[Exit, followed by DIEGO.

   BEATRICE, DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (detaining BEATRICE).
My sister, wouldst thou leave me? On this head
A mother's curse may fall--a brother's blood
Cry with accusing voice to heaven--all nature
Invoke eternal vengeance on my soul--
But thou--oh! curse me not--I cannot bear it!

   [BEATRICE points with averted eyes to the body.

I have not slain thy lover! 'twas thy brother,
And mine that fell beneath my sword; and near
As the departed one, the living owns
The ties of blood: remember, too, 'tis I
That most a sister's pity need--for pure
His spirit winged its flight, and I am guilty!

   [BEATRICE bursts into an agony of tears.

Weep! I will blend my tears with thine--nay, more,
I will avenge thy brother; but the lover--
Weep not for him--thy passionate, yearning tears
My inmost heart. Oh! from the boundless depths
Of our affliction, let me gather this,
The last and only comfort--but to know
That we are dear alike. One lot fulfilled
Has made our rights and wretchedness the same;
Entangled in one snare we fall together,
Three hapless victims of unpitying fate,
And share the mournful privilege of tears.
But when I think that for the lover more
Than for the brother bursts thy sorrow's tide,
Then rage and envy mingle with my pain,
And hope's last balm forsakes my withering soul?
Nor joyful, as beseems, can I requite
This inured shade:--yet after him content
To mercy's throne my contrite spirit shall fly,
Sped by this hand--if dying I may know
That in one urn our ashes shall repose,
With pious office of a sister's care.

   [He throws his arms around her with passionate tenderness.

I loved thee, as I ne'er had loved before,
When thou wert strange; and that I bear the curse
Of brother's blood, 'tis but because I loved thee
With measureless transport: love was all my guilt,
But now thou art my sister, and I claim
Soft pity's tribute.

   [He regards her with inquiring glances, and an air of
   painful suspense--then turns away with vehemence.

           No! in this dread presence
I cannot bear these tears--my courage flies
And doubt distracts my soul. Go, weep in secret--
Leave me in error's maze--but never, never,
Behold me more: I will not look again
On thee, nor on thy mother. Oh! how passion
Laid bare her secret heart! She never loved me!
She mourned her best-loved son--that was her cry
Of grief--and naught was mine but show of fondness!
And thou art false as she! make no disguise--
Recoil with horror from my sight--this form
Shall never shock thee more--begone forever!

                   [Exit.

   [She stands irresolute in a tumult of conflicting
   passions--then tears herself from the spot.

     Chorus (CAJETAN).

   Happy the man--his lot I prize
    That far from pomps and turmoil vain,
   Childlike on nature's bosom lies
    Amid the stillness of the plain.
   My heart is sad in the princely hall,
    When from the towering pride of state,
   I see with headlong ruin fall,
    How swift! the good and great!
   And he--from fortune's storm at rest
    Smiles, in the quiet haven laid
   Who, timely warned, has owned how blest
    The refuge of the cloistered shade;
   To honor's race has bade farewell,
    Its idle joys and empty shows;
   Insatiate wishes learned to quell,
    And lulled in wisdom's calm repose:--
   No more shall passion's maddening brood
    Impel the busy scenes to try,
   Nor on his peaceful cell intrude
    The form of sad humanity!
   'Mid crowds and strife each mortal ill
    Abides'--the grisly train of woe
   Shuns like the pest the breezy hill,
    To haunt the smoky marts below.

     BERENGAR, BOHEMUND, and MANFRED.

   On the mountains is freedom! the breath of decay
    Never sullies the fresh flowing air;
   Oh, Nature is perfect wherever we stray;
    'Tis man that deforms it with care.

     The whole Chorus repeats.

   On the mountains is freedom, etc., etc.

   DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (more collected).
I use the princely rights--'tis the last time--
To give this body to the ground, and pay
Fit honors to the dead. So mark, my friends,
My bosom's firm resolve, and quick fulfil
Your lord's behest. Fresh in your memory lives
The mournful pomp, when to the tomb ye bore
So late my royal sire; scarce in these halls
Are stilled the echoes of the funeral wail;
Another corpse succeeds, and in the grave
Weighs down its fellow-dust--almost our torch
With borrowed lustre from the last, may pierce
The monumental gloom; and on the stair,
Blends in one throng confused two mourning trains.
Then in the sacred royal dome that guards
The ashes of my sire, prepare with speed
The funeral rites; unseen of mortal eye,
And noiseless be your task--let all be graced,
As then, with circumstances of kingly state.

