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upon the beggar, Odysseus, and she prays that Apollo may at once destroy Antinous, who is the chief offender. Eurynome immediately replies, 'If answers could come to all your prayers, no one of them would live until the coming dawn.' Penelope answers, 'Nurse, they all are hateful to me since their hearts are set on evil' (p 494 sqq.) This first appearance of Eurynome shows a characteristic and peculiar intimacy with the queen. When later Penelope conceives the coquettish notion of appearing before the suitors to arouse their affections and their admiration it is to her intimate companion, Eurynome, that she reveals her intentions • 164; and Eurynome replies with suggestions that could come only from the closest companionship, advising her to paint her cheeks and to adorn herself with alluring devices. Eurynome then summoned the two attendants Autonoe and Hippodameia, who seem to have regularly accompanied the queen when she appeared in the great hall. These women were evidently youthful, since Eurynome is here referred to as ypnûs, while when she is with Eurycleia ↓ 292 it is the latter who is given that epithet. There is no confusion here, since 'old' is purely a relative term; I do not seem old to my mother, yet I do to my son. Eurynome was doubtless old when compared with the handmaidens of Penelope, but young when compared with Eurycleia.

Penelope ordered Eurynome 7 98 to bring a chair with covering for the beggar, Odysseus. When the queen retires with her maidens for the night & 599 she bids Odysseus to remain in the palace, telling him that he might sleep on the floor or the servants will prepare him a bed. Odysseus spreads on the floor the hide of an ox and draws over himself the skins of sheep, while Eurynome throws him a coverlet v 4.

When Penelope comes into the presence of her husband, after his great victory over the suitors, and cannot bring herself to believe that it is indeed he, Telemachus is highly indignant, but Odysseus suggests that perhaps his squalid and unkempt condition may be responsible for her failure to recognize him; thereupon Eurynome has him bathed and annointed, and finally when Penelope knows that her husband has returned, then her servant Eurynome and his servant Eurycleia prepare anew their marriage bed 290.

His nurse, Eurycleia, retires, and Eurynome, the especial friend and guardian of the wife, conducts them once more to their former bridal chamber, just as in Becker's Charikles it was the mother of the bride who guided the youthful couple to their marriage bower, 'da geleitete Kleobule's Mutter das Paar in den stillen Thalamos.' This is quoted from the last sentence in the story of Becker's Charikles. Evidently in a somewhat remote way the rites of the former marriage are carried out in this scene in the Odyssey.

Conclusion. Eurynome is never given a command except by Penelope, while Telemachus gives commands to Eurycleia alone of the woman servants. There is no confusion in the mind of the poet; Eurynome and Eurycleia are distinct and necessary actors in the poem. Eurycleia belonged to the household of Laertes a full generation before the arrival of Penelope. Eurynome, on the other hand, is connected with the Odyssey solely from the side of Penelope; she

was her necessary and intimate companion, and evidently accompanied the youthful queen when she came as a bride to Ithaca. It is beyond belief that in a palace with fifty or more women attendants the queen should have had no servant peculiarly her own, and that she was forced to rely on an old woman who had belonged to the palace of Laertes years before she herself was born. We are certain that a father who sent along with his daughter a manservant, Dolius, sent also the more necessary companion, a companion of her own sex.

JOHN A. SCOTT.

NORTHWESTERn University,

EVANSTON, ILLINOIS, U.S.A.

NOTES ON EURIPIDES, RHESVS 252, 340.

IN 252 Mr. Porter excludes a reference to the proverb, but, if so, the introduction of Muoŵr is pointless. Where is the ally who . . .?' we can understand, but why should the Mysians be singled out?. I am afraid that this path leads nowhere. On the assumption that a reference to Murov čoxaros is intended, the object of my note was to maintain that morì Mươŵv (éσTí) means,' he comes from Mysia who . . .,' or, in other words, 'he is a rara avis who . . ." No doubt it is a blot that a proverb should be quoted which in its literal application is out of touch with the dramatic situation. But lapses of this kind are so common in tragedy (Jebb on Ai. 1112), that the objection is less serious than it appears at first sight. Proverbs are employed without a thought of their origin; and, if the poet forgot that he was straying into his own century, it is no great wonder. The scholiast notes the anachronism, which resembles the description in the Hecuba (450) of the Peloponnese as Awpis aia. Now, this scholium is no Byzantine paraphrase, but a relic of the best Alexandrian tradition. It is our only external aid towards the elucidation of a perplexity, and it is hazardous to reject its evidence for other than the most cogent reasons.

