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Full text of "[The code of Terpsichore. The art of dancing, comprising its theory and practice, and a history of its rise and progress, from the earliest times ... by C. Blasis ... Translated under the author's immediate inspection"




BY C. BLASIS, Principal Dancer At the King's Theatre, And Composer of Ballets 

Translated, Under the Author's Immediate Inspection, BY R. BARTON. 






THE works hitherto published on the Art of Dancing, the composition and performance of Ballets
and Pantomimes, are few in number, and, in the opinion of those who are best qualified to judge,
deficient in sterling merit and general utility. The subject has certainly been treated by
Noverre in a masterly manner, considering the time when he wrote, and the apparent intention
of his labours; he threw many new and brilliant lights upon the art, but his letters were more
adapted to instruct the Professor than to improve the pupil, even at the time of their publication;
and the art has since advanced with such rapidity, that his works are now of little use to either.
The greater part of those who have written on this subject seem to have been persons of taste,
talent and learning; but they, evidently, were not dancers: so that, however attractive their
productions may be to the general reader, the lounger, or the literary man, they are of little
practical utility to the Mime, the Dancer or the Ballet-master. They contain a string of theoretic
and unconnected ideas, but do not develope the powers and practice of the art, in all its various
branches. In fact, a practical work adapted to the present day, and calculated at once to assist
the professor, to enlighten and amuse the amateur, and to instruct the student, appeared to
have been a desideratum. Impressed with the truth of these remarks, after several years of
study, research, and practical experience, encouraged by many, whose opinions he values
most highly, emboldened by the flattering reception which several of his papers already published
on different portions of the subject met with on the Continent, the Author resolved on undertaking
the composition of a work on the origin and progress,-the theory and practice of dancing, and
the composition and performance of the Pantomime and Ballet. He has proposed ameliorations
as he advanced, and offered a new method of instruction, which is more certain, as well as shorter,
than those at present followed: he has endeavoured to give a greater latitude to Pantomime
than the art has hitherto been allowed; to apply the rules and various styles of the regular
drama to the composition of Pantomime; to show that Ballets should not be mere divertissements
or dancing spectacles; that the art not only aspires to, but can even give evidence of, her rightful
claim to a higher rank among her sisters, than many persons, judging Only from what they have
seen, may be induced to imagine; that all the passions of the human heart,-the comic and the
serious, the terrible and the ludicrous, have been, and still may be, perfectly expressed
by a skilful Ballet-master and an accomplished Mime. He has attempted to treat the subject
in such a manner as to enlighten and instruct those who profess or study the art, without becoming
dull or uninteresting to the general reader of taste and education. Such have been the Author's
objects; enamoured of his art, and zealous for its advancement in a great, a learned, and a polished
nation, his most ardent desire is, that the present work, which has been conceived and executed
in the heart of England, may meet with a favourable, or rather an indulgent, reception from
its people, and be in some measure conducive to their pleasures, by tending to ameliorate one
of their most elegant and rational amusements. 


"- Terpsichore - "D'Euterpe aimable soeur, comme Euterpe on l'encense, "Et mariant sa marche
au son des instrumens, "Elle a le meme trone, et les memes amans." Dorat . 

The study of the Fine Arts is the most pleasing occupation to which the human mind can be dedicated.
It entertains us; and the clouds which the labours and cares of life often cast over our spirits
are, for a while, agreeably dispersed:-nor is amusement the only advantage attending this
study; its utility is also very conspicuous. The knowledge of one branch or other of the fine
arts has immortalized many men; and some nations, by moral superiority, which their cultivation
has given them over others, have been rendered for ever illustrious and celebrated. 

The countries where a Newton calculated infinity; where a Shakspeare and a Milton wrote; where
a Bramante and a Michael Angelo built; where Raphael painted, and where Cinna, Athalie, &c
., were composed, are the first countries in the world. The rest, with regard 1 to the fine arts,
are but mere barbarians or children, notwithstanding their antiquity, and all that nature
has done for them. 

I have, in these preliminary remarks, perhaps, departed from my subject; but let the motive
plead my excuse. The arts are linked together in one and the same chain; poetry, music, painting
and dancing bear a strong affinity to each other, and the enjoyments we derive from them merit
an equal gratitude and homage; and most enviable are they whose souls are susceptible of the
pleasures which they inspire. 

"Le veritable esprit sait se plier a tout; On ne vit qu' a demi quand on n'a qu'un seul gout." Voltaire

Singing, no less delightful than natural to man, must, in its progress have inspired him with
certain gestures relative to the various sounds which he uttered. His breast became agitated;
his arms opened or approached each other; his feet began to form certain steps, more or less
rapid; his features participated in these movements; in short, his whole body was soon responsive
to the sounds that vibrated in his ears. And thus singing, which was the expression of one pleasure,
gave rise to another, innate, but till then unknown; to which we have given the name of dancing.
Such were unquestionably, the primitive causes of the origin of this art. 

Music and dancing have a very strong ascendancy over our intellectual faculties "La musique,"
says d'Alembert, "tantot douce et insinuante, tantot folatre et gaie, tantot simple et naive,
tantot enfin sublime et pathetique, tour a tour nous charme, nous eleve et nous dechire." 

The powers of this enchanting art are well known to every one. The learned Saverio Mattei relates,
that the republic of Rome had expressly established a college of Tibicini, whose device was
composed of the five following letters: Q.S.P.P.S. " qui sacris publicis proesto sunt ." They
were held in high estimation, and treated in an honourable manner; they might even aspire to
the first dignities in the commonwealth. Sometimes they were priests of Jupiter and augurs;
at others, admirals of fleets, captains of legions, commanders of the cavalry, &c., and History
speaks of them in many places 1 . 

The name of the Muse, Terpsichore, who presides over the dance, is composed of two Greek words,
, to delight, and the dance; and the name of the Muse Euterpe, who presides over music, is derived
from two words, well, and to delight. 

The former appears to have been created for climates that are under the influence era torrid
sun. It is a pleasure everywhere-there it is a passion; warmed by an incessant heat, the glowing
constitution of the native of the South, contains the seed of every pleasure; each moment of
his rapid existence seems to him made only for enjoyment. q he inhabitant of the North, forced
by nature to maintain a constant combat with the rigours of the seasons, seldom aspires to delight.
His whole care is engrossed in securing himself from snows and frosts. The roughness of his
manners almost extinguishes his sensibility; and the delicate sentiments that voluptuousness
imparts are to him wholly unknown. 

How could dancing, that amiable offspring of pleasure, display her gracefulness and attractions
amid perpetual ice and never melting snows? 

Music and dancing are nearly coeval with the world. The Egyptians, the Persians, the Indians,
the Jews, and the Arcadians, the most ancient of nations; Amphion, Orpheus, Chiron, Thamyris,
the prophetess Miriam, David, and others, together with the dances that the 1* Israelites
performed in honour of the golden calf, proclaim its antiquity. These two arts were in the sequel
reduced to certain rules and limits by ingenious and inventive artists. 

We are informed by Moses that the inventor of music was Jubal, who was of the family of Cain; and
that his brother, Tubalcain, was a worker in brass and iron 3 . It is, therefore, to be supposed
that he conceived the idea from the reiterated blows of his brother's hammers on the anvil,
the sounds of which induced him to compose musical tones, and regulate their time and cadence.
But Macrobius and Boetius give the honour of the discovery to Pythagoras, which he made in a
similar manner. They say, that as the philosopher passed by a forge, he remarked the sounds
that issued from the anvil as the hammers struck on it in rotation; and the variety of notes thus
produced, gave him the first hint towards laying down rules for the art of melody. 

With respect to the origin of dancing, Burette has gathered the following information from
ancient writers:-Opinions do not agree as to the names and country of those from whom the Greeks
received the first lessons of such an exercise (dancing). Some pretend, and amongst the number
Theophrastus, that a certain flute player, named Andron, a native of Catania, in Sicily, was
the first who accompanied the notes of his flute with various movements of the body, which fell
in harmony with his music; and that it was for this reason that the ancient Greeks expressed
the verb to dance by , wishing it thereby to be understood, that they originally derived dancing
from Sicily. 

Lucian attributes its invention to Rhea, who taught it to her priests in Phrygia, and the Island
of Crete 3 . Others suppose that it is owing to the Tomans, or, at least, that it was they who brought
it to perfection. These last seemed more than any other people destined by nature to practise
it. They excelled in voluptuous dances. 

Dancing and music were more particularly cultivated by the Greeks than by the rest of the ancients.
The Athenians were fond of the former in the extreme. Plato and Socrates approved of it; the
Thessalians and Lacedemonians deemed it equal in rank, with any other of the fine arts 4 . 

Cliophantes, of Thebes, and Eschylus greatly advanced the progress of dancing. The latter
introduced it in his pieces, and, by uniting together all the imitative arts, gave the first
models of theatrical representations. Painting had a great share in adding to their charm,
and the pencil of Agatharcus, under the directions of that celebrated dramatist, traced the
first ornaments of a stage. This Agatharcus wrote a work upon Scenic Architecture, which must
have then been very valuable and useful. 

A few centuries afterwards, when the Romans exhibited magnificent and ravishing spectacles
in the same style as the Greeks, dancing obtained the praises Of Lucian, Apuleius, Martial,
Seneca, &c., and was especially practised in pantomimes, a sort of performance wholly unknown
to the Greeks. These pieces were composed of comic or heroic subjects, expressed by gesture
and dances. The names of Pyladus, and Bathyllus, the original authors of the pantomimic art,
remain celebrated on the pages of history, as famous performers of these kind of ballets, then
called Italic dances . 

"La Pantomime est due a l'antique Italie, Ou meme elle eclipsa Melpomene et Thalie." Chenier

The Romans were all enraptured with these pantomimes and blessed the tyrant (Augustus), whose
policy well knew how advantageous it was to him to afford them amusement. The primitive Romans
called dancing Saltatio , and the Greeks, Orchesis . Salius, an Arcadian, was the first who
taught the former the Ars Saltationis . With them, therefore, the original dance was the Salian,
which consisted in the imitation of all the gestures and motions that man can possibly make.
In this class of gymnastics, the mimicks and buffoons usually exercised themselves. 

According to the information we derive from such authors as have treated of the dances of their
times, I am of opinion that this Saltation , properly so called, must have been something very
similar to the grotesque kind of performance so prevalent in Italy, a few years ago, but which
seems at present almost banished from the theatres of that country, The Italian, grotesque
is nothing but leaps, tumbling, feats,of strength, &c. and cannot be endured except in ballets
of the burlesque and extravagant kind. Marino describes a grotesque actor in the following

"One who ventures on prodigious exertions, so extraordinary, and so dangerous, that they
inspire at once both horror and admiration 5 ." 

The corruption that had crept into the theatrical exhibitions of ancient Rome, induced Trajan
to forbid them entirely; in consequence of which they were for awhile abandoned, Some time
after that emperor's death, they again made their appearance, but still accompanied with
the same obscenities, to which they owed their decline. The christian pontiffs, therefore,
followed the example of Trajan by prohibiting them again. 

At length, after a lapse of some ages, modern Italy brought forth Bergonzo di Botta, the reviver
of dancing, music, and histrionic diversions. He signalized himself in the fate which he prepared
for Galeazzo, Duke of Milan, on the marriage of that prince, with Isabella of Arragon 6 . The
taste and magnificence displayed in this superb festival at Tortona, was imitated by all the
principal towns of Italy, who seemed eager to concur in the regeneration of those agreeable

Italy has, at different times been the garden of every art and science. It was there that Dante,
Columbus, Galileo, and Machiavel were born; and there also was the enchanting Terpsichore
honoured under a more pleasing and elegant form, than antiquity had bestowed upon her. 

"D'ogni bell' Arte non sei madre, o Italia? Silvio Pellico . 

We may, therefore, say that the Italians were the first to subject the arms, legs, and body to
certain rules; which regulation took place in the sixteenth century. Before that time they
danced, in my opinion, much in the same manner as the Greeks and Romans had done before them,
which was, by giving high leaps, making extravagant contortions, uncouth and indelicate
motions, and resting in the most unbecoming attitudes. A common-place practice was the only
instruction such dancers received 7 . The greater or less pleasure they enjoyed in their performance,
occasioned them more or less to excel. Dancing (as an art)was then only in its infancy. 

