WHILST the taste, genius, and knowledge of the an­cients, have been universally felt and acknowledged in every other part of polite literature, it is mat­ter of admiration to consider, that the Greek Theatre should so long have remain'd in neglect and obscurity. In philosophy, morals, oratory, and heroic poetry, in every art and science, we look back to Greece, as the standard and model of perfection: the ruins of Athens afford, even to this day, fresh pleasure and delight; and, nothing but her stage seems to be forgotten by us. Homer, Xenophon, Demosthenes, and many other eminent Greek writers, have of late years put on an English habit, and gain'd admission even into what is call'd polite company; whilst Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, still lurk in schools and colleges; and very seldom make their appearance, at least with dirty leaves, in the libraries of the great. To what shall we attribute a judgment so capricious and so unaccountable? partly, perhaps, to the hasty severity of ignorant foes, and partly, to the outrageous zeal of ^* mistaken friendship. The fate of Antient Tragedy hath, indeed, been singularly unfortunate: some paint­ers have drawn a too flattering likeness of her; whilst others, have presented us with nothing but a caricature; some exalt the Greek drama, as the most perfect of all human compositions, without the least spot or blemish; whilst others affect to call it the infant state of the stage, weak, infirm and imperfect; and [Page 4] as such, treat it with the highest degree of negligence and con­tempt: exaggerated thus on the one hand by the extravagant encomiums of injudicious learning, and debased on the other by the rash censures of modern petulance, it's real and intrinsic me­rit hath never been thoroughly known, or candidly enquired into: the best method however in this, as in every other disputed point, is to set aside all prejudice and authority, and deter­mine the cause by our own reason and judgment, from a fair, full, and impartial view of it.

THAT the spectator may be able to form a proper and com­plete idea of any object presented to him, it is necessary to place him in such a situation, as that his eye may at once compre­hend the whole, and every part of it: for this purpose, I have collected and ranged in order a few materials, which, in the hands of some abler writer, may possibly lay the foundation for a complete history of the Antient Drama; in the mean time, the following sheets confine themselves to, and pretend to no more than, a brief account of the origin and progress of the Greek Tragedy; it's end and purport, the several parts, proper­ties, and conduct of it; the construction, scenery, and decora­tions of the theatre; to which is added, a transient, but necessary view of the genius, character and situation, religion, morals and politics of the people, before whom it was represented; toge­ther with a short sketch of the lives and characters of the three great tragedians.

NOTHING is more agreeable to the inquisitive mind, than to trace the gradual improvement of any art or science; to mark the causes of it's growth and culture, and pursue it through it's various stages of perfection: it is much to be lamented therefore, that neither Aristotle, nor any other writer on Antient Tragedy, hath given us an exact or regular ac­count of it's progress and advancement from the time of it's birth to that of it's maturity and splendor; the few scatter'd anecdotes, which remain concerning it, rather serving to awaken our curiosity than to afford us any full and satisfactory inform­ation.

TRAGEDY was, in it's infancy, like every other production of human art, extremely weak, low, and contemptible: that wide and deep stream, which flows with such strength and rapidity through cultivated Greece, took it's rise from a small and incon­siderable fountain, which hides itself in the recesses of antiquity, and is almost buried in oblivion: the name alone remains to give us some light into it's original nature, and to inform us that Tragedy, like every other species of poetry, owed it's birth to religion.

TRAGEDY, or the ^§ song of the goat, was only a sacred hymn. Bacchus, we are told, the first cultivator of vines, imparted his [Page 6] secret to a petty prince in Attica, named Icarius, who, happen­ing one day to espy a goat, browzing on his plantations, imme­diately seized and offer'd him up as a sacrifice to his divine bene­factor: the peasants assembled round their master, assisted in the ceremony, and express'd their joy and gratitude, in songs and dances on the occasion; the ^‖ sacrifice grew into a festival, and the festival into an annual solemnity, attended most probably every year with additional circumstances, when the countrymen flock'd together in crowds, and sung in rustic strains the praises of their favourite deity. The rural sacrifice became, in process of time, a solemn feast, and assumed all the pomp and splendor of a religious ceremony; poets were employed by the magis­trate to compose hymns or songs for the occasion: such was the rudeness and simplicity of the age, that their bards con­tended for a prize, which, as ^§ Horace intimates, was scarce [Page 7] worth contending for; being no more than a goat or skin of wine, which was given to the happy poet, who acquitted him­self best in the task assign'd to him.

THIS was probably the period, when Thespis first pointed out the tragic path, by his introduction of a new personage, who relieved the Chorus or troop of singers, by reciting part of some well-known history or fable, which gave time for the Chorus to rest. All, that the actor ^‡ repeated between the songs of the Chorus, was call'd an episode or additional part; consisting often of different adventures, which had no connection with each other. Thus the Chorus, or song, which was at first the only, and afterwards the principal performance, became gradually and insensibly but an inconsiderable, though, as we shall see here­after, a necessary and ornamental part of the drama.

FROM this time, we may imagine, the actor or reciter was more attended to than the Chorus; however his part was executed, it had the powerful charms of novelty to recommend it, and quickly obscured the lustre of the Chorus, whose songs were now of a different nature, insomuch, that the original subject of them, the praise of Bacchus, was by degrees either slightly mention'd, or totally pass'd over and forgotten: the priests, who, we may suppose, for a long time presided over the whole, were alarm'd at so open a contempt of the deity, and unanimously exclaim'd, that all this ^§ was nothing to Bacchus; the complaint grew into a kind of proverbial saying, and as such is handed down to us.

FROM the origin of Tragedy, to the days of Thespis, and from his time to that of Aeschylus, all is doubt, conjecture and ob­scurity; [Page 8] neither Aristotle, nor any other antient writer, give us the least insight into the state and progress of the Greek drama: if his treatise call'd ^‖ [...] had reach'd posterity, it would probably have afforded us much pleasure and instruction: the names of a few, and but a few tragedians, during this dark pe­riod, are handed down to us: such were ^§ Epigenes, the Sicyo­nian, and Pratinas, who wrote fifty plays, thirty-two of which are said to have been satyrical: after Thespis, came his scholar Phrynicus, who wrote nine tragedies, for ^† one of which we are told he was fined fifty drachmas, because he had made it (an odd reason) too deep, and too affecting: there was also ano­ther Phrynicus, author of ^‖‖ two tragedies; to these we must add ^§§ Alcaeus, Phormus, and ^‡ Choerilus; together with Cephisodorus, an Athenian, who wrote the Amazons, and Apol­lophanes, supposed to have been the author of a tragedy, named Daulis; though Suidas is of another opinion.

TRAGEDY, during the lives of these writers, had in all proba­bility made but a slow progress, and received very little culture or improvement, when at length the great Aeschylus arose, who from this rude and undigested chaos, created as it were a new world in the system of letters. Poets, and even epic poets there might perhaps have been before Homer; dramatic writers there certainly were before Aeschylus, the former notwithstanding we may with the utmost propriety stile the inventor and father of [Page 9] heroic poetry, and the latter of the antient drama, which before his time doth not appear to have had any form, shape or beauty. He first introduced dialogue, that most essential part of tragedy, by the addition of a second personage, threw the whole fable into action, and restored the chorus to it's antient dignity.

AESCHYLUS, having like a tender parent endow'd his darling child with every mental accomplishment, seem'd resolved that no external ornaments should be wanting to render her univer­sally amiable: he cloathed her therefore in the most splendid ha­bit, and bestow'd on her every thing that art could procure to heighthen and improve her charms. We know, from good autho­rity, that fifty years before his time Thespis exhibited his rude performances in a cart, and besmear'd the faces of his actors with the lees of wine, probably to disguise their persons and give them the appearance of those whom they represented; but Aeschylus, who as being himself author, actor, and manager, took upon him the whole conduct of the drama, did not neglect any part of it; he improved the scenery and decorations, brought his actors into a regular and well-constructed theatre, raised his he­roes on the cothurnus or buskin, invented the masques, and in­troduced splendid ^† habits with long trains that gave an air of majesty and dignity to the performers.

