ON THE ART OF POETRY

By Aristotle

Translated By Ingram Bywater

With A Preface By Gilbert Murray

 Oxford At The Clarendon Press First Published 1920 Reprinted 1925, 1928, 1932, 1938, 1945, 1947 1951, 1954, 1959. 1962 Printed In Great Britain

PREFACE

In the tenth book of the _Republic_, when Plato has completed his finalburning denunciation of Poetry, the false Siren, the imitator of thingswhich themselves are shadows, the ally of all that is low and weak inthe soul against that which is high and strong, who makes us feed thethings we ought to starve and serve the things we ought to rule, heends with a touch of compunction: 'We will give her champions, not poetsthemselves but poet-lovers, an opportunity to make her defence in plainprose and show that she is not only sweet--as we well know--but alsohelpful to society and the life of man, and we will listen in a kindlyspirit. For we shall be gainers, I take it, if this can be proved. 'Aristotle certainly knew the passage, and it looks as if his treatise onpoetry was an answer to Plato's challenge. 

Few of the great works of ancient Greek literature are easy reading. They nearly all need study and comment, and at times help from a goodteacher, before they yield up their secret. And the _Poetics_ cannot beaccounted an exception. For one thing the treatise is fragmentary. Itoriginally consisted of two books, one dealing with Tragedy and Epic, the other with Comedy and other subjects. We possess only the first. Foranother, even the book we have seems to be unrevised and unfinished. Thestyle, though luminous, vivid, and in its broader division systematic, is not that of a book intended for publication. Like most of Aristotle'sextant writing, it suggests the MS. Of an experienced lecturer, full ofjottings and adscripts, with occasional phrases written carefullyout, but never revised as a whole for the general reader. Even toaccomplished scholars the meaning is often obscure, as may be seen by acomparison of the three editions recently published in England, all thework of savants of the first eminence, (1) or, still more strikingly, bya study of the long series of misunderstandings and overstatementsand corrections which form the history of the _Poetics_ since theRenaissance. 

(1) Prof. Butcher, 1895 and 1898; Prof. Bywater, 1909; and Prof. Margoliouth, 1911. 

But it is of another cause of misunderstanding that I wish principallyto speak in this preface. The great edition from which the presenttranslation is taken was the fruit of prolonged study by one of thegreatest Aristotelians of the nineteenth century, and is itself aclassic among works of scholarship. In the hands of a student who knowseven a little Greek, the translation, backed by the commentary, may leaddeep into the mind of Aristotle. But when the translation is used, as itdoubtless will be, by readers who are quite without the clue providedby a knowledge of the general habits of the Greek language, there mustarise a number of new difficulties or misconceptions. 

To understand a great foreign book by means of a translation is possibleenough where the two languages concerned operate with a common stockof ideas, and belong to the same period of civilization. But betweenancient Greece and modern England there yawn immense gulfs of humanhistory; the establishment and the partial failure of a common Europeanreligion, the barbarian invasions, the feudal system, the regroupingof modern Europe, the age of mechanical invention, and the industrialrevolution. In an average page of French or German philosophy nearly allthe nouns can be translated directly into exact equivalents in English;but in Greek that is not so. Scarcely one in ten of the nouns on thefirst few pages of the _Poetics_ has an exact English equivalent. Everyproposition has to be reduced to its lowest terms of thought and thenre-built. This is a difficulty which no translation can quite deal with;it must be left to a teacher who knows Greek. And there is a kindreddifficulty which flows from it. Where words can be translated intoequivalent words, the style of an original can be closely followed;but no translation which aims at being written in normal English canreproduce the style of Aristotle. I have sometimes played with the ideathat a ruthlessly literal translation, helped out by bold punctuation, might be the best. For instance, premising that the words _poesis_, _poetes_ mean originally 'making' and 'maker', one might translate thefirst paragraph of the _Poetics_ thus:--

MAKING: kinds of making: function of each, and how the Myths ought to beput together if the Making is to go right. 

Number of parts: nature of parts: rest of same inquiry. 

Begin in order of nature from first principles. 

Epos-making, tragedy-making (also comedy), dithyramb-making (and mostfluting and harping), taken as a whole, are really not Makings butImitations. They differ in three points; they imitate (a) differentobjects, (b) by different means, (c) differently (i. E. Differentmanner). 

Some artists imitate (i. E. Depict) by shapes and colours. (Obs. Sometimes by art, sometimes by habit. ) Some by voice. Similarly theabove arts all imitate by rhythm, language, and tune, and these either(1) separate or (2) mixed. 

Rhythm and tune alone, harping, fluting, and other arts with sameeffect--e. G. Panpipes. 

Rhythm without tune: dancing. (Dancers imitate characters, emotions, andexperiences by means of rhythms expressed in form. )

Language alone (whether prose or verse, and one form of verse or many):this art has no name up to the present (i. E. There is no name to covermimes and dialogues and any similar imitation made in iambics, elegiacs, &c. Commonly people attach the 'making' to the metre and say'elegiac-makers', 'hexameter-makers, ' giving them a common class-name bytheir metre, as if it was not their imitation that makes them 'makers'). 

Such an experiment would doubtless be a little absurd, but it would givean English reader some help in understanding both Aristotle's style andhis meaning. 

For example, their enlightenment in the literal phrase, 'how themyths ought to be put together. ' The higher Greek poetry did not makeup fictitious plots; its business was to express the heroic saga, themyths. Again, the literal translation of _poetes_, poet, as 'maker', helps to explain a term that otherwise seems a puzzle in the _Poetics_. If we wonder why Aristotle, and Plato before him, should lay such stresson the theory that art is imitation, it is a help to realize that commonlanguage called it 'making', and it was clearly not 'making' in theordinary sense. The poet who was 'maker' of a Fall of Troy clearly didnot make the real Fall of Troy. He made an imitation Fall of Troy. Anartist who 'painted Pericles' really 'made an imitation Pericles bymeans of shapes and colours'. Hence we get started upon a theory of artwhich, whether finally satisfactory or not, is of immense importance, and are saved from the error of complaining that Aristotle did notunderstand the 'creative power' of art. 

As a rule, no doubt, the difficulty, even though merely verbal, liesbeyond the reach of so simple a tool as literal translation. To say thattragedy 'imitates good men' while comedy 'imitates bad men' strikes amodern reader as almost meaningless. The truth is that neither 'good'nor 'bad' is an exact equivalent of the Greek. It would be nearerperhaps to say that, relatively speaking, you look up to the charactersof tragedy, and down upon those of comedy. High or low, serious ortrivial, many other pairs of words would have to be called in, in orderto cover the wide range of the common Greek words. And the point isimportant, because we have to consider whether in Chapter VI Aristotlereally lays it down that tragedy, so far from being the storyof un-happiness that we think it, is properly an imitation of_eudaimonia_--a word often translated 'happiness', but meaning somethingmore like 'high life' or 'blessedness'. (1)

(1) See Margoliouth, p. 121. By water, with most editors, emends thetext. 

Another difficult word which constantly recurs in the _Poetics_ is_prattein_ or _praxis_, generally translated 'to act' or 'action'. But_prattein_, like our 'do', also has an intransitive meaning 'to fare'either well or ill; and Professor Margoliouth has pointed out that itseems more true to say that tragedy shows how men 'fare' than how they'act'. It shows their experiences or fortunes rather than merely theirdeeds. But one must not draw the line too bluntly. I should doubtwhether a classical Greek writer was ordinarily conscious of thedistinction between the two meanings. Certainly it is easier to regardhappiness as a way of faring than as a form of action. Yet Aristotle canuse the passive of _prattein_ for things 'done' or 'gone through' (e. G. 52a, 22, 29: 55a, 25). 

The fact is that much misunderstanding is often caused by our modernattempts to limit too strictly the meaning of a Greek word. Greek wasvery much a live language, and a language still unconscious of grammar, not, like ours, dominated by definitions and trained upon dictionaries. An instance is provided by Aristotle's famous saying that the typicaltragic hero is one who falls from high state or fame, not through viceor depravity, but by some great _hamartia_. _Hamartia_ means originallya 'bad shot' or 'error', but is currently used for 'offence' or 'sin'. Aristotle clearly means that the typical hero is a great man with'something wrong' in his life or character; but I think it is a mistakeof method to argue whether he means 'an intellectual error' or 'a moralflaw'. The word is not so precise. 

Similarly, when Aristotle says that a deed of strife or disaster is moretragic when it occurs 'amid affections' or 'among people who love eachother', no doubt the phrase, as Aristotle's own examples show, wouldprimarily suggest to a Greek feuds between near relations. Yet some ofthe meaning is lost if one translates simply 'within the family'. 

There is another series of obscurities or confusions in the _Poetics_which, unless I am mistaken, arises from the fact that Aristotle waswriting at a time when the great age of Greek tragedy was long past, andwas using language formed in previous generations. The words and phrasesremained in the tradition, but the forms of art and activity which theydenoted had sometimes changed in the interval. If we date the _Poetics_about the year 330 B. C. , as seems probable, that is more than twohundred years after the first tragedy of Thespis was produced in Athens, and more than seventy after the death of the last great masters ofthe tragic stage. When we remember that a training in music and poetryformed a prominent part of the education of every wellborn Athenian, we cannot be surprised at finding in Aristotle, and to a less extent inPlato, considerable traces of a tradition of technical language and evenof aesthetic theory. 

It is doubtless one of Aristotle's great services that he conceivedso clearly the truth that literature is a thing that grows and has ahistory. But no writer, certainly no ancient writer, is always vigilant. Sometimes Aristotle analyses his terms, but very often he takes them forgranted; and in the latter case, I think, he is sometimes deceived bythem. Thus there seem to be cases where he has been affected in hisconceptions of fifth-century tragedy by the practice of his own day, when the only living form of drama was the New Comedy. 

For example, as we have noticed above, true Tragedy had always taken itsmaterial from the sacred myths, or heroic sagas, which to the classicalGreek constituted history. But the New Comedy was in the habit ofinventing its plots. Consequently Aristotle falls into using the word_mythos_ practically in the sense of 'plot', and writing otherwise in away that is unsuited to the tragedy of the fifth century. He says thattragedy adheres to 'the historical names' for an aesthetic reason, because what has happened is obviously possible and thereforeconvincing. The real reason was that the drama and the myth were simplytwo different expressions of the same religious kernel (p. 44). Again, he says of the Chorus (p. 65) that it should be an integral part of theplay, which is true; but he also says that it' should be regarded as oneof the actors', which shows to what an extent the Chorus in his daywas dead and its technique forgotten. He had lost the sense of what theChorus was in the hands of the great masters, say in the Bacchae or theEumenides. He mistakes, again, the use of that epiphany of a God whichis frequent at the end of the single plays of Euripides, and which seemsto have been equally so at the end of the trilogies of Aeschylus. Havinglost the living tradition, he sees neither the ritual origin nor thedramatic value of these divine epiphanies. He thinks of the convenientgods and abstractions who sometimes spoke the prologues of the NewComedy, and imagines that the God appears in order to unravel the plot. As a matter of fact, in one play which he often quotes, the _IphigeniaTaurica_, the plot is actually distorted at the very end in order togive an opportunity for the epiphany. (1)

(1) See my _Euripides and his Age_, pp. 221-45. 