Taste and experience having, at length, established precepts whereby the steps, attitudes,
and motions, were systematically arranged, all was done afterwards, according to method,
and in strict harmony with the time and cadence of the accompanying music. The works of the best
sculptors and painters must have served as models towards the attainment of grace and elegance,
in the various positions adopted in dancing, as they did to the Greeks and Romans in their dumb
shews, &c. Dancing thus made rapid strides towards being perfected and rendered a more pleasing
and imitative art; especially when united with pantomime. 

Dancing, pantomime, and histrionic splendour have, in our days, been carried to the highest
point of perfection. With respect to magnificence, truth of imitation in costume and scenery,
nothing can be compared to the theatres of the principal towns of Italy-none can be admitted
to dispute with them the palm of excellence, but the opera of Paris, and the theatres of Drury
Lane, and Covent Garden, of London. One reason that may be urged for Italian superiority in
theatricals, is, that the inhabitants of that country greatly resemble their ancestors,
the Romans, when the universal cry was "Panem et Circenses!" The taste and style of the present
decoration, the powers of our machinery, and the talent now displayed by performers, far surpass
the infantine attempts of the ancients. 

Notwithstanding the vicious taste, and even ignorance, with which our forefathers are reproached
by modern innovators, we have not extended much beyond them the principles of the art. Our execution
is unquestionably more graceful, complicated, and bold than that of our old masters; but,
is it not to them that we are indebted for our pre-eminence? They afforded us the means of surpassing
them; they showed us the paths that led to perfection; they pointed out the goal to us, and we
attained it. 

I will prove this by quoting a few stanzas from Marino's celebrated poem of Adonis , which will
also serve as an authority for what I have said concerning the origin of modern dancing, and
Italian dancers. The amateur will find in them many interesting details, and the professor
much useful knowledge of his art. I have never seen any thing so truly descriptive and pleasing.

The poet exaggerates at times, but that is a prerogative of his muse; all he says is, however,
in the order of possibilities. He enables us to judge of the state in which dancing was, two centuries
ago; and the parallel that I shall draw, by means of notes, between the steps and attitudes those
of those times, and such as we now practise, may be of some interest to the reader. 

Marino displays much taste and knowledge in the art, which he here treats of. What he tells us
of Terpsichore, fully explains to us the improvement of which dancing was susceptible at its
origin. This modern Ovid, in the twentieth canto of his poem, makes Venus institute games to
celebrate the obsequies of Adonis. All the divinities assemble to dispute the different prizes.
The muse of dancing bounds into the lists, and pompously exhibits her skill. The following
is the animated description which the enthusiasm of the poet has produced:- 

"- Soletta a ballar resta in disparte Tersicore, che diva e di quell' arte. 

Si ritragge da capo, innanzi fassi, Piega il ginocchio, e move il pie spedito, E studia ben come
dispensi i passi 8 , Mentre del dotto suon segue l'invito 9 . Circonda il campo, e raggirando
vassi Pria che proceda a carolar piu trito, Si lieve, the porria, benche profonde, Premer senz'
offender le vie dell' onde 10 . 

Sul vago pie si libra, e il vago piede Movendo a passo misurato e lento, Con maestria, con leggiadria
si vede Portar la vita in cento guise e cento 11 . 

Or si scosta, or si accosta, or fugge, or riede, Or, a manca, or, a destra in un momento 12 , Scorrendo
il suol, siccome suol baleno Dell' aria estiva il limpido sereno 13 . 

E con si destri, e ben composti moti Radendo in prima il pian si ayvolge ed erra, Che non si sa qual
piede in aria roti, E qual fermo de' due toechi la terra. Fa suoi corsi, e suoi giri or pieni, or
voti, Quando l'orbe distorna, e quando il serra, Con partimenti si minuti, e spessi, Che il
Meandro non ha tanti reflessi 14 . 

Divide il tempo, e la misura eguale, Ed osserva in ogni atto ordine e norma, Secondo che ode il
sonatore, e quale O grave il suono, o concitato ei forma, Tal col piede atteggiando o scende,
o sale, E va tarda, o veloce a stampar l'orma 15 . Fiamma ed onda somiglia, e turbo, e biscia, Se
poggia, o cala, o si rivolge, o striscia 16 . 

Fan bel concerto l'un e l'altro fianco Per le parti di mezzo, e per l'estreme, Moto il destro
non fa che subit' anco Non l'accompagni il suo compagno in sieme 17 . Concordi i pie, mentre si
vibra il manco, L'altro ancor con la punta il terren preme. Tempo non batte mai scarso, o soverehio,
Ne tira a caso mai linea, ne cerchio 18 . 

Tien ne' passaggi suoi modo diverso, Come diverso e de' concenti il tuono. Tanti ne fa per dritto,
per traverso, Quante le pause, e le periodi sone. E tutta pronta ad ubbidire al verso, Che il
cenno insegna del maestro suono, Or si avanza, or si arretra, or smonta, or balza, E sempre con
ragion si abbassa ed alza 19 . 

Talor le fughe arresta, il corso posa, Indi muta tenore in un istante, E con geometria maravigliosa
Apre il compasso delle vague plante, Onde viene a stampar sfera ingegnosa, E rota a quella del
payon sembiante, Tengono i pie la periferia e il centro, Quel volteggia di fuor, questo sta
dentro 20 . 

Sul sinistro sostiensi, in forme nove L'agil corpo si ratto aggira intorno, Che con fretta
minor si volge e move Il volubil paleo, l'agevol torno. Con grazia poi non piu veduta altrove
Fa gentilmente, onde parti ritorno. Si erge, e sospende, e ribalzando in alto Rompe l'aria
per mezzo, e trincia il salto 21 . 

Il capo inchina pria che in alto saglia, E gamba, a gamba intreccia, ed incroelcchia, Dalle
braccia ajutato il corpo scaglia, La persona ritira, e si rannicchia. Poi spicca il lancio,
e mentre l'aria taglia, Due volte con l'un pie l'altro, si picchia, E fa battendo, e ribattendo
entrambe Sollevata dal pian, guizzar le gambe 22 . 

Poiche ella e giunta in su quauto piu pote, La vedi in giu diminuir cadente, E nel cader si lieve
il snol percote, Che scossa, o calpestio non se ne sente, E t el veder con che mirabil rote Sullo
spazio primier piombi repente, Come piu snella, alfin che strale, o lampo, Discorra a salti,
e eavriole il campo 23 . 

[See Translation at the end of the Notes.] 

Setting aside poetical exaggeration this gives us a tolerably good idea of the estimation
in which dancing was held in the 16th century, and of the manner in which it was executed. Connoisseurs
will best appreciate its merit. 

Italian dancing was universally applauded, and excited the admiration and imitation of foreigners;
among whom the Spanish were the first to follow it. They at first partially succeeded; the use
of the castagnettes, which they added, produced a pleasing effect; but having in the sequel
incorporated with it a multiplicity of leaps, capers, uncouth postures, and, in short, the
most graceless and extravagant motions; the art of dancing in Spain became a degradation and
a vice, whilst in Italy it preserved a certain dignity and decency. This corruption in style
and taste among the Spaniards, must be chiefly attributed to the Chica , a dance of a very immoral
nature, which the Moors had brought with them from Africa 24 . The native of the Peninsula, under
the influence of the climate where he is born, and with the natural heat and vivacity of his constitution,
eagerly received the Chica , which soon became one of his chief delights. To this dance I therefore
ascribe the indelicacy, and sometimes even the lasciviousness so common in Spanish dancing.
The Chica afterwards changed its name to that of Fandango , of which Dr. Yriarte speaks in the
following terms:-"The melodious Fandango that spreads a joy through the souls of natives
and foreigners, of sages and old men."-( Abridgement of the History of Spain .) 

I cannot here omit the charming description which Marino, in the above quoted poem, gives of
this dance. The poet records the true manner in which it was performed in his time; and his time
was nearly that of its origin. 

"Due castagnette di sonoro bosso, Tien nelle man la Giovinetta ardita. Che accompagnando
il pie con grazia mosso Fan forte ad or ad Or scroccar le dita. 

Regge con timpano l'altro il qual percosso Con sonaglietti ad atteggiar l'invita; Ed alternando
un bel concerto doppio Al suono a tempoaccordono lo scoppio. 

Quanti moti a lascivia, e quanti gesti Provocar ponno i piu pudici affetti, Quanto corromper
puo gli animi onesti, Rappresentano agli occhi in vivi oggetti. Cenni, e baci disegna or quella,
or questi, Fanno i fianchi ondeggiar, scontronsi i petti, Socchiudon gli occhi e quasi infra
se stessi Vengon danzando agli ultimi complessi." 

[See Translation at the end of the Notes.] 

The Fandango cannot be described in a more exact and lively manner. The mode of its execution
at present is much the same. Marino declaims against its immorality and the abuse that was made
of it in Spain and afterwards in Italy. He calls it 

- oscena danza. Pera il sozzo inventor, che tra noi questa Introdusse primier barbara usanza.
Chiama questo suo gioco empio e profano Saravanda 25 , e Ciaccona 25 , il novo Ispano * . 

The Fandango, we thus perceive, again changed its name, but suffered little variation in its
character. It was introduced into Italy but performed with more restraint. Almost every Spanish
dance, such as the Bolero , the Cachucha , the Seguidillas , of Moorish origin, are imitations
of the African Fandango or Chica . They are therefore all marked with that voluptuousness,
I might even Say obscenity, which characterised their model. 

Dancing, far from being, as among other nations, an innocent amusement is, with the Spanish
an excitement to vice and immorality. Compare the national dances of the former with those
of the latter, we shall see that the Chica , the Fandango , the Sarao 27 , and a few others, bear
the stamp of the strongest, deepest, and most immoderate passion, whilst the Tarantella ,
the Fourlane 28 , the Contredanse 29 , the Provencale , the Mazourque , commonly called la Russe
30 , l'Ecossaise, l'Allemande, la Hongroise , &c., all well known popular dances, are kept
within certain limits and forms, far more creditable to society. 

The Neapolitan Tarantella is, of all modern dances, the liveliest and most diversified, but
like the Sicilienne , it possesses much similitude to the Fandango. Both are, I believe (but
particularly the former), a mixture of Spanish and Italian dancing, and must have had their
rise on the introduction of the Spanish style into Italy. 

The Tarantella 31 is the national dance of the Neapolitans. It is gay and voluptuous; its steps,
attitudes and music, still exhibit the character of those who invented it. 

This dance is generally supposed to have derived its name from the Tarantella , a venomous spider
of Sicily. Those who have the misfortune to be bitten by it cannot escape dissolution but by
a violent perspiration, which forces the poison out of the body through the pores. As exercise
is the principal and surest method to effect this perspiration, it was discovered, by repeated
experiments, that music was the only incentive to motion on the unhappy sufferers. It possessed
the power of making them leap about, until extreme fatigue put an end to their exertions. They
then fell, and the sweating thus occasioned, seldom failed of effecting a radical cure. 

The music best adapted to the performance of this kind of miracle; is excessively lively; its
notes and cadences strongly marked and of the 6/8 measure. The reiterated strains of these
triolets , together with the vivacity of the movement, are capable of electrifying frames,
whose total derangement appears on the point Of depriving them of animation 32 . 

Whether the Tarantella dance was first used as a remedy for the bite of the spider, or whether
the attitudes and gestures with which the music inspired the sufferers, gave the first idea
of forming them into a dance, it is impossible to determine; but it owes its origin unquestionably
to that complaint. 

Love and pleasure are conspicuous throughout this dance. Each motion, each gesture is made
with the most voluptuous gracefulness. Animated by the accompanying mandolines, tambourines
and castagnettes, the woman tries, by her rapidity and liveliness, to excite the love of her
partner, who, in his turn, endeavours to charm her with his agility, elegance and demonstrations
of tenderness. The two dancers unite, separate, return, fly into each other's arms, again
bound away, and in their different gestures alternately exhibit love, coquetry and inconstancy.
The eye of the spectator is incessantly diverted with the variety of sentiments which they
express; nor can any thing be more pleasing than their picturesque groups and evolutions.
Sometimes they hold each other's hands, the man kneels down whilst the woman dances round him;
then again he rises; again she starts from him, and he eagerly pursues. Thus their whole dance
is but assault and defence, and defeat or victory appear equally their object. 

