THE POETICS
By
ARISTOTLE
A TRANSLATION BY S. H.
BUTCHER
[Transcriber's
Annotations and Conventions: the translator left intact some Greek words to
illustrate a specific point of the original discourse. In this transcription,
in order to retain the accuracy of this text, those words are rendered by
spelling out each Greek letter individually, such as {alpha beta gamma delta
...}. The reader can distinguish these words by the enclosing braces {}. Where
multiple words occur together, they are separated by the "/" symbol
for clarity. Readers who do not speak or read the Greek language will usually
neither gain nor lose understanding by skipping over these passages. Those who
understand Greek, however, may gain a deeper insight to the original meaning
and distinctions expressed by Aristotle.]
Contents:
I
'Imitation' the common principle of the Arts of Poetry.
IV
The Origin and Development of Poetry.
V
Definition of the Ludicrous, and a brief sketch of the rise of Comedy
VIII
The Plot must be a Unity.
IX
(Plot continued.) Dramatic Unity.
X
(Plot continued.) Definitions of Simple and Complex Plots.
XII
The 'quantitative parts' of Tragedy defined.
XIII
(Plot continued.) What constitutes Tragic Action.
XIV
(Plot continued.) The tragic emotions of pity and fear should spring out of the
Plot itself.
XV
The element of Character in Tragedy.
XVI
(Plot continued.) Recognition: its various kinds, with examples.
XVII
Practical rules for the Tragic Poet.
XVIII
Further rules for the Tragic Poet.
XIX
Thought, or the Intellectual element, and Diction in Tragedy.
XX
Diction, or Language in general.
XXII
(Poetic Diction continued.) How Poetry combines elevation of language with
perspicuity.
XXIV
(Epic Poetry continued.) Further points of agreement with Tragedy.
XXV
Critical Objections brought against Poetry, and the principles on which they
are to be answered.
XXVI
A general estimate of the comparative worth of Epic Poetry and Tragedy.
I propose
to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting the essential
quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot as requisite to a
good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of which a poem is composed;
and similarly into whatever else falls within the same inquiry. Following,
then, the order of nature, let us begin with the
principles which come first.
Epic poetry
and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the music of the flute
and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in
their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from one:
another in three respects,--the medium, the objects, the manner or mode of
imitation, being in each case distinct.
For as
there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and represent
various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again by the voice;
so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced by
rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either singly or combined.
Thus in the
music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm alone are employed;
also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's pipe, which are essentially
similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used without 'harmony'; for even
dancing imitates character, emotion, and action, by rhythmical movement.
There is
another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that
either in prose or verse--which, verse, again, may either combine different metres or consist of but one kind--but this has hitherto
been without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes of
Sophron and Xenarchus and
the Socratic dialogues on the one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations
in iambic, elegiac, or any similar metre. People do,
indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the name of the metre,
and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets, as if it were
not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that entitles them all
indiscriminately to the name. Even when a treatise on medicine or natural
science is brought out in verse, the name of poet is by custom given to the
author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the one poet, the
other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle, even if a writer in
his poetic imitation were to combine all metres, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of
metres of all kinds, we should bring him too under
the general term poet. So much then for these distinctions.
There are,
again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned, namely, rhythm,
tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them
the difference is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in
combination, in the latter, now one means is employed, now another.
Such, then,
are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of imitation.
Since the
objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be either of a
higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to these divisions,
goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of moral differences), it
follows that we must represent men either as better than in real life, or as
worse, or as they are. It is the same in painting. Polygnotus
depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as less
noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.
Now it is
evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned will exhibit these
differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating objects that are thus
distinct. Such diversities may be found even in dancing,:
flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether prose or verse
unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the
Thasian, the inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad,
worse than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus differed
in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy from
Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in
actual life.
There is
still a third difference--the manner in which each of these objects may be
imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects the same, the poet may
imitate by narration--in which case he can either take another personality as
Homer does, or speak in his own person, unchanged--or he may present all his
characters as living and moving before us.
These,
then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which distinguish
artistic imitation,--the medium, the objects, and the manner. So that from one
point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same kind as Homer--for both
imitate higher types of character; from another point of view, of the same kind
as Aristophanes--for both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say,
the name of 'drama' is given to such poems, as representing action. For the
same reason the Dorians claim the invention both of
Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megarians,--not only by those of Greece proper, who allege
that it originated under their democracy, but also by the Megarians
of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is much
earlier than Chionides and Magnes,
belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians
of the
This may
suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of imitation.
Poetry in
general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying deep in our
nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted in man from childhood,
one difference between him and other animals being that he is the most
imitative of living creatures, and through imitation learns his earliest
lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt in things imitated. We have
evidence of this in the facts of experience. Objects which in themselves we
view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity:
such as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of
this again is, that to learn gives the liveliest
pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity,
however, of learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a
likeness is, that in contemplating it they find themselves learning or
inferring, and saying perhaps, 'Ah, that is he.' For if you
happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be due not to the
imitation as such, but to the execution, the colouring,
or some such other cause.
Imitation,
then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the instinct for 'harmony'
and rhythm, metres being manifestly sections of
rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by
degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave birth to
Poetry.
Poetry now
diverged in two directions, according to the individual character of the
writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and the actions of good
men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of meaner persons, at first
composing satires, as the former did hymns to the gods and the praises of
famous men. A poem of the satirical kind cannot indeed be put down to any
author earlier than Homer; though many such writers probably there were. But
from Homer onward, instances can be cited,--his own Margites,
for example, and other similar compositions. The appropriate metre was also here introduced; hence the measure is still
called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which people lampooned
one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished as writers of heroic or of
lampooning verse.
