Tuileries, and was in the same style of architecture as the rest of the spacious edifice. There were three large gateways, through each of which a view. of streets, or of woods, or of whatever was suitable to the action represented, was displayed this painting was fixed upon a triangular frame, that turned on an axis, like a swivel seal, or ring, so that any one of the three sides might be presented to the spectators; and perhaps the two that were turned away might be covered with other subjects, if it were necessary. If parts of Regent-street, or of Whitehall, or the Mansion House, and the Bank of England, were shown through the openings in the fixed scene, it would be plain that the fable was intended to be referred to London; and it would be removed to Edinburgh, or Paris, if the more striking portions of those cities were thus exhibited. The front of the scene was broken by columns, by bays and promontories in the line of the building, which gave beauty and variety to the façade, and aided the deception produced by the paintings that were seen through the three openings. In the Roman theatres there were commonly two considerable projections, like large bowwindows, or bastions, in the spaces between the apertures; this very uneven line afforded assistance to the plot, in enabling different parties to be on the stage at the same time, without seeing one another. The whole front of the stage was called the scene, or covered building, to distinguish it from the rest of the theatre, which was open to the air, except that a covered portico frequently ran round the semicircular part of the edifice at the back of the highest row of seats, which answered to our galleries, and was occupied, like them, by the gods, who stood in crowds upon the level floor of their celestial abodes.

Immediately in front of the stage, as with us, was the orchestra; but it was of much larger dimensions, not only positively, but in proportion to the theatre. In our playhouses it is exclusively inhabited by fiddles and their fiddlers; the ancients appropriated it to more dignified purposes; for there stood the high altar of Bacchus, richly ornamented and elevated, and around it moved the sacred Chorus to solemn measures, in stately array and in magnificent vestments, with crowns and incense, chanting at intervals their songs, and occupied in their various rites, as we have before mentioned. It is one of the many instances of uninterrupted traditions, that this part of our theatres is still devoted to receive musicians, although, in comparison with their predecessors, they are of an ignoble and degenerate race.

The use of masks was another remarkable peculiarity of the ancient acting. It has been conjectured that the tragic mask was invented to conceal the face of the actor, which, in asmall city like Athens, must have been known to the greater part of the audience, as vulgar in expression; and it sometimes would have brought to mind most unseasonably the remembrance of a life and of habits that would have repelled all sympathy with the character which he was to personate. It would not have been endured that a player should perform the part of a monarch in his ordinary dress, nor that of a hero with his own mean physiognomy. It is probable, also, that the likeness of every hero of tragedy was handed down in statues, medals, and paintings, or even in a series of masks; and that the countenance of Theseus, or of Ajax, was as well known to the spectators as the face of any of their contemporaries. Whenever a living character was introduced by name, as Cleon or Socrates, in the old comedy, we may suppose that the mask was a striking, although not a flattering portrait. We cannot doubt that these masks were made with

great care, and were skilfully painted, and finished with the nicest accuracy; for every art was brought to a focus in the Greek theatres. We must not imagine, like schoolboys, that the tragedies of Sophocles were performed at Athens in such rude masks as are exhibited in our music shops. We have some representations of them in antique sculptures and paintings, with features somewhat distorted, but of exquisite and inimitable beauty.

It is possible that the Chorus was retained, for a long time, through timidity, and a want of faith in the credulity of the audience; it being supposed, in the infancy of the drama, that the action would not seem to be real, unless it were warranted and vouched by the Chorus, the broker and go-between of the passions, which was neither actor nor spectator, but a kind of middle term, by means whereof the conclusion was to be reached. The mask, perhaps, was used through the same fear; and, for the like reason, the unities were commonly observed. Athens was the metropolis and nursing mother of the ancient drama; all the great creative dramatists of the Greeks were born and formed in Attica. We must, however, except the Doric dramas of Epicharmus, which are unhappily lost. Would that we could recover this Doric Muse! To borrow the words of the rare Ben Jonson, "I would endure to hear fifteen sermons a-week for her!" Of the vast stores of dramatic pieces of the Greeks, thirty-three tragedies and a morsel, eleven comedies, and many lovely fragments, have alone escaped. We have not only to regret the absence of many celebrated masterpieces of the dramatic art, but that those which survive are not as well known, and as generally studied, as their transcendent and marvellous merits deserve. The majority of English writers have displayed an ignorance of the nature and design of the Greek Drama so great, and yet so confident, that it could not have been derived from their own negligence alone, but has been borrowed from Voltaire and other French critics. As persons who live in remote villages are somewhat late in receiving the fashions, and we may see in a country church every female of any pretension dressed in the extreme of the last fashion but one; so, from our insular situation, and a certain slowness in accepting innovations, we usually adopt the quackeries of the Continent long after they have been exploded every where, except in the United States of America: for our trusty and well-beloved cousins, the free citizens thereof have the last reversion and remainder. Animal magnetism, for example, and craniology, when they were banished from Paris, sought refuge in the British isles, and found a hospitable welcome; and the barbarous notion, that a knowledge of the ancient languages and literature is not an essential part of a good education, which was prevalent in France at the time when the leading men of that country were as free from ancient as from modern learning, has unhappily found some advocates of late in our own country. After the fall of a dynasty, which was even more sudden, if possible, than its rise, the rude assertion has been acknowledged to be untenable, and all wise men are anxious to repair whatever is defective, and to supply what has been omitted, in classical instruction and institution. This discarded paradox, strange to say, has found some favour in Great Britain. But, as we have no heroes and statesmen chosen from the ranks and the rabble, no waiters and postilions set to govern the world as marshal dukes, with titles taken, like the sees of our Catholic bishops, e partibus infidelium, from whatever place is remote in situation or in sound-from Paphlagonia or Cappadocia, from Taprobane or Monomotapa, from the hither

