meanly clad and with dishevelled hair, followed by a train of Argive maidens. Her history had been a sad one. Years had passed away since that day of horror, when her father had been cut off in his glory—not slain by the sword on the battle-field, but felled by the axe of Ægisthus, "as the woodman fells the oak-tree in the forest." Years had passed away, but each year had only imbittered the resentment of Electra, and turned to gall all the sweetness of her woman's nature. She can neither tear from her heart the remembrance of that deed of blood, nor forgive those who wrought it. It had needed no message from the grave, no spirit returned from limbo, to keep alive this memory. Always before her was the same repulsive contrast which tortured the keener sensibilities of Hamlet,—the cowardly Ægisthus, sitting in the dead man's place, and receiving the caresses of the perjured wife; while the guilty pair had seemed to glory in their shame,—the one pouring libations on the very hearth where the king had fallen, and the other, with an impious and unnatural joy, celebrating each month the day of her husband's murder, as though it were a religious festival, with sacrifices and solemn dances. Meanwhile, the portion of Electra had been mockery and insult; for her proud spirit had scorned such submission as her more facile sister Chrysothemis had been ready to give. She had been a living protest against the sin of Clytemnestra and Ægisthus; her incessant grief had provoked their hatred, and this hatred had found its vent in bitter and continual re-