FROM the time when tragedy began to assume a regular form, we find her closely following the steps of epic poetry; all the parts of the epopée, or heroic poem, may be traced in tragedy, though, as Aristotle observes, all the parts of tragedy are not to be found in the epopée; whence the partisans of the stage with [Page 10] some reason conclude, that perfection in the former is more diffi­cult to be attain'd than in the latter. Without entring into this dispute, we may venture however to stile ^* Homer the source and fountain of the Antient drama; from him the tragedians drew the plan, construction, and conduct of their fables, and not unfrequently the fable itself; to him they applied for propriety of manners, character, sentiment and diction.

FROM this aera then, we are to consider tragedy as an elegant and noble structure, built according to the rules of art, symmetry and proportion; whose every part was in itself fair, firm and compact, and at the same time contributed to the beauty, use­fulness and duration of the whole edifice. Sophocles and Euri­pides carefully studied the plan laid down by Aeschylus, and by their superior genius and judgment improved it in a short time to it's highest state of perfection, from which it gradually declined to the introduction of the Roman drama.

AMONGST many other erroneous opinions concerning the Greek tragedy, adopted by modern editors and commenta­tors, the unwarrantable division, which they have made of it into ^‖ acts, is perhaps the most remarkable, as there doth not seem to be the least ground or foundation for it: in the first place, neither Athenaeus, nor any of the antient writers, who have given us quo­tations from the Greek plays, mention the act where the several passages are to be found; which they would most naturally have done, had any such division ever taken place. It may be like­wise observed, that the word ^§ Act does not once occur in that treatise of Aristotle, which gives us so exact a definition of every part of the Greek drama; add to this, that the tragedies them­selves carry with them sufficient proof that no such thing was ever thought on by the authors of them; notwithstanding which, ^† Vossius, Barnes, and several other editors have discover'd an office of the chorus, which the poet never assign'd them, namely, their use in dividing the acts, the intervals of which were sup­plied [Page 12] by their songs; though it is evident that the business of the chorus (as will sufficiently appear in the following account of it) was, on the other hand, to prevent any such unnatural pause or vacancy in the drama, as the division into acts must necessarily produce; besides that, if we take the word act in that sense, which the modern use of it demands, we shall find it in the Greek tragedies composed sometimes of a single scene, and sometimes of half a dozen; and ^‖ if the songs or intermedes of the chorus are to determine the number of acts, the play will consist not always of five, according to our own custom, but at one time of only three, and at another of seven or eight. ^§ Ho­race has indeed told us, that there should be but five acts; but it does not from thence follow that it always was so: the truth after all is, that this mistake, as well as many others, arose from an error common to almost the whole race of writers and critics on antient tragedy, who have unanimously agreed to confound the Greek and Roman drama, concluding them both to be go­vern'd by the same laws, though they are in many parts essenti­ally different: they never allow for the time between Aristotle and Horace, but leap from one to the other with the utmost [Page 13] agility: it is plain however, from ^‡ the reasons here mention'd, that the antient Greek tragedy was one continued representation from beginning to end.

THE division into acts therefore is undoubtedly a piece of mo­dern refinement; which, as much may be said on both sides, I shall not stop either to condemn or approve, but proceed to the only division, which the antients ever made; a division, which nature points out to this and every other composition, viz. a ^§ begin­ning, a middle, and an end; or, in the words of Aristotle, the prologue, the episode, and the exode.

THE PROLOGUE of antient tragedy, was not unlike the [...] or overture in music, or the prooemium in oratory, containing all that part of the drama, which ^‡ preceded the first song, or intermede of the chorus.

[Page 14]WHAT Aristotle calls the prologue should contain, according to the antient critics, all those circumstances, which are necessary to be known for the better understanding and comprehension of the whole drama, as, the place of the scene, the time when the action commences, the names and characters of the persons concern'd, together with such an insight into the plot as might awaken the curiosity of the spectator without letting him too far into the design and conduct of it. This, however easy it may seem at first view, is so difficult, that it has scarce ever been per­form'd to any degree of perfection. Of the Greek tragedians, Sophocles alone seems to have succeeded in this particular, the prologues of ^* Aeschylus being quite rude and inartificial, and those of Euripides for the most part tedious and confused.

THE EPISODE is all that part of the tragedy, which is between the songs or intermedes of the chorus: this answers to our second, third, and fourth act, and comprehends all the in­trigue or plot to the unravelling or catastrophe, which in the ^‡ [Page 15] best antient writers is not made till after the last song of the chorus; the conduct and disposition of the Episode may be con­sider'd as the surest test of the poet's abilities, as it generally de­termines the merit, and decides the fate of the drama. Here all the art of the writer is necessary to stop the otherwise too rapid progress of his fable, by the intervention of some ^§ new circum­stance that involves the persons concern'd in fresh difficulties, awakens the attention of the spectators, and leads them as it were insensibly to the most natural conclusion and unravelling of the whole.

THE EXODE is all that part of the tragedy, which is re­cited after the chorus has left off singing; it answers to our fifth act, and contains the unravelling, or catastrophe of the piece; after which, it is remark'd by the critics, any song of the chorus would only be tedious and unnecessary, because what is said, when the action is finish'd, cannot be too short.

WE come now to an essential ^† part of antient tragedy peculiar to itself: whilst every other member of the build­ing is universally admired, and industriously copied by modern architects, this alone hath been rejected and contemn'd as un­graceful and unnecessary. The chorus, as I before observed, gave the first hint to the formation of tragedy, and was as it were the corner-stone of the whole edifice: as a religious cere­mony it was consider'd by the multitude with a kind of supersti­tious veneration; it is not therefore improbable that the first au­thors of the regular drama willingly gave way to popular preju­dices, and for this, among many other reasons, incorporated it into the body of the tragedy: accordingly, we find the chorus of Aeschylus resuming it's original office, reciting the praises of the local deities, demi-gods and heroes, taking the part of distress'd virtue, and abounding throughout in all those moral precepts, and religious sentiments, by which the writings of the antients are so eminently and so honourably distinguish'd.

VARIOUS are the arguments that have from time to time been produced by the zealous partizans of antiquity, in favour of the tragic chorus, the principal of which I shall briefly recapitulate and lay before my readers, begging leave at the same time to premise, that whether a chorus is defensible with regard to the antient theatre, and whether it should be adopted by the mo­dern, are two very different questions, though generally blended [Page 17] and confused by writers on this subject; the former may perhaps be easily proved, though the latter be left totally undetermined. The antients thought it highly improbable that any great, inte­resting and important action should be perform'd without wit­nesses; their chorusses were therefore composed of ^* such persons as most naturally might be supposed present on the occasion; ^§ persons, whose situation might so far interest them in the events of the fable, as to render their presence useful and necessary; and yet not so deeply concern'd as to make them incapable of per­forming that office, to which they were more particularly ap­pointed, the giving proper advice, and making proper reflecti­ons on every thing that occur'd, in the course of the drama; for this purpose, a choriphaeus or leader superintended and di­rected all the rest, spoke for the whole body in the dialogue part, and led the songs and dances in the intermede. By the intro­duction of a chorus, which bore a part in the action, the antients avoided the absurdity of monologues and soliloquies, an error, [Page 18] which the moderns have imperceptibly and necessarily fallen into, from their omission of it: they avoided also that miserable re­source of distress'd poets, the insipid and uninteresting race of confidentes (a refinement, for which we were indebted to the French theatre) who only appear to ask a foolish question, listen to the secrets of their superiors, and laugh or cry as they are commanded.