One can see the effect of the tradition also in his treatment of theterms Anagnorisis and Peripeteia, which Professor Bywater translatesas 'Discovery and Peripety' and Professor Butcher as 'Recognition andReversal of Fortune'. Aristotle assumes that these two elements arenormally present in any tragedy, except those which he calls 'simple';we may say, roughly, in any tragedy that really has a plot. This strikesa modern reader as a very arbitrary assumption. Reversals of Fortuneof some sort are perhaps usual in any varied plot, but surely notRecognitions? The clue to the puzzle lies, it can scarcely be doubted, in the historical origin of tragedy. Tragedy, according to Greektradition, is originally the ritual play of Dionysus, performed at hisfestival, and representing, as Herodotus tells us, the 'sufferings'or 'passion' of that God. We are never directly told what these'sufferings' were which were so represented; but Herodotus remarks thathe found in Egypt a ritual that was 'in almost all points the same'. (1)This was the well-known ritual of Osiris, in which the god was tornin pieces, lamented, searched for, discovered or recognized, and themourning by a sudden Reversal turned into joy. In any tragedy whichstill retained the stamp of its Dionysiac origin, this Discovery andPeripety might normally be expected to occur, and to occur together. Ihave tried to show elsewhere how many of our extant tragedies do, as amatter of fact, show the marks of this ritual. (2)

(1) Cf. Hdt. Ii. 48; cf. 42, 144. The name of Dionysus must not be openlymentioned in connexion with mourning (ib. 61, 132, 86). This may help toexplain the transference of the tragic shows to other heroes. 

(2) In Miss Harrison's _Themis_, pp. 341-63. 

I hope it is not rash to surmise that the much-debated word__katharsis__, 'purification' or 'purgation', may have come intoAristotle's mouth from the same source. It has all the appearance ofbeing an old word which is accepted and re-interpreted by Aristotlerather than a word freely chosen by him to denote the exact phenomenonhe wishes to describe. At any rate the Dionysus ritual itself was a_katharmos_ or _katharsis_--a purification of the community from thetaints and poisons of the past year, the old contagion of sin and death. And the words of Aristotle's definition of tragedy in Chapter VImight have been used in the days of Thespis in a much cruder andless metaphorical sense. According to primitive ideas, the mimicrepresentation on the stage of 'incidents arousing pity and fear' didact as a _katharsis_ of such 'passions' or 'sufferings' in real life. (For the word _pathemata_ means 'sufferings' as well as 'passions'. )It is worth remembering that in the year 361 B. C. , during Aristotle'slifetime, Greek tragedies were introduced into Rome, not on artistic buton superstitious grounds, as a _katharmos_ against a pestilence (Livyvii. 2). One cannot but suspect that in his account of the purposeof tragedy Aristotle may be using an old traditional formula, andconsciously or unconsciously investing it with a new meaning, much as hehas done with the word _mythos_. 

Apart from these historical causes of misunderstanding, a good teacherwho uses this book with a class will hardly fail to point out numerouspoints on which two equally good Greek scholars may well differ inthe mere interpretation of the words. What, for instance, are the 'twonatural causes' in Chapter IV which have given birth to Poetry? Arethey, as our translator takes them, (1) that man is imitative, and (2)that people delight in imitations? Or are they (1) that man is imitativeand people delight in imitations, and (2) the instinct for rhythm, asProfessor Butcher prefers? Is it a 'creature' a thousand miles long, ora 'picture' a thousand miles long which raises some trouble in ChapterVII? The word _zoon_ means equally 'picture' and 'animal'. Did the olderpoets make their characters speak like 'statesmen', _politikoi_, ormerely like ordinary citizens, _politai_, while the moderns made theirslike 'professors of rhetoric'? (Chapter VI, p. 38; cf. Margoliouth'snote and glossary). 

It may seem as if the large uncertainties which we have indicateddetract in a ruinous manner from the value of the _Poetics_ to us asa work of criticism. Certainly if any young writer took this book asa manual of rules by which to 'commence poet', he would find himselfembarrassed. But, if the book is properly read, not as a dogmatictext-book but as a first attempt, made by a man of astounding genius, tobuild up in the region of creative art a rational order like thatwhich he established in logic, rhetoric, ethics, politics, physics, psychology, and almost every department of knowledge that existed in hisday, then the uncertainties become rather a help than a discouragement. They give us occasion to think and use our imagination. They make us, tothe best of our powers, try really to follow and criticize closely thebold gropings of an extraordinary thinker; and it is in this process, and not in any mere collection of dogmatic results, that we shall findthe true value and beauty of the _Poetics_. 

The book is of permanent value as a mere intellectual achievement; asa store of information about Greek literature; and as an original orfirst-hand statement of what we may call the classical view ofartistic criticism. It does not regard poetry as a matter of unanalysedinspiration; it makes no concession to personal whims or fashion or_ennui_. It tries by rational methods to find out what is good in artand what makes it good, accepting the belief that there is just as trulya good way, and many bad ways, in poetry as in morals or in playingbilliards. This is no place to try to sum up its main conclusions. But it is characteristic of the classical view that Aristotle lays hisgreatest stress, first, on the need for Unity in the work of art, theneed that each part should subserve the whole, while irrelevancies, however brilliant in themselves, should be cast away; and next, on thedemand that great art must have for its subject the great way of living. These judgements have often been misunderstood, but the truth in them isprofound and goes near to the heart of things. 

Characteristic, too, is the observation that different kinds of art growand develop, but not indefinitely; they develop until they 'attain theirnatural form'; also the rule that each form of art should produce 'notevery sort of pleasure but its proper pleasure'; and the sober languagein which Aristotle, instead of speaking about the sequence of eventsin a tragedy being 'inevitable', as we bombastic moderns do, merelyrecommends that they should be 'either necessary or probable' and'appear to happen because of one another'. 

Conceptions and attitudes of mind such as these constitute what we maycall the classical faith in matters of art and poetry; a faith which isnever perhaps fully accepted in any age, yet, unlike others, is neverforgotten but lives by being constantly criticized, re-asserted, andrebelled against. For the fashions of the ages vary in this directionand that, but they vary for the most part from a central road which wasstruck out by the imagination of Greece. 

G. M

ARISTOTLE ON THE ART OF POETRY

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Our subject being Poetry, I propose to speak not only of the art ingeneral but also of its species and their respective capacities; of thestructure of plot required for a good poem; of the number and nature ofthe constituent parts of a poem; and likewise of any other matters inthe same line of inquiry. Let us follow the natural order and begin withthe primary facts. 

Epic poetry and Tragedy, as also Comedy, Dithyrambic poetry, and mostflute-playing and lyre-playing, are all, viewed as a whole, modes ofimitation. But at the same time they differ from one another in threeways, either by a difference of kind in their means, or by differencesin the objects, or in the manner of their imitations. 

I. Just as form and colour are used as means by some, who (whether byart or constant practice) imitate and portray many things by their aid, and the voice is used by others; so also in the above-mentioned groupof arts, the means with them as a whole are rhythm, language, andharmony--used, however, either singly or in certain combinations. Acombination of rhythm and harmony alone is the means in flute-playingand lyre-playing, and any other arts there may be of the samedescription, e. G. Imitative piping. Rhythm alone, without harmony, isthe means in the dancer's imitations; for even he, by the rhythms of hisattitudes, may represent men's characters, as well as what they doand suffer. There is further an art which imitates by language alone, without harmony, in prose or in verse, and if in verse, either in someone or in a plurality of metres. This form of imitation is to thisday without a name. We have no common name for a mime of Sophron orXenarchus and a Socratic Conversation; and we should still be withoutone even if the imitation in the two instances were in trimeters orelegiacs or some other kind of verse--though it is the way with peopleto tack on 'poet' to the name of a metre, and talk of elegiac-poetsand epic-poets, thinking that they call them poets not by reason of theimitative nature of their work, but indiscriminately by reason of themetre they write in. Even if a theory of medicine or physical philosophybe put forth in a metrical form, it is usual to describe the writer inthis way; Homer and Empedocles, however, have really nothing in commonapart from their metre; so that, if the one is to be called a poet, theother should be termed a physicist rather than a poet. We should be inthe same position also, if the imitation in these instances were in allthe metres, like the _Centaur_ (a rhapsody in a medley of all metres) ofChaeremon; and Chaeremon one has to recognize as a poet. So much, then, as to these arts. There are, lastly, certain other arts, which combineall the means enumerated, rhythm, melody, and verse, e. G. Dithyrambicand Nomic poetry, Tragedy and Comedy; with this difference, however, that the three kinds of means are in some of them all employed together, and in others brought in separately, one after the other. These elementsof difference in the above arts I term the means of their imitation. 

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II. The objects the imitator represents are actions, with agents who arenecessarily either good men or bad--the diversities of human characterbeing nearly always derivative from this primary distinction, since theline between virtue and vice is one dividing the whole of mankind. Itfollows, therefore, that the agents represented must be either above ourown level of goodness, or beneath it, or just such as we are in the sameway as, with the painters, the personages of Polygnotus are betterthan we are, those of Pauson worse, and those of Dionysius just likeourselves. It is clear that each of the above-mentioned arts willadmit of these differences, and that it will become a separate art byrepresenting objects with this point of difference. Even in dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing such diversities are possible; and theyare also possible in the nameless art that uses language, prose or versewithout harmony, as its means; Homer's personages, for instance, arebetter than we are; Cleophon's are on our own level; and those ofHegemon of Thasos, the first writer of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the _Diliad_, are beneath it. The same is true of theDithyramb and the Nome: the personages may be presented in them with thedifference exemplified in the. .. Of. .. And Argas, and in the Cyclopsesof Timotheus and Philoxenus. This difference it is that distinguishesTragedy and Comedy also; the one would make its personages worse, andthe other better, than the men of the present day. 

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III. A third difference in these arts is in the manner in which eachkind of object is represented. Given both the same means and the samekind of object for imitation, one may either (1) speak at one moment innarrative and at another in an assumed character, as Homer does; or (2)one may remain the same throughout, without any such change; or (3) theimitators may represent the whole story dramatically, as though theywere actually doing the things described. 

As we said at the beginning, therefore, the differences in the imitationof these arts come under three heads, their means, their objects, andtheir manner. 

