eration of truth according to history.
As the tragic poet, like poets in general, is only subject to the laws of
poetic truth, the most conscientious observance of historic truth could
never dispense him from his duties as poet, and could never excuse in him
any infraction of poetic truth or lack of interest. It is, therefore,
betraying very narrow ideas on tragic art, or rather on poetry in
general, to drag the tragic poet before the tribunal of history, and to
require instruction of the man who by his very title is only bound to
move and charm you. Even supposing the poet, by a scrupulous submission
to historic truth, had stripped himself of his privilege of artist, and
that he had tacitly acknowledged in history a jurisdiction over his work,
art retains all her rights to summon him before its bar; and pieces such
as "The Death of Hermann," "Minona," "Fust of Stromberg," if they could
not stand the test on this side, would only be tragedies of mediocre
value, notwithstanding all the minuteness of costume--of national
costume--and of the manners of the time.

Fifthly, tragedy is the imitation of an action that lets us see man
suffering. The word man is essential to mark the limits of tragedy.
Only the suffering of a being like ourselves can move our pity. Thus,
evil genii, demons--or even men like them, without morals--and again pure
spirits, without our weaknesses, are unfit for tragedy. The very idea of
suffering implies a man in the full sense of the term. A pure spirit
cannot suffer, and a man approaching one will never awaken a high degree
of sympathy. A purely sensuous being can indeed have terrible suffering;
but without moral sense it is a prey to it, and a suffering with reason
inactive is a disgusting spectacle. The tragedian is right to prefer
mixed characters, and to place the ideal of his hero half way between
utter perversity and entire perfection.

Lastly, tragedy unites all these requisites to excite pity. Many means
the tragic poet takes might serve another object; but he frees himself
from all requirements not relating to this end, and is thereby obliged to
direct himself with a view to this supreme object.

The final aim to which all the laws tend is called the end of any style
of poetry. The means by which it attains this are its form. The end and
form are, therefore, closely related. The form is determined by the end,
and when the form is well observed the end is generally attained. Each
kind of