BOHEMUND.
My prince, it shall be quickly done; for still
Upreared, the gorgeous catafalque recalls
The dread solemnity; no hand disturbed
The edifice of death.

DON CAESAR.
            The yawning grave
Amid the haunts of life? No goodly sign
Was this: the rites fulfilled, why lingered yet
The trappings of the funeral show?

BOHEMUND.
                  Your strife
With fresh embittered hate o'er all Messina
Woke discord's maddening flames, and from the deed
Our cares withdrew--so resolute remained,
And closed the sanctuary.

DON CAESAR.
              Make no delay;
This very night fulfil your task, for well
Beseems the midnight gloom! To-morrow's sun
Shall find this palace cleansed of every stain,
And light a happier race.

   [Exit the Second Chorus, with the body of DON MANUEL.

CAJETAN.
              Shall I invite
The brotherhood of monks, with rights ordained
By holy church of old, to celebrate
The office of departed souls, and hymn
The buried one to everlasting rest?

DON CAESAR.
Their strains above my tomb shall sound for ever
Amid the torches' blaze--no solemn rites
Beseem the day when gory murder scares
Heaven's pardoning grace.

CAJETAN.
              Oh, let not wild despair
Tempt thee to impious, rash resolve. My prince
No mortal arm shall e'er avenge this deed;
And penance calms, with soft, atoning power,
The wrath on high.

DON CAESAR.
          If for eternal justice
Earth has no minister, myself shall wield
The avenging sword; though heaven, with gracious ear,
Inclines to sinners' prayers, with blood alone
Atoned is murder's guilt.

CAJETAN.
              To stem the tide
Of dire misfortune, that with maddening rage
Bursts o'er your house, were nobler than to pile
Accumulated woe.

DON CAESAR.
         The curse of old
Shall die with me! Death self-imposed alone
Can break the chain of fate.

CAJETAN.
               Thou owest thyself
A sovereign to this orphaned land, by thee
Robbed of its other lord!

DON CAESAR.
              The avenging gods
Demand their prey--some other deity
May guard the living!

CAJETAN.
            Wide as e'er the sun
In glory beams, the realm of hope extends;
But--oh remember! nothing may we gain
From Death!

DON CAESAR.
       Remember thou thy vassal's duty;
Remember and be silent! Leave to me
To follow, as I list, the spirit of power
That leads me to the goal. No happy one
May look into my breast: but if thy prince
Owns not a subject's homage, dread at least
The murderer!--the accursed!--and to the head
Of the unhappy--sacred to the gods--
Give honors due. The pangs that rend my soul--
What I have suffered--what I feel--have left
No place for earthly thoughts!

   DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, The Chorus.

ISABELLA (enters with hesitating steps, and looks irresolutely
     towards DON CAESAR; at last she approaches, and addresses
     him with collected tones).
I thought mine eyes should ne'er behold thee more;
Thus I had vowed despairing! Oh, my son!
How quickly all a mother's strong resolves
Melt into air! 'Twas but the cry of rage
That stifled nature's pleading voice; but now
What tidings of mysterious import call me
From the desolate chambers of my sorrow?
Shall I believe it? Is it true? one day
Robs me of both my sons?

     Chorus.

   Behold! with willing steps and free,
    Thy son prepares to tread
   The paths of dark eternity
    The silent mansions of the dead.
   My prayers are vain; but thou, with power confessed,
   Of nature's holiest passion, storm his breast!

ISABELLA.
I call the curses back--that in the frenzy
Of blind despair on thy beloved head
I poured. A mother may not curse the child
That from her nourishing breast drew life, and gave
Sweet recompense for all her travail past;
Heaven would not hear the impious vows; they fell
With quick rebound, and heavy with my tears
Down from the flaming vault!
               Live! live! my son!
For I may rather bear to look on thee--
The murderer of one child--than weep for both!

DON CAESAR.
Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers
For me and for thyself; I have no place
Among the living: if thine eyes may brook
The murderer's sight abhorred--I could not bear
The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.

ISABELLA.
Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never
Disturb thy breast--ne'er in these halls shall sound
The voice of wailing, gently on my tears
My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike
Of pitiless fate together we will mourn,
And veil the deed of blood.