or nether Bulgaria-to whose glory, ignorance dark and Bootian, and a total blindness, are essential-we cannot believe that such an abominable heresy will take a deep root, or be of lasting duration.

A metaphor misleads the vulgar herd; the phrase, the infancy of art," or of science, casts a shadow over the matter to which it is applied; and many persons suppose, on no better authority than such an expression, that the Greek Drama, having derived its existence from a remote period, is incomplete and unfinished,-whereas it is, in truth, far more perfect than the compositions of any latter peric-l. The remains of the Greek theatre are, perhaps, the most beautiful of all things, even of the literature of

"The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets,

Bless'd in the lovely marriage of pure words."

An enthusiastic admirer has boldly asserted, that Sophocles was the most felicitous of mortals. Euripides provoked Philemon to declare, that “if the dead still have feeling, as some suppose, he would hang himself for the sake of seeing Euripides;" and Aristophanes, by the exquisite beauty of his style, to traduce and ridicule him in the severe and unsparing spirit of envious rivalry; whilst the astonishing astuteness of his dialogue has induced Quintilian to recommend his tragedies to the young orator, as a model of the irresistible in argument and refutation. The subjects of the Greek tragedies are almost always mythological, and unfold portions of the history of the Gods. They have therefore been considered, irrationally enough, as being of an irreligious tendency, and to have been expressly directed against the religion of the state; and the same censure, at least so far as the tendency, has been passed on those Spanish dramas which are founded upon religious stories. It cannot be denied, that a blind reverence is always somewhat diminished by entering into the details of any religion whatever with familiarity and minuteness; for it has been observed, that our conviction of the truth of any opinion is always somewhat lessened, in proportion as our knowledge of the grounds on which it is founded is increased. There is no confidence, in short, so firm and so bold, as the confidence of ignorance. On that account only can the Greek Tragedies be said to be irreverent, and so far as knowledge tends to create doubts, to unsettle early prejudices, and to awaken and foster scepticism; but ignorance is not less an evil, or more tolerable, because such is the constitution of the human mind.

These noble compositions, on the other hand, delight all persons who read them, even if they happen to be prejudiced against them when they first enter on the study. They please different readers for various reasons; but every one finds some singular excellence that is in accordance with his peculiar tastes with his idiosyncrasy of sentiments and opinions.

Modern works of imagination offend the classical scholar by seeking to pamper a vitiated appetite for the intense. The feelings they express are too commonly those of the maniac; and the sentiments are often the extravagant ravings of a bedlamite. These chaste productions, on the contrary, never overstep that modesty which nature enjoins. The language, however overwhelming the situation, however deep the passion, is sober, reasonable, and subdued; and, therefore, exquisitely touching and pathetic. A judicious critic has complained, that too large a portion of the modern drama is occupied by love or gallantry. The ancient theatre was exempt from this

imperfection, and from many others. Dramatic composition is one of the efforts of the human mind that requires the greatest exercise of thought. It is a problem of difficult solution, to draw a character who shall display himself out of his own mouth, and shall convince the audience that he is wise, virtuous, and witty, or foolish and wicked, not because the author, in his own person, or by the narrative of others, asserts that he is such, but from the sentiments the fictitious being himself utters. The extreme brevity with which this task has been executed is only less wonderful than the success of the execution. The average length of a tragedy of Euripides, if we omit the Cyclops and Rhesus, for reasons which it is unnecessary to state, does not exceed 1440 verses, many of which, being written in lyrical measures, are extremely short. Those of Sophocles exceed this standard by about thirty lines; of the seven plays of Eschylus, all, but the Agamennon, which is one of the longest tragedies that remain, as it contains 1695 verses (OEdipus at Coloneus and the Phonissæ having each 1779), fall short of the average of the other two tragedians; they are of nearly the same length-that is, somewhat less than 1100 lines.

