No More Learning

The same remark applies to moral and religious fanaticism,
patriotism, and the love of freedom when carried up to exaltation. As
the object of these sentiments is always a pure idea, and not an external
experience, imagination with its proper activity has here a dangerous
liberty, and cannot, as elsewhere, be called back to bounds by the
presence of a visible object. But neither the man nor the poet can
withdraw from the law of nature, except to submit to that of reason. He
can only abandon reality for the ideal; for liberty must hold to one or
the other of these anchors. But it is far from the real to the ideal;
and between the two is found fancy, with its arbitrary conceits and its
unbridled freedom. It must needs be, therefore, that man in general, and
the poet in particular, when he withdraws by liberty of his understanding
from the dominion of feeling, without being moved to it by the laws of
reason--that is, when he abandons nature through pure liberty--he finds
himself freed from all law, and therefore a prey to the illusions of
phantasy.

It is testified by experience that entire nations, as well as individual
men, who have parted with the safe direction of nature, are actually in
this condition; and poets have gone astray in the same manner. The true
genius of sentimental poetry, if its aim is to raise itself to the rank
of the ideal, must overstep the limits of the existing nature; but false
genius oversteps all boundaries without any discrimination, flattering
itself with the belief that the wild sport of the imagination is poetic
inspiration. A true poetical genius can never fall into this error,
because it only abandons the real for the sake of the ideal, or, at all
events, it can only do so at certain moments when the poet forgets
himself; but his main tendencies may dispose him to extravagance within
the sphere of the senses. His example may also drive others into a chase
of wild conceptions, because readers of lively fancy and weak
understanding only remark the freedom which he takes with existing
nature, and are unable to follow him in copying the elevated necessities
of his inner being. The same difficulties beset the path of the
sentimental genius in this respect, as those which afflict the career of
a genius of the simple order. If a genius of this class carries out
every work, obedient to the free and spontaneous impulses of his nature,
the man devoid of genius who seeks to imitate him is not willing to
consider his own nature a worse guide than that of the great poet. This
accounts for the fact that masterpieces of simple poetry are commonly
followed by a host of stale and unprofitable works in print, and
masterpieces of the sentimental class by wild and fanciful effusions,--a
fact that may be easily verified on questioning the history of
literature.

Two maxims are prevalent in relation to poetry, both of them quite
correct in themselves, but mutually destructive in the way in which they
are generally conceived. The first is, that "poetry serves as a means of
amusement and recreation," and we have previously observed that this
maxim is highly favorable to aridity and platitudes in poetical actions.
The other maxim, that "poetry is conducive to the moral progress of
humanity," takes under its shelter theories and views of the most wild
and extravagant character. It may be profitable to examine more
attentively these two maxims, of which so much is heard, and which are so
often imperfectly understood and falsely applied.

We say that a thing amuses us when it makes us pass from a forced state
to the state that is natural to us. The whole question here is to know
in what our natural state ought to consist, and what a forced state
means. If our natural state is made to consist merely in the free
development of all our physical powers, in emancipation from all
constraint, it follows that every act of reason by resisting what is
sensuous, is a violence we undergo, and rest of mind combined with
physical movement will be a recreation par excellence. But if we make
our natural state consist in a limitless power of human expression and of
freely disposing of all our strength, all that divides these forces will
be a forced state, and recreation will be what brings all our nature to
harmony. Thus, the first of these ideal recreations is simply determined
by the wants of our sensuous nature; the second, by the autonomous
activity of human nature. Which of these two kinds of recreation can be
demanded of the poet? Theoretically, the question is inadmissible, as no
one would put the human ideal beneath the brutal. But in practice the
requirements of a poet have been especially directed to the sensuous
ideal, and for the most part favor, though not the esteem, for these
sorts of works is regulated thereby. Men's minds are mostly engaged in a
labor that exhausts them, or an enjoyment that sets them asleep. Now
labor makes rest a sensible want, much more imperious than that of the
moral nature; for physical nature must be satisfied before the mind can
show its requirements. On the other hand, enjoyment paralyzes the moral
instinct. Hence these two dispositions common in men are very injurious
to the feeling for true beauty, and thus very few even of the best judge
soundly in aesthetics. Beauty results from the harmony between spirit
and sense; it addresses all the faculties of man, and can only be
appreciated if a man employs fully all his strength. He must bring to it
an open sense, a broad heart, a spirit full of freshness. All a man's
nature must be on the alert, and this is not the case with those divided
by abstraction, narrowed by formulas, enervated by application. They
demand, no doubt, a material for the senses; but not to quicken, only to
suspend, thought. They ask to be freed from what? From a load that
oppressed their indolence, and not a rein that curbed their activity.

After this can one wonder at the success of mediocre talents in
aesthetics? or at the bitter anger of small minds against true energetic
beauty? They reckon on finding therein a congenial recreation, and
regret to discover that a display of strength is required to which they
are unequal. With mediocrity they are always welcome; however little
mind they bring, they want still less to exhaust the author's
inspiration. They are relieved of the load of thought; and their nature
can lull itself in beatific nothings on the soft pillow of platitude. In
the temple of Thalia and Melpomene--at least, so it is with us--the
stupid savant and the exhausted man of business are received on the broad
bosom of the goddess, where their intelligence is wrapped in a magnetic
sleep, while their sluggish senses are warmed, and their imagination with
gentle motions rocked.

Vulgar people may be excused what happens to the best capacities. Those
moments of repose demanded by nature after lengthy labor are not
favorable to aesthetic judgment, and hence in the busy classes few can
pronounce safely on matters of taste. Nothing is more common than for
scholars to make a ridiculous figure, in regard to a question of beauty,
besides cultured men of the world; and technical critics are especially
the laughing-stock of connoisseurs. Their opinion, from exaggeration,
crudeness, or carelessness guides them generally quite awry, and they can
only devise a technical judgment, and not an aesthetical one, embracing
the whole work, in which feeling should decide. If they would kindly
keep to technicalities they might still be useful, for the poet in
moments of inspiration and readers under his spell are little inclined to
consider details. But the spectacle which they afford us is only the
more ridiculous inasmuch as we see these crude natures--with whom all
labor and trouble only develop at the most a particular aptitude,--when
we see them set up their paltry individualities as the representation of
universal and complete feeling, and in the sweat of their brow pronounce
judgment on beauty.

We have just seen that the kind of recreation poetry ought to afford is
generally conceived in too restricted a manner, and only referred to a
simple sensuous want. Too much scope, however, is also given to the
other idea, the moral ennobling the poet should have in view, inasmuch as
too purely an ideal aim is assigned.

