The Golden Verses of Pythagoras: Discourse Upon the Essence and Form of Poetry: § IV

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§ IV

You recall, Messieurs, that wishing, with Chancellor Bacon, to distinguish the essence and the form of Poetry, I have taken my text from the works of Plato. It is again from this man, justly called divine even by his rivals, from the founder of the Academy, that I have borrowed the germ of my idea. This philosopher compares the effect which the real poets have upon those who hear them, with the magnetic stone which not only attracts rings of iron, but communicates to them also the virtue of attracting other rings. 1

In order to appreciate well the force of this thought, and to follow all the inferences, it is necessary to state a truth de facto: namely, that the men destined by Providence to regenerate the world, in whatever manner it may be, to open any sort of a career, are extremely rare. Nature, docile to the impulse which she has received of bringing all to perfection by means of time, elaborates slowly the elements of their genius, places them at great distances upon the earth, and makes them appear at epochs very far removed one from the other. It is necessary that these events, which determine these men toward an end, should be brought about in advance; that the physical conditions in which they are born coincide with the inspiration which attends them; and therefore everything prepares, everything protects, everything serves the providential design. These men, thus scattered over the earth, come among nations to form them, to give them laws, to enlighten and to instruct them. They are the beacon-lights of mankind; these are those to whom I attribute the first inspiration.

The Muse inspires the poets directly, and these, communicating to others their enthusiasm, form a chain of inspired men. It is by means of this chain that the Divinity attracts the souls of men, and moves them at his pleasure, causing his virtue to pass from link to link, from the first inspired poet to the last of his readers or his rhapsodists. 1

It is by means of this magnetic chain that one can, in another sphere of movement, explain this truth so well known, that great kings make great men; it is also in this manner that one can understand how a monarch, called to found a vast empire, makes his will penetrate all hearts, take possession of all souls, and propagating his valour more and more, electrify his army and fill it with a multitude of heroes.

Homer received therefore a first inspiration; he was created to become the poetic motive of Europe, the principle

1 excited the keenest enthusiasm; they passed soon from mouth to mouth, fixed the attention of legislators, were the ornament of the most brilliant fêtes, 2 and became everywhere the basis of public instruction. 3 The secret flame which they concealed, becoming developed in young souls, warmed there the particular germ which they possessed, and according to their divers specie and the fertility of the soil, brought forth many talents. 4 The poets who were found endowed with a genius vast enough to receive the second inspiration in its entirety, imitated their model and raised themselves to epopœia. Antimachus and Dicæogenes are noticeable, the one for his Thebaïs, and the other for his cyprien verses. 5 Those to whom nature had given passions more gentle than violent, more touching than vehement, inclinations more rustic than bellicose, whose souls contained more sensitiveness than elevation, were led to copy certain isolated groups of this vast tableau, and placing them, following their tastes, in the palace or in the thatched cottage, caused accents of joy or of sorrow, the plaints of heroes or the sports of shepherds to be heard, and thus created elegy, eclogue, or idyl. 6 Others, on the contrary, whose too vehement enthusiasm shortened the duration of it, whose keen fiery passions had left little empire for reason, who allowed themselves to be drawn easily toward the object of which they were momentarily captive, created the ode, dithyramb, or song, according to the nature of their genius and the object of their passion. These were more numerous than all the

* or to Pindar; Sappho and Telesilla effaced Alcæus and Anacreon. 1

It is said that the art with which Homer had put into action gods and men, had opposed heaven and earth, and depicted the combats of the passions; this art, being joined to the manner in which the rhapsodists declaimed his poems 2 by alternately relieving one another, and covering themselves with garments of different colours adapted to the situation, had insensibly given rise to dramatic style and to theatrical representation. 3 This, true in a sense. has need of a distinction: it will serve at the same time to throw light upon what I am about to say.

One should remember that the intellectual and rational poetry, or theosophical and philosophical, illustrated by Orpheus and which Homer had united with the enthusiasm of the passions in order to constitute epopœia, although

* spread themselves abroad and took possession of the laic or profane world, the religious and learned world was always occupied by the disciples of Orpheus, called Eumolpidæ. † The hierophants and philosophers continued to write as formerly upon theology and natural philosophy. There appeared from time to time theogonies and cosmological systems, 1 dionysiacs, heraclides, 2 oracles, treatises on nature and moral apologues, which bore no relation to epopœia. The hymns or pæans which had emanated from the sanctuaries in honour of the Divinity, had in no wise resembled either the odes or the dithyrambs of the lyric poets 3: as much as the former were vehement and passionate, so much the latter affected to be calm and majestic. There existed therefore, at this epoch, two kinds of poetry, equally beautiful when they had attained their respective perfection: Eumolpique Poetry and Epic Poetry: the first, intellectual and rational; the other, intellectual and passionate.

