admiration and compassion, and at another, call upon the people to notice the meek courage of the sufferer, and to behold a just man made perfect.

Now, if we substitute Hercules, Theseus, or Agamemnon, for Thomas à Becket, we have here the original form of the Greek tragedy; or, as it was first performed on the feasts of Bacchus, the subject was generally Bacchic; and we may suppose that the mythic tale was related by the god himself, by Semele or Ariadne, by Pentheus or Agave, or by some other Dionysiacal character. The drama was at first all prologue; it was a mere narration; and was not therefore dramatic, except so far as the intervention of the Chorus made it such, who, whilst they burned incense upon the altar, and poured out libations and performed the other rites, sometimes addressed themselves to the actor in terms of sympathy, and sometimes demanded the attention of the audience.

The number of actors was increased by degrees, and the place of narration was supplied by dialogue-spirited, passionate, disputatious dialogue -which superseded it in great measure in the Greek tragedy, and in that of Rome, France, and Italy; almost entirely in the new comedy, and in the entire drama of England, Spain, and Germany-a larger portion of it, however, being retained in the Greek tragedy than in any other, either through the force of custom, or for the sake of contrast, in which the Greeks delighted, and to set off the dialogue.

As a part of the drama, the Chorus was at first an accidental ingredient; for we have seen that the dialogue was gradually superinduced and added to it, and invented in connection with it; but it was long continued as an essential part, through reflection and experience of its advantages, and in obedience to the dictates of true genius and good taste. The Chorus may truly be said constantly to vibrate, in the ancient tragedy, between the audience and the persons represented. Sometimes it more nearly approaches the spectators, and seems to form a portion of them-which was perhaps the more ancient practice: sometimes inclines to the performers, and takes a decided part with them-and this is the more modern method; for in modern plays, which have been intended as imitations of the ancient models, the chorus has uniformly taken its place actually upon the stage. In the ancient theatre, it occupied an intermediate position; and as it often changed its place, it most probably approached, or receded from, the stage or the audience, whenever it was about to throw its weight into the one scale or the other.

The union of the Chorus with the spectators was, in fact, a kind of treachery, although an innocent one, and it was doubtless very efficacious in deceiving; for, to be thoroughly deceived, it is necessary to be betrayed also. The confederate of a conjuror affords a homely instance, but a plain and familiar one; he takes his seat amongst the company, and whilst he seems to share in their wonder, and even affects to participate in their vigilance, he effectually advances the designs of his principal, and is, indeed, essential to their success. He, to be sure, seeks to cheat us only into a childish wonder, whilst the Chorus deludes us into a close sympathy with the woes of Electra, with the terrors and despair of Edipus. The end is more noble, but the means employed are nearly the same. It is manifest how much passions may be inflamed, and how soon the grand foe to passion, reason, may be lulled asleep, by what is familiarly called backing: for when any one is deeply engaged in a game, or is angry, and about to

fight, a single word of encouragement from the most obscure and insignificant of the bystanders, if uttered in season, increases the desire of success in the one case, and of revenge in the other, even in the bosom of a person of superior constancy; and but too often succeeds in banishing prudence, when it was not entirely dislodged, and in turning the trembling scales to the evil part. In more important contests, many a brave fellow, whose courage had begun to flag, and his spirits to droop, and who was about to sink beneath the overpowering might of his enemies, has been animated to fresh exertions, and often to victory, by the cheering voice, or an encouraging sign, a whisper, or look from his immediate commander. The sudden appearance of the general has commonly an electrical effect; and the instances are innumerable, in which it has converted, as if by magic, rout and disastrous defeat into complete and triumphant success. So, in the war of words a species of warfare that seems harmless, but is frequently more destructive than that of the sword-a timid disputant has often been impelled, by a slight encouragement artfully thrown in at the critical moment, whether in kindness or in malice, to rush headlong into perils not less than those of the field, and to gather laurels at least as glorious as those won by the general. Many animals are exceedingly sensible of the power of backing. The courage and conquests of dogs and cocks, as is well known, are greatly aided by it; much of merit of the skilful huntsman consists in the degree of encouragement he is able to give to his hounds; and much of the art of the jockey is judiciously exciting and animating, at proper periods, the generous emulation of his horse. We may easily believe, therefore, that the effect of the Chorus in assisting the actors was very great; and that it was not the least powerful, when the words that were uttered appear, at first, to have an opposite tendency. When the substance of them is, "Moderate your grief! such is the course of events," the grand point, that real sorrows are beheld, and are therefore deserving of pity, but to a reasonable extent, is enforced by implication; a mode of proof which least excites suspicion, and in the due use of which the greatest art of the orator is displayed. The Chorus, was, perhaps, but the frame of the picture; but whoever has seen painting without its frame, knows how much of the effect is lost when that is removed. It was like the side scenes of our theatres, which add much to the deception caused by the back scene. The Music of the choral songs added greatly to the attractions of the theatre: but, as the materials are wanting, it is impossible for us to have any idea of it. Our modern musicians, we suspect, could hardly compose an air that would carry a strophe of Pindar, or of a tragedy. They never attempt a longer piece than a short stanza; and as soon as they have made a sensible melody, they seem to be ashamed, or afraid, of their own creation, and finish it as hastily as possible. The art of suspending and prolonging a melody for a longer time, and then bringing it gracefully and agreeably to a close, seems to be lost. Harmony, at which the composers of the present day chiefly aim, although they strive hard to make it appear to be profound and difficult, is comparatively easy, as those who best understand the subject affirm, and demands less genius and originality than melody. The music that is heard in the Greek Church, as every person has experienced who has ever entered one, is very peculiar, and by no means unpleasant, even to ears that are quite unaccustomed to it. If an experienced musician, and a man of taste, were to investigate the more ancient musical services of that church, he might possibly find the clue to Greek

