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II.

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

Tragedy i.e.sentially an imitation not of persons but of action and life, of happiness and misery.  All human happiness or misery takes the form of action; the end for which we live is a certain kind of activity, not a quality.  Characte.g.ves us qualities, but it is in our actions--what we do--that we are happy or the reverse.  In a play accordingly they do not act in order to portray the Characters; they include the Characters for the sake of the action.  So that it is the action in it, i.e. its Fable or Plot, that is the end and purpose of the tragedy; and the end i.e.erywhere the chief thing.  Besides this, a tragedy is impossible without action, but there may be one without Character.  The tragedies of most of the moderns are characterless--a defect common among poets of all kinds, and with its counterpart in painting in Zeuxis as compared with Polygnotus; for whereas the latter is strong in character, the work of Zeuxis is devoid of it.  And again: one may string together a series of characteristic speeches of the utmost finish as regards Diction and Thought, and yet fail to produce the true tragi.e.fect; but one will have much better success with a tragedy which, however inferior in these respects, has a Plot, a combination of incidents, in it.  And again: the most powerful elements of attraction in Tragedy, the Peripeties and Discoveries, are parts of the Plot.  A further proof is in the fact that beginners succeed earlier with the Diction and Characters than with the construction of a story; and the same may be said of nearly all the early dramatists.  We maintain, therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, so to speak, of Tragedy is the Plot; and that the Characters come second--compare the parallel in painting, where the most beautiful colours laid on without order will not give one the same pleasure as a simple black-and-white sketch of a portrait.  We maintain that Tragedy is primarily an imitation of action, and that it is mainly for the sake of the action that it imitates the personal agents.  Third comes the element of Thought, i.e. the power of saying whatever can be said, or what is appropriate to the occasion.  This is what, in the speeches in Tragedy, falls under the arts of Politics and Rhetoric; for the older poets make their personages discourse like statesmen, and the moderns like rhetoricians.  One must not confuse it with Character.  Character in a play is that which reveals the moral purpose of the agents, i.e. the sort of thing they seek or avoid, where that is not obvious--hence there is no room for Character in a speech on a purely indifferent subject.  Thought, on the other hand, is shown in all they say when proving or disproving some particular point, or enunciating some universal proposition.  Fourth among the literary elements is the Diction of the personages, i.e. as before explained, the expression of their thoughts in words, which is practically the same thing with verse as with prose.  As for the two remaining parts, the Melody is the greatest of the pleasurable accessories of Tragedy.  The Spectacle, though an attraction, is the least artistic of all the parts, and has least to do with the art of poetry.  The tragi.e.fect is quite possible without a public performance and actors; and

besides, the getting-up of the Spectacle is more a matter for the costumier than the poet.

Having thus distinguished the parts, let us now consider the proper construction of the Fable or Plot, as that is at once the first and the most important thing in Tragedy.  We have laid it down that a tragedy is an imitation of an action that is complete in itself, as a whole of some magnitude; for a whole may be of no magnitude to speak of.  Now a whole is that which has beginning, middle, and end.  A beginning is that which is not itself necessarily after anything else, and which has naturally something else after it; an end is that which is naturally after something itself, either as its necessary or usual consequent, and with nothing else after it; and a middle, that which is by nature after one thing and has also another after it.  A well-constructed Plot, therefore, cannot either begin or end at any point one likes; beginning and end in it must be of the forms just described.  Again: to be beautiful, a living creature, and every whole made up of parts, must not only present a certain order in its arrangement of parts, but also be of a certain definite magnitude.  Beauty is a matter of size and order, and therefore impossible either

(1) in a very minute creature, since our perception becomes indistinct as it approaches instantaneity; or (2) in a creature of vast size--one, say, 1,000 miles long--as in that case, instead of the object being seen all at once, the unity and wholeness of it is lost to the beholder.

