human pity and human fear might, under the excitation of art, be dissolved in joy, and the pain escape in the purified tide of human sympathy. CHAPTER VII THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 4 Unity of plot does not,’ says Aristotle , 1 4 as some persons think, consist in the unity of the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man’s life, which cannot be reduced to unity : and so, too, there are many actions of one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story of Heracles must also be a unity.’ Such is the principle laid down for tragedy in ch. viii., and Homer is there held up as the true model even to the tragedian. Precisely the same principle is affirmed of epic poetry in ch. xxiii., where it is added that unity of time, like unity of person, does not of itself bind events into a unity . 2 Not only epics like the Achilleid of Statius offend against this funda- mental principle, but also many modern dramas in which the life and character of the hero become 1 Poet. viii. 1. 2 Poet, xxiii. 1-4. 270 POETRY AND FINE ART the ultimate motive, and a biographical or his- torical interest takes the place of the dramatic interest. The first requirement of a tragedy is Unity of Action . 1 Unity in Aristotle is the principle of limit, without which an object loses itself in the airetpov, the region of the undefined, the indeter- minate, the accidental. By means of unity the plot becomes individual and also intelligible. The greater the unity, the more perfect will it be as a concrete and individual thing ; at the same time it will gain in universality and typical quality . 2 The Unity of the tragic action is, again, an organic unity, an inward principle which reveals itself in the form of an outward whole . 3 It is opposed indeed to plurality, but not opposed to the idea of manifoldness and variety ; for simple as it is in one sense, it admits of all the complexity of vital phenomena. The whole ( o\ov ) in which it is manifested is complete (reXeoov ) 4 in its parts, the 1 For the meaning of 7rpa£ts, ‘action/ see pp. 123 and 327 sqq. 2 In Prob. xviii. 9. 917 b 8 sqq., the pleasure derived from a Unity is ultimately resolved into the fact that it is yvwpepwTepov : 8lcl Tt 7rore twv io-Topiwv rj8 lov aKovopev twv tt epi eV crweo-TrjKVLWV rj twv Trepl 7roAAa TrpaypaTevopevwv ; rj 8lotl rots yvwpipwrepois paWov TTpocrk\opev kol rj8 lov clvtwv aKovopev yvwpipwrepov 8e kdTi to wpucrpevov tov aopLcrrov. to pev ovv eV wpLcrTcu, rot Se 7roAAd tov airetpov /xereyet. 3 Poet. ch. vii. (to oAov), ch. viii. (to ev) : supra pp. 185 sqq. 4 In the definition of tragedy {Poet. vi. 2) we have TeAetas 7T/od£ecos, in vii. 2 TeAetas /cat oA rjs Trpa^ews. So in xxiii. 1 epic poetry is 7repl ptav irpa^cv o\r)v /cat TeAetav. A perfect oAov is THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 271 parts themselves being arranged in a fixed order and structurally related so that none can be removed, none transposed, without disturbing the organism . 1 Within the single and complete action which constitutes the unity of a tragedy, the successive incidents are connected together by an inward and causal bond, — by the law of necessary and probable sequence, on which Aristotle is never tired of insisting. Again, a certain magnitude (pbeye0os) is indis- pensable for the harmonious evolution of a whole such as is here described. This is frequently affirmed by Aristotle. As a biological law it applies to the healthy life and growth of all organic structures . 2 It is also an artistic law, expressing one of the first conditions of organic necessarily reXecov. In Phys. iii. 6. 207 a 7 sqq. oXov and re Aetov are opposed to , tout 5 ltov : ib. 13, oXov 8e Kat reXec ov r/ to auTo Trdpirav rj o'vveyyv s t rjv (frvcrLV eo-Tiv. 1 Poet. viii. 4, peraTi Oepevov Ttvos pepovs rj acfiaLpovpevov Sta- cfrepeo'Oa t (? Sta^opetoPat or 8ia<^>0PtpecrdaL) Kat KivelcrOai to oXov. 2 De Anim. ii. 4. 416 a 16, twv 8e /za Ik pepdw cdyKetTat Kat Set av^dvecrOat avdAoyov, tVa /zev 7 y crvpptTpia, . . . ovtco Kat 7roAts k.t.X. 272 POETRY AND FINE ART beauty . 1 In this latter sense it is emphasised in chapter vii. of the Poetics. An object is unfit for artistic representation if it is infinitely large or infinitesimally small . 2 On this principle a whole such as the Trojan war, 4 though it has a beginning and an end , 5 is too vast in its compass even for epic treatment ; it cannot be grasped by the mind, and incurs the risk attaching to any Trci\vpepr)$ 7 rpaft?, of becoming a series of detached scenes or incidents . 3 Aristotle wisely avoids attempting to lay down any very precise rules as to the possible length to which a play may be extended. What he does say on the subject is marked by much sobriety and good sense. He rejects as inartistic any reference to the outward and accidental conditions of stage repre- sentation . 4 He falls back on the law of beauty as governing a work of art, and — intimately related to this — on men’s normal powers of memory and enjoyment. The whole, he says, must be of such dimensions that the memory or mind’s eye can 1 Poet . vii. 4, en 8’ kirel to KaXov Kal £a>ov Kal avav irpaypa o avveorrrjKev Ik tivujv ov povov ravra reray peva Set eX €LV aAAa Kal peyeOos virapytiv py) to tv%6v K.r.X. Cf. ib. 7, aet pev 6 peifav (sc. pvOos) p^XP 1 T °v crvvSrjXo'S etvai KaXX'uov ecrrl Kara to peye9o pev 7rpb peyeOei Kara to et kos rj to avayKaiov ecfae^rjs ytyvopevuv (Tvpfiaivei els evr vyjiav €K 8 v(tt o^tas rj k£ evTV\las els 8vs kiri to 7ro\v, pera Se tovto aAAo ovSev , p'eaov Se o Kai avro per 3 aAAo koI per ’ eKelvo erepov. 2 So Teichmuller (Arist. Forsch. i. 54, 250) rightly, in defending the reading prj e£ avay Kr)S in the definition of apxv against the proposed transposition e£ avayKiys prj. The latter reading, * that which necessarily does not follow something else, 5 would, as he says, describe the absolute beginning, the 7 rpwrov k ivovv, whereas Aristotle here wishes to denote a relative beginning, that which follows other things in time, but not as a necessary consequence. He adds, however, that the reason Aristotle insists on this relative beginning is that tragedy is within the sphere of freedom : it must be begun by an act of free will. It seems most un- likely that anything of the sort is in Aristotle’s mind. On the 276 POETRY AND FINE ART an endless retrograde movement. A play must begin at some definite point, and at some definite point it must end. It is for the poet to see that the action is complete in itself, and that neither the beginning nor the end is arbitrarily chosen. Within the dramatic action, a strict sequence of cause and effect is prescribed ; but the causal chain must not be indefinitely extended outwards. The definition of the 'middle' as 'that which follows something as some other thing follows it,' looks at first sight mere tautology : but the context shows that the word ' follows ’ here marks a causal, not a purely temporal sequence. The idea is that the 'middle' unlike the 'beginning' stands in causal relation to what goes before, and unlike the ' end ’ is causally connected with what follows. There is no attempt to mark at what point in the development of the play the ‘ middle ' is to be placed. The purpose of the definitions is to exclude beginnings which require something to precede them, endings which do not conclude the action, and middles which stand alone, unconnected either with the beginning or the end. We have other hand, it is true that the Greek tragedians do generally make the action begin at a point where the human will has free play. This is a striking feature in Sophocles 5 treatment of the legends. Dark or superhuman forces may be at work in the antecedents of the play, but within the tragedy there is human will in action. The Ajax, the Philoctetes , the Oedipus Tyrannus, and the Oedipus Coloneus are examples. THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 277 here an emphatic condemnation of that kind of plot which Aristotle calls ‘ epeisodic ’ (eVao-oStwS???), where the scenes follow one another without the inward connexion of the et/eo? or avay/calov. 1 A succession of stirring scenes does not make a tragedy ; and it is just this truth that Euripides is apt to forget when, instead of creating a well articulated whole, he often delights to substitute pathetic effects, striking situations, rapid contrasts and surprises. These definitions, however, like so many in the Poetics , have reference to the ideal tragedy ; they are not to be taken as a rule to which all Greek plays conform. This will account for the inconsistency between the account here given of the ‘ beginning,' and the account in ch. xviii. of the Complication (Seen?) and Denouement (Xvo-ls) of the tragic plot. The Complication is that group of events which precedes the decisive turn of fortune ; the Denouement is that group of events which follows it. In strictness, and according to the definition of ch. vii. , the ‘ beginning ’ of the play should be also the 4 beginning ’ of the Com- plication. But the Complication, according to ch. xviii., frequently includes ra egcoOev ? — certain 1 Poet. ix. 10. Cf. p. 157 note. 2 Poet, xviii. 1, ra [lev e£c oOev /cat eVta tcov eaw^ev 7roAAa /as fj Seen?, to Se \olttov rj hvcris (where, however, Ueberweg’s trans- position, t rj pXv (sc. rj rpayoiSia) on /xaAicrra 7retparat V7 ro fi lav TreptoSov rjXtov tlvai rj puKpov e£aA- AaTretv, rj 8e e7ro7roua aopurTOS rw xpovco, Kal TOVT(p Siafapei' KCLLTOL TO 7T/3WTOV OpLOLOiS kv Tat? TpayO)Sta65 TOVTO €7 TOLOVV KCU €V Toes €7 recny. Teichmiiller (Arist. Forsch. pp. 206 ff.) attempts to show not only that p.rjKos here is the external length of the poem, but also 284 POETRY AND FINE ART ‘ Epic poetry and tragedy differ, again, in the length of the action : for tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this limit ; whereas the epic action has no limits of time.’ We have that is the actual time taken in recitation (or representation), as distinct from the ideal or imaginary time over which the action extends. He seems to prove his case with respect to /w}kos, which invariably in the Poetics means external length. But his view of X/oovo? is open apparently to fatal objections, the chief of which are these : — (1) plav 7T€pioSov rjhiov can hardly express the day of twelve hours. The word 7 reptoSo? as applied to a heavenly body always means its full orbit , its motion from a given starting-point back again to the same point. This periphrasis, instead of the simple phrase plav rfpepav, seems expressly designed to indicate that the day of twenty-four hours — r\pkpa together with vv£ — is meant. (2) As has been shown by Ribbeck, Rhein. Mus. 24, p. 135, the parenthetical remark, to irpiorov opoim ev tous rpaywStats tovto hroiovv koll ev to is eVeo-ii/, tells strongly against Teichmuller. The reference must be to the imaginary time of the action in the play itself. (3) TpayioSta throughout the Poetics is used for tragedy as a distinct species of poetry, or for a particular tragedy, — never for the tragic performance including a tetralogy. (4) paXto-ra rreiparai loses almost all point if the \povo s is external time, and if v7ro piav . . . eivcu instead of its natural sense ‘fall within,’ ‘be comprised within,’ is forced to mean ‘occupy,’ or ‘fill up,’ twelve hours of daylight. The translation adopted in the text follows Ueberweg’s explana- tion. prjKos is (with Teichmuller) referred to the actual length of the poem, but xP^vos to the internal time of the action. The difference in the length of a poem is made to depend on a difference in the time occupied by the action. Roughly speaking, such a relation generally exists, at least in the drama. But it is far from being a strict rule. In forming this conclusion on a passage which is still not with- out difficulty, I have had the advantage of some correspondence with Prof. Bywater. THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 285 here a rough generalisation as to the practice of the Greek stage. The imaginary time of the dramatic action is limited, as far as may be, to the day of twenty-four hours. The practice, however, did not always exist. In the earlier days of tragedy, as the next sentence shows, the time-limit was ignored in the tragic no less than in the epic action. No strict rule is here laid down. A certain historic fact is recorded, — a prevailing, but not an invariable usage. The effort of tragedy was in this direction, though the result could not always be achieved. Even in the developed Attic drama several exceptions to the practice are to be found. In the Eumenides months or years elapse between the opening of the play and the next scene. The Trachiniae of Sophocles and the Supplices of Euripides afford other and striking instances of the violation of the so-called rule. In the Agamemnon , even if a definite interval of days cannot be assumed between the fire - signals announcing the fall of Troy, and the return of Agamemnon, at any rate the conditions of time are disregarded and the march of events is imaginatively accelerated . 1 * * As for the ‘ Unity of 1 On the time-question in the Agamemnon see an article by Prof. Lewis Campbell in the Classical Review , vol. iv. 303-5. On the general question of 4 The Unity of Time’ see Verrall, Ion of Eurip. Intr. pp. xlviii ff. (Cambridge Press). 286 POETRY AND FINE ART Place,’ this too was a stage - practice, generally observed in the Greek drama but sometimes neglected, more especially in comedy : it is no- where even hinted at in the Poetics , and, as a rule of art, has been deduced by the critics from the Unity of Time . 