In fact, according to the pure ideal, the ennobling goes on to infinity,
because reason is not restricted to any sensuous limits, and only finds
rest in absolute perfection. Nothing can satisfy whilst a superior thing
can be conceived; it judges strictly and admits no excuses of infirmity
and finite nature. It only admits for limits those of thought, which
transcends time and space. Hence the poet could no more propose to
himself such an ideal of ennobling (traced for him by pure (didactic)
reason) any more than the coarse ideal of recreation of sensuous nature.
The aim is to free human nature from accidental hinderances, without
destroying the essential ideal of our humanity, or displacing its limits.
All beyond this is exaggeration, and a quicksand in which the poet too
easily suffers shipwreck if he mistakes the idea of nobleness. But,
unfortunately, he cannot rise to the true ideal of ennobled human nature
without going some steps beyond it. To rise so high he must abandon the
world of reality, for, like every ideal, it is only to be drawn from its
inner moral source. He does not find it in the turmoil of worldly life,
but only in his heart, and that only in calm meditation. But in this
separation from real life he is likely to lose sight of all the limits of
human nature, and seeking pure form he may easily lose himself in
arbitrary and baseless conceptions. Reason will abstract itself too much
from experience, and the practical man will not be able to carry out, in
the crush of real life, what the contemplative mind has discovered on the
peaceful path of thought. Thus, what makes a dreamy man is the very
thing that alone could have made him a sage; and the advantage for the
latter is not that he has never been a dreamer, but rather that he has
not remained one.

We must not, then, allow the workers to determine recreation according to
their wants, nor thinkers that of nobleness according to their
speculations, for fear of either a too low physical poetry, or a poetry
too given to hyperphysical exaggeration. And as these two ideas direct
most men's judgments on poetry, we must seek a class of mind at once
active, but not slavishly so, and idealizing, but not dreamy; uniting the
reality of life within as few limits as possible, obeying the current of
human affairs, but not enslaved by them. Such a class of men can alone
preserve the beautiful unity of human nature, that harmony which all work
for a moment disturbs, and a life of work destroys; such alone can, in
all that is purely human, give by its feelings universal rules of
judgment. Whether such a class exists, or whether the class now existing
in like conditions answers to this ideal conception, I am not concerned
to inquire. If it does not respond to the ideal it has only itself to
blame. In such a class--here regarded as a mere ideal--the simple and
sentimental would keep each other from extremes of extravagance and
relaxation. For the idea of a beautiful humanity is not exhausted by
either, but can only be presented in the union of both.




THE STAGE AS A MORAL INSTITUTION.


Sulzer has remarked that the stage has arisen from an irresistible
longing for the new and extraordinary. Man, oppressed by divided cares,
and satiated with sensual pleasure, felt an emptiness or want. Man,
neither altogether satisfied with the senses, nor forever capable of
thought, wanted a middle state, a bridge between the two states, bringing
them into harmony. Beauty and aesthetics supplied that for him. But a
good lawgiver is not satisfied with discovering the bent of his people--
he turns it to account as an instrument for higher use; and hence he
chose the stage, as giving nourishment to the soul, without straining it,
and uniting the noblest education of the head and heart.

The man who first pronounced religion to be the strongest pillar of the
state, unconsciously defended the stage, when he said so, in its noblest
aspect. The uncertain nature of political events, rendering religion a
necessity, also demands the stage as a moral force. Laws only prevent
disturbances of social life; religion prescribes positive orders
sustaining social order. Law only governs actions; religion controls the
heart and follows thought to the source.

Laws are flexible and capricious; religion binds forever. If religion
has this great sway over man's heart, can it also complete his culture?
Separating the political from the divine element in it, religion acts
mostly on the senses; she loses her sway if the senses are gone. By what
channel does the stage operate? To most men religion vanishes with the
loss of her symbols, images, and problems; and yet they are only pictures
of the imagination, and insolvable problems. Both laws and religion are
strengthened by a union with the stage, where virtue and vice, joy and
sorrow, are thoroughly displayed in a truthful and popular way; where a
variety of providential problems are solved; where all secrets are
unmasked, all artifice ends, and truth alone is the judge, as
incorruptible as Rhadamanthus.

Where the influence of civil laws ends that of the stage begins. Where
venality and corruption blind and bias justice and judgment, and
intimidation perverts its ends, the stage seizes the sword and scales and
pronounces a terrible verdict on vice. The fields of fancy and of
history are open to the stage; great criminals of the past live over
again in the drama, and thus benefit an indignant posterity. They pass
before us as empty shadows of their age, and we heap curses on their
memory while we enjoy on the stage the very horror of their crimes. When
morality is no more taught, religion no longer received, or laws exist,
Medea would still terrify us with her infanticide. The sight of Lady
Macbeth, while it makes us shudder, will also make us rejoice in a good
conscience, when we see her, the sleep-walker, washing her hands and
seeking to destroy the awful smell of murder. Sight is always more
powerful to man than description; hence the stage acts more powerfully
than morality or law.

But in this the stage only aids justice. A far wider field is really
open to it. There are a thousand vices unnoticed by human justice, but
condemned by the stage; so, also, a thousand virtues overlooked by man's
laws are honored on the stage. It is thus the handmaid of religion and
philosophy. From these pure sources it draws its high principles and the
exalted teachings, and presents them in a lovely form. The soul swells
with noblest emotions when a divine ideal is placed before it. When
Augustus offers his forgiving hand to Cinna, the conspirator, and says to
him: "Let us be friends, Cinna! " what man at the moment does not feel
that he could do the same. Again, when Francis von Sickingen, proceeding
to punish a prince and redress a stranger, on turning sees the house,
where his wife and children are, in flames, and yet goes on for the sake
of his word--how great humanity appears, how small the stern power of
fate!

Vice is portrayed on the stage in an equally telling manner. Thus, when
old Lear, blind, helpless, childless, is seen knocking in vain at his
daughters' doors, and in tempest and night he recounts by telling his
woes to the elements, and ends by saying: "I have given you all,"--how
strongly impressed we feel at the value of filial piety, and how hateful
ingratitude seems to us!

The stage does even more than this. It cultivates the ground where
religion and law do not think it dignified to stop. Folly often troubles
the world as much as crime; and it has been justly said that the heaviest
loads often hang suspended by the slightest threads. Tracing actions to
their sources, the list of criminals diminish, and we laugh at the long
catalogue of fools. In our sex all forms of evil emanate almost entirely
from one source, and all our excesses are only varied and higher forms of
one quality, and that a quality which in the end we smile at and love;
and why should not nature have followed this course in the opposite sex
too? In man there is only one secret to guard against depravity; that
is, to protect his heart against wickedness.

