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much, in English literature, of the manner of Tennyson. elaborate description of the death of the youthful bride of Jason amidst the flames which the poisoned robes and crown kindle around her, is among the most wonderful pictures which the imaginations of great poets have ever composed; and the whole character of Medea, and all the actions ascribed to her, form an idea altogether ascending to the rank occupied by creations like Clytemnestra or Ajax, if it does not even rise higher. Never has the simultaneous presence of opposite passions been more powerfully exhibited. The maternal love of Medea has all the depth which belongs to a most ardent nature; but it is in conflict with the fiercer passions of wounded pride and jealousy, and yields to them after a struggle so violent that she sheds tears of affection even at the moment when she has resolved on their death—a combination of emotions which shows how deeply Euripides must have studied phenomena which are not unfrequently presented in the annals of crime. Among the tragic situations of the play we may particularly notice one of the earliest, where the nurse removes the children of Medea, in the unconsciousness of their infancy, from the presence of their mother, whose fixed gaze shows that she is brooding over dangerous thoughts.

I shall now offer some brief criticisms on three plays out of the large remaining number, each of which would well deserve an ample and separate analysis-the Hippolytus, the Alcestis, and the Baccha. First let me give a sketch of the story of the Hippolytus. The hero is a gallant youth, son of Theseus, king of Athens. He has devoted himself to the worship of Artemis, goddess of the chase, and in her honour lives unwedded, treating with contempt the divinity of Aphroditè, the goddess of love. The latter, displeased at this indifference, resolves to be avenged on the haughty Hippolytus; and to effect her purpose, causes Phædra, the second wife of Theseus, to become enamoured of Hippolytus. She in vain endeavours to combat her attachment, which begins to destroy her health and weaken her mind. Her nurse persuades her to permit a trial of the effect of magical charms to win the regards of Hippolytus, but unwisely betrays the secret to him, who disdainfully and angrily rejects her overtures. This reduces Plædra to despair. She commits suicide, leaving behind her a paper accusing Hippolytus of dishonourable designs against her, which is found by Theseus, when the suicide. becomes known. He furiously charges his son with the crime, will not listen to his calm and just defence, but drives him from the country, and moreover ensures his destruction by praying the god Poseidon to effect it, who had promised him the fulfilment of three wishes, of which the enraged father makes his son's death to be one.

The hasty prayer is not long of fulfilment. As Hippolytus drives in his chariot along the seashore on his way to exile, a sea monster terrifies the horses, he is thrown out, and carried back, mangled and dying, to his father's palace. At first his father does not regret the calamity; but presently the goddess Artemis appears, and reveals the innocence of Hippolytus to Theseus, whose anger immediately changes into the bitterest remorse. She promises her favourite worshipper, though she cannot save him from death, that all future times shall pay honour to his memory, and comforts even Theseus under the affliction which his own rashness had brought on him. The play then concludes with the death of Hippolytus in his father's

arms.

The situations throughout this play are all extremely effective. The entrance of Hippolytus and his followers in the commencement, returning from the chase, and singing a hymn to Artemis, is full of a spring-like freshness and gaiety; the scene where the complaining and love-sick Phædra is taken out on her couch into the open air; and above all, the long parting scene between the father and son, first in anger, then in the extremity of sorrow, and finally in reconciliation and submission, are all in the highest degree of tragic excellence, in their own line quite unsurpassed by any writer, an-cient or modern. The whole conception of the character of Hippolytus, its generosity, its fearlessness, its purity, and with all this its disdainful spirit, is wholly original, and may be regarded as a not less remarkable creation of genius than the Antigone of Sophocles. The wanderings of the half-delirious Phædra, as her mind carries her to the woods and mountains, or the level sands, where she imagines Hippolytus engaged in the chase or in the sports of Grecian chivalry, are full of the most exquisite poetry and nature. The reader of English, or rather of Scottish poetry, might find a striking parallel, in effect and spirit, to the passage last alluded to, in one of Burns's songs:

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer ;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go!"

The Alcestis is another of those plays which, though their subject is taken from mythological antiquity, are so treated as to form a transition between the massive grandeur of the ancient tragedy, and the serious comedy of the later Attic stage and of modern times. The leading character is a faithful wife, who is prepared to give up her life in lieu of that of her husband, who is otherwise fated to die.

