and outcast of his age, belonging as much to an Athens declining and inwardly hopeless, as did Aeschylus (at first) to Athens in her early glory.  He was not so much bothered (like Sophocles) with no message, as bothered with the fact that he had no clear and saving message.  His realism—­for compared with the other two, he was a sort of realist—­was the child of his despair; and his despair, of the atmosphere of his age.

He was, or had been, in close touch with Socrates (you might expect it); lived a recluse somewhat, taking no part in affairs; married twice, unfortunately both times; and his family troubles were among the points on which gentlemanly Athens sneered at him.  A lovely lyricist, a restless thinker; tender-hearted; sublime in pity of all things weak and helpless and defeated:—­women especially, and conquered nations.  Prof.  Murray says: 

“In the last plays dying Athens is not mentioned, but her death-struggle and her sins are constantly haunting us; the Joy of battle is mostly gone; the horror of war is left.  Well might old Aeschylus pray, ‘God grant that I may sack no city!’ if the reality of conquest is what it appears in the last plays of Euripides.  The conquerors there are as miserable as the conquered; only more cunning, and perhaps more wicked.”

He died the year before Aegospotami, at the court of Archelaus of Macedon.  One is glad to think he found peace and honor at last.  Athens heard with a laugh that some courtier there had insulted him; and with astonishment that the good barbarous Archelaus had handed said courtier over to Euripides to be scourged for his freshness.  I don’t imagine that Euripides scourged him though-to amount to anything.

VI.  SOCRATES AND PLATO

By this time you should have seen, rather than any picture of Greece and Athens in their heyday, an indication of certain universal historical laws.  As thus (to go back a little):  an influx of the Spirit is approaching, and a cycle of high activities is about to begin.  A great war has cleared off what karmic weight has been hanging over Athens;—­Xerxes, you will remember, burnt the town.  Hence there is a clearness in the inner atmosphere; through which a great spiritual voice may, and does, speak a great spiritual message.  But human activities proceed, ever increasing their momentum, until the atmosphere is no longer clear, but heavy with the effluvia of by no means righteous thought and action.  The Spirit is no more visibly present, but must manifest if at all through a thicker medium; and who speaks now, speaks as artist only,—­not as poet—­or artist-prophet.  Time goes on, and the inner air grows still thicker; till men live in a cloud, through which truths are hardly to be seen.  Then those who search for the light are apt to cry out in despair; they become realists struggling to break the terrible molds of thought:—­and if you can hear the Spiritual in them at all, it is not in a positive message they have for men, but in the greatness of their heart and compassion.  They do not build; they seek only to destroy.  There seems nothing else for them to do.