DON CAESAR (with a faltering voice, and taking her hand).
               Thus it shall be,
My mother--thus with silent, gentle woe
Thy grief shall fade: but when one common tomb
The murderer and his victim closes round--
When o'er our dust one monumental stone
Is rolled--the curse shall cease--thy love no more
Unequal bless thy sons: the precious tears
Thine eyes of beauty weep shall sanctify
Alike our memories. Yes! In death are quenched
The fires of rage; and hatred owns subdued,
The mighty reconciler. Pity bends
An angel form above the funeral urn,
With weeping, dear embrace. Then to the tomb
Stay not my passage:--Oh, forbid me not,
Thus with atoning sacrifice to quell
The curse of heaven.

ISABELLA.
           All Christendom is rich
In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart
May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden
Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid;
And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around
The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers
Of the devout are precious--fraught with store
Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;--
And on the soil by gory murder stained
Shall rise the purifying fane.

DON CAESAR.
                We pluck
The arrow from the wound--but the torn heart
Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on
A weary life of penance and of pain,
To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;--
I would not live the victim of despair;
No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile
Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air
Of liberty and joy. While yet alike
We shared thy love, then o'er my days of youth
Pale envy cast his withering shade; and now,
Think'st thou my heart could brook the dearer ties
That bind thee in thy sorrow to the dead?
Death, in his undecaying palace throned,
To the pure diamond of perfect virtue
Sublimes the mortal, and with chastening fire
Each gathered stain of frail humanity
Purges and burns away: high as the stars
Tower o'er this earthly sphere, he soars above me;
And as by ancient hate dissevered long,
Brethren and equal denizens we lived,
So now my restless soul with envy pines,
That he has won from me the glorious prize
Of immortality, and like a god
In memory marches on to times unborn!

ISABELLA.
My Sons! Why have I called you to Messina
To find for each a grave? I brought ye hither
To calm your strife to peace. Lo! Fate has turned
My hopes to blank despair.

DON CAESAR.
              Whate'er was spoke,
My mother, is fulfilled! Blame not the end
By Heaven ordained. We trode our father's halls
With hopes of peace; and reconciled forever,
Together we shall sleep in death.

ISABELLA.
                  My son,
Live for thy mother! In the stranger's land,
Say, wouldst thou leave me friendless and alone,
To cruel scorn a prey--no filial arm
To shield my helpless age?

DON CAESAR.
              When all the world
With heartless taunts pursues thee, to our grave
For refuge fly, my mother, and invoke
Thy sons' divinity--we shall be gods!
And we will hear thy prayers:--and as the twins
Of heaven, a beaming star of comfort shine
To the tossed shipman--we will hover near thee
With present help, and soothe thy troubled soul!

ISABELLA.
Live--for thy mother, live, my son--
Must I lose all?

   [She throws her arms about him with passionate emotion.
   He gently disengages himself, and turning his face away
   extends to her his hand.

DON CAESAR.
         Farewell!

ISABELLA.
               I can no more;
Too well my tortured bosom owns how weak
A mother's prayers: a mightier voice shall sound
Resistless on thy heart.

   [She goes towards the entrance of the scene.

             My daughter, come.
A brother calls him to the realms of night;
Perchance with golden hues of earthly joy
The sister, the beloved, may gently lure
The wanderer to life again.

   [BEATRICE appears at the entrance of the scene.

   DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, and the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (on seeing her, covers his face with his hands).
               My mother!
What hast thou done?

ISABELLA (leading BEATRICE forwards).
           A mother's prayers are vain!
Kneel at his feet--conjure him--melt his heart!
Oh, bid him live!

DON CAESAR.
          Deceitful mother, thus
Thou triest thy son! And wouldst thou stir my soul
Again to passion's strife, and make the sun
Beloved once more, now when I tread the paths
Of everlasting night? See where he stands--
Angel of life!--and wondrous beautiful,
Shakes from his plenteous horn the fragrant store
Of golden fruits and flowers, that breathe around
Divinest airs of joy;--my heart awakes
In the warm sunbeam--hope returns, and life
Thrills in my breast anew.

ISABELLA (to BEATRICE).
              Thou wilt prevail!
Or none! Implore him that he live, nor rob
The staff and comfort of our days.