The fall of certain powers in Italy, occasioned a decline in dancing and ballets. The Italians
lost their taste for these amusements, and seemed to transfer them to the French. Catherine
de Medicis made them the chief ornaments of her court. Baltaravim, a very successful director
and composer, greatly advanced their progress, and did with respect to ballets, what Jodelle
had already done with regard to tragedy. To Triffino, and to these two ingenious men, we are
indebted for our theatres, tragedies, and ballets. 

The encouragement which histrionic diversions received from Louis XIV., contributed in
a powerful manner to their cultivation. This gay and liberal monarch ruling a nation ever devoted
to pleasure, was particularly partial to ballets: he introduced them in all his fetes, and
the gardens of Versailles have been the scene of many a spectacle of this kind, exhibited in
a style of unprecedented splendour and magnificence. The Chevalier Servandoni, a famous
architect and perspective painter, offered to the public, on various theatres, a multiplicity
of pieces, wherein music, pantomime and machinery were agreeably combined. This Florentine
must be considered as one of the chief promoters of theatrical ballets, 

"Ou tous les arts enchantent tous les sens * ." Bernard . 

Hence arose that scenic grandeur which the talents of successive artists, and especially
those of the present age, have at length brought to so high a point of perfection. 

The Parisian dancers established the real method of attaining a graceful and dignified execution;
and the French school of dancing acquired a pre-eminence over all Europe, equal to that of the
Italian school of music. A pre-eminence which both nations have ever since preserved. 

Lany, who has obtained some reputation as a dancer of the demi-caractere , ranks first among
the ballet-masters of the opera of Paris. Beauchamps, the director of the ballets of Louis
XIV. 33 , Sodi, a famous pantomimic performer, De Hesse and Malter, were regarded as the best
composers of their period. Pitrot succeeded them, and feeling in himself a capacity for heroic
compositions, he brought forth his ballet of Telemachus , which met with considerable applause.
His cotemporaries, Picq, an excellent dancer of the serious kind, Gaspard Angiolini and Canziani,
distinguished themselves in the tragic line. Noverre came next, and carried stage-dancing
many degrees towards perfection. Dupre, G. Vestris, Pitrot, and Gardel, the elder, were reckoned
among the best of their time. Dumoulin surpassed them but little; he excelled in pas de deux
, and in his style of accompanying his partner in the different groups and attitudes. Fossan
disputed the palm with him in the comic and pastoral.-Of the other sex, the most celebrated
dancers were the Melles Salle, Lany and Camargo, who followed and surpassed the Melles Guyot
and Favier; the first was a very graceful dancer of the graver sort, the second of the demi-caractere
, and the third principally excelled in cross capering, and in dancing to the liveliest tunes.
Prevot was her equal. Beauchamps, Pecour, Blondi, Ballon, Laval, Javilliers, Lepi, Melles
Heinel, Pelin, &c., hold also an honourable rank among the disciples of Terpsichore. Melles
Guimard and Allard, their successors, eclipsed many a name by the gracefulness and brilliancy
of their steps. 

Dauberval shone in the comicline, and that of the demi-caractere; P. Gardel in the serious,
and A. Vestris in a combination of both. These three, together with Laborie, Deshayes, Duport;
Mesdames Chameroy, Gardel, Gosselin, 2 the elder; Melles Leon, Fanni Bias, and Bigottini,
all estimable supporters of the honours of Terpsichore, gave the finishing touches to this
delightful art. 

Messrs. Dauberval and Gardel stand pre-eminent as composers. The Telemaque and the Fille
mal gardee of the former are justly regarded as perfect models of serious and of comic ballets;
whilst the Psyche, Achille a Scyros, Paris and La Dansomanie of the latter, are proofs Of his
excellence in the mythological and anacreontic branch. He was also a fertile inventor of steps
and dances. Didelot, the pupil of Dauberval obtained a brilliant success by his Flore et Zephyre,
Psyche and Cendrillon; Coinde, author of the Amours de Venus Pygmalion , and la Double Fete
, acquired an equal share of applause, and Clary of Milon, by his Nina and his Ulysse; Blache
by his Almaviva et Rosine , and his Filets de Vulcain; and, finally, Aumer, by his Antoine et
Cleopatre and his Somnambule , merit recording, as ingenious improvers in the composition
of ballets. 

Whilst dancing was making these rapid strides towards perfection in France, the degenerate
taste of Italy was turned wholly on uncouth and graceless pantomimes. But the introduction
of French composers and dancers, who were received there with applause and much encouraged,
contributed in no small degree to ameliorate the style of performance in that country. 

Noverre composed many of his ballets at Milan, from whence his method and taste began gradually
to spread through the principal towns of Italy. He had a number of Italian pupils, among whom
D. Rossi, F. Clerico, P. Franchi, Mazzarelli, P. Angiolini, and J. B. Giannini deserve to be
mentioned, as artists who raised dancing from the abject state in which it was then languishing;
but it is to Vigano and Gioia that dancing is indebted for its principal improvements. 

As the Italians, in general, prefer strong emotions of terror in their theatrical amusements,
their ballet-masters have Chiefly succeeded in historical and tragical subjects. The French,
on the contrary, are fond of the soft sentiments of refined love and tenderness; their composers
dedicate themselves, therefore, almost exclusively to the anacreontic kind 34 . 

From all that I have hitherto said, we perceive that poetry, music and dancing, have agreeably
occupied every nation. These arts, which are innate in man, could not, from the pleasure they
afforded, fail of being cultivated. They were duly appreciated and esteemed. The orientals,
from whom we received our first instructions in every thing, speak constantly in their favour.
We all know how much music, and dancing in particular, are valued and practised among the Chinese,
and cannot but own that these three arts have possessed an absolute sway over all those nations
that enjoy a clear atmosphere and a beautiful sky. 

The Iroquois, and even the Hurons, have their dances, their pantomimes and their music. The
Italian comedians (in 1725) gave a very curious novelty at their theatre, in Paris, which occurs
to me as a proof of my argument in the foregoing paragraph:-"Two savages, about twenty-five
years of age, tall and well made, (says the author of the Mercure de France , Vol. II.) who lately
came from Louisiana, performed three different sorts of dances, together and separately,
and that in such a manner as not to leave the least doubt of their having learnt their steps and
leaps at an immense distance from Paris. Their gestures are, undoubtedly, very easily understood
in their country, but here nothing can be more difficult to make out. The first dancer represented
a chief of his nation, rather more modestly dressed than the Louisianians generally 2* are,
but not so much as wholly to conceal his nakedness. He wore on his head a kind of crown, of considerable
size, adorned with feathers of different colours. The other had nothing to distinguish him
from a common warrior. The former, by his manner of dancing, and his various attitudes, expressed
to the latter, that he came with a proposal of peace, and therefore, presented to him his calumet
, or standard. After this they performed together the dance of peace. The second dance, which
was warlike, exhibited an assembly of savages, who appeared to be deliberating as to a war against
some other nation or tribe. They represented in their different gestures all the horrors of
a combat. Those whose opinions were in favour of war joined in the dance, and thus expressed
their votes. The third dance was performed in the following manner:-the warrior, armed with
a bow and quiver full of arrows, pretended to go in quest of the enemy, whilst the other sat down
and beat a kind of drum or tymbal, not larger than a common hat. Having discovered the enemy,
the warrior returns and informs his chief of it. He then imitates a fight, wherein he pretends
to have defeated the enemy; after which both perform the dance of victory." A little episode
of love introduced in this pantomime would almost turn it into a good modern ballet. 

The pleasures of dancing are universally known, at least to those who practice it: such as do
not, cannot be deemed competent judges. Let us, therefore, now examine its utility. This is
not the slightest of its advantage, nor that which must excite the smallest interest. 

Dancing was upheld, no less than music, as an object of much importance by the ancients. Religion
claimed it as one of her chief ornaments on all solemn occsaions, and no festivals were given
without uniting it to the other ceremonies or diversions. The holy writings mention it in many
places. It was not only reckoned in a high degree honourable, but, as Pariset and Villeneuve
observe, it was the object of a number of laws, made by various ancient legislators, who introduced
it into education, as a means of strengthening the muscles and sinews; of preserving the agility,
and developing the gracefulness of the human frame. 

Plato, the gravest philosopher of antiquity, did not consider music and dancing as mere amusements,
but as essential parts of religious ceremonies, and military exercises 36 . In his books of
laws he prudently prescribed such limits to music and dancing as were most likely, in his judgment,
to keep them within the bounds of utility and decency. The Greeks frequently amused themselves
with dancing, and carefully practised it, on account of its immediate tendency to the improvement
of gesticulation, from whence it derived the name of Chironomia 37 . Theseus, Achilles, Pyrrhus,
and even Socrates 38 , as also many other illustrious men, often diverted themselves by means
of this art. In short, from the remotest ages a multiplicty of high authorities have successively
proved that dancing tends equally to our amusement and to our instruction. 

The whole body moves with more freedom, and acquires an easy and agreeable appearance. The
shoulders and arms are thrown back, the inferior limbs attain greater strength and elasticity,
the muscular masses of the hips, thighs and legs, are symmetrically displayed, the feet are
constantly turned outwards, and in the gait there is something peculiar, by which we immediately
discover a person that has cultivated dancing. Dancing is of signal service to young people,
at that time of life when motion is almost a natural want, and the exerting of their strength
is the surest means of increasing it. 

All persons, whatever may be their condition in society, wish for strength and activity; all,
I may next venture to say, are, or would be, glad to possess physical beauty. It is a natural desire.
And among those whose rank or fortune enables them to frequent good company, there are very
few who do not wish to unite to those three qualities, elegance of carriage and deportment.
Now nothing can render the frame more robust and graceful than dancing and pantomimic exercises.
Every other kind of gymnastics strengthen or beautify particular parts, whilst they weaken
others, and make them in a manner difform . Fencing invigorates the arms and legs, but renders
the rest of the frame somewhat unshapely. Horsemanship increases the thickness of the loins
39 , but debilitates the thighs. In short, all other exercises leave something disagreeable
about those who practice them; neither singly nor conjointly, can they bestow that becoming
aspect and those agreeable manners which dancing, when well taught, never fails to impart.
By it the head, arms, the hands, legs, feet, in short all parts of the body are rendered symmetrical,
pliant and graceful. 

Dancing is extremely useful to women, whose delicate constitutions require to be strengthened
by frequent exercise, and must be very serviceable in relieving them from that unhealthy inaction,
to which so many of them are usually condemned. 

Captain Cook wisely thought that dancing was of special use to sailors. This famous navigator,
wishing to counteract disease on board his vessels as much as possible, took particular care,
in calm weather, to make his sailors and marines dance to the sound of a violin, and it was to this
practice that he mainly ascribed the sound health which his crew enjoyed during voyages of
several years continuance 40 . The dance they generally indulged in is called the Hornpipe;
is of a most exhilarating character, perhaps more vivid than the Tarantella dance. 

Bodily exercise, says an English writer, is conducive to health, rigour, liveliness, a good
appetite, and sound sleep; but a sedentary occupation occasions many derangements in the
nervous system, which sadden, and often shorten existence, disturbs repose, produces a certain
disrelish for every thing, and brings on a continual languor and listlessness, of which it
is sometimes difficult to dicover the cause. 

The most celebrated disciples of Hippocrates concur in recommending dancing as an excellent
remedy for a number of diseases 41 . Tissot absolutely orders it to be practised in all schools,
for the minds of young persons, burthened with continual study, require some amusement above
the trivial kind, on which it may fix with pleasure. Phaedrus gives us a hint on this subject.

"Cito rumpes arcum, semper tensum habueris At si laxaris, quum voles, erit utilis. Sic ludus
animo debet aliquando dari, Ad cogitandum melior ut redeat tibi." 

Anaxarchus, the Scythian, used also to say that it was often necessary to amuse ourselves by
games or other diversions, so that the mind, after tasting a little useful repose, might return
with increased vigour to the exercise of its delicate functions. 

A laborious and painful life are a capital regimen for melancholy and sadness. 

