14.1.
mvp-aristotle-comment-46
14.3
THOSE WHO PRODUCE WHAT IS MONSTROUS INSTEAD OF WHAT IS TERRIBLE, BY THE REPRESENTATION, HAVE NONE OF THE PROPERTIES OF TRAGEDY.
THE word used by Aristotle here (τεραζώδες) I conceive to apply in this cafe to any thing wonderful and supernatural, or as Metastasio renders it, ' il monftruoso ed il portentoso.' (A) The critic has first mentioned two modes of producing pity and terror; by the apparatus of the theatre, and by the construction of the fable. Yet he not only gives the decided preference to the last, but he even goes so far as to say it is in fact the only mode that can fairly be esteemed the work of the poet, as being capable of producing the proper end of tragedy without the assistance of theatrical representation; while that which depends on the apparatus is almost independent of the poet, and depends chiefly for its effect on the [B) person who furnishes and arranges the decoration of the spectacle. [A] See Mr. Twining's note on this passage, note ci, in which there is much judicious criticifm. [B] The Choragus which I have rendered manager of the theatre' to make it more obvious to the English reader, was the person who furnished the chorus, the actors, the dresses, &c. at his own expence. This mode of bribing the poorer citizens by the rich, was as popular at Athens as feasting them is in Britain. The fame method was followed by the Roman demagogues towards the close of the republic, though generally by the means of a more barbarous
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. spectacle. But he now proceeds to shew, that the very small share the poet could claim of this effect is entirely lost, when the monstrous is exhibited, merely as such, and unconnected with the terrible, since the trifling powers he does possess in this method of exciting the paffions, viz. the pointing out to the perfon who regulates the apparatus, the objects on which he is to exercise his art, are applied to a purpose not at all connected with the proposed end of tragic imitation [c]. What was the power of the ancient theatrical apparatus to produce terror, we can only learn from history. We are told indeed, though perhaps from no very good authority, that in the Eumenides of Æschylus so many furies in horrid forms were brought on the stage, that children were thrown into fits, and pregnant women miscarried. Whatever may be the authority from which we receive this anecdote, it seems by no means improbable. We know the effect that scenes of this kind have over weak minds at the present hour. No one has I believe ever cenfured the behaviour of Partridge at the theatre, as contrary to nature; and a person who will really feel themselves ill by the supposed influence of animal magnetism, may certainly be strongly affected by theatrical horror. We may also allow, that the decoration of the Athenian stage with its masks and its buskins, was as superior to our own in representing these wonderful and supernatural appearances, as I must think it was inferior in imitating the truth and nature of real life. ! ! barous exhibition than the drama; this being afterwards adopted by the emperors on a larger and more expensive scale, had no small share in reconciling the people to the lofs of their influence in the administration of the government.
[c] The reader who wishes to fee an application of this to the modern pantomime, and a very humourous examination of that species of the drama by the rules of Aristotle, is referred to Mr. Twining, note cr. Nn The
The preternatural beings of Shakespear have been praised so often and by so many critics who stand high in the literary world, that it might feem superfluous to say any thing on the subject, did I not confider it as the duty of a writer, profeffing to illustrate the Poetic of Aristotle by modern examples, not to pass over the poet whose excellence in this respect is unrivalled, and is of a different cast from any thing of the kind in the Grecian drama, and that in a circumstance which I do not recollect to have ever seen noticed.
In the production of fupernatural beings by the Greek tragedians, both from the pieces themselves and the judgement of Aristotle, it appears the terror was produced chiefly, if not entirely by the apparatus. We find none of that solemn language which we at once feel, [D] though we hardly know why to be so strictly characteristic of the shadowy speaker. This is so independent of, and so superior to the art of the Choragus, that no theatrical decoration is capable of heightening its effect. What representation can give us such ideas of the ghost of Hamlet as we received from the terrible and pathetic dialogue between that aweful phantom and his fon. Perhaps the effect is stronger in the closet than on the stage. This is certainly the cafe with Macbeth. The witches with their high-crowned hats and broomsticks, might be objects of terror, in the reign of a monarch who wrote a treatise on their art, against which sanguinary laws were not only in existence but put into frequent and severe execution; but to us they are merely objects of ridicule, as having no hold either on our belief, or the faintest traces of [D] The cause of this is examined and investigated as far as it is capable of investigation, by the author of the Effay on the dramatic Character of Falstaff, page 71. our
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. our recollection of fuch belief; and we are at full leisure to laugh at the grotesque figures of the mafculine and bearded women. The Bishop of Worcester in his Letters on Chivalry, mentions the superior horror of the gothic to the ancient superstition, and how much more we are affected by the ghosts and witches of Shakespear, than by the Lemures of antiquity. The fact as to the ghosts, at least with regard to ourselves is indisputable, and I think the reason of it is sufficiently obvious. The fictions of ancient mythology are only matters of amusement to us; but the gothic superstitions have, to most of us, been at one part of our lives the objects of our belief and our terror. For parental care has seldom been able entirely to guard our infancy from the impressions of the nursery. M. Leffing, in his criticism on the Semiramis of Voltaire, introduces so just a comparison between the machinery of Shakespear and Voltaire, that I shall make no apology for inserting it though it is of some length. • Is it never permitted now to admit a ghost on the scene? Is this • source of the terrible, of the pitiable entirely exhausted? By no means; ' that would be too great a loss to the poetic art. Cannot we produce ، many instances where genius confounds all our philosophy by rendering things terrible to the imagination, which to the cool reason would appear perfectly ridiculous? We must reason differently then; perhaps the first principle we argue from is not well-four.ded. "We “ believe no longer in apparitions." Who has faid this? Or rather, • what does it mean when it is said? Does it fignify that we are so far ⚫ enlightened as to be able to demonstrate their impossibility? Are those • incontestable truths which contradict the idea of such prodigies so universally spread, are they always so much in the minds of the people, Nn 2 ' that
، ' that every thing that is repugnant to them must necessarily appear ridiculous and absurd? That can never be the sense of the phrafe. "We believe no longer in apparitions," then can only mean this. On a fubject on which different opinions may be supported, and which never has been and never can be decided, the prevailing opinion of the ، day occasions the balance to preponderate on the negative side : many • individuals are convinced that there are no apparitions, a great many ⚫ more pretend to be convinced, and these harangue on the subject and give and support the fashionable doctrine. But the multitude are filent, they are indifferent on the subject, they sometimes take one fide ⚫ and sometimes the other, they laugh at ghosts in broad day-light, and • liften with trembling avidity at night to the terrible stories that are < told of them [E]. • The disbelief of spectres in this sense neither can nor ought to prevent the use of them in dramatic poetry. We have all in us at least • the feeds of this belief, and they will be found most in the minds of • the people for whom the [F] poet principally composes. It depends ⚫ on his art to make them vegetate, and on his address, in the rapidity of • the moment to give force to the arguments in favor of the reality of ⚫ these phantoms. If he succeeds, we may be at liberty in common • life to believe as we please, but at the theatre he will be the arbiter of our faith.
