It is a large wooden structure, of the horse-shoe shape; the lower
seats arranged upon the Roman plan, but above them, great heavy
chambers; rather than boxes, where the Nobles sat, remote in their
proud state. Such desolation as has fallen on this theatre,
enhanced in the spectator's fancy by its gay intention and design,
none but worms can be familiar with. A hundred and ten years have
passed, since any play was acted here. The sky shines in through
the gashes in the roof; the boxes are dropping down, wasting away,
and only tenanted by rats; damp and mildew smear the faded colours,
and make spectral maps upon the panels; lean rags are dangling down
where there were gay festoons on the Proscenium; the stage has
rotted so, that a narrow wooden gallery is thrown across it, or it
would sink beneath the tread, and bury the visitor in the gloomy
depth beneath. The desolation and decay impress themselves on all
the senses. The air has a mouldering smell, and an earthy taste;
any stray outer sounds that straggle in with some lost sunbeam, are
muffled and heavy; and the worm, the maggot, and the rot have
changed the surface of the wood beneath the touch, as time will
seam and roughen a smooth hand.
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