BUT the great use and advantage of the chorus will best ap­pear, when we come to consider it in it's moral capacity. In that illustrious period, which may be call'd the golden age of tragedy, the stage was not only the principal, but almost the only vehicle of instruction. Philosophy applied to the liberal arts for their influence and assistance; she appear'd in the theatre even before she dictated in the academy, and Socrates is supposed to have de­liver'd many of his excellent precepts, by the mouth of his ^† fa­vourite poet: this sufficiently accounts for the sententious and didactic part of the antient drama; for all that profusion of mo­ral and religious sentiments, which tires the patience and disgusts the delicacy of modern readers: the critics of those times were of opinion (however they may differ from our own in this parti­cular) that the first and principal characters of the piece were too deeply interested in their own concerns, and too busy in the prosecution of their several designs and purposes, to be at leisure to make moral or political reflections: such, therefore, they very judiciously for the most part put into the mouth of the chorus; [Page 19] this, at the same time, ^‖ prevented the illiterate, and undistin­guishing part of the audience, from mistaking the characters, or drawing hasty and false conclusions from the incidents and circumstances of the drama: the poet by this means leading them as it were insensibly into such sentiments and affections as he had intended to excite, and a conviction of those moral and re­ligious truths, which he meant to inculcate.

BUT the chorus had likewise another ^‡ office, which was, to relieve the spectator, during the pauses and intervals of the action, by an ode or song adapted to the occasion, naturally arising from the incidents, and ^* connected with the subject of the drama: [Page 20] here the author generally gave a loose to his imagination, dis­play'd his poetical abilities, and sometimes, perhaps too often, wander'd from the scene of action into the regions of fancy; the audience notwithstanding were pleased, with this short relax­ation, and agreeable variety; sooth'd by the power of numbers and the excellency of the composition, they easily forgave the writer, and return'd as it were with double attention to his pro­secution of the main subject: to this part of the antient cho­rus we are indebted for some of the noblest flights of poetry, as well as the finest sentiments that adorn the writing of the Greek tragedians. The number of persons composing the cho­rus was probably at first indeterminate, varying according to the circumstances and plot of the drama. Aeschylus, we are told, brought no less than fifty into his ^‖ Eumenides, but was obliged to reduce them to twelve; Sophocles was afterwards permitted to add three; a limitation, which we have reason to imagine became a rule to succeeding poets.

WHEN the chorus consisted of fifteen, the persons composing it ranged themselves in three rows of five each, or five rows of three; and in this order advanced or retreated from the right hand to the left, which is call'd ^§ strophe, and then back from [Page 21] the left to the right, which we call antistrophe; after which they stood still in the midst of the stage, and sung the epode. ^‖ Some writers attribute the original of these evolutions to a mysterious imitation of the motion of the heavens, stars, and planets, but the conjecture seems rather whimsical. The dance, we may ima­gine, (if so we may venture to call it) was slow and solemn, or quick and lively, according to the words, sentiments, and occa­sion; and, in so spacious a theatre as that of Athens, might admit of such grace and variety in it's motions as would render it ex­tremely agreeable to the spectators: the petulancy of modern cri­ticism has frequently made bold to ridicule the use of song and dance in antient tragedy, not considering (as Brumoy observes) that dancing is, in reality, only a more graceful way of moving, and music but a more agreeable manner of expression; nor, indeed, can any good reason be assign'd why they should not be admitted, if properly introduced and carefully managed, into the most seri­ous compositions. To say the truth, nothing is more astonishing than the prejudices we entertain, and the partiality we shew, with regard to our own modes and customs: we condemn the chorusses of the antients, which supplied with decency and propriety the va­cant parts of the drama; and how do we fill up our own? To be convinced of our injustice and absurdity, let us suppose Sophocles, or Euripides, transported from the shades of elysium, and entering one of our noisy theatres, between the acts; the audience engaged in bowing or talking to each other, and the music entertaining [Page 22] them with a jig of Vivaldi, or the roast beef of old England, how would they be surprised in a few minutes to find that all this disorder, riot, and confusion, was in the midst of a most pathetic and interesting tragedy, and that the warmest passions of the human heart were broken in upon and enfeebled by this strange and unnatural interruption!

THE chorus continued on the stage during the whole repre­sentation of the piece, unless when some very ^† extraordinary cir­cumstance required their absence; this obliged the poet to a con­tinuity of action, as the chorus could not have any excuse for remaining on the spot, when the affair, which call'd them toge­ther, was at an end; it preserved also the unity of time; for if the poet, as ^* Hedelin observes, had comprehended in his play a week, a month, or a year, how could the spectators be made to believe that the people, who were before them, could have pass'd so long a time without eating, drinking, or sleeping? Thus we find that the chorus preserved all the unities of action, time, and place; that it prepared the incidents, and inculcated the moral of the piece; relieved and amused the spectators, presided over and directed the music, made a part of the decoration, and in short pervaded and animated the whole; it render'd the poem more regular, more probable, more pathetic, more noble and magnificent; it was indeed the great chain, which held together [Page 23] and strengthen'd the several parts of the drama, which without it could only have exhibited a lifeless and uninteresting scene of irregularity, darkness and confusion.

THE antient chorus notwithstanding, with all it's advantages, is not agreeable to every taste; it hath been attack'd with great severity, and treated with the utmost contempt; it hath been call'd arrant pedantry, an excrescency of the drama, a mob of confidents; even writers of approved genius and judgment have said, that it is absurd to imagine the antients would ever have trusted their secrets, especially those of a criminal nature, to all their domestics; that it is impossible to imagine that fifty, or even fifteen people can keep a secret, fifteen people of the same mind, thought, voice, and expression.

IT must be acknowledged, that these critics have selected that part of the office of the chorus, which is most liable to censure; but even if we allow the objection it's full force, it will not suf­fice to condemn the chorus itself, which in the judicious Sopho­cles, who avoided the errors and absurdities of his cotemporaries, is unexceptionable: in that noble author, nothing is entrusted to the chorus, which ought to be conceal'd; nor any thing con­ceal'd, which ought to be imparted to them; we might therefore perhaps, with equal justice, banish from our own stage, the ge­neral practice of soliloquies, because Shakespear hath frequently drawn them out to an immoderate length, as utterly condemn the whole antient chorus, because Euripides hath in two or three of his plays, made an improper use of it.

SOME applaud the chorus with a kind of enthusiastic rapture, whilst others endeavour to sink it into universal contempt: for my own part, I cannot but think it absolutely necessary on the antient stage, and that it might be render'd useful and ornamental, even on our own. [Page 24] I am notwithstanding far from being of opinion, that it should be admitted constantly and indiscriminately into the modern thea­tre; the use of it must depend entirely on the subject: certain it is, that there are many in our own history, as well as in that of other nations, where a chorus might be introduced with the ut­most propriety; but if, after all, fashion and prejudice will not suffer them to appear on the stage, they may at least gain ad­mission to the closet; thither let the reader of true taste and judgment, carry Elfrida and Caractacus, written on the antient model, and compare them with Athelstan, Barbarossa, the ^‡ Or­phan of China, or any of those tinsel flimsy performances that have lately assumed the name of tragedies, which have owed all their success to the false taste of the age, join'd to the real merit of the actors in the representation of them.