BEATRICE.
                  The loved one
A sacrifice demands. Oh, let me die
To soothe a brother's shade! Yes, I will be
The victim! Ere I saw the light forewarned
To death, I live a wrong to heaven! The curse
Pursues me still: 'twas I that slew thy son--
I waked the slumbering furies of their strife--
Be mine the atoning blood!

CAJETAN.
              Ill-fated mother!
Impatient all thy children haste to doom,
And leave thee on the desolate waste alone
Of joyous life.

BEATRICE.
         Oh, spare thy precious days
For nature's band. Thy mother needs a son;
My brother, live for her! Light were the pang
To lose a daughter--but a moment shown,
Then snatched away!

DON CAESAR (with deep emotion).
           'Tis one to live or die,
Blest with a sister's love!

BEATRICE.
               Say, dost thou envy
Thy brother's ashes?

DON CAESAR.
           In thy grief he lives
A hallowed life!--my doom is death forever!

BEATRICE.
My brother!

DON CAESAR.
       Sister! are thy tears for me?

BEATRICE.
Live for our mother!

DON CAESAR (dropping her hand, and stepping back).
           For our mother?

BEATRICE (hiding her head in his breast).
                    Live
For her and for thy sister!

Chorus (BOHEMUND).
               She has won!
Resistless are her prayers. Despairing mother,
Awake to hope again--his choice is made!
Thy son shall live!

   [At this moment an anthem is heard. The folding doors
   are thrown open, and in the church is seen the catafalque
   erected, and the coffin surrounded with candlesticks.

DON CAESAR (turning to the coffin).
           I will not rob thee, brother!
The sacrifice is thine:--Hark! from the tomb,
Mightier than mother's tears, or sister's love,
Thy voice resistless cries:--my arms enfold
A treasure, potent with celestial joys,
To deck this earthly sphere, and make a lot
Worthy the gods! but shall I live in bliss,
While in the tomb thy sainted innocence
Sleeps unavenged? Thou, Ruler of our days,
All just--all wise--let not the world behold
Thy partial care! I saw her tears!--enough--
They flowed for me! I am content: my brother!
I come!

   [He stabs himself with a dagger, and falls dead
   at his sister's feet. She throws herself into her
   mother's arms.

Chorus, CAJETAN (after a deep silence).
    In dread amaze I stand, nor know
If I should mourn his fate. One truth revealed
Speaks in my breast;--no good supreme is life;
But all of earthly ills the chief is--Guilt!


THE END






ON THE USE OF THE CHORUS IN TRAGEDY.



A poetical work must vindicate itself: if the execution be defective,
little aid can be derived from commentaries.

On these grounds I might safely leave the chorus to be its own advocate,
if we had ever seen it presented in an appropriate manner. But it must
be remembered that a dramatic composition first assumes the character of
a whole by means of representation on the stage. The poet supplies only
the words, to which, in a lyrical tragedy, music and rhythmical motion
are essential accessories. It follows, then, that if the chorus is
deprived of accompaniments appealing so powerfully to the senses, it will
appear a superfluity in the economy of the drama--a mere hinderance to
the development of the plot--destructive to the illusion of the scene,
and wearisome to the spectators.

To do justice to the chorus, more especially if our aims in poetry be of
a grand and elevated character, we must transport ourselves from the
actual to a possible stage. It is the privilege of art to furnish for
itself whatever is requisite, and the accidental deficiency of
auxiliaries ought not to confine the plastic imagination of the poet. He
aspires to whatever is most dignified, he labors to realize the ideal in
his own mind--though in the execution of his purpose he must needs
accommodate himself to circumstances.

The assertion so commonly made that the public degrades art is not well
founded.  It is the artist that brings the public to the level of his
own conceptions; and, in every age in which art has gone to decay, it has
fallen through its professors.  The people need feeling alone, and
feeling they possess.  They take their station before the curtain with
an unvoiced longing, with a multifarious capacity. They bring with them
an aptitude for what is highest--they derive the greatest pleasure from
what is judicious and true; and if, with these powers of appreciation,
they deign to be satisfied with inferior productions, still, if they have
once tasted what is excellent, they will in the end insist on having it
supplied to them.

