rary awnings. When showers came on, they had a double portico behind the scenes, to which they could retire. That Eumenic portico, as it was called, had an open walk in the midst of it, embellished with trees or shrubbery, and was the rehearsal-ground of the chorus. The day-light and open air, instead of our covered and candle-light system of acting, were indispensable for exhibitions intended to animate a whole people.

As only the scantiest vestiges of that mighty theatre remain, the moderns have been obliged to compile their conceptions of it chiefly from Vitruvius and Julius Pollux, and from the traces of other old theatres which are supposed to have been built upon the same model. Among the works on this subject, I am not aware that Mr. Genelli's has been surpassed by any other in elaborate research or in knowledge of architecture. I quote his name, however, wishing only to refer generally to his authority, and not intending to descend minutely into his architectural disquisitions.

In sketching my conception of the Greek theatre, I shall begin with its highest ground, or that which was farthest from the stage. The entire outline of the building, as it lay on the hollow of a hill, and on a portion of the plain ground below, must have been that of a semicircle with its arch upwards, joined to a pretty broad parallelogram at its basis. Between the apex of the semicircle and the rocks of the Acropolis above it, it is scarcely conceivable but that some communication was opened; yet it must have been very narrow, in order to prevent the escape of sound from below. The main entrances to the theatre were at the opposite ends of the parallelogram below the spectators' semicircle, or at the right and left extremities of the Dromos, or course, which ran in front of the stage and its flanking walls. The spectators' or upper part of the theatre was inclosed by a massive semicircular wall, and a portico within it, which served as a station for the servants attending their masters to the play, and also as another lounging-place for the spectators, independent of the garden portico behind the stage buildings, which has been already mentioned. Inside of that wall and portico the benches descended (for we suppose ourselves looking down upon the stage) in concentric semicircles, which diminished as they approached and embraced the protruding crescent of the orchestra. The curvature of the seat-rows thus inclined the faces of all the spectators towards the centre of the building, so that the terminating seats on the right and left were duly opposite to each other, like those of our boxes nearest the stage. The entire amphitheatre of seats was divided into belts or stripes by passages sweeping round them in profile, and again into wedge-like masses by flights of steps that radiated upwards from the lowest to the highest benches. Twelve feet lower than the lowest benches, yet still projecting into their convexity, came the crescent of the flat orchestra, which was never occupied by any spectators. In the middle of the basis-line of that orchestral crescent was the Thymele, a slight square elevation with steps, and a platform, which was the rallying point of the chorus. Around this thymele the dances of the chorus described a small circle, the one half of which was within the orchestral crescent towards the spectators, the other behind the thymele, and stretching nearly to the front stage. A part of the orchestra-ground therefore entered into the dromos. After inclosing the spectators and the interior orchestral crescent in one vast semicircle, the walls of the theatre ceased to describe a curve,

and ran on straight to join the right and left extremities of the Paraskenia, or flanking buildings of the stage; of course they thus formed the two ends of the Dromos, and the continuity of their masonry was interrupted only by the two grand and opposite entrances to the theatre. Those entrances, it is clear from Vitruvius, were covered above. The stage ground, with its flanks, or Paraskenia, formed a line as broad as the amphitheatre of spectators; but the stage itself was a trifle narrower than the orchestra, to which it was duly opposite. The level of the stage was the same as that of the lowest benches, consequently as many feet higher than the orchestra; but the whole wall of the stage ground rose to the same height as the wall on the outside of the highest benches. To return to the stage, it was connected with the orchestra by stairs; for though the choral and stage performers had a generally distinct locality, it is evident that there was a connexion in acting between the orchestra and the stage. The stage itself was twofold. One stage, called the Logeion, projected beyond the paraskenia, and, being meant merely for declamation, was constructed of wood, the better to reverberate the voice. Behind it, there was a chasm for holding the roll of the curtain; for that disguise, though it was seldom used, was drawn upwards by the Greeks, and not downwards, as by us. Immediately behind the logeion, lay the Proskenion, or proper stage, which, having often heavy plastic scenery to support, was made of stone. From the building behind, there were three entrances to the stage, and the rank of the characters was marked by the door from which they entered: the central and most superb one being allotted to royalty. A hall in the first floor of the stage-house contained the actors, whilst they stood ready to enter on their parts, and their dressing-rooms lay at its extremities. The back of the stage, as has been just mentioned, was not a mere wall, but a house of considerable height; and in like manner, flanks were buildings of several stories, in the apartments of which, nearest to the stage, were kept the machines for moving its scenery. But, as the building behind was insufficient of itself to indicate the locality of the piece, there was a line of decorations in front of it, which properly constituted the scene. Those decorations were either plastic imitations of objects, chiefly in wood, or paintings on canvass and boards. The under decorations were plastic, the upper were flat pictures. The scenery, both on the sides and in the middle, was shifted by machines, which are minutely discussed by Genelli, but which it would be foreign to my purpose to describe. In general the Greek plays themselves show that there could not have been many changes of scene, and that the curtain was seldom necessary. But from the known fact, that the Greeks understood perspective, and from their anxiety to impress the senses, we may believe that the scenic effect of their stage was highly imposing. If Genelli be right, they spared not even the introduction of natural trees to adorn the landscape of Edipus Coloneus.

