high tragedies

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces- though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment. (Moby-Dick)

It will be remembered by the patient and attentive future reader of this dry and methodical narrative, that its first appearance on any stage, was in "high" tragedy—

"Scenes Beyond the Western Border" (March 1853); and
Scenes and Adventures in the Army

This concern for the genre of high tragedy comes of reading Shakespeare, and Aeschylus. On the mock "Tragedy of the Cub" (1853) as a reply to the mean and nasty review of Pierre (1852) in the New York Herald, see "dumb beasts prefer death to slavery," here.

dumb beasts prefer death to slavery

From the review of Melville's Pierre in the New York Herald, September 18, 1852:

This, Mr. Melville, is murder. For a murderer in cold blood—a wretch who coolly loads his arms, rams the charge home, and sallies forth with the set purpose of taking the life of his rival—we have no thrill of sympathy, no bowels of compassion. Let him hang like a dog! A harmless madman in the first chapter, he is a dangerous pest in the last. Let him hang! …

…Mere analytical description of sentiment, mere wordy anatomy of the heart is not enough for a novel to-day. Modern readers wish to exercise some little judgment of their own; deeds they will have, not characters painted in cold colors, to a hairbreadth or a shade. We are past the age when an artist superscribed his chef d’oeuvre with the judicious explanation, “this is a horse.” Mr. Melville longs for the good old times when the chorus filled the gaps between the acts with a well-timed commentary on the past, and a shrewd guess at the future.

In the March 1853 installment of "Scenes Beyond the Western Border," the narrating "Captain of U. S. Dragoons" makes a big deal of a relatively minor event on the 1845 dragoon expedition to the Rocky Mountains: the loss of a captured grizzly cub.  At key points the captain's mock "tragedy" of the bear cub answers the recent, blistering review of Melville's Pierre in the New York Herald.  Who cares about the reviewer's superficial "modern readers"?  The captain boldly addresses a different audience, the thoughtful and sympathetic "future reader."  Defiantly, the captain does precisely what the Herald critic hated, by unnecessarily labeling his subjects ("real horse"; "stage (wagon)"; "real water"), and by bringing out the Greek Chorus of classical tragedy.  As he fumes about critics, commentators, and audiences, and finally spurns "the world's applause" and "grateful posterity," the good Captain seems to have wandered a good ways off the Oregon Trail.

From Scenes Beyond the Western Border, Southern Literary Messenger 19 (March 1853): 159
and reprinted in Scenes and Adventures in the Army (1857), 390:

In crossing the Platte this morning, the grizzly bear cub came on the scene in his final act.

It will be remembered by the patient and attentive future reader of this dry and methodical narrative, that its first appearance on any stage, was in "high" tragedy—that the first act embraced an unusual amount of sanguinary incident—that an innocent brother, (or sister,) being ruthlessly slain, and the baffled lady-mother left (unceremoniously) full of towering and demonstrative rage,— the imprisoned hero himself sank overwhelmed,—or in a well-acted counterfeit of death, (and was borne off, remember, on a "real" horse). That in the next act, (and three acts shall do for the tragedy of my bear,—originally they had but one,—but that was at the sacrifice of a goat,) he came to life in a manner that might very well have been criticized as an overdone piece of stage-effect,—but that in fact, the spectators were much moved, and gave full credit to the dangerous passion of his howl.

To-day, then,—for I scorn anachronism— was performed the final act. The stage (wagon) was on "real water." Enraged at his wrongs, his losses, and his galling chain, the "robustious beast" acted in a ridiculous and unbearable manner; aye, ''tore his passion to tatters, to very rags,"—splinters; the stage (wagon) could not hold him : and finally in despair, he "imitated humanity so abominably," as to throw himself headlong, and so drown—or hang himself: (the author cannot decide which—even after a post mortem examination;—and so leaves the decision of this important point to the commentators).

My tragedy is all true,—and if not quite serious, has, as is proper, its moral;—but rather, as I have alluded to the primitive tragedy, let that "future reader" here imagine the entry of Chorus, and their song to Freedom! That dumb beasts prefer death to slavery! Liberty lost, they can die without the excitement of the world's applause, or hopes of a grateful posterity! (It is not possible, I think, that the cub could have known that I would immortalize him.)