As, in the
serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone combined dramatic
form with excellence of imitation, so he too first laid down the main lines of
Comedy, by dramatising the ludicrous instead of
writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same
relation to Comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to Tragedy. But when Tragedy
and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural
bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were
succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of art.
Whether
Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether it is to be
judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience,--this raises another
question. Be that as it may, Tragedy--as also Comedy ---was at first mere
improvisation. The one originated with the authors of the Dithyramb, the other
with those of the phallic songs, which are still in use in many of our cities.
Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each new element that showed itself was in
turn developed. Having passed through many changes, it found its natural form,
and there it stopped.
Aeschylus
first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance of the Chorus,
and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of
actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover, it was not till late that
the short plot was discarded for one of greater compass,
and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric form
for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the
trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the Satyric order, and had greater affinities with dancing.
Once dialogue had come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure.
For the iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial: we see it in the fact
that conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently than into any
other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only when we drop the
colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of 'episodes' or acts, and
the other accessories of which tradition; tells, must be taken as already
described; for to discuss them in detail would, doubtless, be a large
undertaking.
Comedy is,
as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type, not, however, in
the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the
ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or
destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted,
but does not imply pain.
The
successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of these
changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because it was not
at first treated seriously. It was late before the Archon granted a comic
chorus to a poet; the performers were till then voluntary. Comedy had already
taken definite shape when comic poets, distinctively so called, are heard of.
Who furnished it with masks, or prologues, or increased the number of
actors,--these and other similar details remain unknown. As for the plot, it
came originally from
Epic poetry
agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse of characters of a
higher type. They differ, in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of metre, and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in
their length: for Tragedy endeavours, as far as
possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly
to exceed this limit; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This,
then, is a second point of difference; though at first the same freedom was
admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.
Of their
constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to Tragedy, whoever,
therefore, knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows also about Epic poetry. All
the elements of an Epic poem are found in Tragedy, but the elements of a
Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem.
Of the
poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will speak
hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal definition, as
resulting from what has been already said.
Tragedy,
then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain
magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the
several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action,
not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these
emotions. By 'language embellished,' I mean language into which rhythm,
'harmony,' and song enter. By 'the several kinds in separate parts,' I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of
verse alone, others again with the aid of song.
Now as
tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows, in the first
place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy. Next, Song and
Diction, for these are the medium of imitation. By 'Diction' I mean the mere
metrical arrangement of the words: as for 'Song,' it is a term whose sense
every one understands.
Again,
Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies personal agents,
who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities both of character and
thought; for it is by these that we qualify actions themselves, and
these--thought and character--are the two natural causes from which actions
spring, and on actions again all success or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is
the imitation of the action: for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the
incidents. By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities
to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may
be, a general truth enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts,
which parts determine its quality--namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought,
Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the
medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And
these complete the list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the
poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as
Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.
But most
important of all is the structure of the incidents. For
Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life
consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now
character determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions that they are
happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view to the
representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to the actions.
Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the
chief thing of all. Again, without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may
be without character. The tragedies of most of our modern poets fail in the
rendering of character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the
same in painting; and here lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates
character well: the style of Zeuxis is devoid of ethical quality. Again, if you
string together a set of speeches expressive of character, and well finished in
point of diction and thought, you will not produce the essential tragic effect
nearly so well as with a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet
has a plot and artistically constructed incidents. Besides which, the most
powerful elements of emotional: interest in Tragedy Peripeteia
or Reversal of the Situation, and Recognition scenes--are parts of the plot. A
further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish: of diction and
precision of portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same
with almost all the early poets.
The Plot,
then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a tragedy: Character
holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in painting. The most beautiful
colours, laid on confusedly, will not give as much pleasure as the chalk
outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the imitation of an action, and of the
agents mainly with a view to the action.
Third in
order is Thought,--that is, the faculty of saying what is possible and
pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory, this is the function
of the Political art and of the art of rhetoric: and so indeed the older poets
make their characters speak the language of civic life; the poets of our time,
the language of the rhetoricians. Character is that which reveals moral
purpose, showing what kind of things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches,
therefore, which do not make this manifest, or in which the speaker does not
choose or avoid anything whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on
the other hand, is found where something is proved to be. or
not to be, or a general maxim is enunciated.
Fourth
among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as has been
already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and its essence is the
same both in verse and prose.
Of the
remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the embellishments.
The
Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all the
parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art of poetry.
For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from
representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects
depends more on the art of the stage machinist than on that of the poet.
These
principles being established, let us now discuss the
proper structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important thing
in Tragedy.
Now,
according to our definition, Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is
complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be a whole that
is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not
itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally
is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally
follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing
following it. A middle is that which follows something
as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot, therefore, must
neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these principles.
Again, a
beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole composed of
parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts, but must also be of
a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude and order. Hence a very
small animal organism cannot be beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the
object being seen in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can
one of vast size be beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once,
the unity and sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for instance if
there were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in the case of animate
bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude which
may be easily embraced in one view; so in the plot, a certain length is
necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the memory. The limit
of length in relation to dramatic competition and sensuous presentment,
is no part of artistic theory. For had it been the rule for a hundred tragedies
to compete together, the performance would have been regulated by the
water-clock,--as indeed we are told was formerly done. But the limit as fixed
by the nature of the drama itself is this: the greater the length, the more
beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,
provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we
may say that the proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the
sequence of events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will
admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from
good fortune to bad.
