Now we are all ready for the first play. The crier comes forward and proclaims that the tragic poet Euripides, or Phrynichus, or whoever it may be, will bring in his chorus. Everybody looks eagerly towards the entrance to the orchestra, and the fifteen performers file in, headed by their flute-player, and singing in unison as they come. When they reach their position in the flat circle, they form line three deep, the flute-player in the centre of the first row, with the leader of one semi-chorus on his right hand, and the leader of the other on his left. While they are singing, they dance also—not as we dance, but making simple graceful movements of the body to give emphasis to the words they sing. Whatever else they may do, they must say their words distinctly, so that everyone in the great audience can hear them; if they don't, the audience will soon let them know their mistake in a very uncomfortable fashion.

Now the first actor steps out on the low stage behind the orchestra, the chorus is silent, and the action of the play begins. But look at the actor. He seems a splendid figure from our seat in the huge semicircle, tall and stately, with magnificent robes, and strongly marked features. But if you could get close to him you would see that he is padded all round under his robes, to make him look bigger, that he walks in huge boots, whose cork soles are several inches thick, to give him a more majestic height, and that those strong features of his are nothing but a big mask covering his whole head. Of course, he can never change his expression. Whatever he may be saying, the words come always from behind that fixed impassive face, and if he wishes to show the audience that he has undergone disaster or sickness, he must go behind the scenes and put on another mask with the appropriate expression. It seems very ridiculous, and, if you were supposed to see him near at hand, it would be ridiculous. But remember you are in a great open space that can hold 30,000 people, and that we are all looking at the play from a considerable distance. Common features would look insignificant in such a place; ordinary stature would be dwarfed. And so the actor wears his stilt-like boots and his towering mask, and from your seat you only see that he looks tall and dignified, and has a strong face. His two companions in the work will be equipped in the same way as himself, only with masks and robes fitted in expression and character to the parts they have to play.

One thing the Athenian audience is very particular about. They insist on hearing every word that the actor has to say. His unchanging face and his big boots don't trouble them; but they are there to hear the play, and if the actor's voice does not carry to the farthest seat in the theatre, or if he shouts too loud in his effort to make himself heard, or if he pronounces a word wrongly, he will very soon hear of it, and not in any complimentary fashion. Above all, if he overdoes his part, and rants about the stage, his audience will very quickly tell him to stop "playing the monkey," and to act properly.

As the play goes on, and the speeches of the actors alternate with the songs and dances of the chorus, the spectators are wound up to great excitement. Indeed, it is just about as interesting to watch them as to watch the actors. If the play is pathetic, and the actors do it justice, you will see the whole vast gathering, perhaps, absolutely silent, clutching the sides of their seats, and gazing with painful eagerness at the stage; or perhaps they will start from their seats with tears and exclamations, and sway back and forwards as the strain of the action comes to a height. The Athenians love to have their feelings moved; but there are limits, and it is dangerous to harrow them up too much. Poor Phrynichus found that when he gave his play "The Sack of Miletus." His audience resented being made to suffer so much, and promptly inflicted a heavy fine on the too successful playwright.

On the other hand, if the play does not interest them, the audience is not slow to show disapproval. From all sides of the theatre comes a deafening chorus of whistling, clucking, banging of heels against the seats, till the unhappy actors are fairly driven from the stage. Sometimes, if an actor gets on the wrong side of them too much, they go even further, and pelt him with figs, or nuts, or whatever comes handiest. In fact a great Athenian orator once said of his rival, who had been an actor, that, when he was playing in the country, he was so pelted with figs and other fruit that he was able to set up a fruit-shop from the missiles gathered off the stage. However, that was probably a little bit of exaggeration, and, anyhow, the Athenians don't often go the length of throwing things, even at the worst of actors. They leave that to the provincials who know no better.

Three days of solid playgoing, tragedy all morning, comedy all afternoon, seems rather a surfeit to our minds; but you have to remember that it only comes once a year, and that even comedies are only staged twice or thrice in a twelvemonth. So our Athenian playgoers have plenty of time to think over and digest what they have heard. For weeks and months they will talk over the plays they have heard, and quote the finest passages, and repeat the jokes. But, before the great audience breaks up on the third day, the prizes have to be awarded. A list of representative citizens has been drawn up; ten of these are chosen by lot to act as judges; these ten write down their verdicts, and place them in a vessel prepared for the purpose. The first five of these judgments drawn haphazard from the vessel will determine the prize. So that what we arrive at is really pretty much the judgment of the average intelligent Athenian on what he has heard; and, on the whole, the result seems to have been fairly creditable to the good taste of the citizens. When the verdict has been given, a money-prize is awarded to the writers of the best tragedy and the best comedy, and to the best actor in each; while the citizen who has trained and equipped the best chorus is rewarded with a bronze tripod. Generally he is so proud of the honour that he does not keep it to himself, but either dedicates it in one of the temples, or builds a pedestal in the street, called Tripod Street, and sets his prize up there for everybody to see. Some of you, no doubt, have seen the Burns monument in Edinburgh, or on the Banks of Doon at Ayr. Probably you never thought of any connection between the Ayrshire ploughman-poet and the Greek theatre; but these monuments are just imitations, (not very brilliant ones,) of one of these old pedestals which an Athenian named Lysicrates set up in Tripod Street of far-off Athens to bear the prize which he had gained for training the best chorus in the Theatre of Dionysos.