Much of all this is shown up on the stage. It is a mirror to reflect
fools and their thousand forms of folly, which are there turned to
ridicule. It curbs vice by terror, and folly still more effectually by
satire and jest. If a comparison be made between tragedy and comedy,
guided by experience, we should probably give the palm to the latter as
to effects produced. Hatred does not wound the conscience so much as
mockery does the pride of man. We are exposed specially to the sting of
satire by the very cowardice that shuns terrors. From sins we are
guarded by law and conscience, but the ludicrous is specially punished on
the stage. Where we allow a friend to correct our morals, we rarely
forgive a laugh. We may bear heavy judgment on our transgressions, but
our weaknesses and vulgarities must not be criticised by a witness.

The stage alone can do this with impunity, chastising us as the anonymous
fool. We can bear this rebuke without a blush, and even gratefully.

But the stage does even more than this. It is a great school of
practical wisdom, a guide for civil life, and a key to the mind in all
its sinuosities. It does not, of course, remove egoism and stubbornness
in evil ways; for a thousand vices hold up their heads in spite of the
stage, and a thousand virtues make no impression on cold-hearted
spectators. Thus, probably, Moliere's Harpagon never altered a
usurer's heart, nor did the suicide in Beverley save any one from the
gaming-table. Nor, again, is it likely that the high roads will be safer
through Karl Moor's untimely end. But, admitting this, and more than
this, still how great is the influence of the stage! It has shown us the
vices and virtues of men with whom we have to live. We are not surprised
at their weaknesses, we are prepared for them. The stage points them out
to us, and their remedy. It drags off the mask from the hypocrite, and
betrays the meshes of intrigue. Duplicity and cunning have been forced
by it to show their hideous features in the light of day. Perhaps the
dying Sarah may not deter a single debauchee, nor all the pictures of
avenged seduction stop the evil; yet unguarded innocence has been shown
the snares of the corrupter, and taught to distrust his oaths.

The stage also teaches men to bear the strokes of fortune. Chance and
design have equal sway over life. We have to bow to the former, but we
control the latter. It is a great advantage if inexorable facts do not
find us unprepared and unexercised, and if our breast has been steeled to
bear adversity. Much human woe is placed before us on the stage. It
gives us momentary pain in the tears we shed for strangers' troubles, but
as a compensation it fills us with a grand new stock of courage and
endurance. We are led by it, with the abandoned Ariadne, through the
Isle of Naxos, and we descend the Tower of Starvation in Ugolino; we
ascend the terrible scaffold, and we are present at the awful moment of
execution. Things remotely present in thought become palpable realities
now. We see the deceived favorite abandoned by the queen. When about to
die, the perfidious Moor is abandoned by his own sophistry. Eternity
reveals the secrets of the unknown through the dead, and the hateful
wretch loses all screen of guilt when the tomb opens to condemn him.

Then the stage teaches us to be more considerate to the unfortunate, and
to judge gently. We can only pronounce on a man when we know his whole
being and circumstances. Theft is a base crime, but tears mingle with
our condemnation, when we read what obliged Edward Ruhberg to do the
horrid deed. Suicide is shocking; but the condemnation of an enraged
father, her love, and the fear of a convent, lead Marianne to drink the
cup, and few would dare to condemn the victim of a dreadful tyranny.
Humanity and tolerance have begun to prevail in our time at courts of
princes and in courts of law. A large share of this may be due to the
influence of the stage in showing man and his secret motives.

The great of the world ought to be especially grateful to the stage, for
it is here alone that they hear the truth.

Not only man's mind, but also his intellectual culture, has been promoted
by the higher drama. The lofty mind and the ardent patriot have often
used the stage to spread enlightenment.

Considering nations and ages, the thinker sees the masses enchained by
opinion and cut off by adversity from happiness; truth only lights up a
few minds, who perhaps have to acquire it by the trials of a lifetime.
How can the wise ruler put these within the reach of his nation.

The thoughtful and the worthier section of the people diffuse the light
of wisdom over the masses through the stage. Purer and better principles
and motives issue from the stage and circulate through society: the night
of barbarism and superstition vanishes. I would mention two glorious
fruits of the higher class of dramas. Religious toleration has latterly
become universal. Before Nathan the Jew and Saladin the Saracen put us
to shame, and showed that resignation to God's will did not depend on a
fancied belief of His nature--even before Joseph II. contended with the
hatred of a narrow piety--the stage had sown seeds of humanity and
gentleness: pictures of fanaticism had taught a hatred of intolerance,
and Christianity, seeing itself in this awful mirror, washed off its
stains. It is to be hoped that the stage will equally combat mistaken
systems of education. This is a subject of the first political
importance, and yet none is so left to private whims and caprice. The
stage might give stirring examples of mistaken education, and lead
parents to juster, better views of the subject. Many teachers are led
astray by false views, and methods are often artificial and fatal.

Opinions about governments and classes might be reformed by the stage.
Legislation could thus justify itself by foreign symbols, and silence
doubtful aspersions without offence.

Now, if poets would be patriotic they could do much on the stage to
forward invention and industry. A standing theatre would be a material
advantage to a nation. It would have a great influence on the national
temper and mind by helping the nation to agree in opinions and
inclinations. The stage alone can do this, because it commands all human
knowledge, exhausts all positions, illumines all hearts, unites all
classes, and makes its way to the heart and understanding by the most
popular channels.

If one feature characterized all dramas; if the poets were allied in
aim--that is, if they selected well and from national topics--there
would be a national stage, and we should become a nation. It was this
that knit the Greeks so strongly together, and this gave to them the
all-absorbing interest in the republic and the advancement of humanity.

Another advantage belongs to the stage; one which seems to have become
acknowledged even by its censurers. Its influence on intellectual and
moral culture, which we have till now been advocating, may be doubted;
but its very enemies have admitted that it has gained the palm over all
other means of amusement. It has been of much higher service here than
people are often ready to allow.

Human nature cannot bear to be always on the rack of business, and the
charms of sense die out with their gratification. Man, oppressed by
appetites, weary of long exertion, thirsts for refined pleasure, or
rushes into dissipations that hasten his fall and ruin, and disturb
social order. Bacchanal joys, gambling, follies of all sorts to disturb
ennui, are unavoidable if the lawgiver produces nothing better. A man of
public business, who has made noble sacrifices to the state, is apt to
pay for them with melancholy, the scholar to become a pedant, and the
people brutish, without the stage. The stage is an institution combining
amusement with instruction, rest with exertion, where no faculty of the
mind is overstrained, no pleasure enjoyed at the cost of the whole. When
melancholy gnaws the heart, when trouble poisons our solitude, when we
are disgusted with the world, and a thousand worries oppress us, or when
our energies are destroyed by over-exercise, the stage revives us, we
dream of another sphere, we recover ourselves, our torpid nature is
roused by noble passions, our blood circulates more healthily. The
unhappy man forgets his tears in weeping for another. The happy man is
calmed, the secure made provident. Effeminate natures are steeled,
savages made man, and, as the supreme triumph of nature, men of all
clanks, zones, and conditions, emancipated from the chains of
conventionality and fashion, fraternize here in a universal sympathy,
forget the world, and come nearer to their heavenly destination. The
individual shares in the general ecstacy, and his breast has now only
space for an emotion: he is a man.