However, the divine mysteries, hidden from the profane, manifested to the initiates in the ceremonies and symbolic

* when suddenly one saw for the first time certain of these fables and these ceremonies ridiculously travestied, transpiring among the people and serving them for amusement. The fêtes of Dionysus, celebrated in the times of vintage, gave place to this sort of profanation. The grape-gatherers, besmeared with lees, giving way in the intoxication of wine to an indiscreet enthusiasm, began to utter aloud from their wagons the allegories that they had learned in their rural initiations. These allegories, which neither the actors nor the spectators had comprehended in reality, appeared, nevertheless, piquant to both through the malicious interpretations which they gave them. 1 Such were the feeble beginnings of dramatic art in Greece 2; there was born the profanation of the Orphic mysteries, in the same manner that one sees it reborn among us, by the profanation of the Christian mysteries. 3 But this art was already old in Asia when it sprang up in Europe. I have already said that there was in the secret celebration of the mysteries, veritable dramatic representations. These mystic ceremonies, copied from those which had taken place in the celebration of the Egyptian mysteries, had been brought into Egypt by the Indian priests at a very remote epoch when the empire of Hindustan had extended over this country. This communication, which was made from one people to another, has been demonstrated to the point of evidence by the learned researches of the academicians

1 who have proved what Bacon had previously said in speaking of the Greek traditions, "that it was only a very light air which, passing by means of an ancient people into the flutes of Greece, had been modulated by them into sounds more sweet, more harmonious, and more conformable to the climate and to their brilliant imagination."

A singular coincidence, Messieurs, which will not escape your sagacity, is that dramatic art, whose origin is lost in India in the night of time, has likewise had its birth in the mysteries of religion. It is during the Ram-Jatra, a fête celebrated annually in honour of Rama, the same as Dionysus of the Greeks, or Bacchus of the Latins, that one still sees theatrical representations which have served as models for the more regular works that have been made in the course of time. 2 These representations, which run through nearly all the exploits of Rama and through the victory that this beneficent god gained over Rawhan, the principle of evil, are mingled with chants and recitations exactly as were those of the ancient Greeks. You understand, Messieurs, that the first efforts of tragedy were to celebrate the conquests of Bacchus and his triumph, of which that of Apollo over the serpent Python, celebrated by the Pythian games, was the emblem. 3 Those of the Indians who appear to have preserved the most ancient traditions, since the sacred books were written in the Pali language, considered as anterior to the Sanskrit by some savants, the Burmans, have from time immemorial recorded the mysteries of Rama in scenic dramas which are still performed in public on the fête day of this god. 4 I do not consider it amiss to mention here that the name of Rama, which in Sanskrit signifies

* and that it is from this same name to which is joined a demonstrative article common to Aramaic, Chaldean, and Syriac, that the word drama ** is formed, and which being adopted by the Greek tongue, has passed afterwards into the Latin tongue and into ours. This word has expressed an action, because, in truth, it depicts one in the mysteries and besides its primitive root refers to regular movement in general.

But as my purpose is not to follow at present dramatic art in all its ramifications and as it suffices me to have indicated clearly the origin, I return to Greece.

The spectacle of which I have spoken, effect of a Bacchic enthusiasm, and at first abandoned to the caprice of certain rustic grape-gatherers whose indiscretions did not appear formidable, struck so forcibly by its novelty and produced such a marvellous effect upon the people, that it was not long before certain men of most cultivated minds were seen desirous of taking part either from liking or from interest. Thespis and Susarion appeared at the same time and each seized, according to his character, one the noble and serious side and the other the ridiculous and amusing side of the mythological fables; dividing thus from its birth, dramatic