Dancing ought to form a part of the physical education of children, not only for their better
health, but also to counteract the many vicious attitudes and habits which they too often contract.

The art of dancing is not only necessary, but almost indispensible to those who are fond of society.
The manner of presenting one's self, and of receiving others, in company, with a graceful propriety,
and the easy and polite demeanour which is so becoming in society, is acquire most effectually
by those who have studied the art of dancing. 

I shall now conclude by remarking that dancing, besides the amusement it affords, serves to
improve our physical, and even to animate our moral powers; gives relief in certain diseases,
affords a cure in others, promotes the harmony of society, and is a most requisite accomplishment
for all who have the happiness to possess a good education. 

"- Quacunque potes dote placere, place."- Ovid . NATIONAL DANCES. THE CHICA. 

The Chica was brought to us from Africa, where every tribe dances it, particularly the Congos.
The Negroes carried it with them to the Antilles where it soon became naturalized. 

This dance was so universal throughout South America and the West Indies, that at the commencement
of the present century it was still danced in all religious ceremonies and processions. The
nuns during the night of Christmas eve showed themselves to the public through the gratings
of their convents, expressing, in the voluptuous agitations of the Chica, the joy they felt
for the birth of the Son of God, who came to take away, by his death, the sins of the world. This
dance is passionately admired among the Creoles, who enthusiastically adopted it on its introduction
among them. 

America is not the only country that has been influenced by Africa in dancing; for, from the
Moors it was that Spain first received that dance now so peculiar to it, the Fandango, which
is nothing else than the Chica, under a more decent form, the climate and other circumstances
not permitting the performance of this latter with all its native concomitants. 

The origin of this dance it is very difficult to discover; but every thing in it seems to be the
effect of a burning climate, and ardent constitutions. 

The Chica is danced to the sound of any instrument whatever, but to one certain kind of tune,
which is in a manner consecrated to it, and of which the movement is extremely rapid. The woman
holds one end of a handkerchief, or the two sides of her apron, and the chief art on her part consists
in agitating the lower part of the loins, whilst the rest of the body remains almost motionless.
A dancer now approaches her with a rapid bound, flies to her, retires, darts forward a-fresh,
and appears to conjure her to yield to the emotions which she seems so forcibly to feel. 

When the Chica is danced in its most expressive character, there is in the gestures and movements
of the two dancers, a certain appearance more easily understood than described. The scene
offers to the eye, all that is lascivious, all that is voluptuous. It is a kind of contest, wherein
every trick of love, and every means of its triumph, are set in action. Fear, hope, disdain,
tenderness, caprice, pleasure, refusals, flight, delirium, despair, all is there expressed,
and the inhabitants of Paphos, would have honoured the inventor of it as a divinity. 

I will not attempt to say what impressions the sight of this dance must occasion, when executed
with all the voluptuousness of which it is susceptible. It animates every feature, it awakens
every sensibility, and would even fire the imagination of old age. 

The Chica is now banished from the balls of the white women of South America, being far too offensive
to decency; and is only sometimes performed in a few circles, where the small number of spectators
encourage the dancer. 

At Cairo, where there are no theatres, there are a sort of actors, or leapers, who go about to
private houses, and represent various scenic performances, wherein the most licentious
and obscene attitudes bear a strong resemblance to the Chica, and the ancient mimics. Many
of the Greek and Roman dances may be compared to the Chica and Fandango, and especially those
practised at the time of the decline of dancing in both nations, when this art naturally became
an object of contempt among men of taste and morality. 

I am almost inclined to believe that the Chica owes its origin to some of the ancient dances.
Greece, so fertile in productions of every kind, and which gave birth to Socrates and Diogenes,
Phocion, and Alcibiades, Homer, and Aristophanes, Agoracrites 43 , Cleophanes 44 , Callipides
45 , all of most extraordinary, but opposite, talents, Greece, I think the most likely nation
to have created this voluptuous dance. The dance of the Angrismene, usually performed at festivals
in honour of Venus, and still very common among the modern Greeks, may bear me out in my opinion.

The Angrismene , or la Fachee (the angry maiden), is performed by two persons of different sexes.
A young girl first appears dancing (the music plays a languid andantino); after she has gone
round in a glissade kind of step, a young man presents himself, also dancing; he plays about
her with a handkerchief he holds in his hand, and attempts to approach her, but she, by her countenance
and motions, expresses her scorn and contempt, and runs away. The lover exhibits much grief
on seeing himself thus rejected, and accuses fate for his ill fortune. He however, again advances
towards the object of his love, and seeks to move her compassion, but the young girl, proud of
her advantages, again drives him from her, and forbids him to mention his love. In the mean time
the steps and motions of both dancers are in perfect concert with the music, and express with
precision the sentiments of anger and love. At length, the young man seeing himself so inhumanly
treated, trembles with fury, and knows not on what to resolve; after a short time, however,
he decides on adopting violence. She then darts a severe and threatening look at him. He becomes
motionless, sighs, and gradually seems to give himself up to despair. He turns his fervid eyes
upwards, and conjures heaven to put an end to his existence, then tying his handkerchief round
his throat, pulls it very tight, and appears on the point of falling. The maiden immediately
runs to support him, and deplores her unnecessary rigour. She unties the handkerchief, calls
her lover, and endeavours, by every means, to reanimate him; he gradually revives; the languishing
voice of his mistress strikes his ear, he looks around him, finds himself in her arms, and his
happiness is complete. Joy then unites the hearts of the two lovers, and they swear to each other
eternal fidelity. Their dance then regains its former liveliness, and becomes the interpreter
of their reciprocal sentiments. THE SPANISH DANCES. 

The Spanish dances, both from their character and variety, always excite the curiosity of
men of taste, and more especially of the lovers of the art of dancing. That pretty little performance,
The Progress of the Fandango , a highly boasted dance, is one of the proofs which, backed by the
decision of the Spaniards, establishes the Fandango as the leading dance of Spain, and as the
one which stands in the highest estimation. Their other dances are scarcely any thing more
than imitations of it, and are looked upon but as second-rate. 

The attitudes, and the graceful and voluptuous groupings of the Fandango, the cadences and
thrillings of the music, have a most potent effect upon every spectator, and the Spaniards
give a loose to ecstatic feeling whenever they witness the above-mentioned dance. 

As an investigation and minute description of these dances seem requisite with the nature
and subject of the present work, I feel myself called upon to present them to my readers. They
will behold in these pastimes-these imitative exercises of the Spaniards-depicted a transcript
of their character and their taste. 

In their steps it is the lightness, the grace, the elasticity, the balance, which are remarkable;
and the majestic movements express those feelings which determine the national character;
namely, hauteur, pride, love, and arrogance. 

In the execution of the Spanish dances, the arms are always expanded, and their movements,
let them be in what direction they may, always undulating. They at times represent the generous
sentiment of an absolute protection of the object beloved, at other times they describe with
vivacity the tender feeling it inspires, and the sincerity of the avowal. The eyes, oftentimes
directed towards the feet, glance over every part of the body, and testify the pleasure which
symmetry of form inspires them with. 

The agitations of the body, the footing, the postures, the attitudes, the waverings, whether
they be lively or dull, are the representatives of desire, of gallantry, of impatience, of
uncertainty, of tenderness, of chagrin, of confusion, of despair, of revival, of satisfaction,
and, finally, of happiness. 

It is from these different gradations of the passions that the description and nature of the
Spanish dances are characterized, in which the minds and manners of those who invented them
are so faithfully pourtrayed. Thus we see an enamoured Roderic at the feet of a Chimene, and
a Bohemian heroine of Cervantes, or the respectful gallantries of the ancient Spanish heroes
of romance. We have already observed that some of the Spanish dances trace their origin from
the American dances; we must also observe that the Moors, from having inhabited Spain, and
introduced their customs there, may lay claim to some part of the honour attributed to the Americans.

The Fandango is danced by two persons, and accompanied by the castanets, an instrument made
of walnut wood, or of ebony. The music is in the time of 3/8, and is a rapid movement. The sound
of the castanets, and the movements of the feet, arms, and body, keep time to it to the greatest
nicety. It is all life and action in the Fandango. 

It was formerly danced much more generally by persons of quality, after the regulations enacted
for the theatre, which introduced more dignity, more formality, and unaccompanied by the
slightest movement that could give offence to modesty, or shock good taste. 

The lower orders, amongst whom this dance is in high request, accompany it with attitudes which
savour of the vulgarity of the principal performers, and their extravagant movements never
slacken, never cease, till they are fairly tired out. THE BOLERO. 

The Bolero is a dance far more noble, modest, and restrained, than the Fandango; it is executed
by two persons. It is composed of five parts, namely-the paseo , or promenade, which is a kind
of introduction; the traversias , or crossing, to alter the position of the places, which is
done both before and after the differencias , a measure in which a Change of steps take place;
then follows the finales , Which is succeeded by the bien parado , a graceful attitude, or grouping
of the couple who are dancing. The air of the Bolero is set to the time of 2/4; there are some, however,
in the time of 3/4. The music is extremely varied, and full of cadences. The air or melody of this
dance may be changed, but its peculiar rythmus must be preserved, together with its time, and
its flourishes, which latter are called also false pauses . The steps of the Bolero are performed
terre a terre; they are either sliding, beaten, or retreating, being always, as it were, clearly

When the Boleros are sung, and accompanied by a guitar, they are called Seguidillas Boleras
. The great difficulty of this dance consists in resuming the part called the paseo , which is
immediately after the first part of the tune in the prelude of the accompaniment, which precedes
the estribillo . The estribillo is that part of the couplet, not indeed where the moral is found,
but Which contains the epigrammatic point or turn. THE SEGUIDILLAS MANCHEGAS. 

These Seguidillas , which are danced by four, six, eight, or nine persons, are far more rapid
in their movements, beginning without the paseo . The traversias of it is shorter, and its bien
parado is without gesture. This dance is very sprightly in its motions, and a great favourite
with the lower orders, who give themselves up to it with a peculiar zest. It is of Moriscan origin.

The name of this dance is a word applied to caps, fans, and an infinite number of articles, which
are thus promiscuously termed, by way of abreviation. 

The Cachucha Solo , danced either by a man or a woman alone, though better suited to the latter,
is admirably calculated to accompany the medley of music peculiar to this dance; which is sometimes
gracefully calm, sometimes sprightly, and sometimes impassioned. THE SEGUIDILLAS TALEADAS.

This dance is a species of the Bolero, mingled with some measures of the Cachucha . THE MENUET

A Minuet partly composed of the Fandango. THE MENUET ALLMANDADO. 

A Minuet intermixed with steps from the Allemand. THE GUARACHA. 

This dance, the music of which is in 3/8, is danced by one person, accompanied by the guitar.
Its movement, which should grow progressively quick, renders it rather difficult. It is now
but seldom danced, and never except at the Theatres. EL ZAPATEADO. 

This is the same sort of movement as the Guaracha , and is in the time of 3/8. There is in this dance
a considerable noise made by the feet. Its steps are struck, as it were, similar to the Anglais
and the Sabottiere . EL ZORONGO. 

This dance has given name to a head-dress for women, which in Spain is composed of ribands, mingled
with the hair. Its steps are simple, following a very sprightly movement, and are practised
backwards and forwards; while sometimes the hands are clapped to the time. EL TRIPILI TRAPOLA.

This dance is nearly similar to the Zorongo, excepting that it finishes with three demi-tours
or half-turns. 

The original character of these dances, their pleasing and varied figure, exciting, as they
do, tender and agreeable feelings, have always obtained for them a marked preference. With
respect to these peculiar qualities, there are few dances of other nations, worthy of being
compared with them. 

The music that accompanies them, or rather that inspires them, is so harmonious, and of a melody
so sweet and original, that it finds an instantaneous welcome into the heart, which it delights;
and extremely insensible must that person be who does not feel those emotions which it is calculated
to inspire. The great Musician of the age corroborates my assertion, by the introduction which
he has composed to these charming airs, in several of his fine performances. The exquisite
taste, in short, of Rossini is my guide. 

