there must be something fundamentally wrong. It should not be possible, as it was not long ago (and notwithstanding the assurance of Mr Way the thing is conceivable still), for an English poet, bound to the poets of Greece by mutual obligations, to pronounce Euripides no peer of his peers, a dramatist not to be ranked as the equal of those with whom he was actually ranked by the judgment of Athens and all the ancient world, without perceiving that he condemns, not the object of his criticism, but simply his own comprehension. Even to apologize for Euripides, or to patronize him, is to show that we mistake our position. Until we can admire him heartily and wholly, the "humble effort" recommended by Mr Way is our only rational course.
It is indeed not a bad attitude to be taken by the student in all cases; and for myself at any rate I am ready to adopt it in dealing with the criticism of Mr Swinburne. Making a humble effort, and with no affected humility, to understand the grounds of his judgment, I have found instruction in a term of contempt, which, after his trenchant manner, he has thrown out by way of summary. Euripides, he has told us, was a 'botcher'. Deserved or not by the poet, the phrase is apt enough to indicate the nature of modern objections. It appropriately describes the sort of dissatisfaction, which we feel after reading, with the modern expositions, some of Euripides' best known and best appreciated works. There is plenty of excellent material; single scenes, or it may be all the scenes, are wrought with undeniable and astonishing power. The murmurs begin when we contemplate the work as a whole: and then the 'botcher' can no longer be kept out of our minds. After all, it would seem, the thing is a patch-work. The excellences of the parts do not seem to subserve any common design, nay, even are mutually repugnant. The author is doubtless a master of his tools, but still, to speak familiarly, he 'does not know what he is driving at'. Or at all events we do not know, and are left with a sense of puzzle, which is of all things the most fatal to the pleasures of art. If, as I have heard said with too much vigour but also too much truth, 'Euripides has ceased to count', here, where Mr Swinburne places it, is the cause or a frequent cause of the common disappointment. And we may illustrate it by the case of the Alcestis.
