1817.] Greek Tragedy. guilty pair, which is the subject of These are the main incidents in these dramas. In each there are slight variations, and a marked difference in the dramatic management; but in the following examination, it will be seen which of the rival poets has made the most skilful use of his materials. From this skeleton of the plan, it will appear that these plays approach nearer our ideas of regular tragedy than the Prometheus. The first scene of the Chophori discovers Orestes at the tomb of his father, on which he lays a lock of his hair, a customary rite among the ancients; but seeing a company of females approach, whom from their appearance he supposes to be Electra and her maidens, he retires to a covert to see what was the object of their visit. He soon discovers that he was right in his conjectures. It was Electra, and a band of Argive virgins who form the Chorus. On that very night Clytemnestra, who had been disturbed by portentous dreams, had sent her to offer expiatory libations at the tomb 149 After of of her murdered husband. E. Long has my agitated soul been pierced By fortune's keenest arrows; grief and rage Hope trembles in my bosom. Ye bright tresses! Orestes. (Starting from concealment.) E. Say, what prayers are granted? E. Stranger, how knowest thou what my O. I know that they are offered for Or. spirit, he compensates by a delicacy of taste, and a tenderness of feeling, which, if they do not render him the greatest of the ancient poets, make him at least one of the most interesting of them. Nature had endowed him with an imagination which was ever under the guidance of a sound understanding; not overleaping her own boundaries, nor irregular and erratic in its course, and astonishing by its blaze, like the comet; but, like the evening-star, steady in its progress through the fields of light,-ever brilliant, and ever beautiful. He is always in the elementary of our nature therefore he always takes possession of the heart; and though he does not reign there with absolute dominion, like Shakspeare or Homer, he is a guest whom we receive with pleasure, and dismiss with regret; and if he does not fill us with the idea that he is the greatest poetical genius of the dramatic writers of his country, he has certainly produced better plays than any of them. Less impetuous and less daring than Eschylus, and less pathetic than Euripides, he knew how to turn his talents to account better than either. His mind could grasp his subject, and mould it according to the path of nature; and he seldom so his will, which generally led him into far loses sight of the whole, as to say more in any one part than is necessary to the developement of his plot or his characters, nor less than is required for perspicuity. Like the statuaries, he seems to have fixed in his mind a standard of ideal excellence; and if he does not, like some of them, always reach it, he comes nearer it than any of his competitors for dramatic glory; and it is not easy for us to conceive, that the tragic art should in a few years have made such advances to perfection, as appears in some of the pieces of this elegant writer. The drama was then like a rich field newly broken up by the plough, and its fertility was amazing. Sophocles produced no fewer than a hundred and forty plays. Only seven of these have survived the wrecks of time, or the dilapidations of barbarian or monkish ignorance; but these are so skilful in design, and so beautiful in execution, -are such masterpieces of art, and yet such faithful exhibitions of nature,- -as to make us greatly lament the loss of the whole. In the analysis of the Electra, it will be only necessary to mention the incidents in which it differs from the Chophori, as the main story is the same in both. The great difference of the dramatic management lies in the recognition; and the lock of hair, of which so important a use is made in the one, is barely mentioned in the other. Another character is besides introduced, Chrysothemis, the sister of Electra, a woman of a gentle and timid mind, subdued by the tyranny of her mother and Egysthus, and well contrasted with Electra. Clytemnestra, who in the play of Eschylus seldom appears till the scene of her own assassination, is here much on the stage, and, by the bitterness of unmerited reproach, exasperates the haughty spirit of Electra. During a dialogue between the mother and daughter, composed of mutual recrimination, the tutor enters, and informs them, abruptly, that he was sent from Phocis with the intelligence of the death of Orestes, who had been killed by a fall from a chariot in the Pythian games. These tidings produced in the mind of Clytemnestra an unnatural joy, that she was at no pains to conceal, and plunged Electra into despair. She had hitherto endured life, merely from the hope of the return of Orestes; and this was a blow so terrible and so unexpected, that she sank beneath it. After Clytemnestra had quitted the stage, and a conversation of some length had passed between the sisters, in which Electra, in the simple and affecting language which real sorrow always suggests, mourns the fate of Orestes, he himself appears, disguised as a traveller, and an attendant bears a small casket. I transcribe this scene, which is perhaps the finest of the Greek stage. "O. Is that the palace of Egysthus? Cho. It is thou hast been well directed hither. O. Lady, wilt thou inform him that a stranger From Phocis craves the honour of an au E. Give me that treasure, I conjure thee, stranger, By all the gods, deny me not that boon. (It is given to her, and she proceeds.) Ye dear remains of my beloved Orestes, Vain were the hopes that shone like thee in brightness, When I did send thee hence! Then didst Into a foreign land-did rescue thee have lain pronounce, With music in my ear, the name of Sister. The glorious avenger of my wrongs, For it were good to mingle ashes with thee, O. How shall I address her? This is more Than I can bear: my feelings will have utterance. E. What grievest thou for? I understand thee not. O. Oh, lady! art thou not the famed Electra ? E. I am Electra, but most miserable. Thou hast no sorrows, stranger; why weep'st thou? O. Because I pity thy calamities. E. Thou knowest but few of them. E. I