Just in the same way, then, as a beautiful whole made up of parts, or a beautiful living creature, must be of some size, a size to be taken in by the eye, so a story or Plot must be of some length, but of a length to be taken in by the memory.  As for the limit of its length, so far as that is relative to public performances and spectators, it does not fall within 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 at one period.  The limit, however, set by the actual nature of the thing is this: the longer the story, consistently with its being comprehensible as a whole, the finer it is by reason of its magnitude.  As a rough general formula, 'a length which allows of the hero passing by a series of probable or necessary stages from misfortune to happiness, or from happiness to misfortune', may suffice as a limit for the magnitude of the story.

The Unity of a Plot does not consist, as some suppose, in its having one man as its subject.  An infinity of things befall that one man, some of which it is impossible to reduce to unity; and in like manner there are many 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, because Heracles was one man, the story also of Heracles must be one story.  Homer, however, evidently understood this point quite well, whether by art or instinct, just in the same way as he excels the rest i. e.ery other respect.  In writing an _Odyssey_, he did not make the poem cover all that ever befell his hero--it befell him, for instance, to get wounded on Parnassus and also to feign madness at the time of the call to arms, but the two incidents had no probable or necessary connexion with one another--instead of doing that, he took an action with a Unity of

the kind we are describing as the subject of the _Odyssey_, as also of the _Iliad_.  The truth is that, just as in the other imitative arts one imitation is always of one thing, so in poetry the story, as an imitation of action, must represent one action, a complete whole, with its several incidents so closely connected that the transposal or withdrawal of any one of them will disjoin and dislocate the whole.  For that which makes no perceptible difference by its presence or absence is no real part of the whole.

From what we have said it will be seen that the poet's function is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing that might happen, i.e. what is possible as being probable or necessary.  The distinction between historian and poet is not in the one writing prose and the other verse--you might put the work of Herodotus into verse, and it would still be a species of history; it consists really in this, that the one describes the thing that has been, and the other a kind of thing that might be.  Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars.  By a universal statement I mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probably or necessarily say or do--which is the aim of poetry, though it affixes proper 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 clear by this time; it is only when their plot is already made up of probable incidents that the.g.ve it a basis of proper names, choosing for the purpose any names that may occur to them, instead of writing like the old iambic poets about particular persons.  In Tragedy, however, they still adhere to the historic names; and for this reason: what convinces is the possible; now whereas we are not yet sure as to the possibility of that which has not happened, that which has happened is manifestly possible, else it would not have come to pass.  Nevertheless even in Tragedy there are some plays with but one or two known names in them, the rest being inventions; and there are some without a single known name, e.g. Agathon's Anthens, in which both incidents and names are of the poet's invention; and it is no less delightful on that account.  So that one must not aim at a rigid adherence to the traditional stories on 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 a delight none the less to all.

It i.e.ident from the above that, the poet must be more the poet of his stories or Plots than of his verses, inasmuch as he is a poet by virtue of the imitative element in his work, and it is actions that he imitates.  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 may very well be in the probable and possible order of things; and it is in that aspect of them that he is their poet.

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

Tragedy, however, is an imitation not only of a complete action, but also of incidents arousing pity and fear.  Such incidents have the very greatest effect on the mind when they occur unexpectedly and at the same time in consequence of one another; there is more of the marvellous in them then than if they happened of themselves or by mere chance.  Even matters of chance seem most marvellous if there is an appearance of design as it were in them; as for instance the statue of Mitys at Argos killed the author of Mitys' death by falling down on him when a looker-on at a public spectacle; for incidents like that we think to be not without a meaning.  A Plot, therefore, of this sort is necessarily finer than others.

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

A Peripety is the change from one state of things within the play to its opposite 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 instance in _Oedipus_: here the opposite state of things is produced by the Messenger, who, coming to gladden Oedipus and to remove his fears as to his mother, reveals the secret of his birth.  And in _Lynceus_: just as he is being led off for execution, with Danaus at his side to put him to death, the incidents preceding this bring it about that he is saved and Danaus put to death.  A Discovery is, as the very word implies, a change from ignorance to knowledge, and thus to either love or hate, in the personages marked for good or evil fortune.  The finest form of Discovery is one attended by Peripeties, like that which goes with the Discovery in _Oedipus_.  There are no doubt other forms of it; what we have said may happen in a way in reference to inanimate things, even things of a very casual kind; and it is also possible to discover whether some one has done or not done something.  But the form most directly connected with 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 nature being what Tragedy is assumed to represent; and it will also serve to bring about the happy or unhappy ending.  The Discovery, then, being of persons, it may be that of one party only to the other, the latter being already known; or both the parties may have to discover themselves.  Iphigenia, for instance, was discovered to Orestes by sending the letter; and another Discovery was required to reveal him to Iphigenia.