THE art of poetry was consider'd by the antients as a part of that general system, which they term'd the [...], or melody, and was in reality the art of making verses proper to be sung: they look'd upon words, not only as signs of particular ideas, but as sounds also, enabled by the assistance of music to express all the passions of the human mind. When in the de­scriptive parts of the drama a dreadful or disagreeable object was to be represented, the words were form'd of such harsh and jar­ring syllables, as by grating on the ear might best impress the exactest representation of it; and in like manner, when the grand, the beautiful, or the tender was to be set before the eyes of the spectator, the language was carefully and even painfully adapted to it. The Greeks, who were extremely solicitous to cultivate and improve their language to the highest degree of perfection, took more than ordinary care in the formation of their verse; the quantity of every syllable was carefully ascertain'd, different words, different dialects, and different feet, were appropriated to different species of poetry; and none infringed on the rights and privileges of another: Tragedy indeed, as the sovereign, assumed a kind of peculiar title to them all; every species of verse was occasionally introduced to adorn and beautify the drama. The iambic was generally made use of in the body of the piece, as approaching, according to the judgment of Aristotle, nearest to common discourse, and therefore most naturally adapted [Page 26] to the dialogue; this rule however is not constantly and inva­riably observed, but sometimes departed from with judgment; the metre is frequently changed, not only in the songs of the chorus, but in other places, and that generally in the most in­teresting and impassion'd parts of the drama, where, it may here be observed, it is most probable that the music and instruments accompanying the verse were changed also; a happy circumstance for the poet, as it must have afforded an agreeable relief to the audience, who would naturally be fatigued by the repetition of the same sounds, be they ever so harmonious, ^‖ If our own times, manners, and taste, would admit of such variations, what additional beauties would they reflect on the British theatre! but such a change of metre in serious dramatic performances is render'd absolutely impossible, as well from many other obstacles, as from the ^‡ poverty of our language, when put in comparison with those of antiquity; particularly that of Greece, whose supe­riority over us in this respect is so remarkably visible. On the [Page 27] antient stage, the length or shortness of every syllable was as it were fix'd and determined, either by nature or by use; hence the song had a necessary and agreeable conformity with common discourse, which render'd it more intelligible: our ^* musicians, in the composition of their songs, make short syllables long, and long short, as it suits the air, or recitative; and whilst the mu­sic pleases the ear, the words frequently offend it: if the poet and musician were always united in one person, which very sel­dom happens, this inconvenience might, with all the disadvanta­ges of our language, be in a great measure lessen'd, if not entirely removed.

IT is more than probable, and nearly demonstrable, that the theatrical declamation of the antients was composed and wrote in notes, and that the whole play, from beginning to end, (ex­cept the commoi and chorusses) were in a kind of ^§ recitative like our modern operas; that it was ^‖ accompanied with music [Page 28] throughout, and that the reciter had little else to do, than care­fully to observe the directions of the poet; the quantity of every word was ascertain'd, the time, duration, and rhythmus of every syllable fix'd by the musician, so that he could not easily mistake or offend; the actor was not, as on our stage, left at liberty to murther fine sentiment and language, by wrong accents and false pronunciation; by hurrying over some parts with precipitancy, and drawling out others into a tedious monotony; a good voice and a tolerable ear were all that the poet required of him.

MUSIC is rank'd by Aristotle amongst the essential parts of tragedy; nor is there the least reason to doubt but that it was consider'd by the antients both as useful and ornamental: it was most probably diffused throughout the whole piece, accom­panying the recitation in the dialogue, directing the voice, and even perhaps the ^§ action and gesture of the performers; varying it's movements according to the different passions to be excited in the breasts of the audience; it's different measures were always carefully ^† adapted to the metre, and took their names [Page 29] from the different feet made use of in the verse, as the dactylic, the ionic, poeonic, and the rest; the principal exertion of it's powers must, we may imagine, have been reserved for the songs, or intermedes of the chorus, where both the poetry and music admitted of much greater freedom and variety than in the other parts of the drama: thus we see, in the Antient Theatre, music always accompanied her sister science, assisted, animated, and supported her, was in short, in all respects, her friend and fellow-labourer, ‘Qualem decet esse sororem.’ The office of a dramatic poet, in the time of antient tragedy, required, we may observe, a wider circle of knowledge, and far more extensive abilities, than the present age demands, or expects from him: for, besides all the other requisites, it was necessary that he should be master of every kind of verse, completely skill'd in music, and able to direct all the evolutions, movements, or (if so we chuse to call them) the dances of the chorus; Euripides, we are told, instructed his singers in the grave and solemn airs, which accom­panied all his pieces; and Plutarch informs us, that the people of Susae, and the Persians, by the command of Alexander, sung the tragedies of Sophocles, and his successors in the drama, ac­cording to the measures, which those writers had themselves pre­scribed at the first representation of them.

TRAGEDY was in it's infancy, what Aristotle calls it, ^‡ made up of music and dancing; and the old tragedians, Thespis, Pra­tinas, Cratinus, and Phrynicus, according to Athenaeus, bore the name of ^* dancers, because they used so much dancing in their chorusses! Tetrameters were therefore for a long time made use of [Page 30] in the verse, as that foot was most proper for motion, though it was afterwards changed to the iambic; when the dance or ^‖ move­ment was confined to the songs or intermedes of the chorus, which in the more perfect state of tragedy became, as I before observed, but a small part of the whole drama. What instru­ments the antients made use of in their theatrical music, and in what it's principal merit consisted, it is perhaps at this distance of time not easy to determine; if any of my readers are desirous of prying into a subject so dark and intricate, I must refer them to Plutarch's dialogue on this subject, together with Mons. Bu­rette's observations on it in the tenth volume of the hist. de l'Acad. to which may be added P. Menestrier's dissertation on antient and modern music, where they will meet with as much information as I believe can be given them on this head.

THE use of music in tragedy hath been matter of much doubt and contention with modern critics; M. Dacier thinks it by no means essential, and greatly condemns Aristotle for his approba­tion of it; it is notwithstanding indisputable, that on the anti­tient stage, music was a most beautiful adjunct to poetry, and contributed in a great measure to the high finishing and perfection of the Greek drama: we cannot perhaps so easily resolve, how far it may be reconcileable to modern manners, though from some late experiments on ^§ one of our theatres, we have reason to think that, when introduced with propriety, it might be attended with it's desired effect.

THE GREEK THEATRE is amongst those superb monuments of antient taste, genius and magnificence, which would probably have survived the depredations, even of time itself, if ignorance and barbarism had not conspired to ruin and destroy it: of all those noble and costly structures which Athens, and Sparta dedicated to the muses, we have now scarce any thing but a few inconsiderable remains, sufficiently striking to raise our cu­riosity, but at the same time too mutilated and imperfect to sa­tisfy it. Those writers of antiquity, who have occasionally men­tion'd the construction of the theatre, as they treated a subject universally known by their cotemporaries, did not think themselves obliged to handle it with that degree of accuracy and precision, which were so necessary for the information of posterity; in con­sequence of which, they frequently gave names to one part of the building that more properly belong'd to another, and by a con­fusion of terms, which could not mislead the readers of their own times, involved their successors in a labyrinth of error and obscu­rity; add to this, that the same fate hath attended the description of the building, which had before happen'd to the several consti­tuent parts of the drama; modern critics too often confound to­gether the Greek and Roman theatre (though they differ most essentially in many parts) we find terms frequently appropriated to one, which belong only to the other; and the whole so im­perfectly delineated, by almost every one of them, as to render it throughout a matter of doubt and uncertainty. Some lights how­ever have from time to time been thrown on this dark and intri­cate subject, whose scatter'd rays, when united and drawn to a point, will exhibit to us the following tolerably accurate, though still imperfect representation of it.

