No More Learning

And this the issue of my prayers! Attend,
Ye terror-stricken witnesses, that feed
Your gaze upon my anguish; learn to know
How warning visions cheat, and boding seers
But mock our credulous hopes; let none believe
The voice of heaven!
When in my teeming womb
This daughter lay, her father, in a dream
Saw from his nuptial couch two laurels grow,
And in the midst a lily all in flames,
That, catching swift the boughs and knotted stems
Burst forth with crackling rage, and o'er the house
Spread in one mighty sea of fire. Perplexed
By this terrific dream my husband sought
The counsels of the mystic art, and thus
Pronounced the sage: "If I a daughter bore,
The murderess of his sons, the destined spring
Of ruin to our house, the baleful child
Should see the light. "

Chorus (CAJETAN and BOHEMUND).
What hast thou said, my mistress?
Woe! Woe!

ISABELLA.
For this her ruthless father spoke
The dire behest of death. I rescued her,
The innocent, the doomed one; from my arms
The babe was torn; to stay the curse of heaven,
And save my sons, the mother gave her child;
And now by robber hands her brother falls;
My child is guiltless. Oh, she slew him not!

CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!

ISABELLA.
No trust the fabling readers of the stars
Have e'er deserved. Hear how another spoke
With comfort to my soul, and him I deemed
Inspired to voice the secrets of the skies!
"My daughter should unite in love the hearts
Of my dissevered sons;" and thus their tales
Of curse and blessing on her head proclaim
Each other's falsehood. No, she ne'er has brought
A curse, the innocent; nor time was given
The blessed promise to fulfil; their tongues
Were false alike; their boasted art is vain;
With trick of words they cheat our credulous ears,
Or are themselves deceived! Naught ye may know
Of dark futurity, the sable streams
Of hell the fountain of your hidden lore,
Or yon bright spring of everlasting light!

First Chorus (CAJETAN).

Woe! Woe! thy tongue refrain!
Oh, pause, nor thus with impious rage
The might of heaven profane;
The holy oracles are wise--
Expect with awe thy coming destinies!

ISABELLA.
My tongue shall speak as prompts my swelling heart;
My griefs shall cry to heaven. Why do we lift
Our suppliant hands, and at the sacred shrines
Kneel to adore? Good, easy dupes! What win we
From faith and pious awe? to touch with prayers
The tenants of yon azure realms on high,
Were hard as with an arrow's point to pierce
The silvery moon. Hid is the womb of time,
Impregnable to mortal glance, and deaf
The adamantine walls of heaven rebound
The voice of anguish:--Oh, 'tis one, whate'er
The flight of birds--the aspect of the stars!
The book of nature is a maze--a dream
The sage's art--and every sign a falsehood!

Second Chorus (BOHEMUND).

Woe! Woe! Ill-fated woman, stay
Thy maddening blasphemies;
Thou but disown'st, with purblind eyes,
The flaming orb of day!
Confess the gods,--they dwell on high--
They circle thee with awful majesty!

All the Knights.

Confess the gods--they dwell on high--
They circle thee with awful majesty!

BEATRICE.
Why hast thou saved thy daughter, and defied
The curse of heaven, that marked me in thy womb
The child of woe? Short-sighted mother! --vain
Thy little arts to cheat the doom declared
By the all-wise interpreters, that knit
The far and near; and, with prophetic ken,
See the late harvest spring in times unborn.
Oh, thou hast brought destruction on thy race,
Withholding from the avenging gods their prey;
Threefold, with new embittered rage, they ask
The direful penalty; no thanks thy boon
Of life deserves--the fatal gift was sorrow!

Second Chorus (BERENGAR) looking towards the door
with signs of agitation.

Hark to the sound of dread!
The rattling, brazen din I hear!
Of hell-born snakes the hissing tones are near!
Yes--'tis the furies' tread!

CAJETAN.

In crumbling ruin wide,
Fall, fall, thou roof, and sink, thou trembling floor
That bear'st the dread, unearthly stride!
Ye sable damps arise!
Mount from the abyss in smoky spray,
And pall the brightness of the day!
Vanish, ye guardian powers!
They come! The avenging deities

DON CAESAR, ISABELLA, BEATRICE. The Chorus.