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

The parts of Tragedy to be treated as formative elements in the whole were mentioned in a previous Chapter.  From the point of view, however, of

its quantity, i.e. the separate sections into which it is divided, a tragedy has the following parts: Prologue, Episode, Exode, and a choral portion, distinguished into Parode and Stasimon; these two are common to all tragedies, whereas songs from the stage and Commoe are only found in some.  The Prologue is all that precedes the Parode of the chorus; an Episode all that comes in between two whole choral songs; the Exode all that follows after the last choral song.  In the choral portion the Parode is the whole first statement of the chorus; a Stasimon, a song of the chorus without anapaests or trochees; a Commas, a lamentation sung by chorus and actor in concert.  The parts of Tragedy to be used as formative elements in the whole we have already mentioned; the above are its parts from the point of view of its quantity, or the separate sections into which it is divided.

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

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

The first situation is not fear-inspiring or piteous, but simply odious to us.  The second is the most untragic that can be; it has no one of the requisites of Tragedy; it does not appeal either to the human feeling in us, 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.  Such a story may arouse the human feeling in us, but it will not move us to either pity or fear; pity is occasioned by undeserved misfortune, and fear by that of one like ourselves; so that there will be nothing either piteous or fear-inspiring in the situation.  There remains, then, the intermediate kind of personage, a man not pre-eminently virtuous and just, whose misfortune, however, is brought upon him not by vice and depravity but by some error of judgement, of the number of those in the enjoyment 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 change in the hero's fortunes must be not from misery to happiness, but on the contrary from happiness to misery; and the cause of it must lie not in any depravity, but in some great error on his part; the man himself being either such as we have described, or better, not worse, than that.  Fact also confirms our theory.  Though the poets began by accepting any tragic story that came to hand, in these days the finest tragedies are always on the story of some few houses, on that of Alemeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, or any others that may have been involved, as either agents or sufferers, in some deed of horror.  The theoretically best tragedy, then, has a Plot of this description.  The critics, therefore, are wrong who blame Euripides for taking this line in his tragedies, and giving many of them an unhappy ending.  It is, as we have said, the right line to take.  The best proof is this: on the stage, and in the

public performances, such plays, properly worked out, are seen to be the most truly tragic; and Euripides, even if hi.e.ecution be faulty i.e.ery other point, is seen to be nevertheless the most tragic certainly of the dramatists.  After this comes the construction of Plot which some rank first, one with a double story (like the _Odyssey_) and an opposite issue for the good and the bad personages.  It is ranked as first only through the weakness of the audiences; the poets merely follow their public, writing as its wishes dictate.  But the pleasure here is not that of Tragedy.  It belongs rather to Comedy, where the bitterest enemies in the piece (e.g. Orestes and Aegisthus) walk off good friends at the end, with no slaying of any one by any one.

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

The tragic pleasure is that of pity and fear, and the poet has to produce it by a work of imitation; it is clear, therefore, that the causes should be included in the incidents of his story.  Let us see, then, what kinds of incident strike one as horrible, or rather as piteous.  In a deed of this description the parties must necessarily be either friends, or enemies, or indifferent to one another.  Now when enemy does it on enemy, there is nothing to move us to pity either in his doing or in his meditating the deed, except so far as the actual pain of the sufferer is concerned; and the same is true when the parties are indifferent to one another.  Whenever the tragic deed, however, is done within the family--when murder or the like is done or meditated by brother on brother, by son on father, by mother on son, or son on mother--these are the situations the poet should seek after.  The traditional stories, accordingly, must be kept as they are, e.g. the murder of Clytaemnestra by Orestes and of Eriphyle by Alcmeon.  At the same 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 explain more clearly what we mean by 'the right way'.  The deed of horror may be done by the doer knowingly and consciously, as in the old poets, and in Medea's murder of her children in Euripides.  Or he may do it, but in ignorance of his relationship, and discover that afterwards, as does the _Oedipus_ in Sophocles.  Here the deed is outside the play; but it may be within it, like the act of the Alcmeon in Astydamas, or that of the Telegonus in _Ulysses Wounded_.  A third possibility is for one meditating some deadly injury to another, in ignorance of his relationship, to make the discovery in time to draw back.  These exhaust the possibilities, since the deed must necessarily be either done or not done, and either knowingly or unknowingly.

