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Tragedy long continued to flourish after Accius, but its vitality was gone. Such men as Pollio, Varius, and Ovid in the Augustan period, and Maternus, Pomponius Secundus, and Lucan in the first century AD, amused themselves by writing tragedies, and even produced some commendable work. Varius, who was the personal friend of Vergil and Horace, was perhaps the most gifted of these. He wrote a tragedy on Thyestes which was presented as part of the public rejoicings after the battle of Actium. Of this play Quintilian said that it would stand comparison with any Greek tragedy. Ovid also wrote a tragedy on Medea, which was highly praised by Roman critics. Maternus wrote tragedies on Medea and Thyestes, as well as prætextæ on Domitius and Cato. Of all these nothing remains but the barest fragments. But it is certain that the efforts of these later tragedians were for the most part of a dilettante sort, and that their plays were purely literary (see, however, the case of Varius), intended for dramatic reading and declamation, rather than for presentation upon the stage.

Of this sort also were the ten tragedies commonly attributed to L. Annæus Seneca, the philosopher, who is better known as the author of numerous philosophical essays. He lived in the time of Nero, and was, indeed, the tutor of that emperor. Of these ten plays, nine are modeled after the Greek, and one, the Octavia, which is undoubtedly not Seneca's, is a prætexta, in which Seneca himself appears.

These plays are of especial interest to us, aside from their intrinsic value, for the triple reason that they are the sole representatives of Roman tragedy preserved entire, that they reflect the literary complexion of the artificial age in which they were produced, and that they had so large an influence in shaping the early English drama. They are, in fact, the stepping-stone between ancient and modern, Greek and English, drama.

As to their style, even a cursory reading reveals their extreme declamatory nature, the delight of the author in the horrible and weird, the pains he has taken to select from the Greek sources the most harrowing of all the tales as the foundation of his tragedies, the boldness with which he has broken over the time-honored rule that deeds of blood should not be done upon the stage, and his fondness for abstruse mythological allusions. Add to these features the dreary prolixity with which the author spoils many of his descriptive passages, protracting them often into veritable catalogues of places and things, also his frequent exaggerations and repetitions, and we have the chief defects of these tragedies.

And yet they have equally marked excellences. They abound in brilliant epigrams, graphic descriptions, touching pathos, magnificent passion, subtile analysis of character and motive. But when all is said, it must be admitted that the plays, faults and virtues included, are highly rhetorical and artificial, such alone as that artificial age would be expected to produce.

Such as they were, and perhaps because they were what they were, the tragedies of Seneca, rather than the Greek plays, were the model for Italian, French, and early English tragedy. The first and obvious reason for this no doubt is the fact that the Middle Age of Europe was an age of Latin rather than of Greek scholarship, so far as popular scholarship was concerned. And this made Seneca rather than Euripides available. But it is also probable that his style and spirit appealed strongly to those later-day imitators. So great, indeed, was the popularity of Seneca's tragedies in the early Elizabethan age, that he might be said to have monopolized the attention of writers of that time. He was a favorite with the schools as a classical text-book, as old Roger Ascham testifies; and his works were translated entire into English then for the first time by five English scholars, and collected into a single volume in 1581 by Thomas Newton, one of the translators.

In addition to the version of 1581, the tragedies of Seneca were again translated into English by Glover in 1761. Since that date no English version was attempted until the present writer a few years ago undertook the task again, and produced a metrical version of three of these plays.

We have selected the tragedy of Medea for presentation to the readers of this volume as an illustration of the Senecan tragedy, and (alas for the fate of so many noble works!) of the entire field of Roman tragedy. It follows Euripides in general development of the plot; but if the reader will take the trouble to compare the two plays, he will find that the imitation is by no means close.