music, and greatly elevate and improve the art, especially in expression, and so far as it is connected with poetry. It is said that important and valuable vestiges of the ancient Dancing, which was also intimately blended with the choral parts of tragedy, as well as the music, may still be found in the East, and in some parts of the kingdom of Naples.

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Of the ancient sacred rites, many were performed by females only; we consequently often find a chorus of women in the Greek Drama. Euripides, although he is commonly reported to have been an enemy of the fair sex, seems to have preferred them to men in the composition of a chorus; for of his twenty tragedies, fifteen are furnished in this manner, and of the remaining five, one is a satiric piece, and the chorus, of course, consists of satyrs. In two only of the seven tragedies of Sophocles, on the contrary, is there a chorus of women whilst the like number of plays by Eschylus furnish three with a chorus of women, and two more of females, but of a supernatural order: in one, the Furies; in the other, the sea-nymphs, the daughters of Oceanus. It would be difficult to select amongst ourselves a class of persons fit to fill with propriety the part, and to perform the offices, of the ancient Chorus, if we were inclined, by way of experiment, to attempt to revive the institution. We have no sympathy in this land with monks and nuns; and, like a chorus of wasps, they could only be introduced into a comedy composed in imitation of Aristophanes. They might, however, be used with advantage in countries where they are still reverenced; and if the principal character rushed suddenly into their church during the performance of solemn rites, to avail himself of the privilege of sanctuary, fresh from some murder, and pursued, not like Orestes by the Furies, but by the kindred of the slain eager for revenge, the union of the dramatic action with the chorus would not want probability, and the whole might be worked up into one consistent fable. The story of Francis the First of France, who, after his defeat at Pavia, came unexpectedly into the beautiful church of the Carthusians, near that city, while the fathers were engaged in the daily service, to seek an asylum in that sacred place, affords an example, from real history, of a hero coming in contact with a suitable chorus.

The expense of the chorus at Athens was very considerable; but it was furnished by private persons, and was one of the burdens, or liturgies, as they were called, which were imposed by law on the rich. The heavy charge was, perhaps, one reason why it was at last entirely laid aside. The dialogue, which had at first been introduced as a trifling addition, and an incident only, gradually increased in importance, and gained upon the original groundwork and foundation, which it at last supplanted.

The climate of Athens being one of the finest and most agreeable in the world, the Athenians passed the greatest part of their time in the open air; and their theatres, like those in the rest of Greece and in ancient Rome, had no other covering than the sky. Their structure accordingly differed greatly from that of a modern playhouse, and the representation in many respects was executed in a different manner. But we will mention those peculiarities only which are necessary to render our observations intelligible. The ancient theatres, in the first place, were on a much larger scale than any that have been constructed in later days. It would have been impossible, by reason of the magnitude of the edifice, and consequently of the stage, to have changed the scenes in the same manner as in our smaller buildings. The scene, as it was called, was a permanent structure, and resembled the front of Somerset House, of the Horse Guards, or the

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 a small 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 infide – lium, from whatever place is remote in situation or in sound-from Paphlagonia or Cappadocia, from Taprobane or Monomotapa, from the hither