This ended, the Chorus greet Agamemnon, on his entrance, with a somewhat mysterious speech, hinting suspicions of future ill. The hero replies with equal dignity and moderation. Clytemnestra rushes forward, and in an address of the deepest craft, and of delicate beauty, hails the husband whom she is about to murder. After speaking of her loneliness during his absence, and of the rumors of his death which had so often afflicted her, she continues in this glowing speech, the exquisite imagery of which is, in our opinion, unparalleled; the version of it cannot be too highly praised, either for fidelity or diction.

Such reports oppress'd ine,
Till life became distasteful, and my hands
Were prompted oft to deeds of desperation.
Nor is thy son Orestes, the dear tie
That binds us each to the other, present here
To aid me, as he ought: nay, marvel not,

The friendly Strophius with a right strong arm
Protects him in Phocæa; while his care
Saw danger threat me in a double form,
The loss of thee at Troy, the anarchy

That might ensue, should madness drive the people
To deeds of violence, as men are prompt

Insultingly to trample on the fall'n:

Such care dwells not with fraud. At thy return
The gushing fountains of my tears are dried,

Save that my eyes are weak with midnight watchings,
Straining, through tears, if haply they might see
Thy signal-fires, that claim'd my fix'd attention.

If they were closed in sleep, a silly fly

Would, with its slightest murm'rings, make me start,
And wake me to more fears. For thy dear sake
All this I suffer'd: but my jocund heart

Forgets it all, while I behold my lord,

My guardian, the strong anchor of my hope,
The stately column that supports my house,
Dear as an only child to a fond parent;
Welcome as land, which the toss'd mariner
Beyond his hope descries; welcome as day
After a night of storms with fairer beams
Returning; welcome as the liquid lapse
Of fountain to the thirsty traveller:
So pleasant is it to escape the chain
Of hard constraint. Such greeting I esteem
Due to thy honor: let it not offend,

For I have suffer'd much. But, my loved lord,
Leave now that car; nor on the bare ground set
That royal foot, beneath whose mighty tread
Troy trembled. Haste, ye virgins, to whose care
This pleasing office is entrusted, spread

The streets with tapestry; let the ground be cover'd
With richest purple, leading to the palace;

That honor with just state may grace his entry,
Though unexpected. My attentive care
Shall, if the gods permit, dispose the rest
To welcome his high glories as I ought.

A singular contest arises between the hero and Clytemnestra, as to the propriety of his treading on the purple robes, which ends by his yielding to her solicitations, and entering the palace, leaving Cassandra and the Chorus without. The latter again sing an ode of dark and gloomy fore

bodings, Clytemnestra again enters, haughtily commands the prophetic maid to follow her; instead, however, of obeying, she falls into a rage of inspiration, and chants forth dim prophecies of her own fate, and that of Agamemnon, mingled with allusions to the former sins and sorrows of the Pelopidæ, keeping the Chorus on the stretch of anxiety and terror, until at length the cries of the butchered king are heard from within the palace, and Cassandra hurries in to meet her destiny. While the Chorus are yet in the confusion of dismay, the murderess rushes in with the bloody axe in her hand, and boasts of the deed she has committed. The Chorus express their abhorrence, and the following scene ensues, after which Ægisthus entering, and with some altercation, the piece closes.

CHO. Tremendous fiend, that breathest through this house
Thy baleful spirit, and with equal daring

Hast steel'd these royal sisters to fierce deeds

That rend my soul; now, like the baleful raven,

Incumbent o'er the body, dost thou joy

To affright us with thy harsh and dissonant notes ?

CLY. There's sense in this: now hast thou touched the key,
Rousing the Fury that from sire to son

Hath bid the stream of blood, first pour'd by her,
Descend one sanguine tide scarce rolled away,
Another flows in terrible succession.

CHO. And dost thou glory in these deeds of death,
This vengeance of the Fury? Thus to pride thee
In ruin, and the havoc of thy house,

Becomes thee ill. Ah! 'tis a higher power
That thus ordains; we see the hand of Jove,
Whose will directs the fate of mortal man,
My king, my royal lord, what words can show
My grief, my reverence for thy princely virtues?
Art thou thus fall'n, caught in a cobweb snare,
By impious murder breathing out thy life?
Art thou thus fall'n, (ah, the disloyal bed!)
Secretly slaughter'd by a treach'rous hand?