[E] I am too well convinced of the accuracy of M. Lessing's knowledge of human nature to doubt the truth of this account of German credulity. It would have better suited this country half a century ago than at present. But, even now, there are more people who will feel the truth of it than will own it, even in England.. [F] Especially the dramatic poet. It is faid of Moliere that he used to read all his comedies to an old female servant, and generally found her decisions confirmed by the public. Shakespear
• Shakespear knew this art, and he is almost the only one who ever • did know it. At the appearance of His ghost, in Hamlet, the hair • stands an end, whether it covers the brain of incredulity or supersti- ⚫tion. M. Voltaire was much in the wrong to appeal to this ghost, • which makes both him and his apparition of Ninus ridiculous. The ghoft of Shakespear really comes from the other world, at least it appears so to our feelings : for it arrives in the solemn hour, in the dead • filence of midnight, accompanied by all those gloomy and mysterious ، accessory ideas with which our nurses have taught us to expect the appearance of spectres; while that of Voltaire's is not fit even to terrify a child. It is merely an actor who neither says or does any thing to perfuade us he is what he pretends to be: on the contrary, all the 'circumstances with which it appears, destroy the illusion and betray the • hand of a cold poet who wishes indeed to deceive and terrify us, but • does not know how to go about it. It is in the middle of the day [G], ،
' in the middle of an assembly of the states of the empire, and preceded by a peal of thunder, that the spirit of Ninus makes its appearance from ⚫ the tomb. From whence did Voltaire learn that apparitions were fo • bold? What old woman could not have told him that apparitions were afraid of the light of the fun, and were not fond of visiting large [G] Shakespear knew the confequence of adapting his scenery to his action, in exciting terror by natural as well as supernatural agents. • The sun is in the heaven; and the proud day, • Attended with the pleasures of the world, • Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience :- if the midnight bell • Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, • Sound one unto the drowzy race of night: If this same were a church-yard where we stand.'- K. JOHN. • affemblies?
'assemblies? Voltaire was undoubtedly acquainted with all this; but ⚫ he was too cautious, too delicate, to make use of such trifling cir- 'cumstances. He was desirous indeed of shewing us a ghost, but he ، was determined it should be one of French extraction, decent, and ' noble. This decency spoiled the whole. A spectre, who takes liber- 'ties contrary to all custom, law, and established order of ghosts, does not seem to me a genuine spectre; and in this case, every thing that does not strengthen the illusion tends to destroy it. 红 • If Voltaire had examined with care, he would have felt the inconveniency, which on another account must attend the bringing a phantom before so many people. On its appearance, all the persons of the assembly (that is to say, all the actors who were representing the ' council of the queen and the states) ought to shew in their counte- ، nances all the terror that the situation required; each ought even to shew it differently from the rest to avoid the cold uniformity of a ballet. How could such a troop of stupid assistants be trained to this exercise? • And when it had fucceeded as well as possible, would not this variety ⚫ of expression of the same sentiment have divided the attention of the spectators, and necessarily have drawn it from the principal characters ? That these may make a strong impression on us, it is not only necessary • that we should fee them, but it is also proper that we should fee nothing else. • In Shakespear, it is only with Hamlet that the ghost converses. In • the scene where the mother is present, the spectre is neither seen or ⚫ heard by her. All our attention then is fixed on him alone; and the ، more we discover in him the signs of a foul distracted by terror and • surprize, the more cause we have to think the apparition which occa- • fions
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. • fions such agitations, as real as he seems to believe it. The [H] ghost ، operates more on us through him, than itself. The impreffion that it • makes on him passes into our minds, and the effect is too sensible and ⚫ too strong for us to doubt of an extraordinary cause. Of this secret, • Voltaire knew little. It is precisely because his spectre tries to ' terrify many people, that it produces little terror in any one. Semi- ⚫ ramis cries out once only, " O, heaven, I die!" and the other assist- ⚫ ants are very little more affected by the shade of Ninus, than they ' would be by the unexpected appearance of a friend, whom they be- ' lieved to be at a distance. • I observe also another difference between the French and English • spectre. The first is only a poetical machine solely employed to [1] • unravel the plot; we take no interest in him. On the contrary, the Not that it was [H] Fielding makes Partridge account for his fear in the fame manner. • the ghost that surprized me neither: for I should have known that to have been only a man • in a strange dress: but when I saw the little man so frightened himself it was that which took < hold of me.' TOM JONES, Book xvr. Chap. v. [1] This intention however is expressly disavowed by Voltaire; and what is rather surprizing, in a paragraph in which he quotes, with approbation, the celebrated rule of Horace, • Nec deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus.' • I would have (he fays) these bold attempts never employed, except when they serve at the ' same time to add to the intrigue and the terror of the piece; and I would wish by all means ⚫ that the intervention of these supernatural beings should not appear absolutely necessary. I • will explain myself: if the plot of a tragic poem is so involved in difficulty, that the poet can • only free himself from the embarrassment by the aid of a prodigy, the spectator will perceive • the distress of the author and the weakness of the resource.' DISSERTATION ON TRAGEDY PREFIXED TO SEMIRAMIS. • other
، ، ⚫ other is really an efficient person of the drama, in whose fate we are interested; he excites not only terror, but compaffion also. ، This has probably arisen from the different manner in which these two authors have confidered the general notion of apparitions. Voltaire has regarded the appearance of a dead person as a miracle, and Shakespear as a natural event. Which of the two thought most as a philosopher is a question that we have nothing at all to do with; but the Englishman thought most as a poet.' DRAMATURGIE, Part I. page 39, et seq. ، After all, though there is great truth in much that is here advanced, I do not think an English audience would now endure a ghost from a modern hand, however well executed. That we have still belief in apparitions sufficient for dramatic effect, is obvious from the reception of Shakespear's Ghosts. But we require that the poet should have rather a stronger credulity. This is illustrated by the comparison between the faith of Shakespear and Voltaire in the concluding paragraph of the quotation. Every modern poet must be in the predicament of the 1atter. There is very nearly the fame distinction between the machinery of Homer [K] and Virgil. An instance perhaps of the marvellous pushed too far, may be drawn from Dryden's Edipus. I have read fomewhere, that on the revival of that tragedy, the audience were disgusted with the variety of prodigies, and the ghost of Laius with his numerous attendants. Brumoy, (Vol. I. page 393) speaking of Seneca's Edipus, fays, Creon makes a more [K] See note I, chap. xxiv. ' than
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. ⚫ than infernal description of the prodigies he had feen.' And Dryden in the preface to his tragedy, prides himself for bringing that before the audience which Seneca had only described. Perhaps he chose here to enter the lifts with Shakespear. It would have been more conducive to his reputation, if he had recollected his own words in the prologue to his Tempest, where he tried to imitate and add to the machinery of a play, which was in every respect inimitable. • But Shakespear's magic could not copied be; • Within that circle none durst walk but he.' We have lately seen an attempt of the fame kind by a person of the highest eminence in a fister art, whose recent loss is justly an object of national concern. I mean the fiend at the head of the dying Cardinal in the celebrated picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds, in the Shakespear gallery.
