pause follows-the Chorus begin a song-you hold your breath-you feel your heart throbbing-hark!-hark again! 'Tis one dying, one dying within! "Tis the voice of-the king! Never was shriek like that from one who should speak again.

The Chorus run hither and thither in confusion. The doors of the palace open-what see we? The murderess standing triumphant-the bloody knife in her hand-beneath her, the deed she has done. She rejoices-she boasts of her victory. 'Twas no mean artifice, that of her's. As he came from the bath she cast over him a fatal garment without outlet-and thus entangled, naked, and helpless, he fell by her hand. His blood is on her-she points to it, and tells them, that a flower does not more rejoice in being sprinkled with the dew of heaven. She taunts him with his crimes. The Chorus lament and remonstrate-she answers with insult and scorn. Her paramour returns-they congratulate-all things shall be firmly settled and well governed-their sun of glory is rising— some few threats of distant revenge are uttered by the Chorus, -but the avenger is an infant-he is distant-the clouds clear away-the day of tyranny and sin has begun in Mycena. Is this all?

Our next chapter shall right the balance.

The Choëphori,

The arrival of Orestes.

SOME Voice like this, of a spirit dumb to others, but speaking to him,' has young Orestes heard, in the retirement of his childhood. His sister Electra, during the times of murder and tyranny, had him, yet an infant, conveyed away to the house of a family friend. Here he has grown up-his young limbs have knit into power-his heart is on fire with high thoughts.

Meantime, sin and blood have been the order of the day at Mycena. The cup of crime is full. The murderess, the adulteress Queen, has had a fearful vision. In the night she has risen up, she and her servants; and there was a great cry in Mycena. The interpreters are called. The dead,' say they, 'the mighty dead are angry. Their revenge is working.' Some sacrifice, some expiation must be made: some procession with offerings to the murdered one's tomb.

It is the dawn of day.-From afar, two persons are approaching the town, toil-worn and dusted with travel; you see them and wonder. They are the little cloud no bigger than a man's hand, from which will burst mighty changes. There is, hard by the palace, a lofty sepulchre. There the

His words

strangers halt. One lifts up his voice in prayer. have been lost in the wreck of ages. What he prays, we know not; but we can guess. But what sees he? There moves towards him a dark robed procession; the women of the palace, with libations and votive gifts. He looks—it is— it is his own sister Electra heading them, with slow and trembling step. He turns to his companions: "let us stand aside, and wait the issue." He deposits his votive locks of hair on the tomb; one to the founder of his race; one to his murdered father; and then retires. Meanwhile, their wail has burst forth

Chorus. Forth hurried from the palace gates

I come these offerings to convey;

Wild grief hath torn my robes,
And bathed my cheeks in blood;
On agony my heart hath fed
Long dismal years of woe.

But now shrill terror, at midnight,
Hath raised her spirit-harrowing cry;
And the dream-prophets all

Declare that the great Dead

Are angered with their murderers.
And meditate revenge.

For this the godless queen hath sent
These thankless gifts to soften fate:
But at her bid, to pray

I dare not: for what words

Can expiate the stain of blood

Which mother-earth hath drunk?

Dark clouds are gathered o'er the house,
Full of stern hatred, for the death

Of its great masters. Awe,

And dread of majesty,

Of old so strong in every heart,
Are faint and feeble now.

Good fortune is their present strength,

Their god, and more; but the fell stroke

Of justice reaches all;

Some, in their noon of life,

Some in the twilight of their days;

And some in death's dark night.

T

The

Blood must be rendered up for blood :
Mischief doth hunt the sinner's path:-
There is no help in rites-
All sacrifices, poured

Upon one murderer's bloody hand
Cannot wash out the stain.

But I (for captive is my lot)

Must praise perforce whate'er they do
Who rule me by their will;
But I in secret weep,

Hiding my face; and pine away
With long and wearing grief.

The song ceases, and Electra speaks :-she is in doubt what to do:—words have been put into her mouth by her mother, to offer up at the tomb; shall she speak them, while her heart dissents? Shall she pour the libations in silence even as her father perished in silence? Shall she speak the thoughts of her heart, and pray for vengeance on the murderers?

The women counsel her well: Speak from thine heart. Pray for vengeance-pray for thyself-pray for Orestes-pray for every enemy of blood and tyranny.' Her prayer is uttered accordingly-and the Chorus give their assent in a concluding

song.

But whence are these locks of votive hair? She sees them —she takes them up-she compares them with her own,— recognition, their colour, their character is similar; but they are not hers. They cannot be her mother's. Came they from Orestes? They are most like his; he must have sent them: then he is living and well. But where? Her mind flutters with hope and fear. Oh, for some fresh testimony; she looks downbehold the footmarks of two persons in the sand. What we wish, we believe ;-they must be his, and his fellow-traveller's; they are like hers the same shape, the same character,

If the reader is disposed to doubt the evidence afforded by the shape of the footmarks, let him remember that when the foot was left in its natural state, as in Ancient Greece, distinctive peculiarities would be much more readily noticed and retained, than with us, who both conceal the feet from view, and destroy their natural form. The Indian to this day can track by the character of the footmark.

she begins to tremble for joy. He is surely near-the object of her anxieties, and prayers, and hopes,-the only tie which has bound her to a life now long rendered miserable. Who is this that speaks to her? It is Orestes himself. Great Poet, thou art a master over the mind of man. Before he appeared she was all confidence-now she is all doubt. The stranger must be mocking her misery. But the doubt is not long. Behold, he says, the place whence I cut the locks. which are in thine hand; if that be not enough, behold this robe, thine own work,-see the embroidery of strange animals which thine own hands laboured. There is no doubt now.

Electra. Oh, precious nurseling of thy father's house,

Thou child of many tears, and patient hopes,
Whose might is our salvation-thou dear soul,
Thou comest to me, dowried with the love
Of four dear relatives-my father's claim
On thee hath lighted-thou hast taken up
My hated mother's place; and my poor sister,
Ruthlessly sacrificed-all meet in thee,
My loyal brother;-thou shalt do me right,
If only might and justice, with that third,
The great Avenger, Zeus, be on my side.
Orestes. O Zeus, vouchsafe to take our cause in hand;
Behold this lordly eagle's orphan brood,
Reft of their sire, who in the crushing folds
Of the fell serpent, died. Stern hunger now

Is on his offspring; for they have not power
To fetch them home the prey their father brought.
Shouldst thou permit his orphans, who amongst
All men, most hououred thee, to pine and die,
Whence wilt thou get thee honour? If thou kill
The eagle's offspring, how wilt thou transmit
Thy signals to mankind? This royal stock
Once withered to the root, all piety,

And thankful days of offering, will fail.

Grant thou our prayers; and lift from low estate This house, o'erwhelmed with unexampled fall. Chorus. My children, ye whom Fate hath pointed out To save your father's house,-keep silence now; Lest some, for talking's sake, report these things