Unity of
plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the Unity of the hero. For
infinitely various are the incidents in one man's life which cannot be reduced
to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of one man out of which we cannot
make one action. Hence, the error, as it appears, of all poets who have
composed a Heracleid, a Theseid,
or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the
story of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of
surpassing merit, here too--whether from art or natural genius--seems to have
happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not include all
the adventures of Odysseus--such as his wound on
It is,
moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the
poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen,--what is possible
according to the law of probability or necessity. The poet and the historian
differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put
into verse, and it would still be a species of history, with metre no less than without it. The true difference is that
one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is
a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends to
express the universal, history the particular. By the universal, I mean how a
person of a certain type will on occasion speak or act, according to the law of
probability or necessity; and it is this universality at which poetry aims in
the names she attaches to the personages. The particular is--for example--what
Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the
poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then inserts
characteristic names;--unlike the lampooners who write about particular
individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the reason being that
what is possible is credible: what has not happened we do not at once feel sure
to be possible: but what has happened is manifestly possible: otherwise it
would not have happened. Still there are even some tragedies in which there are
only one or two well known names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none
are well known, as in Agathon's Antheus,
where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give none the less
pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the received legends,
which are the usual subjects of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt
it; for even subjects that are known are known only to a few, and yet give
pleasure to all. It clearly follows that the poet or 'maker' should be the
maker of plots rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates,
and what he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take an historical
subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some events
that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the probable and
possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their poet or maker.
Of all
plots and actions the epeisodic are the worst. I call
a plot 'epeisodic' in which the episodes or acts
succeed one another without probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose
such pieces by their own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they
write show pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity,
and are often forced to break the natural continuity.
But again,
Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of events inspiring
fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the events come on us by
sunrise; and the effect is heightened when, at the same time, they follow as
cause and effect. The tragic wonder will thee be greater than if they happened
of themselves or by accident; for even coincidences are most striking when they
have an air of design. We may instance the statue of Mitys
at
Plots are
either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which the plots are
an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction. An action which is one and
continuous in the sense above defined, I call Simple, when the change of
fortune takes place without Reversal of the Situation and without Recognition.
A Complex
action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or by
Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the internal structure of
the plot, so that what follows should be the necessary or probable result of
the preceding action. It makes all the difference whether any given event is a
case of propter hoc or post hoc.
Reversal of
the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to its opposite,
subject always to our rule of probability or necessity. Thus in the Oedipus,
the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him from his alarms about his
mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect. Again in
the Lynceus, Lynceus is
being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with
him, meaning, to slay him; but the outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus
saved. Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to
knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for
good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident with a Reversal
of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed other forms. Even
inanimate things of the most trivial kind may in a sense be objects of
recognition. Again, we may recognise or discover
whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is most
intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said, the
recognition of persons. This recognition, combined, with Reversal, will produce
either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are those which, by
our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover, it is upon such situations that
the issues of good or bad fortune will depend. Recognition, then, being between
persons, it may happen that one person only is recognised
by the other-when the latter is already known--or it may be necessary that the
recognition should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by
the sending of the letter; but another act of recognition is required to make
Orestes known to Iphigenia.
Two parts,
then, of the Plot--Reversal of the Situation and Recognition--turn upon
surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene of Suffering is a
destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds
and the like.
[The parts
of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have been already
mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts, and the separate parts into
which Tragedy is divided, namely, Prologue, Episode, Exode,
Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon. These are common to all plays: peculiar to some
are the songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi.
The
Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a
tragedy which is between complete choric songs. The Exode
is that entire part of a tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the
Choric part the Parode is the first undivided
utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a Choric ode
without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint lamentation of Chorus and actors. The
parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have been
already mentioned. The quantitative parts the separate parts
into which it is divided--are here enumerated.]
As the
sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the poet
should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his plots; and by what
means the specific effect of Tragedy will be produced.
A perfect
tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple but on the
complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear,
this being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It follows plainly, in the
first place, that the change, of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of
a virtuous man brought from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither
pity nor fear; it merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad
man passing from adversity to prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the
spirit of Tragedy; it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies
the moral sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the
downfall of the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would,
doubtless, satisfy the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear;
for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the
misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be
neither pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these
two extremes,--that of a man who is not eminently good and just,-yet whose
misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or
frailty. He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous,--a personage
like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such families.
A well
constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather than double
as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but,
reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as the result not of vice,
but of some great error or frailty, in a character either such as we have
described, or better rather than worse. The practice of the stage bears out our
view. At first the poets recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the
best tragedies are founded on the story of a few houses, on the fortunes of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager,
Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have done or
suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect according to the
rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle
in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right
ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in dramatic competition, such
plays, if well worked out, are the most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty
though he may be in the general management of his subject, yet is felt to be
the most tragic of the poets.
In the
second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like the Odyssey,
it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good
and for the bad. It is accounted the best because of the weakness of the
spectators; for the poet is guided in what he writes by the wishes of his
audience. The pleasure, however, thence derived is not the true tragic
pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the
deadliest enemies---like Orestes and Aegisthus--quit
the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays or is slain.
Fear and
pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also result from the inner
structure of the piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet.
For the plot ought to be so constructed that, even without the aid of the eye,
he who hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what
takes place. This is the impression we should receive from hearing the story of
the Oedipus. But to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less
artistic method, and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular
means to create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are
strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy any and
every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And since the
pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from pity and fear
through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon the
incidents.
Let us then
determine what are the circumstances which strike us as
terrible or pitiful.
Actions
capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or
enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is
nothing to excite pity either in the act or the intention, --except so far as
the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again with indifferent
persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between those who are near
or dear to one another--if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to kill, a
brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other
deed of the kind is done---these are the situations to be looked for by the
poet. He may not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends--the
fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon but he ought
to show invention of his own, and skilfully handle
the traditional material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant by skilful
handling.