14.2.
mvp-aristotle-comment-47
14.10
IT NOT BEING ALLOWABLE TO ALTER ESSENTIALLY STORIES THAT HAVE BEEN GENERALLY RECEIVED, BUT, FOR EXAMPLE, CLYTEMNESTRA MUST BE KILLED BY ORESTES, AND ERIPHYLE BY ALCMEON; IT IS THE DUTY OF THE POET TO FIND OUT SUCH TRADITIONAL STORIES, AND EMPLOY THEM SKILFULLY.
TO explain clearly my notion of the spirit of this precept, it will be necessary to give some degree of paraphrafe. The critic has decided on what incidents, and between what persons, the force of the passions of pity and terror should be founded. But he then adds, that it not being allowable
allowable for the poet to alter the essential circumstances of known stories, he ought to feek out for such historical events as furnish those tragical incidents; and having found them, to employ and arrange the circumstances in such a manner, as to give them the greatest force on the feelings of the audience. There are three opinions on the meaning of the phrafe in the original, Αυθὸν δὲ ἑυρίσκειν δεῖ. καὶ τοις παραδεδομένοις χρῆσθαι καλῶς. The most general is, that it directs the poet to invent new fables himself, like the [L] Anthos of Agathon, and arrange the circumstances of traditional stories properly; another is, that the poet should find out new historical subjects; and the third, that he should find out new stories, making a proper use of fables already received, which is that adopted by Dacier, but seems to me wrong as to the last part of the fentence. In my former edition I had followed the first interpretation. But the [M] arguments of Mr. Twining, to which I refer the critical reader, are so convincing in favor of the second, though he has admitted the first into the text of his tranflation, that I have followed him without hefitation. This argument seems confirmed also by what Aristotle says in the last chapter, and repeats again in this, of the scarcity of proper dramatic fubjects. On which account, it may justly be confidered as the duty of the poet to feek diligently for fables which afford fuch incidents.. I cannot however agree with Mr. Twining, in thinking that ἑυρίσκειν is obviously opposed to τοις παραδεδομένοις χρῆσθαι. If that were the cafe, I should be still inclined to adhere to the first tranflation.; but I think it [L] See chap. Ix.. [M] See his note civ.. cannot.
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. cannot be justified without altering the conjunction καὶ, which, taking in the sense of the whole passage, seems to connect and not diftinguish the [N] finding of the fable, and the employment of its circumstances when found. Among all the editors and commentators who have written on Shakefpear's Hamlet, and who have traced its fource in an old novel, founded on an event recorded by Saxo Grammaticus, I am furprized that no one has noticed the striking resemblance between Hamlet and Orestes. But though this has not been remarked by his countrymen, it has not escaped the observation of a French critic. It appears from a letter of the Abbé Le Blanc, to the French dramatic poet Crebillon [o], that the Abbé Prevot has written a comparison between the tragedies of Electra and Hamlet, in which he commends the English poet because wiser than Sophocles, he forbids young Hamlet, by the apparition of the ghost, to attempt any thing against his mother's life.' And Le Blanc himself was so much struck with the resemblance as to say, he is 'inclined to ⚫ think the likeness between the tragedy of Hamlet, and the Greek one • of Electra, is not the mere effect of chance, but that we may eafily • discover the perfon of Oreftes in Hamlet, which Shakespear has ac- [N] The English translators of Aristotle and other Greek writers, have frequently been drawn into error by the Latin word for ἑυρίσκω. INVENIO. of which the English word, IN- VENT, though its derivative, is by no means the proper tranflation. Ποιέω signifies to invent in the sense which is here supposed, and is universally used for it in this work, and its proper Latin translation is FINGO. But though Ariftotle's precepts here, as well as the examples with which he illuftrates them are drawn from received fables, they apply equally to those which are the pure invention of the poet. [o] See Letters on the English and French Nations, Let. LIX. commodated
• commodated to his own manner of writing.' There certainly are more circumstances of co-incidence between the stories of Hamlet and Orestes, than can well be refolved into accident. As the monarch being killed by a brother in one, a coufin german in the other, who possesses his wife and ufurps his throne; the fon robbed of his right, his life treacheroufly attempted, and himself urged to vengeance by supernatural means; the friendship of Hamlet for Horatio, and Orestes for Pylades, both of whom by the way are cyphers in the action, and even the madness of Hamlet when joined with the other circumstances. And here I must remark, that the advantage of Shakespear over Sophocles, allowed by the French critic, arofe from the former not being fettered by this precept of Aristotle; and being at liberty to free his chief character from the horrid crime of matricide, without altering an essential incident of a well-known history.
14.3.
mvp-aristotle-comment-48
14.11
I WILL EXPLAIN MORE CLEARLY WHAT I MEAN BY SKILFULLY.
THOUGH Aristotle is here laying down rules for giving the best arrangement to those leading circumstances in received or traditional stories, which the poet is not allowed to alter, it is obfervable, that of all the examples he gives, the story of Alcmæon and Eriphyle is the only one in which the manner of the event, as well as the event itself, is not according to received opinion. Medea is always supposed to destroy her children knowingly, and the incest and parricide of Edipus to be involuntary, and so of the reft.. NOTE
14.4.
mvp-aristotle-comment-49
14.15
AND THERE IS NO OTHER METHOD EXCEPT THESE, FOR A PER- SON MUST EITHER ACT, OR NOT ACT, AND MUST EITHER KNOW, OR BE IGNORANT OF, THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE ACTION.