[Page 32]THE ANTIENT GREEK THEATRE, in it's highest state of perfection, was a most spacious, noble, and magnificent structure, built with the most ^§ solid and durable materials, and capable, we are told, of holding thirty thousand spectators: to give my readers a proper idea of it's form, I shall divide it into three principal departments; one for the actors, which they call'd the scene; another for the spectators, under the general denomi­nation of the theatre; and a third call'd the orchestra, allotted to the music, mimes, and dancers. To determine the situation of these three parts, and consequently the disposition of the whole, it is necessary to observe, that the plan (here annex'd) consists on one side of two semi-circles, drawn from the same centre, but of different diameters; and on the other, of a square of the same length, but less by one half; the space between the two semi­circles, was allotted for the spectators; the square at the end, to the actors; and the intervening area in the middle, to the orchestra. Thus we see, the theatre was circular on one side, and square on the other; round the whole were ranges of por­ticos, (see letters A and B) more or less, according to the num­ber of stories, the most magnificent theatres always having three, one raised above another; to these porticos, which might pro­perly be said to form the body of the edifice, the women were

[Page 33] admitted, being the only places cover'd from rain and heat; the rest were intirely ^‖ open above, and all the representations in the ^† day-time.

THE seats for the spectators (letter I) extended from the up­per portico, down quite to the orchestra (letter H) differing in their width and number with the size of the theatre, and were always so form'd, that a line drawn from the top to the bottom, would touch the extremities of every one of them; between each story was a wide passage leading to the seats, every one of which, for the better accommodation of the audience, was at such a dis­tance from the seat placed over it, that the feet of the persons above could not touch those who were below.

THE magistrates were separated from the populace by a place appropriated to them call'd [...]: the [...], or seat of the youths, was assign'd to the young men of quality and distinction; there were also some [...], or first seats, allotted to persons of extraordinary merit, where all those were placed, who had dis­tinguish'd themselves by any signal services to the common-wealth; such in process of time became hereditary, and were appointed for particular families; all these were very near to, or sometimes in the orchestra, and as close as the structure of the theatre would admit, to the scene, or place of representation.

[Page 34]THE orchestra, being between the two parts of the building, one of which was circular, and the other square, partook of the shape of both, varying in it's size according to that of the theatre, though it's width was always double it's length, and that width always the semi-diameter of the whole edifice; to this they enter'd by passages under the seats of the spectators, the whole being intirely on a ^‡ level with the ground; this led also to the stair-cases, (letter K) by ^§ which they ascended to the different stories of the theatre, some leading to the seats, others to the por­ticos, of course turn'd different ways, but all equally wide, dis­engaged from each other, and so commodious as to give suffici­ent room for the spectators to go in and out without the least crowding or inconvenience.

BETWEEN the orchestra and the stage was the [...], hypo­scenium (letter E) so call'd, because it was close to the scene or place of representation: here, it is most probable, were placed the instruments that accompanied the actors throughout the drama.

^*BEYOND this was the large and vacant space call'd [...], proscenium, or [...] (letter D) representing the scene of action, which was always some public place, as a road, a grove, a court­yard, [Page 35] adjoining to some temple or palace; the length and breadth of this area or stage varied according to the size of the theatre, but always of the same heighth, and in the Greek theatre never more or less than ten foot.

AT the extremity of the whole building, was the [...], or post-scenium (letter G) that place behind the scenes, where the actors dress'd themselves, and prepared the habits, scenes, machines, and every thing necessary to the representation.

AT the back of the stage (letter L) were the triangular ma­chines for the scenery, call'd by the Greeks ^‖ [...], which as they turn'd on their own axis, might be shifted on any occa­sion, and exhibited three different views or changes of scene; these were not made use of in tragedy, which required but one scene throughout, but most probably at the end of it, to prepare the exhibition of the comedy or mime, which in the antient theatre frequently succeeded each other, perhaps two or three times on the same day.

[Page 36]AMONGST the many peculiarities of the Greek theatre, with re­gard to it's construction, there is not perhaps any thing so remark­able, and which we can so difficultly form any idea of, as the echoea, or brazen vessels, which, according to ^† Vitruvius, were made use of by the Greeks, to render the articulation distinct, and give a more extensive power to the voice, an expedient doubtless extremely necessary in so large a theatre; for this purpose we are told, that they had recourse to several round concave plates of brass, placed under the seats of the spectators, so disposed and contrived by the most exact geometrical and harmonic proportions as to re­verberate the voice, and carry the words of the actor to the farthest part of the building; the manner in which this was perform'd is, I must confess, to me utterly incomprehensible; certain it is, that no idea can be form'd of it without the most profound knowledge of antient music, and antient architecture: I shall not therefore trouble my readers with an explication of what few I believe would be able to comprehend; but if any of them are desirous of a more intimate acquaintance with these Brazen Echos, I must refer them to the sixth book of the learned Vitruvius, and Mons. Burette's treatise on antient music.

THOUGH we have no genuine or regular account now ex­tant of the machines and decorations of the Greek theatre, we have sufficient reason to conclude from the tragedies them­selves still remaining, that such things were made use of in the representation; as we find in almost every one of them gods ascending and descending, ghosts and furies frequently appearing on the stage, with divinities celestial and terrestrial; for all these, we need not doubt but that the antients had machines of vari­ous kinds, according to the various exigencies and circumstances that required them; and, as we learn from the scatter'd remains of Hesychius, Pollux, and other writers, were no strangers to ^* trap-doors, flying chariots, magnificent arches, flights, ropes, pullies, and in short all the mechanical apparatus of the stage. As to the scenery, we know that the strict regard paid by the Greek tragedians to the unity of place confined the whole repre­sentation of their pieces to one particular spot; this however we find was sumptuously adorn'd with all the embellishments, which art or nature could furnish; magnificent ^† columns, porticos, statues, paintings, basso-relievos, every thing, which the elegant taste and genius of Greece could produce, was added to enrich the [Page 38] scene; even so early as in the time of Aeschylus, we are ^‡ told that the decorations of the theatre were made according to the exactest rules of perspective. The whole theatre (porticos ex­cepted) being, as I before observed, uncover'd, and consequently exposed to the heat of the sun, and inclemency of the weather; a kind of thin curtain, fasten'd probably to a large pillar or pole in the centre of the building, was extended over the whole; as the heat notwithstanding (which is always the case in our mo­dern tents) frequently penetrated through them, and the breaths of so numerous an assembly must have been offensive, they had recourse to artificial showers of rain, which they convey'd from the top of the porticos through the statues that were dispersed over the different parts of the building; ^* Mr. Boindin adds, that the water on these occasions was always scented, so that the spectators were not only refresh'd by this gentle dew falling upon them, but at the same time regaled with the most exquisite perfume.

IT appears from the united testimonies of several antient wri­ters, that the actors of Greece never appear'd on the stage in tragedy, or any other species of the drama without masques: it is most probable, that before the time of Aeschylus, to whom ^‖ Horace ascribes this invention, they disguised their features either, as in the days of Thespis, by daubing them with the lees of wine, or by painting, false hair, and other artifices of the same kind with those, which are practiced in the modern theatre: Masques however were soon introduced, and look'd on, we may imagine, in those days as a most ingenious device; that, which they made use of in tragedy, was, according to the best information we can gather concerning it, a kind of casque or helmet, which cover'd the whole head, representing not only the face, but the beard, hair, ears, and even, in the women's masques, all the ornaments of the coif, or cap, being made of ^§ different materials, according to the [Page 40] several improvements, which it received from time to time; the most perfect and durable were of wood, executed with the greatest care, by sculptors of the first rank and eminence, who received their directions from the poet. It seems to have been an esta­blish'd opinion amongst the antients, that their heroes and demi­gods, who were generally the subject of their tragedies, were of an extraordinary size, far surpassing that of common mortals; we must not be surprised therefore to find their tragic poets, in com­pliance with this popular prejudice, raising them upon ^‡ the cothurnus, swelling them to an immense magnitude, and by the assistance of a ^§ large and frightful masque, endeavouring to fill the minds of the spectators with a religious awe, and veneration of them: the tragic masques were generally copied from the busts or statues of the principal personages, and consequently convey'd the most exact idea and resemblance of them, which must have given an air of probability to the whole: those, which represented ^* ghosts and furies, were made still more terrible and frightful; [Page 41] but the masques of the ^‖ dancers, or persons, who form'd the body of the chorus, had nothing disagreeable.

