There are many different versions of identical portions of the same myth. Each epic poet or dramatist had an individual way of interpreting the simple facts of the story, or even of twisting the facts into correspondence with the interpretation that he himself chose. Thus, in the case of the Seven, one version had it that Hera was the originator of the curse, and another that the majesty of the sun-god, Loxias, was insulted by the sight of such pollution. The same subjects were treated again and again by each successive dramatic poet; and the problem presented itself to each of the feasibility of leaving one's peculiar impress upon the traditional story. Thus in the Choephoroe no one before Stesichorus had conceived the idea of making Apollo the inspirer of Orestes's crime, and Aeschylus eagerly seized upon the suggestion. He made an even more important alteration, in emphasizing Clytemnestra's participation in the murder of Agamemnon, and consequently in raising the death of the Queen to an equal significance with the death of her paramour, when in all other accounts, as far as we are able to judge, the slaying of Aegisthus had been the all important factor and the murder of Clytemnestra only a necessary adjunct. With many indistinct remembrances flitting through his brain, the listener stands even in greater peril of misconstruing the development of the plot than if he came with a mind in total ignorance of the tale to be imparted. Confusion is more imminent, and just because there are other versions in existence, the dramatist finds it more impracticable to intimate the particular meaning with which he would imbue the myth. I doubt not that Aeschylus had a perfectly definite conception of the relations between Zeus and Prometheus; but the possibility of our penetrating this meaning has been befogged by the many treatments of the myth in modern literature, which, becoming known to us before the Aeschylean version, render it more difficult to understand the drama as Aeschylus meant it. The imbroglio is made more serious by the conduct of critics who persist in reading into the work their own a priori opinions, until our minds are so dissipated by the bewildering extravagance of the many judgments, that they are no longer capable of taking up the play without prejudice or of searching sanely and honestly for the significance that Aeschylus has really embodied in the lines. So, in the end, if the knowledge that the people already possessed of the myths made any difference at all, instead of giving the authors any advantage, it rather made it all the more imperative that each dramatist should render unmistakable the manner which he individually chose to pursue. In addition to the exposition of characters and events, there may have been another mode of explanation necessary, an obligation under which the modern with all his elaborate costume, properties, and scenery does not labor. I refer to the explanation of what the author wished the audience to understand as the stage picture. Nothing definite can be stated in this connection until it is finally decided just to what degree of perfection the mechanical devices had attained in the time of Aeschylus. Even the Elizabethan stage, with its conventional system of placarding the scaffolding, found it convenient to explain even further the theatrical setting. So in the second scene of Twelfth Night where Viola and the sea captain enter on the coast. Such an additional exposition was of course not needed to state the fact that the scene represented such and such a locality, but the dramatist was not willing to let the opportunity slip with a mere indication of the place. He would rather conjure up in the minds of his listeners, by means of speech, the embellishments which their physical eyes could not convey to them. He would not have them know only that it was a shore, but he would have them visualize rocks, sand, seawood, waves, and foam, and all the accessories which to-day the craftsman's art makes it unnecessary for the playwright even to mention. Such were the conditions, I take it, in the time of Aeschylus. There are certainly palpable attempts at a description of costume and scenery beyond what the actual properties of the stage represented. The following are illustrations of this point. In the Suppliants from 180 to 1851 there is graphic description of the approaching host of the king of Argos, such as we cannot possibly suppose was actually presented to view or hearing. The cloud of dust, the ranks of chariots and horses, and, above all, the general impression that the words convey of a mighty troop of warriors could not be rendered with any majesty either to the eye or ear; yet Aeschylus wishes to maintain an atmosphere of heroism and grandeur and finds an excellent expedient in his language. Of the same character is the description of the arrival of the ships, 710 to 723, a case in which a 1 The references are to the lines Sidgwick's edition the Oxford Classics. 