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 com-
posed, 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 un-
necessary, 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 im-
possibilities 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 shore of Ithaca.
How intolerable even these might have been would be
apparent if an inferior poet were to treat the subject.
As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the poetic charm
with which the poet invests it.
The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of
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.
Poetics. Aristotle. S. H. Butcher (Translator). London. 1911.
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