Here dance the Muses; and the Queen of Love Oft guides her golden car through this enchanting grove. • What nor Asia's rich domain, Through its thousand vales can boast,- Guards her own loved olive too.' Vol. I. pp. 147—149. The Electra is introduced with some elegant prefatory remarks. Every reader of the ancient Greek drama must be forcibly struck with the narrowness of the range within which the great Tragic writers appear to have been confined, as to the selection of their subjects. The misfortunes of the families of Edipus and of Atreus, with a few other legends of the same stamp, supplied, in a great measure, that scanty fountain, out of which all were contented to draw. Thus, on the same basis are founded the Electra of Sophocles, the Chöephora of Eschylus, and the Electra of Euripides. Yet itay reasonably be doubted whether, in the present instance at least, this similarity of subject should not be attributed rather to a spirit of rivalry than a deficiency of materials. It is palpably evident, that Euripides intends to ridicule the manner in which Eschylus has managed the discovery of Orestes by his sister Electra; and, consequently, that his drama must have been produced subsequently to that of his great predecessor. We may, therefore, pronounce, without much hesitation, that the Chöephora of Eschylus appeared first of the three, the Electra of Sophocles next, and the Electra of Euripides last. To decide between the merits of the two former compositions would be a task not less invidious than difficult. If the Chöephora of Eschylus is possessed of more striking beauties, the Electra of Sophocles has fewer and less glaring defects. If Eschylus rises into a sublimity which is never equalled by Sophocles, as in the relation of Clytemnestra's dream at the tomb of Agamemnon, neither does Sophocles degenerate into absurd and inconsistent puerilities, as in the recognition of Orestes by his sister, by reason of the exact correspondence of their footsteps. In the one there is a strange mix ture of grandeur with meanness, elegance with coarseness, beauty with deformity-the other is uniformly polished, dignified, and chaste.' The point on which all the ancient dramatists have most strikingly failed, is the delineation of the female character. Whether in deference to the popular opinion respecting the sex, or in subservience to their own personal prejudices, it is not easy to decide; but the fact is certain, that, with the exception of our author's Antigone, there are few, if any, of the softer sex, among the dramatic characters of the ancients, who are entitled to our unqualified approbation. The Electra of Sophocles is a haughty, high-spirited woman, impressed, according to the erroneous morality of that age, with a full persuasion that it was her solemn and imperative duty to avenge her father's death by shedding the blood of her mother, by whom he had been treacherously murdered. For such vindictive and implacable resentment, our modern ladies will not-nor is it desirable that they should-make any allowance. In all other respects, as a sister and a friend, her character is calculated to excite an interest;-at least, so long as she is unfortunate, and until she becomes guilty. The gradual development of incidents in this drama is admirably managed; indeed, it is here that Sophocles invariably excels. Orestes, after an absence of some years, revisits his native land, for the purpose of avenging the murder of his father, Agamemnon, accompa nied by an attendant, who is the adviser and instigator of the deed. After feasting his eyes with the view of his much-loved country "Dulces reminiscitur Argos" the old man consults with him on the most politic mode of commencing operations. Though he hears the mourning accents of Electra, and longs to embrace her, yet he acquiesces in the prudent direction of his aged counsellor, and first obeys the command of Phoebus, in presenting offerings at his father's tomb. The remorseless hatred and shameless effrontery of Clytemnestra, the politic servility of Chrysothemis, the dauntless intrepidity of Electra, and the generous sympathy of the Chorus, beautifully diversify the scene, and sustain the interest till tidings arrive that Orestes is no more. The manner in which this intelligence is received, is exquisitely characteristic of the different parties: Electra refuses all consolation, and, on the entrance of Orestes himself, disguised as the bearer of his own ashes, a scene ensues, which, for deep and pathetic interest, has no superior in the whole circle of tragic poetry. Taking the urn in her hands, Electra apostrophises her departed brother in terms of such tender lamentation, that Orestes can refrain no longer, but, impellea by the resistless impulse of nature, discovers himself to his sister. Nothing can be more finely imagined or more skilfully executed than this abrupt transition from the depth of misery and despair to the transports of affection and triumph. The exuberant joy of Electra, which cannot be restrained, but breaks forth even amidst the most important consultations, is infinitely more pleasing and natural tham the cool composure with which she receives her returning brother, in the dramas both of Eschylus and Euripides.' Vol. II. pp. 279— 282. Mr. Dale judiciously declines the comparison of the Electra of Sophocles with the Chöephora of Eschylus. The latter tragedy is evidently a part of a trilogy, or a drama of which the story is told in three successive tragedies. Of these, the first is the Agamemnon, whose fate had been pre-ordained and brought on by a concatenation of necessary events. The principal character of the piece is a woman, who surrenders herself to a guilty passion; and its conclusion is the unsatisfactory triumph of tyranny and crime. In the Chöephora, the action is partly ordained by Apollo, himself impelled by the resistless decrees of Destiny, and partly influenced by natural sentiments, the thirst of vengeance which agitates Orestes, and his fraternal affection for the unhappy Electra. When he has killed his mother, the conflict between two affections of equal force in his bosom begins; and as this dreadful struggle does not terminate with the drama, it must have left on the minds of the auditors a too painful impression. It is obvious, therefore, that