The worst situation is when the personage is with full knowledge on the point 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 is made to act thus except in some few instances, e.g. Haemon and Creon in _Antigone_.  Next after this comes the actual perpetration of the deed meditated.  A better situation than that, however, is for the deed to be done in ignorance, and the relationship discovered afterwards, since there is nothing odious in it, and the Discovery will serve to astound us.  But the best of all is the last; what we have in _Cresphontes_, for example, where Merope, on the point of slaying her son, recognizes him in time; in _Iphigenia_, where sister and brother are in a like position; and in _Helle_, where the son recognizes his mother, when on the 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 that led the poets in quest of subjects to embody this kind of incident in their Plots.  They are still obliged, accordingly, to have recourse to the families in which such horrors have occurred.

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

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 the play, if (as has been observed) what a personage says or does reveals a certain moral purpose; and a good element of character, if the purpose so revealed is good.  Such goodness is possible i.e.ery type of personage, even in a woman or a slave, though the one is perhaps an inferior, and the other a wholly worthless being.  The second point is to make them appropriate.  The Character before us may be, say, manly; but it is not appropriate in a female Character to be manly, or clever.  The third is to make them like the reality, which is not the same as their being good and appropriate, in our sense of the term.  The fourth is to make them consistent and the same throughout; even if inconsistency be part of the man before one for imitation as presenting that form of character, he should still be consistently inconsistent.  We have an instance of baseness of character, not required for the story, in the Menelaus in _Orestes_; of the incongruous and unbefitting in the lamentation of Ulysses in _Scylla_, and in the (clever) speech of Melanippe; and of inconsistency in _Iphigenia at Aulis_, where Iphigenia the suppliant is utterly unlike the later Iphigenia.  The right thing, however, is in the Characters just as in the incidents of the play to endeavour always after the necessary or the probable; so that whenever such-and-such a personage says or does such-and-such a thing, it shall be the probable or necessary outcome of his character; and whenever this incident follows on that, it shall be either the necessary or the probable consequence of it.  From this one sees (to digress for a moment) that the Denouement also should arise out of the plot itself, arid not depend on a stage-artifice, as in _Medea_, or in the story of the (arrested) departure of the Greeks in the _Iliad_.  The artifice must be reserved for matters outside the play--for past events beyond human knowledge, or events yet to come, which require to be foretold or announced; since it is the privilege of the Gods to know

everything.  There should be nothing improbable among the actual incidents.  If it be unavoidable, however, it should be outside the tragedy, like the improbability in the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles.  But to return to the Characters.  As Tragedy is an imitation of personages better than the ordinary man, we in our way should follow the example of good portrait-painters, who reproduce the distinctive features of a man, and at the same time, without losing the likeness, make him handsomer than he is.  The poet in like manner, in portraying men quick or slow to anger, or with similar infirmities of character, must know how to represent them as such, and at the same time as good men, as Agathon and Homer have represented Achilles.

All these rules one must keep in mind throughout, and further, those also for such points of stage-effect as directly depend on the art of 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.