OF these methods, according to the opinion of Aristotle, at least as delivered in this chapter, the following is the order in point of merit, beginning according to his usual custom with the lowest degree. First, for the character to meditate some atrocious crime, perfectly acquainted with its consequence and the relation which the object of it bears to him, and to desist from the perpetration of it from a change of sentiment. The example Aristotle brings of this is the intention of Hæmon to kill his father in the Antigone of Sophocles... The Love Triumphant of Dryden furnishes a modern instance. The catastrophe of As You Like It, depends on the ufurper changing his purpose.. Secondly, for a character in the same predicament to execute the purpose. Medea is the example of Aristotle. We may produce Othello and Macbeth. Thirdly, for a character to perform some terrible action ignorant of the consequence, and the relation of the object, and to make the discovery afterwards; of this Edipus and the Orphan are examples. Fourthly,
Fourthly, for a character, in the fame circumstance with the last, to discover the consequence and the relation before the purpose is executed. Of this Merope will ferve both for an ancient and modern example. Dryden's Conquest of Granada furnishes another. Discovery of persons is not so often the hinge on which the modern drama turns, as discovery of innocence or other circumstances. In which cafe the first and last species will be often blended. (P) Othello will be removed from the second to the third class, which will also comprehend Zara [2]. Having stated these different forms, it remains to examine how far Aristotle appears right as to the respective rank in which he classes them according to their comparative excellence, and particularly to enquire how far he is justified in the fevere sentence he passes on the first; and how the preference he appears to give the last can be reconciled with the opinion he delivers as to tragedy, in the preceding chapter. In doing this, I shall endeavour as much as I am able, to keep the observations on the respective forms separate. Though from the neceffity of comparing them with each other, it will be impoffible sometimes to avoid blending them. In regard to the first arrangement; its only difference from the second arifes from the want of the pathos, the actual suffering of fome person, [P] For want of a circumstance of this fort the fable of Medea is infinitely more shocking, and less interesting than that of Othello. The discovery of Iago's villainy, and Desdemona's innocence, are affecting in the highest degree. [Q] When the first and second species have no discovery whatever, they will of course remain as classed by Ariftotle. which
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. which Aristotle thinks so necessary for tragedy; and the decision of Aristotle in this place, makes his preference of such tragedies as Merope still more wonderful; since this mode has exactly the same difference from the second that the fourth has from the third; for the improbability of the change of fentiment, on which something might be faid, is not what Ariftotle censures, but the want of (R) effect, because no perfon fuffers. In the tragedy of Macbeth, the first and second modes are mixed. Macbeth and his wife are both acquainted with their relation to Duncan,, by the joint ties of blood, of gratitude, of allegiance, and of hofpitality. The former executes the act, while Lady Macbeth on the point of doing it defifts, because as she says, he ' resembled her father as he fslept.' This stroke has been frequently admired, as marking the natural tenderness and sympathy of the female fex in action, even when capable of urging another to the most atrocious deeds of cruelty. [s] Metastasio approves this first arrangement as giving the strongest powers of marking and concluding the struggle between the various contending suggestions of love, of reason, of manners, and of despair, by an act of fuicide; and he draws his example from the same source with Aristotle, the Antigone of Sophocles. If Hæmon, worked up to the highest degree of frenzy, by the struggle between conjugal love and [R] Ου τραγικὸν, απαθὲς γὰρ.. [s] ESTRATTO DELLA POETICA, page 272. The reader who wishes to compare this with Metastasio, will observe, that he enumerates the forms according to their merit, while I have followed the order of Aristotle. parental
parental cruelty, on the point (T) of plunging his sword into the bosom of his father, had turned it against his own; he observes, and justly, that in such an arrangement the paffions of pity and terror would be strongly excited, and the indispensable (u) Ariftotelian pathos, the perturbation arifing from the fight of wounds, and death, still preserved. But this production of pity and terror, arifing from a struggle between remorse and paffion as to the commiffion of an atrocious crime, and terminating in the resolution of committing it, whether fuch resolution is actually carried into execution or not, is branded by Aristotle with the epithet of [x] disgustful. Corneille is of a different opinion from Ariftotle as to this. He allows indeed the theatrical effect which attends the discovery incident to the third and fourth modes, and especially the fourth, to be particularly striking; and that the incident in Merope (of which I shall speak more at large presently) is the most affecting that can be imagined. But he adds, all this beauty is confined to the single moment of the discovery; ' that is to fay, the end of the drama (v); throughout the whole course ' of which the principal character remains in the same situation of [T] I do not recollect such an incident in any regular modern drama; but there is something like it in an anomalous dramatic poem of Lord Lansdowne's, called the British Enchanters, where Conftantius in despair, catches his favored rival by the throat, and is on the point of stabbing him, till recollecting the distress it will bring on his mistress, he exclaims, • But for Oriana's fake 'tis better here,' and instantly kills himself. [U] 'Patos Ariftotelico." [*] μιαρόν. [x] Which by the way is not the cafe in the modern tragedies of Merope. • wishing
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. • wishing to kill a person neither connected by friendship or confanguinity. A fituation not tragical, according to Ariftotle himself. From • whence the poet can find no opportunity of agitating the paffions. But on the contrary in the other cafe, (that of Medea) where an atrocious • deed is knowingly purposed and executed; the continual agitation of ⚫ the principal character always fluctuating between love and rage, be- ، tween the defire of vengeance and the horror of the deed, will not be • confined to the catastrophe but will pervade the whole tragedy. Since • the causes which lead by degrees to the conception of so horrid a design, the repugnancy of natural affection, the passions of rage and * tenderness that must alternately prevail, will furnish the poet with ample materials for shewing his principal character in situations always new, always violent, and always perplexing, till the last impulfe that • finally fixes his resolution.' It is impoffible to avoid feeing the truth and justice of these remarks. Why then should Aristotle call this arrangement disgustful? Perhaps we may trace the cause in the nature of the ancient theatre, which, rather calculated to represent [z] action than paffion, was ill qualified for the exhibition of this struggle between those contending sensations, which could not, in cases of extreme guilt especially, be opened at large in the prefence of a chorus [A], and therefore the criminal intent appears to the audience in all its horrors, without any alleviating circumstance. [z] See Note VII, Chap. XIII. [A] In the Medea of Euripides, the chorus argue strongly with her on her unnatural defign. The struggle in her own bosom is drawn in much fainter colors; and her fixed resolution in fo horrid a design is well calculated to excite the disgust mentioned by Ariftotle. Pp In