As in the infancy of tragedy there were probably but few actors, the use of masques gave each of them an opportunity of playing several parts, wherein the character, age, and sex were different, without being discover'd; the large opening of the mouth was so contrived as to increase the sound of the voice, and send it to the farthest part of the theatre, which was so extremely large and spacious, that without some such assistance we cannot easily con­ceive how the actor could be well heard or seen; in all theatri­cal painting, scenery and decoration, the objects, we know, must be magnify'd beyond the life and reality, to produce their proper effect; and, in the same manner, we may imagine that, in so ex­tensive an area as the Greek theatre, it might be necessary to ex­aggerate the features, and enlarge the form of the actor; add to this, that at such a distance as most of the spectators were, the natural expression of the eyes and countenance must be entirely lost. The sanguine admirers of every thing that is antient bring many more arguments to defend the tragic ^* masque; but after all that can be said in it's favour, it is perhaps scarce defensible; the face is certainly the best index of the mind, and the passions [Page 42] are as forcibly express'd by the features, as by the words and ges­ture of the performer: the Greeks in this, as in many other par­ticulars, sacrificed propriety, truth and reason, to magnificence and vanity.

ALL the expences of the theatre were defray'd by the state, and were indeed so considerable, that nothing but the purse of an opulent republic could possibly have supported them, as it is confidently affirm'd by ^§ historians that Athens spent more in dramatic representations than in all her wars.

IT was not my design in this short Dissertation (nor could in­deed be comprehended within the limits of it) to point out with Aristotle what tragedy ought to be, but simply to shew what it was during the lives of the great triumvirate, as far as we can judge from the remains now extant; in my account of it's several parts therefore I have not follow'd the steps of the great critic, but principally confined myself to those particulars, which distinguish the antient from the modern drama, and which may best enable us to form a proper and adequate idea of the Greek tragedy; but even the most perfect knowledge of all the essential and constituent parts will be found insufficient for this purpose, unless we take into our view also the time when, and the very spot where every piece was exhibited. Dramatic, as well as every other species of poetry, is best known and distin­guish'd by the place of it's birth; it will take it's form, colour, and complection from it's native soil, as naturally as water de­rives it's taste and qualities from the different kinds of earth, through which it flows: it is absolutely necessary, before we can judge impartially of the Greek tragedies, to transport ourselves to the scene where they were represented, to shake off the English­man for a time, and put on the Athenian.

IT has been with great truth remark'd, that there is allotted to every nation upon earth a particular period, which may be call'd their zenith of perfection, to which they approach by slow degrees, and from which, they gradually and insensibly recede: in this happy age of power and prosperity, the arts and sciences, [Page 44] taste, genius, and literature have always shone with distinguish'd lustre: such was the time when Athens gave laws to all Greece, whilst the glorious victories of Marathon and Salamis animated every tongue with eloquence, and fill'd every breast with exulta­tion; that haughty and successful people maintain'd for a long time her sovereignty over the neighbouring nations; her councils were influenced by prudence, and her battles crown'd with con­quest; the treasure, which she had seized in the temple at Del­phos, enabled her not only to carry on her wars with success, but left her a plentiful reserve also to supply her luxuries: this was the age of heroes, philosophers and poets; when architec­ture, painting, and sculpture, foster'd by the genial warmth of power and protection, so conspicuously display'd their several beau­ties, and produced all those superb monuments of antient taste and genius, which united to distinguish this illustrious aera: du­ring this happy period, tragedy appear'd in her meridian splen­dor, when the great triumvirate exhibited before the most polite and refined nation then upon earth those excellent pieces, which extorted applause, honours and rewards, from their cotemporaries, and ensured to them the deserved admiration of all posterity: it may indeed with great truth be asserted, that the same remark­able love of order and simplicity, the same justness of symmetry and proportion, the same elegance, truth and sublimity, which appear'd in the buildings, pictures and statues of that age, are conspicuous also in the antient drama.

IN the time of the Greek tragedy, the Athenians dictated as it were to all mankind: proud by nature, and elated by riches and prosperity, they look'd down with the utmost contempt on the neighbouring nations, whom they stiled and treated as barbarians; as a republic, the avow'd enemies of monarchy and dependence; as a free people, bold and impatient of restraint or contradiction; strongly attach'd to their own laws and customs; lively and act­ive, [Page 45] but inconstant and superstitious; their manners plain and simple, but their taste at the same time elegant and refined. As the theatre was supported entirely at the expence of the public, the public directed all it's operations; we might naturally expect therefore, that the poet would for his own sake take care to adapt his compositions to the public taste; to fall in with national pre­judices and superstitions; to sooth the pride, flatter the self-love, and adopt the opinions of his fellow-citizens: we must not won­der to hear, as we constantly do, (in the tragedies that remain) the praises of Athens perpetually resounded, the superiority of her laws and constitution extoll'd, and her form of government pre­fer'd to every other; oblique hints, or direct accusations of folly and weakness in her enemies; public facts frequently alluded to, and public events recorded; their own festivals, sacrifices, ^‡ reli­gious rites, and ceremonies, carefully and accurately described; Sparta and Thebes, as rival states, occasionally satyrized and con­demn'd; and above all, every opportunity taken to point out the evils of monarchy, and engrave their favourite democratical principles on the hearts of the people: it is not improbable but that many of those moral sentences, and political apothegms, which at this distance of time appear cold and insipid to us, had, besides their general tendency, some double meaning, some allu­sion to particular facts and circumstances, which gave them an additional lustre: without this key to the Greek theatre, it is impossible to form a right idea of antient tragedy, which was not, like our own, mere matter of amusement, but the channel of public instruction, and the instrument of public policy; those readers therefore, who are utterly unacquainted with the religion, laws, and customs of Athens, are by no means adequate judges [Page 46] of it; they only ^§ condemn, for the most part, what they do not understand, and rashly judge of the whole edifice, whilst they view but an inconsiderable part of the building. But so warmly are we attach'd to what lies before us, and so prejudiced in favour of those modes and customs, which are establish'd amongst our­selves, that we generally rate the merit of past performances by the standard and rule of present practice; the antients therefore are subject to the disadvantage of being tried, not as justice de­mands by their laws, but by our own.

AND here it is worthy of our observation to remark, that the Greek tragedy seems, in it's whole progress, to have kept pace with the place of it's birth, and to have flourish'd and declined with it's native country: the rise of Athens, from meanness and obscurity to power and splendor, may be dated from the battle of Marathon, which laid the foundation of all her future glory; soon after which, we find Aeschylus forming his plan of antient tragedy; after him arose the immortal Sophocles, who improved upon, and greatly exceeded his illustrious master; to these suc­ceeded Euripides, born ten years after the battle of Marathon, and on the very day of the sea-fight at Salamis: whilst these il­lustrious writers flourish'd, Athens flourish'd also, for above half a century: Euripides was fifty years of age, when the Pelopon­nesian war began; from which period the superiority of Athens visibly declined, and was soon entirely destroy'd by the rival power of Sparta, in confederacy with the Persian monarch. So­phocles, happy in not surviving the honour and liberty of his country, expired one year before the taking of Athens by Ly­sander, when the sovereignty of Greece devolved to the Lacedae­monians.