Although the play is confined in time to the final day of catastrophe at Corinth, the background is the whole romantic story of the Argonauts: how Jason and his hero-comrades, at the instigation of Pelias, the usurping king of Thessalian Iolchos, undertook the first voyage in quest of the golden fleece; how after many adventures these first sailors reached the kingdom of Æëtes, who jealously guarded the fleece, since upon its possession depended his own kingship; how the three deadly labors were imposed upon Jason before the fleece could be won; how, smitten by love of him, the beautiful, barbaric Medea, daughter of the king, by the help of her magic, aided Jason in all his labors and accompanied him in his flight; how, to retard her father's pursuit, she slew her brother and scattered his mangled remains in the path as she fled; how again, for love of Jason, she restored his father to youth, and tricked Pelias' own daughters into slaying their aged sire; how, for this act, Medea and her husband were exiled from Thessaly and went and dwelt in Corinth; how, for ten happy years, she lived with her husband and two sons in this alien land, her wild past almost forgotten, her magic untouched. But now Jason has been gradually won away from his wife, and is about to wed Creüsa, the daughter of Creon, king of Corinth. The wedding festivities have already begun, when the play opens and reveals Medea invoking all the powers of heaven and hell in punishment of her false lord.

Into her frenzied and dreadful imprecations breaks the sound of sweet voices from without of a chorus of Corinthian women, chanting the epithalamium for the nuptials of Jason and Creüsa.

Hearing this cruel song in praise of her rival and of her false husband, Medea goes into a wilder passion of rage. Medea's old nurse tries to soothe her mistress and recall her to her right mind by wise saws and prudent philosophy. But the flood of passion will not be checked.

Nurse.

Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confine

To secret woe. The man who heavy blows can bear

In silence, biding still his time with patient soul,

Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;

But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.

Medea.

But small the grief is that can counsel take and hide

Its head; great ills lie not in hiding, but must rush

Abroad and work their will.

Nurse.

O cease this mad complaint,

My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.

Medea.

But Fortune fears the brave, the faint of heart o'erwhelms.

Nurse.

Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.

Medea.

But it must always be that valor finds its place.

Nurse.

No star of hope points out the way from these our woes.

Medea.

The man who hopes for naught at least has naught to fear.

Nurse.

The Colchians are thy foes; thy husband's vows have failed;

Of all thy vast possessions not a jot is left.

Medea. Yet I am left. There's left both sea and land and fire

And sword and gods and hurtling thunderbolts.

Nurse.

The king must be revered.

Medea.

My father was a king.

Nurse.

Dost thou not fear?

Medea.

Not though the earth produced the foe.

Nurse.

Thou'lt perish.

Medea.

So I wish it.

Nurse.

Flee!

Medea.

I'm done with flight.

Why should Medea flee?

Nurse.

Thy children!

Medea.

Whose, thou know'st.

Nurse.

And dost thou still delay?

Medea.

I go, but vengeance first.

Nurse.

Th' avenger will pursue.

Medea.

Perchance I'll stop his course.

Nurse.

Nay, hold thy words and cease thy threats, O foolish one.

Thy temper curb; 'tis well to yield to fate's decrees.

Medea.

Though fate may strip me of my all, myself am left.

But who flings wide the royal palace doors? Behold,

'Tis Creon's self, exalted high in Grecian sway.

[Medea retires to the back of the stage.

Creon.

[As he enters.] Medea, baleful daughter of the Colchian king, Has not yet taken her hateful presence from our realm. On mischief is she bent; well known her treacherous power. For who escapes her? Who may pass his days in peace? This cursed pestilence at once would I have stayed By force of arms: but Jason's prayers prevailed. She still May live, but let her free my borders from the fear Her presence genders, and her safety gain by flight. [He sees Medea approaching.]

But lo, she comes with fierce and threatening mien to seek

An audience with us.

Slaves! defend us from her touch

And pestilential presence! Bid her silence keep,

And learn at length obedience to the king's

Commands.

[To Medea.] Go, speed thy flight, thou thing of evil, fell And monstrous!

Medea.

What the crime, my lord, or what the guilt

That merits exile?

Creon.

Let the guiltless question thus.

Medea.

If now thou judgest, hear me; if thou reign'st, command.

Creon.

The king's command thou must obey, nor question aught.

Medea.

Unrighteous kingdoms never long endure.

Creon.

Go, bear

Thy plaints to Colchis.

Medea.

Yea, but let him take me hence

Who brought me to thy shores.

Creon.

Too late thy prayer, for fixed

Is my decree.

Medea.

Who sits in judgment and denies

His ear to either suitor, though his judgment right

Appear, is still himself unrighteous.