The action
may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in the manner of the
older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea
slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in
ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards. The
Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the
drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the action of the play: one
may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas,
or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is
a third case,--<to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then
not to act. The fourth case is> when some one is about to do an irreparable
deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before it is done. These are
the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done or
not done,--and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to
be about to act knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is
shocking without being tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore,
never, or very rarely, found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens
to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the
deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in
ignorance, and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock
us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is the best,
as when in the Cresphontes Merope
is about to slay her son, but, recognising who he is,
spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister recognises
the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son
recognises the mother when on the point of giving her
up. This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already observed,
furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the
poets in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots.
They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose history
contains moving incidents like these.
Enough has
now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and the right kind of
plot.
In respect
of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and most important,
it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests moral purpose of any
kind will be expressive of character: the character will be good if the purpose
is good. This rule is relative to each class. Even a woman may be good, and
also a slave; though the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the
slave quite worthless. The second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type
of manly valour; but valour
in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness, is inappropriate. Thirdly, character
must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and propriety,
as here described. The fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of
the imitation, who suggested the type, be
inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of
motiveless degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes: of
character indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla,
and the speech of Melanippe: of inconsistency, the
Iphigenia at
As in the
structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character, the poet should
always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus a person of a given character
should speak or act in a given way, by the rule either of necessity or of
probability; just as this event should follow that by necessary or probable
sequence. It is therefore evident that the unravelling
of the plot, no less than the complication, must arise out of the plot itself,
it must not be brought about by the 'Deus ex Machina'--as
in the Medea, or in the Return of the Greeks in the
Iliad. The 'Deus ex Machina' should be employed only
for events external to the drama,--for antecedent or subsequent events, which
lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported or
foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the
action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be excluded,
it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element
in the Oedipus of Sophocles.
Again,
since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the common level, the
example of good portrait-painters should be followed. They, while reproducing
the distinctive form of the original, make a likeness which is true to life and
yet more beautiful. So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or
indolent, or have other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet
ennoble it. In this way Achilles is portrayed by Agathon
and Homer.
These then
are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those appeals to the
senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the concomitants of poetry;
for here too there is much room for error. But of this enough has been said in
our published treatises.
What
Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its kinds.
First, the
least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most commonly
employed recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital,--such as 'the
spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,' or the stars introduced
by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired
after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external
tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful
treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is
made in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of tokens
for the express purpose of proof --and, indeed, any formal proof with or
without tokens --is a less artistic mode of recognition. A better kind is that which
comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath Scene in the Odyssey.
Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on
that account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the
fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the letter; but
he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot requires.
This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above mentioned:--for Orestes
might as well have brought tokens with him. Another similar instance is the
'voice of the shuttle' in the Tereus of Sophocles.
The third
kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a feeling: as in
the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks
into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the 'Lay of Alcinous,'
where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps;
and hence the recognition.
The fourth
kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori:
'Some one resembling me has come: no one resembles me
but Orestes: therefore Orestes has come.' Such too is the discovery made by
Iphigenia in the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was
a natural reflection for Orestes to make, 'So I too must die at the altar like
my sister.' So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, 'I came to find my son, and I
lose my own life.' So too in the Phineidae: the
women, on seeing the place, inferred their fate:--'Here we are doomed to die,
for here we were cast forth.' Again, there is a composite kind of recognition
involving false inference on the part of one of the characters, as in the
Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said <that no one else was able to bend
the bow; . . . hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would> recognise the bow which, in fact, he had not seen; and to
bring about a recognition by this means that the
expectation A would recognise the bow is false
inference.
But, of all
recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents themselves,
where the startling discovery is made by natural means. Such is that in the
Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for it was natural that Iphigenia
should wish to dispatch a letter. These recognitions alone dispense with the
artificial aid of tokens or amulets. Next come the
recognitions by process of reasoning.
In
constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the poet
should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this way,
seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of the
action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and be most unlikely to
overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a rule is shown by the fault found
in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was
on his way from the temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did
not see the situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed, the audience
being offended at the oversight.
Again, the
poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with appropriate
gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing through natural
sympathy with the characters they represent; and one who is agitated storms,
one who is angry rages, with the most life-like reality. Hence poetry implies
either a happy gift of nature or a strain of madness. In the one case a man can
take the mould of any character; in the other, he is lifted out of his proper
self.
As for the
story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then
fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be illustrated
by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears mysteriously from
the eyes of those who sacrificed her; She is
transported to another country, where the custom is to offer up all strangers
to the goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle
for some reason ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the
play. The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper. However,
he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who
he is. The mode of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose play he exclaims very naturally:--'So it
was not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to be sacrificed'; and by
that remark he is saved.
After this,
the names being once given, it remains to fill in the episodes. We must see
that they are relevant to the action. In the case of Orestes, for example,
there is the madness which led to his capture, and his deliverance by means of
the purificatory rite. In the drama, the episodes are
short, but it is these that give extension to Epic poetry. Thus the story of
the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is absent from home for many
years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and left desolate. Meanwhile his
home is in a wretched plight---suitors are wasting his substance and plotting
against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself
arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors
with his own hand, and is himself preserved while he destroys them. This is the
essence of the plot; the rest is episode.
Every tragedy
falls into two parts,--Complication and Unravelling
or Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined with
a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest is the Unravelling. By the Complication I mean all that extends
from the beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point to
good or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which
extends from the beginning of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the
Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the seizure of
the child, and then again * * <The Unravelling>
extends from the accusation of murder to the end.
There are
four kinds of Tragedy, the Complex, depending entirely on Reversal of the
Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive is passion),--such as
the tragedies on
In speaking
of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take is the plot.
Identity exists where the Complication and Unravelling
are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it ill. Both arts,
however, should always be mastered.