In this point, that is in the continuation of the interest arifing from contending and contradictory passions, the first and second modes exactly agree. It remains to examine the catastrophe in which they differ. The prevention of the perpetration of a horrid crime by suicide, as proposed by Metaftafio [B], would certainly have a good theatrical effect, but it does not exactly come under the censure that Ariftotle gives to the catastrophe occafioned by the change of mind only, without any positive action, and therefore is not an answer to it. When in the course of the struggle, reason alone preponderates againft paffion, and the character desists from acting, merely from reflection, the conflict will either not appear to be carried to the highest pitch, or the change of purpose will seem to want a fufficient cause [c]; for if it happens from any extraneous cause whatever, apparently adequate to work such a change, it will have all the effect of a discovery, and the species will be changed from the first to the fourth. [B] Racine has managed this matter in a very extraordinary mode in his tragedy of the Thebaide. Creon and his fon are rivals for the affections of Antigone. Hæmon is killed in trying to feparate Eteocles and Polynices, who, as is well known, fell each by the other's fword in fingle combat; and Creon finding his rivals, both in love and ambition, removed by the death of his fon and his kinsmen, offers his hand and his throne to Antigone, who chose rather to facrifice her life to the memory of her lover and her brothers. On which Creon, after having called on heaven to deftroy him with a thunder bolt, faints away in the arms of his guards; reminding us a little of Kitty's speech in THE WHAT D'YE CALL IT. • Lead me to bed and there I'll moan and weep, < And close these weary eyes in death or fleep.' [c] It must be acknowledged that the story of Coriolanus, which is certainly a very good one for a tragedy, depends on a change of resolution; and the fame may be faid of Dryden's Love Triumphant, on the catastrophe of which he prided himself, and which is really a good But in both these cases, the change of resolution is occafioned by conclusive reasoning and earnest resolution: the combat is violent, and the victory gradual. one. • A French
A French poet, M. de Longe Pierre, has chosen to give this arrangement to the story of Medea, whom he has represented on the • very point of murdering her infants; but at the instant she is going to facrifice them to her vengeance, her tenderness revives, the dagger • falls from her hands, she is not able to perpetrate the crime she • had meditated, which occafioned a surprise as lively as it was unexpected.' I have quoted this from the work of an anonymous French writer, entitled PRINCIPES POUR LA LECTURE DES POETES. If the French poet has taken this liberty with the fable of Medea, and transferred it from the second species to the first, an eminent writer of our own has chosen to give the fable of Edipus, or at least the most disgusting, if not the most tragic part of it, with heightened circumstances and another name, the form of an intentional perpetration. I mean the printed, though unpublished tragedy, of the MYSTERIOUS MOTHER. If as Ariftotle, and after him Horace affert, the poet to affect others must put himself into the situation of his character, one would wonder how such a work could be [D] the production of the elegant and humane author to whom it is ascribed. I cannot however here avoid the mention of one of the finest possible dramatic effects that it contains; which though a natural event, has all the force and the appearance of a ma- [D] One of the reasons given by Plato in his Republic, 1. III. for banishing the poets from his commonwealth is, because from putting themselves often in the situations of vicious men, whose sentiments they want to express, they will in time be apt to acquire those manners which they are so often in the habit of imitating. I believe this observation is more ingenious than true. Nothing is more common than to see the poetical and natural character of the fame person perfectly at variance with each other. The gloomy genius of Young's muse was not confined to his Night Thoughts, it is strongly to be traced through all his tragedies; and yet he is faid to have been a very chearful man, and to have actually been the first to fet on foot an affembly at Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, where he resided.
chine. I mean when the priest is opening to his colleague his horrid scheme, and his determination to perfift in it, the fudden interruption by a voice from within crying, Forbear!' which strikes even such a character with horror, till the repetition of it shews both him and the spectators, that it is only the first word of a choral hymn, sung behind the scenes. As the first and fecond modes are exactly alike in the course of the fable, fo are the third and fourth, and only diftinguished by the cataftrophe. The principal observations therefore as to the comparative merit of these forms must relate to the catastrophe, which will neceffa-- rily involve in them those circumstances in which they agree. The first thing that strikes us here is the seeming contradiction in the opinion of the critic, who apparently gives the preference, and that in a very strong expreffion, to that catastrophe which feems only to differ from the other in terminating in happiness instead of distress. His opinion on that point has not only been decidedly given in the preceding chapter, but even in this; for he does not blame the catastrophe in the first form because it is brought about by improbable means, but because. it is not tragical.. Many have been the labors of critics, and translators, to clear up this point, and reconcile the opposite doctrines. But I own I think none of them fatisfactory. Some of these I shall state which appear the most plausible, at the fame time mentioning my own objections to them. But while I confefs this general dissatisfaction, as to all that the searches of others, or my own reason can suggest on this subject, my opinion is inclined to that of M. Leffing, though. I do not entirely subscribe to his
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. his solution of the difficulty. That ingenious and candid critic, after mentioning a fellow-countryman, Mr. Curtius, who declares it to be his idea that Ariftotle has not treated this article with his usual exactness, proceeds thus: ' I own this does not appear probable to me. A • writer like Aristotle is scarcely liable to fuch flagrant contradiction; • when therefore I find the appearance of it in the works of such a man, • I distrust my own judgment rather than his. I redouble my attention; • I read the passage ten times; and I am not able to perfuade myself he * can have contradicted what he has formerly afferted till after I have • examined, through all the combination of his system, how and on what account he could be drawn into that contradiction; and if I do not • find any thing that gave rise to it, and which must in some measure ' have rendered it inevitable, I am convinced it is only apparent, for * otherwise it must have occurred to Aristotle, who had fo often exa- ' mined his matter with more attention than I can possibly have done, • who enter newly on the subject and chuse him for my guide [E].' Just as this reasoning is in general, it is not however absolutely conclufive, and especially the last sentence. Though a man must know his own meaning better than another, it does not follow that he shall have formed a regular chain of causes and confequences in a [F] hasty sketch, which I conceive this piece to be, and not a finished work. Or even if it was, who has ever yet formed a compofition in which it is impoffible for criticism to find a fingle inaccuracy? On this ground we may fuppose, (I hazard it merely as a conjecture,) that the philosopher who has mentioned the [G] intent to kill as equivalent to the actual execution of that intent, in examining the subject farther, and being inquisitive after [E] Dramaturgie, Part 1. page 178.. [c] Ἢ ἀποκτείνη ἢ μέλλη.. [F] See preface.. truth,