1 *

In the meantime, the governments, until then quite indifferent to these rustic amusements, warned that certain liberties permitted by Thespis were becoming too flagrant, began to see the profanations which had resulted, and of which the Eumolpidæ had no doubt pointed out the consequences. 2 They tried to prevent them, and Solon even made a law regarding this subject 3; but it was too late: the people attracted in crowds to these representations, all informal as they were, rendered useless the foresight of the legislator. It was necessary to yield to the torrent and, being unable to arrest it, to strive at least to restrain it within just limits. A clear field was left open for the good that it was able to do, in fertilizing the new ideas, and severe rules were opposed to check whatever dangers its invasions might have for religion and for customs. The dramatic writers were permitted to draw the subject of their pieces from the source of the mysteries, but it was forbidden them, under penalty of death, to divulge the sense. Æschylus, first of the dramatic poets, having involuntarily violated this law, ran the risk of losing his life. 4 Discriminating judges were established to pronounce upon

1 These judges, proficient in the knowledge of music and of poetry, had to listen in silence until the end, and maintain all in order and decency. Plato attributes to the desuetude into which this law fell, and to the absolute dominion which the people assumed over the theatre, the first decadence of the art and its entire corruption.

Æschylus, whom I have just named, was the true creator of dramatic art. Strong with the inspiration which he had received from Homer, 2 he transported into tragedy the style of epopœia, and animated it with a music grave and simple. 3 Not content with the moral beauties with which his genius embellished it, he wished that music, painting, and dancing might lend their aid and contribute to the illusion of the senses. He caused a theatre to be built where the most ingenious devices, the most magnificent decorations displayed their magic effects. 4 One saw in the tragedy of Prometheus, the earth trembling, clouds of dust rising in the air; one heard the whistling of wind, the crash of thunder; one was dazzled by the lightnings. 5 Old Ocean appeared upon the waves, and Mercury came from the heights of heaven to announce the commands of Jupiter. In the tragedy of the Eumenides, these infernal divinities appeared upon the scene to the number of fifty, clothed in black robes; blood-stained, the head bristling with serpents, holding in one hand a torch and in the other a lash. 6 They replied to the shade of Clytemnestra, who invoked them, by a choir of music so frightful, that a general terror having struck

1

One feels, after this, that Greek tragedy had in its theatrical forms, much in common with our modern operas; but what eminently distinguishes it is that, having come forth complete from the depths of the sanctuaries, it possessed a moral sense which the initiates understood. This is what put it above anything that we might be able to conceive today; what gave it an inestimable price. Whereas the vulgar, dazzled only by the pomp of the spectacle, allured by the beauty of the verse and the music, enjoyed merely a fleeting gratification, the wise tasted a pleasure more pure and more durable, by receiving the truth in their hearts even from the deceitful delusions of the senses. This pleasure was as much greater as the inspiration of the poet had been more perfect, and as he had succeeded better in making the allegorical spirit felt, without betraying the veil which covered it.

Æschylus went further in comprehension of the subject than any of his successors. His plans were of an extreme simplicity. He deviated little from the mythological tradition. 2 All his efforts tended only to give light to their teachings, to penetrate into their hidden beauties. The characters of his heroes, strongly drawn, sustained them at heights where Homer had placed them. He caused terror to pass before them that they might be frightened. 3 His aim was to lead them to virtue by terror, and to inspire the soul with a force capable of resisting alike the intoxications of prosperity and the discouragements of poverty.

Sophocles and Euripides followed closely Æschylus and surpassed him in certain portions of the art; the first, even triumphed over him in the eyes of the multitude 4; but the

1 One can admit that Sophocles was more perfect in the conduct of his plans, in the regularity of his style 2; that Euripides was more natural and more tender, more skilful in arousing interest, in stirring the passions 3; but these perfections, resulting from the form, had not been acquired without the very essence of drama being altered; that is to say, without the allegorical genius which had presided at the composition of the fables that the poets had always drawn from the religious mysteries, suffering many deviations, which rendered it often unrecognizable through the foreign adornments with which it was burdened. Sophocles and above all Euripides, by devoting themselves to perfecting the form, really harmed therefore the principle of the art and hastened its corruption. If the laws which had at first been promulgated against those who in treating of the tragic subjects vilified the mysterious sense had been executed, Euripides would not have been allowed to depict so many heroes degraded by adversity, so many princesses led astray by love, so many scenes of shame, of scandal, and of crime 4; but the people, already degraded and bordering upon corruption, allowed themselves to be drawn along by these dangerous tableaux and hastened half-way to meet the poisoned cup which was offered to them.

