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 com position.  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 take 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 be maintained only 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 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 an ornament.