The tragedies of Euripides are remarkable for their prologues, which are introductions, or arguments, or an opening of the pleadings, spoken by the principal character, or at least by a personage of some importance in the piece. They have been humorously compared to the labels in the mouths of the figures in old pictures. They are interesting as remains of the original and pristine tragedy, which, as we have before stated, consisted of narratives introduced amongst the ceremonies of the Chorus; and they are of transcendent and bewitching beauty. The longest we have contains eighty-five verses; the average length does not exceed sixty. Sophocles has, for the most part, omitted this elegant introduction; but that the omission was not the effect of want or skill, but through choice, is demonstrated by the exquisite prologue of forty-eight verses that ushers in the dramatic history of the apotheosis of Hercules, which he has executed in the Trachiniæ, with a glory and majesty worthy of himself and his hero. Eschylus, in the specimens of his works that are now in existence, seems to be equally divided between the admission and the exclusion of a prologue. The long speeches of the Messengers, who, at the conclusion of a tragedy, frequently relate the catastrophe of the piece, are a distinguishing feature of the Greek theatre, and a relic of the old theatrical praxis, which operated entirely by narration, in the presence, and with the sanction and warranty, of the Chorus. Important news was frequently brought very suddenly, and related in public in the Grecian states, by messengers who had been eye-witnesses of the events they told. The states were of small size, and the whole of Greece being of moderate dimensions, the consequent vicinity of the scenes in which the actions had been performed, would facilitate the conveyance of intelligence in this simple and natural manner. As most of the governments were of a very popular form, concealment was impracticable and unnecessary. There were no state secrets; and victories and defeats were proclaimed by fugitives, or couriers, to all the citizens in the market-place. The appearance of the exo on the stage would call to mind, therefore, the ordinary occurrences of real life. A modern messenger, bearing tidings of importance, would seem only frigid imitation of the ancient tragedians. A writer, who was determined to purchase fidelity of costume and manners at

the expense of dignity, ought to announce his catastrophe by the arrival of the wet newspaper-by a paragraph in the fourth edition of the Globe or the Courier, beginning with the words "Extraordinary Gazette.

The division of a play into acts was adopted partly for the sake of giving a respite to the actors, and partly, perhaps, when it was supposed that the imagination of the spectators was more difficult and fastidious than experience has proved it to be, to allow sufficient time for the events to take place in the intervals, which were afterwards related on the stage. Critics are not agreed as to the period when this division was introduced. If the latter reason had any influence, it is probable it was somewhat early; for scruples as to the power of imagination of the spectators seem to betray the simplicity of timid and infant art.

We have been detained so long by the Greek tragedians, that we must withhold whatever remarks we had intended on a subject of great curiosity and interest-we mean the Old Comedy, which is as little understood as the origin and design of the ancient Tragedy. We are happy, however, in being able to refer those, who desire to elevate their understandings above the vulgar level, as to this remarkable phenomenon of human ingenuity, to a guide so learned and philosophical as Augustus Schlegel. Persons who are not acquainted with the language of the original, will read with much advantage Mr. Black's translation, which appeared in 1815, in 2 vols. 8vo, entitled, "A Course of Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, by A. W. Schlegel." A French version was published at Paris the year before; and although it was in part revised by the author himself, the asperity against the French being somewhat softened, it certainly conveys his ideas less faithfully than the English, either because there is a certain repugnance to originality of thought in the French idiom, or because there is much less affinity between that language and the German. The acute and sensible remarks, and great learning of the lecturer, more than compensate for much mysticism, and some painful and violent struggles after sublimity and eloquence. The high tone of morality is very admirable and exemplaryespecially on one point, where the unsullied purity of Schlegel, calm and heavenly as it is, is rather suited to a nunnery than to the world in general; until men and women shall consent to suffer the human race to die out.

The Old Comedy was a composition perfectly comical; because every thing was represented in a ridiculous light. It was not, however, as is commonly imagined, a rude commencement of the Art, but was in truth far more perfect than the New Comedy, which was a departure from its inherent character, wanting unity of design, and being, in truth, a mongrel or hybrid variety, that was strictly neither comedy nor tragedy. Modern critics have taken erroneous views of this subject, which may, however, be all traced to the fountain-head-the comparison of Aristophanes and Menander by Plutarch. The Old Comedy was annihilated by the force of tyranny for it was under the same violent usurpation of power that the spirited censure of Aristophanes was reduced to silence, and the graver animadversions of the incorruptible Socrates punished with death. future combats of these two great champions, who had exchanged many a hard blow in their verbal sparring (to compare for once the intellectual with the brutal), were intercepted and stopped for ever by the interference of the police! The New Comedy, which we now see only (except a few fragments) in the Latin translations, derived its chief merit from the truth of

The