Discovery in general has been explained already.  As for the species of Discovery, the first to be noted is (1) the least artistic form of it, of which the poets make most use through mere lack of invention, Discovery by signs or marks.  Of these signs some are congenital, like the 'lance-head which the Earth-born have on them', or 'stars', such as Carcinus brings in in his _Thyestes_; others acquired after birth-- these latter being either marks on the body, e.g. scars, or external tokens, like necklaces, or to take another sort of instance, the ark in the Discovery in _Tyro_.  Even these, however, admit of two uses, a better and a worse; the scar of Ulysses is an instance; the Discovery of him through it is made in one way by the nurse and in another by the swineherds.  A Discovery using signs as a means of assurance is less artistic, as indeed are all such as imply reflection; whereas one bringing them in all of a sudden, as in the _Bath-story_, is of a better order.  Next after these are (2) Discoveries made directly by the poet; which are inartistic for that very reason; e.g. Orestes' Discovery of himself in _Iphigenia_: whereas his sister reveals who she is by the letter, Orestes is made to say himself what the poet rather than the story demands.  This, therefore, is not far removed from the first-mentioned fault, since he might have presented certain tokens as well.  Another instance is the 'shuttle's voice' in the _Tereus_ of Sophocles.  (3) A third species is Discovery through memory, from a man's consciousness being awakened by something seen or heard.  Thus in _The Cyprioe_ of Dicaeogenes, the sight of the picture makes the man burst into tears; and in the _Tale of Alcinous_, hearing the harper Ulysses is reminded of the past and weeps; the Discovery of them being the result.  (4) A fourth kind is Discovery through reasoning; e.g. in _The Choephoroe_: 'One like me is here; there is no one like me but Orestes; he, therefore, must be here.'  Or that which Polyidus the Sophist suggested for _Iphigenia_; since it was natural for Orestes to reflect: 'My sister was sacrificed, and I am to be sacrificed like her.'  Or that in the _Tydeus_ of Theodectes: 'I came to find a son, and am to die myself.'  Or that in _The Phinidae_: on seeing the place the women inferred their fate, that they were to die there, since they had also been exposed there.  (5) There is, too, a composite Discovery arising from bad reasoning on the side

of the other party.  An instance of it is in _Ulysses the False Messenger_: he said he should know the bow--which he 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 all Discoveries, however, is that arising from the incidents themselves, when the great surprise comes about through a probable incident, like that in the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles; and also in _Iphigenia_; for it was not improbable that she should wish to have a letter taken home.  These last are the only Discoveries independent of the artifice of signs and necklaces.  Next after them come Discoveries through reasoning.

At the time when he is constructing his Plots, and engaged on the Diction in which they are worked out, the poet should remember

(1) to put the actual scenes as far as possible before hi.e.es. 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 overlook incongruities.  This is shown by what was censured in Carcinus, the return of Amphiaraus from the sanctuary; it would have passed unnoticed, if it had not been actually seen by the audience; but on the stage his play failed, the incongruity of the incident offending the spectators.  (2) As far as may be, too, the poet should even act his story with the very 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 one who is feeling them at the moment.  Hence it is that poetry demands a man with 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 may be actually beside himself with emotion.  (3) His story, again, whether already made or of his own making, he should first simplify and reduce to a universal form, before proceeding to lengthen it out by the insertion of episodes.  The following will show how the universal element in _Iphigenia_, for instance, may be viewed: A certain maiden having been offered in sacrifice, and spirited away from her sacrificers into another land, where the custom was to sacrifice all strangers to the Goddess, she was made there the priestess of this rite.  Long after that the brother of the priestess happened to come; the fact, however, of the oracle having for a certain reason bidden him go thither, and his object in going, are outside the Plot of the play.  On his coming he was arrested, and about to be sacrificed, when he revealed who he was--either as Euripides puts it, or (as suggested by Polyidus) by the not improbable exclamation, 'So I too am doomed to be sacrificed, as my sister was'; and the disclosure led to his salvation.  This done, the next thing, after the proper names have been fixed as a basis for the story, is to work i.e.isodes or accessory incidents.  One must mind, however, that the episodes are appropriate, like the fit of madness in Orestes, which led to his arrest, and the purifying, which brought about his salvation.  In plays, then, the episodes are short; i. e.ic poetry they serve to lengthen out the poem.  The argument of the _Odyssey_ is not a long one.

A certain man has been abroad many years; Poseidon i.e.er on the watch for 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 by suitors to his wife.  Then he arrives there himself after his grievous sufferings; reveals himself, and falls on hi.e.emies; and the end is his salvation and their death.  This being all that is proper to the _Odyssey_, everything else in it i.e.isode.