Again, the
poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an Epic structure
into a Tragedy--by an Epic structure I mean one with a multiplicity of
plots--as if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy out of the entire story
of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to its length, each part assumes its
proper magnitude. In the drama the result is far from answering to the poet's
expectation. The proof is that the poets who have dramatised
the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like
Euripides; or who have taken the whole tale of Niobe,
and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with
poor success on the stage. Even Agathon has been
known to fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the Situation, however,
he shows a marvellous skill in the effort to hit the
popular taste,--to produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This
effect is produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the
brave villain defeated. Such an event is probable in Agathon's
sense of the word: 'it is probable,' he says, 'that many things should happen
contrary to probability.'
The Chorus
too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of
the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of
Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral songs pertain as little to the
subject of the piece as to that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung
as mere interludes, a practice first begun by Agathon.
Yet what difference is there between introducing such choral interludes, and
transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another?
It remains
to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy having been already
discussed. Concerning Thought, we may assume what is said in the Rhetoric, to
which inquiry the subject more strictly belongs. Under Thought is included
every effect which has to be produced by speech, the subdivisions being,--
proof and refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear,
anger, and the like; the suggestion of importance or its opposite. Now, it is
evident that the dramatic incidents must be treated from the same points of
view as the dramatic speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity,
fear, importance, or probability. The only difference is,
that the incidents should speak for themselves without verbal exposition; while
the effects aimed at in speech should be produced by the speaker, and as a
result of the speech. For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought
were revealed quite apart from what he says?
Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the Modes of Utterance.
But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of Delivery and to the
masters of that science. It includes, for instance,--what is a command, a
prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an answer, and so forth. To know or
not to know these things involves no serious censure upon the poet's art. For
who can admit the fault imputed to Homer by Protagoras,--that in the words,
'Sing, goddess, of the wrath,' he gives a command under the idea that he utters
a prayer? For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a
command. We may, therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to
another art, not to poetry.
[Language
in general includes the following parts:- Letter,
Syllable, Connecting word, Noun, Verb, Inflexion or Case, Sentence or Phrase.
A Letter is
an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only one which can form
part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter indivisible sounds, none of
which I call a letter. The sound I mean may be either a
vowel, a semi-vowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without impact of tongue
or lip has an audible sound. A semi-vowel, that which with such impact has an
audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that which with such impact has by itself no
sound, but joined to a vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are
distinguished according to the form assumed by the mouth and the place where
they are produced; according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short; as
they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which inquiry belongs in
detail to the writers on metre.
A Syllable
is a non-significant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel: for GR without A is
a syllable, as also with A,--GRA. But the investigation of these differences
belongs also to metrical science.
A
Connecting word is a non-significant sound, which neither causes nor hinders
the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it may be placed at either
end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a non-significant sound, which out of
several sounds, each of them significant, is capable of forming one significant
sound,--as {alpha mu theta iota}, {pi epsilon rho iota}, and the like. Or, a
non-significant sound, which marks the beginning, end, or division of a
sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly stand by itself at the
beginning of a sentence, as {mu epsilon nu}, {eta tau omicron iota}, {delta
epsilon}.
A Noun is a
composite significant sound, not marking time, of which no part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words we do
not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant. Thus in Theodorus, 'god-given,' the {delta omega rho omicron nu} or 'gift' is not in itself significant.
A Verb is a
composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as in the noun, no part is
in itself significant. For 'man,' or 'white' does not
express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks,' or 'he has walked' does connote
time, present or past.
Inflexion
belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either the relation 'of,'
'to,' or the like; or that of number, whether one or many, as 'man' or 'men ';
or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g. a question or a command. 'Did he
go?' and 'go' are verbal inflexions of this kind.
A Sentence
or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least of whose parts are in
themselves significant; for not every such group of words consists of verbs and
nouns--'the definition of man,' for example --but it may dispense even with the
verb. Still it will always have some significant part, as 'in walking,' or
'Cleon son of Cleon.' A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two
ways,--either as signifying one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked
together. Thus the Iliad is one by the linking together of parts, the
definition of man by the unity of the thing signified.]
Words are
of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of
non-significant elements, such as {gamma eta}. By
double or compound, those composed either of a significant and non-significant
element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or of
elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple, quadruple,
or multiple in form, like so many Massilian
expressions, e.g. 'Hermo-caico-xanthus who prayed to
Father Zeus>.'
Every word
is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental, or newly-coined,
or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.
By a
current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a people; by a
strange word, one which is in use in another country. Plainly, therefore, the
same word may be at once strange and current, but not in relation to the same
people. The word {sigma iota gamma upsilon nu omicron nu}, 'lance,' is to the
Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.
Metaphor is
the application of an alien name by transference either from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to
species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as:
'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species
to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for ten
thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large number
generally. From species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew away the
life,' and 'Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here {alpha rho upsilon rho alpha iota}, 'to
draw away,' is used for {tau alpha mu epsilon iota nu}, 'to cleave,' and {tau
alpha mu epsilon iota nu} again for {alpha rho upsilon alpha iota},--each being a species of taking
away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to the first as the
fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the second
for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to
which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to
Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the
shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to
day. Evening may therefore be called 'the old age of the day,' and old age,
'the evening of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.'
For some of the terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence;
still the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing:
but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this
process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the god-created light.'
There is another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may
apply an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes;
as if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup.'
<An
ornamental word . . .>
A
newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use, but is adopted
by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to be: as {epsilon rho nu upsilon gamma epsilon sigma}, 'sprouters,'
for {kappa epsilon rho alpha tau
alpha}, 'horns,' and {alpha rho eta
tau eta rho},
'supplicator,' for {iota epsilon rho
epsilon upsilon sigma}, 'priest.'