Creon.

Didst thou lend Thine ear to Pelias, ere thou judgedst him to death?— But come, I'll give thee grace to plead thy goodly cause.

Medea.

How hard the task to turn the soul from wrath, when once

To wrath inclined; how 'tis the creed of sceptered kings

To swerve not from the proposed course they once have taken,

Full well I know, for I have tasted royalty.

For, though by present storms of ill I'm overwhelmed,

An exile, suppliant, lone, forsaken, all undone,

I once in happier times a royal princess shone,

And traced my proud descent from heavenly Phoebus' self.

Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine,

Who now must sue.—

O changeful Fortune, thou my throne

Hast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.

Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strew

Their treasures to the winds. Lo this is regal, this The work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo: To succor the afflicted, to provide at need A trusty refuge for the suppliant. This alone I brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown, This very flower of fame—that by my arts I saved The bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the gods. My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bard, Who can the trees in willing bondage draw, and melt The crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' winged sons, And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he Whose glance can pierce the distant view; yea, all the Greeks, Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings, The leader of the leaders: he is mine alone, My labor's recompense. The rest I give to you. Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehearse my crimes. But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crime Of which I stand accused is this—the Argo saved. Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed; Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand: Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fate All Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this thy son-in-law Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there. Nay, nay, let Fortune when she will my doom decree; I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me. But what reward I reap for all my glorious deeds Is in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin, But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see, I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know, When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant, And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency. Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again, O let some nook remote within thy broad domain Be found for me!

Creon claims to have been merciful in having shielded Jason and Medea all these years from the just resentment of the king of Thessaly. Jason's cause would be easy enough to defend, for he has been innocent of guilt; but it is impossible longer to shield Medea, who has committed so many bloody deeds in the past, and is capable of doing the like again.

Creon.

Then go thou hence and purge our kingdom of its stain;

Bear with thee in thy flight thy fatal poisons; free

The state from fear; abiding in some other land,

Outwear the patience of the gods.

Medea.

Thou bidst me flee?

Then give me back my bark in which to flee. Restore

The partner of my flight. Why should I flee alone?

I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st,

Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish me

From Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome;

For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm,

My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain,

And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.

Deep-dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soul

The sin of profit lieth not.

Creon.

Why seek delay

By speech? Too long thou tarriest.

Medea.

I go, but grant

This last request: let not the mother's fall o'erwhelm

her hapless babes.

Creon.

Then go in peace; for I to them

A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.

Medea.

Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,

And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure

From changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flight

A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips

A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.

Creon.

A time

Thou seek'st for treachery.

Medea.

What fraud can be devised

In one short hour?

Creon.

To those on mischief bent, be sure,

The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.

Medea.

Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?

Creon.

Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,

A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.

Medea.

Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,

And I'll depart content.

Creon.

Thy life shall surely pay

The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still

In Corinth.

But the voice of Hymen calls away

To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.

Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.

The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the Argo's voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence, their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years, when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.

Nurse.

My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?

O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.

But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse, looking after her, reflects in deep distress:

As some wild bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire

The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,

And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she

Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,

Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,

With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries

and tears,

And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange

Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath,

Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.—Whither tends

This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?

When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?

No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill

She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well

I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed

Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold,

Her face betrays her madness. O ye gods, may these

Our fears prove vain forebodings!

Our own imaginations and our fears keep pace with those of the devoted nurse, and we listen in fearful silence while Medea, communing with her tortured soul, reveals the depth of suffering and hate into which she has been plunged.

Medea.

For thy hate, poor soul,

Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.

And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?

And shall this day go uneventful by, this day

So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay;

While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall

bear

The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,

And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun

And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole

The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams

Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease

To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage

Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?

What sea-engulfing pool? What burning Ætna placed

On impious Titan's heaving breast? No torrent stream,

Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by

the gale,

Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will

Is set on limitless revenge!

But this wild rage can lead nowhere. She struggles to calm her terrible passion to still more terrible reason and resolve.

Will Jason say

He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?—

True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant

He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear:

He might at least have sought his wife with one last word

Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart,

He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment

Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day

Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.