(4) There is a further point to be borne in mind.  Every tragedy is in part Complication and in part Denouement; the incidents before the opening scene, and often certain also of those within the play, forming the Complication; and the rest the Denouement.  By Complication I mean all from the beginning of the story to the point just before the change in the hero's fortunes; by Denouement, all from the beginning of the change to the end.  In the _Lynceus_ of Theodectes, for instance, the Complication includes, together with the presupposed incidents, the seizure of the child and that in turn of the parents; and the Denouement all from the indictment for the murder to the end.  Now it is right, when one speaks of a tragedy as the same or not the same as another, to do so on the ground before all else of their Plot, i. e. as having the same or not the same Complication and Denouement.  Yet there are many dramatists who, after a good Complication, fail in the Denouement.  But it is necessary for both points of construction to be always duly mastered.  (5) There are four distinct species of Tragedy--that being the number of the constituents also that have been mentioned: first, the complex Tragedy, which is all Peripety and Discovery; second, the Tragedy of suffering, e.g. the _Ajaxes_ and _Ixions_; third, the Tragedy of character, e.g. _The Phthiotides_ and _Peleus_.  The fourth constituent is that of 'Spectacle', exemplified in _The Phorcides_, in _Prometheus_, and in all plays with the scene laid in the nether world.  The poet's aim, then, should be to combine every element of interest, if possible, or else the more important and the major part of them.  This is now especially necessary owing to the unfair criticism to which the poet is subjected in these days.  Just because there have been poets before him strong in the several species of tragedy, the critics now expect the one man to surpass that which was the strong point of each one of his predecessors.  (6) One should also remember what has been said more than once, and not write a tragedy on an epic body of incident (i.e. one with a plurality of stories in it), by attempting to dramatize, for instance, the entire story of the _Iliad_.  In the epic owing to its scale every part is treated at proper length; with a drama, however, on the same story the result is very disappointing.  This is shown by the fact that all who have dramatized the fall of Ilium in its entirety, and not part by part, like Euripides, or the whole of the Niobe story, instead of a portion, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or have but ill success on the stage; for that and that alone was enough to rui.e.en a play by Agathon.  Yet in their Peripeties, as also in their simple plots, the poets I mean show wonderful skill in aiming at the kind of effect they desire--a tragic situation that arouses the human feeling in one, like the clever villain (e.g. Sisyphus) deceived, or the brave wrongdoer worsted.  This is probable, however, only in Agathon's sense, when he speaks of the probability of even improbabilities coming to pass.  (7) The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and take a share in the action--that which it 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 Plot of that than of any other tragedy.  Hence it is that they are now singing intercalary pieces, a practice first introduced by Agathon.  And yet what real difference is there between singing such intercalary pieces, and attempting to fit in a speech, or even a whole act, from one play into another?

The Plot and Characters having been discussed, it remains to consider the Diction and Thought.  As for the Thought, we may assume what is said of it in our Art of Rhetoric, as it belongs more properly to that department of inquiry.  The Thought of the personages is shown in everything to be effected by their language--i.e.ery effort to prove or disprove, to arouse emotion (pity, fear, anger, and the like), or to maximize or minimize things.  It is clear, also, that their mental procedure must be on the same lines in their actions likewise, whenever they wish them to arouse pity or horror, or have a look of importance or probability.  The only difference is that with the act the impression has to be made without explanation; whereas with the spoken word it has to be produced by the speaker, and result from his language.  What, indeed, would be the good of the speaker, if things appeared in the required light even apart from anything he says?

As regards the Diction, one subject for inquiry under this head is the turns given to the language when spoken; e.g. the difference between command and prayer, simple statement and threat, question and answer, and so forth.  The theory of such matters, however, belongs to Elocution and the professors of that art.  Whether the poet knows these things or not, 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'?--which Protagoras 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 pass over this, then, as appertaining to another art, and not to that of poetry.