Another circumstance, which renders this dancing still more seducing, is the picturesque
costume of the dancers; than which nothing can be handsomer in design, or more beautiful in
its ornaments and variety of colours. The striking features of the Spanish girls also, their
expressive looks, their light figure, which seems formed for the dance, and adorned with their
elegant apparel, their fancifully laced sandals, all conspire to raise delight in the spectator.
We can imagine, while these Bayaderes are dancing, that some picture of Titian or Veronese
has become animated. 

Many of our readers will remark that we have omitted those dances called the Follies d'Espagne
, the Follies of Spain. It is generally believed that this is a dance very much practised and
admired in Spain; but we must observe that the air was originally composed by Corelli, and so
universally practised by the Spaniards, that they became crazed with it. It was first sung,
then played on instruments, and finally danced. Any kind of step was adapted to it, every one
forming for himself a measure, according to his own peculiar taste and style. 

It may not, perhaps, be found unacceptable if we add some etymological explanation of those
characteristic words by which the Spanish dances are designated. We have, therefore, undertaken
the attempt, notwithstanding the great difficulty with which it is attended, owing principally
to the total deficiency of the Spanish Dictionary in this respect. Its definitions are never
sufficiently precise to allow of a determinate conclusion being drawn from them. 

The word Bolero-Saltationis Hispaniae genus , is derived from the verb volar , or from the Spanish
noun volero , which is the same as volador , the sense of which has probably been applied to the
Bolero , from the lightness with which it ought to be executed. 

Seguidillas means no more than continuation , and indeed the air of the Seguidillas is the same
as the Bolero , continued by the voice, and followed with a flourish of the accompanying instrument.

The adjective Taleadas is taken from the word taleo , which signifies a noisy amusement . 

The adjective Manchegas signifies of La Mancha , a southern province of Spain, between Andalusia
and New Castile. 

Cachucha; this word is not to be found in any dictionary of the Spanish language. It is customary
to apply this word to a fair, a bird, a little cap, and, in short, to any thing that is graceful
or pretty. In the language of the Andalusian Gittanos, the word cachucha signifies gold. In
a still more elevated style, cachucha means that 3 part of the quiver in which Cupid puts his
darts. Sagitta capsula in pharetra . The following verses may give an idea of the general sense
in which this word is applied by the Spaniards. 

"Mi Cachucha por la mar A todos vientos camina, Pero nunca va mejor Que cuando va de bolina."

Imitated . 

My Cachucha , haste o'er the seas, When gentle gales are blowing; But when the winds of winter
roar, Ah! do not think of going." 

The word Fandango means go dance . 

Afandangado is any thing belonging to the Fandango. 

Guaracha is an expression of the Negroes, signifying liveliness. 

Zapateado , means performed by the motion of the feet. 

Tripili trapala , are only expressions used to signify a certain modulation of the voice amongst
the Gittanos, or Andalusian gipsies. NOTES. 




Dialogue upon Dancing . 


Lucian has informed us. They saw that it was requisite to have different kinds, and they accordingly
divided them in the following manner:-the Cordax , the Sicinnis , and the Emmeleia . Emmeleia
was a sort of tragic movement or ballet, of which the elegance and majesty were greatly celebrated
by Plato, and other eminent men who make mention of its use. Sicinnis was a dance so called from
the peculiar shaking of the body, and violent motion of the limbs, practised in it. ( Vide Athenaeus
.) This dance must be considered of the grotesque style. Cordax was a loose kind of dance introduced
into comedies, performed by persons elevated with wine. ( Vide Ath .) This dance was void of
all dignity and decorum; its movements were gross and ridiculous; those who executed it made
the most indecent motions with their backs, hips, and loins. This exhibition, therefore,
I suppose, may be compared to the Dythyrambic dance of the Bacchanals. In short, certain songs
of a violent and infuriated character were sung in honour, of Bacchus, and, at the same time,
accompanied by dances of the above description. Pyrrhic or warrior dance. ( Vide Meursius
Antiq. Graec. de Salt. verbo . IIIPPIXH. * 

" Pyrrhicam . Ea Saltationis species est, nomen ab inventore sortira, quem alii Pyrrhum Achillis
filium, alii Pyrrhum quemdam Cretensem, vel etiam a ratione Saltaudi quod Pyrrichii pedis
modulo soleret agitari, de quo pede, Quint. Lib . IX. Cap . 14. Haec fuit Saltatio, ut plures
existimanto armat, pro juvenibus ad militarem disciplinam exercendis: varii enim illius
morns et flexus, vitandu vel in ferendae plagae reddebant idoneos."- Casaub . 

Vide Plat. de Leg .) 

5. This kind of performance, bad as it is, has nevertheless, in our days, met with a zealous supporter,
who has had the boldness to insert, in a newspaper paper of Turin, an article where he speaks
of the theatre Carignan, and much in favour of his beloved Grotesques. This singular amateur,
after lavishing a thousand praises on dancers far beneath the middle order, adds:-"The grotesques,
B. A. S. &c., must also be mentioned with praise, as performers who do their utmost to dignify
this style of dancing, which, I know not why, was for some time almost generally proscribed
in Italy, its native country. It often serves to give a relief to that tedious sameness of grave
steps, which serious dancers have introduced." To the reader who is acquainted with the grotesque
style, I will leave the task of commenting on these extraordinary words. Were the arts to possess
no other connoisseurs and amateurs than such as are of this stamp, we should very soon fall back,
I think, to the thirteenth century. Let us conclude with Boileau, that 

" Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire ." 

It is, however, nearly the same style as that of the English clowns. 

6. See Encyclopedie Francaise , Art. Bal . 

7. Those who are desirous of knowing in detail what dancing was among the ancients, will gather
much information from Lucian, Meursius, Scaliger, Cahusac, Menetrier, Bonnet, Burette,
Brown, Baron and some others. 

8. The dancer prepares for the performance of his step. He studies to adopt the most becoming
way of holding his arms, body, &c., and of moving his legs, so as always to preserve a perfect
harmony with each other. We now do precisely the same when on the point of beginning to dance,
that every thing may be graceful and systematical. 

9. The steps must keep exact time to the music, and responsively mark each bar, each cadence,
&c. This unity is indispensable, and produces a very agreeable effect. Madame Leon excels
in this part of her profession. 

10. The dancer gradually introduces all that his art comprises. His execution must be progressive,
and managed so as to give a kind of light and shade to the performance. Vivacity and nimbleness
are essential requisites to a good dancer: the spectator delights to see in him an appearance
of something more than earthly . This is what is so much admired in Madame Leon, the wife of a distinguished
Ballet-Master, and occasioned the celebrated poet, Count Paradisi, to say in one of his finest
odes, which he may not be displeased with my quoting- 

"- l'agile Pie d'Egle (Madame Leon), la decente Mollezza, e la pieghevole Salma, che in alto
lieve Par che qual piuma o neve, Perda al vento di scendere il vigor." 

11. Uprightness and equilibrium are essential requisites. The grands tems must be made with
elegance and correctness. The dancer must endeavour always to display his person in a graceful
manner, and minutely vary his attitude at every rest. 

12. No monotony in the steps and entrechats . Let the charms of novelty adorn the performance
throughout. Our best masters do not speak otherwise than the poet. 

13. Rapidity gives a brilliancy to the steps, which renders their effect more delightful.

14. The modern Ovid, in this stanza, alludes to tems vigoureux , to tems enleves , to entrechats
, steps in turning round, pirouettes, &c. His description is a faithful painting of his thoughts,
and nothing could be said with more precision on the performance of the first dancers of our

15. Marino points out the harmony that must exist between the music and the dance, and how necessary
it is for the artist to render his legs, arms, and whole body responsive to the sound. This, together
with the skill of appropriating the steps to the time, cadence and character of the music, are
essential qualities in our art, and indeed the very life of it. 

16. Pliability, agility, and a kind of graceful negligence are the most pleasing things in
a dancer. I remember on one occasion dancing with Madame Leon a pas de deux , which I composed
myself, and wherein we each held one end era scarf, that contributed much to the variety and
novelty of our attitudes and groups. This excellent artist displayed, with the utmost gracefulness,
all the qualities I have above enumerated, all the charms that dancing possesses. The performer
must move with taste and decency, let nothing be unnatural, nor in the least lascivious; all
must contribute, as the poet says, to 

"- la decente Mollezza -." 

And this is precisely what the spectator should admire in artists of our class. Ease, elasticity,
gracefulness and decency, must be always preferred to the extravagant movements, contortions,
and grimaces of dancing Phrynes. 

Among the ancients there were two kinds of dancing: role for respectable and well bred people,
the other for debauchees and the vulgar. This distinction even existed in the time of Homer.-(
Vide Iliad, Book 13 th .) 

Many of our modern dancers might learn something from those of the age of Alcinous. 

17. Every part of the body must, in its motions, be in harmony one with the other. It is the acme
of perfection. 

18. These last verses unquestionably describe what we now call petits battements on the instep,
or ronds de jambe . The poet will have every thing done according to rules, and not as an effect
of mere chance. 

19. The author of the Adonis again reminds us of the concord between dancing and music. All must
be studied and duly performed according to precept. You must, nevertheless, endeavour to
conceal, by ease and variety, this systematical difficulty. 

20. The poet here presents us with an ingenious description of the pirouette . Its execution
and effect are painted in the truest manner. The dancer begins by turning a la seconde , and then
continues the pirouette with petits battements or ronds de jambe . 

"E'l corpo non leggiero e non gravoso D'intorno al centro si raggiri e volga."- Tasso 

21. The first four lines of this stanza show what rapidity pirouetting admits of, and what elegance
may be displayed in turning. The last lines speak of the preparation for, and effect of, the
cabriole . 

22. It is impossible to explain more minutely, or in a more poetical manner, the time of the entrechats
. These eight lines are admirable, and may serve as a lesson to dancers. Marino describes with
exactness the principal action, and every movement accompanying the spring from the ground.
But our dancers would not be much encouraged in those violent efforts, which, although natural,
are far from being graceful. The entrechat must be performed in an easy manner. The strength
of the instep and tension of the calves and loins give a sufficient impulse to the body. But facility
and elegance in doing this can be acquired only by dint of study, and constant practice. 

23. We have already observed that lightness, elevation, vivacity, vigour and elasticity,
are essential qualities to form a good dancer. The poet again introduces them to our notice,
and makes a proud display of them in the Goddess of dancing. 

24. Vide the Chica. 

25. This dance, in the course of time, changed its character into one of a nobler kind. The philosopher
of Geneva says, with regard to its music: Sarabande "Air d'une danse grave, portant le meme
nom, laquelle parait nous etre venue d'Espagne, et se dansait autrefois avec des castagnettes.
Cette danse n'est plus en usage, si ce n'est dans quelques vieux operas Francais. L'air de la
sarabande est a trois tems lents." 

26. The Chaccone , also degenerated in the days of our forefathers. The above quoted author
speaks of its music in the following terms:-"Chaccone, sorte de piece de musique faite pour
la danse, dont la mesure est bien marquee et le mouvement modere. La chaccone est nee en Italie,
et elle y etait autrefois fort en usage, de meme qu'en Espagne. On ne la connait plus en France,
que dans les vieilles partitions * ." We thus see that the Italians and Spanish now and then made
a mutual exchange of their national dances. 

The Minuet is, of all ancient dances, that which has continued longest in vogue. But it has undergone
various modifications and changes. It originated in Poitou, and after having acquired a little
dignity, became a particular favourite at all French and Italian balls. 

27. The Sarao is a proof of that abundance of national dances which the Spaniard possesses.
The Sarao is an assembly held at private houses during the carnival, and composed of young persons
of both sexes, in disguise, but unmasked. A woman, with a small basket full of silk sashes, of
different colours, stands at the door of the room where the Sarao is held, and presents a sash
to each lady that enters. Another woman distributes the same kinds of sashes to the gentlemen,
and each immediately sees, by the colour of his sash, the person who is to be his lady for the evening.
He approaches and salutes her, and remains at her feet during the whole time that the Sarao lasts.
He is even permitted to speak to her with all the love and tenderness he chooses, without her
taking the least offence. This is a custom that gives rise to numberless intrigues. The evening
terminates with dances, analogous to the character of the party. 