ON THE TRAGIC ART.


The state of passion in itself, independently of the good or bad
influence of its object on our morality, has something in it that charms
us. We aspire to transport ourselves into that state, even if it costs
us some sacrifices. You will find this instinct at the bottom of all our
most habitual pleasures. As to the nature itself of the affection,
whether it be one of aversion or desire, agreeable or painful, this is
what we take little into consideration. Experience teaches us that
painful affections are those which have the most attraction for us, and
thus that the pleasure we take in an affection is precisely in an inverse
ratio to its nature. It is a phenomenon common to all men, that sad,
frightful things, even the horrible, exercise over us an irresistible
seduction, and that in presence of a scene of desolation and of terror we
feel at once repelled and attracted by two equal forces. Suppose the
case be an assassination. Then every one crowds round the narrator and
shows a marked attention. Any ghost story, however embellished by
romantic circumstances, is greedily devoured by us, and the more readily
in proportion as the story is calculated to make our hair stand on end.

This disposition is developed in a more lively manner when the objects
themselves are placed before our eyes. A tempest that would swallow up
an entire fleet would be, seen from shore, a spectacle as attractive to
our imagination as it would be shocking to our heart. It would be
difficult to believe with Lucretius that this natural pleasure results
from a comparison between our own safety and the danger of which we are
witnesses. See what a crowd accompanies a criminal to the scene of his
punishment! This phenomenon cannot be explained either by the pleasure
of satisfying our love of justice, nor the ignoble joy of vengeance.
Perhaps the unhappy man may find excuses in the hearts of those present;
perhaps the sincerest pity takes an interest in his reprieve: this does
not prevent a lively curiosity in the spectators to watch his expressions
of pain with eye and ear.
If an exception seems to exist here in the
case of a well-bred man, endowed with a delicate sense, this does not
imply that he is a complete stranger to this instinct; but in his case
the painful strength of compassion carries the day over this instinct, or
it is kept under by the laws of decency. The man of nature, who is not
chained down by any feeling of human delicacy, abandons himself without
any sense of shame to this powerful instinct. This attraction must,
therefore, have its spring of action in an original disposition, and it
must be explained by a psychological law common to the whole species.

But if it seems to us that these brutal instincts of nature are
incompatible with the dignity of man, and if we hesitate, for this
reason, to establish on this fact a law common to the whole species, yet
no experiences are required to prove, with the completest evidence, that
the pleasure we take in painful emotions is real, and that it is general.
The painful struggle of a heart drawn asunder between its inclinations or
contrary duties, a struggle which is a cause of misery to him who
experiences it, delights the person who is a mere spectator. We follow
with always heightening pleasure the progress of a passion to the abyss
into which it hurries its unhappy victim. The same delicate feeling that
makes us turn our eyes aside from the sight of physical suffering, or
even from the physical expression of a purely moral pain, makes us
experience a pleasure heightened in sweetness, in the sympathy for a
purely moral pain. The interest with which we stop to look at the
painting of these kinds of objects is a general phenomenon.

Of course this can only be understood of sympathetic affections, or those
felt as a secondary effect after their first impression; for commonly
direct and personal affections immediately call into life in us the
instinct of our own happiness, they take up all our thoughts, and seize
hold of us too powerfully to allow any room for the feeling of pleasure
that accompanies them, when the affection is freed from all personal
relation. Thus, in the mind that is really a prey to painful passion,
the feeling of pain commands all others notwithstanding all the charm
that the painting of its moral state may offer to the hearers and the
spectators. And yet the painful affection is not deprived of all
pleasure, even for him who experiences it directly; only this pleasure
differs in degree according to the nature of each person's mind. The
sports of chance would not have half so much attraction for us were there
not a kind of enjoyment in anxiety, in doubt, and in fear; danger would
not be encountered from mere foolhardiness; and the very sympathy which
interests us in the trouble of another would not be to us that pleasure
which is never more lively than at the very moment when the illusion is
strongest, and when we substitute ourselves most entirely in the place of
the person who suffers. But this does not imply that disagreeable
affections cause pleasure of themselves, nor do I think any one will
uphold this view; it suffices that these states of the mind are the
conditions that alone make possible for its certain kinds of pleasure.
Thus the hearts particularly sensitive to this kind of pleasure, and most
greedy of them, will be more easily led to share these disagreeable
affections, which are the condition of the former; and even in the most
violent storms of passion they will always preserve some remains of their
freedom.

The displeasure we feel in disagreeable affections comes from the
relation of our sensuous faculty or of our moral faculty with their
object. In like manner, the pleasure we experience in agreeable
affections proceeds from the very same source. The degree of liberty
that may prevail in the affections depends on the proportion between the
moral nature and the sensuous nature of a man. Now it is well known that
in the moral order there is nothing arbitrary for us, that, on the
contrary, the sensuous instinct is subject to the laws of reason and
consequently depends more or less on our will. Hence it is evident that
we can keep our liberty full and entire in all those affections that are
concerned with the instinct of self-love, and that we are the masters to
determine the degree which they ought to attain. This degree will be
less in proportion as the moral sense in a man will prevail over the
instinct of happiness, and as by obeying the universal laws of reasons he
will have freed himself from the selfish requirements of his
individuality, his Ego. A man of this kind must therefore, in a state of
passion, feel much less vividly the relation of an object with his own
instinct of happiness, and consequently he will be much less sensible of
the displeasure that arises from this relation. On the other hand, he
will be perpetually more attentive to the relation of this same object
with his moral nature, and for this very reason he will be more sensible
to the pleasure which the relation of the object with morality often
mingles with the most painful affections. A mind thus constituted is
better fitted than all others to enjoy the pleasure attaching to
compassion, and even to regard a personal affection as an object of
simple compassion. Hence the inestimable value of a moral philosophy,
which, by raising our eyes constantly towards general laws, weakens in us
the feeling of our individuality, teaches us to plunge our paltry
personality in something great, and enables us thus to act to ourselves
as to strangers. This sublime state of the mind is the lot of strong
philosophic minds, which by working assiduously on themselves have
learned to bridle the egotistical instinct. Even the most cruel loss
does not drive them beyond a certain degree of sadness, with which an
appreciable sum of pleasure can always be reconciled. These souls, which
are alone capable of separating themselves from themselves, alone enjoy
the privilege of sympathizing with themselves and of receiving of their
own sufferings only a reflex, softened by sympathy.