So that as an imitator Sophocles will be on one side akin to Homer, bothportraying good men; and on another to Aristophanes, since both presenttheir personages as acting and doing. This in fact, according to some, is the reason for plays being termed dramas, because in a play thepersonages act the story. Hence too both Tragedy and Comedy are claimedby the Dorians as their discoveries; Comedy by the Megarians--by thosein Greece as having arisen when Megara became a democracy, and by theSicilian Megarians on the ground that the poet Epicharmus was of theircountry, and a good deal earlier than Chionides and Magnes; even Tragedyalso is claimed by certain of the Peloponnesian Dorians. In support ofthis claim they point to the words 'comedy' and 'drama'. Their word forthe outlying hamlets, they say, is comae, whereas Athenians call themdemes--thus assuming that comedians got the name not from their _comoe_or revels, but from their strolling from hamlet to hamlet, lack ofappreciation keeping them out of the city. Their word also for 'to act', they say, is _dran_, whereas Athenians use _prattein_. 

So much, then, as to the number and nature of the points of differencein the imitation of these arts. 

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It is clear that the general origin of poetry was due to two causes, each of them part of human nature. Imitation is natural to man fromchildhood, one of his advantages over the lower animals being this, thathe is the most imitative creature in the world, and learns at firstby imitation. And it is also natural for all to delight in works ofimitation. The truth of this second point is shown by experience: thoughthe objects themselves may be painful to see, we delight to view themost realistic representations of them in art, the forms for example ofthe lowest animals and of dead bodies. The explanation is to be foundin a further fact: to be learning something is the greatest of pleasuresnot only to the philosopher but also to the rest of mankind, howeversmall their capacity for it; the reason of the delight in seeing thepicture is that one is at the same time learning--gathering the meaningof things, e. G. That the man there is so-and-so; for if one has notseen the thing before, one's pleasure will not be in the picture as animitation of it, but will be due to the execution or colouring or somesimilar cause. Imitation, then, being natural to us--as also the senseof harmony and rhythm, the metres being obviously species of rhythms--itwas through their original aptitude, and by a series of improvements forthe most part gradual on their first efforts, that they created poetryout of their improvisations. 

Poetry, however, soon broke up into two kinds according to thedifferences of character in the individual poets; for the graver amongthem would represent noble actions, and those of noble personages; andthe meaner sort the actions of the ignoble. The latter class producedinvectives at first, just as others did hymns and panegyrics. We know ofno such poem by any of the pre-Homeric poets, though there were probablymany such writers among them; instances, however, may be found fromHomer downwards, e. G. His _Margites_, and the similar poems of others. In this poetry of invective its natural fitness brought an iambic metreinto use; hence our present term 'iambic', because it was the metre oftheir 'iambs' or invectives against one another. The result was thatthe old poets became some of them writers of heroic and others of iambicverse. Homer's position, however, is peculiar: just as he was in theserious style the poet of poets, standing alone not only through theliterary excellence, but also through the dramatic character of hisimitations, so too he was the first to outline for us the general formsof Comedy by producing not a dramatic invective, but a dramatic pictureof the Ridiculous; his _Margites_ in fact stands in the same relationto our comedies as the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ to our tragedies. As soon, however, as Tragedy and Comedy appeared in the field, those naturallydrawn to the one line of poetry became writers of comedies instead ofiambs, and those naturally drawn to the other, writers of tragediesinstead of epics, because these new modes of art were grander and ofmore esteem than the old. 

If it be asked whether Tragedy is now all that it need be in itsformative elements, to consider that, and decide it theoretically and inrelation to the theatres, is a matter for another inquiry. 

It certainly began in improvisations--as did also Comedy; the oneoriginating with the authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those ofthe phallic songs, which still survive as institutions in many of ourcities. And its advance after that was little by little, through theirimproving on whatever they had before them at each stage. It was in factonly after a long series of changes that the movement of Tragedy stoppedon its attaining to its natural form. (1) The number of actors was firstincreased to two by Aeschylus, who curtailed the business of the Chorus, and made the dialogue, or spoken portion, take the leading part in theplay. (2) A third actor and scenery were due to Sophocles. (3) Tragedyacquired also its magnitude. Discarding short stories and a ludicrousdiction, through its passing out of its satyric stage, it assumed, though only at a late point in its progress, a tone of dignity; andits metre changed then from trochaic to iambic. The reason for theiroriginal use of the trochaic tetrameter was that their poetry wassatyric and more connected with dancing than it now is. As soon, however, as a spoken part came in, nature herself found the appropriatemetre. The iambic, we know, is the most speakable of metres, as is shownby the fact that we very often fall into it in conversation, whereas werarely talk hexameters, and only when we depart from the speaking toneof voice. (4) Another change was a plurality of episodes or acts. As forthe remaining matters, the superadded embellishments and the account oftheir introduction, these must be taken as said, as it would probably bea long piece of work to go through the details. 

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As for Comedy, it is (as has been observed) an imitation of men worsethan the average; worse, however, not as regards any and every sort offault, but only as regards one particular kind, the Ridiculous, whichis a species of the Ugly. The Ridiculous may be defined as a mistakeor deformity not productive of pain or harm to others; the mask, forinstance, that excites laughter, is something ugly and distorted withoutcausing pain. 

Though the successive changes in Tragedy and their authors are notunknown, we cannot say the same of Comedy; its early stages passedunnoticed, because it was not as yet taken up in a serious way. It wasonly at a late point in its progress that a chorus of comedians wasofficially granted by the archon; they used to be mere volunteers. Ithad also already certain definite forms at the time when the record ofthose termed comic poets begins. Who it was who supplied it with masks, or prologues, or a plurality of actors and the like, has remainedunknown. The invented Fable, or Plot, however, originated in Sicily, with Epicharmus and Phormis; of Athenian poets Crates was the firstto drop the Comedy of invective and frame stories of a general andnon-personal nature, in other words, Fables or Plots. 

Epic poetry, then, has been seen to agree with Tragedy to this extent, that of being an imitation of serious subjects in a grand kind of verse. It differs from it, however, (1) in that it is in one kind of verse andin narrative form; and (2) in its length--which is due to its actionhaving no fixed limit of time, whereas Tragedy endeavours to keep as faras possible within a single circuit of the sun, or something near that. This, I say, is another point of difference between them, though atfirst the practice in this respect was just the same in tragedies asin epic poems. They differ also (3) in their constituents, some beingcommon to both and others peculiar to Tragedy--hence a judge of good andbad in Tragedy is a judge of that in epic poetry also. All the parts ofan epic are included in Tragedy; but those of Tragedy are not all ofthem to be found in the Epic. 

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Reserving hexameter poetry and Comedy for consideration hereafter, letus proceed now to the discussion of Tragedy; before doing so, however, we must gather up the definition resulting from what has been said. Atragedy, then, is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself; in language with pleasurableaccessories, each kind brought in separately in the parts of the work;in a dramatic, not in a narrative form; with incidents arousing pity andfear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions. Here by'language with pleasurable accessories' I mean that with rhythm andharmony or song superadded; and by 'the kinds separately' I mean thatsome portions are worked out with verse only, and others in turn withsong. 

I. As they act the stories, it follows that in the first place theSpectacle (or stage-appearance of the actors) must be some part of thewhole; and in the second Melody and Diction, these two being themeans of their imitation. Here by 'Diction' I mean merely this, thecomposition of the verses; and by 'Melody', what is too completelyunderstood to require explanation. But further: the subject representedalso is an action; and the action involves agents, who must necessarilyhave their distinctive qualities both of character and thought, since itis from these that we ascribe certain qualities to their actions. Thereare in the natural order of things, therefore, two causes, Character andThought, of their actions, and consequently of their success or failurein their lives. Now the action (that which was done) is represented inthe play by the Fable or Plot. The Fable, in our present sense of theterm, is simply this, the combination of the incidents, or things donein the story; whereas Character is what makes us ascribe certain moralqualities to the agents; and Thought is shown in all they say whenproving a particular point or, it may be, enunciating a general truth. There are six parts consequently of every tragedy, as a whole, thatis, of such or such quality, viz. A Fable or Plot, Characters, Diction, Thought, Spectacle and Melody; two of them arising from the means, onefrom the manner, and three from the objects of the dramatic imitation;and there is nothing else besides these six. Of these, its formativeelements, then, not a few of the dramatists have made due use, as everyplay, one may say, admits of Spectacle, Character, Fable, Diction, Melody, and Thought. 

II. The most important of the six is the combination of the incidents ofthe story. 

Tragedy is essentially an imitation not of persons but of action andlife, of happiness and misery. All human happiness or misery takes theform of action; the end for which we live is a certain kind ofactivity, not a quality. Character gives us qualities, but it is inour actions--what we do--that we are happy or the reverse. In a playaccordingly they do not act in order to portray the Characters; theyinclude the Characters for the sake of the action. So that it is theaction in it, i. E. Its Fable or Plot, that is the end and purpose ofthe tragedy; and the end is everywhere the chief thing. Besides this, a tragedy is impossible without action, but there may be one withoutCharacter. The tragedies of most of the moderns are characterless--adefect common among poets of all kinds, and with its counterpart inpainting in Zeuxis as compared with Polygnotus; for whereas the latteris strong in character, the work of Zeuxis is devoid of it. And again:one may string together a series of characteristic speeches of theutmost finish as regards Diction and Thought, and yet fail to producethe true tragic effect; but one will have much better success witha tragedy which, however inferior in these respects, has a Plot, acombination of incidents, in it. And again: the most powerful elementsof attraction in Tragedy, the Peripeties and Discoveries, are parts ofthe Plot. A further proof is in the fact that beginners succeed earlierwith the Diction and Characters than with the construction of astory; and the same may be said of nearly all the early dramatists. Wemaintain, therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, soto speak, of Tragedy is the Plot; and that the Characters comesecond--compare the parallel in painting, where the most beautifulcolours laid on without order will not give one the same pleasure as asimple black-and-white sketch of a portrait. We maintain that Tragedy isprimarily an imitation of action, and that it is mainly for the sake ofthe action that it imitates the personal agents. Third comes the elementof Thought, i. E. The power of saying whatever can be said, or what isappropriate to the occasion. This is what, in the speeches in Tragedy, falls under the arts of Politics and Rhetoric; for the older poetsmake their personages discourse like statesmen, and the moderns likerhetoricians. One must not confuse it with Character. Character in aplay is that which reveals the moral purpose of the agents, i. E. Thesort of thing they seek or avoid, where that is not obvious--hence thereis no room for Character in a speech on a purely indifferent subject. Thought, on the other hand, is shown in all they say when provingor disproving some particular point, or enunciating some universalproposition. Fourth among the literary elements is the Diction of thepersonages, i. E. As before explained, the expression of their thoughtsin words, which is practically the same thing with verse as with prose. As for the two remaining parts, the Melody is the greatest of thepleasurable accessories of Tragedy. The Spectacle, though an attraction, is the least artistic of all the parts, and has least to do with theart of poetry. The tragic effect is quite possible without a publicperformance and actors; and besides, the getting-up of the Spectacle ismore a matter for the costumier than the poet. 