A COMMENTARY ON THE CHAP. XIV. truth, and not supporting an hypothesis, without confidering exactly what he had faid before, might be led to remark, that if the tragic effect was carried to the greatest height, and the distressful catastrophe seemed inevitable, it was better to avoid the commiffion of a deed too [H] shocking for representation, even through ignorance of the relation, though the consequence should be, a catastrophe accompanied by a change from mifery to happiness. This in fact, had the treatife been compleat, might have been so explained as to have been no contradiction to his former decifion; for it by no means follows that what is in general preferable must absolutely and invariably be so in every cafe, and under all poffible circumstances [1]. M. Batteux tries to vindicate Aristotle on the supposition that he does not mean the best manner in general, but the best of these four modes; forgetting that he has faid there are no other modes except these four, and that he is pointing out the best way of conducting properly a tragic fable. Dacier takes up partly the same idea, that Aristotle is not speaking of fable in general, but only giving directions how to manage atrocious [Η] τι τῶν ἀνηκέςων. [1] See Mr. Twining's note 106, who defends Aristotle exactly on this principle, supposing him to say, When the circumstances of the traditional story from which the poet takes his < plot, are such as leave him only the alternative either of disgusting and shocking the spec- › tator, or of gratifying his wishes, the latter is clearly to be preferred, and the διπλῆ σύςασις › to which I affigned the second place, will in that particular case deserve the first. But is not this idea both of Mr. Twining and myself rather a justification of Ariftotle's supposed opinion in this place than a reconciliation of it with his former decifion, since he is certainly speaking of the general construction of tragic fable, and not of particular exceptions ? actions
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. actions properly, without changing the essential part of the fable. When, for instance, the murder of Clytemnestra by Orestes is fixed on for the subject of a tragedy, we should examine which arrangement would fuit it best. The first will not fuit it as being too atrocious and efssentially altering the story; the second, (which is the real fact by the way, and which the three (K) Greek tragic poets that remain to us have adopted) will be too horrible; the fourth would entirely destroy the received fable; therefore the third only remains. But would not the fable be equally destroyed by this; and is it not an essential part of the story that Orestes does not kill his mother by accident, but to revenge his father's death? It is true such an alteration is faid to be made in the tragedy of Eriphyle, but as we have no circumstantial account of that story, or do not know with what variation it may have been related, or have any remains of the tragedy, we can only say that it does not feem to fall exactly under the fame predicament with the story of Orestes and Clytemnestra, which is recorded by Homer (L) as well as the three principal ornaments of the Grecian tragic drama. It would however have been on this account a much better example for Dacier to have chosen. M. Lessing, immediately after the passage I have quoted from him, undertakes the defence of Aristotle on another ground. He argues that the affecting part of the tragedy arifing from peripetía and discovery are distinct things from the catastrophe, and that they often happen prior to it: as, for instance, in the fourth act of the Edipus: as alfo in the Iphigenia in Tauris of Euripides, and the very tragedy he is criticising, [K] In the Choephori of Æschylus, and the Electra of Euripides and Sophocles. [L] Homer does indeed mention Eriphyle, but in a very cursory manner. the
the Merope of Voltaire and Maffei. M. Lessing then adds, That it ' is easy to shew in the fubject of Merope itself, how perfectly it is ، poffible in the fame fable to combine the most tragical [M] peripetía with the most tragical pathos. We find indeed the last, but what * hinders us also from having the first? Suppose, for example, after having discovered her fon before the killed him, she had occafioned • afterwards either his death, or her own, by her zeal to protect him against Polyphontes. Why might not this piece terminate as well by • the death of the mother as of the tyrant? Why might not the poet * be permitted to carry our pity for a most affectionate mother to the < highest degree, and then make her perish through that very affection, or to cause the son to fall by the artifice of the tyrant after having escaped the vengeance of his mother? Would not fuch a Merope unite ⚫ in effect the two properties of the best form of tragedy which the • critics have found so contradictory? As to the former part of the question the answer is obvious. That the discovery of the son in Merope, and the brother in Iphigenia in Tauris comprehends peripetía as well as pathos there cannot be a doubt. And a poet may, if he pleases, introduce two or ten peripetías in the course of his drama, alternately counteracting the effect of each other. But that after giving a very strong and pathetic peripetía tending to happiness, the addition of a distressful catastrophe would unite two beauties supposed to be incompatible, is so far from the cafe that it must destroy the effect of both. It is indeed an arrange- [M] It is a bold step to render κράτισος, by most tragical. In the use of this word, as in many others, the figurative sense is more familiar than the direct one; most tragical is not fynonymous with beft fitted for tragedy. Were I to say the pathos of Merope is more according to the proper rule of tragedy than Edipus, but the catastrophe is not fo tragical, I think the diftinct meaning of each would be clearly understood, however improper it might be to oppose them to each other in the same sentence. ment
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. ment of fable that I believe no poet has ever yet attempted, and which I believe, if it were attempted, no audience would endure. As to the new catastrophe proposed for Merope, (which if Euripides had chofen it for his Cresphontes would have been directly in oppofition to the rule of Aristotle, as to deviating from received fables,) it is exactly that of Douglas, who absolutely perishes from his mother's too earnest anxiety for his preservation; but there is no previous happy peripetía. Lady Randolph's finding a son she imagined had perished when an infant by accident is nothing like the circumstance in Merope. As for the discovery and peripetía in [N] the Œdipus fo long before the cataftrophe, it has all the weight that an error in a great writer ought to have in justifying fucceeding poets for copying his blemishes, if they are not able to imitate his excellencies. It must be remembered [o] also that Ariftotle recommends that species of tragedy where the peripetía and discovery are united, and that he expressly says the discovery is a transition from ignorance to knowledge, producing either friendship or hatred, in the characters as they are designed for happiness or misery; that is, in other words, occafioning the catastrophe. In the Iphigenia in Tauris indeed, the difficulty and distress continue after the discovery as they do in the modern tragedies of Merope. Of the Helle we know nothing. But I cannot be perfuaded that the scene in Merope of Euripides, the effect of which is so highly spoken of, could be in any other place than the catastrophe. M. Lessing is very fevere on Voltaire for his misrepresentation of Aristotle in his epistle to Maffei, wherein he asserts that the philosopher [N] See Note 1. Chap. VII. [o] See Poetic, Chap. xx. • does