its

Almost every device which is known to the modern stage, was practised by the Greeks; and the dimensions, at least, of their theatres were favourable to illusion. Their Theologeion, or place of the conference of the gods, must have been an occasional scaffold, issuing from near the top of the stage-building, and surrounded with a picture of clouds. Infernal spirits and phantoms ascended from the Charonic steps at the extremity of the orchestra furthest from the stage, and beneath the lowest seats of the spectators. By our sceptical imaginations, the impressions made on a superstitious people by such representations, can be but

faintly estimated; yet even a modern fancy must be torpid, that, in reading Eschylus, is not electrified by the ghost of Clytemnestra rushing in to awaken the Eumenides; and the grandeur of terror in spectral agency was certainly never made more perfect, than where that poet invokes "the slumbering Furies, and the sleepless dead."

The audience themselves must have formed no unimposing appearance. Of the places for myriads, the foremost belonged to the archons, the senate, the generals, and the high-priesthood of the state. Strangers were admitted during one of the festivals, and had their allotted seats. The knights had their station apart; and all the free citizens arranged themselves according to their tribes. The place for the youth was called the Ephobikon; and the women had distinct seats, though opinion, more than law, seems to have kept the more respectable class of them from the theatre.

I shall proceed in a subsequent number, to the consideration of the Greek plays themselves. For the dryness of the above details I have no apology to make, but their important connexion with the more animating subject that is to come.

THE FLORENTINE PARTY:-A DRAMATIC SCENE. SCENE. The upper part of a meadow, near Florence. It runs sloping down to a river, and is sheltered at the top by a small wood of olives and chesnut-trees, and ornamented in various ways. Fiesole is in the distance.

[PAMPHILUS, PHILOSTRATUS, DIONEUS; NEIPHILA (as Queen), PAMPINEA, FIAMETTA, EMILIA, PHILAMENA, ELISSA and LAURETTA,-entering as from behind the wood.]

Neiph.

COME on, come on!-A little further on,

And we shall reach a place where we may pause.

It is a meadow full of the early spring:
Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind,
And never-ending odorous lemon-trees;

Wild flowers in blossom, and sweet citron buds,
And princely cedars; and the linden boughs
Make arched walks for love to whisper in.
If you be tired, lie down, and you shall hear
A river, which doth kiss irregular banks,
Enchant your senses with a sleepy tune.
If not, and merry blood doth stir your veins,
The place hath still a fair and pleasant aspect:
For in the 'midst of this green meadow springs
A fountain of white marble, o'er whose sides
Run stories, graven by some cunning hand,
Of pastoral life, and tipsy revelry.

There will we, 'midst delicious cates, and wines
Sparkling and amorous, and sweet instruments,
Sing gentle mischief as the sun goes down.-
Quick! but a few steps more-'round by this copse
Of olives and young chesnuts (to whose arms
The vines seem clinging like so many brides)

And you will reach 't-Ha!-Stay!-Look! here it is.
Philost. (rushing forward) Ha, ha!

Dion.

Ha, ha!

Fiamet. Ha, ha! Ha, ha!-Look! how Philostratus
Buries his forehead in the fresh green grass.
Pamphilus. Hail, vernal spot!-We bear to thy embrace
Pleasures that ask for calm: Love; and Delight;
Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells;

Smiles without treach'ry; words all soft and true;

Philost.

Music like morning, fresh and full of youth;
And all else that belongs to gentleness.
Come!-Sit by me!

Dion.
Neiph.
Dion.

Sit!

Sit all!

Thus, in a circle.

Neiph.
Philost.

So, that is well. Now, where is Tindaro?
Ho, Tindaro, our servant!

Here, fellow Tindaro!
Tindaro. (entering) Call?' marry!

Philost.

Tindaro.

Laggard knave!
The queen doth call thee.
Had she borne-

Dost dare affirm she cannot bear?

How? How, bold knave?

Not I.

Not I, by 'r lady! She can bear, no doubt ;-
Is fruitful as a vineyard; that's past doubt.