It is sometimes objected that the poet may labor according to an ideal--
that the critic may judge from ideas, but that mere executive art is
subject to contingencies, and depends for effect on the occasion.
Managers will be obstinate; actors are bent on display--the audience is
inattentive and unruly. Their object is relaxation, and they are
disappointed if mental exertion be required, when they expected only
amusement. But if the theatre be made instrumental towards higher
objects, the diversion, of the spectator will not be increased, but
ennobled. It will be a diversion, but a poetical one. All art is
dedicated to pleasure, and there can be no higher and worthier end than
to make men happy. The true art is that which provides the highest
degree of pleasure; and this consists in the abandonment of the spirit to
the free play of all its faculties.

Every one expects from the imaginative arts a certain emancipation from
the bounds of reality: we are willing to give a scope to fancy, and
recreate ourselves with the possible. The man who expects it the least
will nevertheless forget his ordinary pursuits, his everyday existence
and individuality, and experience delight from uncommon incidents:--if he
be of a serious turn of mind he will acknowledge on the stage that moral
government of the world which he fails to discover in real life. But he
is, at the same time, perfectly aware that all is an empty show, and that
in a true sense he is feeding only on dreams. When he returns from the
theatre to the world of realities, he is again compressed within its
narrow bounds; he is its denizen as before--for it remains what it was,
and in him nothing has been changed. What, then, has he gained beyond a
momentary illusive pleasure which vanished with the occasion?

It is because a passing recreation is alone desired that a mere show of
truth is thought sufficient. I mean that probability or vraisemblance
which is so highly esteemed, but which the commonest workers are able to
substitute for the true.

Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to
excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely
free; and this it accomplishes by awakening, exercising, and perfecting
in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world;
(which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down
with a brute influence;) to transform it into the free working of our
spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas.
For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective
and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth. It rears its ideal
edifice on truth itself--on the solid and deep foundations of nature.

But how art can be at once altogether ideal, yet in the strictest sense
real; how it can entirely leave the actual, and yet harmonize with
nature, is a problem to the multitude; and hence the distorted views
which prevail in regard to poetical and plastic works; for to ordinary
judgments these two requisites seem to counteract each other.

It is commonly supposed that one may be attained by the sacrifice of the
other;--the result is a failure to arrive at either. One to whom nature
has given a true sensibility, but denied the plastic imaginative power,
will be a faithful painter of the real; he will adapt casual appearances,
but never catch the spirit of nature. He will only reproduce to us the
matter of the world, which, not being our own work, the product of our
creative spirit, can never have the beneficent operation of art, of which
the essence is freedom. Serious indeed, but unpleasing, is the cast of
thought with which such an artist and poet dismisses us; we feel
ourselves painfully thrust back into the narrow sphere of reality by
means of the very art which ought to have emancipated us. On the other
hand, a writer endowed with a lively fancy, but destitute of warmth and
individuality of feeling, will not concern himself in the least about
truth; he will sport with the stuff of the world, and endeavor to
surprise by whimsical combinations; and as his whole performance is
nothing but foam and glitter, he will, it is true, engage the attention
for a time, but build up and confirm nothing in the understanding. His
playfulness is, like the gravity of the other, thoroughly unpoetical. To
string together at will fantastical images is not to travel into the
realm of the ideal; and the imitative reproduction of the actual cannot
be called the representation of nature. Both requisites stand so little
in contradiction to each other that they are rather one and the same
thing; that art is only true insomuch as it altogether forsakes the
actual, and becomes purely ideal. Nature herself is an idea of the mind,
and is never presented to the senses. She lies under the veil of
appearances, but is herself never apparent. To the art of the ideal
alone is lent, or rather absolutely given, the privilege to grasp the
spirit of the all and bind it in a corporeal form.

Yet, in truth, even art cannot present it to the senses, but by means of
her creative power to the imaginative faculty alone; and it is thus that
she becomes more true than all reality, and more real than all
experience. It follows from these premises that the artist can use no
single element taken from reality as he finds it--that his work must be
ideal in all its parts, if it be designed to have, as it were, an
intrinsic reality, and to harmonize with nature.