• does not fcruple to call the recognition of Merope and her fon the • most interesting moment of the Greek scene.' Here Voltaire has undoubtedly been guilty of a mistake, either wilfully or accidentally. Ariftotle says no such thing. But that it was highly interesting indeed, we have the authority of Plutarch, who must have been a better judge than any modern can poffibly be. Behold,' he says, ' Merope in the ، tragedy, lifting the axe over her fon as fuppofing him the murderer of • that fon, and saying, " This arm to thee a juster wound shall give." • What a confusion it occasions among the audience, who start up ⚫ through terror and anxiety, lest she should anticipate the arrival of the • old man and strike the youth [P].' Such was exactly what I felt the first time I saw the representation of King Lear, the alteration of which I had never previously read. Why Maffei and Voltaire, who were at liberty to have acted as they pleased in this respect, chose to infert this interesting scene in the middle of the piece rather than in the catastrophe, I cannot determine. It could not be from any difficulty in arranging the mode. It appears from Plutarch that Merope is going to destroy her fon with an axe, and with an axe of facrifice Voltaire makes the tyrant fall at the altar'; the two events therefore of the discovery of the young man and the death of Polyphontes, might have happened almost at the fame moment. Perhaps the choice of the plan they adopted was influenced by a defire of imitating the arrangement of Aristotle's other example, the Iphigenia in Tauris. But without applying to authority our own feelings will con- [P] Plutarch Περί Σαρκοφ. vince
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. vince us the effect of the two scenes must be very different in point of interest. We can never be affected in the same manner by a virgin priestess, who is in the habit of facrificing innocent strangers to Diana, and a mother frantic to revenge the death of a beloved fon on his supposed murderer. Perhaps we may impute this to another cause, the difficulty of keeping up through five acts, an interest in a situation so little affecting as the wish to kill a supposed criminal, neither connected by friendship or blood. But the poet might have supplied this, and made the agitation of the spectator compenfate for the deficiency of it in the character, by informing him of the real connection of Merope and the young man, which must obviously have been the case in the Greek tragedy mentioned by Plutarch. It is true when the discovery is made at the fame time to the spectator and the character, the impreffion on the feelings is greatly increased; but the effect of fuch a discovery is weakened after the first representation [Q]. ، The discovery of Ion in a tragedy of Euripides, imitated by Mr. Whitehead in his Creusa, seems to me in the original, the most perfectly affecting and surprising of any extant, either ancient or modern. To use the words of the Jesuit Poree, which I cite from Mr. Mason's Life of Whitehead, prefixed to the third volume of his works.. In spite of all the faults either real or apparent that may be found in this piece, nothing can be conceived more perfectly theatrical than the representation of a mother on the point of killing her unknown fon, ⚫ and at the fame time of dying unknown by his hands, when at the ، [Q] See Dramaturgie, Part. 1. p. and Note vI. Chap. xvI. and Note 11. Chap. x1. • fame
* same time this double project of parricide serves to restore the fon to * his mother and the mother to her fon.' Perfectly agreeing as I do with Mr. Mason in applauding the great skill of the English poet in the general improvement he has made of this tragedy in his Creusa, I must with him with he had not deviated so much from Euripides in the cataftrophe, to which I suppose he was induced by a defire to adhere to the precept of Aristotle laid down in the last chapter, and to render more tragical that poet whom he had declared the most tragical of the Greek dramatic writers. On examining this passage and the context with attention, we may poffibly find at last that every attempt to reconcile Aristotle with his own reasoning even here, is perfectly impossible, supposing him really to give the preference to the last arrangement. It will be in vain to excuse such a preference on any partial ground, such as that though it might not be the best general form, it may become so in certain instances, or in some particular parts of the drama. Since he declares it not to be so when compared with the other forms, on those very principles from which he decides on their merit; and that not in a different part of the work but in this identical place. The first form he totally rejects because disgustful from the atrocious design, and yet not productive of tragic effect as no one fuffers. Why he gives the preference over this to the next he does not mention, but the reason is clear, for though he cenfures it on account of the disgust arifing from the atrociousness of the design, it has yet the tragic effect he requires. The third species he tells us in express terms is free from the disgust occafioned by a wilful criminal intent, and besides this will have the interest arifing from an unexpected discovery, which is an advantage the other two do not possess. But besides this advantage over the other two it will poffefs the
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. the tragic effect of the second. The last mode will possess the radical advantage of avoiding the criminal intent, and the adventitious one of the unexpected discovery. But it will be deficient in the radical advantage of producing tragic effect from personal suffering, which he is here infifting on, and in which the third mode is not deficient; and therefore Ariftotle cannot give the preference to the fourth mode without forsaking the very ground on which he is absolutely then arguing. But let us go a little back. When Ariftotle first explains what he means by a skilful arrangement of the fable he names only two modes. The most obvious one, and what was generally practised by the older writers, was the simple perpetration of some great crime, not indeed through radical depravity but through paffion, knowing the situation of the persons who were the objects of it; like the Medea of Euripides. To this however has been discovered an improvement which will obviate any disgust arifing from the intentional crime, by making the character ignorant of the connexion of the person who is the object of his vengeance with himself. He now recollects a third mode besides, but which seems to be only suggested by his mention of the other two, as that which he absolutely condemns appears to be brought to his mind by the enumeration of the four only possible forms which arifes from the cafual recollection of this. If these obfervations are right how shall we justify the approbation that Ariftotle gives to the last mode? But has he given fuch approbation? It will be a little fingular if after the censure M. Lessing has bestowed on Voltaire with no niggardly hand, for the hyperbolical eulogium he bestows on this scene in Merope, that the pen of the French poet,