The indications contained in what precedes will suffice to direct our
attention to the sources of the pleasure that the affection in itself
causes, more particularly the sad affection. We have seen that this
pleasure is more energetic in moral souls, and it acts with greater
freedom in proportion as the soul is more independent of the egotistical
instinct. This pleasure is, moreover, more vivid and stronger in sad
affections, when self-love is painfully disquieted, than in gay
affections, which imply a satisfaction of self-love. Accordingly this
pleasure increases when the egotistical instinct is wounded, and
diminishes when that instinct is flattered. Now we only know of two
sources of pleasure--the satisfaction of the instinct of happiness, and
the accomplishment of the moral laws. Therefore, when it is shown that a
particular pleasure does not emanate from the former source, it must of
necessity issue from the second. It is therefore from our moral nature
that issues the charm of the painful affections shared by sympathy, and
the pleasure that we sometimes feel even where the painful affection
directly affects ourselves.

Many attempts have been made to account for the pleasure of pity, but
most of these solutions had little chance of meeting the problem, because
the principle of this phenomenon was sought for rather in the
accompanying circumstances than in the nature of the affection itself.
To many persons the pleasure of pity is simply the pleasure taken by the
mind in exercising its own sensibility. To others it is the pleasure of
occupying their forces energetically, of exercising the social faculty
vividly--in short, of satisfying the instinct of restlessness. Others
again make it derived from the discovery of morally fine features of
character, placed in a clear light by the struggle against adversity or
against the passions. But there is still the difficulty to explain why
it should be exactly the very feeling of pain,--suffering properly so
called,--that in objects of pity attracts us with the greatest force,
while, according to those elucidations, a less degree of suffering ought
evidently to be more favorable to those causes to which the source of the
emotion is traced. Various matters may, no doubt, increase the pleasure
of the emotion without occasioning it. Of this nature are the vividness
and force of the ideas awakened in our imagination, the moral excellence
of the suffering persons, the reference to himself of the person feeling
pity. I admit that the suffering of a weak soul, and the pain of a
wicked character, do not procure us this enjoyment. But this is because
they do not excite our pity to the same degree as the hero who suffers,
or the virtuous man who struggles. Thus we are constantly brought back
to the first question: why is it precisely the degree of suffering that
determines the degree of sympathetic pleasure which we take in an
emotion? and one answer only is possible; it is because the attack made
on our sensibility is precisely the condition necessary to set in motion
that quality of mind of which the activity produces the pleasure we feel
in sympathetic affections.

Now this faculty is no other than the reason; and because the free
exercise of reason, as an absolutely independent activity, deserves par
excellence the name of activity; as, moreover, the heart of man only
feels itself perfectly free and independent in its moral acts, it follows
that the charm of tragic emotions is really dependent on the fact that
this instinct of activity finds its gratification in them. But, even
admitting this, it is neither the great number nor the vivacity of the
ideas that are awakened then in our imagination, nor in general the
exercise of the social faculty, but a certain kind of ideas and a certain
activity of the social faculty brought into play by reason, which is the
foundation of this pleasure.

Thus the sympathetic affections in general are for us a source of
pleasure because they give satisfaction to our instinct of activity, and
the sad affections produce this effect with more vividness because they
give more satisfaction to this instinct. The mind only reveals all its
activity when it is in full possession of its liberty, when it has a
perfect consciousness of its rational nature, because it is only then
that it displays a force superior to all resistance.

Hence the state of mind which allows most effectually the manifestation
of this force, and awakens most successfully its activity, is that state
which is most suitable to a rational being, and which best satisfies our
instincts of activity: whence it follows that a greater amount of
pleasure must be attached necessarily to this state. Now it is the
tragic states that place our soul in this state, and the pleasure found
in them is necessarily higher than the charm produced by gay affections,
in the same degree that moral power in us is superior to the power of the
senses.

Points that are only subordinate and partial in a system of final causes
may be considered by art independently of that relation with the rest,
and may be converted into principal objects. It is right that in the
designs of nature pleasure should only be a mediate end, or a means; but
for art it is the highest end. It is therefore essentially important for
art not to neglect this high enjoyment attaching to the tragic emotion.
Now, tragic art, taking this term in its widest acceptation, is that
among the fine arts which proposes as its principal object the pleasure
of pity.

Art attains its end by the imitation of nature, by satisfying the
conditions which make pleasure possible in reality, and by combining,
according to a plan traced by the intelligence, the scattered elements
furnished by nature, so as to attain as a principal end to that which,
for nature, was only an accessory end. Thus tragic art ought to imitate
nature in those kinds of actions that are specially adapted to awaken
pity.

It follows that, in order to determine generally the system to be
followed by tragic art, it is necessary before all things to know on what
conditions in real life the pleasure of the emotion is commonly produced
in the surest and the strongest manner; but it is necessary at the same
time to pay attention to the circumstances that restrict or absolutely
extinguish this pleasure.

After what we have established in our essay "On the Cause of the Pleasure
we derive from Tragic Objects," it is known that in every tragic emotion
there is an idea of incongruity, which, though the emotion may be
attended with charm, must always lead on to the conception of a higher
consistency. Now it is the relation that these two opposite conceptions
mutually bear which determines in an emotion if the prevailing impression
shall be pleasurable or the reverse. If the conception of incongruity be
more vivid than that of the contrary, or if the end sacrificed is more
important than the end gained, the prevailing impression will always be
displeasure, whether this be understood objectively of the human race in
general, or only subjectively of certain individuals.

If the cause that has produced a misfortune gives us too much
displeasure, our compassion for the victim is diminished thereby. The
heart cannot feel simultaneously, in a high degree, two absolutely
contrary affections. Indignation against the person who is the primary
cause of the suffering becomes the prevailing affection, and all other
feeling has to yield to it. Thus our interest is always enfeebled when
the unhappy man whom it would be desirable to pity had cast himself into
ruin by a personal and an inexcusable fault; or if, being able to save
himself, he did not do so, either through feebleness of mind or
pusillanimity. The interest we take in unhappy King Lear, ill-treated by
two ungrateful daughters, is sensibly lessened by the circumstance that
this aged man, in his second childhood, so weakly gave up his crown, and
divided his love among his daughters with so little discernment. In the
tragedy of Kronegk, "Olinda and Sophronia," the most terrible suffering
to which we see these martyrs to their faith exposed only excites our
pity feebly, and all their heroism only stirs our admiration moderately,
because madness alone can suggest the act by which Olinda has placed
himself and all his people on the brink of the precipice.

