on the subject? Why does not Agamemnon issue the same order to his Greeks? The truth is, the poet's meaning lies deeper than this. He wishes to indicate that it was the polished Greek alone who might weep and yet be valiant; while the uncivilized Trojan could only preserve his courage by stifling the dictates of humanity. Νεμεσσωμαι γε μεν οὐδεν κλαιειν, are the words which, on another occasion,* he puts into the mouth of the sage Nestor's intelligent son.

It is remarkable that, among the few tragedies which have been preserved to us from antiquity, there are two in which bodily pain is not the least of the misfortunes with which the suffering hero is assailed. Besides the Philoctetes, we have the Dying Hercules, who is likewise represented by Sophocles as moaning, weeping, and shrieking with pain. Thanks to our elegant neighbours, the French, those masters of the rules of gentility, a moaning Philoctetes, or a screaming Hercules, would now-a-days be the most ridiculous and most insufferable character

Odys. A. 195.

on the stage. One of their modern poets* has, it is true, ventured to try his genius on Philoctetes; but has he dared to delineate the true Philoctetes to his countrymen?

Even the story of Laocoon furnished the subject of one of the tragedies of Sophocles now lost. How much it is to be regretted that this work has not been spared to us! From the slender notices made of this tragedy by the ancient critics, it is impossible to determine how the subject was treated by the poet. Of this, however, I am convinced, that he did not make Laocoon more stoical than Philoctetes and Hercules. All stoicism is undramatic, and our sympathy is always commensurate with the suffering exhibited by the object of interest. The man who bears his afflictions without a murmur, may indeed command our admiration for his magnanimity, but will take no hold upon our hearts. Admiration is a cold and passive affection, excluding each warmer emotion, and leaving behind no definite impression on the mind.

* Chataubrun.

And now I have arrived at the inference I purposed to draw. If it be true that to give utterance to the expression of pain is perfectly compatible, at least according to the notions of the ancient Greeks, with grandeur of soul—it follows that it could not have been from the fear of diminishing this elevation of character that the artist refrained from tracing on his marble the outward indications of painful shrieks. must then have had some other motive for departing, in this instance, from the line adopted by his rival, the poet, who has chosen deliberately to express those shrieks.

He

SECOND SECTION.

The primary Law of the Arts consists in Beauty.

This Principle at once explains the Difference observable in the Treatment of the Laocoon between the Poet and the Painter.

Whether the pretty story of Love having made the first attempt in the Fine Arts, is an ingenious fable, or an historical fact, I shall not now take the trouble to inquire; this at least is certain, that the young god never ceased to guide the pencils of the great masters of antiquity. For painting, which now-a-days is carried to the utmost range of its applicability in the imitation of nature, was by the skilful Greek confined within much narrower limits, and was appropriated to the delineation of beautiful objects alone. The Greek artist portrayed nothing but beauty; and even beauty, when of an ordinary or inferior character, could only occasionally allure him, or served him for practice

and recreation alone. He aimed at enchanting the beholders by embodying in his work the perfections of the chosen object of imitation. His genius was of too lofty a cast, to permit him to offer to his spectators the mere cold enjoyment which springs from the contemplation of a well-caught resemblance, or from admiration of the artist's skill. The dearest and noblest end of his ambition, in the prosecution of his art, was to attain what he considered its only legitimate object.

"Who would be at the pains to paint you, when nobody would choose to look at you?"—is the address of an ancient epigrammatist* to an individual notorious for his deformity. Many a modern artist would say,—"No matter how ugly the man is, I am ready to paint him. Though nobody wants to see the object itself, my picture will still be looked at; not, I grant, on account of the subject it exhibits, but as a specimen of my skill, in delineating with accuracy so hideous a creature."