he
achievement of the Greeks, and to examine the wide dissimilarities that
underlie the general identity of aim, would be to wander too far afield
from our present theme. But the comparison may be recommended to those
who are anxious to form a concrete idea of what the effect of a Greek
tragedy may have been, and to clothe in imagination the dead bones of
the literary text with the flesh and blood of a representation to the
sense.

Meantime, to assist the reader to realise with somewhat greater
precision the bearing of the foregoing remarks, it may be worth while to
give an outline sketch of one of the most celebrated of the Greek
tragedies, the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus.

The hero of the drama belongs to that heroic house whose tragic history
was among the most terrible and the most familiar to a Greek audience.
Tantalus, the founder of the family, for some offence against the gods,
was suffering in Hades the punishment which is christened by his name.
His son Pelops was stained with the blood of Myrtilus. Of the two sons
of the next generation, Thyestes seduced the wife of his brother Atreus;
and Atreus in return killed the sons of Thyestes, and made the father
unwittingly eat the flesh of the murdered boys. Agamemnon, son of
Atreus, to propitiate Artemis, sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia, and in
revenge was murdered by Clytemnestra his wife. And Clytemnestra was
killed by Orestes, her son, in atonement for the death of Agamemnon. For
generations the race had been dogged by crime and punishment; and in
choosing for his theme the murder of Agamemnon the dramatist could
assume in his audience so close a familiarity with the past history of
the House that he could call into existence by an allusive word that
sombre background of woe to enhance the terrors of his actual
presentation. The figures he brought into vivid relief joined hands with
menacing forms that faded away into the night of the future and the
past; while above them hung, intoning doom, the phantom host of Furies.

Yet at the outset of the drama all promises well. The watchman on the
roof of the palace, in the tenth year of his watch, catches sight at
last of the signal fire that announces the capture of Troy and the
speedy return of Agamemnon. With joy he proclaims to the House the
long-delayed and welcome news; yet even in the moment of exultation lets
slip a doubtful phrase hinting at something behind, which he dares not
name, something which may turn