Our pity is equally lessened when the primary cause of a misfortune,
whose innocent victim ought to inspire us with compassion, fills our mind
with horror. When the tragic poet cannot clear himself of his plot
without introducing a wretch, and when he is reduced to derive the
greatness of suffering from the greatness of wickedness, the supreme
beauty of his work must always be seriously injured. Iago and Lady
Macbeth in Shakspeare, Cleopatra in the tragedy of "Rodogune," or Franz
Moor in "The Robbers," are so many proofs in support of this assertion.
A poet who understands his real interest will not bring about the
catastrophe through a malicious will which proposes misfortune as its
end; nor, and still less, by want of understanding: but rather through
the imperious force of circumstances. If this catastrophe does not come
from moral sources, but from outward things, which have no volition and
are not subject to any will, the pity we experience is more pure, or at
all events it is not weakened by any idea of moral incongruity. But then
the spectator cannot be spared the disagreeable feeling of an incongruity
in the order of nature, which can alone save in such a case moral
propriety. Pity is far more excited when it has for its object both him
who suffers and him who is the primary cause of the suffering. This can
only happen when the latter has neither elicited our contempt nor our
hatred, but when he has been brought against his inclination to become
the cause of this misfortune. It is a singular beauty of the German play
of "Iphigenia" that the King of Tauris, the only obstacle who thwarts the
wishes of Orestes and of his sister, never loses our esteem, and that we
love him to the end.

There is something superior even to this kind of emotion; this is the
case when the cause of the misfortune not only is in no way repugnant to
morality, but only becomes possible through morality, and when the
reciprocal suffering comes simply from the idea that a fellow-creature
has been made to suffer. This is the situation of Chimene and Rodrigue
in "The Cid" of Pierre Corneille, which is undeniably in point of
intrigue the masterpiece of the tragic stage. Honor and filial love arm
the hand of Rodrigue against the father of her whom he loves, and his
valor gives him the victory. Honor and filial love rouse up against him,
in the person of Chimene, the daughter of his victim, an accuser and a
formidable persecutor. Both act in opposition to their inclination, and
they tremble with anguish at the thought of the misfortune of the object
against which they arm themselves, in proportion as zeal inspires them
for their duty to inflict this misfortune. Accordingly both conciliate
our esteem in the highest sense, as they accomplish a moral duty at the
cost of inclination; both inflame our pity in the highest degree, because
they suffer spontaneously for a motive that renders them in the highest
degree to be respected. It results from this that our pity is in this
case so little modified by any opposite feeling that it burns rather with
a double flame; only the impossibility of reconciling the idea of
misfortune with the idea of a morality so deserving of happiness might
still disturb our sympathetic pleasure, and spread a shade of sadness
over it. It is besides a great point, no doubt, that the discontent
given us by this contradiction does not bear upon our moral being, but is
turned aside to a harmless place, to necessity only; but this blind
subjection to destiny is always afflicting and humiliating for free
beings, who determine themselves. This is the cause that always leaves
something to be wished for even in the best Greek pieces. In all these
pieces, at the bottom of the plot it is always fatality that is appealed
to, and in this there is a knot that cannot be unravelled by our reason,
which wishes to solve everything.

But even this knot is untied, and with it vanishes every shade of
displeasure, at the highest and last step to which man perfected by
morality rises, and at the highest point which is attained by the art
which moves the feelings. This happens when the very discontent with
destiny becomes effaced, and is resolved in a presentiment or rather a
clear consciousness of a teleological concatenation of things, of a
sublime order, of a beneficent will. Then, to the pleasure occasioned in
us by moral consistency is joined the invigorating idea of the most
perfect suitability in the great whole of nature. In this case the thing
that seemed to militate against this order, and that caused us pain, in a
particular case, is only a spur that stimulates our reason to seek in
general laws for the justification of this particular case, and to solve
the problem of this separate discord in the centre of the general
harmony. Greek art never rose to this supreme serenity of tragic
emotion, because neither the national religion, nor even the philosophy
of the Greeks, lighted their step on this advanced road. It was reserved
for modern art, which enjoys the privilege of finding a purer matter in a
purer philosophy, to satisfy also this exalted want, and thus to display
all the moral dignity of art.

If we moderns must resign ourselves never to reproduce Greek art because
the philosophic genius of our age, and modern civilization in general are
not favorable to poetry, these influences are at all events less hurtful
to tragic art, which is based rather on the moral element. Perhaps it is
in the case of this art only that our civilization repairs the injury
that it has caused to art in general.

In the same manner as the tragic emotion is weakened by the admixture of
conflicting ideas and feelings, and the charm attaching to it is thus
diminished, so this emotion can also, on the contrary, by approaching the
excess of direct and personal affection, become exaggerated to the point
where pain carries the day over pleasure. It has been remarked that
displeasure, in the affections, comes from the relation of their object
with our senses, in the same way as the pleasure felt in them comes from
the relation of the affection itself to our moral faculty. This implies,
then, between our senses and our moral faculty a determined relation,
which decides as regards the relation between pleasure and displeasure in
tragic emotions. Nor could this relation be modified or overthrown
without overthrowing at the same time the feelings of pleasure and
displeasure which we find in the emotions, or even without changing them
into their opposites. In the same ratio that the senses are vividly
roused in us, the influence of morality will be proportionately
diminished; and reciprocally, as the sensuous loses, morality gains
ground. Therefore that which in our hearts gives a preponderance to the
sensuous faculty, must of necessity, by placing restrictions on the moral
faculty, diminish the pleasure that we take in tragic emotions, a
pleasure which emanates exclusively from this moral faculty. In
like manner, all that in our heart impresses an impetus on this
latter faculty, must blunt the stimulus of pain even in direct and
personal affections. Now our sensuous nature actually acquires this
preponderance, when the ideas of suffering rise to a degree of vividness
that no longer allows us to distinguish a sympathetic affection from
a personal affection, or our own proper Ego from the subject that
suffers,--reality, in short, from poetry. The sensuous also gains the
upper hand when it finds an aliment in the great number of its objects,
and in that dazzling light which an over-excited imagination diffuses
over it. On the contrary, nothing is more fit to reduce the sensuous to
its proper bounds than to place alongside it super-sensuous ideas, moral
ideas, to which reason, oppressed just before, clings as to a kind of
spiritual props, to right and raise itself above the fogs of the sensuous
to a serener atmosphere. Hence the great charm which general truths or
moral sentences, scattered opportunely over dramatic dialogue, have for
all cultivated nations, and the almost excessive use that the Greeks made
of them. Nothing is more agreeable to a moral soul than to have the
power, after a purely passive state that has lasted too long, of escaping
from the subjection of the senses, and of being recalled to its
spontaneous activity, and restored to the possession of its liberty.

These are the remarks I had to make respecting the causes that restrict
our pity and place an obstacle to our pleasure in tragic emotions. I
have next to show on what conditions pity is solicited and the pleasure
of the emotion excited in the most infallible and energetic manner.