But time's short space I'll not bewail; though brief in

hours,

In consequence it stretches out eternally.

This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.—

But now I'll go and pray the gods, and move high heaven

But I shall work my will!

As Medea hastens from the scene, Jason himself enters; and now we hear from his own lips the fatal dilemma in which he finds himself. Regard for his marriage vows, love for his children, and fear of death at the hands of Creon—all are at variance and must be faced. It is the usual tragedy of fate.

Jason.

O heartless fate, if frowns or smiles bedeck thy brow!

How often are thy cures far worse than the disease

They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth

I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay

The forfeit; if I shrink from death, my guilty soul

Must perjured be. I fear no power that man can wield,

But in my heart paternal love unmans me quite;

For well I know that in my death my children's fate

Is sealed. O sacred Justice, if in heaven thou dwell'st,

Be witness now that for my children's sake I act.

Nay, sure am I that even she, Medea's self,

Though fierce she is of soul, and brooking no restraint,

Will see her children's good outweighing all her wrongs.

With this good argument my purpose now is fixed,

In humble wise to brave her wrath.

[Re-enter Medea.] But lo! at sight Of me her fury flames anew! Hate, like a shield, She bears, and in her face is pictured all her woe.

But Medea's passion has for the moment spent itself. She is now no sorceress, no mad woman breathing out dreadful threatenings; but only the forsaken wife, indignant, indeed, but pathetic in her appeals for sympathy and help from him for whose sake she had given up all her maiden glory, and broken every tie that held her to the past. Her quiet self-control is in marked contrast to her recent ravings.

Medea.

Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thing

To suffer exile; but the cause of flight is strange;

For with thee I was wont to flee, not from thee. Yes,

I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'st

From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,

My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood

My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?

What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again

Where once I saved the noble kings of Greece and thee,

Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait,

The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me back

To fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I,

For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.

But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee,

But show'st no way or means of flight.

[In bitter sarcasm.] But 'tis enough: The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey. Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all. Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am, With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains; And let me be immured in dungeons black as night: Still will my punishment be less than my offense.— O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull, And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when, Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forth To meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they, The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too, The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard, The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command; My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell, When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire, Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee. In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgot Mine own. And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes, By thine established house, by all the monsters slain For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held To work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven, And sea that witnessed at my wedlock—pity me! Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee: That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribes Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth, And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store I left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire, My reputation—all; and with this dower I came. If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth, Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.

And now again we have a situation which only the quick, sharp flashes, the clash of words like steel on steel, can relieve. Here is no chance for long periods, nor flights of oratory; but sentences as short and sharp as swords, flashes of feeling, stinging epigrams.

Jason.

Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life,

I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.

Medea.

I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see,

A gracious boon!

Jason.

O flee, while still the respite holds.

Provoke him not, for deadly is the wrath of kings.

Medea.

Not so. 'Tis for Creüsa's love thou sayest this;

Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.

Jason.

Dost thou reproach me with a guilty love?

Medea.

Yea, that,

And murder too, and treachery.

Jason.

But name me now,

If so thou canst, the crimes that I have done.

Medea.

Thy crimes—

Whatever I have done.

Jason.

Why then, in truth, thy guilt

Must all be mine, if all thy crimes are mine.

Medea.

They are,

They are all thine: for who by sin advantage gains

Commits the sin. All men proclaim thy wife defiled;

Do thou thyself protect her and condone her sins.

Let her be guiltless in thine eyes who for thy gain

Has sinned.

Jason.

But gifts which sin has brought 'twere shame to take.

Medea.

Why keep'st thou then the gifts which it were shame to take?

Jason.

Nay, curb thy fiery soul! Thy children—for their sake

Be calm.

Medea.

My children! Them I do refuse, reject,

Renounce! Shall then Creüsa brothers bear to these

My children?

Jason.

But the queen can aid thy wretched sons.

Medea.

May that day never dawn, that day of shame and woe,

When in one house are joined the low-born and the high,

The sons of that foul robber Sisyphus, and these

The sons of Phoebus.

Jason.

Wretched one, and wilt thou, then

Involve me also in thy fall? Begone, I pray.

Medea.

The king hath yielded to my prayer.

