heaven, flocked together and assembled in an enormous temporary build. ing; and among the numerous assemblies held on the same day for the same purpose, none can have been more picturesque. The vast crowd of Burmese, all dressed in their most brilliant silks and richest jewellery, were massed on each side of a central aisle and seated in the attitude of respect on mats spread on the ground, the men on one side and the women on the other, as in some modern churches; and the extent and stillness of the crowd, the sitting posture, the uniform beardless Mongolian faces, and the contrast between the gorgeous colouring of the silken turbans of the men and the shining black hair of the women decorated only with sprays of flowers, formed a singular and striking scene.

The ceremony of the proclamation was followed immediately by the presentation of medals and other marks of distinction to some of the most loyal native subjects of her Majesty, and then forthwith began the more popular business of the day in the dramatic performances.

From the centre of the building, prepared for the stage in the usual primitive fashion, are now seen advancing, in a long column towards the raised daïs set apart for the Government officials, a chorus of twenty Burmese girls. Tall and slight, they are dressed in a uniform of pale pink, gauzy material, which clings close to the figure, reaching to the feet, and is relieved only by drooping necklaces of silver or pearls. In her hand each girl holds à closed fan and a handkerchief. It is the best trained corps de ballet which the Burmese capital can produce, and is headed by the famous dancer, now almost at the end of her theatrical career, Yin-dau-mahlay, who, old as she is, looks in her ballet costume, and with the aid of cosmetics, almost childish in the youthful grace which she throws

into the dance. Utterly and entirely in contrast as the performance is with those of the ballet girls of the West, the movements are exceedingly graceful, and though slowly and quietly performed, are such as require both long study and a marvellous suppleness of limb. As they advance every movement is made in unison by the whole troop, gracefully swaying body and arms and keeping time to a soft chorus of their own voices unaccompanied by any instrument. In such order they advance to the foot of the dais, where they finally kneel in homage to the Imperial representative, and then retire in the same graceful fashion.

This is, however, only the prelude specially arranged for this occasion to the ordinary popular drama which immediately succeeds, commencing at nightfall and continuing without intermission till daylight. The accessories of this, the favourite entertainment of the Burmese, must be here shortly described.

When we come to compare the character and surroundings of the Burmese drama with those of the Western stage, the points of contrast are to those of resemblance as a thousand to one. The essential attraction of the drama is doubtless the same as elsewhere, the charm of the mirror held up to life, and revealing in action all the complexity of its joys and sorrows, its humour, irony, and pathos; but the resemblance hardly extends farther. In the first place, notwithstanding the popularity of the drama in Burmah, there are no permanent theatres in the country. A special building is erected whenever a company of players is engaged, and the universal bamboo and dah provide all that is required for the shelter of the company and audience. Beneath a temporary roof mats are spread on the level surface of the ground, which is usually quite uninclosed, and open

freely and without payment to the public, the sole restriction to the audience being the limits within which it is possible to see the actors and hear the dialogue, and the only passport to a good seat an early arrival. The stage is placed in the centre of the building, and consists merely of a vacant matted ring of a few yards in diameter round one of the posts which support the mat roof, and around this space on the same level are ranged the audience. Footlights are represented by a ring of blazing torches, or sometimes of lamps, planted round the central post and refreshed at intervals during the performance. Among these are hung the masks of the actors, heads of goblins and angels, lions and birds, and the quaint stiff dresses of pasteboard and tinsel and gilding, with huge projecting epaulettes, which, with bow or sword, complete the several impersonations.

Close round the stage, undistinguished at first sight from the crowd which presses hard

upon them, are seated the actors and actresses. The men are in ordinary Burmese costume except when taking part in the play: the faces of the women are rendered white almost to ghastliness with powder and cosmetics. The play is probably the representation of some wellknown classical legend (modern life is, I believe, never directly placed on the Burmese stage), such as one of those which represent the previous existences of Budha, and opens perhaps with a dialogue between an imaginary prince benighted in a forest and a beloo or man-eating demon by which the forest is haunted. The voices are pitched in a high key, and may be heard at a considerable distance, and the dialogue is interspersed with touches of humour, sometimes not the most refined, each hit being received with laughter by the appreciative audience. To one of the actors is usually

assigned the part of the clown in a pantomime, and his jokes and contortions give no less delight to the youth of Burmah than do those of the English clown to our children.