1 There are several very obvious reasons for the general observance of the minor Unities in Greek tragedy. The simple and highly concentrated movement of a Greek play seldom demanded, or even permitted, a change of place or intervals between the scenes. Such breaks would, as a rule, have been liable to disturb the impression of the unity of the whole. Moreover, as has been often remarked, the Chorus formed an ideal bond of union between the separate parts of the action. Lessing suggests 2 that the limitations of time and place were necessary in order that the Chorus might not seem to be kept too long away from their homes. But if once we realise the painful 1 The formal recognition of the Unity of Place as a third Unity- dates from Castelvetro’s first edition of the Poetics in 1570 : see an article by H. Breitinger in Revue Critique 1879, ii. pp. 478-80. In the same article two other points are noted : (1) that Castelvetro adopts the theory put forward in the Poetik published 1561 from the remains of J. C. Scaliger, identifying the time of the action with that of the representation ; (2) that Sir Philip Sidney in his Apologie for Poetrie, written soon after 1580 and published in 1595, derived from Castelvetro many of the arguments and examples by which he maintains his vigorous defence of the Three Unities. 2 Hamb. Dram. Trans. (Bohn) p. 369. THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 287 fact that these worthy men are kept standing, it may be for twenty-four hours, fasting and in one place, our distress will not be perceptibly aug- mented if the action is prolonged to thirty -six or forty-eight hours. Still, it is true that the constant presence of the same group of actors in a theatre where there was no drop-scene, no division into Acts, did naturally lead to the representation of a continuous and unbroken action. From this point of view the presence of the Chorus tended towards Unity of Place and Unity of Time. From another point of view the Chorus releases us from the captivity of time. The interval covered by a choral ode is one whose value is just what the poet chooses to make it. While the time occupied by the dialogue has a relation more or less exact to real time, the choral lyrics suspend the outward action of the play, and carry us still farther away from the world of reality. What happens in the interval cannot be measured by any ordinary reckoning ; it is much or little as the needs of the piece demand. A change of place directly obtrudes itself on the senses, but time is only what it appears to the mind. The imagination travels easily over many hours ; and in the Greek drama the time that elapses during the songs of the Chorus is entirely idealised. In interpreting the passage of the Poetics above quoted (ch. v. 4), the earlier critics dealt 288 POETRY AND FINE ART very loosely with the Greek. Tretparai rj rparycpSta, says Aristotle. Corneille and D’Aubignac translate 7 TeipaTcu by doit , and thereby convert the general statement of fact at once into a rule. Successive commentators repeated the error. But the stress of the controversy gathered round another point. What is the meaning of the phrase pbiav ireptohov tjXlovj £ a single revolution of the sun ’ ? 1 Is it the day of twenty -four hours, or the day of twelve hours ? The Italian critics were divided on this question ; so too were the French. Corneille 2 declared in favour of twenty - four hours ; but proposed, by a stretch of the rule, to allow thirty hours ; and even this limit he thought hampering. He wavers curiously between the true poetic view as to the ideal management of time, and the principle of poetic illusion — or rather deception — so widely held by his contemporaries, that the more exact the reproduction of the conditions of reality, the better the art. At one moment he says that, if the representa- tion lasts two hours, the dramatic action ought to be the same length, that the resemblance may be perfect. If, however, the action cannot with due regard to probability be compressed into two hours, he would allow it to run to four or six or ten hours, but not much beyond the twenty -four. 1 See p. 284 note. 2 Corneille, Discours iii. Des Trois Unites. THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 289 Might it not have occurred to him that long before the extreme limit of twenty-four or thirty hours was reached, the principle of a life-like imitation of reality would have been surrendered ? No sooner, however, has he enunciated the rule than his instincts as a poet get the upper hand, and he writes : ‘ Above all I would leave the length of the action to the imagination of the hearers, and never determine the time, if the subject does not require it, . . . What need is there to mark at the opening of the play that the sun is rising, that it is noon at the third act, and sunset at the end of the last ? ’ Dacier 1 disputes the view that the ‘ single revolution of the sun ’ means a day of twenty-four hours. He holds it to be monstrous and against common sense ; ‘ it would ruin the verisimilitude/ He fixes twelve hours as the extreme limit of the dramatic action, but these may be either in the night or in the day, or half in one and half in the other . 2 In the perfect tragedy — and here he agrees with Corneille — the time of the action and of the representation should coincide. He roundly asserts that this was an indispensable law of Greek tragedy , 3 though this statement is afterwards 1 Dacier on Aristotle’s Poetics , ch. v. note 21, Trans. (London 1705 ). 2 Cf. D’Aubignac’s translation of r\ fuKpov e^aAAarretv, ‘ ou de changer un peu ce temps,’ i.e. to change from day to night or from night to day. 3 Dacier on Poetics , ch. vii. note 14. U 290 POETRY AND FINE ART qualified. If, owing to the nature of the subject, the poet cannot observe the rule of strict equi- valence, he may have recourse to £ verisimilitude ’ ; and this is stated to be the Aristotelian principle : £ Aristotle supplied the defect of necessity by probability .’ 1 Thus the law of the ebcos and avar/fcalov in the Poetics degenerates into a device which may lead the audience to imagine that the scene on the stage is a facsimile of real life. The fallacious principle that the dramatic imitation is meant to be in some sense a deception , 2 is at the basis of all these strange reasonings as to the possible equivalence between real and imaginary time. The idea exists in Corneille . 3 It is pushed to its extreme by Dacier and Batteux. Even Yoltaire commits himself to the absurd position that £ if the poet represents a conspiracy and makes the 1 Dacier on Poetics , ch. vii. note 18. Here the avay/catov of Aristotle becomes the exact equivalence of the time of the action with the time of the representation : the clkos becomes the verisimilitude which in default of such equivalence ‘will cheat the audience, who will not pry so narrowly as to mind what is behind the scenes, provided there be nothing too extravagant.’ 2 ‘ It is false that any representation is mistaken for reality ; that any dramatic fable, in its materiality, was ever credible, or for a single moment was ever credited.’— Dr Johnson, Preface to Shakspeare. 3 With regard to Unity of Place Corneille says: ‘Cela aiderait a tromper l’auditeur, qui ne voyant rien qui lui marquat la diversity des lieux, ne s’en apercevrait pas, a moins d’une reflexion malicieuse et critique, dont il y en a peu qui soient capables’ (Disc. iii.). THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 291 action to last fourteen days, he must account to me for all that takes place in those fourteen days/ 1 Unity of Place was generally held to follow as a corollary from Unity of Time . 2 Corneille, the first French poet who rigorously observes the rule, admits that he finds no such precept in Aristotle . 3 In defending it he is driven to desperate shifts, which end in a kind of compromise. He points 1 So Dacier on Poetics , ch. xviii. note 3 : ‘ Mr. Corneille is satisfied that the audience should know why the actors go out of the place where the scene is laid ; but he does not think it necessary to know what they do during the intervals, neither that ’tis required that the actors should do anything during the intervals, but is persuaded that they may sleep then, if they please, and not break the continuity of the action. We find just the contrary according to Aristotle’s principles, and that it ceases to be a tragedy when 5 tis so, for this would certainly ruin all the prob- ability, if the audience did not know what the actors were doing during the intervals ; and if the actors have nothing to do, pray what does the audience stay for ? ’tis very odd to expect the sequel of an action, when the actors have nothing more to do, and to be interested in a thing, which the actors are so little concerned in, that they may go to sleep.’ It is needless to say, there is not a trace of all this in Aristotle. 2 Voltaire derives it from Unity of Action on the strangely illogical ground that ‘ no one action can go on in several places at once. 3 But surely a single action can go on in several places successively. 3 Others who had never read the Poetics were not slow to assert that all the Unities are there enjoined. Frederick the Great (on German Literature ) ridicules the plays of Shakespeare as ridiculous farces, worthy of the savages of Canada ; they offend against all the rules of the stage. ‘For these rules are not arbitrary ; you will find them in the Poetics of Aristotle, where Unity of Place, Unity of Time, and Unity of Interest are pre- scribed as the only means of making tragedy interesting.’ 292 POETRY AND FINE ART out that the moderns are met by a difficulty the ancients did not encounter. The Greeks could make their kings meet and speak in public. In France such a familiarity was impossible ; royal personages could not be brought forth from the seclusion of their chambers ; nor could private confidences be exchanged anywhere but in the private apartments of the several characters. He would, therefore, admit some extension of the rale. He would allow a change of scene, provided that the action represented took place within a single town, and that the scene was not shifted in the same act. Again, the place must be alluded to only under its general name — Paris, Home, or the like — and the stage decoration must remain un- altered so far as this local area is concerned. Such were the anxious and minute contrivances which a great poet devised to enable the imagination to do its proper work. The principle, as Batteux carefully explained, was that if the scene of the action is changed while the spectator remains in one place, he will be reminded that he is assisting at an unreal performance ; the imitation will be so far defective. Far better — we feel — in the interests of the dramatic art was the practice of the Shakespearian theatre, — the bare stage without movable scenery, and the frank surrender of all attempt to cheat the senses. The poet simply invoked the aid of the THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 293 imagination to carry his hearers through space and time ; to ‘ digest The abuse of distance, . . .’ ‘jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass.’ The problem of the 6 Unities ’ cannot, indeed, have presented itself to Aristotle in its modern lights. But even if he had known what was to be written on the subject, he would, doubtless, have taken his stand no less decisively on the funda- mental Unity of Action, and refrained from laying down any binding rules for change of scene or lapse of time. If Unity of Action is preserved, the other Unities will take care of themselves. Unity of Action is indeed in danger of being impaired by marked discontinuity of place or time. There are Spanish dramas in which the hero is born in Act i. , and appears again on the scene as an old man at the close of the play. The missing spaces are almost of necessity filled in by the undramatic expedient of narrating what has occurred in the intervals. Yet even here all depends on the art of the dramatist. Years may elapse between successive acts without the unity being destroyed, as we see from The Winter s Tale. After all, the drama is not possible without a certain idealisation of place and time. If the poet 294 POETRY AND FINE ART has once succeeded in transporting us to a far-off land and a distant age — to ancient Rome or Athens — we are not inclined to quarrel with him as to the number of hours or days over which the dramatic action extends. We do not ask at the end of each act, what the hour is by poet’s time ; and, should we seek to discover it from indications in the play, our curiosity will for the most part be baffled. There is no calendar for such a reckoning, no table of equivalent hours in the real and the ideal world. It is part of the poet’s art to make us forget all time ; and, if in his company we lose count of months and years, we do not cry out against the impossibility. For, on the one hand, the imagina- tion is not to be cheated by puerile devices into the belief that its world is the world of reality : on the other, we can hardly place any limit on the demands to which it will respond, if only these demands are made by one who knows how. Shake- speare deals freely, and as he will, with place and time ; yet he is generally nearer to the doctrine of the Poetics than those who fancied they wrote in strict accordance with the rules of that treatise. French poets and writers on aesthetics did not derive their dramatic rules directly from the Greek models on which the Poetics of Aristotle are based. The genius of Rome was more congenial to them than that