CLY. Thou say'st, and say'st aloud, I did this deed :
Say not that I, that Agamemnon's wife,

Did it: the Fury, fatal to this house,

In vengeance for Thyestes' horrid feast,

Assumed this form, and with her ancient rage

Hath for the children sacrificed the man.

CHO. That thou art guiltless of this blood, what proof,
What witness?-From the father, in his cause,
Rise an avenger! Stain'd with the dark streams
Of kindred blood fierce waves the bick'ring sword,
And points the ruthless boy to deeds of horror.-
My king, my royal lord, what words can show
My grief, my reverence for thy princely virtues?
Art thou thus fall'n, caught in a cobweb snare,
By impious murder breathing out thy life?
Art thou thus fall'n, (ah, the disloyal bed!)
Secretly slaughter'd by a treach'rous hand?

CLY. No of his death far otherwise I deem,
Nothing disloyal. Nor with secret guile
Wrought he his murd'rous mischiefs on this house.
For my sweet flow'ret, opening from his stem,
My Iphigenia, my lamented child,
Whom he unjustly slew, he justly died.
Nor let him glory in the shades below;
For as he taught his sword to thirst for blood,
So by the thirsty sword his blood was shed.

CHO. Perplex'd and troubled in my anxious thought,
Amid the ruins of this house, despair

Hangs heavy on me. Drop by drop no more
Descends the shower of blood; but the wild storm

In one red torrent shakes the solid walls;

While vengeance, ranging through the dreadful scene,
For further mischief whets her fatal sword.

SEMI. O Earth, that I had rested in thy bosom,
Ere I had seen him lodged with thee, and shrunk
To the brief compass of a silver urn!

Who shall attend the rites of sepulture?

Who shall lament him? Thou, whose hand has shed
Thy husband's blood, wilt thou dare raise the voice
Of mourning o'er him? Thy unhallow'd hand
Renders these honors, should they come from thee,
Unwelcome to his shade. What faithful tongue,
Fond to recount his great and godlike acts,
Shall steep in tears his funeral eulogy?

CLY. This care concerns not thee: by us he fell,
By us he died; and we will bury him

With no domestic grief. But Iphigenia,

His daughter, as is meet, jocund and blithe,

Shall meet him on the banks of that sad stream,

The flood of sorrow, and with filial duty

Hang fondling on her father's neck, and kiss him.
CHO. Thus insult treads on insult. Of these things
Hard is it to decide. The infected stain

Communicates the infection; murder calls

For blood; and outrage on the injurious head,
At Jove's appointed time, draws outrage down.

In this last extract, it would be an insult to our readers to point out the innumerable beauties. The awful, fiend-inspired audacity of the Queen, -the noble and unshaken faith and morality of the chorus,-and the closing taunts of Clytemnestra, are alike unrivalled. In truth, unless it be the murder-scene in Macbeth, we can find no parallel for the latter part of the Agamemnon in any language. After the departure of the hero from the stage; the plot gradually thickening, the minds of the spectators wound up to the pitch, by the increasing terrors of the chorus, and the ravings of Cassandra; the cry of the king in mortal agony; and the climax of the queen intoxicated with guilt and frenzy, glorying over her noble victims! We can conceive nothing more awfully impressive; and when we picture to ourselves the accessories afforded by the music, the gorgeous dresses, the splendid architecture of those temples to the muse, whose wondrous ruins yet survive, to put to the blush the vaunted march of modern improvement; when we remember, that these awful doctrines were implicitly believed by the audience; and that the poet addressed not only the imaginations, but the superstitions, and the faith, and the fears of his audience, we may well believe all that has been related of the effects of these magnificent dramas ; nor, as we shudder in the solitude of our closets over his amazing and terrible imaginings, shall we need to doubt that men were wont to swoon, and that women actually died within the precincts of the theatres, the victims of fancy overwrought, and horror too great to be withstood by human reason.

121

A SHARK STORY,

FROM A WEEK AT THE FIRE ISLANDS," (THE UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF A SPORTSMAN,) As told by NED LOCUS, IN RAYNOR ROCK'S FISHING HUT.

"WELL, gentlemen, I'll go ahead, if you say so. Here's the story. It is true, upon my honor, from beginning to end-every word of it. I once crossed over to Faulkner's island, to fish for tautaugs, as the north side people call black fish, on the reefs hard by, in the Long Island Sound. Tim Titus, (who died of the dropsy, down at Shinnecock point, last spring,) lived there then. Tim was a right good fellow, only he drank rather too much.