What is true of art and poetry, in the abstract, holds good as to their
various kinds; and we may apply what has been advanced to the subject of
tragedy. In this department it is still necessary to controvert the
ordinary notion of the natural, with which poetry is altogether
incompatible. A certain ideality has been allowed in painting, though, I
fear, on grounds rather conventional than intrinsic; but in dramatic
works what is desired is allusion, which, if it could be accomplished by
means of the actual, would be, at best, a paltry deception. All the
externals of a theatrical representation are opposed to this notion; all
is merely a symbol of the real. The day itself in a theatre is an
artificial one; the metrical dialogue is itself ideal; yet the conduct of
the play must forsooth be real, and the general effect sacrificed to a
part. Thus the French, who have utterly misconceived the spirit of the
ancients, adopted on their stage the unities of tine and place in the
most common and empirical sense; as though there were any place but the
bare ideal one, or any other time than the mere sequence of the
incidents.

By the introduction of a metrical dialogue an important progress has been
made towards the poetical tragedy. A few lyrical dramas have been
successful on the stage, and poetry, by its own living energy, has
triumphed over prevailing prejudices. But so long as these erroneous
views are entertained little has been done--for it is not enough barely
to tolerate as a poetical license that which is, in truth, the essence of
all poetry. The introduction of the chorus would be the last and
decisive step; and if it only served this end, namely, to declare open
and honorable warfare against naturalism in art, it would be for us a
living wall which tragedy had drawn around herself, to guard her from
contact with the world of reality, and maintain her own ideal soil, her
poetical freedom.

It is well-known that the Greek tragedy had its origin in the chorus; and
though in process of time it became independent, still it may be said
that poetically, and in spirit, the chorus was the source of its
existence, and that without these persevering supporters and witnesses of
the incident a totally different order of poetry would have grown out of
the drama. The abolition of the chorus, and the debasement of this
sensibly powerful organ into the characterless substitute of a confidant,
is by no means such an improvement in the tragedy as the French, and
their imitators, would have it supposed to be.

The old tragedy, which at first only concerned itself with gods, heroes
and kings introduced the chorus as an essential accompaniment. The poets
found it in nature, and for that reason employed it. It grew out of the
poetical aspect of real life. In the new tragedy it becomes an organ of
art, which aids in making the poetry prominent. The modern poet no
longer finds the chorus in nature; he must needs create and introduce it
poetically; that is, he must resolve on such an adaption of his story as
will admit of its retrocession to those primitive times and to that
simple form of life.

The chorus thus renders more substantial service to the modern dramatist
than to the old poet--and for this reason, that it transforms the
commonplace actual world into the old poetical one; that it enables him
to dispense with all that is repugnant to poetry, and conducts him back
to the most simple, original, and genuine motives of action. The palaces
of kings are in these days closed--courts of justice have been
transferred from the gates of cities to the interior of buildings;
writing has narrowed the province of speech; the people itself--the
sensibly living mass--when it does not operate as brute force, has become
a part of the civil polity, and thereby an abstract idea in our minds;
the deities have returned within the bosoms of mankind. The poet must
reopen the palaces--he must place courts of justice beneath the canopy of
heaven--restore the gods, reproduce every extreme which the artificial
frame of actual life has abolished--throw aside every factitious
influence on the mind or condition of man which impedes the manifestation
of his inward nature and primitive character, as the statuary rejects
modern costume:--and of all external circumstances adopts nothing but
what is palpable in the highest of forms--that of humanity.

But precisely as the painter throws around his figures draperies of ample
volume, to fill up the space of his picture richly and gracefully, to
arrange its several parts in harmonious masses, to give due play to
color, which charms and refreshes the eye--and at once to envelop human
forms in a spiritual veil, and make them visible--so the tragic poet
inlays and entwines his rigidly contracted plot and the strong outlines
of his characters with a tissue of lyrical magnificence, in which, as in
flowing robes of purple, they move freely and nobly, with a sustained
dignity and exalted repose.

In a higher organization, the material, or the elementary, need not be
visible; the chemical color vanishes in the finer tints of the
imaginative one. The material, however, has its peculiar effect, and may
be included in an artistical composition. But it must deserve its place
by animation, fulness and harmony, and give value to the ideal forms
which it surrounds instead of stifling them by its weight.

In respect of the pictorial art, this is obvious to ordinary
apprehension, yet in poetry likewise, and in the tragical kind, which is
our immediate subject, the same doctrine holds good. Whatever fascinates
the senses alone is mere matter, and the rude element of a work of art:--
if it takes the lead it will inevitably destroy the poetical--which lies
at the exact medium between the ideal and the sensible. But man is so
constituted that he is ever impatient to pass from what is fanciful to
what is common; and reflection must, therefore, have its place even in
tragedy. But to merit this place it must, by means of delivery, recover
what it wants in actual life; for if the two elements of poetry, the
ideal and the sensible, do not operate with an inward mutuality, they
must at least act as allies--or poetry is out of the question. If the
balance be not intrinsically perfect, the equipoise can only be
maintained by an agitation of both scales.