It is a wonderful and almost weird scene which presents itself on entering such a play-house. In the still tropical night an immense concourse of men, women, and children is seated in orderly fashion on the ground, in the dim light of an occasional torch or lantern; a cigar or cigarette is in nearly every mouth: there is a subdued hum of voices, a pervading cloud of tobacco smoke, and a din of barbarous music, and in the centre of the crowd, rising conspicuous in the smoke of flaring torches, flit to and fro the grotesque figures of the players, disguised as princes and ladies, spirits and monsters of various form. The only piece on the European stage which ever recalled to me the Burmese pooay was the drama entitled Babil and Bijou, in which the distant hollow voices resounding through the vast theatre, the subdued light and the fantastic forms and dresses, formed something like a civilised parallel to the rude drama of the far East.

Way is always made respectfully and good-humouredly for English visitors, who have no difficulty in securing a good place; but when once the quaintness of the scene has been fully studied, there is a wearisome monotony about the performance which soon tires the ignorant spectator. To follow such a drama so as to understand either plot or dialogue requires a very rare intimacy with the Burmese language and its various dialects; and even among officers whose daily duties necessitate a complete command over the colloquial, and who have made the language a careful study, there are probably few who could enter fully into the appreciation of the popular play.

During the performance a perpetual musical accompaniment is kept up with pauses at intervals for the dialogue, the most prominent instrument being a species of drum.

To a stranger the audience is not the least noticeable part of the spectacle. Whole families which have travelled for miles in their covered bullock carts, bringing their provisions with them, are seated in the

most picturesque groups. The elders are smoking leisurely and intent on the play, lovers are talking low, matrons are gossiping, with babies asleep in their arms, and children playing or sleeping soundly by their side: and on the outskirts of the assembly temporary provision stalls are erected, each seller being seated by a torch or lantern.

Such is the zat-pooay or regular drama, to which the principal crowd is attracted; apart from the main building there is also a booth contain

ing a minor stage, raised from the ground as in an English fair. Here a smaller group of spectators is attracted to witness the scarcely less popular acting and dancing of marionettes. These are worked with great skill, and, as the acting is accompanied by appropriate dialogue as in the old English Punch and Judy show, afford almost as much amusement as the regular play.

Thus throughout the night the crowd sits patiently and untiringly watching the performances of either kind, and it is not till the rising sun puts to shame the lurid torch-light that the play ceases (perhaps to be renewed on the evening of the same day), and the audience breaks up and quietly disperses.

It must be reserved to a future opportunity to sketch some other of the most characteristic scenes of popular life in this unique country. P. HORDERN.

1846, M. de Salvandy, the French Minister of Education, established what was called the 'Ecole Française,' at Athens, to maintain a few young graduates who had already won distinction in their studies, and seemed likely to turn to good account the opportunities of residence at Athens. The boon was little prized at first, and few competed for the vacant places; those who gained them were not always thought to turn their leisure to much profit. So, in 1850, a new rule was made, that every student should send home a memoir on some theme of ancient scholarship or letters, and two years later the Academic colony rose to sudden fame by the success of its member, Beulé, afterwards Professor and Minister of France. A notable discovery which he made took the fancy of the world of letters; the School of Athens rose in general esteem with the studies which it represented. Small as were its numbers, we shall find upon its roll the names of nearly all the French authors who have since done anything for classical antiquities or art. MM. Fustel de Coulanges, Perrot, Foucart, Dumont, Wescher, Heuzey, Burnouf, Gebhart, and others passed a year or two as members of the School, though proved to be ripe scholars already. Here and there perhaps the residence at Athens was only a pleasant interlude in a literary life, and left no lasting traces on the professional work of later days. To those who have since read the writings of the lively pamphleteer and novelist About, it may be a surprise to find that he began his career of letters with a grave memoir on the island of Egina, submitted to the approval

