while he in reciting wore a mask. In a rude cart he journeyed through Attica from village to village, assisting the tribal worship in each. But when Athens rose to a predominant position, the roving cart was changed to a fixed stage, and the rude disguise became dresses indicating the character assumed.

Æschylus, the first great tragic poet, born in Attica in 525 B.C., fought at Marathon in 490, and took part in the destruction of the fleet of Xerxes ten years later. He brought a second actor on the stage; the recitation became a dialogue, and the chorus was restricted to the part of sympathizing spectators. Eschylus added more expressive masks and arranged an appropriate back-ground. It was not till a much later period that scenery was used. The tragedy of schylus was usually a solemn poetical rendering of some episode of the national mythology. It was heightened with the pomp and music of a religious festival. Yet the defeat of the Persians at Salamis was felt to be an event of such importance as to justify an exception in its favor. Of his seventy plays, most of which were presented in competition with other authors, only seven survive. Though the excellence of his works was promptly and generously acknowledged, they show an aristocratic spirit. His conservatism probably rendered him apprehensive of the increasing power of the democracy in Athens. This disagreement with the tendency of affairs was probably a reason for his resorting to Sicily, where Hiero, King of Syracuse, eagerly patronized literary men. Here he enjoyed the company of Simonides and other poets. Yet he returned to take part in the dramatic competition at Athens. Altogether he won the prize for dramatic superiority thirteen times. His career closed with the presentation of the trilogy, or group of three tragedies, relating to Orestes. He died at Gela, in Sicily, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. There was a common story that while he was meditating on the sea-shore, an eagle which had seized a tortoise and borne it aloft, let it fall on his head. His tomb bore this inscription testifying to his patriotism:

"Here Eschylus lies, from his Athenian home
Remote, 'neath Gela's wheat-producing loam;

How brave in battle was Euphorion's son,

The long-haired Mede can tell who fell at Marathon."

Æschylus was the most sublime of the Greek tragedians; his moral tone is pure, his character earnest, his belief in his country's gods thoroughly sincere. Yet in his Prometheus Bound he testified to a power of righteousness beyond what was exhibited in the rule of Zeus in the world.

THE BATTLE OF SALAMIS.

Atossa. Which navy first advanced to the attack?
Who led to the onset, tell me? the bold Greeks,
Or, glorying in his numerous fleet, my son?

Messenger. Our evil genius, lady, or some god
Hostile to Persia, led to ev'ry ill.

Forth from the troops of Athens came a Greek,
And thus addressed thy son, the imperial Xerxes:
"Soon as the shades of night descend, the Greeks
Shall quit their station; rushing to their oars,
They mean to separate, and in secret flight
Seek safety." At these words, the royal chief,
Little conceiving of the wiles of Greece

And gods averse, to all the naval leaders

Gave his high charge :-"Soon as yon sun shall cease

To dart his radiant beams, and dark'ning night
Ascends the temple of this sky, arrange

In three divisions your well-ordered ships,
And guard each pass, each outlet of the sea :
Others enring around the rocky isle

Of Salamis. Should Greece escape her fate,
And work her way by secret flight, your heads
Shall answer the neglect." This harsh command
He gave, exulting in his mind nor knew

What Fate design'd. With martial discipline
And prompt obedience, snatching a repast,

Each mariner fixed well his ready oar.
Soon as the golden sun was set, and night
Advanced, each train'd to ply the dashing oar,
Assumed his seat; in arms each warrior stood,
Troop cheering troop through all the ships of war.
Each to the appointed station steers his course;

And through the night his naval force each chief
Fix'd to secure the passes. Night advanced,
But not by secret flight did Greece attempt

To escape. The morn, all beauteous to behold,

Drawn by white steeds bounds o'er the enlighten'd earth;
At once from ev'ry Greek with glad acclaim
Burst forth the song of war, whose lofty notes

The echo of the island rocks return'd,

Spreading dismay through Persia's hosts, thus fallen
From their high hopes; no flight this solemn strain
Portended, but deliberate valor bent