Jason.

What wouldst thou then?

Medea.

Of thee? I'd have thee dare the law.

Jason.

The royal power

Doth compass me.

Medea.

A greater than the king is here:

Medea. Set us front to front, and let us strive;

And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.

Jason.

Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,

Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.

Medea.

Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.

Jason.

But see

With hostile front Acastus comes, on vengeance bent,

While Creon threatens instant death.

Medea.

Then flee them both.

I ask thee not to draw thy sword against the king,

Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.

Come, flee with me.

Jason.

But what resistance can we make,

If war with double visage rear his horrid front—

If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?

Medea.

Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's self

To lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.

In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.

Jason.

Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.

Medea.

Beware,

Lest not the fear, but lust of power prevail with thee.

Jason.

Too long we strive: have done, lest we suspicion breed.

Medea.

Now Jove, throughout thy heavens let the thunders roll!

Thy mighty arm make bare! Thy darting flames

Of vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmament

With rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,

Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,

That thus whoever falls may perish with the brand

Of guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can take

No erring flight.

Jason.

Recall thee and in calmness speak

With words of peace and reason. Then if any gift

From Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,

Take that as solace of thy flight.

Medea.

My soul doth scorn

The wealth of kings. But let me have my little ones

As comrades of my flight, that in their childish breasts

Their mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.

Jason.

My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.

For these my sons shall never from my arms be reft,

Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,

My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;

And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,

Or light of life.

Medea.

[Aside.] Doth he thus love his sons? 'Tis well; Then is he bound, and in his armored strength this flaw Reveals the place to strike.

Here, apparently, is the first suggestion to Medea of the most terrible part of the revenge which she was to take upon Jason. The obvious revenge upon Creon and his daughter, as well as upon her husband, Medea had already foreshadowed in her opening words; but her deadly passion had not yet been aimed at her children. It is true that twice she had bitterly renounced them, once to the nurse, and again but now to Jason himself, since they were Jason's also, and were likely now to be brothers to the sons of her hated rival; nevertheless her mother-love still is strong. But now, by Jason's unfortunate emphasis upon the love he bears his sons, she sees a chance to obtain that measure of revenge which in her heart she has already resolved to find. And yet this thought is so terrible to her that, even though we see her shape her present course in reference to it, it is evident that she gives it no more than a subconscious existence.

But now she resolves to conceal her purposes of revenge and overcome Jason with guile, and thus addresses him:

At least ere I depart

Grant me this last request: let me once more embrace

My sons. E'en that small boon will comfort my sad heart.

And this my latest prayer to thee: if, in my grief,

My tongue was over-bold, let not my words remain

To rankle in thy heart. Remember happier things

Of me, and let my bitter words be straight forgot.

Jason is completely deceived, as Creon had been, by Medea's seeming humility, as if, indeed, a passionate nature like hers, inflamed by wrongs like hers, could be restrained and tamed by a few calm words of advice! He says: advice! He says:

Not one shall linger in my soul; and curb, I pray,

Thy too impetuous heart, and gently yield to fate.

For resignation ever soothes the woful soul.

[Exit Jason.

As Jason leaves her, calmly satisfied with this disposition of affairs, with no recognition of his wife's great sufferings, the thought of this adds fresh fuel to her passion.

He's gone! And can it be? And shall he thus depart,

Forgetting me and all my service? Must I drop,

Like some discarded toy, out of his faithless heart?

It shall not be. Up then, and summon all thy strength

And all thy skill! And this, the fruit of former crime,

Count nothing criminal that works thy will!

But lo,

We're hedged about; scant room is left for our designs.

Now must the attack be made where least suspicion makes

The least resistance. Now Medea, on! And do,

And dare thine utmost, yea, beyond thy utmost power!

[To the Nurse.] Do thou, my faithful nurse, the comrade of my grief, And all the devious wanderings of my checkered course, Assist me now in these my plans. There is a robe, The glory of our Colchian realm, the precious gift Of Phoebus' self to King Æëtes as a proof Of fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wrought With threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'er With gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head. These treasures let Medea's children bear as gifts To Jason's bride. But first imbue them with the power Of magic, and invoke the aid of Hecate; The woe-producing sacrifices then prepare, And let the sacred flames through all our courts resound.

