between the meaning respectively attached to the term by Plato and Aristotle is, broadly, the difference between 'imitative' and 'reproductive.'

Now, in advancing his first charge-that of unreality-against poetry, Plato is influenced by the restricted and more elementary meaning which he attaches to μiunois. He endeavours to establish the existence of this first defect at the outset by an analysis of the nature of knowledge in harmony with his own philosophic theory of 'ideas.' Taking the commonplace example of a bed, he proceeds to distinguish three forms-the idea' or archetype, the actual piece of furniture so-called, and the artistic reproduction, owing their existence respectively to God, to the upholsterer, and to the artist. Like this last the poet is neither creator nor artificer, but merely an imitator of the latter's work, and, being such, his work is two degrees removed from the original creation of God. But Plato is not content with this theoretic proof; he proposes a practical test. If the poet really knows the truth of what he describes, and does not merely reproduce other people's knowledge, he must have given some actual demonstration of his possession of such knowledge. And so he asks the question of Homer:

"Homer, if you are not twice removed from truth in respect of virtue (as being the producer of a representation and, therefore, an imitator as we have defined the term), but once only, and if you were therefore capable of knowing

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what practices make men respectively better or worse as individuals and as members of a state, can you tell us of any city which has received an improved constitution from you, in the sense in which Lacedaemon was improved by Lycurgus, and many other cities, both great and small, were improved by many other men? What city acknowledges its indebtedness to you as a righteous lawgiver and a general benefactor? Italy and Sicily thus acknowledge Charondas, and we Solon; does any community acknowledge you?'1

Naturally Homer is compelled to admit that he has done nothing of the kind; and he subsequently gives most satisfactory evidence towards establishing the point, that all poets from Homer downwards imitate phantoms of virtue and whatever else they select as their subjects, without ever coming into contact with the truth.'

But not only are the creations of poetry unreal, and therefore useless for practical purposes; they appeal to the unreasoning and emotional part of man's nature.

In framing this second charge Plato first states with singular clearness the objects which poetry, or creative literature, especially strives to reproduce. They are 'men engaged in actions either involuntary or voluntary, attributing their good or bad fortune to these actions, and in all of them displaying either grief or joy.' But the poets, he continues, in representing human action give exhibitions not of good, but of bad conduct. They are compelled to

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do so by the requirements of their artistic method. In the first place, 'the irascible temperament admits of constant and varied reproduction, while the wise and quiet temperament, which scarcely ever varies, is neither easily reproduced nor, when reproduced, readily comprehended.'' And in the next, the poet like the painter 'associates with an element of the soul which is as depraved as he, and not with its noblest element.'" It is the evil result of this constant exhibition of depravity which forms the culminating count of the indictment—‘for, that poetry should be capable of injuring even good men, with the exception of a very small minority, is a matter of terrible importance.' '

The manner in which this injurious effect is brought about is described in relation to that feeling of fear and pity,' which is produced by witnessing a representation of the disasters of the imagined persons; and the production of which is regarded by Aristotle as the special function of tragedy, or poetry in its highest form.

'The part of the soul which is forcibly kept down in the case of our own misfortunes, and which craves to weep and bewail itself without stint and take its fill of grief, being so constituted as to find satisfaction in these emotions, is the very part which is filled and pleased by the poets; while that which is naturally the noblest part of us, because it is not adequately disciplined by reason and habit, relaxes its guard over this emotional part, representing to itself that the suffer3 605.

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ings which it contemplates are not part of itself, and that there is no shame in its praising and pitying the unseasonable grief of another who professes to be a good man. the contrary, the pleasure which it experiences it considers to be so much gain, and it will not allow its contempt for the poem as a whole to rob it of this pleasure. For only a very few can realize that the character of our own emotions must be affected by the manner in which we participate in the emotions of others. Yet it is so, for if we let our own sense of pity grow strong by feeding upon the griefs of others, it is not easy to restrain it in the case of our own sufferings.'1

And what applies to pity applies also to love and anger, and to all the manifestations of desire, pain, and pleasure; for poetic imitation waters and cherishes the passions when they ought to wither, and makes them govern when they ought to be kept in subjection, in order that we may become better and happier, instead of worse and more miserable.' *

There are two considerations, however, which explain in part, though they do not justify, the severity of Plato's criticism of Greek poetry and the Greek poets.

In the first place, it is necessary to remember the importance of the function which Greek poetry in general, and the Greek drama in particular, was called upon to perform. At the time at which Plato wrote, and in the society to which he addressed himself, the poetry of Homer and Hesiod, and the representations of the dramatists, performed func

tions which are to-day entrusted to agencies as diverse as the pulpit, the press, the stage, and literature in general. And if Plato, in asking from poetry the high morality of the professor of religion, the practical knowledge of the fourth estate,' and the enchantments of fancy, was asking too much, the fault lay as much in circumstances as in himself. In the second place, he had a great love of poetry. Like an ardent lover he not only sees keenly, but feels bitterly, the defects in his mistress. And in making his estimate of the qualities of poetry this bitterness is uppermost in his mind, and makes his criticism proportionately severe. But even thus, when he hardens his heart and deals roughly with her, the underlying tenderness will at times appear. He will be glad if a reconciliation can be effected. He is eager for some literary champion to appear, and prove him in the wrong; for the cause of righteousness will gain much, if poetry can be made the vehicle of duty as well as of pleasure.'1

What is really the most serious fault in this estimate of poetry, considered as a piece of literary criticism, is the failure to recognize and appreciate what was good in the poets whose works were before him the fact that only the bad is selected, the immoral actions of the gods, and the deceitfulness, cowardice, and unscrupulous action of the heroes in Homer, and the exaggeration and misrepresentation of the appeal to the emotions in the drama.

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It was,