merits of this destination of his property, as well as from many other instances of a similar description, it is impossible not to perceive how little encouragement is held out to such charitable, or, it may be, ostentatious donations. In the progress of society, as in that of the age and fortune of individuals, that which at one stage appears most interesting and praise-worthy, is beheld at another with indifference or aversion. I.
REMARKS ON GREEK TRAGEDY.
No I.
(Æschyli Prometheus.)
The drama has formed an interesting and important part of the literature of every nation into which it has been introduced, and no nation that has cultivated literature at all is entirely without it. Among the Athenians, scenical representations were frequented with a degree of enthusiasm of which we cannot easily form an adequate notion. A successful play was the most certain and the shortest road to literary fame, and even to fortune and preferment in the state. The dramatic poets were men of eminent genius, and not more remarkable for the qualities of mind that form the poet, than for those that constitute the philosopher. Euripides was the disciple and the friend of Socrates, who saw the important moral purposes to which the drama might be applied, and the divine philosopher did not think it beneath him to aid the poet in the correction of his pieces. In the Greek theatre, not only was the taste of the people formed to a simple and natural style of composition, and their minds inspired with a love of virtue, but their piety and their imagination were equally improved by the unfolding of the beauties of a poetical mythology. It was not merely a place of public amusement, but rather a temple for the purification of the national manners, and the worship of the gods,—more moral in its tendency than their sacrifices and festivals. It is to be understood, that these observations apply only to tragedy, for the Greek comedy was often licentious and immoral.
It was fortunate for the Greeks that in their literature they had no models to copy. It was the growth of their own soil, rooted in their usages, laws, legends, mythology, and peculiar modes of thinking and conformation of character, and was native to Greece as the vine to her mountains. It was drawn directly from nature, and the likeness was pleasing, because it was the faithful copy of a fair original; not, as too frequently happens among the ancient Romans and the modern nations of Europe,—a servile imitation—a tame copy of a copy; it was like nature herself, fresh, and rich, and vigorous, and unconstrained, ever varying and ever graceful.
On a first view of the Greek tragedy, what strikes the reader, if he is at all conversant in the drama of the moderns, is its simplicity. The characters are few, and the fable neither intricate nor the incidents surprising. Its whole interest arises out of the simple expression of natural feeling in situations of suffering and sorrow; yet scanty as the materials are, by their judicious arrangement, a beautiful superstructure is raised. It may be likened to a fine painting, in which the figures are correctly drawn and skilfully grouped—the costume appropriate—the drapery easy and graceful—the expression of the passions, such as naturally flow from the circumstances of the actors—the story perspicuous—and the lights and shades disposed with such art as to give to the whole the most pleasing effect.
It has been often repeated, and as often acknowledged, that the composition of a tragedy is one of the most difficult of all the efforts of human intellect. It requires a knowledge of the nature of man, and of those general laws by which he is governed in every stage of society, which is the portion only of a gifted few,—of those main springs of thought, and feeling, and action, that are universal, and of all the varieties of their modification produced by his moral, physical, and political state—the temperature or severity of climate—the purity of religion or the grossness of superstition—the exaltation of liberty or the degradation of slavery. The dramatic writer must be endowed with the eye that can unveil the human heart, detect the passions in their source, and trace them in their intricate windings, and give to all fit utterance. He must be possessed of a pliancy of mind, by which he may
