Whatever were the merits of their music, we perceive in its application the same mechanical artificiality which pervades the whole of their scenic arrangements. There was one sort of melody to regulate the recitation or recitative, and another to time the action: surely the last must have possessed any but a free and natural effect. The Romans were in the habit of introducing two actors on the stage at once, to express one character: The mute gesticulated, and the declaimer was motionless. Seneca, in his 121st epistle (var. ed. tom. 2. 601.), admires good stage actors (scene peritos) for the readiness with which their hand accompanies every subject and affection, and the exactness with which the gesture keeps pace with the velocity of the words. Commentators wish to disturb the reading here; and for "scene peritos" substitute saltationis; supposing that the allusion is to pantomimic actors; as if they only expressed by their gestures the rapid meaning of words. But Seneca is evidently speaking of the match of time between gesture and speech, in the above division of scenic labour assigned to two actors, who represent between them one person. It is unlikely that he is speaking of one single actor, for the promptitude with which a declaimer "suits the action to the word," is not a subject of any extraordinary admiration. Valerius Maximus (1. 2. c. 4.) makes mention of a player of the name of Livius Andronicus, who, finding himself exhausted by being repeatedly called back to repeat his speeches, brought a boy to declaim for him, and a flute player to time the recitation, while he himself supplied the gesture; and with this arrangement the audience appeared to have been exceedingly well satisfied.

If in our own theatres, in which nature is so far better imitated, we still find the appliances and appurtenances of the stage inadequate to the perfect embodying of the poet's conceptions; if, for instance, we retire dissatisfied and disappointed, not to say, disgusted, from the representation of Lear, the Tempest, and the

Winter's Tale, the causes of this unsatisfied feeling must have operated with accumulated force in reference to the mechanical stage of Greece. We need scarcely regret, that we can no longer hear the remonstrances of Electra howled through the orifice of a yawning mask, or see the actor of Agamemnon clamber on buskins, that we may wonder at the tallness of an old hero.

That the writers of tragedy have, from the oldest times, written with a view to the living personification of their characters, and relied on the plastic sensibility of the actor to give weight and pathos to their words and sentiments, does not impugn the principle of the poet's unapproachable superiority; of his proud in dependence of mechanism and mimickry. Yet the commentators on the ancient drama, and the critics of the modern, have invariably considered the poet with reference to the representation: have looked narrowly to the exits and entrances, calcu lated the congruities of place, and computed the credibility of the time consumed by the action. Quite as much glory, however, seems to have been attributed to Eschylus for his inven tion of the mask and buskin, as for his excitement of tragic emotion; and the language of Horace would ap pear to be intended in praise of the master of a puppet-show. The technicalities of the conduct of the fable, the exposition, the plot, and the dis covery, are watched and weighed as the symbol and the touchstone of dramatic excellence; and the French critics regard a departure from any one of the unities, as a betrayal of barbarous ignorance, or unskilfulness, which no mastery over the passions or the imagination can redeem. They remind us of the pitcritic in Sterne, minuting by a stopwatch the pauses in Garrick's soliloquy.

To the unity of time, the Greeks were not always attentive. They apparently thought, that the distraction occasioned by the intervention of the chorus would favour the illusion of an indefinite lapse of time, between the anticipation of an event and its

consummation. Thus, in Euripides, we see Hippolitus leave the stage; the chorus laments his exile; and no sooner is the ode concluded, than a messenger returns to narrate the circumstances of the prince's death by a sea-monster, after having proceeded for some way on the road to Argos, and reached the desert that skirted the Saronic gulph. The unity of place exacted this sacrifice to its own immutable laws. Shakspeare would at once have transported the spectators to the seashore. The Greeks have shown, in this and similar instances, that they were aware of the credulity of theimagination. They admitted, therefore, the principle of the rationality of making strict verisimilitude bend to poetic convenience. Had they been familiar with moveable scenes, this admission might have led to their acknowledgment of the utility which resulted from a change of place, which, instead of breaking the unity of the action, would, in fact, strengthen its coherency.

