A Criticism of the Edipus Tyrannus, noticing, any points in which it may be compared to King Lear.

All Art is imitation of Nature. And perhaps the best definition of that undefinable thing, Poetry, is that it is an imitation of Nature by means of language, appealing to the affections of man. The essence of that branch of poetry which is called Dramatic consists in the imitation of action, and this by the agency of characters introduced speaking, and not by the narration of the poet in his own person.

Dramatic Poetry is generally divided into two classes— Comic and Tragic: the former representing what is ludicrous and trivial; the latter what is serious and grand. But Tragedy itself must be carefully divided into the Ancient and Modern, the Classical and the Romantic. These are two distinct branches of the same art. The Athenian Tragedy is as different a thing from the English Tragedy as it is from Comedy itself. They have different objects, different means, and different principles. Briefly, their differences are as follows: the one is the produce of idolworship united to Greek taste; it presents us therefore with the ideal of imaginary human perfection. The other is the result of Christianity combined with northern intellect; and as such it steeps human imperfection in a kind of heavenly atmosphere. The influences in the one are Fate, Retribution; in the other, Honour, Love. The one is calculated to excite awe and admiration; the other, interest and sorrow. The one is essentially a whole, though separable into parts; the other consists of parts combining

to form a whole.

The one is as a marble statue; the other as a painted picture. The one takes man as he is conceived of in the mind, and throws around him the grandeur of that which is unreal; the other takes man as he is found in practice, and clothes him with the interest that centres in that which we know to be real.

According to the ancient system of Tragedy, with which alone we have now to deal, the imitation of action must be such as to excite pity and terror. The audience expected to be awed and moved. It was with this object in view that the Greek poets moulded their plays into their usual form. And it was owing to this that Tragedy became what it was, and what the Athenian tragedians were bound to make it. The plot was habitually taken from some story which the people believed, because if they were to be awed and moved it was essential that they should believe the plot possible; and they were much more sure to believe it possible if they believed it had actually occurred. This story was ordinarily taken from mythical times, because the fates and passions of demigods and heroes were of a more exalted type than those of common men, and therefore capable of rousing deeper emotion. The subjects of the Greek Tragedies, moreover, were confined to a select few of these mythical stories, because it was a few only that contained, within the required limits of time and space, the violent revolutions of fortune, the sudden discoveries of identity, necessary to combine tragic interest with a general sense of completeness. For it was held necessary, partly to secure the unity of the piece, and partly in consequence of the permanent position which the Chorus occupied on the stage, that the event represented should be supposed to extend over a single period of time, and to take place for the most part in a single spot; and revolutions, dis

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coveries, and catastrophes were the authorised modes of striking terror and pity into the hearts of the spectators.

There were some other peculiarities of the Greek Tragedy resulting from its religious origin, or the prejudices of the popular mind. The principal of these was the introduction of the Chorus. The poet was obliged to find room in his piece for a band of a dozen or twenty persons, who must be continually stationed by the altar in the centre of the stage, and sing lyrical odes between the scenes of the play. They had to do double duty as actors and spectators. At times they joined in the dialogue, and at other times they remarked on the course of the action so as to regulate the emotions of the other spectators. The Greek tragedian moreover could never employ more than three actors. He was compelled to exhibit three tragedies at a time, which might or might not be connected in their subjects. The costumes, the scenery, the music, and the dancing, with which he was furnished, were all of a kind to produce grandeur and sublimity rather than an exact copy of nature. The accessories were all of a piece with the object he had to attain the inspiring of pity and terror by the representation of the ideal.

We are at length in a position to criticise the play before us. We now see to what branch of art it belongs, and what are the principles on which it must be judged. No doubt there are eternal principles of art, common to all ages and all arts alike, founded on reason, taste, and truth. But there are also special rules for different arts and for the same arts, when so called, at different times. These depend on custom, age, race, and other local circumstances. And it would be as absurd to judge of the Edipus Tyrannus by the modern idea of tragedy, as it would be to criticise Homer by the regulations of Pope, or the pillars and por

ticoes of the Parthenon by the rules of Gothic architecture. The Athenian poet had the form of his tragedy prescribed to him; and how impossible it was for him to alter it we may conceive from the story of Eschylus, who is said by introducing the Choruses of the Eumenides out of their regular order to have made women and children expire in the pit, and to have been compelled to fly from Athens.

The fable or myth of Edipus, of which a part only forms the plot of the Tyrannus, is too well known to require repetition here. Its main features Sophocles was bound to embody in his tragedy, but he was at liberty to alter and adapt the details to the purpose of his play. It is uncertain whether the two plays of Sophocles which bear the name of Edipus were part of one scheme. But each gains immensely by being contrasted with the other. We know that Sophocles exhibited both trilogies and single plays. Is it not highly probable that these were two plays of a trilogy, the first play of which is lost? If we suppose an

dipus Corinthiacus or a Laius Rex, we shall have the whole history of Edipus gradually developed before us in three long acts. It may be doubted whether the early history of Edipus could supply revolutions or catastrophes awful enough for a tragedy. But the middle piece of a trilogy was always made the most tragic, on the principle of the statue of Laocoon. And could not he who found material for a finale in the peaceful retirement and apothe osis of the hero have moulded the stirring events of his former fortunes into an inaugural tragedy worthy to be its match?

However, the Edipus Regnant is complete in itself. I propose to detail the plot, scene by scene, pointing out, as I proceed, its apparent merits or demerits, and noticing the peculiar genius which it reveals.

The scene is laid outside the palace gates at Thebes. The time is a day in the midst of Edipus' conscious power and unconscious guilt.

At the lowering of the curtain a Chorus of citizens is discovered prostrate on the ground before Edipus' doors. They hold olive-branches in their hands, tufted with wool. The stage resounds with the wailing of citizens and the distant tones of the Pean. A deadly plague is visiting the city, fatal alike to the propagation of vegetable and of animal life. A gloomy picture this wherewith to open a play, and a fit type of the solemn gloom which is to reign dominant throughout. We have here no cheerful variations, no chequered alternations of light and shade, which by their changing phases will excite and charm the mind. There is no attempt to delight or interest; awe and pity are the only passions to be moved. So we have a gloomy beginning, to lead on to a gloomier middle and a still gloomier end. Only, what is light now will be dark then, and what is dark now will be light then. Edipus alone is safe amid the general ruin. He alone is calm where all is despair. He sits above the waterflood, great and glorious, and it is to him that the suppliants, young and old, address their prayer. They tell him of the fearful havoc that is being made among them. They remind him of his former services to them on a like occasion, and they entreat him to preserve his name of saviour of the state. They cry to neither unwilling nor unable ears. Edipus knows their grief too well. He has already sent Creon, his wife's brother, to the oracle at Delphi, and he is momentarily expecting his return with an account of the remedy as well as the cause of the evil. By a happy coincidence, necessarily too common in classical tragedy, Creon at this instant appears. His news is good, yet bad. The cause