7

Having thus distinguished the parts, let us now consider the properconstruction of the Fable or Plot, as that is at once the first and themost important thing in Tragedy. We have laid it down that a tragedy isan imitation of an action that is complete in itself, as a whole of somemagnitude; for a whole may be of no magnitude to speak of. Now a wholeis that which has beginning, middle, and end. A beginning is that whichis not itself necessarily after anything else, and which has naturallysomething else after it; an end is that which is naturally aftersomething itself, either as its necessary or usual consequent, and withnothing else after it; and a middle, that which is by nature after onething and has also another after it. A well-constructed Plot, therefore, cannot either begin or end at any point one likes; beginning and end init must be of the forms just described. Again: to be beautiful, a livingcreature, and every whole made up of parts, must not only present acertain order in its arrangement of parts, but also be of a certaindefinite magnitude. Beauty is a matter of size and order, and thereforeimpossible either (1) in a very minute creature, since our perceptionbecomes indistinct as it approaches instantaneity; or (2) in a creatureof vast size--one, say, 1, 000 miles long--as in that case, instead ofthe object being seen all at once, the unity and wholeness of it is lostto the beholder. 

Just in the same way, then, as a beautiful whole made up of parts, or abeautiful living creature, must be of some size, a size to be taken inby the eye, so a story or Plot must be of some length, but of a lengthto be taken in by the memory. As for the limit of its length, so far asthat is relative to public performances and spectators, it does not fallwithin the theory of poetry. If they had to perform a hundred tragedies, they would be timed by water-clocks, as they are said to have been atone period. The limit, however, set by the actual nature of the thing isthis: the longer the story, consistently with its being comprehensibleas a whole, the finer it is by reason of its magnitude. As a roughgeneral formula, 'a length which allows of the hero passing by a seriesof probable or necessary stages from misfortune to happiness, or fromhappiness to misfortune', may suffice as a limit for the magnitude ofthe story. 

8

The Unity of a Plot does not consist, as some suppose, in its having oneman as its subject. An infinity of things befall that one man, some ofwhich it is impossible to reduce to unity; and in like manner there aremany actions of one man which cannot be made to form one action. One sees, therefore, the mistake of all the poets who have written a_Heracleid_, a _Theseid_, or similar poems; they suppose that, becauseHeracles was one man, the story also of Heracles must be one story. Homer, however, evidently understood this point quite well, whetherby art or instinct, just in the same way as he excels the rest in everyother respect. In writing an _Odyssey_, he did not make the poem coverall that ever befell his hero--it befell him, for instance, to getwounded on Parnassus and also to feign madness at the time of the callto arms, but the two incidents had no probable or necessary connexionwith one another--instead of doing that, he took an action with a Unityof the kind we are describing as the subject of the _Odyssey_, as alsoof the _Iliad_. The truth is that, just as in the other imitative artsone imitation is always of one thing, so in poetry the story, as animitation of action, must represent one action, a complete whole, with its several incidents so closely connected that the transposal orwithdrawal of any one of them will disjoin and dislocate the whole. Forthat which makes no perceptible difference by its presence or absence isno real part of the whole. 

9

From what we have said it will be seen that the poet's function is todescribe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing thatmight happen, i. E. What is possible as being probable or necessary. Thedistinction between historian and poet is not in the one writing proseand the other verse--you might put the work of Herodotus into verse, andit would still be a species of history; it consists really in this, thatthe one describes the thing that has been, and the other a kind of thingthat might be. Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graverimport than history, since its statements are of the nature ratherof universals, whereas those of history are singulars. By a universalstatement I mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probablyor necessarily say or do--which is the aim of poetry, though it affixesproper names to the characters; by a singular statement, one as to what, say, Alcibiades did or had done to him. In Comedy this has become clearby this time; it is only when their plot is already made up of probableincidents that they give it a basis of proper names, choosing for thepurpose any names that may occur to them, instead of writing like theold iambic poets about particular persons. In Tragedy, however, theystill adhere to the historic names; and for this reason: what convincesis the possible; now whereas we are not yet sure as to the possibilityof that which has not happened, that which has happened is manifestlypossible, else it would not have come to pass. Nevertheless even inTragedy there are some plays with but one or two known names in them, the rest being inventions; and there are some without a single knownname, e. G. Agathon's Anthens, in which both incidents and names are ofthe poet's invention; and it is no less delightful on that account. Sothat one must not aim at a rigid adherence to the traditional storieson which tragedies are based. It would be absurd, in fact, to do so, as even the known stories are only known to a few, though they are adelight none the less to all. 

It is evident from the above that, the poet must be more the poet of hisstories or Plots than of his verses, inasmuch as he is a poet byvirtue of the imitative element in his work, and it is actions that heimitates. And if he should come to take a subject from actual history, he is none the less a poet for that; since some historic occurrences mayvery well be in the probable and possible order of things; and it is inthat aspect of them that he is their poet. 

Of simple Plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a Plotepisodic when there is neither probability nor necessity in the sequenceof episodes. Actions of this sort bad poets construct through theirown fault, and good ones on account of the players. His work being forpublic performance, a good poet often stretches out a Plot beyond itscapabilities, and is thus obliged to twist the sequence of incident. 

Tragedy, however, is an imitation not only of a complete action, butalso of incidents arousing pity and fear. Such incidents have the verygreatest effect on the mind when they occur unexpectedly and at the sametime in consequence of one another; there is more of the marvellous inthem then than if they happened of themselves or by mere chance. Evenmatters of chance seem most marvellous if there is an appearance ofdesign as it were in them; as for instance the statue of Mitys atArgos killed the author of Mitys' death by falling down on him when alooker-on at a public spectacle; for incidents like that we think to benot without a meaning. A Plot, therefore, of this sort is necessarilyfiner than others. 

10

Plots are either simple or complex, since the actions they represent arenaturally of this twofold description. The action, proceeding in the waydefined, as one continuous whole, I call simple, when the change in thehero's fortunes takes place without Peripety or Discovery; and complex, when it involves one or the other, or both. These should each ofthem arise out of the structure of the Plot itself, so as to be theconsequence, necessary or probable, of the antecedents. There is a greatdifference between a thing happening _propter hoc_ and _post hoc_. 

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A Peripety is the change from one state of things within the play to itsopposite of the kind described, and that too in the way we are saying, in the probable or necessary sequence of events; as it is for instancein _Oedipus_: here the opposite state of things is produced by theMessenger, who, coming to gladden Oedipus and to remove his fears as tohis mother, reveals the secret of his birth. And in _Lynceus_: just ashe is being led off for execution, with Danaus at his side to put him todeath, the incidents preceding this bring it about that he is saved andDanaus put to death. A Discovery is, as the very word implies, a changefrom ignorance to knowledge, and thus to either love or hate, in thepersonages marked for good or evil fortune. The finest form of Discoveryis one attended by Peripeties, like that which goes with the Discoveryin _Oedipus_. There are no doubt other forms of it; what we have saidmay happen in a way in reference to inanimate things, even things of avery casual kind; and it is also possible to discover whether some onehas done or not done something. But the form most directly connectedwith the Plot and the action of the piece is the first-mentioned. This, with a Peripety, will arouse either pity or fear--actions of that naturebeing what Tragedy is assumed to represent; and it will also serve tobring about the happy or unhappy ending. The Discovery, then, being ofpersons, it may be that of one party only to the other, the latter beingalready known; or both the parties may have to discover themselves. Iphigenia, for instance, was discovered to Orestes by sending theletter; and another Discovery was required to reveal him to Iphigenia. 

Two parts of the Plot, then, Peripety and Discovery, are on matters ofthis sort. A third part is Suffering; which we may define as an actionof a destructive or painful nature, such as murders on the stage, tortures, woundings, and the like. The other two have been alreadyexplained. 

12

The parts of Tragedy to be treated as formative elements in the wholewere mentioned in a previous Chapter. From the point of view, however, of its quantity, i. E. The separate sections into which it is divided, atragedy has the following parts: Prologue, Episode, Exode, and a choralportion, distinguished into Parode and Stasimon; these two are common toall tragedies, whereas songs from the stage and Commoe are only foundin some. The Prologue is all that precedes the Parode of the chorus; anEpisode all that comes in between two whole choral songs; the Exodeall that follows after the last choral song. In the choral portion theParode is the whole first statement of the chorus; a Stasimon, a song ofthe chorus without anapaests or trochees; a Commas, a lamentation sungby chorus and actor in concert. The parts of Tragedy to be used asformative elements in the whole we have already mentioned; the aboveare its parts from the point of view of its quantity, or the separatesections into which it is divided. 

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The next points after what we have said above will be these: (1) What isthe poet to aim at, and what is he to avoid, in constructing his Plots?and (2) What are the conditions on which the tragic effect depends?

We assume that, for the finest form of Tragedy, the Plot must be notsimple but complex; and further, that it must imitate actions arousingpity and fear, since that is the distinctive function of this kind ofimitation. It follows, therefore, that there are three forms of Plot tobe avoided. (1) A good man must not be seen passing from happiness tomisery, or (2) a bad man from misery to happiness. 

The first situation is not fear-inspiring or piteous, but simply odiousto us. The second is the most untragic that can be; it has no one of therequisites of Tragedy; it does not appeal either to the human feeling inus, or to our pity, or to our fears. Nor, on the other hand, should (3)an extremely bad man be seen falling from happiness into misery. Sucha story may arouse the human feeling in us, but it will not move us toeither pity or fear; pity is occasioned by undeserved misfortune, andfear by that of one like ourselves; so that there will be nothing eitherpiteous or fear-inspiring in the situation. There remains, then, theintermediate kind of personage, a man not pre-eminently virtuous andjust, whose misfortune, however, is brought upon him not by vice anddepravity but by some error of judgement, of the number of those in theenjoyment of great reputation and prosperity; e. G. Oedipus, Thyestes, and the men of note of similar families. The perfect Plot, accordingly, must have a single, and not (as some tell us) a double issue; the changein the hero's fortunes must be not from misery to happiness, but on thecontrary from happiness to misery; and the cause of it must lie notin any depravity, but in some great error on his part; the man himselfbeing either such as we have described, or better, not worse, than that. Fact also confirms our theory. Though the poets began by accepting anytragic story that came to hand, in these days the finest tragedies arealways on the story of some few houses, on that of Alemeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, or any others that may have beeninvolved, as either agents or sufferers, in some deed of horror. Thetheoretically best tragedy, then, has a Plot of this description. Thecritics, therefore, are wrong who blame Euripides for taking this linein his tragedies, and giving many of them an unhappy ending. It is, aswe have said, the right line to take. The best proof is this: on thestage, and in the public performances, such plays, properly workedout, are seen to be the most truly tragic; and Euripides, even ifhis elecution be faulty in every other point, is seen to be neverthelessthe most tragic certainly of the dramatists. After this comes theconstruction of Plot which some rank first, one with a double story(like the _Odyssey_) and an opposite issue for the good and the badpersonages. It is ranked as first only through the weakness of theaudiences; the poets merely follow their public, writing as its wishesdictate. But the pleasure here is not that of Tragedy. It belongs ratherto Comedy, where the bitterest enemies in the piece (e. G. Orestes andAegisthus) walk off good friends at the end, with no slaying of any oneby any one. 