Every feeling of pity implies the idea of suffering, and the degree of
pity is regulated according to the degree more or less of vividness, of
truth, of intensity, and of duration of this idea.

1st. The moral faculty is provoked to reaction in proportion to the
vividness of ideas in the soul, which incites it to activity and solicits
its sensuous faculty. Now the ideas of suffering are conceived in two
different manners, which are not equally favorable to the vividness of
the impression. The sufferings that we witness affect us incomparably
more than those that we have through a description or a narrative. The
former suspend in us the free play of the fancy, and striking our senses
immediately penetrate by the shortest road to our heart. In the
narrative, on the contrary, the particular is first raised to the
general, and it is from this that the knowledge of the special case is
afterwards derived; accordingly, merely by this necessary operation of
the understanding, the impression already loses greatly in strength. Now
a weak impression cannot take complete possession of our mind, and it
will allow other ideas to disturb its action and to dissipate the
attention. Very frequently, moreover, the narrative account transports
us from the moral disposition, in which the acting person is placed, to
the state of mind of the narrator himself, which breaks up the illusion
so necessary for pity. In every case, when the narrator in person puts
himself forward, a certain stoppage takes place in the action, and, as an
unavoidable result, in our sympathetic affection. This is what happens
even when the dramatic poet forgets himself in the dialogue, and puts in
the mouth of his dramatic persons reflections that could only enter the
mind of a disinterested spectator. It would be difficult to mention a
single one of our modern tragedies quite free from this defect; but the
French alone have made a rule of it. Let us infer, then, that the
immediate vivid and sensuous presence of the object is necessary to give
to the ideas impressed on us by suffering that strength without which the
emotion could not rise to a high degree.

2d. But we can receive the most vivid impressions of the idea of
suffering without, however, being led to a remarkable degree of pity, if
these impressions lack truth. It is, necessary that we should form of
suffering an idea of such a nature that we are obliged to share and take
part in it. To this end there must be a certain agreement between this
suffering and something that we have already in us. In other words, pity
is only possible inasmuch as we can prove or suppose a resemblance
between ourselves and the subject that suffers. Everywhere where this
resemblance makes itself known, pity is necessary; where this resemblance
is lacking, pity is impossible. The more visible and the greater is the
resemblance, the more vivid is our pity; and they mutually slacken in
dependence on each other. In order that we may feel the affections of
another after him, all the internal conditions demanded by this affection
must be found beforehand in us, in order that the external cause which,
by meeting with the internal conditions, has given birth to the
affection, may also produce on us a like effect. It is necessary that,
without doing violence to ourselves, we should be able to exchange
persons with another, and transport our Ego by an instantaneous
substitution in the state of the subject. Now, how is it possible to
feel in us the state of another, if we have not beforehand recognized
ourselves in this other.

This resemblance bears on the totality of the constitution of the mind,
in as far as that is necessary and universal. Now, this character of
necessity and of universality belongs especially to our moral nature.
The faculty of feeling can be determined differently by accidental
causes: our cognitive faculties themselves depend on variable conditions:
the moral faculty only has its principle in itself, and by that very fact
it can best give us a general measure and a certain criterion of this
resemblance. Thus an idea which we find in accord with our mode of
thinking and of feeling, which offers at once a certain relationship with
the train of our own ideas, which is easily grasped by our heart and our
mind, we call a true idea. If this relationship bears on what is
peculiar to our heart, on the private determinations that modify in us
the common fundamentals of humanity, and which may be withdrawn without
altering this general character, this idea is then simply true for us.
If it bears on the general and necessary form that we suppose in the
whole species, the truth of this idea ought to be held to be equal to
objective truth. For the Roman, the sentence of the first Brutus and the
suicide of Cato are of subjective truth. The ideas and the feelings that
have inspired the actions of these two men are not an immediate
consequence of human nature in general, but the mediate consequence of a
human nature determined by particular modifications. To share with them
these feelings we must have a Roman soul, or at least be capable of
assuming for a moment a Roman soul. It suffices, on the other hand, to
be a man in general, to be vividly touched by the heroic sacrifice of
Leonidas, by the quiet resignation of Aristides, by the voluntary death
of Socrates, and to be moved to tears by the terrible changes in the
fortunes of Darius. We attribute to these kinds of ideas, in opposition
to the preceding ones, an objective truth because they agree with the
nature of all human subjects, which gives them a character of
universality and of necessity as strict as if they were independent of
every subjective condition.

Moreover, although the subjectively true description is based on
accidental determinations, this is no reason for confounding it with an
arbitrary description. After all, the subjectively true emanates also
from the general constitution of the human soul, modified only in
particular directions by special circumstances; and the two kinds of
truth are equally necessary conditions of the human mind. If the
resolution of Cato were in contradiction with the general laws of human
nature, it could not be true, even subjectively. The only difference is
that the ideas of the second kind are enclosed in a narrower sphere of
action; because they imply, besides the general modes of the human mind,
other special determinations. Tragedy can make use of it with a very
intense effect, if it will renounce the extensive effect; still the
unconditionally true, what is purely human in human relations, will be
always the richest matter for the tragic poet, because this ground is the
only one on which tragedy, without ceasing to aspire to strength of
expression can be certain of the generality of this impression.

3d. Besides the vividness and the truth of tragic pictures, there must
also be completeness. None of the external data that are necessary to
give to the soul the desired movement ought to be omitted in the
representation. In order that the spectator, however Roman his
sentiments may be, may understand the moral state of Cato--that he may
make his own the high resolution of the republican, this resolution must
have its principle, not only in the mind of the Roman, but also in the
circumstances of the action. His external situation as well as his
internal situation must be before our eyes in all their consequences and
extent: and we must, lastly, have unrolled before us, without omitting a
single link, the whole chain of determinations to which are attached the
high resolution of the Roman as a necessary consequence. It may be said
in general that without this third condition, even the truth of a
painting cannot be recognized; for the similarity of circumstances, which
ought to be fully evident, can alone justify our judgment on the
similarity of the feelings, since it is only from the competition of
external conditions and of internal conditions that the affective
phenomenon results. To decide if we should have acted like Cato, we must
before all things transport ourselves in thought to the external
situation in which Cato was placed, and then only we are entitled to
place our feelings alongside his, to pronounce if there is or is not
likeness, and to give a verdict on the truth of these feelings.

A complete picture, as I understand it, is only possible by the
concatenation of several separate ideas, and of several separate
feelings, which are connected together as cause and effect, and which, in
their sum total, form one single whole for our cognitive faculty. All
these ideas, in order to affect us closely, must make an immediate
impression on our senses; and, as the narrative form always weakens this
impression, they must be produced by a present action. Thus, in order
that a tragic picture may be complete, a whole series is required of
particular actions, rendered sensuous and connected with the tragic
action as to one whole.