On daring battle; while the trumpet's sound
Kindled the flames of war. But when their oars,
The pæan ended, with impetuous force
Dash'd the resounding surges, instant all
Rushed on in view: in orderly array

The squadron on the right first led, behind

Rode their whole fleet, and now distinct we heard
From ev'ry part this voice of exhortation :-
"Advance, ye sons of Greece, from thraldom save
Your country,-save your wives, your children save,
The temples of your gods, the sacred tomb
Where rest your honor'd ancestors; this day
The common cause of all demands your valor."
Meantime from Persia's hosts the deep'ning shout
Answered their shout; no time for cold delay;
But ship 'gainst ship its brazen beak impell'd.
First to the charge a Grecian galley rush'd;
Ill the Phoenician bore the rough attack,
Its sculptured prow all shattered. Each advanced
Daring an opposite. The deep array

Of Persia at the first sustain'd the encounter;
But their throng'd numbers in the narrow seas,
Confined, want room for action; and, deprived
Of mutual aid, beaks clash with beaks, and each
Breaks all the other's oars: with skill disposed
The Grecian navy circled them around
In fierce assault; and rushing from its height
The inverted vessel sinks: the sea no more
Wears its accustomed aspect, with foul wrecks
And blood disfigured; floating carcasses
Roll on the rocky shores: the poor remains

Of the barbaric armament to flight

Ply every oar inglorious: onward rush
The Greeks amidst the ruins of the fleet,
As through a shoal of fish caught in the net,
Spreading destruction: the wide ocean o'er
Wailings are heard, and loud laments, till night
With darkness on her brow brought grateful truce.
Should I recouut each circumstance of woe,

Ten times on my unfinished tale the sun
Would set; for be assured that not one day
Could close the ruin of so vast a host.

Atoss. Ah, what a boundless sea of woe hath burst On Persia and the whole barbaric race!

Mess. These are not half, not half our ills; on these Came an assemblage of calamities,

That sunk us with a double weight of woe.

Atoss. What fortune can be more unfriendly to us

Than this? Say on, what dread calamity

Sunk Persia's host with greater weight of woe?

Mess. Whoe'er of Persia's warriors glow'd in prime Of vig'rous youth, or felt their generous souls Expand with courage, or for noble birth. Shone with distinguish'd lustre, or excell'd In firm and duteous loyalty, all these

Are fall'n, ignobly, miserably fall'n.

Atoss. Alas, their ruthless fate, unhappy friends! But in what manner, tell me, did they perish? Mess. Full against Salamis an isle arises, Of small circumference, to the anchor'd bark Unfaithful; on the promontory's brow, That overlooks the sea, Pan loves to lead

The dance to this the monarch sends these chiefs,
That when the Grecians from these shatter'd ships
Should here seek shelter, these might hew them down
An easy conquest, and secure the strand

To their sea-wearied friends; ill-judging what
The event but when the fav'ring god to Greece
Gave the proud glory of this naval fight,
Instant in all their glitt'ring arms they leap'd
From their light ships, and all the island round
Encompassed, that our bravest stood dismay'd;
While broken rocks, whirl'd with tempestuous force,

And storms of arrows crushed them; then the Greeks
Rush'd to the attack at once, and furious spread
The carnage, till each mangled Persian fell.
Deep were the groans of Xerxes when he saw
This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound.
Commanding the wide sea, o'erlooked his hosts.
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes,
And through his troops embattled on the shore
Gave signal of retreat; then started wild,
And fled disorder'd. To the former ills
These are fresh miseries to awake thy sighs.

Atoss. Invidious Fortune, how thy baleful power
Hath sunk the hopes of Persia! Bitter fruit
My son hath tasted from his purposed vengeance
On Athens, famed for arms; the fatal field
Of Marathon, red with barbaric blood,
Sufficed not; that defeat he thought to avenge,
And pull'd this hideous ruin on his head.

But tell me, if thou canst, where didst thou leave

The ships that happily escaped the wreck?

Mess. The poor remains of Persia's scattered fleet Spread ev'ry sail for flight, as the wind drives,

In wild disorder; and on land no less,

The ruined army.-ESCHYLUS, translated by W. POTTER.