AESCHYLUS was born at Athens, in the first year of the ^‖ sixtieth olympiad: he embraced very early in life the profession of ^* arms, and distinguish'd himself as an officer at the famous battles of Marathon, Salamis and Plataea: the perpe­tual scenes of slaughter and bloodshed, in which he was during a long series of years unavoidably engaged, seem to have tin­ged his imagination with that portion of the fierce and terrible so distinguishable in all his pieces: during the intervals of his mili­tary occupation, he found time to write no less than seventy, or according to some historians, ninety tragedies, only seven of which are now extant: when he was pretty far advanced in years, he lost the poetical prize to Sophocles, then but a boy, or, as other writers with more probability assert, to Simonides, in an elegy on the heroes, who fell at Marathon; a circumstance, which so deeply affected him, that he immediately withdrew from Athens, and retired to the court of Hiero, king of Sicily, a friend of the muses, whose palace was a kind of asy­lum for the discontented poets of Greece; there, we are told, he lived in great affluence and splendor, to the age of sixty-five; the writers of his life, not willing to admit that so great a poet could dye a common death, have thought proper to dignify his last moments with a circumstance, which carries with it more [Page 48] of the marvellous than the probable: an oracle had, it seems, de­clared (for oracles were always ready on these occasions) that Aeschylus should fall by the hand of heaven; accordingly, that this might be fulfill'd, it is reported that an eagle was seen in the air, holding in her talons a tortoise, which (unfortunately for the bard) she let go, and dropping on the head of Aeschylus, who happen'd to be walking beneath, fractured his skull: he is said to have gain'd thirteen victories over his rival poets, which one would think was an ample recompence for the single failure that gave him so much uneasiness. His tragedies were greatly admired during his life, and after his death held in the highest esteem, insomuch that a decree was pass'd by the senate, decla­ring, that if any person would exhibit the tragedies of Aeschylus, the state would bear the charges of the chorus, and defray the whole expence of the representation; an honour, which probably had not been bestow'd on any poet before his time, though after­wards, as I observed above, they were generally play'd at the public cost.

AESCHYLUS is a bold, nervous, animated writer; his imagina­tion fertile, but licentious; his judgment true, but ungovern'd; his genius lively, but uncultivated; his sentiments noble and sub­lime, but at the same time wild, irregular, and frequently fantas­tic; his plots, for the most part, rude and inartificial; his scenes unconnected, and ill-placed; his language generally poignant and expressive, though in many places turgid and obscure, and even too often degenerating into fustian and bombast; his cha­racters strongly mark'd, but all partaking of that wild fierceness, which is the characteristic of their author; his peculiar excellency was in raising terror and astonishment, in warm and descriptive scenes of war and slaughter: if we consider the state of the drama when he undertook to reform and improve it, we shall behold him with admiration; if we compare him with his two illustrious suc­cessors [Page 49] successor he hides his diminish'd head, and appears far less con­spicuous: were we to draw a parallel between dramatic poetry and painting, we should perhaps stile him the Julio Romano of antient tragedy.

SOPHOCLES was born at Colonè, a burgh or village in Attica; his father Sophilus was, as some writers tell us, a ^* black­smith; or, according to a more favourable heraldry, master of a forge: as the profession of arms was at that time more honour­able, and probably more advantageous than any other, Sophocles enter'd into it, and follow'd the steps of his master Aeschylus, both as a soldier and a poet; in the former capacity he had the honour to serve under the great ^§ Pericles. As a dramatic wri­ter he was early distinguish'd for his extraordinary abilities, which first placed him on a level, and afterwards raised him to a supe­riority over his illustrious rival; he is supposed to have written one hundred and twenty tragedies, only seven of which are now remaining; these were received by his cotemporaries with the applause they so highly deserved: it is remark'd, that he never acted himself in any of his plays, as Aeschylus and Euripi­des did, his voice being too weak and low for the stage; though he was always present at the representation, and received the ap­plauses of the audience, who, we are told, seldom fail'd to sig­nify their approbation by a loud and general clap, both at his entrance into, and leaving the theatre: he was crown'd twenty [Page 50] times, and though he probably sometimes shared the fate of his brother poets by unjust censure, could never be prevail'd on, as his rivals were, to leave his native country, to which he took ^‖ every opportunity of shewing his sincerest attachment: with regard to his death, historians (if scholiasts and commentators may be so call'd) have indulged themselves in the same liberty, which they took with his predecessor Aeschylus; some kill him with a grape-stone; others tell us, that he died with joy at being crown'd for one of his tragedies; whilst a third set gravely assure us, that having one day an inclination to play a part in his own Antigone, he dipp'd into a speech too long for his weak lungs, and expired, merely for want of a better breath, in the midst of it.

AFTER all, as Sophocles, according to various testimonies, lived till ninety, it is not improbable that he might have died of ^‡ extreme old age, a distemper, which is seldom perhaps more fa­vourable to poets than to other men: the Athenians erected a sumptuous monument in memory of him, on which was engraved a swarm of ^§ bees, in allusion to the name generally given him [Page 51] on account of his verses, which are indeed wonderfully soft and harmonious, or, as a nobler poet even than Sophocles himself ex­presses it, sweeter than honey, or the honey-comb.

SOPHOCLES may with great truth be call'd the prince of antient dramatic poets; his fables, at least of all those tragedies now ex­tant, are interesting and well-chosen, his plots regular and well-conducted, his sentiments elegant, noble and sublime, his inci­dents natural, his diction simple, his manners and characters striking, equal and unexceptionable, his chorusses well adapted to the subject, his moral reflections pertinent and useful, and his numbers in every part to the last degree sweet and harmonious; the warmth of his imagination is so temper'd by the perfection of his judgment, that his spirit however animated never wanders into licentiousness, whilst at the same time the fire of his genius sel­dom suffers the most uninteresting parts of his tragedy to sink into coldness and insipidity; his peculiar excellence seems to lye in the ^† descriptive; and, exclusive of his dramatic powers, he is certainly a greater poet than either of his illustrious rivals: were I to draw a similitude of him, as I did of Aeschylus, from painting, I should say that his ordonnance was so just, his figures so well group'd and contrasted, his colours so glowing and natural, all his pieces in short executed in so bold and masterly a stile, as to wrest the palm from every other hand, and point him out as the Raphael of the antient drama.

EURIPIDES, the son of Mnesarchus and Clito, was a native of Salamis, to which place his parents had withdrawn to shelter themselves from the storm of war with which Greece was threaten'd by the invasion of Xerxes; he was born in the second [Page 52] year of the ^* seventy-fifth olympiad, in the midst of all the tri­umphal pomp, which follow'd the famous victories of Salamis and Plataea: as the genius of Euripides was not turn'd like that of his two predecessors towards a military life, he attach'd himself to philosophy, at that time the fashionable taste and study of all Greece, under the celebrated ^‖ Anaxagoras; but partly perhaps from the fear of incurring his master's fate, and partly from the natural bent of his own mind, soon left the perplexing paths of science, and gave himself up to the more inviting charms of poe­try: as the stage was probably then, as it is now, far the most lucrative branch of it, he applied himself early to the writing of tragedies, in which he succeeded so well, as to enter the lists with Aeschylus and Sophocles: the immortal Socrates, to whom we may suppose he was in a great measure indebted for the ap­plause and encouragement bestow'd on him, not only honour'd him wit his patronage and protection, but enter'd into the most intimate friendship and connection with him; he is even said to have assisted him in several of his plays; the moral and philoso­phic air, which runs through them all, seems indeed greatly to favour this opinion, which was industriously propagated by his ^§ enemies, to obscure if possible the lustre of such conspicuous [Page 53] merit; he gain'd ^‡ five victories, and is supposed to have written seventy-five tragedies, only nineteen of which are now extant; some ^* letters of Euripides, handed down to us, take notice of a quarrel between him and Sophocles, and give an account also of their perfect reconciliation; though his tragedies were for the most part well received by his cotemporaries, we may imagine that, like other poets, he met with some ill treatment from them, as we find him in the latter part of his life at the court of Archelaus, king of Macedon, who loaded him with favours, and treated him with all the respect due to his character and abilities; there, we are told, he lived in great affluence and splendor about three years, when unfortunately wandering one day into a solitary place, he was set on by a pack of hounds, and ^‖ torn to pieces, at the age of seventy-five. Aulus Gellius informs us, that the Athenians sent to Macedon for his body, and had prepared to grace it with a pompous and splendid funeral, but the Macedonians refusing to deliver it, they contented themselves with erecting a magnificent tomb to his memory, and graving his name and honours on the empty marble; a copy of his works was carefully deposited amongst the archives, and so highly esteem'd, that a king of Aegypt in vain for a long time solicited a copy of them, which [Page 54] the Athenians positively refused, till a famine happening in Greece, the king in return refused to sell them corn; necessity at last prevailing, they parted with the manuscript, and the king ac­knowledged so singular a favour, by permitting the merchants of Athens to take away as much corn as they wanted, without pay­ing the usual tribute.