[On the entrance of DON CAESAR the Chorus station themselves
before him imploringly. He remains standing alone in the
centre of the stage.

BEATRICE.
Alas! 'tis he----

ISABELLA (stepping to meet him).
My Caesar! Oh, my son!
And is it thus I meet the? Look! Behold!
The crime of hand accursed!

[She leads him to the corpse.

First Chorus (CAJETAN, BERENGAR).

Break forth once more
Ye wounds! Flow, flow, in swarthy flood,
Thou streaming gore!

ISABELLA.
Shuddering with earnest gaze, and motionless,
Thou stand'st. --yes! there my hopes repose, and all
That earth has of thy brother; in the bud
Nipped is your concord's tender flower, nor ever
With beauteous fruit shall glad a mother's eyes,

DON CAESAR.
Be comforted; thy sons, with honest heart,
To peace aspired, but heaven's decree was blood!

ISABELLA.
I know thou lovedst him well; I saw between ye,
With joy, the bands old Nature sweetly twined;
Thou wouldst have borne him in thy heart of hearts
With rich atonement of long wasted years!
But see--fell murder thwarts thy dear design,
And naught remains but vengeance!

DON CAESAR.
Come, my mother,
This is no place for thee. Oh, haste and leave
This sight of woe.

[He endeavors to drag her away.

ISABELLA (throwing herself into his arms).
Thou livest! I have a son!

BEATRICE.
Alas! my mother!

DON CAESAR.
On this faithful bosom
Weep out thy pains; nor lost thy son,--his love
Shall dwell immortal in thy Caesar's breast.

First Chorus (CAJETAN, BERENGAR, MANFRED).

Break forth, ye wounds!
Dumb witness! the truth proclaim;
Flow fast, thou gory stream!

ISABELLA (clasping the hands of DON CAESAR and BEATRICE).
My children!

DON CAESAR.
Oh, 'tis ecstasy! my mother,
To see her in thy arms! henceforth in love
A daughter--sister----

ISABELLA (interrupting him).
Thou hast kept thy word.
My son; to thee I owe the rescued one;
Yes, thou hast sent her----

DON CAESAR (in astonishment).
Whom, my mother, sayst thou,
That I have sent?

ISABELLA.
She stands before thine eyes--
Thy sister.

DON CAESAR.
She! My sister?

ISABELLA.
Ay, What other?

DON CAESAR.
My sister!

ISABELLA.
Thou hast sent her to me!

DON CAESAR.
Horror!
His sister, too!

CHORUS.
Woe! woe!

BEATRICE.
Alas! my mother!

ISABELLA.
Speak! I am all amaze!

DON CASAR.
Be cursed the day
When I was born!

ISABELLA.
Eternal powers!

DON CAESAR.
Accursed
The womb that bore me; cursed the secret arts,
The spring of all this woe; instant to crush thee,
Though the dread thunder swept--ne'er should this arm
Refrain the bolts of death: I slew my brother!
Hear it and tremble! in her arms I found him;
She was my love, my chosen bride; and he--
My brother--in her arms! Thou hast heard all!
If it be true--oh, if she be my sister--
And his! then I have done a deed that mocks
The power of sacrifice and prayers to ope
The gates of mercy to my soul!

Chorus (BOHEMUND).

The tidings on thy heart dismayed
Have burst, and naught remains; behold!
'Tis come, nor long delayed,
Whate'er the warning seers foretold:
They spoke the message from on high,
Their lips proclaimed resistless destiny!
The mortal shall the curse fulfil
Who seeks to turn predestined ill.

ISABELLA.
The gods have done their worst; if they be true
Or false, 'tis one--for nothing they can add
To this--the measure of their rage is full.
Why should I tremble that have naught to fear?
My darling son lies murdered, and the living
I call my son no more. Oh! I have borne
And nourished at my breast a basilisk
That stung my best-beloved child. My daughter, haste,
And leave this house of horrors--I devote it
To the avenging fiends! In an evil hour
'Twas crime that brought me hither, and of crime
The victim I depart. Unwillingly
I came--in sorrow I have lived--despairing
I quit these halls; on me, the innocent,
Descends this weight of woe! Enough--'tis shown
That Heaven is just, and oracles are true!

[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.