As far as tragedy is concerned, let us form our first opinion of its character from its outward semblance. What a repulsive and at the same time frightful spectacle is a man tricked out to disproportionate stature, mounted upon high clogs, wearing a mask that reaches up above his head, with a mouth that is set in a vast yawn as if he meant to swallow up the spectators! I forbear to speak of pads for the breast and pads for the paunch, wherewith he puts on an adscititious, counterfeit corpulence, so that the disproportion in height may not betray itself the more conspicuously in a slender figure. Then too, inside all this, you have the man himself bawling out, bending forward and backward, sometimes actually singing his lines, and (what is surely the height of unseemliness) melodising his calamities, holding himself answerable for nothing but his voice, as everything else has been attended to by the poets, who lived at some time in the distant past. To be sure, as long as he is an Andromache or a Hecuba, his singing can be tolerated; but when he enters as Heracles in person and warbles a ditty, forgetting himself and taking no shame either for the lion-skin that he is wearing or for the club, a man in his right mind may properly term the thing a solecism.I.e., it is in art what a solecism is in grammar.