A word is
lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer one, or when a syllable
is inserted. A word is contracted when some part of it is removed. Instances of
lengthening are,--{pi omicron lambda eta omicron
sigma} for {pi omicron lambda epsilon omega sigma}, and {Pi eta
lambda eta iota alpha delta epsilon omega} for {Pi eta lambda epsilon iota delta omicron upsilon}: of
contraction,--{kappa rho iota}, {delta omega}, and
{omicron psi}, as in {mu
iota alpha / gamma iota nu epsilon tau alpha iota /
alpha mu phi omicron tau episilon rho omega nu / omicron psi}.
An altered
word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left unchanged, and part is
re-cast; as in {delta epsilon xi iota-tau epsilon rho omicron nu / kappa alpha tau
alpha / mu alpha zeta omicron nu}, {delta epsilon xi
iota tau epsilon rho
omicron nu} is for {delta epsilon xi iota omicron nu}.
[Nouns in
themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter.
Masculine are such as end in {nu}, {rho}, {sigma}, or
in some letter compounded with {sigma},--these being two, and {xi}. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always long, namely {eta} and {omega}, and--of vowels that admit of
lengthening--those in {alpha}. Thus the number of letters in which nouns
masculine and feminine end is the same; for {psi} and
{xi} are equivalent to endings in {sigma}. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel
short by nature. Three only end in {iota},--{mu eta lambda iota}, {kappa omicron mu
mu iota}, {pi epsilon pi epsilon rho
iota}: five end in {upsilon}. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also
in {nu} and {sigma}.]
The
perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest style is
that which uses only current or proper words; at the same time it is
mean:--witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus. That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and
raised above the commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean
strange (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened,--anything, in short, that
differs from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is
either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a jargon, if
it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a riddle is to
express true facts under impossible combinations. Now this cannot be done by
any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of metaphor it can. Such is
the riddle:--'A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze by aid of
fire,' and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or
rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of these elements is
necessary to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the
ornamental, and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the
commonplace and mean, while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous.
But nothing contributes more to produce a clearness of diction that is remote
from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the
language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial conformity
with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up
to ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that
it would be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at
will. He caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction, as in the
verse: '{Epsilon pi iota chi alpha rho eta nu / epsilon iota delta omicron nu / Mu alpha rho alpha theta omega nu
alpha delta epsilon / Beta alpha delta iota zeta omicron nu tau
alpha}, or, {omicron upsilon kappa / alpha nu / gamma / epsilon rho alpha mu epsilon nu omicron
sigma / tau omicron nu / epsilon kappa epsilon iota
nu omicron upsilon /epsilon lambda lambda epsilon
beta omicron rho omicron nu}. To employ such license
at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque; but in any mode of poetic diction
there must be moderation. Even metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any
similar forms of speech, would produce the like effect if used without
propriety and with the express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference
is made by the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by
the insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange
(or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it
by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation will be manifest.
For example Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who employed the
rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse appear beautiful and
the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes
says: {Phi alpha gamma epsilon delta alpha iota nu alpha / <delta> / eta / mu omicron upsilon / sigma
alpha rho kappa alpha sigma / epsilon rho theta iota epsilon iota / pi omicron delta omicron
sigma}.
Euripides
substitutes {Theta omicron iota nu alpha tau alpha
iota} 'feasts on' for {epsilon sigma theta iota epsilon iota} 'feeds on.'
Again, in the line, {nu upsilon nu / delta epsilon / mu
/epsilon omega nu / omicron lambda iota gamma iota gamma upsilon sigma / tau epsilon / kappa alpha iota / omicron upsilon tau iota delta alpha nu omicron sigma / kappa alpha iota /
alpha epsilon iota kappa eta sigma, the difference
will be felt if we substitute the common words, {nu upsilon nu / delta epsilon
/ mu / epsilon omega nu / mu
iota kappa rho omicron sigma / tau
epsilon / kappa alpha iota / alpha rho theta epsilon
nu iota kappa omicron sigma / kappa alpha iota / alpha epsilon iota delta gamma
sigma}. Or, if for the line, {delta iota phi rho omicron
nu / alpha epsilon iota kappa epsilon lambda iota omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha theta epsilon iota sigma / omicron lambda iota
gamma eta nu / tau epsilon
/ tau rho alpha pi epsilon
iota sigma / omicron lambda iota gamma eta nu / tau epsilon / tau rho alpha pi epsilon zeta alpha nu),} We read, {delta iota
phi rho omicron nu / mu
omicron chi theta eta rho
omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha theta epsilon iota
sigma / mu iota kappa rho
alpha nu / tau epsilon / tau
rho alpha pi epsilon zeta alpha nu}.
Or, for {eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma / beta omicron omicron omega rho iota nu, eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma kappa rho
alpha zeta omicron upsilon rho iota nu}
Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which
no one would employ in ordinary speech: for example, {delta omega mu alpha tau omega nu / alpha pi
omicron} instead of {alpha pi omicron / delta omega mu
alpha tau omega nu}, {rho
epsilon theta epsilon nu}, {epsilon gamma omega / delta epsilon / nu iota nu},
{Alpha chi iota lambda lambda epsilon omega sigma /
pi epsilon rho iota} instead of (pi epsilon rho iota / 'Alpha chi iota lambda lambda
epsilon omega sigma}, and the like. It is precisely because such phrases are
not part of the current idiom that they give distinction to the style. This,
however, he failed to see.
It is a
great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of expression, as also
in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so forth. But the greatest
thing by far is to have a command of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by
another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye
for resemblances.
Of the
various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted
to Dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic
poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse, which
reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate words are
those which are found even in prose. These are,--the current
or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.
Concerning
Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.