of Greece. Seneca, rather than Aeschylus or Sophocles, was the teacher of Corneille and Racine, THE DRAMATIC UNITIES 295 and even Moliere’s comedy was powerfully affected by Plautus and Terence. The French, having learnt their three Unities from Roman writers, then sought to discover for them Aristotelian authority. They committed a further and graver error. Instead of resting the minor Unities of Time and Place on Unity of Action, they subordinated Unity of Action to the observance of the other rules. The result not unfrequently was to compress into a space of twelve or twenty -four hours a crowded sequence of incidents and a series of mental conflicts which needed a fuller development. The natural course of the action was cut short, and the inner con- sistency of character violated. A similar result followed from the scrupulous precautions taken to avoid a change of scene. The characters, in- stead of finding their way to the place where dramatic motives would have taken them, were compelled to go elsewhere, lest they should violate the Unities. The external rule was thus observed, but at the cost of that inward logic of character and events, which is prescribed by the Poetics. The failures and successes of the modern stage alike prove the truth of the Aristotelian principle, that Unity of Action is the higher and controlling law of the drama. The Unities of Time and Place, so far as they can claim any artistic importance, are of secondary and purely derivative value. CHAPTER VIII THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO With the exception of the definition of tragedy itself, probably no passage in the Poetics has given rise to so much criticism as the description of the ideal tragic hero in ch. xiii. The qualities requisite to such a character are here deduced from the primary fact that the function of tragedy is to produce the katharsis of pity and fear ; pity being felt for a person who, if not wholly innocent, meets with suffering beyond his deserts ; fear being awakened when the sufferer is a man of like nature with ourselves . 1 Tragic character must be exhibited through the medium of a plot which has the capacity of giving full satisfaction to these emotions. Certain types, therefore, of character and certain forms of catastrophe are at once excluded, as failing either in whole or in part to produce the tragic effect. In the first place, the spectacle of a man 1 See pp. 255 sqq. THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 297 eminently good 1 undergoing the change from pros- perous to adverse fortune awakens neither pity nor fear. It shocks or repels us ( puapdv ianv). Next, and utterly devoid of tragic quality, is the repre- sentation of the bad man who experiences the contrary change from distress to prosperity. Pity and fear are here alike wanting. Even the sense of justice (to ( f > i \ dv6pco7rov ) 2 is unsatisfied. The impression left by such a spectacle is, indeed, the 1 The eTTieiKYjS of Poet xiii. 2 is from the context to be identified with o apery Siacfaepiov kol SutaLoo-vvy of § 3. 2 Vahlen here (ch. xiii. 2) takes to (juXavOpurrov in its ordinary sense, as human sympathy with suffering, even if the suffering be deserved, and the sympathy, therefore, fall short of eXeos. But the comparison of ch. xviii. 6 suggests a more special meaning. The outwitting of the clever rogue and the defeat of the brave villain are there given as instances of to cfriXavOpaiTrov. It appears to denote that which gratifies the moral sense, which produces a feeling of satisfied justice. So it is taken by Zeller, Susemihl and others. Properly it is a sympathetic human feeling ; and this may be evoked either by the sight of suffering (merited or un- merited), or by the punishment of the evil-doer. In Rhet. ii. 9. 1386 b 26 sympathy with unmerited suffering — namely, eAeos — has as its other side the sense of satisfaction over merited mis- fortune — what is here called to (friXavOpoiirov. 6 /rev yap Xvttov- pevos €7rt to?s dva^ious KaK07rpayovo‘iv ycrdycreTaL y a\vi ros ecrrou €7rl tois evavTtws KaK07rpayov(TLV otov tous 7rarpa.Xota<5 Kal /ztat<£ovovs, orav rvyoiwi Tt/xcoptas, ovSels av XviryOecy ^pyvros' Set yap yalpeiv €7rt Tots toiovtols. Mr. Lock has given me an interesting illustration of cjuXavOpanrov in the meaning here assigned to it from the Book of Wisdom i. 6, (fnXdvOpojTrov yap Trvevpa cro<£ta /cat ovk a^towcret tov [3\ao'cf>ypLov. With (fnXdv0p(j)7rov, 1 satisfying to human feeling/ may be com- pared the later use of the word (common e.g. in Plutarch), of ‘pleasing/ ‘gratifying/ in a more general way. 298 POETRY AND FINE ART exact opposite of eXeos, 6 pity ’ : it is that which the Greeks denoted by ve/iecrc?, the righteous anger or moral indignation excited by undeserved good fortune . 1 Again, there is the overthrow of the utter villain (o as avot/ceta rrjs rpa.yLKrjs TrocrjereoiS o tc ’Opecrrrjs /cat rj " AA/c^crrt? u>s e/c wpLcfropas pdev apyop^zva, els evSatjUOVtav 8e /cat ^apav Xrj^avra. ecm 8e p.aXXov K(i)pup8las e^opLev a. 2 Poet. xiii. 6, o Edpt^td^s el /cat ra aXXa p.rj ev ot/coi/o/xet dAAa TpaytKtoTaTos ye twi/ 7rot^Ttov t^atVeTat. The praise is here further limited by the consideration that the effectiveness of his tragedies depends on stage representation and on good acting : €7rt yap twv c rKTjvdiv /cat twv dyiovoiv TpaycKeoraraL at Totatrrat <^>atvovTat, av KaTopO(o6oj(TLV. The ‘powerful tragic effect’ on the stage (t pay t/ccoTaT at a tvov- Tat, Tpay tKWTaTos ye cfralveTai) is a serious reservation for Aristotle to make, for he requires a good tragedy to produce its proper effect merely by reading, ch. xiv. 1. See Susemihl (Introd. p. 29), who also compares the use of TpayiKos in a somewhat restricted sense in the two other passages where it occurs in the Poetics , — xiv. 7, to T€ yap p.iapov e^et, KaL °v 'rpayiKOV dnaOes yap (where rpa- yt/cov implies tragic disaster), and xviii. 5 (applied to Agathon), rpayiKov yap tovto /cat cf)iXdv9p(i)7rov. Its limitation in the latter 302 POETRY AND FINE ART certain limiting expressions in the context, and in other passages of the Poetics. But whatever deductions may have to be made from the force of the phrase, the estimate of Euripides here given is directly connected 1 by Aristotle with the preference of the poet for the true tragic ending. Reverting now to the several types of excluded characters, we may consider Aristotle’s conclusions more in detail. First, the iirieucfc or perfectly blameless character is deemed unfit to be a tragic hero on the ground that wholly unmerited suffer- ing causes repulsion, not fear or pity. Why, we may ask, not pity ? Surely we feel pity for one who is in the highest sense ava^ios, an innocent sufferer ? In reply it has been sometimes said that such persons themselves despise the pain of suffer- ing ; they enjoy so much inward consolation that they have no need of our sympathy. 4 Si vis me Here dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.’ This may appear a cynical reflection, though it can be so passage is very remarkable in connexion with (jn\dv0poj7rov. The discomfiture of the wicked man, there spoken of, does not answer to the true tragic idea ; it merely ‘ satisfies the moral sense ’ ; so that rpayiKov can hardly mean much more than strikingly dramatic. In ch. xiii. 6 the chief thought is the pathetic and moving power of Euripides. Cf. Probl. xviii. 6. 918 a 10, Sea tl rj TrapaKaraXoyr) kv rats o>8ats rpayiKov ; where 7ra OrjTiKov in the next line is used as an equivalent. In Plato Rep. x. 602 B, tovs re Trjs TpayiKrjs Trot^cmos dirropbevovs kv lapi/3eLOLS /cat kv eirecm, the word includes the sad narratives of epic poetry as well as of tragedy. 1 Poet. xiii. 6, Sto /cat k.t.A. THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 303 put as to convey a real truth. The pity we feel for outward misfortune may be sunk in our admiration for the courage with which it is borne. Aristotle’s answer, however, would probably be different. He too would say that pity is expelled by a stronger feeling ; as in the Rhetoric 6 terror tends to drive out pity .’ 1 But the mention here of to fjuapov suggests that the sense of outraged justice would displace the softer emotions. Lessing, agreeing with Aristotle on the main point, takes occasion to enforce his own favourite theory — not Aristotelian — which attributes a direct moral purpose to tragedy. He speaks of the ‘ mere thought in itself so terrible, that there should be human beings who can be wretched without any guilt of their own .’ 2 The unqualified rejection of such a theme as unsuited to tragedy may well surprise us. Aristotle had not to go beyond the Greek stage to find a guiltless heroine whose death does not shock the moral sense. Nothing but a misplaced ingenuity, or a resolve at all costs to import a moral lesson into the drama, can discover in Antigone any fault or failing which entailed on her suffering as its due o o penalty. She was so placed that she had to choose between contending duties ; but who can doubt that she chose aright ? She sacrificed the 1 Rliet. ii. 8. 1386 a 21, quoted supra p. 260. 2 Lessing, Harnb. Dram. Trans. (Bohn) p. 435. 304 POETRY AND FINE ART lower duty to the higher ; and if, in so doing, her conduct fell short of formal perfection, the defect lay in the inherent one-sidedness of all human action in an imperfect world. Hers was a 4 sinless crime/ 1 nor could Aristotle on his own principles call her other than imeucrj ?, 4 good ’ in the fullest sense of the word. Yet his reluctance to admit a perfect character to the place of the protagonist has been almost justified by the history of the tragic drama. Such a character has been rarely chosen, and still more rarely has been successful. But the reason assigned in this passage does not appear to be the true one. Blameless goodness has seldom the quality needed to make it dramatically interesting. It wants the motive power which leads to decisive acts of will, which impels others to action and produces a collision of forces. Dramatic character implies some self-assertive energy. It is not a rounded or perfect whole ; it realises itself within a limited sphere, and presses forward passionately in a single direction. It has generally a touch of egotism, by which it exercises a controlling influence over circumstances or over the wills of minor characters that are grouped around it. Goodness, on the other hand, with its unselfish, its self-effacing tendency, is apt to be immobile and uncombative. In refusing to strike back it brings 1 Soph. Ant. 74, oo-ia Travovpyrjorav ’ . THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 305 the action to a standstill. Even where it has no lack of strong initiative, its impersonal ardour in the cause of right has not the same dramatic fascination as the spectacle of human weakness or passion, doing battle with the fate it has brought upon itself. Mazzini conceived the idea of a new drama in which man shall no longer appear as a rebel against the laws of existence, or the victim of an external struggle with his own nature, but as the ally of Providence, co-operating with the powers of good in that secular conflict whose drama is the history of the world. We may doubt whether such a drama can in the true sense be tragic. The death of the martyr — of the hero who leads a forlorn hope — of the benefactor of mankind who bears suffering with unflinching fortitude, and through suffering achieves moral victory — fills us with emotions of wonder and admiration ; but it can hardly produce the thrill of fear or tragic awe, which Aristotle rightly felt to be an indispensable factor in true tragedy . 