1 modern playwright (Clyde Fitch) would rejoice to delight the vision of his audience with the whole marine landscape. But even now our mechanical appliances are apt to be tinged with the ludicrous (witness the frequent accidents to the Rhine maidens in Das Rheingold), and Aeschylus, trusting rather to his own power of language and to his genius than to the skill of the stage carpenter, chose a safer method. The Prologue to Shakspere's Henry V states well the view that Aeschylus himself probably took of the question: "O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them In the Suppliants there is a continual reference to the statues and altar which must be supposed to stand on the stage, and secondly to the dress and headgear of the women, especially to the suppliant boughs which they bear. The frequency of this mention is remarkable. The whole matter raises another question, at the solution of which we can again only guess, namely, how far it was necessary for Aeschylus to emphasize continually the very properties which he employed, on account of their meagreness and the consequent likelihood that they would not be understood. It is only another aspect of the general question about his indication of scenery by the medium of words. At lines 20-21, at 190-2, at 234-245, at 334-5, at 345-6, and frequently through the whole play, we find such references to the branches, the sign of the suppliants. Lines 234-245 comprise the King's first speech, where the whole emphasis from beginning to end is on the suppliant boughs. It is the same with the altar and the statues: cf. lines 189, 220-1, 345-6, 893, 859-860. The descriptions of the odors and rushings that precede and accompany the parodos of the daughters of Oceanus in the Prometheus, and of the sublimity of the swallowing up of Prometheus at the end, are instances of an achievement in word painting, of which the handicraft of scenery and properties was incapable. In the Seven, the general temperance of this mode of treatment is brought out in happy contrast to the sensationalism of Euripides in the Phoenissae. In the latter play, Euripides causes Antigone to ascend a ladder undignifiedly to the roof, and thence to view the marshalling of the hosts, and to discuss it with her attendant slave. Aeschylus, to whom such a procedure on the part of a highborn lady would have properly seemed ludicrous and unfitting, puts his version of the appearances of the champions into the mouth of a messenger, who has employed the ordinary means of conveyance to enter upon the scene of action; that is, instead of resorting to devices of climbing heroines to obtain dramatic tension for his descriptions, Aeschylus trusts all the effect of his account to the power of words. It is impossible and undesirable to probe for all the reasons that influenced an author in arranging his action in a certain system; but I think that we can safely assert that it was not only a desire to avoid the presence of carnage upon the actual scene which led Aeschylus to plan the whole play so that everything should be told rather than appear, but that also he realized how the poverty of stage machinery would belittle the great scenes which he wished the audience to visualize. 1 Again in the Agamemnon the great word picture of the three illuminations at the beginning, the light of the stars, the beacon signals, and the fires of the sacrifices, rises far above the domain of theatrical resources, if indeed we are to believe that the lights were represented at all. The preparations for Agamemnon's entrance into his home, where the tapestries were very probably exhibited, are also apposite; but here the recurring references to the richness of the embroidery (lines 910, 919-924, 926, 936, 946, 948, 957) are indicative of a necessity to explain to his audience what doubtless some of them could not discern by reason of the size of the theatre. I do not mean that the emphasis on the purple has not its higher purpose in hinting at the blood which is soon to flow; but to comprehend this hint the people must be made aware that the carpets were purple, and that they were rich to typify the high quality of the blood. The case in hand illustrates the happy habit of Aeschylus in combining, by felicitous arrangement and choice of words, a double purpose, a characteristic which I shall mention in treating the manner of his exposition. Of importance in this connection is the lengthy exposition by the priestess of her function, in the Prologue to the Eumenides. A last point to be observed, before studying each play separately in the development of the art of Aeschylus, is the difficulty that beset him in the delineation of character. At the present day it is the established precedent that one of the main features of a dramatic production shall be its characterization. This is one of the first qualities that the critic looks for when he is making his estimate of the play. No matter how cleverly the intricacies of the plot are handled, if the actors in this plot are mere puppets in the dramatist's hand, we consider the play a pitiable failure. The stress that we lay upon realistic characterization is still on the increase. The more the drama is studied, the greater becomes the search for delicate touches in this quality, until we grow so eager that we read into the lines what we are so anxious to discover. This tendency puts us in the real peril of underrating the powers of Aeschylus in characterization. We take it for granted that the same conceptions of the value of delineation existed in his day as in ours. But this assumption is unfounded. Tragedy had just started on the road to its high destiny when Aeschylus began to write; it was still in its formative state when he received it from Choerilus, Pratinas, and |