14

The tragic fear and pity may be aroused by the Spectacle; but they mayalso be aroused by the very structure and incidents of the play--whichis the better way and shows the better poet. The Plot in fact should beso framed that, even without seeing the things take place, he who simplyhears the account of them shall be filled with horror and pity at theincidents; which is just the effect that the mere recital of the storyin _Oedipus_ would have on one. To produce this same effect by meansof the Spectacle is less artistic, and requires extraneous aid. Those, however, who make use of the Spectacle to put before us that which ismerely monstrous and not productive of fear, are wholly out of touchwith Tragedy; not every kind of pleasure should be required of atragedy, but only its own proper pleasure. 

The tragic pleasure is that of pity and fear, and the poet has toproduce it by a work of imitation; it is clear, therefore, that thecauses should be included in the incidents of his story. Let us see, then, what kinds of incident strike one as horrible, or rather aspiteous. In a deed of this description the parties must necessarilybe either friends, or enemies, or indifferent to one another. Now whenenemy does it on enemy, there is nothing to move us to pity either inhis doing or in his meditating the deed, except so far as the actualpain of the sufferer is concerned; and the same is true when the partiesare indifferent to one another. Whenever the tragic deed, however, isdone within the family--when murder or the like is done or meditatedby brother on brother, by son on father, by mother on son, or sonon mother--these are the situations the poet should seek after. Thetraditional stories, accordingly, must be kept as they are, e. G. Themurder of Clytaemnestra by Orestes and of Eriphyle by Alcmeon. At thesame time even with these there is something left to the poet himself;it is for him to devise the right way of treating them. Let us explainmore clearly what we mean by 'the right way'. The deed of horror may bedone by the doer knowingly and consciously, as in the old poets, andin Medea's murder of her children in Euripides. Or he may do it, but inignorance of his relationship, and discover that afterwards, as does the_Oedipus_ in Sophocles. Here the deed is outside the play; but it maybe within it, like the act of the Alcmeon in Astydamas, or that ofthe Telegonus in _Ulysses Wounded_. A third possibility is forone meditating some deadly injury to another, in ignorance of hisrelationship, to make the discovery in time to draw back. These exhaustthe possibilities, since the deed must necessarily be either done or notdone, and either knowingly or unknowingly. 

The worst situation is when the personage is with full knowledge on thepoint of doing the deed, and leaves it undone. It is odious and also(through the absence of suffering) untragic; hence it is that no one ismade to act thus except in some few instances, e. G. Haemon and Creon in_Antigone_. Next after this comes the actual perpetration of the deedmeditated. A better situation than that, however, is for the deed tobe done in ignorance, and the relationship discovered afterwards, sincethere is nothing odious in it, and the Discovery will serve to astoundus. But the best of all is the last; what we have in _Cresphontes_, forexample, where Merope, on the point of slaying her son, recognizeshim in time; in _Iphigenia_, where sister and brother are in a likeposition; and in _Helle_, where the son recognizes his mother, when onthe point of giving her up to her enemy. 

This will explain why our tragedies are restricted (as we said just now)to such a small number of families. It was accident rather than art thatled the poets in quest of subjects to embody this kind of incident intheir Plots. They are still obliged, accordingly, to have recourse tothe families in which such horrors have occurred. 

On the construction of the Plot, and the kind of Plot required forTragedy, enough has now been said. 

15

In the Characters there are four points to aim at. First and foremost, that they shall be good. There will be an element of character in theplay, if (as has been observed) what a personage says or does reveals acertain moral purpose; and a good element of character, if thepurpose so revealed is good. Such goodness is possible in every typeof personage, even in a woman or a slave, though the one is perhaps aninferior, and the other a wholly worthless being. The second point is tomake them appropriate. The Character before us may be, say, manly; butit is not appropriate in a female Character to be manly, or clever. Thethird is to make them like the reality, which is not the same as theirbeing good and appropriate, in our sense of the term. The fourth is tomake them consistent and the same throughout; even if inconsistencybe part of the man before one for imitation as presenting that formof character, he should still be consistently inconsistent. We have aninstance of baseness of character, not required for the story, inthe Menelaus in _Orestes_; of the incongruous and unbefitting in thelamentation of Ulysses in _Scylla_, and in the (clever) speech ofMelanippe; and of inconsistency in _Iphigenia at Aulis_, where Iphigeniathe suppliant is utterly unlike the later Iphigenia. The right thing, however, is in the Characters just as in the incidents of the play toendeavour always after the necessary or the probable; so that wheneversuch-and-such a personage says or does such-and-such a thing, it shallbe the probable or necessary outcome of his character; and wheneverthis incident follows on that, it shall be either the necessary or theprobable consequence of it. From this one sees (to digress for a moment)that the Denouement also should arise out of the plot itself, aridnot depend on a stage-artifice, as in _Medea_, or in the story of the(arrested) departure of the Greeks in the _Iliad_. The artifice mustbe reserved for matters outside the play--for past events beyond humanknowledge, or events yet to come, which require to be foretold orannounced; since it is the privilege of the Gods to know everything. There should be nothing improbable among the actual incidents. If itbe unavoidable, however, it should be outside the tragedy, like theimprobability in the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles. But to return to theCharacters. As Tragedy is an imitation of personages better thanthe ordinary man, we in our way should follow the example of goodportrait-painters, who reproduce the distinctive features of a man, andat the same time, without losing the likeness, make him handsomer thanhe is. The poet in like manner, in portraying men quick or slow toanger, or with similar infirmities of character, must know how torepresent them as such, and at the same time as good men, as Agathon andHomer have represented Achilles. 

All these rules one must keep in mind throughout, and further, thosealso for such points of stage-effect as directly depend on the artof the poet, since in these too one may often make mistakes. Enough, however, has been said on the subject in one of our published writings. 

16

Discovery in general has been explained already. As for the species ofDiscovery, the first to be noted is (1) the least artistic form ofit, of which the poets make most use through mere lack of invention, Discovery by signs or marks. Of these signs some are congenital, likethe 'lance-head which the Earth-born have on them', or 'stars', such asCarcinus brings in in his _Thyestes_; others acquired after birth--theselatter being either marks on the body, e. G. Scars, or external tokens, like necklaces, or to take another sort of instance, the ark in theDiscovery in _Tyro_. Even these, however, admit of two uses, a betterand a worse; the scar of Ulysses is an instance; the Discovery ofhim through it is made in one way by the nurse and in another by theswineherds. A Discovery using signs as a means of assurance is lessartistic, as indeed are all such as imply reflection; whereas onebringing them in all of a sudden, as in the _Bath-story_, is of a betterorder. Next after these are (2) Discoveries made directly by the poet;which are inartistic for that very reason; e. G. Orestes' Discovery ofhimself in _Iphigenia_: whereas his sister reveals who she is by theletter, Orestes is made to say himself what the poet rather thanthe story demands. This, therefore, is not far removed from thefirst-mentioned fault, since he might have presented certain tokensas well. Another instance is the 'shuttle's voice' in the _Tereus_ ofSophocles. (3) A third species is Discovery through memory, from a man'sconsciousness being awakened by something seen or heard. Thus in _TheCyprioe_ of Dicaeogenes, the sight of the picture makes the man burstinto tears; and in the _Tale of Alcinous_, hearing the harper Ulysses isreminded of the past and weeps; the Discovery of them being theresult. (4) A fourth kind is Discovery through reasoning; e. G. In _TheChoephoroe_: 'One like me is here; there is no one like me but Orestes;he, therefore, must be here. ' Or that which Polyidus the Sophistsuggested for _Iphigenia_; since it was natural for Orestes to reflect:'My sister was sacrificed, and I am to be sacrificed like her. ' Or thatin the _Tydeus_ of Theodectes: 'I came to find a son, and am to diemyself. ' Or that in _The Phinidae_: on seeing the place the womeninferred their fate, that they were to die there, since they had alsobeen exposed there. (5) There is, too, a composite Discovery arisingfrom bad reasoning on the side of the other party. An instance of it isin _Ulysses the False Messenger_: he said he should know the bow--whichhe had not seen; but to suppose from that that he would know it again(as though he had once seen it) was bad reasoning. (6) The best of allDiscoveries, however, is that arising from the incidents themselves, when the great surprise comes about through a probable incident, likethat in the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles; and also in _Iphigenia_; for it wasnot improbable that she should wish to have a letter taken home. Theselast are the only Discoveries independent of the artifice of signs andnecklaces. Next after them come Discoveries through reasoning. 

17

At the time when he is constructing his Plots, and engaged on theDiction in which they are worked out, the poet should remember (1) toput the actual scenes as far as possible before his eyes. In this way, seeing everything with the vividness of an eye-witness as it were, he will devise what is appropriate, and be least likely to overlookincongruities. This is shown by what was censured in Carcinus, thereturn of Amphiaraus from the sanctuary; it would have passed unnoticed, if it had not been actually seen by the audience; but on the stage hisplay failed, the incongruity of the incident offending the spectators. (2) As far as may be, too, the poet should even act his story with thevery gestures of his personages. Given the same natural qualifications, he who feels the emotions to be described will be the most convincing;distress and anger, for instance, are portrayed most truthfully by onewho is feeling them at the moment. Hence it is that poetry demands a manwith special gift for it, or else one with a touch of madness in him;the former can easily assume the required mood, and the latter maybe actually beside himself with emotion. (3) His story, again, whetheralready made or of his own making, he should first simplify and reduceto a universal form, before proceeding to lengthen it out by theinsertion of episodes. The following will show how the universal elementin _Iphigenia_, for instance, may be viewed: A certain maiden havingbeen offered in sacrifice, and spirited away from her sacrificers intoanother land, where the custom was to sacrifice all strangers to theGoddess, she was made there the priestess of this rite. Long after thatthe brother of the priestess happened to come; the fact, however, of theoracle having for a certain reason bidden him go thither, and hisobject in going, are outside the Plot of the play. On his coming hewas arrested, and about to be sacrificed, when he revealed who hewas--either as Euripides puts it, or (as suggested by Polyidus) by thenot improbable exclamation, 'So I too am doomed to be sacrificed, asmy sister was'; and the disclosure led to his salvation. This done, thenext thing, after the proper names have been fixed as a basis for thestory, is to work in episodes or accessory incidents. One must mind, however, that the episodes are appropriate, like the fit of madness inOrestes, which led to his arrest, and the purifying, which brought abouthis salvation. In plays, then, the episodes are short; in epic poetrythey serve to lengthen out the poem. The argument of the _Odyssey_ isnot a long one. 