poet [R], like the random pencil of Apelles, should have at once done what so much skill and pains had been in vain employed to do, and that he should have given, though with fome exaggeration indeed, the true meaning of Aristotle, which at once folves every difficulty, and restores the confiftency of his theatrical doctrine. Let us confider the force of the word κράτιςος, and its fituation here. The primary sense of this word, as given by all the lexicographers, as confirmed by a thousand passages from ancient writers, and in conformity to its derivation, is [s] MOST POWERFUL. Why the commentators and translators have universally chosen to give it here the general sense of BEST I can fee no cause but from its immediately following Βέλτιον, the very reason as I should conceive that would have made against that sense of the word. For I believe it is very unusual in comparison of adjectives to mention one word in the positive, another in the comparative, and another in the superlative degree, yet all in the same sense. Stephens in his Lexicon, on the word κράτιςος, after giving many instances of its fignifying MOST STRONG and MOST POWERFUL, adds, 'that it is • sometimes more conveniently rendered by BEST, even in some of the places that he has cited.' The same thing may certainly be said of MOST STRONG or MOST POWERFUL, in our own language, or of FOR- TISSIMUS or VALIDISSIMUS, or VIRIBUS PRÆSTANS, in Latin; but I do not think they could well be confidered as the proper superlative of BETTER or MELIOR. Were I to say such a thing is better than another, but a third has the strongest effect, the superlative strongest (R) I imagine Voltaire was no Greek scholar.. S [s] I have in this edition of my translation ventured to tranflate it, having the most • powerful effect. must
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. must be taken generally as far as that particular quality goes, and not as the superlative of better; though if strength of effect were the quality on which the merit of the subject depended, it would certainly imply it. The fame will hold in Latin. • Melius eft ignarum feciffe, factumque agnoviffe, fortiffimum vero, poftremum.' Could there be in this case any reason for supposing FORTISSIMUM could poffibly be confidered as the superlative of MELIUS? It seems very natural for Aristotle, after having mentioned the two modes he most approved as having the proper pathos in the catastrophe, and given the preference to the latter as avoiding a fault incident to the former, the wilful perfeverance in an atrocious crime, knowing it to be so, and possessing besides a striking discovery, to reflect on the instant that one of the forms he had been condemning possessed this last in a more extraordinary manner, as being capable of producing the strongest dramatic effect poffible, which is by no means an hyperbolical tranflation of κράτιςος, supposing it to be applied in this manner. Surely then there is no inconfistency in relating a fact, however it may make against his own hypothesis, and that it must have been a fact is obvious. Ariftotle in the last chapter shews the great predilection of an Athenian audience for the happy catastrophe: and Plutarch bears a strong teftimony to the effect of the scene between Merope and her fon; and our own feelings will justify this. There is also another reason befides the gratification of our feelings why the happy discovery and peripetía must be more striking than the unhappy one. The reverfe of fortune must be foreseen, or at least suspected in the tragedy ending in distress, or the body of the drama must be deficient both in incident and interest: but the more the tragedy of the other form is filled with distress, the more imminent and inevitable
inevitable the fatal conclufion appears; the stronger will the tragic effect be throughout the course of the drama, and the force of the peripetía and discovery more violent in proportion as they are unexpected and fudden; and they cannot be too much so if they do not exceed the bounds of probability. I do not recollect any tragedy ending unhappily in which the peripetía is not either misery added to former fuffering, or the accomplishment of the expectation of it; as in the Edipus, the Fatal Marriage, and Douglas. I have already mentioned the effect of the scene. in Tate's King Lear. Shakespear tried to create a peripetía of an oppofite kind, by raising our expectation of both Cordelia and Lear's safety through. the interference of the dying Edmund. Perhaps this example may give a full explanation of Ariftotle's use of κράτιςος. We will suppose him reasoning on the alteration of Shakespear's Lear with all his prejudice in favour of the unhappy catastrophe. • I will allow,' he might say,' that Tate, though an inferior poet, has by a small and probable change • introduced a most striking and affecting situation; we are at once • anxious for the event, and delighted with its accomplishment; it is • the strongest, the most violent stroke of theatrical effect I know; I ⚫ do not hesitate to say it is the most interesting moment of the English ، ، ، stage; but it is not tragic; it does not possess that pathos, those means of exciting pity and terror, which are the proper objects of the tragic drama.. We do not expect from tragedy the pleasure arifing from • furprize, and affecting situation, which are momentary, but to have our paffions excited, and at the fame time softened by continual and lasting impreffions of terror and distress; and every fort of pleasure is not to • be expected from tragedy, but only that which is proper and peculiar • to itself.' Perhaps
POETIC OF ARISTOTLE. Perhaps the reader, who recollects what I have faid on this subject in [T] another place, may think I am defending Aristotle's consistency at the expence of my own. But he will observe I am delivering what I think would be his opinion, and not mine. I must acknowledge that I owe the first hint of this solution to the [u] Cambridge edition of the Poetic, Mr. Cooke having rendered Κράτισον, • Quod maximè valet.' And he has the following note on the passage. What, is that the best form of action which he mentions ، • last, and is the structure of the fable in Cresphontes to be preferred to Edipus? Can Aristotle dissent so much from himself? Or rather do ⚫ the interpreters of Aristotle dissent so much both from him and from ' truth? Let them recollect that third form, which he connects with • the preceding ones by these words ἔτι δὲ, as if doubting whether he • should mention them at all, as unfit for tragedy though adapted to the popular tafte. For such is the force of this word Κράτιςον. ὁ κράτει ὁ νικᾶ, For the vulgar indeed applaud that structure of HAS THE VOGUE. • fable for the causes already given. The action of Cresphontes, con- [T] See Note VII. Chap. XIII. [U] In the same volume Mr. Cooke has given a very elegant and classical Greek version of Gray's Elegy. I will however take the liberty of pointing out one fault. The first line, is rendered The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,' Νυξ πέλει, ἐδ᾽ ἀν᾿ ἀγρὼς πυρὰ καίεζαι ἐδ᾽ ἀνὰ κώμας. Now though this extinction of fire is faid to have been the etymology of Curfew, it is by no means the consequence of it now, or is the idea at all intended to be conveyed either by Gray, or by Milton in the Il Penseroso, but merely the found of the evening bell. See Chap. xx. Rr cerning
cerning which Plutarch has handed down a pleasant fable, is deftitute * of all tragic force because it wants pathos.' I have ventured to give Κράτιςον a much stronger meaning. Indeed I do not recollect such a use of the word as Mr. Cooke suggests; but if I did I should prefer the other, as I think Aristotle must have allowed the discovery in Cresphontes to be forcible, as well as fashionable; neither would he, nor does he, treat the opinion of an Athenian audience as the sentiments of the vulgar. Nor can I fee why an illustration of a moral effect, in a grave treatise by Plutarch, drawn most probably from a very familiar, and certainly a very natural example, should be confidered as a pleasant fable only. CHAP.