A strict regard, therefore, to the -unity of place, induces a greater violation of dramatic probability than that which it is designed to obviate. It must inevitably happen, that the persons of the drama will often be unnaturally brought together, and collected in a spot where common sense would require that they should not meet. This is excellently shown by Dennis, in his remarks on the Cato of Addison, one of the best pieces of dramatic criticism in the English language. Another evil consequence is, the necessity of throwing many of the incidents of the story into dry narration; for dry it must unavoidably prove, as compared with -representative action; and thus is reversed the maxim of Aristotle, which distinguishes the drama from the epopoea, by ascribing narration to the one, and imitation to the other. The only one of the three unities, which is of essential utility, and of paramount interest and importance, is then the unity of action; by which the events arise naturally out of each other (the episodes being not independent but auxiliar), and all concur to the disentanglement of the intrigue, or web of interposed difficulties, and the hastening of the final

catastrophe. Macbeth and Othello are perfect instances of the unity of action, as are Agamemnon and Orestes among the Greeks.

In what the French call coups de théâtre, or striking scenic situations, no modern dramatist has excelled the Greeks. Witness the discovery of Phædra, suspended by her own hand, with the criminatory letter in her grasp, and that of Clytemnestra's corpse, by the removal of the veil, which Ægisthus supposed to conceal the dead body of Orestes. In the manners also, the lines of character by which the persons are discriminated from each other, we have the same truth and force of contrast, which affixes the stamp of individuality to the men and women of the " tale of Troy."

The chorus was chosen from that class of persons, which might be supposed with greatest probability to be the bye-standers or spectators of the chief incidents in the story. They did not merely, as the vulgar notion is, relieve the business of the scene by the charms of music and singing, or point the moral of the passing events; they served as links in the action; they helped on the discovery by intimations and warnings; they prophecied, reproved, exhorted, expostulated, supplicated, and consoled; they took themselves an interest in the transactions represented, and might be said to be negative actors in the proceedings which they observed: occasionally also they assumed a more positive character, and ranked among the personages most affected by the occurrences of the drama. Whether as interlocutors ar as lyrical soliloquists, the characters of the chorus intersperse, with their general subject, reflexions on the ways of Providence and the nature of man, which indicate, no less than the speculations of Pindar and Plato, that even in the heathen world the Deity had not "left himself without witness."

It may seem inconsistent to introduce the name of Plato, the enemy equally of heroical and dramatic poetry, and the particular censurer of Eschylus. But this hostility to the epopea and the drama was grounded, in part, on a mistaken theory: his censure of the tragic poets is only so far just as it affects their

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use of the popular theology. is remarkable, that Solon also was hostile to the recitations of Thespis. One ground assumed by Plato is, that the excitement of the passions, by means of tragic emotion, is unfavourable to equanimity. But the exclusion of sympathy and experience is not the true secret of moral education. Aristotle shows himself a more practical philosopher in his apparent assent to the usefulness of tragic poetry, as purifying the passions by means of pity and terror." If history be " philosophy teaching by example," tragedy may claim the same honour in a more emphatical sense; for, as Bacon remarks, "representative poetry," by which he means dramatical, “is visible history;" and what he observes of "narrative, or heroical poetry," applies equally to the dramatical; that it seems to be raised from a most noble foundation, and which makes most for the dignity of man's nature. For the sensible world being inferior in dignity to the rational soul, this poetry seems to give to human nature what history denies it; and to satisfy the mind with shadows, at least, of things, where the sub-stance is unattainable. For if the matter be thoroughly considered, a strong argument may be drawn from poetry, that a more illustrious magnitude of things, a more perfect goodness, and a more beautiful variety pleases the soul of man, than what it can by any method find in mere nature since the fall. Wherefore, seeing the acts and events, which are the subject of true history, are not of that amplitude as to content the soul of man, poetry is ready at hand to feign acts greater and more heroical. Seeing that true history propounds the successes of actions in no wise proportionable to the merit of virtue and vice, poetry corrects it, and exhibits issues and fortunes more agreeable to desert, and more according to the law of Providence. Seeing that true history, by representing actions and events more ordinary, and less interchanged, satiates the mind of man, poetry cheers and refreshes the same; chanting things rare and unexpected, and full of alternated variations. So that poetry serves and contributes not