A certain man has been abroad many years; Poseidon is ever on the watchfor him, and he is all alone. Matters at home too have come to this, that his substance is being wasted and his son's death plotted bysuitors to his wife. Then he arrives there himself after his grievoussufferings; reveals himself, and falls on his enemies; and the end ishis salvation and their death. This being all that is proper to the_Odyssey_, everything else in it is episode. 

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(4) There is a further point to be borne in mind. Every tragedy isin part Complication and in part Denouement; the incidents before theopening scene, and often certain also of those within the play, formingthe Complication; and the rest the Denouement. By Complication I meanall from the beginning of the story to the point just before the changein the hero's fortunes; by Denouement, all from the beginning of thechange to the end. In the _Lynceus_ of Theodectes, for instance, theComplication includes, together with the presupposed incidents, theseizure of the child and that in turn of the parents; and the Denouementall from the indictment for the murder to the end. Now it is right, whenone speaks of a tragedy as the same or not the same as another, to do soon the ground before all else of their Plot, i. E. As having the same ornot the same Complication and Denouement. Yet there are many dramatistswho, after a good Complication, fail in the Denouement. But it isnecessary for both points of construction to be always duly mastered. (5) There are four distinct species of Tragedy--that being the numberof the constituents also that have been mentioned: first, the complexTragedy, which is all Peripety and Discovery; second, the Tragedyof suffering, e. G. The _Ajaxes_ and _Ixions_; third, the Tragedy ofcharacter, e. G. _The Phthiotides_ and _Peleus_. The fourth constituentis that of 'Spectacle', exemplified in _The Phorcides_, in _Prometheus_, and in all plays with the scene laid in the nether world. The poet'saim, then, should be to combine every element of interest, if possible, or else the more important and the major part of them. This is nowespecially necessary owing to the unfair criticism to which the poet issubjected in these days. Just because there have been poets before himstrong in the several species of tragedy, the critics now expect theone man to surpass that which was the strong point of each one of hispredecessors. (6) One should also remember what has been said more thanonce, and not write a tragedy on an epic body of incident (i. E. One witha plurality of stories in it), by attempting to dramatize, for instance, the entire story of the _Iliad_. In the epic owing to its scale everypart is treated at proper length; with a drama, however, on the samestory the result is very disappointing. This is shown by the fact thatall who have dramatized the fall of Ilium in its entirety, and not partby part, like Euripides, or the whole of the Niobe story, instead of aportion, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or have but ill successon the stage; for that and that alone was enough to ruin a play byAgathon. Yet in their Peripeties, as also in their simple plots, thepoets I mean show wonderful skill in aiming at the kind of effect theydesire--a tragic situation that arouses the human feeling in one, likethe clever villain (e. G. Sisyphus) deceived, or the brave wrongdoerworsted. This is probable, however, only in Agathon's sense, when hespeaks of the probability of even improbabilities coming to pass. (7)The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be anintegral part of the whole, and take a share in the action--that whichit has in Sophocles rather than in Euripides. With the later poets, however, the songs in a play of theirs have no more to do with the Plotof that than of any other tragedy. Hence it is that they are now singingintercalary pieces, a practice first introduced by Agathon. And yet whatreal difference is there between singing such intercalary pieces, andattempting to fit in a speech, or even a whole act, from one play intoanother?

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The Plot and Characters having been discussed, it remains to considerthe Diction and Thought. As for the Thought, we may assume what issaid of it in our Art of Rhetoric, as it belongs more properly tothat department of inquiry. The Thought of the personages is shown ineverything to be effected by their language--in every effort to proveor disprove, to arouse emotion (pity, fear, anger, and the like), orto maximize or minimize things. It is clear, also, that their mentalprocedure must be on the same lines in their actions likewise, wheneverthey wish them to arouse pity or horror, or have a look of importance orprobability. The only difference is that with the act the impression hasto be made without explanation; whereas with the spoken word it has tobe produced by the speaker, and result from his language. What, indeed, would be the good of the speaker, if things appeared in the requiredlight even apart from anything he says?

As regards the Diction, one subject for inquiry under this head is theturns given to the language when spoken; e. G. The difference betweencommand and prayer, simple statement and threat, question and answer, and so forth. The theory of such matters, however, belongs to Elocutionand the professors of that art. Whether the poet knows these things ornot, his art as a poet is never seriously criticized on that account. What fault can one see in Homer's 'Sing of the wrath, Goddess'?--whichProtagoras has criticized as being a command where a prayer was meant, since to bid one do or not do, he tells us, is a command. Let us passover this, then, as appertaining to another art, and not to that ofpoetry. 

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The Diction viewed as a whole is made up of the following parts:the Letter (or ultimate element), the Syllable, the Conjunction, theArticle, the Noun, the Verb, the Case, and the Speech. (1) The Letter isan indivisible sound of a particular kind, one that may become a factorin an intelligible sound. Indivisible sounds are uttered by the brutesalso, but no one of these is a Letter in our sense of the term. Theseelementary sounds are either vowels, semivowels, or mutes. A vowel is aLetter having an audible sound without the addition of another Letter. A semivowel, one having an audible sound by the addition of anotherLetter; e. G. S and R. A mute, one having no sound at all by itself, butbecoming audible by an addition, that of one of the Letters which havea sound of some sort of their own; e. G. D and G. The Letters differ invarious ways: as produced by different conformations or in differentregions of the mouth; as aspirated, not aspirated, or sometimes oneand sometimes the other; as long, short, or of variable quantity; andfurther as having an acute grave, or intermediate accent. 

The details of these matters we must leave to the metricians. (2) ASyllable is a nonsignificant composite sound, made up of a mute and aLetter having a sound (a vowel or semivowel); for GR, without an A, is just as much a Syllable as GRA, with an A. The various forms of theSyllable also belong to the theory of metre. (3) A Conjunction is (a) anon-significant sound which, when one significant sound is formable outof several, neither hinders nor aids the union, and which, if the Speechthus formed stands by itself (apart from other Speeches) must not beinserted at the beginning of it; e. G. _men_, _de_, _toi_, _de_. Or (b)a non-significant sound capable of combining two or more significantsounds into one; e. G. _amphi_, _peri_, etc. (4) An Article is anon-significant sound marking the beginning, end, or dividing-point ofa Speech, its natural place being either at the extremities or inthe middle. (5) A Noun or name is a composite significant sound notinvolving the idea of time, with parts which have no significance bythemselves in it. It is to be remembered that in a compound we do notthink of the parts as having a significance also by themselves; in thename 'Theodorus', for instance, the _doron_ means nothing to us. 

(6) A Verb is a composite significant sound involving the idea oftime, with parts which (just as in the Noun) have no significance bythemselves in it. Whereas the word 'man' or 'white' does not imply_when_, 'walks' and 'has walked' involve in addition to the idea ofwalking that of time present or time past. 

(7) A Case of a Noun or Verb is when the word means 'of or 'to' a thing, and so forth, or for one or many (e. G. 'man' and 'men'); or it mayconsist merely in the mode of utterance, e. G. In question, command, etc. 'Walked?' and 'Walk!' are Cases of the verb 'to walk' of this last kind. (8) A Speech is a composite significant sound, some of the parts ofwhich have a certain significance by themselves. It may be observed thata Speech is not always made up of Noun and Verb; it may be without aVerb, like the definition of man; but it will always have some part witha certain significance by itself. In the Speech 'Cleon walks', 'Cleon'is an instance of such a part. A Speech is said to be one in two ways, either as signifying one thing, or as a union of several Speeches madeinto one by conjunction. Thus the _Iliad_ is one Speech by conjunctionof several; and the definition of man is one through its signifying onething. 

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Nouns are of two kinds, either (1) simple, i. E. Made up ofnon-significant parts, like the word ge, or (2) double; in thelatter case the word may be made up either of a significant and anon-significant part (a distinction which disappears in the compound), or of two significant parts. It is possible also to have triple, quadruple or higher compounds, like most of our amplified names; e. G. 'Hermocaicoxanthus' and the like. 

Whatever its structure, a Noun must always be either (1) the ordinaryword for the thing, or (2) a strange word, or (3) a metaphor, or (4) anornamental word, or (5) a coined word, or (6) a word lengthened out, or(7) curtailed, or (8) altered in form. By the ordinary word I meanthat in general use in a country; and by a strange word, one in useelsewhere. So that the same word may obviously be at once strange andordinary, though not in reference to the same people; _sigunos_, forinstance, is an ordinary word in Cyprus, and a strange word with us. Metaphor consists in giving the thing a name that belongs to somethingelse; the transference being either from genus to species, or fromspecies to genus, or from species to species, or on grounds of analogy. That from genus to species is eXemplified in 'Here stands my ship'; forlying at anchor is the 'standing' of a particular kind of thing. Thatfrom species to genus in 'Truly ten thousand good deeds has Ulysseswrought', where 'ten thousand', which is a particular large number, is put in place of the generic 'a large number'. That from species tospecies in 'Drawing the life with the bronze', and in 'Severing with theenduring bronze'; where the poet uses 'draw' in the sense of 'sever' and'sever' in that of 'draw', both words meaning to 'take away' something. That from analogy is possible whenever there are four terms so relatedthat the second (B) is to the first (A), as the fourth (D) to the third(C); for one may then metaphorically put B in lieu of D, and D in lieuof B. Now and then, too, they qualify the metaphor by adding on to itthat to which the word it supplants is relative. Thus a cup (B) isin relation to Dionysus (A) what a shield (D) is to Ares (C). Thecup accordingly will be metaphorically described as the 'shield _ofDionysus_' (D + A), and the shield as the 'cup _of Ares_' (B + C). Or totake another instance: As old age (D) is to life (C), so is evening (B)to day (A). One will accordingly describe evening (B) as the 'old age_of the day_' (D + A)--or by the Empedoclean equivalent; and old age (D)as the 'evening' or 'sunset of life'' (B + C). It may be that some ofthe terms thus related have no special name of their own, but for allthat they will be metaphorically described in just the same way. Thus tocast forth seed-corn is called 'sowing'; but to cast forth its flame, as said of the sun, has no special name. This nameless act (B), however, stands in just the same relation to its object, sunlight (A), as sowing(D) to the seed-corn (C). Hence the expression in the poet, 'sowingaround a god-created _flame_' (D + A). There is also another form ofqualified metaphor. Having given the thing the alien name, one may by anegative addition deny of it one of the attributes naturally associatedwith its new name. An instance of this would be to call the shield notthe 'cup _of Ares_, ' as in the former case, but a 'cup _that holds nowine_'. * * * A coined word is a name which, being quite unknown amonga people, is given by the poet himself; e. G. (for there are some wordsthat seem to be of this origin) _hernyges_ for horns, and _areter_ forpriest. A word is said to be lengthened out, when it has a short vowelmade long, or an extra syllable inserted; e. G. _polleos_ for _poleos_, _Peleiadeo_ for _Peleidon_. It is said to be curtailed, when it has losta part; e. G. _kri_, _do_, and _ops_ in _mia ginetai amphoteron ops_. It is an altered word, when part is left as it was and part is of thepoet's making; e. G. _dexiteron_ for _dexion_, in _dexiteron kata maxon_. 