This is what the chorus effects in tragedy. It is in itself, not an
individual but a general conception; yet it is represented by a palpable
body which appeals to the senses with an imposing grandeur. It forsakes
the contracted sphere of the incidents to dilate itself over the past and
the future, over distant times and nations, and general humanity, to
deduce the grand results of life, and pronounce the lessons of wisdom.
But all this it does with the full power of fancy--with a bold lyrical
freedom which ascends, as with godlike step, to the topmost height of
worldly things; and it effects it in conjunction with the whole sensible
influence of melody and rhythm, in tones and movements.

The chorus thus exercises a purifying influence on tragic poetry,
insomuch as it keeps reflection apart from the incidents, and by this
separation arms it with a poetical vigor, as the painter, by means of a
rich drapery, changes the ordinary poverty of costume into a charm and
ornament.

But as the painter finds himself obliged to strengthen the tone of color
of the living subject, in order to counterbalance the material
influences--so the lyrical effusions of the chorus impose upon the poet
the necessity of a proportionate elevation of his general diction. It is
the chorus alone which entitles the poet to employ this fulness of tone,
which at once charms the senses, pervades the spirit, and expands the
mind. This one giant form on his canvas obliges him to mount all his
figures on the cothurnus, and thus impart a tragical grandeur to his
picture. If the chorus be taken away, the diction of the tragedy must
generally be lowered, or what is now great and majestic will appear
forced and overstrained. The old chorus introduced into the French
tragedy would present it in all its poverty, and reduce it to nothing;
yet, without doubt, the same accompaniment would impart to Shakspeare's
tragedy its true significance.

As the chorus gives life to the language--so also it gives repose to the
action; but it is that beautiful and lofty repose which is the
characteristic of a true work of art. For the mind of the spectator
ought to maintain its freedom through the most impassioned scenes; it
should not be the mere prey of impressions, but calmly and severely
detach itself from the emotions which it suffers. The commonplace
objection made to the chorus, that it disturbs the illusion, and blunts
the edge of the feelings, is what constitutes its highest recommendation;
for it is this blind force of the affections which the true artist
deprecates--this illusion is what he disdains to excite. If the strokes
which tragedy inflicts on our bosoms followed without respite, the
passion would overpower the action. We should mix ourselves with the
subject-matter, and no longer stand above it. It is by holding asunder
the different parts, and stepping between the passions with its composing
views, that the chorus restores to us our freedom, which would else be
lost in the tempest. The characters of the drama need this intermission
in order to collect themselves; for they are no real beings who obey the
impulse of the moment, and merely represent individuals--but ideal
persons and representatives of their species, who enunciate the deep
things of humanity.

Thus much on my attempt to revive the old chorus on the tragic stage. It
is true that choruses are not unknown to modern tragedy; but the chorus
of the Greek drama, as I have employed it--the chorus, as a single ideal
person, furthering and accompanying the whole plot--if of an entirely
distinct character; and when, in discussion on the Greek tragedy, I hear
mention made of choruses, I generally suspect the speaker's ignorance of
his subject. In my view the chorus has never been reproduced since the
decline of the old tragedy.

I have divided it into two parts, and represented it in contest with
itself; but this occurs where it acts as a real person, and as an
unthinking multitude. As chorus and an ideal person it is always one and
entire. I have also several times dispensed with its presence on the
stage. For this liberty I have the example of Aeschylus, the creator of
tragedy, and Sophocles, the greatest master of his art.

Another license it may be more difficult to excuse. I have blended
together the Christian religion and the pagan mythology, and introduced
recollections of the Moorish superstition. But the scene of the drama is
Messina--where these three religions either exercised a living influence,
or appealed to the senses in monumental remains. Besides, I consider it
a privilege of poetry to deal with different religions as a collective
whole. In which everything that bears an individual character, and
expresses a peculiar mode of feeling, has its place. Religion itself,
the idea of a Divine Power, lies under the veil of all religions; and it
must be permitted to the poet to represent it in the form which appears
the most appropriate to his subject.