Read Ebook: Hogarth's Works with life and anecdotal descriptions of his pictures. Volume 3 (of 3) by Ireland John Nichols John

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and has been changed from a true wife and loving mother to a wild and murderous witch once more. She calls upon the gods of the underworld, the silent throng from the dark world of spirits, the tormented shades, all to come to her present aid. She recounts her miraculous powers over nature which she has used aforetime, and which are still in her grasp.

Thou radiant moon, Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and come To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks, And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves, And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued, And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths. At my command the sun and stars together shine, The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will: I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring, And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear. The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source; And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths, His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along. The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds All silent lie. At my command primeval groves Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom, Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades Attest my charms.

Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this preparation!

After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says to her attendants:

Take now Cre?sa's bridal robe, and steep in these My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds, Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.

We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Pha?thon, who had himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires. The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious. Truly, he doth explain too much.

But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the d?nouement.

Now, O Hecate, Give added force to these my deadly gifts, And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame; Let them escape detection of the eye, But spring to instant life at human touch. Let burning streams run through her veins; In fervent heat consume her bones, And let her blazing locks outshine Her marriage torches!--Lo, my prayer Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds, The baying hounds of Hecate. Now all is ready: hither call My sons, and let them bear the gifts As costly presents to the bride. Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born, And win with gifts and many prayers The favor of the queen! Begone, but quick your way retrace, That I may fold you in a last embrace.

The chorus, which but dimly comprehends Medea's plans, briefly voices its dread of her unbridled passion. It knows that she has one day only before her banishment from Corinth, and prays that this day may soon be over.

And now, as the chorus and the old nurse wait in trembling suspense for what is to follow, a messenger comes running breathless from the direction of the royal palace. All ears are strained to hear his words, for his face and manner betoken evil tidings. He gasps out his message:

Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base! The daughter and the father lie in common dust!

Medea has entered meanwhile, and has heard enough to be assured that her magic has been successful. The nurse, seeing her, and fearing for her mistress, exclaims:

O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlong flight!

But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of conflicting passions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the passionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play portrays--an incarnate fury.

This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her former successful deeds of blood.

O the bliss of memory! My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent, My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm, And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire! But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring To execute my deeds. But now, by what approach, Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe? Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.-- I would that children had been born to him of this My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart, His children too are hers.-- That punishment would be most fitting and deserved. Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou, My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons, Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.-- My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear. Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins, The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me. And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so, O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed! What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood Would wash away? Their sin--that Jason is their sire, And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die; They are not mine.--Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons, And with no spot of guilt.--Full innocent they are, 'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul, Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn? As when conflicting winds contend in stubborn strife, And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade, And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil: With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love, And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief, To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart, Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.

But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now My children must be torn away with tears and cries.-- Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me. Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore, Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end! I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been. Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy My brother and my sire.

She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

But whither hastes that throng Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished fires? Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands? I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound. Whom seeks Magaera with her deadly torch?--Whose shade Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?--It is my brother! Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come, Within my heart plunge all your torches--rend me--burn! For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke. O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses depart And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell. And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice Unto thy shade.

Roused to the point of action by this vision, and still at the very pitch of frenzy, she plunges her dagger into the first of her sons.

But now hoarse shouts and the quick tramping of many feet are heard; and well does Medea know their meaning.

What sudden uproar meets my ear? 'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent. Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there complete This bloody sacrifice. Do thou come hence with me; But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear. Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must this deed Lose all its just renown because in secret done; But to the public eye my hand must be approved.

Medea disappears within, leading one son, terrified and reluctant, and bearing the body of her other child in her arms. Jason and a crowd of Corinthian citizens rush upon the stage. Stopping in front of his own palace, he shouts:

Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings! Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime. Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.

At this moment, though as yet unseen by those below, Medea emerges upon the palace roof.

For there suddenly appears in the air a chariot drawn by dragons.

Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car, With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.

We have already said that the natural mimicry of the Italian peasantry no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth performances of a dramatic nature, which developed later into those mimes and farces, the forerunners of Roman comedy and the old Medley-Satura. We have also shown how powerfully Rome came under the influence of Greek literature and Greek art; and how the first actual invasion of Rome by Greek literature was made under Livius Andronicus, who, in 240 B. C., produced the first play before a Roman audience translated from the Greek into the Roman tongue. What the history of native comedy would have been, had it been allowed to develop entirely apart from Greek influence, we shall never know, since it did come powerfully under this influence, and retained permanently the form and character which it then acquired.

When Rome turned to Greece for comedy, there were three models from which to choose: the Old Athenian Comedy of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, full of criticism boldly aimed at public men and policies, breathing the most independent republican spirit; the Middle Comedy, which was still critical, directed, however, more at classes of men and schools of thought than at individuals; and New Comedy, the product of the political decadence of Greece, written during a period when the independence which had made the trenchant satire of the Old Comedy possible had gone out of Greece. These plays aimed at amusement and not at reform. Every vestige of politics was squeezed out of them, and they were merely society plays, supposed to reflect the amusing and entertaining incidents of the social life of Athens. The best known writers of New Comedy were Philemon, Apollodorus, and Menander, only fragments of whose works have come down to us.

Which of these models did the Romans follow? There is some evidence in the fragments of the plays of Naevius, a younger contemporary of Andronicus, and who produced his first play in 235 B. C., that he wrote in the bold spirit of the Old Comedy, and criticized the party policies and leaders of his time. But he soon discovered that the stern Roman character was quite incapable of appreciating a joke, especially when its point was directed against that ineffably sacred thing, the Roman dignity. For presuming to voice his criticisms from the stage the poet was imprisoned and afterward banished from Rome.

Perhaps warned by the experience of Naevius, Roman comic poets turned to the perfectly colorless and safe society plays of the New Comedy for translation and imitation. They not only kept within the limitations of these plays as to spirit and plot, but even confined the scene itself and characters to some foreign city, generally Athens, and for the most part were careful to exclude everything Roman or suggestive of Rome from their plays.

Judging from the remaining fragments, there must have been many writers of comedy during this period of first impulse; but of all these, the works of only two are preserved to us. These are Titus Maccius Plautus, who died in 184 B. C., and Publius Terentius Afer, commonly known as Terence, who was born in 195 B. C., and died in 159 B. C. These two writers have much in common, but there are also many important points of difference. Plautus displays a rougher, more vigorous strength and a broader humor; and, within the necessary limitations of which we have spoken, he is more national in his spirit, more popular in his appeal. Terence, on the other hand, no doubt because he was privileged to associate with the select and literary circle of which Scipio and Laelius were the center, was more polished and correct in style and diction. But while he thus gains in elegance as compared with Plautus, he loses the breezy vigor of the older poet.

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