It must candidly be admitted, that it is to the very charm of these tableaux, to the talent with which Euripides understood how to colour them, that the decadence of Athenian manners and the first harm done to the purity of religion must be attributed. The theatre, having become the school of the passions, and offering to the soul no spiritual nourishment, opened a door through which doubt, contempt, and derision for the mysteries, the most sacrilegious audacity,

1; Sophocles painted simple heroes, and Euripides, characters often less than men. 2 Now these personages were, in the eyes of the people, either children of the gods, or the gods themselves. What idea could be formed then of their weaknesses, of their crimes, of their odious or ridiculous conduct, particularly when these weaknesses or these crimes were no longer represented as allegories from which it was necessary to seek the meaning, but as historical events or frivolous plays of the imagination? The people, according to the degree of their intelligence, became either impious or superstitious; the savants professed to doubt all, and the influential men, by feigning to believe all, regarded all parties with an equal indifference. This is exactly what happened. The mysteries became corrupt because one was accustomed to regard them as corrupt; and the people became intolerant and fanatical, each one cringing with fear, lest he be judged what he really was, namely, impious.

Such was the effect of dramatic art in Greece. This effect, at first imperceptible, became manifest to the eyes of the sages, when the people became the dictators of the theatre and ignored the judges named to pronounce upon the works of the poets; when the poets, jealous of obtaining the approval of the multitude, consulted its taste rather than truth, its versatile passions rather than reason, and sacrificed to its caprices the laws of honesty and excellence. 3

As soon as tragedy, disparaging the mysteries of the fables had transformed them into historical facts, it needed only a step to raise historical facts to the rank of subjects of tragedy. Phrynichus was, it is said, the first who had

1 The people of Athens, with a whimsicality which is characteristic of them, condemned the poet to a very heavy fine, for having disobeyed the law and crowned him because of the tears which they shed at the representation of his work. But this was not enough, confounding thus reality and allegory; soon, sacred and profane things were mingled by forging without any kind of moral aim, subjects wholly false and fantastic. The poet Agathon, who was the author of this new profanation had been the friend of Euripides. 2 He proved thus that he knew nothing of the essence of dramatic poetry and makes it doubtful whether Euripides knew it any better.

Thus, in the space of less than two centuries, tragedy, borne upon the car of Thespis, elevated by Æschylus to a nobler theatre, carried to the highest degree of splendour by Sophocles, had already become weakened in the hands of Euripides, had lost the memory of its celestial origin with Agathon, and abandoned to the caprices of a populace as imperious as ignorant, inclined toward a rapid degeneration. * Comedy less reserved did not have a happier destiny. After having hurled its first darts upon the heroes and demigods of Greece, having taken possession of certain very unguarded allegories, to turn even the gods to ridicule 3; after having derided Prometheus and Triptolemus, Bacchus and the Bacchantes, after having made sport of heaven and earth, of the golden age and the seasons 4; it attacked

1 Epicharmus, who gave certain rules to the indecent farces of Susarion, was followed by Magnes, Cratinus, Eupolis, and a crowd of other comic poets, until Aristophanes whose bitter satires no longer finding sufficient influence in certain obscure ridicules, applied themselves to disparaging science and virtue, and twenty years beforehand, prepared and envenomed the hemlock by which Socrates was poisoned. It is true that some time after, Menander tried to reform this terrible abuse and gave to comedy a form less revolting; but he was only able to do so by detaching it completely from its origin, that is to say, by severing it from all that it had preserved, intellectually and allegorically, and reducing it to the representation of certain tableaux and certain events of the social life.

In going back, as I have just done, to the origin of poetic science in order to distinguish first, its essence from its form and afterwards, to follow its diverse developments, in genus and in kind, I have related many things and cited a great number of subjects with which you are familiar; but you will no doubt excuse, Messieurs, these numerous reminiscences and citations, in reflecting that although but little necessary for you, they were infinitely so for me, since presenting myself in the lists and wishing to give an added form to this science which belongs to you, I must prove to you that I have at least studied it profoundly.

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Footnotes

43:1 Plat., Dial. Ion.

44:1 Plat., ut suprà.

45:1 Ælian., Var. Hist., l. xiii., c. 14; Diog. Laërt., In Solon., l. i., § 57.

45:2 Plat., In Hipparc.; Pausan, l. vii., c. 26; Cicer., De Orat., l. iii.

45:3 Eustath., In Iliad., l. i., p. 145; l. ii., p. 263.