We observe in these balls and diversions, the Spanish disposition in its full extent. The passion
of love constantly transports the Spaniard, and appears conspicuous in every action of his
life. In France and in Italy, a public street, crowd, and disguise, often occasion many things
which they at the same time conceal; but in Spain there is no restraint, or at least there was
not when the Sarao was most in vogue. The inhabitants there gave full scope to their desires,
and did every thing publicly. The most select assemblies never restrain them. The only people
to whom, in my opinion, they may be compared are the Venetians, or rather the Venetians as they
were fifty years ago. 

28. Fourlane , a dance well known at Venice, and much in vogue among the Gondoliers. It is very
lively, and its music is 6/8 time, played in a molto allegretto style. It is called Fourlane
on account of its having been first danced in the Frioul, This dance is very similar to the Tarantella,
but not quite so diversified. 

29. Contredanse, a dance generally performed by eight persons, four men and four women. It
is of modern invention, and comprises a variety of steps, according to the nature of the music.
Liveliness is the characteristic of this dance, which has prevailed over all others. * It may
be varied ad infinitum , from the surprising number of evolutions which it admits of, and among
which the principal ones are the circle O, the half circle C, the cross , the cross of four *, the
chain XXX. Contredanses, quadrilles, and waltzes, the last of which took their rise in Switzerland,
are the most fashionable dances of the day. The performance of these should be easy, and the
steps executed elegantly; and brilliant gavottes are also now and then danced in genteel society,
but they require much more study and practice rice than the other three. 

30. This dance is graceful but affected. L'Ecossaise is all gaiety. L'Anglaise lively and

31. The description of this dance was translated into Italian, and inserted in the Aurora ,
a literary periodical paper published in London, and edited by Mr. F. C. Albites, professor
of Italian literature; but at present discontinued. 

32. Claritio and Serrao, two Neapolitan physicians, have proved by various experiments,
that all that has been said with regard to the bite of the Tarantella spider, is false. The terrible
accounts given of it arise from ignorance and prejudice, and are propagated by quackery. 

33. This artist had the honour of giving lessons to his sovereign. Lully associated himself
with him, and their united efforts brought forth those works which have since served as models
to the grand modern operas, whose greatest charms consist in music and dancing. Every one knows
how passionately fond Louis the XlVth was of theatrical representations. He often performed
in them himself. He danced with part of his court in the opera of the Temple de la Paix , which was
represented at his palace in 1685. The Princess of Conti, the Duchess of Bourbon, Mademoiselle
de Blois, Count Brionne, the Marquis of Mony, and other distinguished personages performed
the principal parts in the ballet. 

34. I shall speak in another place ( Composition of Ballets ) of these dancers, and of the different
sorts of ballets. 

35. In music, similar advantages were perceived. Architas, Aristoxenes, Eupolis, Aristophanes,
Cicero, G. Gracchus, Theophrastus, Micomachus Theodore, Pythagoras, and all his sect; Ptolomy,
Plato, Lycurgus, Boetius, all men of never-fading celebrity, whose wisdom and knowledge
do honour to philosophy and the sciences, culogized the art of music, approved of its practice,
and made it form a part of the education of youth. Cimon, Epaminondas, Appius Claudius, M. Cecilius,
L. Crassus, D. Sylla, and Cato, thought it not beneath their rank and glory to sing or play on
some musical instrument. Music was almost universally cultivated in Greece. Those who had
no knowledge of this art were in some measure despised and regarded as barbarians. 

The Arcadians, says Polybius, having despised the laws of harmony, fell from civilization
and humanity into a ferocious barbarism, and thenceforward were continually troubled with
dissentions. The natives of Gaul, on the contrary, who had formerly been savage and untractable,
became, by a different education, gentle and docile. 

Doctor Zulatti has also copiously treated of this matter, and with much good sense, as may be
seen in his dialogues. 

36. Rollin, Histoire Ancienne, Tom IV. livre 10, chap. 1 10, pp. 578 and 579. 

37. Fab. Quintil. Instit. Orat. lib. 1 cap. xi. 

38. Scaliger, Tom. III. page 13. 

Athenaeus, lib. 4. cap. 6. et lib. 1. cap. 19. 

39. Vide Dictionnaire des Sciences Medicales . 

40. Vide-idem. 

41. Music also has, at times, operated wonderful cures. Democritus and Theophrastus have
transmitted some of its miracles to posterity. Plutarch and Boetius have recorded the names
of Terpandre, Thales of Creta, Ismenie, Xenocrates, Hyerophilus, and a few others, who made
a valuable use of music to the same purpose. The modern Italian music is deserving of a similar

42. I shall demonstrate, in the part on Theatrical Dancing , by what means physical defects
in dancers may be in some measure concealed. 

43. The first Greek sculptor. 

44. The first Greek painter. 

45. An actor, dancer, and a famous mimic. FROM THE ITALIAN. 

Terspichore, the Goddess of Dancing, finding herself alone, betakes herself self to the pleasures
of graceful movements: first, she retires, then advances, displaying, as she lightly trips
along, a beauteous knee. Her attention is fixed, on the harmonious sounds, while she arranges
her steps in prelude 9 . She flies around her new theatre; her motion quickens, and her steps
increase; so bouyant she appears, that waves might well sustain her tread 10 . On her small foot
she pauses skilfully, and gives to every limb some graceful attitude 11 . Now, she seems to haste
away, and now again returns; now she vanishes, and now she re-appears. Darting from side to
side, she glances. over the ground 12 , as shoots the lightning suddenly through the serenity
of a night in summer 13 . 

By such well-studied motion, and so light, the. Goddess scarcely deigns to touch the earth.
She wantons gaily, and springs aloft with such velocity, that her winged feet deceive the sight,
and seldom can we detect which foot it is that prints the soil. Shooting along in airy bounds,
she traces circles with her limber feet; then, with step exact, retraces them, enlarging and
diminishing; as the dipping waves that dance along the bright Meander 14 , so are the motions
of her twinkling feet, whether on earth, or quivering in the air; whether she lightly trips,
or firmly treads the ground 15 . 

When she springs aloft she seems the spiry flame; and like the undulating wave, she skims along;
but her more stately turns assume the whirlwind's power, or seem like eddying billows by the
tempest stirred 16 . Harmonious symmetry prevails throughout her person. The attitude of
one limb induces corresponding motions in the rest. Each foot moves, but by mutual consent
it answers to the other in fraternal motion 17 . The strictest ties unite her to the measure,
never is a line mistaken, or a step misplaced 18 . The linked, and entwined figures of her dance
are varied to the change of melody; marking each note, and minding every pause, promptly she
obeys each phrase of music, which she respects as mistress of every motion. Now she advances,
stops, rises, leaps on high, or reverently bends, and then regains the upright attitude 19

Suddenly she pauses in mid-dance, assumes another attitude, and on the instant, her whole
style is changed; her feet separating, form a figure, unmatched in mathematics for precision;
she turns, and seems a moving sphere, resembling most perhaps the peacock's airy plumes. One
foot in the centre stays, while the other swiftly marks the outer round 20 . On her left foot her
figure rests, and adopting a new posture, she swiftly whirls around; with less rapidity the
darted Paleum flies. With grace inimitable she now regains the spot from whence she parted,
there stops, then leaps aloft, and hangs her feet on nothing, quivering in the air 21 . Again
she springs, and in that spring she strikes her feet twice together, and strongly agitates
every lower limb 22 . From her greatest elevation she descends, but slowly; and so lightly she
regains the ground, that no one can distinguish when her noiseless foot alights. Around she
flies! how admirable! and with what truth she finds again her first position! The darting lightning,
or the winged arrow, goes not a swifter course than she, while flying o'er the soil with agile
springs and airy bounds 23 . THE FANDANGO. 

A young girl, of bold character, places in her hand two castagnettes of sonorous wood. By the
aid of her fingers she produces a clattering noise, and to that she keeps time with the graceful
motions of her feet. The young man holds a tamboureen (or a tambour de basque , which, however,
is now out of use), this he strikes with little bells, seeming, as it were, to invite his companion
to accompany him in gesticulation. While dancing, both alternately playing the same air,
both keep time to its measure. 

Every description of lascivious motion, every gesture that is offensive to modesty, and whatever
can corrupt innocence and honesty is represented by these dancers, to the life. Alternately
do they salute, exchanging amorous looks; they give to their hips a certain immodest motion,
then they meet and press their breasts together; their eyes appear half closed, and they seem,
even while dancing, to be approaching the final embrace. PART THE SECOND. THEORY OF THEATRICAL

"Que la danse toujours, ou gaie ou serieuse, Soit de nos sentimens l'image ingenieuse; Que
tous ses mouvemens du coeur soient les echos, Ses gestes un langage, et ses pas des tableaux!"

You who devote yourselves to the enchanting Terpsichore, and aspire to an honourable rank
amongst her votaries; who are gifted by nature with every quality necessary to obtain admission
into her temples, and are predetermined mined to leave nothing undone that may aid in the accomplishment
of perfection, attentively observe the following instructions:- 

Success or failure in all studies, chiefly depends on the manner in which they are commenced.
Your first attention must be therefore directed to the choice of a master, with whom you may
run no hazard of being led astray. All professors have not issued from good schools, and few
have distinguished themselves in the art which they pretend to teach. Many there are of ordinary
abilities, who, far from increasing the number of good dancers, are daily diminishing it,
and whose defective mode of instruction imparts a variety of vicious habits, which the pupil
afterwards finds extremely difficult, nay sometimes, impossible to eradicate. Neither
follow the precepts of simple unpractised theorists, utterly incapable of demonstrating
clearly the true principles of the art: nor be guided by the imaginary schemes of innovating
speculators, who, whilst they think themselves contributing to ameliorate the elementary
rules of dancing, are gradually working its destruction. 

Carefully shun the baneful lessons of such preceptors; and seek to place yourself under the
direction of an experienced master, whose knowledge and talent will serve as true guides to
perfection, and point out the path that leads to pre-eminence. 

I shall in the next place recommend you seriously to consider your personal qualifications
and mental dispositions, for the art you attempt to learn. Can you be passionately fond of it?
Can your chief delight be concentrated in its study and practice? Are you in most respects adapted
to it? If in yourself you meet with a negative to these questions never expect to excel, nor even
to attain the order of tolerables and passables . 

Be not discouraged at difficulties. Every obstacle is surmounted by perseverance and reiterated
exercise. Remember the painter's advice to his pupils: Nulla dies sine linea . Nothing is of
greater importance in dancing than frequent practice; to masters even it is necessary, to
students indispensible. No other art demands a stricter attention in this particular; without
it, he that has made himself perfect cannot long remain so; he soon loses part of what has cost
him so much labour to acquire, his equilibrium becomes less steady, his springs less elastic,
and he at length finds, that through a remission of diligence, he has much to do over again. This
is not the case with music and singing; a good ear, a fine voice, are usually sufficient, with
a few years of moderate study, to conquer all difficulties. Nor does painting require such
intense application, both from learners and professors, as dancing, which, like all other
bodily exercises, cannot be acquired and retained without the utmost study and assiduity.
Remain not, therefore, twenty-four hours without practising. The pupil that frequently
interrupts his studies, opposes a considerable impediment to his progress. All the lessons
that he takes, when widely separated one from the other, can be of no service towards making
him a good dancer; and are little else than a loss of so much time, which I would advise him to spend
in a more profitable manner. Avoid, however, running into opposite extremes, for too much
practice is often as prejudicial as too little. Excess in every thing is a fault; let me remind
you of the philosopher's maxim: La moderation est le tresor du sage . 

Be temperate and sober if you desire to become a finished dancer. To render yourself capable
of sacrificing before the shrine of Terpsichore, partially renounce every pleasure but that
which the goddess affords. Let no other exercise be intermingled with dancing: horsemanship,
fencing, running, &c. are all powerful enemies to the learner's advancement. 

Do not rely on your own natural qualities, and therefore neglect to study or practise so much
as those to whom nature has been less liberal; for were you to possess the symmetry of an Apollo
Belvedere , or an Antinous 2 , together with the happiest endowments, you would have but little
reason to expect to attain excellence in your profession without study, industry, and perseverance.

