tyrannous ruin. But it expresses itself so ill, shatters our hearing so
unmercifully with its alliterative mouthing, and hurls us down so
steeply with its low comedy, that we refuse to give its characters the
grandeur or excellence claimed for them by the author. _Gorboduc_ alone
presents tragedy unspoiled by extraneous additions. In its triple
catastrophe of princes, crown and realm we perceive the awful figure of
the Tragic Muse and shrink back in reverent fear of what more may lie
hid from us in the folds of her black robe. Darker, much darker and more
terrible things have come since from that gloomy spirit. What has been
written here should not be misinterpreted as an exaggerated appreciation
of _Gorboduc_. We wish only to insist that this play did give to English
drama for the first time (if we exclude translations) an example,
however weak in execution, of pure tragedy; and was able to do so
largely, if not entirely, by reason of its reversion to classical
principles and devices.

We have insisted on the difference between Tragedy and Pathos, and
criticized the weakening effect of the latter upon the former. To escape
the penalty that awaits general criticism we may add here that Tragedy
is never greater than when her handmaid is ready to do her _modest_
service. Sophocles puts into the mouth of Oedipus, at the moment of his
departure into blind and desolate exile, tender injunctions regarding
the care of his young daughters:

But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn,
Who never had a meal apart from mine,
But ever shared my table, yea, for them
Take heedful care; and grant me, though but once,
Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel,
Thou noble heart! the forms I love so well,