subservient, in one way or another, to the chief action of the piece. But in the "Prometheus" unity is directly secured by having only one person of predominant influence. There is not much elaborate art, certainly, in this course, nor is a result so attained ever quite as striking as that of the more complicated process, when that is used with great power and is completely successful; but such success is rare indeed. It is too often the case that the surrounding interests, instead of contributing their several currents to the main stream, are only so many drains detracting from it. And so it is that few plays of those written with most elaborate art produce anything like the imposing sense of unity which we gain from the "Prometheus."
In its plot, too, this play is exceedingly simple. If we consider the series of steps by which the catastrophe is brought about in a modern play, the great number of events which take place between the rising of the curtain and its fall, how many people pass through vicissitudes of hope and despair, are married and killed, what a long time often elapses, long enough even for changes to appear in the character of the persons;—if we consider this complexity, and then turn to the plot of the "Prometheus," we shall feel that we are dealing with quite a different kind of composition.
Prometheus is nailed to a rock, and refuses even under this torture to yield to the will of Jove. That is all. Other persons come and speak to him, urge or command him to relent, or threaten him with the result, but only to be repelled in turn. The attitude