"Non giova che tu sia bello e leggiadro: Sotto quel bello son bruttezze ascose." Riccoboni

Particularly attend to the carriage of your body and arms. Let their motions be easy, graceful,
and always in accordance with those of the legs. Display your form with taste and elegance;
but beware of affectation. In the lecon 3 and exercices pay an equal regard to both legs, lest
the execution of the one surpass that of the other. I have seen many dance with one leg only; these
I compare to painters that can draw figures but on one side. Dancers and painters of such limited
talent are certainly not to be considered as good artists. 

Take especial care to acquire perpendicularity and an exact equilibrium. In your performance
be correct, and very precise; in your steps, brilliant and light; in every attitude, natural
and elegant. A good dancer ought always to serve for a model to the sculptor and painter. This
is perhaps the acme of perfection and the goal that all should endeavour to reach 4 . Throw a sort
of abandon into your positions, groups and arabesques 5 ; let your countenance be animated
and expressive; siano le attitudini degli uomini con le loro membra in tal modo disposte, che
con quelle si dimostri l'intenzione del loro animo 6 . These words of the great Leonard should
be as deeply engraved in the memory of the mimic and dancer as in that of the painter. 

"Les gestes et les pas d'un mutuel accord Peignent ( de lame ) la meme ivresse et le meme transport."
Dorat . 

Be vigorous, but avoid stiffness; seek to acquire a facility of spring, that your entrechats
may be easy, precise, and well crossed. Rapidity is also very pleasing in a dancer; lightness,
still more so; the one imparts a brilliancy to his performance, the other has in it something
of an aerial appearance that charms the eye of the spectator. Observe the ballon; nothing can
be more delightful than to see you bounding with graceful elasticity in your steps, scarcely
touching the ground, and seeming at every moment on the point of flying into the air. 

Preserve a perfect equilibrium in the execution of your pirouettes, and be careful how you
begin and end them. Tread with assurance and uprightness, holding your body and limbs as the
following chapters will direct. Use your utmost endeavour to twirl delicately round on the
point of your toes; this is the most finished and agreeable style of execution; for what can
be more unpleasing to the sight than a heavy, clumsy, dancer, who twists about alternately
on his heels and toes, and uncouthly jerking his body at each revolution of his pirouette. 

Attentively study the invention of steps; try to vary incessantly your enchainemens , figures,
attitudes, and groups. "Variety is one of the great charms of nature; nor can you please the
beholder for any length of time, but in changing often your compositions."- Dauberval . 

Enchainemens in dancing are very numerous. Every good dancer has his peculiar mode of combining
his periods, steps, &c. Form, therefore, a style of your own, as originality is the chief means
to procure yourself distinction. By copying others you may, perhaps, sometimes excel; but
the absence of novelty will, unquestionably, deprive you of attraction. 

"Il en est de la danse comme de la musique, et des danseurs comme des musiciens; notre art n'est
pas plus riche en pas fondamentaux que la musique l'est en notes; mais nous avons des octaves,
des rondes, des blanches, des noires, des croches, des temps a compter, et une mesure a 4 suivre;
ce melange d'un petit nombre de pas et d'une petite quantite de notes offre une multitude d'enchainemens
et de traits varies; le gout et le genie trouvent toujours une source de nouveantes en arrangeant,
et en retournant, cette petite portion de notes et de pas de mille sen set de mille manieres differentes;
ce sont donc ces pas lents et soutenus, ces pas vifs, precipites, et ces terms plus ou moins ouverts,
qui forment cette diversite continuelle 7 ." 

Imitate a painter in your manner of combining and arranging; let all the objects of your picture
be in strict harmony one with another, the principal effect spirited, every tint (if the expression
be allowed as relating to the modulations of steps, attitudes, &c.) flowing into each other,
and the whole polished off with softness and taste. Keep a vigilant ear to the movements, rests
and cadences of the music, that your dancing may be in exact concert with its accompaniment.
Every thing depends on this melodious union, and, when really perfect, it is charming in the
extreme. Not an eye can follow the performer without delight, not an ear, however unsusceptible
of the impressions which music conveys, can listen without being worked upon by an assemblage
so ravishing and harmonious. 

Observe with attention, and judiciously examine all that concerns your art. Maturely weigh
every advice that is offered to you, and afterwards make use of it as your judgment best directs.
Disdain not to learn from an inferior. A bad dancer may, at times, have in his style of dancing
something good that had previously escaped your notice. A middling figurant, or even a man
utterly devoid of taste, shall now and then give you salutary counsel. 

Do not fear rendering yourself importunate to your teacher by questions; reason freely with
him upon the art you are acquiring: if you fall into an error, blush not to confess your mistake
in consulting him, but in every respect profit by his opinions, follow his directions and put
his precepts into immediate practice, that they may be thereby more firmly rooted in your memory.

Never depart from true principles, nor cease to follow the best guides. Above all, do not permit
yourself to be led astray by the example of some miserable performers, who enjoy for awhile
the applause of an ill-discerning public, by feats of strength, gambols and ridiculous pirouettes.
Be assured that the laurels of such pitiful dancers are seldom lasting. 

"- che non e assai Piacere a sciocchi o a qualche donnicciuola. Riccoboni . 

The approbation of men of distinction in the art, the only judges to be esteemed and consulted,
is ever a sufficient stimulus to the man of talent, who cannot but entertain a profound contempt
for that praise which fools lavish on every mountebank they behold. 

Ease and softness in the execution of your dance, I repeat, ought always to be aimed at. In this
acquirement you show that the exercise is natural to you, and that you have overcome the greatest
difficulty, namely, the concealment of art. 

When once possessed of this great quality, which I may term the highest step on the ladder of
perfection, you may claim every suffrage, and justly merit the name of a finished dancer. 

Examine well the style of dancing best suited to yourself. Nothing exhibits a greater want
of taste in a dancer than the choice of a style not at all adapted to his powers. Can any thing be
more ridiculous than the appearance of a tall majestic performer, fit, in every respect, to
pursue the serious branch, dancing a pas villageois in a little 4* comic ballet? And, on the
other Side, can any thing be more ludicrous than to see a thick-set dancer, of a diminutive stature,
come forward, robed in a heroic garment, and gravely figure off in a slow and mournful adagio?
The ancients have, by the purity of their taste in this respect, set us an example of severity
towards performers of this stamp, and of which the following anecdote is an illustration:-"A
certain mimic, very short in person, was representing Hector, in a play performed at Antioch.
The people, beholding the hero thus transformed into a dwarf, simultaneously exclaimed,-
Astyanatem videmus, ubi Hector est? We see Astyanatus before us; but where is Hector?" Both
the dancer and actor should consider their form and physical powers before they adopt any particular
style of dancing or performance, that they may only assume the character which they are framed
by nature to represent. 

The union of several branches in one person is blameable only in certain dancers of the middle
order, who; by their endeavours to ape the highest favourites of Terpsichore, seem bent on
bringing her enchanting art to degradation. But those who are neither very tall nor very short,
and are endowed with the requisite abilities, may exert themselves in every kind: by diligent
study and practice they may even shine in whatever part they take. Not so with a dancer of high
stature: let him exclusively adopt the serious and heroic kind. Nor with one below the middle
size; let his be the pastoral and demi-caractere . You must always vary your style of dancing
with your dress; it would be a vicious taste to make it the same in an ancient Greek or Roman costume,
as in a modern villager's spencer. Men of the most illustrious genius, whether poets, painters,
or musicians, have ever carefully avoided confounding the character and expression of their
different personages and styles; Distinction has always been their study. Follow their example:
such an imitation. on your part, will show a sound judgment, and powerfully assist you in your
progress to perfection. 

The music of a dance or ballet must be livelier, and of a stronger accent and cadence, than vocal
music; and as it is required to signify a greater variety of things, it ought also to be much more
diversified. It is music alone that can inspire the dancer and mimic with that warmth of expression
which a singer derives from his words. Music supplies, in the language of the soul, all that
dancing, by its attitudes and gestures, cannot make known to the spectators. 

An anonymous author, speaking of these two delightful sciences, says: "Ces deux arts sont
freres, et se tiennent par la main; les accens tendres et harmonieux de l'un excitent les mouvemens
agreables et expressifs de l'autre; leurs effets reunis offrent aux yeux et aux oreilles des
tableaux animes; ces sons portent au coeur les images interessantes qui les ont affectes;
le coeur les communique a l'ame; et le plaisir qui resulte de l'harmonie et de l'intelligence
de ces deux arts enchaine le spectateur, et lui fait eprouver ce que la volupte a de plus seduisant."

Pantomime, unquestionably, expresses a great deal; but without melodious sentimental accents
of musical sounds, it never can entirely move our minds. 

I shall conclude this chapter by recommending to your attention the study of drawing and music,
as almost indispensable to make a perfect dancer. By drawing you acquire better ideas of symmetry,
elegance, and gracefulness; especially if you pursue the beau ideal , which this art possesses.
Music enables you to be more precise in your performance, your ears are more awake to the real
time and cadence 8 of the accompaniment; and all your movements are made in strict accord with
the rythmus of the tune 9 . Music and drawing will afford you much facility in composition also,
as whatever be your genius and creative powers of imagination, one thing is certain, your productions
cannot easily fail of being correct. CHAPTER II. STUDY OF THE LEGS. 

In the management of your legs, endeavour chiefly to acquire a facility of turning them completely.
To this end make yourself easy about your hips, that your thighs may move with freedom, and your
knees turn well outwards. All the openings of your legs are thus rendered easy and graceful.
By dint of practice and attention, you will be able to accomplish this without any painful efforts.

A dancer whose hips are much contracted, and whose legs cannot turn entirely out, is never esteemed;
as by these defects his performance is deprived of its greatest charm. But one that is gifted
with freedom and pliancy, that exhibits a foot well attached to the instep, and the points of
which are strong, elastic, and low, has a very delightful appearance. 

Some young people are framed by nature with their limbs turning outwards; they possess, therefore,
more facility, and succeed to greater advantage than those whose legs turn towards each other:
a person of the latter kind indeed can cherish no hopes of becoming a good dancer, how diligent
soever his labour and study may be. Practice will do no more than turn his feet, and bend his soles
a little downwards, but his thighs and knees must remain always in their natural state. 

Here we perceive how requisite it is that all who intend devoting themselves to the study of
dancing, should scrupulously examine the make and faculties of their body, before they begin
to learn an art in which it is impossible to succeed without several gifts of nature. 

Be attentive, in practising, to the movements and position of your insteps; do not let them
relax in strength and elasticity, nor suffer one of your ankles to be higher than the other;
these would be two very serious defects. Render your insteps as pliable and graceful as possible,
and give them sufficient strength for the execution of rapid, vigorous, arid elevated movements.
The action of the in-step principally consists in raising and letting down the heel. Study
above all things to make it easy and strong, as the equilibrium of the whole body depends on it.
When you spring upwards it catches your weight on coming down, and, by a strong rapid movement,
makes you fall on your toes. 

The movement of the knee is inseparable from that of the instep, and differs from it but in being
perfect only when the leg is extended and the point of the foot low. The movement of the hip is
a sort of guide to that of the knee and instep, as it is impossible for these last to move unless
the hip acts first. In some steps the hips alone are set in motion, as in entrechats, battements
tendus, &c . 

Dancers who have not a natural elasticity, or whose calves are weak in muscle are compelled
to have recourse to their insteps, which make amends in a great measure for the debility of other
parts, but not without an immense deal of practice. Daily exercise gives them also vigour and
rapidity; but let them beware of interrupting their endeavours, as they would then be of no

Let your openings be easy, precise, and elegant. Many dancers imagine that nothing further
is required to be liant et moelleux than to bend their knee very low; but this is a great error,
as too low a bend makes the dance appear dry and insipid. You may be very easy and yet jerk your
body at every movement, no less by bending too much, than by not bending at all. The reason is
obvious, if we consider how subordinate every motion in dancing is to music. For when the bend
is too low, and therefore longer in performing than the time of the tune allows, you are obliged
to make a sudden spring, or rather jerk, to regain the air which you have for a few instants lost,
and this rapid transition from flexion to tension is extremely harsh, and produces an effect
equally as disagreeable to the spectator, as that which results from stiffness. 