1 The reason perhaps is that tragedy, in its pure idea, shows us a mortal will engaged in an unequal struggle with destiny, whether that destiny be represented by the forces within or without the mind. The conflict reaches 1 Corneille (Discours ii. De la Tragedie) objects to banishing martyrs from the stage, and adduces his own Polyeucte in support of his view — a very doubtful example. X 306 POETRY AND FINE ART its tragic issue when the individual perishes, but through his ruin the disturbed order of the world is restored and the moral forces re-assert their sway. The death of the martyr presents to us not the defeat, but the victory of the individual ; the issue of a conflict in which the individual is ranged on the same side as the higher powers, and the sense of suffering consequently lost in that of moral triumph. The next case is that of the bad man who is raised from adverse to prosperous fortune. This, says Aristotle, is most alien to the spirit of tragedy. No one will dispute the observation ; though we cannot adopt Dacier s reason for accepting it. ‘ There is nothing more opposed to the refining of the passions than the prosperity of the wicked ; instead of correcting, it nourishes and strengthens them ; for who would take the trouble to get rid of his vices, if they made him happy ? J 1 Good fortune following upon a course of bad actions is frequent enough in life ; none the less it is to be rigorously excluded from tragic and, indeed, from all art. It may excite a lively sense of impending terror, though even this is denied by Aristotle. It certainly awakens no pity, and — we may add with Aristotle — it offends the sense of justice. Even granting that art must touch us through our aesthetic sensibility, and has nothing directly 1 Dacier on Poetics , ch. xiii. Trans. (London 1705). THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 307 to do with the sense of justice, the aesthetic effect itself will be one of pain and disquiet ; the doubt and disturbance which arise from the spectacle of real life will be reproduced and perhaps intensified. In the drama our view of the universe needs to be harmonised, not confused; we expect to find the connexion of cause and effect in a form that satisfies the rational faculty. To suspend the operation of the moral law by the triumph of wickedness is to introduce the reign of caprice or blind chance. The overthrow of signal villainy is next set aside by Aristotle as unsuited to tragedy, — in spite, as he expressly says, of the satisfaction it offers to the moral sense. We cannot feel pity when the suffering is deserved ; we cannot feeljfear when the sufferer is so far removed in nature from ourselves. Here again the judgment of Aristotle, if tested by concrete examples, receives on the whole striking confirmation. Yet this is precisely one of the cases where the inadequacy of his rules is most apparent. The limitation of view arises from applying a purely ethical instead of an aesthetic standard to dramatic character. Crime as crime has, it is true, no place in art ; it is common, it is ugly. But crime may be presented in another light. Wickedness on a grand scale, resolute and intellectual, may raise the criminal above the commonplace and invest him with a 308 POETRY AND FINE ART sort of dignity. There is something terrible and sublime in mere will-power working its evil way, dominating its surroundings, with a superhuman energy. The wreck of such power excites in us a certain tragic sympathy ; not indeed the genuine pity which is inspired by unmerited suffering, but a sense of loss and regret over the waste or misuse of gifts so splendid. It needs, however, the genius of a Shakespeare to portray this potent and commanding villainy. It was a perilous task to concentrate the whole interest of a play round a character such as Richard III. ; and we may doubt whether Shake- speare himself would have ventured on it in the maturer period of his genius. The ancient drama offers nothing comparable to this great experiment — no such embodiment of an entirely depraved will, loveless and unhuman, fashioning all things with relentless adaptation to its own ends, yet stand- ing sufficiently aloof from life to jest over it with savage humour. The wickedness of Richard III. is on a different level from that of Iago. In Iago we have no heroic criminal, but a plotter of a meaner order, in whom the faculty of intrigue amounts almost to genius ; coldly diabolical, more malignant even than Richard, and delighting in evil for its own sake. Richard, equally devoid of moral scruple, and glorying in his c naked villainy,’ is yet a prince with royal purposes and an insight into THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 309 affairs. His masterpieces of crime are forged by intellect and carried out with artistic finish and completeness. The moral sense is kept half in abeyance up to the close of such a drama. The badness of the man is almost lost in the sense of power. Tragic pity there cannot be for the protagonist ; hardly even for his victims : terror and grandeur leave little room for any gentler feelings. There is a certain ‘ contradiction/ Schiller observes/ ‘between the aesthetic and the moral judgment.' ‘ Theft, for example, is a thing absolutely base ... it is always an indelible brand stamped upon the thief, and aesthetically speaking he will always remain a base object. On this point taste is even less forgiving than morality, and its tribunal is more severe. . . . According to this view a man who robs would always be an object to be rejected by the poet who wishes to present serious pictures. But suppose this man is at the same time a murderer, he is even more to be condemned than before by the moral law. But in the aesthetic judgment he is raised one degree higher. . . . He who abases himself by a vile action can to a certain extent be raised by a crime, and can be thus reinstated in our aesthetic estimation. ... In presence of a deep and horrible crime we no longer think of the quality but of 1 Schiller’s Aesthetical Essays , p. 251 (Bell and Sons). 310 POETRY AND FINE ART the awful consequences of the action. . . . Directly we begin to tremble, all the delicacies of taste are reduced to silence. ... In a word, the base element disappears in the terrible.’ Aristotle does not appear to have been alive to this effect of art. Still it must not be inferred from this passage, nor again from ch. xv., 1 that all artistic portraiture of moral depravity is forbidden. The Menelaus of Euripides is twice cited as an example of character 4 gratuitously bad,’ 2 a phrase which implies that there may be a badness that is required by the dramatic motive and the structure of a play. 3 It will fall under the wider law which demands the light and shade of contrasted characters, — characters either standing out against one another in strong relief, or each forming the complement of the other. Thus we have such pairs as Antigone and Ismene, Odysseus and Neoptolemus, Lear and Gloucester, Hamlet and Laertes, Brutus and Antony. The principle once admitted will allow of the utmost divergence of ethical type. Aristotle admits the principle, but in a cursory and parenthetic manner, nor does he seem to have been aware of its range and significance. We now come to the ideal protagonist of tragedy, as sketched in this chapter. He is composed of mixed elements, by no means supremely good, but a man 4 like ourselves ’ (oyLtoto?). The expression, if 1 Poet. xv. 1-2, 8. 2 Poet. xv. 5, xxv. 19. 3 See p. 224. THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 311 taken alone, might seem to describe a person of mediocre virtue and average powers. But Aristotle must not be read in detached sections; and the comparison of ch. ii. and ch. xv. with our passage shows us that this character, while it has its basis in reality, transcends it by a certain moral eleva- tion . 1 We could wish that Aristotle had gone further and said explicitly, that in power, even more than in virtue, the tragic hero must be raised above the ordinary level ; that he must possess a deeper vein of feeling, or heightened powers of intellect or will ; that the morally trivial, rather than the morally bad, is fatal to tragic effect. As it is, we arrive at the result that the tragic hero is a man of noble nature, like ourselves in elemental feelings and emotions ; idealised, indeed, but with so large a share of our common humanity as to enlist our eager interest and sympathy. He falls from a position of lofty eminence ; and the disaster that wrecks his life may be traced not to deliberate wickedness, but to some great error or frailty. This last expression is not free from difficulty, and has been variously interpreted. The word afiapTia by usage admits of various shades of mean- ing. As a synonym of dpudprrj/jia and as applied to a single act , 2 it denotes an error due to inadequate 1 See p. 230. 2 e.g. Aesch. Prom. 8, TOtacrSe rot apaprias c r<£e Set Oeo t? SoSvat Slktjv. 312 POETRY AND FINE ART knowledge of particular circumstances. According to strict usage we should add the qualification, that the circumstances are such as might have been known . 1 Thus it would cover any error of judg- ment arising from a hasty or careless view of the special case ; an error which in some degree is morally culpable, as it might have been avoided. Error of this kind has the highest claim to pity or consideration . 2 But apaprla is also more laxly applied to an error due to unavoidable ignorance, for which the more proper term is arv^pa, 6 mis- fortune/ 3 In either case, however, the error is unintentional ; it arises from want of knowledge ; and its moral quality will depend on whether the individual is himself responsible for his ignorance. Distinct from this, but still limited in its refer- ence to a single act, is the moral apaprla proper, a fault or error where the act is conscious and 1 Eth. Nic. v. 8. 1135 b 16, orav pev ovv 7rapaAoycos rj fiXafir) yevrjTcu , arvyr^pa * orav Se pr) 7rapaAoy(os, dvev Se kolklols , apaprrjpa ( dpapravec pkv yap orav rj apx*l a vra fj rrjs a mas, arv^ei 8 s orav e£c oOev)‘ orav Se etSws pkv prj 7r po/3 ovXevaas Se, dhiKrjpa. Cf. Ehet. i. 13. 1374 b 6. 2 Eth. Nic. iii. 2. 1110 b 33, rj KaO ’ e/eacrra (ayvota), kv ots Kal 7 repl a rj 7rpa£ts* kv tovtols yap /cat eAeos /cat o-vyyvioprj’ 6 yap tovtwv n a yvocov a/couo-tws Trpdrrei. iii. 1. 1109 b 31, krrl Se Tots d/cowtots aSi/coi Sid ravra ov8e irovypoi. . . . Sio KaAoos toL Ik Ovpov ovk Ik 7rpovoias Kpiverai. But in Eth. Nic. iii. 1. 1110 b 6 the man who acts in anger or drunkenness acts dyvocov or ovk eiStos, though not Si’ ayvoiav : the acts, therefore, are dpaprypara. 2 Thus apapria is opposed to KaKia: Eth. Nic. vii. 4. 1148 a 2, y pev yap aKpacrla \peyerai ox>x d>s apapria povov dXXa kol cos KaKta tis y obrAcos oucra y Kara ri pepo s. But apapria is sometimes used loosely as a euphemistic phrase for the vicious state of the aStKOL who act from y KaOoXov ayvoia or y ev rrj Trpoaipeerei ayvota: Eth. Nic. iii. 1. 1110 b 29, Sid ryv roiavryv apapriav ddiKOL Kal oAcos KaKol yivovrai. 3 Poet. xiii. 3, 6 pyre apery Stacfiepoyv Kal SiKaiocrdjq?, pyre Sid KaKiav Kal poyOypiav pera/3aXXo)v eis ryv 8vcrrv\iav : xiii. 4, py Sia poyj)ypiav aXXd Si’ apapriav peydXyv. It must be owned, however, that peydXy is not a natural adjective to apply to a mental quality or a flaw in conduct. 314 POETRY AND FINE ART On the other hand, there are many indications in the Poetics that the Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles is Aristotle’s ideal play. Now Oedipus, though of a hasty and impulsive temperament, with something too of proud self-assertion, cannot, broadly speaking, be said to have owed his ruin to any striking moral defect. His character was not the determining factor in his fortunes. He, if any man, was in a genuine sense the victim of circumstances. In slaying Laius he was probably in some degree morally culpable. But the act was done certainly after provocation, and possibly in self-defence . 1 His life was a chain of errors, the most fatal of all being the marriage with his mother. All minor acts of ignorance culminated here ; and yet it was a purely unconscious offence to which no kind of blame attached. If Oedipus is the person who suggested to Aristotle the formula of this chapter, we can hardly limit the word to its moral meaning, as marking either a defect of character or a single passionate or inconsiderate act. ajiaprca may well include the three meanings above mentioned, which in English cannot be covered by a single term . 2 The larger sense, if it may be assumed, will add to the 1 Oed. Col. 992. 2 For d/xapTLa, a/xapravw in successive lines shifting from the sense of voluntary to involuntary wrong-doing cf. Oed. Col. 966 sqq. — THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 315 profound significance of Aristotle’s remark. A single great error, whether morally culpable or not ; a single great defect in a character otherwise noble, — each and all of these may carry with them the tragic issues of life and death. In any case no sharp distinction can be drawn between moral and purely intellectual error, least of all by a philosopher who laid as much stress as Aristotle did on right knowledge as an element in conduct. A moral error easily shades off into a mere defect of judgment. But that mere defect may work as potently as crime. Good intentions do not make actions right. The lofty disinterested- ness of Brutus cannot atone for his want of practical insight. In the scheme of the universe a wholly unconscious error violates the law of perfection ; it disturbs the moral order of the world. Distinctions of motive — the moral guilt or purity of the agent — are not here in question. So too in tragedy those are doomed who innocently err no less than those who sin consciously. Nay, the tragic irony sometimes lies precisely herein, that owing to some inherent frailty or flaw — it may be human short- sightedness, it may be some error of blood or judgment — the very virtues of a man hurry him €7ret KaO 3 avrov y 3 ovk av e^evpoLS e/xoi afiapTLas ovetSos ouSev, avQ 3 orov TaS’ ets e/x avrov rovs e/zous 0 3 rjpbdpravov. The first a/za/ma is a conscious sin which might have brought on him involuntary guilt as a divinely-sent expiation.! 316 POETRY AND FINE ART forward to his ruin. Othello in the modern drama, Oedipus in the ancient — widely as they differ in moral guilt — are the two most conspicuous examples of ruin wrought by characters, noble indeed, but not without defects, acting in the dark, and, as it seemed, for the best. We should probably be putting too great a pressure on the words of Aristotle and should go beyond his intention, if we sought to include under the rule of ch. xiii. such a character as Macbeth. Still the thought of our passage lends itself easily to this enlargement of the meaning. Macbeth does not start with criminal purpose. In its original quality his nature was not devoid of nobility. But with him the apuapTia, the primal defect, is the taint of ambition, which under the promptings of a stronger character than his own and a more vivid imagination works in him as a subtle poison. In a case such as this, tragic fear is heightened into awe, as we trace the growth of a mastering passion, which beginning in a fault or frailty enlarges itself in its successive stages, till the first false step has issued in crime, and crime has engendered fresh crime. It is of the essence of a great tragedy to bring together the beginning and the end ; to show the one implicit in the other. The intervening process disappears ; the causal chain so unites the whole that the first a/jiapTLCL bears the weight of the tragic result. THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 317 Aristotle’s theory of the tragic character has suggested two divergent lines of criticism. On the one hand it is urged, that the rule 3^ apbaprlav leaves no room for a ‘true tragic collision.’ The fate of the hero is determined by forces outside the control of the human will. A mere error, due to the inherent limitations of man’s faculties, brings ruin. Thus, it is said, the highest form of tragedy in which character is destiny, is at once excluded. Nothing is left but the drama of an external fate. This objection assumes that the tragic afiapria is in truth no more than an arv^pba, a mere accident, a misadventure, the circumstances being such that reason and foresight are unavailing. Now, even if the word, as here used, were so limited, a collision of forces such as is essential to the drama would not be wanting. If a man is so placed that he is at war with the forces outside him — either the forces of the universe, the fixed conditions of existence, the inevitable laws of life, which constitute ‘Fate’; or the forces that reside in other wills that cross and thwart his own — the result may be a tragic conflict. The ancient drama is chiefly, though by no means exclusively, the representation of a conflict thus unwittingly begun, however much purpose may be involved in its later stages. The spectacle of a man struggling with his fate affords ample scope for the display 318 POETRY AND FINE ART of will-power and ethical qualities. The Oedipus Tyrannus portrays a tragic conflict none the less moving because the original error which leads to the catastrophe springs from the necessary blindness and infirmity of human nature. But if we yield the main contention of these critics, and admit that a 4 true tragic collision ’ is one in which character and passion determine destiny ; in which the individual knowingly enters on a conflict where the forces enlisted on either side are chiefly moral forces, Aristotle’s phrase, if we have rightly interpreted it, will still include the most interesting and significant of such cases. The great frailty will then be a moral frailty. The resulting collision will in general be one of two kinds. Either the individual from levity or passion violates a known right, encroaches on a sphere not his own, and provokes a conflict which reacts on his character and culminates in tragic disaster : or the collision will be one between internal moral forces, the scene of the conflict being the heart of man. Hence we get the struggles of conscience, the wavering purpose, the divided will, — dramatic motives rarely found in the older Greek tragedians, but which with Euripides entered into the domain of the drama, and thenceforth held an assured place. The objection, therefore, to this extent appears to be invalid. At the same time, as already indicated, THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 319 Aristotle’s doctrine is in a measure defective. It fails to take account of two exceptional types of tragedy, — that which exhibits the antagonism between a pure will and a disjointed world, or between a grand but criminal purpose, and the higher moral forces with which it is confronted. Another class of critics have been reluctant under any circumstances to disallow the authority of Aristotle. It was gravely observed by Roger Bacon that 4 Aristotle hath the same authority in philosophy that the Apostle Paul hath in divinity.’ After the Renaissance the general intellectual sovereignty already wielded by Aristotle was extended, especially in France, to the whole field of literature. Every well - constructed tragedy, ancient or modern, was supposed to square with the rules of the Poetics. When the facts of literary history refused to adjust themselves to the text, the meaning of the text was strained or explained away, till the original rules were not un- frequently forced to bear the very sense they were designed to exclude. So far was the infallibility of Aristotle carried that on one occasion Dacier makes short work with an Italian commentator, who had ventured to find an inconsistency between a passage of the Poetics and the words of Holy Writ. He brushes the objection aside with a simple reductio ad absurdum. ‘ As if Divinity and the Holy Scriptures could ever be contrary to the sentiments 320 POETRY AND FINE ART of Nature on which Aristotle founds his judgments .’ 1 Methods of interpretation were applied to the Poetics with which we are more familiar in Biblical criticism. The words of Aristotle were explained and defended by just those expedients that have been resorted to in support of the verbal interpreta- tion of Scripture. Corneille was one of the adepts in the art of adding glosses and saving clauses to the Aristotelian text. Though he has left many luminous statements of the principles of poetry, his work as an expositor is too often inspired by the desire to reconcile Aristotelian rules with plays of his own, which had been written before he had become acquainted with the Poetics. A single instance — one of those quoted by Lessing — will show his easy method of harmonising difficulties. Character, we are told in the Poetics (ch. xv.), must be xprjo-Ta, 4 good’ : — the word can bear no other than the moral mean- ing. Corneille, seeing that this requirement, taken rigidly, would condemn a large number of admirable plays, surmises that what Aristotle demands is 4 the brilliant or elevated character of a virtuous or criminal habit .’ 2 He instances his own Cleopatra, a heroine who is 4 extremely wicked ’ ; 4 there is no murder from which she shrinks.’ 4 But all her crimes are connected with a certain grandeur of 1 Dacier on Poetics , ch. xiii. note 1, Trans. 2 Corneille, Discours i. Du Pobme Dramatique. THE IDEAL TRAGIC HERO 321 soul, which has in it something so elevated, that while we condemn her actions, we must still admire the source whence they flow.’ In itself this criticism is on the right track ; but not as an explanation of the Aristotelian XPVv yaptv yivo/zevas €K tov 7r/)drT€iv, dXXa 7roXv paXXov r as auroreAeis Kal r as a vrcov eveKev Oewpta s Kal diavo^creis. rj yap €V7rpa£ia re Aos, wore /cat irpa^ls tis* pdXio-ra 8e irpaTreiv Xeyopev KvpiuiS Kal roiv e^wrepiKtov i rpa^ewv rovs tcus Siavoious dp^LTtK- rovas. 2 8pwvT(j)v Kal ov 8 l drrayyeXias are the words of the definition of tragedy. Cf. the frequent antithesis of 8pdv and 7racr^€iv, and the adj. 8pa ev irpa^et icrrlv kol to reAos Trpd^ts tls 1(ttlv, ov (For the reading see Grit. Notes) With the last words cf. Pol. iv. (vii.) 3. 1325 b 21 (quoted note 1, p. 328) : Phys. ii. 6. 197 b 2, 8lo Kal dvd yK7] 7 repl ra irpaKTa civ ai r rjv TV)(rjV' aripeiov 8 3 otl SoKei r^Toi ravrov divai ttj evSaipovia rj evTvy^a rj kyyv s, rj 8’ €i>8ai/jLovia Trpd^is tls * cvirpo^ia yap. 330 POETRY AND FINE ART ‘ action ’ which it is the , business of tragedy to represent. The word ‘ action/ as is evident from what has been said, requires to be interpreted with much latitude of meaning. It embraces not only the deeds, the incidents, the situations, but also the mental processes, and the motives. which under- lie the outward events or which result from them. It is the compendious expression for all these forces working together towards a definite end. Next we come to ethos and dianoia. In their aesthetic application these present some difficulties. Aristotle appears, indeed, to bestow unusual pains on elucidating their meaning, for he gives at least two definitions or interpretations of each in ch. vi., which again are supplemented by the observations of ch. xv. regarding ethos, and of ch. xix. regard- ing dianoia . 1 Yet a clear and consistent view 1 Mr. R. P. Hardie {Mind, vol. iv. No. 15) observes that while the expression or imitation of the 7rpa£is is called the pcvdos, there are no special words for the /xi/z^o-is of rjOos and of Siavoia, and hence both are ambiguously used, (1) as implied in the visible 7rpa^ts, (2) as = [u/at](tlevyei’ Sioirep ovk k^ovo-iv rjOos tuv Xoyiov kv oh ovk ecrTfc SrjXov r) kv oh prjS’ oAcos ec ttiv 6 tl [it po\cupei- rac fi cjxevyei 6 Xkyio v. (For tlie reading see Grit. Notes.) In this context the reference is to the dramatic Aoyot which express (a) rjOos , (b) Siavoiav. Cf. the rule for rhetorical Aoyot in Rhet. iii. 16. 1417 a 15, rjOiKrjv 8k Xprj r rjv Sirjyrjo-iv eivai. ecrrou 8k tovto , av elSkopev TL rjOos TTOICI. €V pkv 8r) TO TTpoaipeCTlV SrjXoVV, TTOtOV 8k to rjQoaivovTo.i in § 17. A yvoip.7], though usually a moral maxim, exhibits Siavoia rather than rjdos, probably because it is thought of as the starting-point or conclusion of an argument. See the use of yvkopai in Rhet. ii. 21. 1395 b 14 as rhetorical enthymemes. There, however, they are said to give an ethical character to speeches. (ii) Poet. vi. 15, Tp'iTov 8k f) Siavoia. tovto 8k kdTiv to Xkyeiv SvvacrOai Ta kvovTa Kai Ta dppoTTOVT a. Poet. vi. 17, Siavoia 8k, kv oh aTroSeiKvvovo’i tl u>s ko’Tiv rj w? ovk €ctt iv ?} KaOoXov tl aTro$>a'ivovTai. Here, 332 POETRY AND FINE ART may be both omissions and interpolations in the text. In what follows we will confine ourselves to certain broad conclusions, though even these may not all pass unchallenged. The term ethos is generally translated ‘character/ and in many contexts this is its natural English equivalent. But if we would speak of character in its widest sense, as including all that reveals as in vi. 6, Sea voea = peLperjcrL s rJJs dcavocas, the subject to a7 roStLKvvovo-i being the dramatic characters. (iii) xix. 1—2, €o/3ov rj opyrjv kcu ocra Toiavra, kcu eVt peyeQos kcu puKporrjTas. Here the Scavoia that is manifested in dramatic Xoyoi is brought within the domain of Rhetoric (tapp d- KOts xvSrjv, ovk dv o/xotws evcppdveuev kol XevKoypacjyrjcras eiKova. 2 Poet. vi. 14, dpx^j p&v ovv /cat olov ^vx^I o pvOos ryjs rpayoiStas. 3 See de Anim. ii. 4. 415 b 7-21, where the soul is explained to be the efficient cause, the formal cause, and the final cause of the body. PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 339 with the plot in tragedy . 1 Bound this nucleus the parts grow and group themselves. It is the origin of movement, the starting-point and basis of the play. Without it the play could not exist. It is the plot, again, which gives to the play its inner meaning and reality, as the soul does to the body. To the plot we look in order to learn what the play means ; here lies its essence, its true significance. Lastly, the plot is £ the end of the tragedy ’ 2 as well as the beginning. Through the plot the intention of the play is realised. The distinctive emotional effect which the incidents are designed to produce, is inherent in the artistic structure of the whole. Above all, it is the plot that contains those Beversals of the Action ( 'irepLireTeiai ) 3 and other decisive moments, which most powerfully awake tragic feeling and excite the pleasure appropriate to tragedy. Aristotle’s doctrine of the primary importance of 1 The constant use of crwiorravat in the biological treatises of Aristotle should be compared with its meaning in the Poetics as applied to the formation and organic structure of a tragedy. De Gen. Anim. ii. 1 . 733 b 20 , rjs ( yovrjs ) eitreXOovtrrjs ra {toa crvv- icrTaTat kol Xapfiavet tyjv otKetav popcf>rjv. ii. 4. 739 b 33, orav Se (Tva-Trj to Kvrjfia yjSr]. . . . iii. 2. 753 b 3, ytyverat rpotjir) rots crwarrapevots {toots. So trvtrTatrts : de Gen. Anim. ii. 6 . 744 b 28, rj pev ovv r tov ocrrtov (f>vcr ts kv rf} 7 rptorrj crvcrTatret ytyverat rto v poptiov : cf. de Part. Anim. ii. 1. 646 a 20 sqq. De Gaelo ii. 6 . 288 b 1 6 , 0 X 77 yap tatos o-vcrrao-ts rtov {totov Ik roiovrtov crvvko-TrjKev a. Stacfikpet Tots otKetots tottois. 2 Poet. vi. 10 , 6 ptvOos rkXos rrjs rpayto8tas. 3 See p. 323. 340 POETRY AND FINE ART action or plot has been disputed by many modern critics. Plot, it is argued, is a mere external frame- work designed to illustrate the working of character. Character is in thought prior to action and is implied in it. Events have no meaning, no interest, except so far as they are supposed to proceed from will. Action is defined, expressed, interpreted by character. The question, however, which this chapter of the Poetics raises is not whether one element can in logical analysis be shown ultimately to contain the other ; we have rather to ask which of the two is the more fundamental as regards the artistic con- ception and dramatic structure of a play. We will therefore inquire shortly what in its simplest analysis is meant by the drama, — what it is that constitutes dramatic action. We shall thus be able roughly to determine the relation in which the two factors, action and character, stand to one another. Action, as has been shown, is the first artistic necessity of a play, the controlling condition of its existence. But mere action is not enough ; an isolated deed, however terrible, however pathetic, has not in it the dramatic quality. Action, to be dramatic, must be exhibited in its development and in its results ; it must stand in reciprocal and causal relation to certain mental states. We desire to see the feelings out of which it grows, the motive force of will which carries it to its conclusion; and, again, to trace the effect of the deed accomplished upon PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 341 the mind of the doer, — the emotions there generated as they become in turn new factors of action, and as they react thereby on the other dramatic characters. The drama, therefore, is will or emotion in action. Further, the dramatic action forms a complete whole : it is a coherent series of events, standing in organic relation to one another, and bound together by the law of cause and effect. The internal centre, the pivot round which the whole system turns, is the plot. The characters are dramatic only so far as they are grouped round this centre, and work in with the movement of events towards an appointed end. Free and self-determined though they are, they exercise their freedom within a sphere which is prescribed by this primary condition of dramatic art. They reveal their personality not in all its fulness, but to such an extent as the natural course of the action may require. The situation and the circumstances in which they are placed, the other wills with which they come into collision, are pre- cisely those which are best fitted to search out their weak places, to elicit their energy, and exhibit it in action. But the drama not only implies emotion express- ing itself in a complete and significant action and tending towards a certain end ; it also implies a conflict. We may even modify Aristotle’s phrase and say, that the dramatic conflict, not the mere plot, is ‘ the soul of the tragedy.’ In every drama 342 POETRY AND FINE ART there is a collision of forces. Man is imprisoned within the limits of the actual. Outside him is a necessity which restricts his freedom, a superior power with which his will frequently collides. Again, there is the inward discord of his own divided will ; and, further, the struggle with other human wills which obstruct his own. The delineation of character is determined by the fact that a dramatic conflict of some kind has to be represented, and by the relation in which the several antagonistic forces stand to the plot as a whole. But while conflict is the soul of the drama, every conflict is not dramatic. In real life, as Aristotle points out , 1 all action does not manifest itself in external acts ; there is a silent activity of speculative thought, which in the highest sense may be called action, though it never utters itself in deed. But the action of the drama cannot consist in an inward activity that! does not pass beyond the region of thought or of emotion. Even where the main interest is centred in the internal conflict, this conflict must have its outward as well as its inward side : it must manifest itself in individual acts, in concrete relations with the world outside ; it must bring the agent into collision with other personalities. We therefore exclude from the province of the drama purely mental conflicts — action and reaction within the mind itself — such as are the solitary struggles of the ascetic, the artist, the thinker. These are 1 Pol. iv. (vii.) 3. 1325 b 16-23 (quoted note 1, p. 328). PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 343 dramatic only when they are brought into a plot which gives them significance, and by which they become links in a chain of great events. Only certain kinds of character, therefore, are capable of dramatic treatment. Character on its passive side, character expressing itself in passionate emotion and nothing more, is fit for lyrical poetry, but not for the drama. As action is the first necessity of the drama, so dramatic character has in it some vital and spontaneous force which can make and mould circumstances, which sets obstacles aside. It is of the battling, energetic type. The emotions must harden into will and the will express itself in deed. Much more rarely, as in Hamlet, can character become dramatic by an intellectual and masterly inactivity which offers resistance to the motives that prompt ordinary men to action. Events are then brought about, not by the free energy of will, but by acts, as it were, of arrested volition, by forces such as operate in the world of dreamland. There is in Hamlet a strenuous inaction, a m>£-acting, which is in itself a form of action. Characters such as this are not purely passive, they have an originating and resisting force of their own. Most, however, of Shakespeare’s characters, like the heroes of the Greek drama, are strong and dominant natures, they are of a militant quality of mind. They put their whole selves, their whole force of thinking and of willing, into 344 POETRY AND FINE ART what they do. Nothing is more wonderful than the resistless impulse, the magnificent energy of will, with which a Macbeth or a Richard III. goes to meet his doom. Plot, then, is not, as is sometimes said, a mere external, an accident of the inner life. In the action of the drama character is defined and revealed. The conception of the plot as a whole must be present to the poet’s mind prior to the execution of the parts ; the characters will grow and shape themselves in conformity with the main action. In maintaining, however, that plot is the first essential of the drama, it is not implied that the plot must be complicated, that a difficult skein is tangled in order to excite curiosity, and un- ravelled again to relieve the feelings so excited. Neither in Aeschylus nor in Sophocles has plot for its own sake become a motive. Not even in the Oedipus Tyrannus , where the threads are more elaborately tangled and the texture of the plot is woven closer than in any other Greek tragedy, is dramatic complication an end in itself. The normal Greek tragedy is singularly simple in structure. We do not find, as in King Lear , and elsewhere in the Shakespearian drama, two concurrent actions which are skilfully interwoven in order to lead up to a tragic end. Some of the greatest Greek plays are not only devoid of in- tricate plot, but present an unchanging situation. PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 345 In the Prometheus there is no outward movement, the main situation is at the end what it was at the beginning : the mental attitude of the hero is fixed and immovable, while a series of interlocutors come and go. We see before us the conflict of two superhuman wills, neither of which can yield to the other. Yet the dialogue is not mere conversa- tion. Each speech of Prometheus is a step in the action ; each word he utters is equivalent to a deed ; it is the authentic voice of will which rises superior to physical bondage. The play is action throughout, — action none the less real because it consists not in doing, but in suffering. The reproach of want of movement which has been brought against the Prometheus has been also urged against Milton’s Samson Agonistes. It is a drama, says Dr. Johnson, ‘in which the inter- mediate parts have neither cause nor consequence, neither hasten nor retard the catastrophe.’ Here again, however, a somewhat similar criticism is applicable. The speeches of Samson form an integral part of the action. The will-power which utters itself in dialogue is translated into deed, and culminates in a tragic catastrophe, as soon as the outward constraints are removed. We may admit, then, with Aristotle that plot or action is the primary element in the artistic structure of the drama. But the case also pre- sents another side, which is lightly touched by 346 POETRY AND FINE ART him, and which deserves to be made more prominent. Briefly stated it is this. The action which springs out of character, and reflects character, alone satisfies the higher dramatic conditions. Here there is a marked difference between epic and dramatic poetry. The epic poem relates a great and complete action, which attaches itself to the fortunes of a people, or to the destiny of mankind, and which sums up the life of a period. The story and the deeds of those who pass across its wide canvas are linked with the larger move- ment of which the men themselves are but a part. The particular action rests upon forces outside itself. The hero is swept into the tide of events. The hairbreadth escapes, the surprises, the episodes, the marvellous incidents of epic story, only partly depend on the spontaneous energy of the hero. The tragic drama, on the other hand, represents the destiny of the individual man. Action and character are here more closely intertwined. Even if the connexion cannot be traced in every detail, it is generally manifest when we look to the whole tenor of the play. The action is the product of the characters and of the circumstances in which they are placed. It is but seldom that outward circumstances are entirely dominant over the forces of the spirit. If it is true that 6 things outward do draw the inward quality after them,’ it is no less true in tragedy that things inward draw the PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 347 outward after them. The outer and the inner world are here in nearer correspondence and equivalence than in any other form of poetry. The element of chance is all but eliminated. An inner bond of probability or necessity binds events together. This inevitable sequence of cause and effect is the link that character forges as it ex- presses itself in action. A man’s deeds become external to him ; his character dogs and pursues him as a thing apart. The fate that overtakes the hero is no alien thing, but his own self recoiling upon him for good or evil. 4 Man’s character,’ as Heraclitus said, 4 is his destiny ’ avOpcairw Batfuov). To this vital relation between action and character is due the artistically compacted plot, the central unity of a tragedy. If, as Aristotle says, tragedy is a picture of life, it is of life rounded off, more complete, more significant, than any ordinary human life ; revealing in itself the eternal law of things, summing up as in a typical example the story of human vicissitudes. The dissent from Aristotle’s doctrine that plot is the primary element in tragedy, is sometimes expressed in a modified form. Plot, it is admitted, was the primary element in the ancient drama ; but, it is urged, the ancient drama was a drama of destiny ; it obliterated character, while in the modern drama action is subordinate to character. Such is the view that De Quincey maintains. 348 POETRY AND FINE ART Man, he says, being the ‘ puppet of fate could not with any effect display what we call a character ’ ; for the will which is 6 the central pivot of character was obliterated, thwarted, cancelled by the dark fatalism which brooded over the Grecian stage.’ ‘ Powerful and elaborate character . . . would have been wasted, nay would have been defeated and interrupted by the blind agencies of fate.’ Hence, as he argues, the Greek drama presents grand situations but no complex motives ; statu- esque groups of tragic figures, but little play of human passion ; ‘ no struggle internal or external.’ It is strange that the Greeks of all people, and Aeschylus of all poets, should have been accused of depriving man of free agency and making him the victim of a blind fate. The central lesson of the Aeschylean drama is that man is the master of his own destiny : nowhere is his spiritual freedom more vigorously asserted . 1 The retribution which overtakes him is not in- dicted at the hands of cruel or jealous powers. It is the justice of the gods, who punish him for rebellion against their laws. In ancient tragedy, the supernatural forces that order man’s outward fortunes are, it is true, more visible than in the modern drama, but character is not obliterated, nor free personality effaced. The tragic action is no mere series of external incidents; it is a struggle 1 See Some Aspects of the Greek Genius, pp. 108 ff. ed. 2. PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 349 of moral forces, the resultant of contending wills, — though a supreme necessity may guide the movement of events to unexpected issues. Plot does not overpower character ; it is the very medium through which character is discerned, the touchstone by which its powers are tested. Yet there is a certain sense in which we may say that the modern drama lays increased stress on the delineation of individual character. On the Greek stage the development of character was impeded by the unpliable material with which the tragedian had to work. By consecrated usage he was confined to a circle of legends whose main outlines were already fixed. These had come down from a remote past and bore traces of the rude times which had given them birth. The heroic legends of Greece were woven into the texture of national life : they appealed to the people by many associations, — by local worships and familiar representations of art. Epic story, however, had in it elements which the purer and more reflective morality of the Periclean age was constrained to reject. The traditional legends had to be adapted, as best they might, to the new ethical ideals. In carrying out this task the poets were limited by the possibilities of the plot. The great facts of the legends could not be set aside. The audience, familiar with their own heroic history, were not 350 POETRY AND FINE ART prepared for bold surprises. So far as the delinea- tion of character itself was concerned, the utmost freedom of invention was allowed ; the same dramatist might in successive tragedies exhibit a single person under various and inconsistent types of character. The point at which ethical portraiture was hampered was when the dramatic persons had to be fitted harmoniously into the framework of a particular plot. The details of the story might vary within wide limits, but the end was a thing given ; and in the drama the end cannot but dominate the structure of the whole, — incidents and character alike. The weakness of the Denouement , as compared with the complica- tion, of many Greek tragedies is the direct result of the controlling tradition of the plot. Though the poets handled the myths freely, often transforming the