In regard to oveкa, I regret that I failed to make myself clear. Those who agree with Mr. Porter seem to hold that ouveкα, like κará, can mean 'according to ' [secundum nuntii verba, Vater] as well as so far as concerns.' If that is so, of course OUVEкa makes passable sense, but no parallel has yet been produced to justify the assumption. That is the first point which is at issue. I went on to argue that, if οἵνεκα is not the equivalent of κατά, the words & Ρῆσος χρυσοτευχής ἐστιν οὖνεκ' ἀγγέλου Móyou are meaningless in this context, but that with the substitution of dμáxnros for χρυσοτευχής they would be intelligible. Το force χρυσοτευχὴς ὤν into a larger connotation-that is to say, to make it an expression of blame-seems to me unnatural. Mr. Porter, who thinks that Hector is pleased to be sarcastic,' apparently accepts xpvσroтevxs v as derogatory in intention. No one can prove that he is wrong; but that I am not alone in suspecting a corruption is shown by the list of conjectures in Wecklein.

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A. C. PEARSON.

THE TRAGEDY OF ELECTRA, ACCORDING TO

SOPHOCLES.

THERE is a note of uneasiness in many modern appreciations of Sophocles, and particularly of his Electra. A symptom is the familiar apology that, after all, he was the perfect artist. Jebb himself betrays a certain moral discomfort in the midst of his enthusiasm for the brightness of the morning sun that greets the righteous avenger. Professor Murray has the courage to state as a challenge the criticism which less candid writers hint by inuendo. By the very frankness of his indictment he helps us to face, instead of shirking, the issue. Unlike Euripides and Aeschylus, he says, Sophocles takes the story exactly as he finds it :

He knows that those ancient chiefs did not trouble about their consciences: they killed in the fine old ruthless way.

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The stern and artificial' period is best represented by the Electra. The Electra is 'artificial' in a good sense, through its skill of plot, its clear characterization, its uniform good writing. It is also artificial in a bad sense. For instance, in the messenger's speech, where all that is wanted is a false report of Orestes's death, the poet chooses to insert a brilliant, lengthy, and quite undramatic description of the Pythian games. It is also 'stern.' Aeschylus in the Choephoroi had felt vividly the horror of his plot. . . . In the Electra this element, the horror of matricide, is practically ignored. Electra has no qualms; Orestes shows no signs of madness; the climax is formed, not by the culminating horror, the matricide, but by the hardest bit of work, the slaying of Aegisthus! Aeschylus had kept Electra and Clytaemnestra apart: here we see them freely in the hard unloveliness of their daily wrangles. Above all, in place of the cry of bewilderment that closes the Choephoroi . . . the Electra closes with an expression of entire satisfaction. It is this spirit that makes the Electra, brilliant as it is, so typically uncharming.

This indictment is not to be met by the plea that Sophocles was a perfect artist in words. The uniform good writing' is admitted. It may be remarked in passing that Mr. Murray's epithets 'stern and artificial' are a translation of the words Tikрòν каì катάтEɣvov, used, according to Plutarch's well-known story, by Sophocles himself of the second period of his development. It may be doubted whether in point of style the Electra does not rather belong to the third stage, when Sophocles has discovered 'that form of expression which

contains the highest degree of ethos and is best.' However that may be, it seems a pity to transfer the terms of a purely stylistic classification to the much more general problem of the types of drama. Whoever used the words Tikpòv kaì Katátexvov1 of the Sophoclean composition in a half-developed period of which we may or may not have specimens, was certainly not thinking of 'entire satisfaction' about matricide as evidence of πiρóτns, or of ‘quite undramatic' messengers' speeches as characteristic of the 'artificial' or 'technical' way of writing.

This criticism, however, does not affect the main issue. Is it true that Sophocles has 'practically ignored' the horror of matricide? If so, we must admit that he has been guilty of a sin against the tragic art. He has cloaked with a thin veil of beauty a story whose essence is an appalling tragedy. He has sacrificed the tragedy for the sake of a tour de force. I believe that this is But Professor Murray does good service in forcing us to face the

untrue.

possibility.

The key to the riddle will, I believe, be found in the deliberate care with which the poet has distinguished between Electra, the heroine and the tragic sufferer, and Orestes, whose prime business is to act. For the audience I believe it is at most a half truth that Electra 'has no qualms.' The opening scenes of the play give us the right perspective for the later development.

The romantic suggestion of the breaking of a happy dawn after a night of sorrow (17-19) has been sufficiently admired. It has not perhaps been sufficiently emphasized that these lines are a skilful adaptation of the theme recurrent in the Choephoroi, light out of darkness, sorrow leading to joy.2

But there is also more dramatic value in this description of the sunshine that wakes the dawn-song of the birds than is commonly supposed. It occurs in a paragraph which is carefully constructed, beginning and ending as it does with an exhortation to immediate action. Now dawn, in Greek poetry, proverbially awakes the birds to song and men to work. The picturesque