only to delight, but also to magnanimity and morality. Wherefore it may seem, and with reason too, to partake of a kind of divinity, because it erects and exalts the spirit with high raptures, by proportioning the images of things to the desires of the mind; not by buckling and bowing the mind to the nature of things, as reason and history do: and by these allurements and congruities, whereby it soothes the soul of man, joined also with symphony of music, whereby it may more sweetly insinuate itself, it has made itself a way to esteem even in very rude times, and with barbarous nations, where other learning has stood wholly excluded.” -De Augmentis Scientiarum, Lib. 2

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c. 13.

The argument and the style are alike worthy of Plato, to whom the author stands opposed. The reasoning of the latter, however, as a religious philosopher, and as a legisla tor, is in some points irrefragably just, as it is eloquently impressive.

In objecting to the Homeric Gods warring against each other, he throws out an intimation not unworthy the notice of some, who, having the benefit of revelation, ascribe to their deity attributes and qualities, which, if imitated by their fellow-men, they would deprecate with horror. "This (says Plato), is no true example; if, at least, it becomes those who are to be guardians of the state, to think it the highest infamy that we should fall easily into enmity with each other." For the same reason, he condemns the "decking out in attractive story the wars of heroes with their near kindred and neighbours; but, if by any means we can be persuaded that no citizen should ever be at enmity with another, and that this would not be holy, then such rather should be the subjects to be related to boys by the elders and aged women, and such the themes of which the poets should be compelled to treat."-De Republica, lib. 2.

He argues forcibly on Eschylus imputing mendacity and perfidy to the God Apollo. "Such as God is," he observes, "so should he ever be represented, whether he be made the subject of epic verses or odes, or tragedy. Is not God good, and is he

not so to be spoken of?" These sug gestions are wise as they are pious; but in touching on the question of moral evil, which the tragic poets have endeavoured to explain by the machinery of fate, he naturally loses himself in the intricacy of a question which even revealed religion has veiled with the cloud of allegory, and which unassisted intellect would penetrate in vain. "Let not the youths hear what is said by Eschylus; when God wishes utterly to destroy a house, he invents for mortals the cause of destruction. Should any one cite the iambics, in which are contained the sufferings of Niobe, or of Pelops, or the Trojans, or others similar, either it should not be permitted to say that these are the works of God, or if they are of God, we must find in them that reason which we are seeking; and, we must say, that God has wrought what is just and good, and that they have been helped by being chastened." If the words are rightly translated, he seems here to have a glimpse of the deity's possible production of general or ultimate good by the instrumentality of evil; but his ideas are not distinct; and he soon introduces a conflicting power or blind antagonism, and stumbles by anticipation on the Manichæan principle: Does that which is not injurious injure? By no means. Can that which does not injure do any thing evil? This also cannot be granted. Then that which does no evil cannot be the cause of evil. Is not the good being conducive to good? Certainly. He is therefore the cause of welldoing. The good being is not the cause of all things, but he is the cause of those only which are good, and by no means of those which are evil. Of evil things, we must seek some other cause than God." This syllogistic induction leaves the grand difficulty unsolved, or rather "worse confounded." But his argument against the imputed transformation of the

deities is no less clear than sublime. He asks whether God, who is from necessity immutable, and being the best of beings cannot change, except into something worse, ought to be represented as a juggler assuming different forms, and presenting illusions; and he objects to mothers telling such things to their children, lest they should, at the same time, blaspheme the Gods, and increase their children's natural timidity. "It is impossible," he observes, "that God should will his own change; but as he must needs be the fairest and the best which is possible to be, he must needs remain to eternity in the simplicity of his own form." The Gods, however, of the Greek dramatists, act upon the whole a more suitable and dignified part than those of Homer; and whatever be the errors of their theology in the eyes of an enlightened theist, it cannot be doubted that the general design and tendency of their dramas is to awaken virtuous sympathies, and supply a moral check to the excesses of the passions; nor can it be denied that they are fraught with reflexions, evincing something more than the wisdom of popular apothegms, and indicating the observant study of the minds, as well as the manners of men.

