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68 his genius than the impersonation of the vehement character and furious passion of the great Colchian princess. This is the figure which has also fascinated the great majority of later critics, who like every public seem to miss finer points, and appreciate the strong outlines of ungovernable passion. We do not know whether the Trachiniæ of Sophocles was an earlier or a later play, but it affords so curious and interesting a contrast to the Medea, that I venture to suppose Sophocles consciously painted a more natural and womanly picture of the sorrows of a deserted wife, who, without the power or wickedness of Medea, still destroys her deceiver, and brings ruin upon herself, in spite of her patience and long-suffering. The external resemblance of the two plays, the foreign residence of both heroines, the pretended contentment of both in order to attain their ends, the poisoned robe of both, is very striking. Yet the Trachiniæ, in my opinion a finer play, with far more interest in the characters, has held no place in public favour beside the stronger and more violent Medea. In every respect her part is a great acting part, from her wild exclamations behind the scenes in the beginning all through her pleading with Jason, her affected calmness, up to her wild burst of joy when she has secured the help of Ægeus.

But had even all these features been commonplace, there was one scene sufficient not only to save, but to immortalise, the play. The mental conflict between the mother's affection for her children and her stern resolve to sacrifice them as a revenge upon her husband—this scene (vv. 1021–1080)—in which fury and compassion alternate, and tears of tenderness dim the eyes flashing with ungovernable rage—has laid hold of the world as one of the great portraits of human nature which never can grow old. It is remarkable that the