DURING the last few months the Greek play has been an unfailing source of conversation, and, as was to be expected, a marked difference of opinion has been manifested concerning the proper mode of presenting the ancient tragedy. The ultra-Hellenic party could not abide the orchestra of forty, the supplementary chorus of sixty, the freedom of musical style, Jocasta's train, and other anachronisms. They said it would be an opera, not a Greek play. The modernizing party protested that Jocasta would look like a man if she had no train, that Greek music was luckily irrecoverable, that whatever the acoustic properties of the theatre of Dionysus may have been, a chorus of fifteen would never sound well in the theatre of the Harvard Didascaleium, and in general that we must not make the play ridiculous by intruding the obsolete. But those who have had the good fortune to be present at the performance of Tuesday or Thursday must admit that if the echoes from Sanders made Sophocles turn in his grave, it was with a sigh of relief that his immortal production had been at last freed from the conventionalities and restrictions of a Greek festival, and rendered with its full dignity, grace, and power. We went to see a piece of antiquarianism, and we came away feeling that we had indeed seen a tragedy.

Of Mr. Riddle's acting it is unnecessary to speak at length. No one needs to have his own good opinion corroborated. Mr. Opdycke certainly ranks second, and Mr. Guild takes the third place. For the rest, where warmth or individuality were wanting, we had the consolation of supposing that this deficiency only made the performance more thoroughly Greek.

The costumes were a perfect delight. It was as if the figures with which we are familiar in vases, paintings, and statuary had suddenly warmed into life, burst from their confinement, and appeared before us with all the grace of motion and the brilliancy of color. The most artistic dress was perhaps that of Jocasta on her second appearance. In general it may be said that the actors did not seem to feel quite at home in their drapery.

The music was remarkably well rendered. Mr. Osgood sang his solo with great spirit, but his voice was scarcely equal to the part. We cannot venture on a criticism of the composition, but we must mention the exquisite theme which appears at the end of the second chorus and elsewhere, and is indeed the gem of the opera. It shows the same sympathetic spirit which animates the slow movement of Mr. Paine's First Symphony, though the latter has more of voluptuous tranquillity and less of tear-starting pain. Let those who did not appreciate the passage pronounce this expression fantastic.

The merits of the music, and the special request printed at the end of the programme, should have prevented the uprising during the orchestral postlude. Shall it be necessary to restrain "a large and fashionable audience including all the local celebrities," by a provision that no one shall be let out until half an hour after the conclusion of the performance? This offence at all events is not to be laid at the door of Harvard students.

Mr. Paine, Mr. Goodwin, Mr. White, and Mr. Riddle were called for after Tuesday's performance, and Mr. Riddle was presented with a wreath of laurel. Were it not for the danger of misconstruction, we could desire some more substantial tribute of grateful regard; for few know at what expense of time and trouble he and the other gentlemen connected with the production of the play have labored to place before our eyes the majestic agonies of OEdipus the King.