Those chorusses have naturally the most interest which bear directly on the business of the scene. In this respect, those of Eschylus and Euripides appear to have generally the advantage over those of Sophocles, which are more remote and indirect in their allusions, and stand more detached from the action. Those of Eschylus partake of the imputed turgidness, or grandiloquence, as Quintilian terms it, of his general style. Where they have a prophetical character, however, their metaphorical expression and desultory

connexion are in unison with their scope and subject. Euripides, in his lyrical passages, seems to have the

most variety and passion; nor is there any choral strain of Sophocles which equals in tenderness the Ode to Love, in Hippolitus. Were the three dramatists to be characterized, it might be said that Æschylus stood alone in preternatural grandeur, and terrific energy. The Prometheus resembles the gigantic creations and superhuman passion and pathos of Milton. Sophocles has a more ele gant and chastened dignity, and conducts his fable to its close with perfect judgment and knowledge of effect. He opens his dramas skilfully, by bringing forward his characters, and entering at once upon the action; in which he has a great advantage over Euripides, whose tedious prologizing narrations have a heavy and inartificial air. Sophocles is distinguished by the poetry of his style, the sublimity of his passion, and his bold invention of solemn and striking situations. His picture of Edipus waiting with his daughters at the mouth of an unfathomable cavern, in expectation of being removed from the world, the supernatural voice that calls him, and the manner of his disappearance, shrouded in darkness and mystery, and only to be collected from the posture of Theseus as he stands motionless, with his hands veiling his eyes, are ima'gined with uncommon feeling and power. Tenderness and melancholy pathos are more peculiarly the province of Euripides. Aristotle speaks of him as the most "tragical:" by which he means that the issue of his dramas is more frequently sad and. -fatal: that critic conceiving that an unhappy catastrophe was best suited to the end of tragedy; the moving terror and compassion. There is more general nature in Euripides. -Aristophanes taunts him, in the spi-rit of a French critic, with his ragged princes. This is a compliment to his fearless good sense and truth of feeling, and his disdain of a false dignity. His nurses and domestics act their parts with his Gods and heroes, and his scenes are in consequence more diversified, and more tinctured

with common-life reality. In this he resembles Shakspeare, who combined in himself, by the happy accident of his genius, the differing characters of Æschylus and Euripides. He resembles Shakspeare also in those comic strokes which throw a gleam of strong contrast and effect on circumstances of stirring interest and busy horror. The incident of Hercules entering with rough joviality, a self-invited guest, ignorant that the wife of his host was dying in another chamber, is quite in Shakspeare's best manner. His superiority to Sophocles in the pathetic, may be determined by comparing the two poets in their management of the assas sination of Clytemnestra. In both, Electra encourages with her voice the deed of her brother, which is perpetrated behind the scenes: but in Euripides, he immediately afterwards comes forward with "strong compunctious visitings," and she also shares in the agony of the shame and the remorse. None but a master of tragic pathos would have ventured to create this opportunity. As a poet, exclusive of dramatic art, Euripides abounds with imagery: the Baccha is rich in romantic luxu riance of description. He is distinguished from the other dramatists by being more rhetorical, and exhibiting contests of reasoning between his characters. He abounds also in moral sentiments; and, on this account, is thought by Quintilian to be the most useful tragedian of the three.

Ingenuity has been exercised in seeking among the moderns for parallels with the three tragic poets of Greece. Corneille has been chosen to match with Eschylus, Racine with Euripides, and Voltaire with Sophocles. This may serve to mark the proportional differences of manner, but there are no just grounds of comparison. The French dramas are essentially anti-dramatic; they are descriptions, not imitations; they are rather epics, in the form of dramas, than genuine tragedies. They are pieces of declamatory sen