It was during the latter part of July; the sharks and the dog-fish had just begun to spoil sport. When Tim told me about the sharks, I resolved to go prepared to entertain these aquatic savages with all-becoming attention, and regard, if there should chance to be any interloping about our fishing ground. So we rigged out a set of extra large hooks, and shipped some ropeyarn and steel chain, an axe, a couple of clubs, and an old harpoon, in addition to our ordinary equipments, and off we started. We threw out our anchor at half ebb tide, and took some thumping large fish:-two of them weighed thirteen pounds—so you may judge. The reef where we lay, was about half a mile from the island, and, perhaps, a mile from the Connecticut shore. We floated there, very quietly, throwing out and hauling in, until the breaking of my line, with a sudden and severe jerk, informed us that the sea attornies were in waiting, down stairs; and we accordingly prepared to give them a retainer. A salt pork cloak upon one of our magnum hooks, forthwith engaged one of the gentlemen in our service. We got him along side, and by dint of piercing, and thrusting, and banging, we accomplished a most exciting and merry murder. We had business enough of the kind to keep us employed until near low water. By this time, the sharks had all cleared out, and the black fish were biting again; the rock began to make its appearance above the water, and in a little while its hard bald head was entirely dry. Tim now proposed to set me out upon the rock, while he rowed ashore to get the jug, which, strange to say, we had left at the house. I assented to this proposition; first, because I began to feel the effects of the sun upon my tongue, and needed something to take, by way of medicine; and secondly, because the rock was a favorite spot for a rod and reel, and famous for luck; so I took my traps, and a box of bait, and jumped upon my new station. Tim made for the island.

Not many men would willingly have been left upon a little barren reef that was covered by every flow of the tide, in the midst of a waste of waters, at such a distance from the shore, even with an assurance from a 16

companion more to be depended upon, than mine, to return immediately, and lie by to take him off. But some how or other, the excitement of my sport was so high, and the romance of the situation was so delightful, that I thought of nothing else but the prosecution of my fun, and the contemplation of the novelty and beauty of the scene. It was a mild, pleasant afternoon in harvest time. The sky was clear and pure. The deep blue sound, heaving all around me, was studded with craft of all descriptions and dimensions, from the dipping sail boat, to the rolling merchantman, sinking and rising like sea-birds sporting with their white wings in the surge. The grain, and grass, on the neighboring farms, were gold and green, and gracefully they bent obeisance to a gentle breathing southwester. Farther off, the high upland, and the distant coast, gave a dim relief to the prominent features of the landscape, and seemed the rich but dusky frame of a brilliant fairy picture. Then, how still it was! not a sound could be heard, except the occasional rustling of my own motion, and the water beating against the sides, or gurgling in the fissures of the rock, or except now and then the cry of a solitary saucy gull, who would come out of his way in the firmament, to see what I was doing without a boat, all alone, in the middle of the sound; and who would hover, and cry, and chatter, and make two or three circling swoops and dashes at me, and then, after having satisfied his curiosity, glide away in search of some other fool to scream at.

I soon became half indolent, and quite indifferent about fishing; so I stretched myself out, at full length, upon the rock, and gave myself up to the luxury of looking, and thinking. The divine exercise soon put me fast asleep. I dreamed away a couple of hours, and longer might have dreamed, but for a tired fish-hawk, who chose to make my head his resting place, and who waked and started me to my feet.

"Where is Tim Titus?" I muttered to myself, as I strained my eyes over the now darkened water. But none was near me, to answer that interesting question, and nothing was to be seen of either Tim or his boat. "He should have been here long ere this," thought I, "and he promised faithfully not to stay long-could he have forgotten? or has he paid too much devotion to the jug?"

I began to feel uneasy, for the tide was rising fast, and soon would cover the top of the rock, and high water mark was at least a foot above my head. I buttoned up my coat, for either the coming coolness of the evening, or else my growing apprehensions, had set me trembling and chattering most painfully. I braced my nerves, and set my teeth, and tried to hum "begone dull care," keeping time with my fists upon my thighs. But what music! what melancholy merriment! I started and shuddered at the doleful sound of my own voice. I am not naturally a coward, but I should like to know the man who would not, in such a situation, be alarmed. It is a cruel death to die, to be merely drowned, and to go through the ordinary common-places of suffocation, but to see your death gradually rising to your eyes, to feel the water mounting, inch by inch, upon your shivering sides, and to anticipate the certainly coming, choking struggle for your last breath, when, with the gurgling sound of an