But, signor, I have borne on these poor shoulders,

Two trunks-look! look!-cramm'd full of wines and dainties-
Two lutes; a viol; besides some ten-

Tush! Tush!

On Corvino's back;

Dion.

Neiph.
Philost.
Dion.

Fiam.

And Stephano doth bear the boards for chess;
And Grasso hath the music.

(Servants enter, laden.)

Place all here.

Thus, in a circle. Now, awake the wines!
And spread these cloths upon the level ground.
Ho! there-take heed! thou wilt unstring my lute.
Now, where's the viol di gamba? Place it here.
So, get ye gone unto yon chesnut-tree,

And share your wine in honesty. Away! (Servants exeunt.)
-Here will we rest, with all our court about us.
Lauretta and Elissa, come this way.

Stay, Fiametta.

With Pampinea?-Well. Pamphilus. Here let us rest, tender Emilia,

Dion.

Fiam.

Dion.

Fiam.
Dion.

And on this grassy hillock crown'd with flowers,
Place thy white arm. Now let the violets gaze
Their fill and drink the blue light from thine eyes!
Now let the thievish winds their sweet wealth steal
From the dark riches of thy hair. Look up!
Fair Fiametta, dost thou hear him talk?
He sings, methinks. Or, is 't his voice is sweet?
'Tis sugar'd o'er, with flattery.-Now, for me-
The nightingales which haunt about these woods
Grow hoarse, methinks.

How so?

(aside.)

They lose their music

(Else say their skill) before your honied words.
Hush! what's a rose? I'll crush these gaudy leaves.
How coarse their crimson is beside thine own!
Had I but lilies, I would burn them straight,

As a white peace-offering to thee.-Come! wilt love me?

Pampinea. He is a mockbird, and but imitates
The poetry he hears in falser prose.
Turn him to me, and leave him.

Fiam.

Dion.

Neiph.

I will medicine 't;-
Not as men steal the poisonous juice from serpents.
I'll let him talk, till his last drop of danger
Be spent, and he is harmless. Look upon me!
What! wilt thou love me?

Ay; by foaming Venus!
By all these clinging, creeping, curling vines!
By Love!-I swear it. As the bee doth gather
Wealth from the rose's lip, I'll steal from thine.
You sing too much in pairs. Break up! break up!
And in the place of tender falsehoods tell us-

Laur. Elissa. Ha, ha! Ha, ha!

Neiph.

Laur.

Neiph.

Dion.

Neiph.
Philost.

Fiam.
Dion.

Philost.

Laur.
Philost.

Dion.
Philost.

Dion.
Fiam.

Philost.

Dion.

Philost.

What's that which moves your mirth ?
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! 'Tis an amorous story
Philostratus has read us out of book.
We live all here in honest fellowship.
He who is worth a jest or owns a song
Holds it in trust for this community.
Ay, no close purses, sir; no hoards of words;
No merry tales; no serious; no dull songs,
Learn'd of the cuckoo underneath a pine,
And buzz'd in private to a craz'd guitar.
All is our own. So, speak, Philostratus!
Speak, without more ado.

I

I never tried to tell a tale till now.

? By my soul,

I cannot tell it-nay-if you will have

A maudlin story, why prepare your eyes;
We'll have salt tears enow. Once on a time-
Out on thee. That's the schoolboy's stale beginning.
I've heard it fifteen hundred times and more.
Beggars unfold such 'neath our valets' windows
At a penny apiece, and they account it dear.
I knew how it would be. So, come! I'll drink
A bumper of Greek wine and hold my peace.
What! vanquish'd by a man that wears slash'd satin?
Tush! thou a soldier!-Talk no more of love,
I'll tell it, by these teeth!-Once on a time-
(Oh! you are still now)—Well-Once on a time,
There lived a king-

Prodigious !

An old man,
Who wedded (somewhat rashly) a young wife.
I cannot hold my wonder.

Peace, you parrot!
Well, sirs; this wife being young, as I have said,
Loved one was young,-
‚—a black-hair'd curly man,

Almost a Moor: Your women love such men.
His name?—I see 't. He squinted somewhat-thus-
A pleasant cast-Go on, and damn thyself!
She loved this curly fellow: he liked her:

The end was that they met. Each night tall Tormes
Stole to her chamber, when King Philip slept,
And lay upon his pillow. For some time Love
Hoodwink'd our ancient king; but he, being prone
Unto suspicion, as most monarchs are,

Soon read in Helen's looks and Tormes' smile
That he was cuckold.

Dion.
'Tis a filthy name.
Pamphilus. 'Tis so: but we must fix on bad and good