eration of dramatic art, provided it is given a national and popular character, as with the Greeks. He says:
"I see for these ills but one remedy, and that is that we write our own plays for our own theater, and that we have dramatists in preference to actors. For it is not good to witness imitations of everything under the sun, but only of what is fitting for free men. The Greek plays, based upon the past misfortunes of the nation or the present faults of the people, might well offer useful lessons to the audience. … But the plays of the Greeks had none of the nastiness observable in the plays of our own time. Their theaters were not built for purposes of personal aggrandizement; theirs were not obscure prisons; the actors were not under the necessity of levying contributions on the audience, nor to count the number of spectators out of the corner of their eye, in order to be sure of their supper. Their grave and superb spectacles, given under the open heavens before the whole nation, presented nothing but combats, victories, prizes—things capable of inspiring emulation and sentiments of honor and glory in the breasts of all the people. These great plays were a constant source of instruction."
But Rousseau had another, a far more original and democratic idea for a people's theater: People's festivals. I shall touch upon this point a little later on.
At about the same time Diderot, the most enlightened and broad-minded of the geniuses of the