45:4 Dionys. Halle., De Comp. verb., t. v., c. 16 et 24; Quintil., Instit., l. x., c. 1.

45:5 Athen., l. xv., c. 8; Aristot., De Poët., c. 16; Ælian., Var. Hist., c. 15.

45:6 Barthel., Voyag. d’Anarchar., t. vii., ch. 80, p. 46, 52.

46:* It can be seen that I have placed in the word Stesi`chorus, an accent grave over the consonant c, and it will be noticed that I have used it thus with respect to many similar words. It is a habit I have contracted in writing, so as to distinguish, in this manner, the double consonant ch, in the foreign words, or in their derivatives, when it should take the guttural inflexion, in place of the hissing inflexion which we ordinarily give to it. Thus I accent the `c in Chio, `chæur, chorus, é`cho, `chlorose, `chiragre, `chronique, etc.; to indicate that these words should he pronounced Khio, khœur, khorus, ékho, khlorose, khiragre, khronique, with the aspirate sound of k, and not with that of the hissing c, as in Chypre, chaume, échope, chaire, etc. This accentuation has appeared to me necessary, especially when one is obliged to transcribe in modern characters many foreign words which, lacking usage, one knows not, at first, how to pronounce. It is, after all, a slight innovation in orthography, which I leave to the decision of the grammarians. I only say that it will be very difficult for them, without this accent, or any other sign which might be used, to know how one should pronounce with a different inflexion, A`chaïe and Achéen; Achille and A`chilleïde; Achéron and a`chérontique; Bac`chus and bachique, etc.

46:1 Vossius, De Inst. poët., l. iii., c. 15; Aristot., Rhet., l. ii., 23; Max. Tyr. Orat., viii., p. 86.

46:2 Ælian., Var. Hist., l. xiii., c. 14, Court de Gébelin, Mond. prim., t. viii., p. 202.

46:3 Plat., In Theæt.; ibid., De Republ., l. x.; Arist., De Poët., c. 4, etc.

47:* The name of Homeridæ, given at first to all the disciples of Homer, was afterwards usurped by certain inhabitants of Chios who called themselves his descendants (Strab., l. xiv.; Isocr., Hellen. encom.). Also I should state here that the name of Homer, Ὅμηρος, was never of Greek origin and has not signified, as has been said, blind. The initial letter Ο is not a negation, but an article added to the Phœnician word ‏מלא‎ (mœra), which signifies, properly speaking, a centre of light, and figuratively, a master, a doctor.

47:† The surname Eumolpidæ, given to the hierophants, successors of Orpheus, comes from the word Εὔμολπος, by which is designated the style of poetry of this divine man. It signifies the perfect voice. It is derived from the Phœnician words ‏מלא‎ (mola), perfected, and ‏פאח‎ (phoh), mouth, voice, discourse. The adverb ἔν, which precedes it, expresses whatever is beautiful, holy, perfect.

47:1 Fabric., Bibl. Græc., p. 36, 505, 240, 469, passim; Arist., Probl., xix., 28; Meurs., Bibl. Græc., c. i.

47:2 Arist., De Poët., c. 8.

47:3 Porphyre, In Vitâ Pythagor., p. 21; Clem. Alex., l. vi., p. 658; Plato, De Leg., l. iii.; Plutar., De Music., p. 1141; Poll., l. iv., c. 9.

48:* I have placed the epoch of Orpheus, which coincides with that of the arrival of the Egyptian colony conducted into Greece by Cecrops, at 1582 B.C., according to the marbles of Paros.

48:1 Schol. Aristoph., In Nub., v. 295.

48:2 Athen., l. ii., c. 3.

48:3 Voyez L’Hist. du Théâtre Français de Fontenelle. Voici les titres des premières pièces représentées dans le cours du XIV^e siècle: L’Assomption de la glorieuse Vierge Marie, mystère à 38 personnages; Le Mystère de la Sainte Hostie, à 26 personn.; Le Mystère de Monseigneur S. Pierre et S. Paul, à 100 personn.; Les Mystères de la Conception de la Passion, de la Résurrection de Notre Seigneur J. C.; etc.

49:1 See Asiatic Researches, v. iii., p. 427-431, and 465-467. Also Grammar of the Bengal Language, preface, p. v.

49:2 See Interesting Historical Events, by Holwell, ch. 7.

49:3 Aristot., Probl., 15, c. 19; Pausan. l. i., c. 7.