The Diction viewed as a whole is made up of the following parts: the Letter (or ultimate element), the Syllable, the Conjunction, the Article, the Noun, the Verb, the Case, and the Speech.  (1) The Letter is an indivisible sound of a particular kind, one that may become a factor in an intelligible sound.  Indivisible sounds are uttered by the brutes also, but no one of these is a Letter in our sense of the term.  These elementary sounds are either vowels, semivowels, or mutes.  A vowel is a Letter having an audible sound without the addition of another Letter.  A semivowel, one having an audible sound by the addition of another Letter; e.g. S and R. A mute, one having no sound at all by itself, but becoming audible by an addition, that of one of the Letters which have a sound of some sort of their own; e.g. D and G. The Letters differ in various ways: as produced by different conformations or in different regions of the mouth; as aspirated, not aspirated, or sometimes one and sometimes the other; as long, short, or of variable quantity; and further as having an acute.g.ave, or intermediate accent.

The details of these matters we mubt leave to the metricians.  (2) A Syllable is a nonsignificant composite sound, made up of a mute and a Letter 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 the Syllable

also belong to the theory of metre.  (3) A Conjunction is (a) a non-significant sound which, when one significant sound is formable out of several, neither hinders nor aids the union, and which, if the Speech thus formed stands by itself (apart from other Speeches) must not be inserted at the beginning of it; e.g. _men_, _de_, _toi_, _de_.  Or (b) a non-significant sound capable of combining two or more significant sounds into one; e.g. _amphi_, _peri_, etc. (4) An Article is a non-significant sound marking the beginning, end, or dividing-point of a Speech, its natural place being either at the extremities or in the middle.  (5) A Noun or name is a composite significant sound not involving the idea of time, with parts which have no significance by themselves in it.  It is to be remembered that in a compound we do not think of the parts as having a significance also by themselves; in the name 'Theodorus', for instance, the _doron_ means nothing to us.

(6) A Verb is a composite significant sound involving the idea of time, with parts which (just as in the Noun) have no significance by themselves in it.  Whereas the word 'man' or 'white' does not imply _when_, 'walks' and 'has walked' involve in addition to the idea of walking 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 may consist 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 of which have a certain significance by themselves.  It may be observed that a Speech is not always made up of Noun and Verb; it may be without a Verb, like the definition of man; but it will always have some part with a 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 made into one by conjunction.  Thus the _Iliad_ is one Speech by conjunction of several; and the definition of man is one through its signifying one thing.

Nouns are of two kinds, either (1) simple, i.e. made up of non-significant parts, like the word ge, or (2) double; in the latter case the word may be made up either of a significant and a non-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 ordinary word for the thing, or (2) a strange word, or (3) a metaphor, or (4) an ornamental 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 mean that in general use in a country; and by a strange word, one in use elsewhere.  So that the same word may obviously be at once strange and ordinary, though not in reference to the same people; _sigunos_, for instance, is an ordinary word in Cyprus, and a strange word with us.  Metaphor consists in giving the thing a name that belongs to something else; the transference being either from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to species, or on grounds of analogy.  That from genus to species i.e.emplified

in 'Here stands my ship'; for lying at anchor is the 'standing' of a particular kind of thing.  That from species to genus in 'Truly ten thousand good deeds has Ulysses wrought', where 'ten thousand', which is a particular large number, is put in place of the generic 'a large number'.  That from species to species in 'Drawing the life with the bronze', and in 'Severing with the enduring 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 related that 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 lieu of B. Now and then, too, they qualify the metaphor by adding on to it that to which the word it supplants is relative.  Thus a cup (B) is in relation to Dionysus (A) what a shield (D) is to Ares (C).  The cup accordingly will be metaphorically described as the 'shield _of Dionysus_' (D + A), and the shield as the 'cup _of Ares_' (B + C).  Or to take another instance: As old age (D) is to life (C), so i.e.ening (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 of the terms thus related have no special name of their own, but for all that they will be metaphorically described in just the same way.  Thus to cast 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, 'sowing around a god-created _flame_' (D + A).  There is also another form of qualified metaphor.  Having given the thing the alien name, one may by a negative addition deny of it one of the attributes naturally associated with its new name.  An instance of this would be to call the shield not the 'cup _of Ares_,' as in the former case, but a 'cup _that holds no wine_'.  * * * A coined word is a name which, being quite unknown among a people, is given by the poet himself; e.g. (for there are some words that seem to be of this origin) _hernyges_ for horns, and _areter_ for priest.  A word is said to be lengthened out, when it has a short vowel made long, or an extra syllable inserted; e.g. _polleos_ for _poleos_, _Peleiadeo_ for _Peleidon_.  It is said to be curtailed, when it has lost a 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 the poet's making; e.g. _dexiteron_ for _dexion_, in _dexiteron kata maxon_.