am condemned to dwell with mur- O. Whose murderers? E. My father's murderers. O. Ill-fated lady! how I pity thee! E. Thou art the only man that pities me. O. For I alone feel a true sympathy In thy misfortunes. E. Art thou of my kindred? O. (Pointing to the Chorus.) If these were friendly, I should tell thee all. E. Fear not them, for they are ever faithful. O. Lay down the casket. Thou shalt hear the truth. E. Stranger, ask not that, I supplicate thee, By all thy hopes, oh! rob me not of that. O. Restore the casket! E. Brother of my soul ! How miserable were I, if bereft Of this possession! O. Lady, cease to mourn. E. Shall I not mourn a brother's death? O. Mourn not. YOUR readers must have remarked in the newspapers, for some years bygone, accounts of an yearly festival in memory of Shakspeare, held at a place called ALLOA, situated, I believe, somewhere on the banks of the Forth; a town which I think I have once or twice heard mentioned, though on what account I do not at present recollect, if it was not in consequence of E. What! am I thus dishonoured of the this very club, or a famous STEAM dead ? O. Thou art of none dishonoured. E. Are not these My brother's ashes? And shall I not mourn? O. They are not. E. Where are they then? Oh! give me them! O. The living need no tomb. E. What meanest thou? O. I only speak the truth. E. Oh! lives Orestes? O. Take that ring; observe it. E. Oh! happy hour! O. Yes, happy hour indeed! E. Light of my life! and art thou come at last? O. Expect no other brother. E. Do I clasp My brother to that heart which has not felt, For many a lonely year, the pulse of joy? O. Thus ever be thy joys." From these gentle feelings, Electra rises to the true sublimity of her character, and, like a demon, instigates her brother to the murder of their mother. When their plans are fully arranged, Orestes enters the palace, and, from behind the scenes, Clytemnestra is heard crying in a loud voice. "Cly. The royal halls are full of murderers ! Where are my friends? E. (To the Chorus.) Hush! hear ye not a voice? Cho. Yes, sounds of woe, that shake my soul with horror. Cly. I am murdered! Oh! where art Cly. My son! my son! Have mercy on thy mother! E. Thou hadst no mercy On him, and on my father thy own husband. BOAT, on a new plan, that was there constructed. Curious to learn how the anniver sary of Shakspeare first came to be celebrated in such a remote corner of our country, I have made every inquiry I could anent it, in order to lay the account before your readers; but to very little purpose. I have been told that this poetic union had its origin about sixteen years ago, and was first set on foot in opposition to a Musical Club (it must be an extraordinary place this Alloa)-which was established there at the same time. The latter, however, like its own enchanting strains, died away, and has brotherhood continued stedfast, flourleft no trace behind; but the poetical ished, gained ground, and promises to The members have a be permanent. hall, a library, and a store of wines, spirits, &c. To this store or cellar every one of them has a key, and is at liberty to treat his friends from it to any extent he pleases, without check or conliberal and unreserved in this, and trol. There is something extremely were we members of this club, we would certainly prefer this privilege to any literary one that can possibly be attached to it. The festival this year, I am told, lasted eight days complete; and my informer assures me, that (saving on the 23d, the anniversary of their patron's birth) during all that time every man of them went sober to his bed. I believe the gentlemen thought so, which was much the same as if it had really been the case. Their principal a musements are songs, recitations, literary toasts, and eulogiums; and the meeting, it appears, was greatly enlivened this year by the attendance of a Mr Stevenson, a young professional singer, whose powers of voice promise the highest excellence yet attained in Scottish song. I have likewise been so far fortunate as to procure the sole copy of a poetical address delivered by the President, on his health being drank, which gives a better definition of the club than any thing I could possibly have obtained. It would surely be a great treat to your readers, could you procure some of their eulogiums literally as delivered, that we might see what kind of ideas the people of that outlandish place entertain about poets and poetry in general. The following ap. pears to be somewhat in the style of the Poet Laureate. Brethren, know you the import of this meeting? This festival, in which from year to year us With kindred joy, and that gray bust of him, Our patron bard, with flowers and laurels crowned. There is a charm in this-a something blent And cast in blood, no parallel unfold.- len eye We saw the vessels waning from our port; Our native Forth, that wont to be a scene Of speckled beauty with the shifting sail, The veering pennon, and the creaking barge. Deep-loaded to the wale, with fraughtage rich, Heaved on in glassy silence,-tide on tide, And wave on wave lashed idly on our strand. Sore altered were the times!We bore it all, Determined, by our country and our King To stand, whate'er the issue. When the We looked up to the Ochils—and our minds Dwelt on the impervious Grampian glens beyond, As on a last retreat-for we had sworn fiend Of home commotion never force the hands Of brethren to resume them! Times indeed Are changed with us!-The sailor's song is hushed, Pale discontent sits on the Labourer's brow; Blest be the Ruler's heart who condescends Some slight indulgence at this trying hour, Nor like the Prince of Israel, who despised The old men's counsel, threats a heavier yoke. Changes must happen-but in silence still The mob's enormities; for reason, faith, Nor prudence govern there.-All this, when viewed With retrospective glance, gives to this day, And to this social bond, no common share Of interest and regard. Nay, more, my friends, Ourselves are changed in feature and in frame Since first we met. Then light of heart we were, Ardent and full of hope, and wedded all And families sprung around us.--Thus our joys, Our loves, and feelings, like ourselves, are changed, Softened to sadness-mellowed to a calm U |