49:4 See Asiatic Researches, vol. vi., p. 300-308.

50:* Rama is, in Sanskrit, the name of that which is dazzling, elevated, white, sublime, protective, beautiful, excellent. This word has exactly the same sense in the Phœnician ‏רם‎ (ram). Its primitive root, which is universalized by the hémantique letter ‏מ‎ (m), is ‏רא‎ (ra), which has reference to the harmonic movement of good, of light, and of sight. The name of the adversary of Rama, Rawhan, is formed from the root ‏רע‎ (rawh) which expresses, on the contrary, the disordered movement of evil and of fire, and which, becoming united with the augmentative syllable ‏ון‎ (ôn), depicts whatever ravages and ruins; this is the signification which it has in Sanskrit.

50:** From the word ‏רמא‎ (rama) is formed in Phœnician the word ‏דרמא‎ (drama) by the adjunction of the demonstrative article ‏ד‎ (d'); that is to say, a thing which comes from Rama: an action well ordered, beautiful, sublime, etc. Notice that the Greek verb δραεῖν, to act, whence is drawn very inappropriately the word δρᾶμα, is always attached to the same root ‏רא‎ (ra) which is that of harmonic movement.

51:1 Athen., l. ii., c. 3; Arist., De Poët., c. 3, 4, 5.

51:* Tragedy, in Greek τραγῳδία, comes from the words τραχίς, austere, severe, lofty, and ὠδή chant.

Comedy, in Greek κωμῳδία, is derived from the words κῶμος, joyful, lascivious, and ὠδή, chant.

It is unnecessary for me to say that the etymologists who have seen in tragedy a song of the goat, because τράγος signifies a goat in Greek, have misunderstood the simplest laws of etymology. Τράγος signifies a goat only by metaphor, because of the roughness and heights which this animal loves to climb; as caper, in Latin, holds to the same root as caput; and chèvre, in French, to the same root as chef, for a similar reason.

51:2 Diog. Laërt., l. i., § 59.

51:3 Plutar. In Solon.

51:4 Arist., De Mor., l. iii., c. 2; Ælian., Var. Hist., l. v., c. 59; Clem. Alex., Strom., l. ii., c. 14.

52:1 Plato, De Legib., l. iii.

52:2 Athen., l. viii., c. 8.

52:3 Plutar., De Music.

52:4 Horat., De Art. poët, v, 279; Vitruv., In Prefac., l. vii., p. 124.

52:5 Æschylus, In Prometh., Act I., Sc. 1, et Act. V., Sc. ult.

52:6 Æschylus, In Eumenid., Act V., Sc. 3.

53:1 Aristoph. In Plut., v. 423; Pausan., l. i., c. 28; Vitâ Æschyl. apud., Stanley, p. 702.

53:2 Dionys. Chrys., Orat., l. ii.

53:3 Aristoph., In Ran.; Philostr., In Vitâ Apollon, l. vi., c. ii.

53:4 Plutar., In Cimon.; Athen., l. viii., c. 8.

54:1 Philostr., In Vitâ Apoll., l. vi., c. 11.

54:2 Schol., In Vitâ Sophocl.; Suidas, In Σοφοκλ.; Plutar., De Profect. Vitæ.

54:3 Aristot., De Poët., c. 25.

54:4 Aristoph., In Ran., v. 874 et 1075.

55:1 Philostr., Vitâ Apoll., l. ii., c. 2; l. iv., c. 16; l. vi., c. 11; Vitâ Æschyl. apud, Robort., p. 11.

55:2 Aristoph., In Ran.; Aristot., De Poët, c. 25.

55:3 Plato, De Legib., l. ii. et iii.

56:1 Hérodot., l. vi., 21; Corsin., Fast. attic., t. iii., p. 172; Aristot., De Poët., c. 9.

56:2 Aristot., De Poët., c. 9.

56:* Susarion appeared 580 B.C., and Thespis some years after. The latter produced his tragedy of Alcestis in 536 B.C.; and the condemnation of Socrates occurred in 399 B.C. So that only 181 years elapsed between the initial presentation of comedy and the death of this philosopher.

56:3 Aristot., De Poët., c. 3.

56:4 Aristoph, In Pac., v. 740; Schol., ibid.; Epicharm., In Nupt. Heb. apud Athen., l. iii., p. 85.

57:1 Plat., In Argum.; Aristoph., p. xi.; Schol., De Comœd.; ibid., p. xii.