4th. It is necessary, lastly, that the ideas we receive of suffering
should act on us in a durable manner, to excite in us a high degree of
emotion. The affection created in us by the suffering of another is to
us a constrained state, from which we hasten to get free; and the
illusion so necessary for pity easily disappears in this case. It is,
therefore, a necessity to fasten the mind closely to these ideas, and not
to leave it the freedom to get rid too soon of the illusion. The
vividness of sudden ideas and the energy of sudden impressions, which in
rapid succession affect our senses, would not suffice for this end. For
the power of reaction in the mind is manifested in direct proportion to
the force with which the receptive faculty is solicited, and it is
manifested to triumph over this impression. Now, the poet who wishes to
move us ought not to weaken this independent power in us, for it is
exactly in the struggle between it and the suffering of our sensuous
nature that the higher charm of tragic emotions lies. In order that the
heart, in spite of that spontaneous force which reacts against sensuous
affections, may remain attached to the impressions of sufferings, it is,
therefore, necessary that these impressions should be cleverly suspended
at intervals, or even interrupted and intercepted by contrary
impressions, to return again with twofold energy and renew more
frequently the vividness of the first impression. Against the exhaustion
and languor that result from habit, the most effectual remedy is to
propose new objects to the senses; this variety retempers them, and the
gradation of impressions calls forth the innate faculty, and makes it
employ a proportionately stronger resistance. This faculty ought to be
incessantly occupied in maintaining its independence against the attacks
of the senses, but it must not triumph before the end, still less must it
succumb in the struggle. Otherwise, in the former case, suffering, and,
in the latter, moral activity is set aside; while it is the union of
these two that can alone elicit emotion. The great secret of the tragic
art consists precisely in managing this struggle well; it is in this that
it shows itself in the most brilliant light.

For this, a succession of alternate ideas is required: therefore a
suitable combination is wanted of several particular actions
corresponding with these different ideas; actions round which the
principal action and the tragic impression which it is wished to produce
through it unroll themselves like the yarn from the distaff, and end by
enlacing our souls in nets, through which they cannot break. Let me be
permitted to make use of a simile, by saying that the artist ought to
begin by gathering up with parsimonious care all the separate rays that
issue from the object by aid of which he seeks to produce the tragic
effect that he has in view, and these rays, in his hands, become a
lightning flash, setting the hearts of all on fire. The tyro casts
suddenly and vainly all the thunderbolts of horror and fear into the
soul; the artist, on the contrary, advances step by step to his end; he
only strikes with measured strokes, but he penetrates to the depth of our
soul, precisely because he has only stirred it by degrees.

If we now form the proper deductions from the previous investigation, the
following will be the conditions that form bases of the tragic art. It
is necessary, in the first place, that the object of our pity should
belong to our own species--I mean belong in the full sense of the term
and that the action in which it is sought to interest us be a moral
action; that is, an action comprehended in the field of free-will. It is
necessary, in the second place, that suffering, its sources, its degrees,
should be completely communicated by a series of events chained together.
It is necessary, in the third place, that the object of the passion be
rendered present to our senses, not in a mediate way and by description,
but immediately and in action. In tragedy art unites all these
conditions and satisfies them.

According to these principles tragedy might be defined as the poetic
imitation of a coherent series of particular events (forming a complete
action): an imitation which shows us man in a state of suffering, and
which has for its end to excite our pity.

I say first that it is the imitation of an action; and this idea of
imitation already distinguishes tragedy from the other kinds of poetry,
which only narrate or describe. In tragedy particular events are
presented to our imagination or to our senses at the very time of their
accomplishment; they are present, we see them immediately, without the
intervention of a third person. The epos, the romance, simple narrative,
even in their form, withdraw action to a distance, causing the narrator
to come between the acting person and the reader. Now what is distant
and past always weakens, as we know, the impressions and the sympathetic
affection; what is present makes them stronger. All narrative forms make
of the present something past; all dramatic form makes of the past a
present.

Secondly, I say that tragedy is the imitation of a succession of events,
of an action. Tragedy has not only to represent by imitation the
feelings and the affections of tragic persons, but also the events that
have produced these feelings, and the occasion on which these affections
are manifested. This distinguishes it from lyric poetry, and from its
different forms, which no doubt offer, like tragedy, the poetic imitation
of certain states of the mind, but not the poetic imitation of certain
actions. An elegy, a song, an ode, can place before our eyes, by
imitation, the moral state in which the poet actually is--whether he
speaks in his own name, or in that of an ideal person--a state determined
by particular circumstances; and up to this point these lyric forms seem
certainly to be incorporated in the idea of tragedy; but they do not
complete that idea, because they are confined to representing our
feelings. There are still more essential differences, if the end of
these lyrical forms and that of tragedy are kept in view.

I say, in the third place, that tragedy is the imitation of a complete
action. A separate event, though it be ever so tragic, does not in
itself constitute a tragedy. To do this, several events are required,
based one on the other, like cause and effect, and suitably connected so
as to form a whole; without which the truth of the feeling represented,
of the character, etc. --that is, their conformity with the nature of our
mind, a conformity which alone determines our sympathy--will not be
recognized. If we do not feel that we ourselves in similar circumstances
should have experienced the same feelings and acted in the same way, our
pity would not be awakened. It is, therefore, important that we should
be able to follow in all its concatenation the action that is represented
to us, that we should see it issue from the mind of the agent by a
natural gradation, under the influence and with the concurrence of
external circumstances. It is thus that we see spring up, grow, and come
to maturity under our eyes, the curiosity of Oedipus and the jealousy of
Iago. It is also the only way to fill up the great gap that exists
between the joy of an innocent soul and the torments of a guilty
conscience, between the proud serenity of the happy man and his terrible
catastrophe; in short, between the state of calm, in which the reader is
at the beginning, and the violent agitation he ought to experience at the
end.

A series of several connected incidents is required to produce in our
souls a succession of different movements which arrest the attention,
which, appealing to all the faculties of our minds, enliven our instinct
of activity when it is exhausted, and which, by delaying the satisfaction
of this instinct, do not kindle it the less. Against the suffering of
sensuous nature the human heart has only recourse to its moral nature as
counterpoise. It is, therefore, necessary, in order to stimulate this in
a more pressing manner, for the tragic poet to prolong the torments of
sense, but he must also give a glimpse to the latter of the satisfaction
of its wants, so as to render the victory of the moral sense so much the
more difficult and glorious. This twofold end can only be attained by a
succession of actions judiciously chosen and combined to this end.

In the fourth place, I say that tragedy is the poetic imitation of an
action deserving of pity, and, therefore, tragic imitation is opposed to
historic imitation.