The Nouns themselves (to whatever class they may belong) are eithermasculines, feminines, or intermediates (neuter). All ending in N, P, S, or in the two compounds of this last, PS and X, are masculines. Allending in the invariably long vowels, H and O, and in A among the vowelsthat may be long, are feminines. So that there is an equal number ofmasculine and feminine terminations, as PS and X are the same as S, and need not be counted. There is no Noun, however, ending in a muteor in either of the two short vowels, E and O. Only three (_meli, kommi, peperi_) end in I, and five in T. The intermediates, or neuters, end inthe variable vowels or in N, P, X. 

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The perfection of Diction is for it to be at once clear and not mean. The clearest indeed is that made up of the ordinary words for things, but it is mean, as is shown by the poetry of Cleophon and Sthenelus. Onthe other hand the Diction becomes distinguished and non-prosaic bythe use of unfamiliar terms, i. E. Strange words, metaphors, lengthenedforms, and everything that deviates from the ordinary modes ofspeech. --But a whole statement in such terms will be either a riddle ora barbarism, a riddle, if made up of metaphors, a barbarism, if madeup of strange words. The very nature indeed of a riddle is this, todescribe a fact in an impossible combination of words (which cannot bedone with the real names for things, but can be with their metaphoricalsubstitutes); e. G. 'I saw a man glue brass on another with fire', and the like. The corresponding use of strange words results in abarbarism. --A certain admixture, accordingly, of unfamiliar termsis necessary. These, the strange word, the metaphor, the ornamentalequivalent, etc. . Will save the language from seeming mean and prosaic, while the ordinary words in it will secure the requisite clearness. Whathelps most, however, to render the Diction at once clear and non-prosaicis the use of the lengthened, curtailed, and altered forms of words. Their deviation from the ordinary words will, by making the languageunlike that in general use give it a non-prosaic appearance; and theirhaving much in common with the words in general use will give it thequality of clearness. It is not right, then, to condemn these modes ofspeech, and ridicule the poet for using them, as some have done; e. G. The elder Euclid, who said it was easy to make poetry if one were tobe allowed to lengthen the words in the statement itself as much asone likes--a procedure he caricatured by reading '_Epixarhon eidonMarathonade Badi--gonta_, and _ouk han g' eramenos ton ekeinou helleboron_ as verses. A too apparent use of these licences has certainly aludicrous effect, but they are not alone in that; the rule of moderationapplies to all the constituents of the poetic vocabulary; even withmetaphors, strange words, and the rest, the effect will be the same, if one uses them improperly and with a view to provoking laughter. Theproper use of them is a very different thing. To realize the differenceone should take an epic verse and see how it reads when the normal wordsare introduced. The same should be done too with the strange word, themetaphor, and the rest; for one has only to put the ordinary words intheir place to see the truth of what we are saying. The same iambic, forinstance, is found in Aeschylus and Euripides, and as it stands in theformer it is a poor line; whereas Euripides, by the change of a singleword, the substitution of a strange for what is by usage the ordinaryword, has made it seem a fine one. Aeschylus having said in his_Philoctetes_:

 _phagedaina he mon sarkas hesthiei podos_

Euripides has merely altered the hesthiei here into thoinatai. Orsuppose

 _nun de m' heon holigos te kai outidanos kai haeikos_

to be altered by the substitution of the ordinary words into

 _nun de m' heon mikros te kai hasthenikos kai haeidos_

Or the line

 _diphron haeikelion katatheis olingen te trapexan_

into

 _diphron moxtheron katatheis mikran te trapexan_

Or heiones boosin into heiones kraxousin. Add to this that Ariphradesused to ridicule the tragedians for introducing expressions unknownin the language of common life, _doeaton hapo_ (for _apo domaton_), _sethen_, _hego de nin_, _Achilleos peri_ (for _peri Achilleos_), andthe like. The mere fact of their not being in ordinary speech gives theDiction a non-prosaic character; but Ariphrades was unaware of that. Itis a great thing, indeed, to make a proper use of these poetical forms, as also of compounds and strange words. But the greatest thing by faris to be a master of metaphor. It is the one thing that cannot be learntfrom others; and it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphorimplies an intuitive perception of the similarity in dissimilars. 

Of the kinds of words we have enumerated it may be observed thatcompounds are most in place in the dithyramb, strange words in heroic, and metaphors in iambic poetry. Heroic poetry, indeed, may avail itselfof them all. But in iambic verse, which models itself as far as possibleon the spoken language, only those kinds of words are in place which areallowable also in an oration, i. E. The ordinary word, the metaphor, andthe ornamental equivalent. 

Let this, then, suffice as an account of Tragedy, the art imitating bymeans of action on the stage. 

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As for the poetry which merely narrates, or imitates by means ofversified language (without action), it is evident that it has severalpoints in common with Tragedy. 

I. The construction of its stories should clearly be like that in adrama; they should be based on a single action, one that is a completewhole in itself, with a beginning, middle, and end, so as to enable thework to produce its own proper pleasure with all the organic unity of aliving creature. Nor should one suppose that there is anything like themin our usual histories. A history has to deal not with one action, butwith one period and all that happened in that to one or more persons, however disconnected the several events may have been. Just as twoevents may take place at the same time, e. G. The sea-fight off Salamisand the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily, without converging tothe same end, so too of two consecutive events one may sometimes comeafter the other with no one end as their common issue. Nevertheless mostof our epic poets, one may say, ignore the distinction. 

Herein, then, to repeat what we have said before, we have a furtherproof of Homer's marvellous superiority to the rest. He did not attemptto deal even with the Trojan war in its entirety, though it was a wholewith a definite beginning and end--through a feeling apparently thatit was too long a story to be taken in in one view, or if not that, toocomplicated from the variety of incident in it. As it is, he has singledout one section of the whole; many of the other incidents, however, hebrings in as episodes, using the Catalogue of the Ships, for instance, and other episodes to relieve the uniformity of his narrative. As forthe other epic poets, they treat of one man, or one period; or else ofan action which, although one, has a multiplicity of parts in it. Thislast is what the authors of the _Cypria_ and _Little_ _Iliad_ havedone. And the result is that, whereas the _Iliad_ or _Odyssey_ suppliesmaterials for only one, or at most two tragedies, the _Cypria_ doesthat for several, and the _Little_ _Iliad_ for more than eight: for an_Adjudgment of Arms_, a _Philoctetes_, a _Neoptolemus_, a _Eurypylus_, a _Ulysses as Beggar_, a _Laconian Women_, a _Fall of Ilium_, and a_Departure of the Fleet_; as also a _Sinon_, and _Women of Troy_. 

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II. Besides this, Epic poetry must divide into the same species asTragedy; it must be either simple or complex, a story of characteror one of suffering. Its parts, too, with the exception of Song andSpectacle, must be the same, as it requires Peripeties, Discoveries, andscenes of suffering just like Tragedy. Lastly, the Thought and Dictionin it must be good in their way. All these elements appear in Homerfirst; and he has made due use of them. His two poems are each examplesof construction, the _Iliad_ simple and a story of suffering, the_Odyssey_ complex (there is Discovery throughout it) and a story ofcharacter. And they are more than this, since in Diction and Thought toothey surpass all other poems. 

There is, however, a difference in the Epic as compared with Tragedy, (1) in its length, and (2) in its metre. (1) As to its length, the limitalready suggested will suffice: it must be possible for the beginningand end of the work to be taken in in one view--a condition which willbe fulfilled if the poem be shorter than the old epics, and aboutas long as the series of tragedies offered for one hearing. For theextension of its length epic poetry has a special advantage, of which itmakes large use. In a play one cannot represent an action with a numberof parts going on simultaneously; one is limited to the part on thestage and connected with the actors. Whereas in epic poetry the narrativeform makes it possible for one to describe a number of simultaneousincidents; and these, if germane to the subject, increase the body ofthe poem. This then is a gain to the Epic, tending to give it grandeur, and also variety of interest and room for episodes of diverse kinds. Uniformity of incident by the satiety it soon creates is apt to ruintragedies on the stage. (2) As for its metre, the heroic has beenassigned it from experience; were any one to attempt a narrative poemin some one, or in several, of the other metres, the incongruity ofthe thing would be apparent. The heroic; in fact is the gravest andweightiest of metres--which is what makes it more tolerant than the restof strange words and metaphors, that also being a point in whichthe narrative form of poetry goes beyond all others. The iambicand trochaic, on the other hand, are metres of movement, the onerepresenting that of life and action, the other that of the dance. Stillmore unnatural would it appear, it one were to write an epic in a medleyof metres, as Chaeremon did. Hence it is that no one has ever writtena long story in any but heroic verse; nature herself, as we have said, teaches us to select the metre appropriate to such a story. 

Homer, admirable as he is in every other respect, is especially so inthis, that he alone among epic poets is not unaware of the part to beplayed by the poet himself in the poem. The poet should say very littlein propria persona, as he is no imitator when doing that. Whereasthe other poets are perpetually coming forward in person, and say butlittle, and that only here and there, as imitators, Homer after a briefpreface brings in forthwith a man, a woman, or some other Character--noone of them characterless, but each with distinctive characteristics. 

The marvellous is certainly required in Tragedy. The Epic, however, affords more opening for the improbable, the chief factor in themarvellous, because in it the agents are not visibly before one. Thescene of the pursuit of Hector would be ridiculous on the stage--theGreeks halting instead of pursuing him, and Achilles shaking his head tostop them; but in the poem the absurdity is overlooked. The marvellous, however, is a cause of pleasure, as is shown by the fact that we alltell a story with additions, in the belief that we are doing our hearersa pleasure. 

Homer more than any other has taught the rest of us the art of framinglies in the right way. I mean the use of paralogism. Whenever, if A isor happens, a consequent, B, is or happens, men's notion is that, if theB is, the A also is--but that is a false conclusion. Accordingly, if Ais untrue, but there is something else, B, that on the assumption of itstruth follows as its consequent, the right thing then is to add on theB. Just because we know the truth of the consequent, we are in our ownminds led on to the erroneous inference of the truth of the antecedent. Here is an instance, from the Bath-story in the _Odyssey_. 

A likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincingpossibility. The story should never be made up of improbable incidents;there should be nothing of the sort in it. If, however, such incidentsare unavoidable, they should be outside the piece, like the hero'signorance in _Oedipus_ of the circumstances of Lams' death; not withinit, like the report of the Pythian games in _Electra_, or the man'shaving come to Mysia from Tegea without uttering a word on the way, in_The Mysians_. So that it is ridiculous to say that one's Plot wouldhave been spoilt without them, since it is fundamentally wrong to makeup such Plots. If the poet has taken such a Plot, however, and onesees that he might have put it in a more probable form, he is guiltyof absurdity as well as a fault of art. Even in the _Odyssey_ theimprobabilities in the setting-ashore of Ulysses would be clearlyintolerable in the hands of an inferior poet. As it is, the poetconceals them, his other excellences veiling their absurdity. ElaborateDiction, however, is required only in places where there is no action, and no Character or Thought to be revealed. Where there is Characteror Thought, on the other hand, an over-ornate Diction tends to obscurethem. 

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As regards Problems and their Solutions, one may see the number andnature of the assumptions on which they proceed by viewing the matter inthe following way. (1) The poet being an imitator just like the painteror other maker of likenesses, he must necessarily in all instancesrepresent things in one or other of three aspects, either as they wereor are, or as they are said or thought to be or to have been, or as theyought to be. (2) All this he does in language, with an admixture, itmay be, of strange words and metaphors, as also of the various modifiedforms of words, since the use of these is conceded in poetry. (3) It isto be remembered, too, that there is not the same kind of correctnessin poetry as in politics, or indeed any other art. There is, however, within the limits of poetry itself a possibility of two kinds of error, the one directly, the other only accidentally connected with the art. Ifthe poet meant to describe the thing correctly, and failed throughlack of power of expression, his art itself is at fault. But if it wasthrough his having meant to describe it in some incorrect way (e. G. Tomake the horse in movement have both right legs thrown forward) that thetechnical error (one in a matter of, say, medicine or some other specialscience), or impossibilities of whatever kind they may be, have got intohis description, his error in that case is not in the essentials of thepoetic art. These, therefore, must be the premisses of the Solutions inanswer to the criticisms involved in the Problems. 

I. As to the criticisms relating to the poet's art itself. Anyimpossibilities there may be in his descriptions of things are faults. But from another point of view they are justifiable, if they serve theend of poetry itself--if (to assume what we have said of that end) theymake the effect of some portion of the work more astounding. The Pursuitof Hector is an instance in point. If, however, the poetic end mighthave been as well or better attained without sacrifice of technicalcorrectness in such matters, the impossibility is not to be justified, since the description should be, if it can, entirely free from error. One may ask, too, whether the error is in a matter directly or onlyaccidentally connected with the poetic art; since it is a lesser errorin an artist not to know, for instance, that the hind has no horns, thanto produce an unrecognizable picture of one. 

II. If the poet's description be criticized as not true to fact, one mayurge perhaps that the object ought to be as described--an answer likethat of Sophocles, who said that he drew men as they ought to be, andEuripides as they were. If the description, however, be neither true norof the thing as it ought to be, the answer must be then, that it is inaccordance with opinion. The tales about Gods, for instance, may be aswrong as Xenophanes thinks, neither true nor the better thing to say;but they are certainly in accordance with opinion. Of other statementsin poetry one may perhaps say, not that they are better than the truth, but that the fact was so at the time; e. G. The description of the arms:'their spears stood upright, butt-end upon the ground'; for that was theusual way of fixing them then, as it is still with the Illyrians. As forthe question whether something said or done in a poem is morally rightor not, in dealing with that one should consider not only the intrinsicquality of the actual word or deed, but also the person who says or doesit, the person to whom he says or does it, the time, the means, and themotive of the agent--whether he does it to attain a greater good, or toavoid a greater evil. 

III. Other criticisms one must meet by considering the language of thepoet: (1) by the assumption of a strange word in a passage like _oureasmen proton_, where by _oureas_ Homer may perhaps mean not mules butsentinels. And in saying of Dolon, _hos p e toi eidos men heen kakos_, his meaning may perhaps be, not that Dolon's body was deformed, but thathis face was ugly, as _eneidos_ is the Cretan word for handsome-faced. So, too, _goroteron de keraie_ may mean not 'mix the wine stronger', asthough for topers, but 'mix it quicker'. (2) Other expressions in Homermay be explained as metaphorical; e. G. In _halloi men ra theoi te kaianeres eudon (hapantes) pannux_ as compared with what he tells us at thesame time, _e toi hot hes pedion to Troikon hathreseien, aulon suriggon*te homadon*_ the word _hapantes_ 'all', is metaphorically put for'many', since 'all' is a species of 'many '. So also his _oie d'ammoros_ is metaphorical, the best known standing 'alone'. (3) A change, as Hippias suggested, in the mode of reading a word will solve thedifficulty in _didomen de oi_, and _to men ou kataputhetai hombro_. (4) Other difficulties may be solved by another punctuation; e. G. InEmpedocles, _aipsa de thnet ephyonto, ta prin mathon athanata xora teprin kekreto_. Or (5) by the assumption of an equivocal term, as in_parocheken de pleo nux_, where _pleo_ in equivocal. Or (6) by an appealto the custom of language. Wine-and-water we call 'wine'; and it ison the same principle that Homer speaks of a _knemis neoteuktoukassiteroio_, a 'greave of new-wrought tin. ' A worker in iron we call a'brazier'; and it is on the same principle that Ganymede is describedas the 'wine-server' of Zeus, though the Gods do not drink wine. Thislatter, however, may be an instance of metaphor. But whenever also aword seems to imply some contradiction, it is necessary to reflect howmany ways there may be of understanding it in the passage in question;e. G. In Homer's _te r' hesxeto xalkeon hegxos_ one should consider thepossible senses of 'was stopped there'--whether by taking it in thissense or in that one will best avoid the fault of which Glaucon speaks:'They start with some improbable presumption; and having so decreed itthemselves, proceed to draw inferences, and censure the poet as thoughhe had actually said whatever they happen to believe, if his statementconflicts with their own notion of things. ' This is how Homer's silenceabout Icarius has been treated. Starting with, the notion of his havingbeen a Lacedaemonian, the critics think it strange for Telemachus not tohave met him when he went to Lacedaemon. Whereas the fact may have beenas the Cephallenians say, that the wife of Ulysses was of a Cephallenianfamily, and that her father's name was Icadius, not Icarius. So that itis probably a mistake of the critics that has given rise to the Problem. 

Speaking generally, one has to justify (1) the Impossible by referenceto the requirements of poetry, or to the better, or to opinion. Forthe purposes of poetry a convincing impossibility is preferable toan unconvincing possibility; and if men such as Zeuxis depicted beimpossible, the answer is that it is better they should be like that, asthe artist ought to improve on his model. (2) The Improbable one hasto justify either by showing it to be in accordance with opinion, or byurging that at times it is not improbable; for there is a probability ofthings happening also against probability. (3) The contradictions foundin the poet's language one should first test as one does an opponent'sconfutation in a dialectical argument, so as to see whether he meansthe same thing, in the same relation, and in the same sense, beforeadmitting that he has contradicted either something he has said himselfor what a man of sound sense assumes as true. But there is no possibleapology for improbability of Plot or depravity of character, when theyare not necessary and no use is made of them, like the improbabilityin the appearance of Aegeus in _Medea_ and the baseness of Menelaus in_Orestes_. 

The objections, then, of critics start with faults of five kinds:the allegation is always that something in either (1) impossible, (2)improbable, (3) corrupting, (4) contradictory, or (5) against technicalcorrectness. The answers to these objections must be sought under one orother of the above-mentioned heads, which are twelve in number. 

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The question may be raised whether the epic or the tragic is the higherform of imitation. It may be argued that, if the less vulgar is thehigher, and the less vulgar is always that which addresses the betterpublic, an art addressing any and every one is of a very vulgar order. It is a belief that their public cannot see the meaning, unless theyadd something themselves, that causes the perpetual movements ofthe performers--bad flute-players, for instance, rolling about, ifquoit-throwing is to be represented, and pulling at the conductor, ifScylla is the subject of the piece. Tragedy, then, is said to be an artof this order--to be in fact just what the later actors were in the eyesof their predecessors; for Myrmiscus used to call Callippides 'the ape', because he thought he so overacted his parts; and a similar view wastaken of Pindarus also. All Tragedy, however, is said to stand to theEpic as the newer to the older school of actors. The one, accordingly, is said to address a cultivated 'audience, which does not need theaccompaniment of gesture; the other, an uncultivated one. If, therefore, Tragedy is a vulgar art, it must clearly be lower than the Epic. 

The answer to this is twofold. In the first place, one may urge (1) thatthe censure does not touch the art of the dramatic poet, but only thatof his interpreter; for it is quite possible to overdo the gesturingeven in an epic recital, as did Sosistratus, and in a singing contest, as did Mnasitheus of Opus. (2) That one should not condemn all movement, unless one means to condemn even the dance, but only that of ignoblepeople--which is the point of the criticism passed on Callippides andin the present day on others, that their women are not like gentlewomen. (3) That Tragedy may produce its effect even without movement or actionin just the same way as Epic poetry; for from the mere reading of aplay its quality may be seen. So that, if it be superior in all otherrespects, this element of inferiority is not a necessary part of it. 

In the second place, one must remember (1) that Tragedy has everythingthat the Epic has (even the epic metre being admissible), together witha not inconsiderable addition in the shape of the Music (a very realfactor in the pleasure of the drama) and the Spectacle. (2) That itsreality of presentation is felt in the play as read, as well as in theplay as acted. (3) That the tragic imitation requires less space forthe attainment of its end; which is a great advantage, since the moreconcentrated effect is more pleasurable than one with a large admixtureof time to dilute it--consider the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles, for instance, and the effect of expanding it into the number of lines of the _Iliad_. (4) That there is less unity in the imitation of the epic poets, asis proved by the fact that any one work of theirs supplies matter forseveral tragedies; the result being that, if they take what is reallya single story, it seems curt when briefly told, and thin and waterishwhen on the scale of length usual with their verse. In saying thatthere is less unity in an epic, I mean an epic made up of a pluralityof actions, in the same way as the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ have many suchparts, each one of them in itself of some magnitude; yet the structureof the two Homeric poems is as perfect as can be, and the action in themis as nearly as possible one action. If, then, Tragedy is superior inthese respects, and also besides these, in its poetic effect (since thetwo forms of poetry should give us, not any or every pleasure, but thevery special kind we have mentioned), it is clear that, as attaining thepoetic effect better than the Epic, it will be the higher form of art. 

So much for Tragedy and Epic poetry--for these two arts in general andtheir species; the number and nature of their constituent parts; thecauses of success and failure in them; the Objections of the critics, and the Solutions in answer to them.