The Nouns themselves (to whatever class they may belong) are either masculines, feminines, or intermediates (neuter).  All ending in N, P, S, or in the two compounds of this last, PS and X, are masculines.  All ending in the invariably long vowels, H and O, and in A among the vowels that may be long, are feminines.  So that there is an equal number of masculine 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 mute or i.e.ther 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 in the variable vowels or in N, P, X.

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.  On the other hand the Diction becomes distinguished and non-prosaic by the use of unfamiliar terms, i.e. strange words, metaphors, lengthened forms, and everything that deviates from the ordinary modes of speech.--But a whole statement in such terms will be either a riddle or a barbarism, a riddle, if made up of metaphors, a barbarism, if made up of strange words.  The very nature indeed of a riddle is this, to describe a fact in an impossible combination of words (which cannot be done with the real names for things, but can be with their metaphorical substitutes); e.g. 'I saw a man glue brass on another with fire', and the like.  The corresponding use of strange words results in a barbarism.--A certain admixture, accordingly, of unfamiliar terms is necessary.  These, the strange word, the metaphor, the ornamental equivalent, etc.. will save the language from seeming mean and prosaic, while the ordinary words in it will secure the requisite clearness.  What helps most, however, to render the Diction at once clear and non-prosaic is the use of the lengthened, curtailed, and altered forms of words.  Their deviation from the ordinary words will, by making the language unlike that in general use.g.ve it a non-prosaic appearance; and their having much in common with the words in general use will give it the quality of clearness.  It is not right, then, to condemn these modes of speech, 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 to be allowed to lengthen the words in the statement itself as much as one likes--a procedure he caricatured by reading '_Epixarhon eidon Marathonade Badi--gonta_, and _ouk han g' eramenos ton ekeinou helle boron_ as verses.  A too apparent use of these licences has certainly a ludicrous effect, but they are not alone in that; the rule of moderation applies to all the constituents of the poetic vocabulary; even with metaphors, strange words, and the rest, the effect will be the same, if one uses them improperly and with a view to provoking laughter.  The proper use of them is a very different thing.  To realize the difference one should take an epic verse and see how it reads when the normal words are introduced.  The same should be done too with the strange word, the metaphor, and the rest; for one has only to put the ordinary words in their place to see the truth of what we are saying.  The same iambic, for instance, is found in Aeschylus and Euripides, and as it stands in the former it is a poor line; whereas Euripides, by the change of a single word, the substitution of a strange for what is by usage the ordinary word, 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.  Or suppose_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 Ariphrades used to ridicule the tragedians for introducing expressions unknown in the language of common life, _doeaton hapo_ (for _apo

domaton_), _sethen_, _hego de nin_, _Achilleos peri_ (for _peri Achilleos_), and the like.  The mere fact of their not being in ordinary speech gives the Diction a non-prosaic character; but Ariphrades was unaware of that.  It is 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 far is to be a master of metaphor.  It is the one thing that cannot be learnt from others; and it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an intuitive perception of the similarity in dissimilars.

Of the kinds of words we have enumerated it may be observed that compounds are most in place in the dithyramb, strange words in heroic, and metaphors in iambic poetry.  Heroic poetry, indeed, may avail itself of them all.  But in iambic verse, which models itself as far as possible on the spoken language, only those kinds of words are in place which are allowable also in an oration, i.e. the ordinary word, the metaphor, and the ornamental equivalent.

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

As for the poetry which merely narrates, or imitates by means of versified language (without action), it i.e.ident that it has several points in common with Tragedy.