inner spirit and meaning of the tale, yet they could not quite overcome the inherent difficulties presented by the problem. Aeschylus and Sophocles succeeded in deepening and humanising the archaic stories, and in liberat- ing the characters from the influence of the past. But in Euripides the strain has become too great. The tissue of the material yields ; the old and the new world start asunder, the actions done belong- ing to the old order of things, the characters portrayed being the children of the poet’s own generation. PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 351 The freedom of the Greek poet in delineating character was thus restricted by the choice of subject matter. Add to this another considera- tion. The themes usually handled were simple in outline, the main issues were clear and free from the disturbing accidents of individuality. In the legends selected the working of the eternal laws which govern human life could be visibly dis- cerned. The dramatic characters were of corre- sponding simplicity. Their personality was seized by the immediate intuition of the poet at some decisive moment of action. A small portion was carved out of their career, illustrating human life in one of its typical aspects. Aeschylus, at once poet and prophet, sets forth in dramatic form the conflict between opposing principles,— between the implacable vengeance of an early age and the mercy which tempers justice, as in the Eumenides : or again, as in the Prometheus , he takes us back to a far-off past, and depicts the strife between two antagonists, each of them divine, who are representative of different dispensations, and hints at a future harmony, when divine Might should no longer be divorced from Wisdom and Beneficence. Sophocles, too, brings rival principles into collision. In the Antigone the divine and the human law stand opposed, and the religious duty towards the family triumphs over the claims of civic obedience. In the Philoctetes, the instincts of natural truthfulness 352 POETRY AND FINE ART finally carry the day against diplomatic falsehood for the public good. Greek Tragedy, in its most characteristic examples, dramatises not the mere story of human calamities, but the play of great prin- ciples, the struggle between contending moral forces. The heroes are themselves the concrete embodiment of these forces. Religion, the State, the Family, — these were to a Greek the higher and enduring realities, the ideal ends for which he lived. Hence in the Greek drama, patriotism, wifely or sisterly devotion, all those elementary emotions which cluster round home and country, are the motives which chiefly impel to action and call forth the ardour of self-sacrifice. Seldom, at least in the older tragedians, do passions purely personal animate these tragic heroes : they are free from inward discord and self-contradiction : the ends they pursue are objective and rest on a belief in the abiding reality of the social organism. The characters hereby gain universal meaning and validity : they are not of their own age and country only, but can claim kinship with mankind. The modern drama introduces us into another world of poetic emotion. A richer and more varied inner life is opened up. The sense of personality is deepened. Even the idiosyncrasies of human nature become material to the dramatist. In Shakespeare character assumes inexhaustible variety. Its aspects PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 353 are for ever changing, discordant elements meet and are blended. The contradictions do not easily yield to psychological analysis ; we seek to explain them, but we find ourselves dealing only with abstractions. Not until the persons enact their story before us, and are seen in the plenitude of organic life, do we feel that they are possible and real creations. The discovery of unsuspected depths in human nature has brought into prominence the subjective side of ethical portraiture, and subjective modes of viewing life. Love, honour, ambition, jealousy are the prevailing motives of modern tragedy ; and of these love, the most exclusive of all the passions, dominates all other motives. Shakespeare in deepening the subjective person- ality of man does not, however, lose sight of the objective ends of life and of the corresponding phases of character. Between these two sides of human experience he maintains a just balance. The par- ticular emotions he stamps, as did the Greeks, with the impress of the universal. Nor does he permit the dramatised action to become subservient to the portrayal of individual character. Other poets, who have explored, though less profoundly, the recesses of human nature, and reproduced the rarer and more abnormal states of feeling, have been unable to rise above the pathological study of man, — a study as dangerous as it is fascinating to the dramatist. Indeed the conscious analysis of char- 354 POETRY AND FINE ART acter and motive, even where the study of morbid conditions is not added, has marred the dramatic effect of many modern productions. Goethe with all his poetic genius did not surmount this danger. His reflective, emotional characters, who view life through the medium of individual feeling, seldom have the energy of will requisite to carry out a tragic action. They are described by the mouth of others, they express themselves in lyrical utterances of incomparable beauty. But the result is that where Shakespeare would have given us historical dramas, Goethe gives only dramatic biographies. And, in general, the modern introspective habit, the psychological interest felt in character, has produced many dramatic lyrics, but few dramas. The increased emphasis attaching to individual portraiture is seen again in the tendency of the romantic drama to exhibit character in growth, — in each successive stage of its evolution. A Greek tragedy takes a few significant scenes out of the hero’s life ; these are bound together by a causal chain and constitute a single and impressive action. Much that the moderns would include in the play itself is placed outside the drama, and forms a groundwork of circumstances, antecedent to the action but necessary to explain it. Frequently the whole action of a Greek drama would form merely the climax of a modern play. The Greek custom of representing four dramas in a day placed a PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 355 natural limit on the length of each play and on the range of the action. The romantic drama aimed at a more comprehensive representation ; a single play in its scope and compass approached to the dimensions of a Trilogy. Sir Philip Sidney gently ridicules the quickened pace with which time is com- pelled to move, in order to condense into a few hours the events of as many years. ‘ Now of time they are more liberall, for ordinary it is that two young Princes fall in love. After many traverces, she is got with childe, delivered of a faire boy, he is lost, groweth a man, falls in love, and is ready to get another child, and all this in two hours’ space.’ The dramatic theme is frequently enlarged in modern tragedy so that the entire process may be traced, from the moment when a deed lies dormant as a germ in the mind, till it has ripened into action and unfolded itself in all its consequences. As the period embraced by the action is extended, and the relations with the outer world become more com- plex, it is only natural that the characters should expand in new directions and undergo essential changes. A wider range was here opened up for dramatic portraiture. It was not, of course, an untried region of art. The Greeks had exhibited character as moulded by the plot and developed under pressure from without, or through impulses which operated from within. Indeed every drama must, in some measure, show the play and counter- 356 POETRY AND FINE ART play of those forces which rule the outer and the inner world. The process by which feeling is con- solidated into a deed cannot but leave its mark on the mind of the agent. Antigone suffers the natural reaction from high-strained emotion. Neoptolemus becomes a changed person in the progress of the action, though the change is merely to restore him to his true self, which for the moment he had lost. Even Prometheus, grand in his immobility, is in some sense worked upon by the persons and the scenes which pass before him. His will, uncon- querable from the first, expresses itself in tones still more defiant at the close. In all these instances we have character in pro- cess of becoming. Wherever, in short, an action grows and expands according to dramatic laws, character, or at least feeling, must move in concert with it. But the extent to which growth and movement in the character accompany the march of the action is very various. The ancient stage furnishes us with no such complete instance of character-development as we have, for example, in Macbeth. It is the peculiar delight of the moderns to follow the course of such an evolution, to be present at the determining moment of a man’s career, to watch the dawning of a passion, the shaping of a purpose, and to pursue the deed to its final accomplishment. We desire not only to know what a man was, and how he came to be it, PLOT AND CHARACTER IN TRAGEDY 357 but to be shown each step in the process, each link in the chain ; and we are the more interested if we find that the gradual course of the dramatic move- ment has wrought a complete change in the original character. In this sense we may admit that the modem drama has brought the delineation of character into new and stronger relief. But when we have taken into account all the minor variations of structure which the modern drama has undergone ; when we have allowed for the greater complexity of the plot, the greater pro- minence given to the more subjective and individual aspects of character, the deeper interest taken in the unfolding of character and in its manifold develop- ments ; yet plot and character, in their essential relation, still hold the place sketched for them in the Poetics , and assigned to them on the Greek stage. Plot is artistically the first necessity of the drama. For the drama, in its true idea, is a poetical representation of a complete and typical action, whose lines converge on a determined end ; which evolves itself out of human emotion and human will in such a manner that action and character are each in turn the outcome of the other. Such a drama was the creation of Greece, and of all her creations perhaps the greatest. Epic and lyric poetry have everywhere sprung up independently. Dramatic spectacles, religious or secular, are found in every country, and at all periods of civilisation. 358 POETRY AND FINE ART Dramatic narratives, such as the Booh of Job , dramatic lyrics, such as the Song of Solomon , are among the forms of composition which meet us in the Old Testament. Lyrical dramas, which in their constituent elements recall the first beginnings of the Greek drama, have existed in China and Japan. India has produced vast poems which pass under the name of dramas, but which want both the unity of action and the spiritual freedom which the drama proper implies. The Greek drama is the harmonious fusion of two elements which never before had been perfectly blended. Lyrical in its origin, epic in the nature of its materials, it is at once an expression of passionate feeling and the story of an action ; it embodies emotion, but an emotion which grows into will and issues in deeds. If the lyrical utterance of feeling had remained the dominant, as it was the original element in a Greek tragedy, it would have been left for some other people to create the tragic drama. As it was, the Greeks fixed unalterably its distinctive form and the artistic principle of its structure. CHAPTER X THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY Poetry, we say — following Aristotle— is an ex- nression of the universal element in human life ; X 7 or, in equivalent modern phrase, it idealises life. Now the word £ idealise ’ has two senses, which have given rise to some confusion. Writers on aesthetics generally mean by it the representation of an object in its permanent and essential aspects, in a form that answers to its true idea ; disengaged from the passing accidents that cling to individu- ality, and from disturbing influences that obscure the type. What is local or transient is either omitted or reduced to subordinate rank ; the par- ticular is enlarged till it broadens out into the human and the universal. In this sense ‘ the ideal ’ is 4 the universal ’ of the Poetics. But there is another and more popular use of the term, by which an idealised representation implies not only an absence of disturbing influences in the manifestation of the idea, but a positive accession of what is beautiful. The object is seized in some 360 POETRY AND FINE ART happy and characteristic moment, its lines of grace or strength are more firmly drawn, its beauty is heightened and the object ennobled, while the likeness to the original is retained. The two senses of the word coincide in the higher regions of art. When the subject matter of artistic representation already possesses a grandeur or beauty of its own, its dominant characteristics will be made more prominent by the suppression of accidental features, and the ideal form that results will have added elements of beauty. The leading characters in tragedy, while true to human nature, stand out above the common man in stature and dignity, just as, by the art of the portrait-painter, a likeness is reproduced and yet idealised . 