But the essence of tragedy does not seem to me to lie in any
list of particular evils. After we have enumerated famine, fever,
inaptitude, mutilation, rack, madness, and loss of friends, we have
not yet included the proper tragic element, which is Terror, and
which does not respect definite evils but indefinite; an ominous
spirit which haunts the afternoon and the night, idleness and
solitude. A low haggard sprite sits by our side "casting the fashion
of uncertain evils," -- a sinister presentiment, a power of the
imagination to dislocate things orderly and cheerful, and show them
in startling disarray. Hark! what sounds on the night wind, the cry
of Murder in that friendly house: see these marks of stamping feet,
of hidden riot. The whisper overheard, the detected glance, the
glare of malignity, ungrounded fears, suspicions, half-knowledge, and
mistakes darken the brow and chill the heart of men. And accordingly
it is natures not clear, not of quick and steady perceptions, but
imperfect characters from which somewhat is hidden that all others
see, who suffer most from these causes.
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