the Poet did not intend that the drama should end there. It is in the Eumenides, that he gives the finishing stroke to it. All the interest created by the events which precede it, are in this tragedy concentrated. Orestes is now the mere instrument of fate: Pallas is the principal agent. The conflicting impulses of contradictory duties being too severe a trial for man, the question is carried by Eschylus before the equitable tribunal of the gods. If that great Poet was, as Cicero tells us, of the school of Pythagoras, it is not impossible that this noble play may contain the symbolical sense attributed to it by Schlegel. The ancient mythology was for the most part symbolical, but not allegorical; -two things widely distinct. Allegory is a pure fiction, in which imaginary beings personify and represent certain abstract ideas; whereas the symbol represents the idea by a sensible object. The Titans, according to the German critic, designate the primitive energies of the physical and moral world, still hidden in mysterious darkness. The new gods are the emblems of those physical or moral truths, of which we have acquired a clear perception. The former approximate to Chaos, the latter belong to a world already organized. The Furies represent the terrors of a guilty conscience. In vain does Orestes appeal to the powerful motives which impelled him;-the cry of blood still pursues him. Apollo, the god whose natural attributes are youth, and that animated hatred of crime incident to youth, Apollo decrees the retribution of the crime; Pallas is calm, deliberate justice: she decides the contest, and Orestes is absolved. The moral sentiment which pervades and rules the Greek tragedies, is a resistless, overwhelming fatalism, which, binding both gods and men in its iron chain, drags them captive to their allotted destinies. The unhappy being who is the victim of this stern fatality, is impelled by an overbearing power to do or suffer a deed which involves the agent in the most dreadful calamities. His ancestors, himself, his descendants, are involved in one common crime and penalty, until the measure of justice is filled by a tedious and protracted distillation of pain and of suffering. A fatalism so desperate and cheerless would seem adapted to crush every faculty of the mind, and suspend every moral exertion; but, in the Greek tragedy, (and it is among the most remarkable moral phenomena, that it is so in real life,) it produces an effect apparently in+ compatible with its nature. The doctrine of fatalism has been adopted and acted on by whole nations; and the bravest individuals, deeming themselves subject to an irrepealable law, and assured that if its decree could not be averted, it likewise could not be hastened, have opposed the proudest fortitude to the pre-ordained evils against which they struggled, carrying on the combat with the same vigour as if they were actually masters of its issue. The moral liberty, therefore, of the personages of the Greek drama, is not incompatible with the destiny which overrules them. The free agency of the soul is a sentiment which can never be subdued; and it is the contrast which it opposes to a stern and unbending necessity, that heightens the terror of the Greek tragedy. The more the strength that is put forth in the struggle, the more gigantic and fearful is the power with which it is engaged. Human life is a conflict with external ills; these, however, might be subdued and triumphed over. Time, if it does not remove the calamity, abates the suffering;-and the sense of many of our evils is deadened by the stubborn patience which opposes them. But Destiny was an irresistible adversary, whose stern and appalling image was contemplated not in the present, but in the irrevocable decree of the past, linked, by an indissoluble chain of events, with the future. The ancients,' remarks Schlegel, 'considered Destiny as a dark, relentless divinity, inhabiting a 'sphere inaccessible to gods or men; for the pagan deities, 'the mere personifications of the energies of nature, although infinitely superior to man, were upon the same level as far as regarded that supreme power.' Next in importance to this unbending law, is the doctrine of Dicé, or the sure retaliation of punishment for crime. We VOL. XXII. N. S. 2 C are naturally impressed with the necessity of a moral retribution; and in those states of society in which the laws are silent or overpowered, this sentiment gives birth to that revenge which Bacon calls a wild justice.' Each is the guardian of his own rights, the arbiter of his own wrongs, and of those with whom he is connected. Hence, the piety of family affection, which included the duty of revenge, was next, in the moral order, to piety towards the gods, or, in other words, submission to fate; it was one of the most unalienable of obligations, and the strongest motive of action. The Greek tragedy, therefore, constantly thunders the terrors of Dicé, meaning not only the retribution of crime, and the ordaining of that retribution by the gods, but also the execution of that revenge which held the place of a moral duty. We object to the dramatic designation which Mr. Dale gives the Пadayayos in the first scene of Electra: he should not have been called an attendant. He was the guardian and instructer of Orestes from his youth upwards, and the latter listens to his advice, which is grave and authoritative, with the utmost deference. But we will not cavil about words. The invocation of Electra, which is in anapasts, is beautifully and closely rendered: Ω φαος αγνόν, και γῆς and we are happy that Mr. Dale has not been misled by the Scholiast from the true meaning of rouagos, co-extensive. We recollect that Hesiod somewhere says, that light was extended in equal proportion to the earth. Elec. O pure ethereal light, Thou air, with earth pervading equal space, How many a blow upon this bleeding breast, Hast thou for me attested, when dun Night Withdraws her murky veil. Through the long hours of darkness, each loathed couch Of these sad halls is conscious of my woe, How mine unhappy father I bewail, Whom not in far barbaric clime Ensanguined Mars laid low; But my base mother, with her paramour, Hewed down with murderous axe. No heart, save mine, with gentle pity wrung, But never will I cease my wail, |