Aeschylus is a profound religious dramatist, Euripides a brilliant, uneven representative of the new spir it which was so uncomfortable in the old forms, and Sophocles was an artist. We all know what an artist is: he is one who makes things which are beautiful or at least pretty, and if he is an artist of the right kind what he makes is good for us. Our public thinks like this, and so did the Greeks-with more excuse. Critics of the last century never ceased thanking Heaven that Sophocles believed in the Gods-their profound satisfaction lives on in the writings of examinees-and, assured that Sophocles was an artist of the right kind, they turned to the grateful and interesting task of examining and admiring his astonishing technique.