But

of the French Academy. commonly we find the year or two there spent gave a lasting bias to the future tastes. Essays were sent regularly home for the judgment of a Committee of the French Academy, abstracts of which were published in the Archives des Missions, or in the Revue des Sociétés Savantes, and of late in the Comptes Rendus de l'Académie. These have been in many cases since expanded into the works which fill a place upon our shelves. Among the old monuments of Athens and the many associations of the past they gained a truer insight into the principles of Hellenic art, and a fresher enthusiasm for its literary stores. They had there an easy starting point for antiquarian tours, in which the familiar knowledge of the language and the customs of the modern Greeks was of itself a signal gain. The friendly interests of the Academy at home gave a definite aim and stimulus to their studies. It was no slight advantage to be guided to the subjects which would best repay research, to the districts where the explorer's services could be most useful, and to the authorities who had opened up without exhausting the fields of study thus proposed. Year by year intelligent guidance and encouragement were offered, while the students for the most part availed themselves with ardour of their opportunities for travel and self-improvement. The experience of nearly thirty years convinced the learned world of France of the value of this institution, and in 1873 the Government decided to grant the same encouragement to classical archæology at Rome, by forming there a branch of the French School at Athens. It was thought

that a year or two of study in the great museums and galleries of Italy would form a valuable introduction to the special treatment of Hellenic art and history, while questions of philology and literary criticism, to which scant time as yet had been devoted by the members, would claim their share of interest when the advantages of great libraries with all their store of manuscripts were ready to their hands. Roman epigraphy was making every year great strides, and it had at Paris in M. Léon Rénier, the Professor, one of its ablest living representatives, but the interest which he had roused in younger scholars had been diverted seemingly to other fields of study, and needed more encouragement upon the soil of Italy. Meantime the foundations of old Rome were being ransacked, and on all sides the work of discovery was going forward, and the new comers could not fail to be stirred to enthusiastic study by all the incentives which they felt around them. For a year or so the branch at Rome consisted of three members only, but in 1875 the number was increased to six, besides one or more of riper years engaged on special missions. A decree definitely organised the institution, and brought it into regular relations with the Ecole Normale Supérieure, the Ecole des Chartes, and the Facultés des Lettres at Paris. It also defined with the help of the Academy the subjects of examination which future candidates must pass before election. As an experiment thus tested and approved seems worthy of our imitation here in England, it may be useful to justify some of the statements made, and to enter more into detail as to the nature and results of the work which has been thus far carried on. We may first notice the department of topography in connection with the architectural study of classical antiquities, for it was in

this that the earliest success was won by the French School. The Acropolis of Athens had been hopelessly disfigured in the course of ages. The soldiers of Sulla, Mediæval dukes, Venetians and Turks, had all done their part in destroying the beauty of the scene which Phidias had planned, till bastions and ruins blocked up to the height of forty feet the old approaches to the Propyla. But Beulé with the insight of genius pictured to his mind the earlier scene so clearly as to discern the point at which research would be rewarded, and had the happiness to lay bare the line of ancient walls, with the towers which flanked the gate, through which the road led up to the great flight of steps crowned by the pillars of the Propyla. His book on the Acropolis, published shortly afterwards, combines a history of its great monuments, as drawn from ancient sources, with an account of all the discoveries of works of art and of inscriptions made under his guidance. A few years afterwards the famous sanctuary of Delphi was successfully explored by two members of the School, MM. Foucart and Wescher. While wandering among the ruins of the temple, one of them was struck by an old peasant's talk about a subterranean access to the ravine which on one side the building overlooked. Following the track thus opened up to view, they not merely succeeded in uncovering the face of the old wall which served as the foundation of the temple, and thus laying bare a large area of masonry covered with long rows of marble tablets, but they also made their way into some chambers of the lower storey which were probably connected with the prophetic machinery of the ancient oracle.

After researches so successful at the great shrine of Delphi, it was natural to hope for some discoveries in the sacred isle of Delos. Accordingly in 1872 M. Lebègue with the