IN such high esteem were the works of this poet, that many noble Athenians being taken prisoners at ^‡ Syracuse, the unfor­tunate captives were all put to death, except those, who could re­peat any passages from the plays of Euripides; these men, and these alone they pardon'd, caress'd, treated with the utmost re­spect, and afterwards set them at liberty.

EURIPIDES, fortunately for his own character as well as for posterity, is come down to us more perfect and entire than ei­ther of his cotemporaries; his merit therefore is more easily ascer­tain'd; his fables are generally interesting, his plots frequently irregular and artificial, his characters sometimes unequal, but for the most part striking and well contrasted, his sentiments remark­ably fine, just and proper, his diction soft, elegant, and per­suasive; he abounds much more in moral apophthegms and reflec­tions than Aeschylus or Sophocles, which as they are not always introduced with propriety give some of his tragedies a stiff and scholastic appearance, with which the severer critics have not fail'd to reproach him: it is most probable however that in this he complied with the taste of his age, and in obedience to the dictates of his friend and master Socrates, who, we may suppose, thought it no disgrace to this favourite poet, to deviate from the rigid rules of the drama, in order to render it more subservient to the noble purposes of piety and virtue; there is be­sides [Page 55] in his dialogue a didactic and argumentative turn, which savours strongly of the Socratic disputant, and which probably procured him the name of the ^* philosopher of the theatre.

IT is said of Sophocles, that he painted men as they ought to be; of Euripides, that he painted them as they were; a quaint remark, which I shall leave the critics to comment and explain, only observing, that the latter is much more familiar than the former, descends much lower into private life, and consequently lets down in some measure the dignity of the buskin, which in Sophocles is always carefully supported: there are some scenes in Euripides where the ideas are so course, and the expression so low and vulgar, as, if translated with the utmost caution, would perhaps greatly shock the delicacy and refinement of modern manners; the feeling reader notwithstanding will be amply re­compenced by that large portion of the tender and pathetic, the peculiar excellency of this poet, which is diffused throughout his works; his chorusses are remarkably beautiful and poetical, they do not indeed, as Aristotle has observed, always naturally arise from and correspond with the incidents of the drama; this fault however his chorusses generally make amends for by the harmony of their numbers, and the many fine moral and religious senti­ments, which they contain.

UPON the whole, though Euripides had not perhaps so sublime a genius as Aeschylus, or a judgment so perfect as Sophocles, he seems to have written more to the heart than either of them; and if I were to place him with the other two in the school of paint­ers, I should be inclined, from the softness of his pencil, to call him the Corregio of the antient drama.

FROM the works of these three illustrious writers, and from them ^§ alone we must draw all our knowledge of the anti­ent Greek tragedy, which in the view we have here taken of it appears to be full, complete and perfect, and has been mise­rably disjointed and torn to pieces by the moderns: from the ruins of this noble edifice have arisen two very imperfect struc­tures, the opera and tragedy of latter times, both greatly though not equally defective, the former, confining itself merely to the eye and ear, makes but a slight impression on the mind, whilst the latter, from it's omission of the chorus, music, scenery, and deco­ration, falls short of that beauty and perfection, which is only to be found in the antient drama; we must at the same time fairly acknowledge that our manners and customs, our opinions, views, taste and judgment, are so different from those of Greece, that her drama is by no means in every respect a proper model and standard for modern poets, and must, after all we can ad­vance in it's favour, always remain among those reproachful mo­numents of the purity and simplicity of former ages, which we cannot imitate though we are forced to admire.

IT must be confess'd, that antient tragedy hath it's share with every thing else of human imperfection: too strict an atten­tion to the unities hath fetter'd and confined it; many of it's beauties are merely local and temporal; the plots are frequently [Page 57] uninteresting, and ill-conducted, the speeches either too long or too short, the expressions sometimes course and indelicate; in the general management and representation of the whole, too much is sacrificed to popular prejudice, superstition and vanity, the ruling passions of an Athenian audience: too strong an attachment to the laws, customs, and form of government then prevailing, threw a dull air of uniformity over the drama; the same story, the same characters and sentiments, even the same expressions too often occur in different tragedies; that simplicity, which so dis­tinguish'd the manners of the antients, had naturally it's influ­ence over their taste also; they selected one plain but noble ob­ject, and all the variety, which their dramatic poets aim'd at, or which the spectators required of them, was to place that in differ­ent lights, without suffering any other to intercept the prospect of it; they admitted no episodes, under-plots, or any of those extraneous incidental ornaments, which make up modern perform­ances, ^§ and confined themseves principally to the faults and perfections of the great, as Milton observes of them, ‘'High actions, and high passions best describing;’ But because their taste was more correct and severe, it doth by no means follow, that it was less true and perfect than our own: the moderns heap incident on incident, sentiment on sentiment, and character on character; a change, which is perhaps rather to be attributed to the corruption of our taste than to the improve­ment of it: it is always a mark of a vitiated stomach, when [Page 58] wholsome and natural food is rejected with disgust, and provo­catives used to raise the appetite; in the same manner, I cannot but be of opinion, that our impatient thirst after what critics affect to call business is nothing but the result of false taste, and depraved judgment: because antient tragedy is not crowded with a heap of unnatural episodes, stuff'd with similies, metaphors, imagery and poetical flowers, the moderns treat it with contempt, and find nothing in it but a poverty of sentiment, a want of order and connection in the scenes, a flatness and insipidity in the dialogue, a coarseness and indelicacy in the expression; but even if we should grant the truth of every objection, there would still remain, to compensate for all these real or seeming imperfections, a variety of true and striking beauties: in antient tragedy, and there only, we shall find a most exact and faithful picture of the manners of Greece, it's religious and civil policy, sublimity both of sentiment and diction, regularity, symmetry and proportion, excellent moral aphorisms and reflections, toge­ther with a most elegant and amiable simplicity diffused through every page.

IN a word, to affirm, as many who have more learning than judgment sometimes will, that there are no good tragedies but the antient, is the affectation of scholastic pedantry; to deny them their deserved applause, and treat them with ridicule and contempt, is, on the other hand, the effect of modern pride, ignorance, and petulancy: upon the whole, French, Italian, Spanish and German critics, may perhaps find some excuse for their severe animadversions on the antient Greek tragedy; it may exercise their envy, and find employment for their spleen and ill-nature, as they have nothing of their own to put in competition with it; but Englishmen should be above such envy, [Page 59] and such malevolence, because they can boast a dramatic writer, superior to all that antiquity ever produced: we may safely join with the most sanguine partisans of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, in the sincerest admiration of their several excellen­cies, and rejoice within ourselves to see them all united and surpass'd in the immortal and inimitable Shakespear.