Parts of the play run into the broadly comic type, where Hercules is introduced half-drunk. Others, especially the scene where Alcestis gradually expires, are profoundly touching, and appeal to the sense of pity in a manner which it would be difficult to show any passages in tragic literature to surpass. In the scene where Alcestis, restored from the grave, is presented to her bereaved husband, we have the feeling of compassion passing off into the interest excited by agitating circumstances and deep affection. It may be compared with the scene in the Winter's Tale, where the supposed statue of his long-lost wife is unveiled before the repentant Leontes. The only drawback to the play of Euripides is the extreme selfishness of Admetus. It has the merit of bringing into powerful contrast the generosity and goodness of Alcestis; but it is offensive and even disgusting to our feelings, and is an example of that needless baseness which had so unfortunate a fascination for the genius of Euripides.

The Baccha is a wild and enchanting piece of dramatic revelry, in which the poet gives full swing to his fancy in depicting the marvellous. The scenery takes us completely out of the usual stately and formal beauty of the Greek stage, with its temples and palaces, and transports us into the depths of the forest and the glen, where the frenzied worshippers have fled, far out of the city, with their leopard-skin mantles and their ivy-twined spears. The madness of Pentheus, and that of the women, equally unbridled but shown in different ways-the one that of blasphemy, the other that of fanatical frenzy-are alike painted with admirable force, and brought into striking relief by the calm and almost mirthful consciousness of irresistible power on the part of Dionysus. Yet the general effect of the picture, however vivid and beautiful, is that the poet treats the religion rather as the material for the display of his consummate art, than with the awful reverence of schylus or the majestic serenity of Sophocles. In this respect he may perhaps be compared with Southey, who successively made the Mahometan fanaticism of Arabia, the wild extravagance of Hindoo idolatry, or the heroism of the Christian chivalry of Spain, the subjects of elaborate poems, entering with wonderful apparent success into the spirit of each, by the efforts of a highly cultivated imagination, but treating the last, just as he did the two former, simply as capable of a more or less brilliant poetical delineation.

I have thus glanced at some of the plays of Euripides, which enjoy an admitted superiority, though of the rest there are many which also deserve a detailed consideration. But what has been said will perhaps suffice to show that this tragedian is not to be slighted,

merely because he has not that positive excellence which can always bring him into comparison with Eschylus and Sophocles. He was, nevertheless, a true poet; and we are not at all surprised to find, from his life, that he had such a taste for the charms of nature as to compose his dramas in a lonely cavern on the seashore of Ægina. He was a profound observer of man, and minutely studied the conditions on which the human heart can be interested or moved to pity. His great faults are less likely to injure our own minds than the corresponding faults in modern writers can, because no one can thoroughly understand the spirit of his writings without a course of training which ought to secure him against this kind of danger. With such preparation, the student will find them generally of great value, as well in a philosophical and rhetorical as in a poetical point of view; whilst they are of great indirect use from the light they throw on the national character of the ancient Greeks, and therefore on their history, during one of the most remarkable periods of their career.

A Stormy Life;

OR

QUEEN MARGARET'S JOURNAL.

CHAPTER X.

AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING.

November 13th, 1444.

THREE leagues from Nancy! a short space to traverse; but how long in respect of the past and the future, which it seemeth to divide! Here where we are halting to rest, my dear uncle the King of France hath parted with me. O sire, you embraced me many times with exceeding great affection, and your eyes were full of tears when you said, "I seem to have done nothing for you, my niece, in placing you on one of the first thrones of Europe; for it is hardly worthy of possessing you." O sweet uncle and most noble king, if I should forget your love and goodness, may none in this her native land remember Marguerite d'Anjou whilst she lives, or pray for her when she dies. I cannot restrain my tears; grief overflows the limits set to it. I did not weep this morn when my mother kissed me for the last time; but now, like a surprised citadel, my courage surrenders.

Barr, November 14th.

Disseverance of hearts most tenderly attached, how doleful is the suffering you inflict! My father is gone! When he clasped me to his breast, he said nothing; nor could my lips utter the word farewell. But I know that in that final moment he commended me to God with as hearty a prayer as the most passionate paternal love could frame. I followed him with my eyes as long as he was in sight, but he never once turned round to look at me. Monseigneur de Calabre and the Duc d'Alençon yet ride with me. Soon none but the English will have charge of their queen.

Mantes, March 18th, 1445.

Four months, which it ill pleaseth me to think of, have passed since I wrote in this book. Heavens! that lack of money should prevent a monarch from receiving his bride! Is this credible? and if credible, honourable? What a stubborn, disloyal race these islanders must needs be, that they lay not their wealth at their sovereign's feet at such a time, and sue to him to accept it! I

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