comes out of the palace Cilissa, the old nurse of Orestes; and for some time we are interested and half amused with her garrulous lamentations. It is one of the very few passages where a Greek tragedian has touched that deepest chord of pathos which is struck when we smile at the weakness of human nature, and yet grieve the more for its sufferings; the chord which Shakespeare strikes in Lear and Ophelia, in many of the songs of his clowns, and in the story of Falstaff's death-bed. This old nurse, like her in Juliet, runs on with trifling reminiscences of Orestes' childhood, most unworthy of the occasion, except from this point of view. Still the old woman is made to assist in the execution of the plot. Clytemnestra has sent her to summon Ægisthus, and bid him bring his body-guard with him. This latter message the Chorus bids her not to give, and so it is contrived that the usurper shall offer himself unprotected to Orestes' sword. And so, half guessing from the hints of the Chorus that there is something good going forward, Cilissa goes her way.
Once more the stage is empty, and the loud prayers of the Chorus are heard, as they confidently pray to Zeus for his assistance, and call on Orestes to consummate the deed. Soon Ægisthus comes, half doubting the news, which he pretends to call unwelcome; and he asks the Chorus whether it is true. The Chorus reply:—
"We have but heard; go thou thyself within,
Question these strangers;—second-hand reports
Avail not as to hear the tale one's self."
