evious
incidents which had brought matters up to this point, were narrated in
the course of the dialogue in the earlier scenes; the closing
catastrophe, often too terrible to be represented on the stage, was
described by some of the characters who had witnessed it. But the
intervening period, the events and thoughts which succeeded the past,
and preceded the future, were painted in their fullest detail, and with
all the force and finishing of which the artist was capable. Nothing
resembles the structure of a tragedy of antiquity so much as a modern
trial for murder; and in the undying interest which such a proceeding
invariably excites in all countries and all ages, we may see the deep
foundation laid in human nature for the influence of that species of
dramatic composition. As in the Greek drama, the witnesses tell the
preceding story, and explain the previous crimes or events by which
matters have been brought to the present stage, when life or death
depends upon the issue of the proceedings. The trial itself takes up
these proceedings at the decisive point, and, with strict regard to
unity of time and place, exhibits their aims and issue to the mind of
the spectators. If the execution of the criminal were immediately to
follow the verdict of the jury, and some persons were, when the
spectators were still sitting in the hall thrilling with the interest
they had felt, to come in, and relate the demeanour and last words of
the unhappy being on the scaffold, that would be a Greek drama complete.

As the field of dramatic representation was thus limited on the stage of
antiquity, the whole genius and powers of the poet were bent to
concentrating on that narrow space all the powers and beauties of which
his art was susceptible. Nothing was omitted which could either elevate,
interest, entrance, or melt the heart of the audience. It is a common
opinion in modern times with persons not acquainted in the originals
with the Greek tragedy, that it was couched in a stately measured tone,
wholly different from nature, and more akin to the pompous and sonorous
verses of the French theatre. There never was a greater mistake. If it
is characterized by any peculiarity more than another, it is the brevity
and condensation of the language, the energy of the expressions, and the
force with which the most vehement passions, and strongest emotions of
the heart are conveyed in the simplest words. So brief is the
expression, so frequent the