those of Sophocles and Euripides in dramatic skill, as the intervening lapse of centuries, and the natural progress of human improvement, might justly give reason to expect? For our own part, we are apt to think that there is often less ingenuity in the conduct of a modern play than in that of some of the best Greek tragedies. The Electra and Philoctetes of Sophocles, for instance, are, in our judgment, immeasurably beyond many of our modern tragedies, not merely in the beauties of poetry, which are peculiar to no age, but in the skilful management of their plot, and in correct and masterly delineation of character. The two plays we have mentioned are splendid examples of dramatic excellence; they are, perhaps, the most unexceptionably beautiful of the Greek tragedies. With what singular felicity of conception is the disposition of the unsuspecting Philoctetes, and of the ingenuous Neoptolemus contrasted with that of the crafty son of Laërtes? And, in the other play, how beautifully affecting is the character of Electra; heroic yet tender; now softening from indignation into sorrow; now driven almost to madness by the weight of calamity and insult!-We know of nothing in the tragedy of any age more pathetic than the lamentation of Electra over the urn in which she believes the ashes of her brother to be contained; and, the recognition in the last act forms a very striking developement of that interest which is so powerfully sustained throughout the play. Again, we might suggest the Medea and Alcestes of Euripides as illustrious examples, the one of sublimity, the other of pathos, in female character; while, in the conduct of its plot, none, we suspect, will deny that the first Edipus of Sophocles displays a far greater skill in dramatic contrivance, than many of the most approved tragedies of later times.

We must be understood to speak of the artificial character of the Greek drama, simply in relation to the age of the composition. We are by no means disposed to consider this as its leading feature, or to undervalue the great and more acknowledged merit of simplicity. We admire, almost to veneration, the majestic sublimity of language and dignified artlessness of plot, which characterize the drama of Eschylus. He is, indeed, the Homer of tragedians; and, like him, his very defects become hallowed, when considered only as betokening how rude and inartificial was the age in which he wrote. The Agamemnon is a most powerful instance of chaste sublimity. There is no mark of labour, but a simple eloquence of poetry, which the Greek language is, of all others, the best calculated to support. The prophetic strain of Cassandra is full of mysterious grandeur, and its very obscurity constitutes one of its most characteristic beauties. If there be any who conceive that sublimity alone is the style in which Eschylus surpasses all other dramatic writers, we reply by adducing his most beautiful description of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, as an example of the very brightest excellence in pathetic writing.

The peculiar situation of the Athenian people in the time of Æschylus was undoubtedly calculated to further, in a material degree, the success of his plays. Theatrical representations, at Athens were more a subject of instruction than of amusement. The flame of patriotism was fanned by the inspiring exhibitions of valour, and the enthusiastic sentiments of liberty, to which the representation of the drama gave occasion. How grateful, then, to a warlike and free people, the representation of a play like "The Persians" of Æschylus, wherein a scene, fresh in the memory of all, and calculated to

awaken the utmost enthusiasm of patriotic pride, was heightened by the force of dramatic effect, and all the allurements of poetical beauty. At the very time of the exhibition of "The Persians" at Athens, the vanquished invader was crouching, with proposals of a treaty, to the power whose supremacy he was compelled to acknowledge; and nothing could more effectually tend to induce the Athenian people to accept these terms of reconciliation, than the display of haughty obstinacy, and its fatal consequences, in the character and calamities of the Persian king. Such circumstances as these, were undoubtedly great auxiliaries to the success of the ancient tragedies; but the opinion of posterity, more solid than the mere excitation of popular feeling, has determined that the veneration of the Athenians for their dramatic poets was no less a proof of their taste than of their patriotism.

The practice, however, of consulting in so great a degree the opinions of the audience, cannot altogether be admired. It seems very inconsistent with the dignity of those great poets, as candidates not merely for the approbation of their own, but of succeeding, ages. Yet it may be urged in their defence, that the stamp of immediate sanction was undoubtedly more favourable to their interest than the expectation of future fame; and they probably were aware, that although a great portion of their tragedies was adapted only to the taste of the audience in their own age, there were, nevertheless, those redeeming flashes of genius, the admiration of which depended upon no considerations of contemporary occurrence, or of national prejudice.

From this very brief examination of the Greek stage, we should be inclined to pronounce, that although simplicity is their distinguishing excellence, the ancients,

even in the refinements of the drama, had made extra

ordinary progress.

That, amid this galaxy of splendid beauties, there should be in the ancient drama many and glaring blemishes, is not surprising. Tediousness of narration, the repetition of certain trite apothegms, a peculiar quaintness and occasional obscurity of style, especially in the dialogue, are among the most apparent imperfections of Greek tragedy. The developement of the plot in the prologue, which we occasionally find, is a decided solecism in the conduct of the drama; and the introduction of the chorus, however highly we may prize the beautiful effusions of poetry to which it gives rise, is justly censurable, as tending to interrupt the harmony and connection which should subsist between every part of a dramatic plot.

It is singular that Rome, generally the successful rival of Athens in her literary glories, should have left no specimen of excellence in tragedy. The plays of Seneca are, for the most part, vapid and bombastic; and in some instances, professedly an imitation, and that by no means good, of the Greek tragedies.

The French tragedy forms a connecting link between the simplicity of the Greek, and the variety of the English, stage; but, allowing for all prejudices, classical and national, we must still be allowed to pronounce it inferior to both. It has none of the grand and majestic features of the Greek, nor the versatile and natural character of English, tragedy. It has monotony without dignity, heaviness without simplicity, and elevation without sublimity of style. We are far from denying that the tragedies of the best French authors contain many beauties of poetry, and sometimes great interest of plot. But the sublime, one of the leading qualifica

tions of tragedy, they rarely reach; and in those passages where the thought is in itself magnificent, the very complexion of the French language renders the author unable to embody his conception in appropriate powers of expression. They are always most sublime when the idea is briefly conveyed, as in the famous line of Racine;

Je crains Dieu, cher Abner-et n'ai point d'autre crainte. The question of French dramatic verse has been discussed so much at length in our late Numbers, that we will here only repeat our conviction that the restraint of rhyme is unconquerably adverse to the success of French tragedy. It impedes the fluency of expression, and increases tenfold that difficulty which so often mars a powerful thought, the clothing it in equally powerful language. It is a very acute observation of Aristotle, that the jingle of rhyme-the anticipation of a particular sound at particular intervals-tends materially to distract the attention of the reader or hearer from the subject of the composition on which he has to decide. And if this be true of metrical writing in general, it is still more strongly applicable to the drama. Surely, if it be necessary, in any one species of composition more than another, to rivet the attention closely and powerfully to the subject rather than to the sound, it is in this. The power and success of those tragedies in our own language, which have been written in prose (a part of the subject to which we shall return anon), strikingly display the very secondary importance of metrical correctness. The effect even of pathetic writing is greatly impaired by the French Alexandrine, but with sublimity it is absolutely irreconcilable. We think, therefore, those French tragedies the best, which turn upon interesting, rather than upon sublime, subjects;