The chorus, which is supposed to be present throughout the play, an interested though inactive witness of all that passes, has already been seen to be a partisan of Jason, and hostile to Medea. It now sings a choral interlude opening on the text "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," and continuing with a prayer for Jason's safety. It then recounts the individual history of Jason's companions subsequent to the Argonautic expedition, showing how almost all came to an untimely end. These might indeed be said to have deserved their fate, for they volunteered to assist in that first impious voyage in quest of the golden fleece; but Jason should be spared the general doom, for the task had been imposed upon him by his usurping uncle, Pelias.

As the next scene opens, the old nurse voices the feeling that we all have upon the eve of some expected but unknown horror.

My spirit trembles, for I feel the near approach

Of some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,

Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's force

Hath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fit

Of inspiration in her soul, confront the gods,

And force the very heavens to her will. But now,

A monstrous deed of greater moment far than these

Medea is preparing. For, but now, did she

With step of frenzy hurry off until she reached

Her stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her stores

Of magic wonders are revealed; once more she views

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

Unloosing one by one her ministers of ill,

Occult, unspeakable, and wrapt in mystery.

We omit the remainder of the nurse's speech out of regard for Seneca's reputation as an artist, for in a long passage of sixty lines he proceeds to scour heaven, earth, and the waters under the earth, for every form of venomous serpent, noxious herb, and dread, uncanny thing that the mind of man can conceive; and by the time he has his full array of horrors marshaled before us, we have grown so familiar with the gruesome things that we cease to shiver at them. But at last the ingredients for the hell-broth are ready.

These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'er

With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth

She mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart,

A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.

Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use:

The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these,

While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.

Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.

But lo!

Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comes

She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive

rock.

Medea now enters, chanting her incantations. Madness has done fearful work with her in the last few hours. We see at a glance that she has indeed, as the nurse has told us, gone back to

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

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 Creüsa'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 Phaëthon, 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 dénouement.

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. [Enter sons.] 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.

[Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in the opposite direction.]

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!

Chorus.

By what snare taken?

Messenger.

By gifts, the common snare of kings.

Chorus.

What harm could lurk in them?

Messenger.

In equal doubt I stand;

And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,

I scarce can trust their witness.

Chorus.

What the mode of death?

Messenger.

Devouring flames consume the palace at the will

Of her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,

While men do tremble for the very city's doom.

Chorus.

Let water quench the fire.

Messenger.

Nay, here is added wonder:

The copious streams of water feed the deadly flames; And opposition only fans their fiery rage To whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

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!

Medea.

Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled,

I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

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.

Medea.

Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun;

But still how small a portion of thy just revenge

Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love

Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough

That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest

To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.

Away with every thought and fear of God and man;

Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.

Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers;

And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent

Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight

Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they

For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime

Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,

I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe

My powers have ripened.

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?

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 Magæra 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. (The poet thus violates the canons of the classical drama in representing deeds of blood upon the stage.)

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.

[To her other son.] 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.

Medea.

Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,

My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoil

Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour

I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased

At length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!

Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.

Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.

Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitate

Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.

Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled

With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,

Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou

mourn,

For thou hast done it!—At that thought delirious joy

O'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.

And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,

Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performed

If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.

Jason.

[discovering her.] Lo, there she stands upon the lofty battlements! Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared By those devices she herself hath planned.

Medea.

[derisively.] Not so; But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons; Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy bride And father have I done the service due the dead; For in their ruined palace have I buried them. One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall die Before his father's face.—

Jason.

By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,

And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,

I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.

If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I give

To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.

Medea.

'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe the

sword.

Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;

Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.

Jason.

And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.

Medea.

If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,

No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,

The number still is all too small to satisfy

My boundless grief.

Jason.

Then finish what thou hast begun—

I ask no more—and grant at least that no delay

Prolong my helpless agony.

Medea.

Now hasten not,

Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.

This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.

Jason.

O take my life, thou heartless one.

Medea.

Thou bidst me pity—

Well—[She slays the second child]—'Tis done! No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee. Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one. Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled. The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat. Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.

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.

Jason.

[calling after as she vanishes]. Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see: But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no gods can be.