ciate the idea of transitoriness so inseparably, as to be displeased by its continuance in art. He did not paint Medea at the instant when she was actually murdering her children, but a few moments before, whilst her motherly love was still struggling with her jealousy. We see the end of the contest beforehand; we tremble in the anticipation of soon recognising her as simply cruel, and our imagination carries us far beyond anything, which the painter could have portrayed in that terrible moment itself. But, for that very reason, the irresolution of Medea, which art has made perpetual, is so far from giving offence, that we are rather inclined to wish that it could have remained the same in nature, that the contest of passions had never been decided, or, at least, had continued so long that time and reflection had gained the mastery over fury, and assured the victory to the feelings of the mother. This wisdom of Timomachus has called forth great and frequent praise, and raised him far above another unknown painter, who was foolish enough to draw Medea at the very height of her frenzy, and thus to impart to this fleeting, transient moment of extreme madness, a duration that disgusts all nature. The poet, who censures him, says very sensibly, whilst addressing the figure a a Philippus, Anthol. Lib. IV. Cap. ix. Ep. 10.- itself "Thirstedst thou then ever for the blood of -- thy children? Is there ever a new Jason, a new Creusa there to exasperate thee unceasingly ?" "Away with thee, even in painting!" he adds, in a tone of vexation. Of the frenzied Ajax of Timomachus, we can form some judgment from the account of Philostratus.b Ajax does not appear raging among the herds, and slaughtering and binding cattle instead of men; but the master exhibits him sitting wearied with these heroic deeds of insanity, and conceiving the design of suicide; and that is really the raging Ajax: not because he is just then raging, but because we see that he has been; because we can form the most lively idea of the extremity of his frenzy, from the shame and despair, which he himself feels at the thoughts of it. We see the storm in the wrecks and corpses with which it has strewn the beach. b Vita Apoll. Lib. II. Cap. xxii. CHAPTER IV. I have passed under review the reasons alleged for the artist of the Laocoon being obliged to set certain bounds to the expression of bodily pain; and I find that they are altogether derived from the peculiar conditions of his art, and its necessary limits and wants. Perhaps hardly any of them would be found equally applicable to poetry. We will not here examine how far the poet can succeed in painting typical beauty. It is undeniable, that the whole realm of the perfectly excellent lies open to his imitation, whereas that excellence of material and outward form, through which the perfectly excellent finds an expression, and which we call beauty, is only one of the least of the means by which he can interest us in his characters. Often he neglects this means entirely, feeling certain, if his hero has once won our regard, of so pre-occupying our minds with his nobler qualities, that we shall not bestow a thought upon his bodily form; or that if we do think of it, it will be with such favourable I have adopted this expression, which is used in nearly the same sense by Ruskin, to denote what we generally term 'Beauty,” i. e. beauty of form and line.-TRANS. A prepossessions, that we shall, of ourselves, attribute to him an exterior, if not handsome, at least not unpleasing; at any rate he will not permit himself to pay any regard to the sense of sight, in any trait, which is not expressly intended to appeal to it. When Virgil's Laocoon shrieks, does it occur to any one that a widely opened mouth is the necessary accompaniment of a shriek, and that this open mouth is ugly? It is enough that "clamores horrendos ad sidera tollit," whatever it may be to the eyes, is a powerful appeal to the ears. If any one here feels the want of a beautiful picture, the poet has failed to make a due impression on him. Moreover, the poet is not compelled to concentrate his picture into the space of a single moment. He has it in his power to take up every action of his hero at its source, and pursue it to its issue, through all possible variations. Each of these, which would cost the artist a separate work, costs the poet but a single trait; and should this trait, if viewed by itself, offend the imagination of the hearer, either such preparation has been made for it by what has preceded, or it will be so softened and compensated by what follows, that its solitary impression is lost, and the combination produces the best possible effect. Thus, were it really unbecoming a man to shriek under the violence of bodily pain, what prejudice could this slight and transitory impropriety excite in us against one, in whose favour we are already prepossessed by his other virtues? Virgil's Laocoon shrieks, but this shrieking Laocoon is the same man, whom we already respect as a far-sighted patriot and affectionate father. We attribute his cries not to his character, but solely to his intolerable suffering. It is this alone that we hear in them, and by them alone could the poet have brought it home to us. Who, then, still censures him? Who is not rather forced to own, that whilst the artist has done well in not allowing him to shriek, the poet has done equally well in causing him to do so? But Virgil is here merely a narrative poet: will his justification include the dramatic poet also? One impression is produced by the relation of a person's shriek, another by the shriek itself. The drama, which is intended to be actually represented by the comedian, should, perhaps, for that very reason, be compelled to confine itself narrowly within the limits of material art. In it we do not merely believe that we see and hear a shrieking Philoctetes, we actually do see and hear him. It is indisputable that such loud and violent expressions of pain are in accordance with nature; the nearer, therefore, the actor approaches to it, the more will our eyes and ears be offended. Besides, bodily pain generally is not capable of exciting that sympathy which other evils awaken. Our imagination can discern too little in it for the mere sight of it to arouse in us anything of a similar feeling. Sophocles, therefore, |