In the analysis of the Electra, it will be only necessary to mention the incidents in which it differs from the Chœphori, 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 Ægysthus, and well contrasted with Electra. Clytemnestra, who in the play of Æschylus 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 Ægysthus?
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 audience?
E. Alas! he brings sad proofs of our misfortunes.
O. I understand thee not; but Strophius sent me hither
To bear Ægysthus tidings of Orestes.
E. What tidings, stranger? Fear is in my soul.
O. The little casket that thou seest contains
The ashes of the dead.
E. It is too plain.
O. These are the ashes of the young Orestes.
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 thou bloom,
Like a sweet flower, in infant loveliness;
Now art thou withered, not to bloom again.
Oh! would that I had died when I did send thee
Into a foreign land—did rescue thee
From murder; on that day thou might'st have lain
In the same grave with thy beloved father;
But thou hast perished in a foreign country,
A friendless exile, and I was not near thee.
Wretch that I am! I did not with these hands
Perfume thy precious corpse, nor did I gather
Thy ashes from the pile, as it became me;
But thou wert dressed by mercenary hands.
My star of hope is set. Alas! how fruitless
Were the sweet cares with which I tended thee,
While yet an infant! For I was to thee
A nurse, a mother—I was all to thee.
How joy did dance through my delighted veins,
When, hanging round my neck, thou didst pronounce,
With music in my ear, the name of Sister.
Thy death has like the whirlwind swept away
All that remained to me of love and life.
Long I have had no father who could aid me;
My enemies insult me, and my mother
Revels in joy; and thou, who oft didst send
Assurance to me that thou wouldst arise
The glorious avenger of my wrongs,
Shalt never wake to look on me again;
And for thy beautiful and manly form,
And fair affection's smile upon thy face,
And thy sweet voice,—all I receive is ashes.
But, oh! that I were with thee in that casket!
For it were good to mingle ashes with thee,
And lie in loved repose in the same tomb.
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.
O. What worse than these?
E. I am condemned to dwell with murderers.
O. Whose murderers?