1 In the very act of eliminating the accidental a higher beauty and perfection are discovered than was manifested in the world of reality. Tragedy, therefore, in the persons of its heroes combines both kinds of idealisation ; it universalises, and in so doing it embellishes. Idealised portraiture does not, as has been already observed , 2 consist in presenting characters of fiawless virtue. Aristotle’s tragic hero, as delineated in the Poetics (ch. xiii.), is by no means free from faults or failings. The instance, again, 1 Poet. xv. 8, a7roSiSovTes' tyjv l8l av pop^rjv o/jlo lows TroLOvvres kuWiovs ypdcfiovo'iv. 2 p. 228. THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY 361 of Achilles as a poetic type of character, who in spite of defects has a moral nobility entitling him to rank as ideal, shows that the idealising process, as understood by Aristotle, does not imply the omission of all defects . 1 In general it may be said that some particular quality or group of qualities must be thrown into relief; some commanding faculty heightened, provided that in so doing the equipoise of character, which constitutes a typical human being, is not disturbed. The ideal is that which is raised above the trivial and accidental ; by virtue of a universal element which answers to the true idea of the object it transcends the limita- tions of the individual. Even vicious characters are not entirely excluded from tragedy on Aris- totle’s theory , 2 though the villain may not hold the position of protagonist. The saying attributed to Sophocles, avros fJLGV olovs Bel TTOielv, ^vpL7r'iBr]v Be oloi elo-L, does not bear the interpretation sometimes assigned to it, that the characters of Sophocles are patterns of heroic goodness, while those of Euri- pides are the men and women of real life . 3 The 1 Poet. xv. 8. 2 pp. 224 and 310. 3 Poet. xxv. 6, TTpos Se tovtols eav eirLTiparat otl ovk a\rj6r} y dAA’ i'cr(os <(os> Bel — ouov kcu 2o<£okAt)s er] avro? pe v oiovs Bel TzoLeiv, HivpiTTLBrjv Be ocoL elcrlv — ravrrj A vreov. There is some doubt as to the literal rendering of the words avros piev olovs Bel Troielv. Vahlen and most editors understand eivcu with oiovs Bel , ‘ men as they should be, J whereas strict grammar undoubtedly requires us to understand 7roietv, ‘men as the poet should repre- 362 POETRY AND FINE ART meaning is that the characters of Sophocles answer to the higher dramatic requirements ; they are typical of universal human nature in its deeper and abiding aspects ; they are ideal, but ideally human ; whereas Euripides reproduced personal idiosyncrasies and the trivial features of everyday reality. Objection may be taken to the distinction drawn between the two meanings of the word 4 idealise/ on the ground that they run into one another and fundamentally mean the same thing. It may be urged that so far as an object assumes its universal form, ridding itself of non-essentials, it will stand out in perfect beauty ; for all ugliness, all imperfection, all evil itself, is an accident of nature, a derangement and disturbance by which things fall short of their true idea. To sent them/ ‘ men as they ought to be drawn.’ In the first edition I inclined to the latter view. The general context, however, and the equivalent phrases in this chapter ( ota etvat Set § 1, s> Bet § 6, fteXrtov § 7, rrpos to /3eXrtov § 17) point strongly to the first interpretation. It has in its favour this further fact (as is justly observed by Mr. R. C. Seaton, Classical Review , vol. xi. No. 6), that the saying of Sophocles is thus couched in a less arrogant form. Accepting this view we must explain o'tovs Bet (and similarly s> Bet § 6) as a kind of shorthand expression used, with more than Aristotelian brevity and disregard of grammar, to denote the ideal in poetry. Even if etvat is to be understood with Bet , the Bet will still be the ‘ ought ’ of aesthetic obligation, not the moral ‘ ought.’ It has been previously shown, however, that the aesthetic ideal of character in the Poetics implies a high, though not a perfect morality. THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY 363 represent the universal would thus in its ultimate analysis imply the representation of the object in the noblest and fairest forms in which it can clothe itself according to artistic laws. Comedy, which concerns itself with the follies and foibles, the flaws and imperfections of mankind, cannot on this reasoning idealise or universalise its object. Now, it may or may not be that evil or imper- fection can be shown to be a necessary and ultimate element in the universe ; but the point seems to be one for philosophy to discuss, not for art to assume. Art, when it seeks to give a compre- hensive picture of human life, must accept such flaws as belong to the normal constitution of man. At what precise point imperfections are to be regarded as accidental, abnormal, irregular ; as presenting so marked a deviation from the type as to be unworthy of lasting embodiment in art, is a problem whose answer will vary at different stages of history, and will admit of different appli- cations according to the particular art that is in question. Certain imperfections, however, will probably always be looked on as permanent features of our common humanity. With these defects comedy amuses itself, discovering the in- consistencies which underlie life and character, and exhibiting evil not as it is in its essential nature, but as a thing to be laughed at rather than hated. Thus limiting its range of vision, comedy is able to 364 POETRY AND FINE ART give artistic expression to certain types of character which can hardly find a place in serious art. Again, it must not be forgotten that the in- dividual character, considered by itself, is not the same as this character considered in its place in the drama. A character universalised may, if regarded alone, still be c ugly,’ and yet it may contribute to the beauty of the whole. In that sense we can continue to call it 4 ugly ’ only by a kind of abstrac- tion. Or to put it otherwise, — eyil regarded in its essential nature may be ugly ; but, shown in the action of the comedy to be nugatory and ridiculous, it ceases to be ugly ; it is an element in a fact which is beautiful Aristotle draws no distinction between the uni- versality which is proper to tragedy and comedy respectively. Each of these, as a branch of the poetic art, embodies the type rather than the in- dividual, and to this extent they have a common function. An Athenian of the fifth century would hardly have singled out comedy as an example of poetic generalisation. The large admixture of personal satire in the old Attic comedy would rather have suggested the view that the main ingredient in comic mirth is the malicious pleasure afforded by the discomfiture of another. And, in fact, Plato, in the subtle analysis he gives in the Philebus 1 of 1 Philebus 48 - 50 . THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY 365 the emotions excited by comedy, proceeds on some such assumption. The pleasure of the ludicrous springs, he says, from the sight of another’s mis- fortune, the misfortune, however, being a kind of self-ignorance that is powerless to inflict hurt. A certain malice is here of the essence of comic enjoy- ment. Inadequate as this may be, if taken as a complete account of the ludicrous, it nevertheless shows a profound insight into some of the chief artistic modes of its manifestation. Plato antici- pates, but goes deeper than Hobbes, whose well- known words are worth recalling : 4 The passion of laughter is nothing else but a sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison of the infirmity of others or with our own formerly.’ The laughter that has in it a malicious element, and that implies in some sense the abasement of another, does not satisfy Aristotle’s conception of the idea of the ludicrous. His definition in the Poetics 1 carries the analysis a step farther than it had been carried by Plato. ‘ The ludicrous,’ he says, 4 con- sists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain.’ The phrase ‘not painful or destruc- 1 Poet. v. 1, to yap yeXocov a ttlv a/za/my/xa tl ko! alo-yos dvx o)(nrep ol lapbf3o7roiol 7repl tov KaO’ e/cacrrov ttolovctlv. I have ventured to admit into the text my conjecture ov 368 POETRY AND FINE ART own day, in which the tendency was shown to discard the use of historical names, and adopt names which suggest characteristic qualities. It was part of the effort, which, as he says, poetry makes to express the universal. The name had only to be heard in order that the type to which the person belonged might be recognised ; much in the same way as in the New Comedy the Boor, the Parasite, and other (or ov)(l) ra rv^ovra for ovtcd ra tv\ ovra of the MSS. : ‘ the plot is first constructed ; then characteristic or appropriate names are affixed.’ (For ov ra rv\. cf. Poet. vii. 4, xxvi. 7 , Pol. v. (viii.) 5. 1339 b 32, ov rrjv rv\ov(ro.v rfSovrjv.) The Arabic version which has a negative (‘ nequaquam,’ Margoliouth) instead of ovtcd supports the correction. By a similar error in this very chapter, ix. 2. 1451 a 36, A c gives ovtcd where the apographa rightly read ov to. The thought of §§ 4 and 5 will, with the correction, be of this kind : ‘It is at this universality that poetry aims in the names (i.e. the expressive names) she gives to the characters. This generalising tendency (which for a reason about to be ex- plained has been neglected in Tragedy) has by this time clearly shown itself in Comedy, where we see at once from the name that the person is not an individual but a type.’ The words ov (TToya^er at r rj TrocrjcrLS ovo/xara eTrLTideixkvrj present some difficulty on any interpretation. In my view, the phrase is slightly inexact. It is not true of all poetry that it illustrates the principle of generality in its name-giving. The Aristophanic comedy, indeed, affords many instances of appropriate or expressive names, e.g. Dicaeopolis, Euelpides, Peithetaerus, Pheidippides. But it is in the Comedy of his own day that Aristotle sees the principle clearly emerge (rj8r) tovto 8rj\ov) ; the last vestige of the lafxfiiKyj I8e a here disappears. Comedy is uppermost in Aristotle’s mind, though he speaks loosely of r) rrocrjcrLs. Strictly he should have said ov crTo^d^cTat rj 7rot?y(ris (or <7re7rot- r)fi€va>) ovo/xara kirir iOe/xevq. But the context corrects the overstatement. The next sentence by its explicit mention of THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY 369 types were known on the stage by their familiar masks. It may be added that not the names only of the characters, but the extant titles of plays com- posed by writers of the Middle Comedy, imply the same effort after generalisation. They remind us of the character-sketches of Theophrastus. Such are ‘ the Peevish man’ (o A1W0N0?), ‘ the Fault- Comedy and of ov rot Tu^ovra ovo/xara (if this is the right reading) practically limits the reference. Professor W. R. Hardie has furnished me with the following passage from Donatus on Ter. Ad. 1, which well illustrates ov rot Tvyovra : ‘ nomina personarum, in comoediis dumtaxat, habere debent rationem et etymologiam : etenim absurdum est comicum aperte argumenta confingere, vel nomen personae incongruum dare, vel officium quod sit a nomine diversum. 3 I am not aware whether Donatus shows elsewhere any influence of Aristotelian ideas, nor do I know how far back the principle can be traced. The whole passage (§§ 4-5) is generally taken somewhat differently : — ‘ It is at this universality that poetry aims even while giving individual names. In the case of Comedy this is already clear : its writers first construct their plots, and then, and not till then ( out w ), affix such names as first come to hand (ra Tv\6vra ovofjb.y rd rvxovra ovofJLara being opposed to ra yevo/Aeva ovo//,., ‘real names. 3 Three objections occur to this rendering : (1) The bare participle, ovo/x. e7rtTt^e/xev^, can hardly sustain this strong concessive force ‘ even while giving. 3 (2) To translate the simple ovo/iara as individual names is to supply the very word on which the whole point of the contrast depends. (3) The phrase tv kguvcov rots piv yap rjv yeXocov rj al(T\po\oy ta, rois 8e pdWov r rj virovota. Cf. Frag. 7repi K(j)pap8La<; (Cramer Anecd .) : 8ia8ia rrjs XoL8opia<5 } THE GENERALISING POWER OF COMEDY 371 preference for the Middle Comedy as presenting generalised types of character in conformity with the fundamental laws of poetry. It is doubtful whether Aristotle had any per- ception of the genius and imaginative power of Aristophanes. The characters of the Aristophanic drama are not fairly judged if they are thought of simply as historical individuals, who are subjected to a merciless caricature. Socrates, Cleon, Euri- pides are types which represent certain movements in philosophy, politics, and poetry. They are labelled with historic names ; a few obvious traits are borrowed which recall the well-known person- alities ; but the dramatic personages are in no sense the men who are known to us from history. Such poetic truth as they possess is derived simply from their typical quality. It is not, indeed, in the manner of Aristophanes to attempt any faithful portraiture of life or character. His imagination works by giving embodiment to what is abstract. His love of bold personification is in part inherited from his predecessors on the Attic stage : Cratinus had introduced Laws (N o/jloc) and Eiches (IINoOtox) as his choruses. But Aristophanes goes farther ; he seems to think through materialised ideas. He personifies the Just and the Unjust Logic, and €7ret rj piev \oi8opia d7rapaKa\v7TT0)S ret Trpocrovra k