As to that
poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a single metre, the plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be
constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject a single
action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle,
and an end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity, and
produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from historical
compositions, which of necessity present not a single action, but a single
period, and all that happened within that period to one person or to many, little connected together as the events may be. For
as the sea-fight at Salamis and the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily
took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one result, so in the
sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows another, and yet no single
result is thereby produced. Such is the practice, we may say, of most poets.
Here again, then, as has been already observed, the transcendent excellence of
Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make the whole war of
Again, Epic
poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple, or complex, or
'ethical,' or 'pathetic.' The parts also, with the exception of song and
spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals of the Situation,
Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the thoughts and the diction
must be artistic. In all these respects Homer is our earliest and sufficient
model. Indeed each of his poems has a twofold character. The Iliad is at once
simple and 'pathetic,' and the Odyssey complex (for Recognition scenes run
through it), and at the same time 'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought
they are supreme.
Epic poetry
differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed, and in its metre. As regards scale or length, we have already laid
down an adequate limit:--the beginning and the end must be capable of being
brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied by poems on a
smaller scale than the old epics, and answering in length to the group of
tragedies presented at a single sitting.
Epic poetry
has, however, a great--a special--capacity for enlarging its dimensions, and we
can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate several lines of actions
carried on at one and the same time; we must confine ourselves to the action on
the stage and the part taken by the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the
narrative form, many events simultaneously transacted can be presented; and
these, if relevant to the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic
has here an advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to
diverting the mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying
episodes. For sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies
fail on the stage.
As for the metre, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by the
test of experience. If a narrative poem in any other metre
or in many metres were now composed, it would be
found incongruous. For of all measures the heroic is the stateliest and the
most massive; and hence it most readily admits rare words and metaphors, which
is another point in which the narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the
other hand, the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures, the
latter being akin to dancing, the former expressive of
action. Still more absurd would it be to mix together different metres, as was done by Chaeremon.
Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other than heroic
verse. Nature herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper
measure.
Homer,
admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the only poet who
rightly appreciates the part he should take himself. The poet should speak as
little as possible in his own person, for it is not this that makes him an
imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon the scene throughout, and imitate
but little and rarely. Homer, after a few prefatory words, at once brings in a
man, or woman, or other personage; none of them wanting in characteristic
qualities, but each with a character of his own.
The element
of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational, on which the wonderful
depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in Epic poetry, because there
the person acting is not seen. Thus, the pursuit of Hector would be ludicrous
if placed upon the stage--the Greeks standing still and not joining in the
pursuit, and Achilles waving them back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity
passes unnoticed. Now the wonderful is pleasing: as may be inferred from the
fact that every one tells a story with some addition of his own, knowing that
his hearers like it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art of
telling lies skilfully. The secret of it lies in a
fallacy, For, assuming that if one thing is or
becomes, a second is or becomes, men imagine that, if the second is, the first
likewise is or becomes. But this is a false inference. Hence, where the first
thing is untrue, it is quite unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add
that the first is or has become. For the mind, knowing the second to be true,
falsely infers the truth of the first. There is an example of this in the Bath
Scene of the Odyssey.
Accordingly,
the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities.
The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational
should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the
action of the play (as, in the Oedipus, the hero's ignorance as to the manner
of Laius' death); not within the drama,--as in the
Electra, the messenger's account of the Pythian
games; or, as in the Mysians, the man who has come
from Tegea to Mysia and is
still speechless. The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first
instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and an air
of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity. Take
even the irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the
The diction
should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where there is no expression
of character or thought. For, conversely, character and thought are merely
obscured by a diction that is over brilliant.
With
respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and nature of the
sources from which they may be drawn may be thus exhibited.
The poet
being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of necessity
imitate one of three objects,--things as they were or are, things as they are
said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be. The vehicle of expression
is language,--either current terms or, it may be, rare words or metaphors.
There are also many modifications of language, which we concede to the poets.
Add to this, that the standard of correctness is not the same in poetry and
politics, any more than in poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry
itself there are two kinds of faults, those which touch its essence, and those
which are accidental. If a poet has chosen to imitate something, <but has
imitated it incorrectly> through want of capacity, the error is inherent in
the poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice if he has represented a
horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or introduced technical
inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art the error is not
essential to the poetry. These are the points of view from which we should
consider and answer the objections raised by the critics.
First as to
matters which concern the poet's own art. If he
describes the impossible, he is guilty of an error; but the error may be
justified, if the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that
already mentioned), if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the
poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit of Hector.
If, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without
violating the special rules of the poetic art, the error is not justified: for
every kind of error should, if possible, be avoided.
Again, does
the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some accident of it? For
example,--not to know that a hind has no horns is a less serious matter than to
paint it inartistically.
Further, if
it be objected that the description is not true to fact, the poet may perhaps
reply,--'But the objects are as they ought to be': just as Sophocles said that
he drew men as they ought to be; Euripides, as they are. In this way the
objection may be met. If, however, the representation be of neither kind, the
poet may answer,--This is how men say the thing is.'
This applies to tales about the gods. It may well be that these stories are not
higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they are, very possibly, what Xenophanes
says of them. But anyhow, 'this is what is said.' Again, a description may be
no better than the fact: 'still, it was the fact'; as in the passage about the
arms: 'Upright upon their butt-ends stood the spears.' This was the custom
then, as it now is among the Illyrians.
Again, in
examining whether what has been said or done by some one is poetically right or
not, we must not look merely to the particular act or saying, and ask whether
it is poetically good or bad. We must also consider by whom it is said or done,
to whom, when, by what means, or for what end; whether, for instance, it be to
secure a greater good, or avert a greater evil.