1 πικρόν for αὐστηρόν is evidence for the antiquity of this piece of criticism (v. Jebb, Trach. Int. p. xlvi.). The meaning is: After I had played out the bombast of Aeschylus, and then the pungency and artificiality of my own style of composition, I discovered the form of expression which contains the highest degree of Ethos and is the best.' That is no commonplace of the critical tradition. The ancient Life of Sophocles makes the obvious remark that he learnt tragedy in the school of Aeschylus, and gives the normal view of antiquity when it says that he is called ǹðús.' It is his sweetness that earns him the name of the Attic bee. He has ἡδονὴν θαυμαστὴν καὶ μεγαλοπρέπειαν. Just as in life he was εὐκόλος, so in his style. Dio Chrysostom says that he had neither the αὐθαδὲς καὶ ἁπλοῦν of Aeschylus, nor the ἀκριβὲς καὶ δριμὺ καὶ πολιτικόν of Euripides, words which sufficiently indicate the relation between the normal stylistic criticism and the Frogs of Aristophanes. Dionysius Halicarnensis

and others admit that he sometimes falls into ȧvwμalia, but no one, when once the traditional criticisms were fixed, was likely to suggest that the blessed Sophocles had at any stage been TIKρós or avoτnpós. Pindar, Aeschylus, Thucydides, are 'austere.' Euripides and Isocrates are 'smooth.' But Sophocles, like Homer, has the perfect style, 'harmoniously blended,' EUкρаTOV. Dion. Hal. de uerb. comp. XXI.-XXIV. 2 Cf. Walter Headlam's note in C.R. vol. XVII. 1903, p. 248. It should also be remarked that there are, in accordance with the normal stylistic method of Sophocles, verbal reminiscences of Homer II. VIII. 485, and that line 19 significantly recalls Aesch. Ag. 276.

3 See Hesiod, Works and Days, 577 sqq. and 568 sqq.; Ibycus. fr. 7; Eur. Phaethon fr. 773, 23 sqq., recalling Hom. Od. XIX. 522, Rhesus 546 sqq., Callim. Hecale fr. in C.R. vol. VII P. 429, Xenophon Oec. V. 4.

description of the morning, therefore, is not merely suggestive of a cheerful and a hopeful atmosphere, but also of the strenuous call to action-oùKÉT' ὀκνεῖν καιρὸς, ἀλλ' ἔργων ἀκμή.

The notion that the long expected moment of heroic action has arrived inspires the whole speech of the Paidagogos. Very skilfully it touches just those motives which explain the spirit in which Orestes, the typical liberator, welcomes his task. He is the son of a great general, and he comes to fight for his father (1). To this end he has been trained by the old henchman (13-14), who has taken pains to fill his mind with thoughts of the greatness of his father and of the country whose throne he is now to claim from the usurpers. The reference to the mythical suffering of ancient Io has dramatic value. The daughter of the ancient king of Argos is a type whose parallel is found in the hero's sister (5, 12). Again, the reference to Apollo, slayer of the wolf, has value for Orestes, sent by Apollo himself to kill the wolf-adulterer, Aigisthos (cf. Ag. 1257). And is not Hera's famous temple significant for the punishment of those who have violated the most sacred ties of marriage? Mycenae is a city of much gold, and the house of the Pelopids a house of much slaughter (9-10). Orestes comes to claim his stolen fortune, and to avenge his father's murder. Here, it is true enough, the poet has deliberately avoided the suggestion of the horror of the matricide. He wants to make us feel the simplicity of the motives with which, in his exile, without knowledge of his mother, trained by his murdered father's servant, Orestes has grown to the age of fulfilment. That is the main purpose of the speech, and the whole is bound together by the repeated and rhythmical insistence on the fact that the time of action has at length arrived (νῦν, 2 . . . τοσόνδ' ἐς ἥβης, 14 . . . νῦν οὖν, 15 .. čрywv áкμń, 22). Look at lines 65-76, and notice how the themes of the Paidagogos are reiterated, and raised to a higher power.

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So much for Orestes. Now turn to Electra. Her first words are a cry to 'the pure light of day'; but, for her, day is a witness and summons to fresh sorrow, not hope. Line 91 recalls line 19, with a poignant contrast. Next notice that for Electra's sorrow, as for the eager courage of Orestes, the motive is the thought of Agamemnon. But for her he is Tòv dúotηvov èμòv tatéρa (94). For Orestes it is Electra who is dúστηvos (80): the repetition is not accidental. And for Electra, who knows the tragic history by personal experience, not, like Orestes, as a story of a distant event, the most tragic element is this: it was my own mother' (97) who, with her paramour, so brutally killed my own father' (94). That touch makes all the difference.

But we have not yet seen the full development of the poet's art. The dawn that calls Orestes to action rouses Electra to fresh grief. Proverbially the dawn awoke, not simply birds in general, but particularly the nightingale, the bird of lamentation. Therefore when, at line 107, Electra compares herself to the nightingale, we are listening not merely to a familiar piece of tragic similitude, but to a lyrical amplification of lines 17-19, turning the picturesque to tragedy. The reference is made and at once forgotten. But at

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