Other
difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of language. We may
note a rare word, as in {omicron upsilon rho eta alpha sigma / mu epsilon nu /
pi rho omega tau omicron
nu}, where the poet perhaps employs {omicron upsilon rho
eta alpha sigma} not in the sense of mules, but of
sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favoured indeed he was to look upon.' It is not meant that
his body was ill-shaped, but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the
word {epsilon upsilon epsilon iota delta epsilon sigma}, 'well-favoured,' to denote a fair face. Again, {zeta omega rho omicron tau epsilon rho omicron nu / delta epsilon / kappa epsilon rho alpha iota epsilon}, 'mix the drink livelier,' does not
mean `mix it stronger' as for hard drinkers, but 'mix it quicker.'
Sometimes
an expression is metaphorical, as 'Now all gods and men were sleeping through
the night,'--while at the same time the poet says: 'Often indeed as he turned
his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marvelled at the
sound of flutes and pipes.' 'All' is here used metaphorically for 'many,' all
being a species of many. So in the verse,--'alone she hath no part . . ,' {omicron iota eta},
'alone,' is metaphorical; for the best known may be called the only one.
Again, the
solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias of Thasos solved the
difficulties in the lines,--{delta iota delta omicron mu
epsilon nu (delta iota delta omicron mu epsilon nu)
delta epsilon / omicron iota,} and { tau
omicron / mu epsilon nu / omicron upsilon (omicron
upsilon) kappa alpha tau alpha pi upsilon theta
epsilon tau alpha iota / omicron mu
beta rho omega}.
Or again,
the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles,--'Of a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to
be immortal, and things unmixed before mixed.'
Or again, by ambiguity of meaning,--as {pi alpha rho
omega chi eta kappa epsilon nu / delta epsilon / pi
lambda epsilon omega / nu upsilon xi}, where the word {pi lambda epsilon omega}
is ambiguous.
Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called {omicron iota nu omicron
sigma}, 'wine.' Hence Ganymede is said 'to pour the wine to Zeus,' though the
gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called {chi alpha lambda
kappa epsilon alpha sigma}, or workers in bronze. This, however, may also be
taken as a metaphor.
Again, when
a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we should consider how
many senses it may bear in the particular passage. For example: 'there was
stayed the spear of bronze'--we should ask in how many ways we may take 'being
checked there.' The true mode of interpretation is the precise opposite of what
Glaucon mentions. Critics, he says, jump at certain
groundless conclusions; they pass adverse judgment and then proceed to reason
on it; and, assuming that the poet has said whatever they happen to think, find
fault if a thing is inconsistent with their own fancy. The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The critics
imagine he was a Lacedaemonian. They think it strange, therefore, that Telemachus
should not have met him when he went to
In general,
the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic requirements, or to
the higher reality, or to received opinion. With respect to the requirements of
art, a probable impossibility is to be preferred to a thing improbable and yet
possible. Again, it may be impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis
painted. 'Yes,' we say, 'but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal
type must surpass the reality.' To justify the irrational, we appeal to what is
commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational
sometimes does not violate reason; just as 'it is probable that a thing may
happen contrary to probability.'
Things that
sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules as in dialectical
refutation whether the same thing is meant, in the same relation, and in the
same sense. We should therefore solve the question by reference to what the
poet says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence.
The element
of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character, are justly censured
when there is no inner necessity for introducing them. Such is the irrational
element in the introduction of Aegeus by Euripides
and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.
Thus, there
are five sources from which critical objections are drawn. Things are censured
either as impossible, or irrational, or morally hurtful, or contradictory, or
contrary to artistic correctness. The answers should be sought under the twelve
heads above mentioned.
The
question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is the
higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more refined in every
case is that which appeals to the better sort of audience, the art which
imitates anything and everything is manifestly most unrefined. The audience is supposed
to be too dull to comprehend unless something of their own is thrown in by the
performers, who therefore indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players
twist and twirl, if they have to represent 'the quoit-throw,'
or hustle the coryphaeus when they perform the 'Scylla.' Tragedy, it is said,
has this same defect. We may compare the opinion that the older actors
entertained of their successors. Mynniscus used to
call Callippides 'ape' on account of the extravagance
of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus.
Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the
younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is addressed to a
cultivated audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to an inferior public.
Being then unrefined, it is evidently the lower of the two.
Now, in the
first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but to the histrionic art;
for gesticulation may be equally overdone in epic recitation, as by Sosi-stratus, or in lyrical competition, as by Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next,
all action is not to be condemned any more than all dancing--but only that of
bad performers. Such was the fault found in Callippides,
as also in others of our own day, who are censured for representing degraded
women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces its effect even without action;
it reveals its power by mere reading. If, then, in all other respects it is
superior, this fault, we say, is not inherent in it.
And
superior it is, because it has all the epic elements--it may even use the epic metre--with the music and spectacular effects as important
accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further, it has
vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation. Moreover, the
art attains its end within narrower limits; for the concentrated effect is more
pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time and so diluted. What, for
example, would be the effect of the Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into
a form as long as the Iliad? Once more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as
is shown by this, that any Epic poem will furnish
subjects for several tragedies. Thus if the story adopted by the poet has a
strict unity, it must either be concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conform
to the Epic canon of length, it must seem weak and watery. <Such length
implies some loss of unity,> if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of
several actions, like the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts,
each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect as
possible in structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation
of a single action.
If, then,
Tragedy is superior to Epic poetry in all these respects, and, moreover,
fulfils its specific function better as an art for each art ought to produce,
not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it, as already stated it
plainly follows that Tragedy is the higher art, as attaining its end more
perfectly.
Thus much
may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general; their several kinds
and parts, with the number of each and their differences; the causes that make
a poem good or bad; the objections of the critics and the answers to these
objections. * * *
THE END