"The moelleux depends in a great degree on a proportionate flexion of the knees, but the instep
must contribute, by its elasticity, to the gracefulness of the movement, and the loins serve
as a kind of counterpoise to the frame, which the spring of the instep raises or lets down, with
softness and elegance, the whole being in perfect accord and harmony." 

Let all your openings be consistent with established precept, and in their design strictly
uniform with the position of your body and arms. 

If your bust is very long, try to raise your legs higher than common rules prescribe; if very
short, keep them lower than the usual height. By this means you conceal the defect that exists
in the construction of your body. 

In your steps and tems of vigour be energetic and strong, but, at the same time, beware lest these
qualities degenerate into faults, by stiffness and a painful tension of the nerves. 

As there are many persons so formed that their legs are closely joined to each other, and, on
the contrary, a great number naturally bow-legged, I shall here point out the means of remedying,
or, at least, of hiding those two defects. 

A man is close-legged when his hips and thighs are firmly contracted, his knees thick, and apparently
joined together, and the lower part of his legs, that is to say, from the bottom of the calf to
the heels, forming a triangle, of which the ground is the base; the inside ankles very large,
the instep high, and the tendo Achillis thin, long, and but faintly distinguished. (See plate
III, fig. 5.) 

The bow-legged person is he in whom the opposite defect is conspicuous. His thighs are too much
divided, his knees very distant from each other, his calves do not join, and the light that should
be perceived only in certain parts, is seen throughout the whole length of his legs, which are,
therefore, in appearance very similar to two bows, whose extremities are turned to each other.
Persons of this description have a long flat foot, their exterior ankles stick out, and the
tendo Achillis is thick and too close to the joints. (See plate III, fig. 4.) 

These two natural defects, so diametrically opposite, prove how much the rules of instruction
must vary according to the peculiar make of a pupil, as those that are fit for the one to pursue,
are prejudicial in the extreme to the other: the studies, therefore, of two dancers so different
in point of shape, cannot, in any manner, be the same. The close-legged dancer must endeavour,
as much as possible, to separate the parts that are too nearly united. To succeed in these attempts,
let him, in the first place, turn his thighs outwards, and move them in this position, which
he is enabled to do by the freedom of the rotatory movement of the os femoris in the cotyloid cavity
of the hip bones. The knees, assisted by this movement, will follow the same direction, and
at length get into their right place. The rotula , which hinders the knee from bending backwards,
will then fall perpendicularly on the point of the foot; and the thighs and legs at last become
perfectly straight, and firmly maintain the stability of the trunk. In the second place, he
ought to keep a continual flexion in the articulation of his knees, and make his legs appear
much extended, without being so in reality. This is the work of time and practice. Having once
acquired the habit, it will be almost impossible to make the legs return to their primitive
vicious situation, without the most painful and insufferable efforts. 

The bow-legged dancer must also try to diminish the vacuum between his legs, by drawing them
as close as possible to each other. It is as requisite to him as to the close-legged one, to practise
moving his thighs outwards.He. should, moreover, keep his knees in constant extension; that
they may thereby acquire pliancy and softness, and thus conceal his natural stiffness; yet
a dancer of this kind can never succeed in the serious or heroic branch; he should, therefore,
devote himself to the demi-caractere , or I would advise, him rather to, embrace the pastoral)
and study its characteristic steps. 

The close-legged dancer is tolerably well adapted to the serious and demi-caractere; and
is, in general, far more skilful than the preceding; his execution is easier, his movements
more delicate, natural and graceful; but as he seldom possesses the same strength as the former,
he is often compelled to have recourse to the assistance of his instep. In the performance of
entrechats may not be brilliant, yet always correct and elegant. Such a dancer may even sometimes
aspire to perfection in every branch, provided the height of his stature throw no impediment
in the way. 

A close-legged dancer should preserve a slight flexibility in his execution, and never extend
his knees, excepting at the termination of openings, steps, attitudes, &c.; by this means
he conceals his natural closeness. A bow-legged dancer must, on the contrary, be stretched,
out as stiff as possible; always avoiding harshness, to which such a mode of performance necessarily
tends, and cross his legs very closely, so that their union may decrease, in a great measure,
the interval that would otherwise exist between them. But, notwithstanding all his efforts,
he has not the same chance of success as the close-legged performer; he is usually very strong
and vigorous, his muscles are therefore less pliable, and his articulations cannot act with
much freedom and ease. Let it be also remembered, that if this defect of bow-leggedness proceeds
from the natural construction of the bones, every attempt to remedy or amend it must prove fruitless.
Art is then of no avail. SIMPLE POSITION OF THE LEGS, FIG 1. PLATE I. First Positions of Dancing

First position, fig. 1, plate I. 

Second position, fig. 2, plate II. 

Second position on the toes, fig. 3, plate II. 

Third position, fig. 3, plate I. 

Fourth position, (side view) fig. 1, plate II. 

Fifth position, fig. 4, plate I. 

Fifth position on the toes, fig. 5, plate I. 

N. B. In the second position the distance between the two heels is the length of the foot. In the
third position the feet must be only half crossed. 

Bending in the first position, fig. 4, plate II. 

N. B. The positions on the toes of the first, third and fourth positions, and the bendings in
the four others, are omitted not for the sake of increasing the number of plates; these positions
are very easily understood, and executed without the assistance of plates. 

Method of holding one's self in practising, fig. 5, plate II. 

Physical construction of the close-legged pupil, fig. 5, plate III. 

Physical construction of the bow-legged pupil, fig. 4, plate III. 

N. B. The delineator has somewhat exaggerated in the lines of these figures, for the purpose
of better exhibiting to the pupil those defective constructions. 

A dancer at the second position, in the air and on the heel, fig. 5, plate II. 

A dancer at the second position, in the air and on the toes, fig. 1, plate VI. 

A dancer at the second position in the air, forwards on the toes (side view), fig. 1, plate IV.

A dancer at the fourth position in the air, forwards on the toes (front view), fig. 2, plate IV.

A dancer at the fourth position in the air, backwards (side view), fig. 3, plate IV. 

Positions of the legs in poses , and in different attitudes, plates V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX.

Positions of the legs in arabesques, plates X, XI, and XII. 

N. B. In arabesques, and several other attitudes, the feet must not be entirely turned; if they
were, these positions would lose their gracefulness. CHAPTER III. STUDY OF THE BODY. 

Let your body be, in general, erect and perpendicular on your legs, except in certain attitudes,
and especially in arabesques , when it must lean forwards or backwards according to the position
you adopt. Keep it always equally poised upon your thighs. Throw your breast out and hold your
waist in as much as you can. In your performance preserve continually a slight bend, and much
firmness about your loins. Let your shoulders be low, your head high, and your countenance
animated and expressive. 

A dancer who wishes to charm the beholder's eye must display all the elegance that his fancy
can inspire him with, in the carriage of his body, the easy development of Iris limbs, and the
gracefulness of every attitude into which he throws himself. But let no affectation intermingle
with his dancing; that would mar every thing. By due attention to these particulars, he will
make each of his accomplishments shine forth to their greatest advantage, and feel always
rewarded for the labour he has taken. 

The elegance of the upper part of the body is chiefly to be attended to by a dancer, as in that,
one of his principal merits consists. Carry your bust 10 gracefully, impart to its motions
and oppositions a certain abandon , and by no means let it lose the beauty of its pose nor the purity
of its design. 

Your head, shoulders, and bust, ought to be supported and adorned by your arms, and so precisely
follow their motions, that they may present altogether a graceful ensemble; and, as we have
already remarked, the legs must, of course, participate in the harmony of their movements.

In the performance of your steps let your body be quiet, firm, and unshaken, yet easy and pliant,
according to the play of the legs and arms. But in this beware of stiffness. He who, whilst dancing,
moves his body by jerks-raises his shoulders at each movement of his legs-bends or relaxes
his loins to facilitate the execution of his tems , and who shows, by the distortion of his features,
how muck pain his performance occasions him, is, unquestionably; an object of ridicule, and
the name of a grotesque Would suit him much better than that of a dancer. 

I have repeatedly seen examples of this defective mode of dancing; and cannot but attribute
it principally to the negligence of masters, who, over-anxious to see their pupils exhibit
on a public stage, leave them to themselves before they have completed their studies. 

The public, also, by their too indulgent applause, or their want of taste, considerably increase
the number of this class of dancers, or, more properly speaking, leapers) who, finding themselves
so much encouraged, immediately imagine that they have attained the summit of perfection
in their art. 

"- le vulgaire s'extasie Aux tours de force aux entrechats." L'hospital . 

Such miserable dancers ought to be banished from the boards of every threatre, as actors devoid
of merit, and tending only to the preservation of bad taste. 

Simple position of the body, fig. 1, plate I. 

Epaulement , opposition of the body, fig. 3 and 4, plate I. 

Positions of the body in poses and in different attitudes, plates V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX. 

Position of the body in arabesques, plates X, XI, and XII. 

N. B. In arabesques the body goes out of a perpendicular line, and inclines forwards or backwards
in a pleasing abandon . CHAPTER IV. STUDY OF THE ARMS. 

The position, opposition, and carriage of the arms, are, perhaps, the three most difficult
things in dancing, and, therefore, demand particular study and attention. 

Noverre, speaking of opposition, says, that "of all the movements executed in dancing, the
opposition or contrast of the arms to the feet is the most natural, and, at the same time, the
least attended to." 

"Observe, for instance, a number of persons walking; you will see that when they place the right
foot before, the left arm naturally falls before also, and is thus in opposition with it." This
appears to me a general rule, and from thence it is that skilful dancers have acquired the true
manner of carrying their arms, and forming a constant opposition of them with their feet; that
is to say, that when the left arm is behind, the left leg must be before." 

Noverre does not, in my opinion, treat of the opposition with that clearness and exactness
which the subject requires; indeed, few writers have done so. The obscurity, therefore, that
has existed on this important particular, in dancing, has occasioned it to be an object of continual
controversy among professional dancers. 

Let us endeavour to elucidate it a little. The opposition of one part of a moving solid to another
part is a law of equilibrium by which the gravitating powers are divided. This is precisely
what Noverre wishes to demonstrate in his example of the gait of a man; and when he further says
that opposition takes place each time that the man or dancer puts one leg forward, he means to
point out that if such foot so placed before be the right, the left arm must naturally be carried
forward at the same instant, whilst the opposite limbs remain behind; the whole counterpoising
the deviation of the body from the central line of gravity. This opposition gives the dancer
a very graceful appearance, as he thereby avoids that uniformity of lines in his person so unbecoming
a true favourite of Terpsichore. (See examples of opposition, fig. 8, plate I, fig. 4, plate
IV, and all the figures of plate VIII.) 

There are two methods of moving the wrists-upwards and downwards. When the movement is to be
made downwards, the wrist must be bent inwards, moving the hand demi-circularly, by which
movement the hand returns to its first position; but care must be taken not to bend the wrist
too violently, for it would then appear as if broken. With respect to the second movement, which
is upwards, the wrist must be bent in a rounded position, allowing the hand to turn upwards,
making a demi-tour or half-turn, and by this movement the hand will be found in the first position
for the arms. 

The elbow, as well as the wrist, has its movement downwards and upwards, with this difference,
that when you bend the elbows, the wrists are bent also, which prevents the arms from appearing
stiff, imparting to them much grace. Still it is not necessary to bend the wrist much, as it would
produce an extravagant effect; the same thing may be observed of the legs when the knee is bent;
it is then the instep that completes the movement, by raising the foot, in the same manner as
the wrist and elbow. 

Thus, in order to move them downwards, the arms being prepared, the elbow and wrist must be bent,
and when the arms are bent also, extend them, to complete the movement. They will then return
to the first position in which they were. When you perform a movement with the wrists, they should
be bent and straightened in the same manner as when accompanied by the movement of the elbows.

As to the second movement, which is upwards, the hands being down, the wrists and elbows must
be bent, forming a circle, observing that both arms form at the same time a motion exactly similar;
and then return to their first attitude. 

A dancer that holds and moves his arms in a graceful manner, and according to the true rules of
art, shows that he has studied at a good school, and his performance is invariably correct.
Few artists distinguish themselves by a good style of action in their arms, which deficiency
generally proceeds either from the mediocrity of principles they receive from bad instructions,
or else it originates in their own negligence, believing, as I have known many do, that if they
possess a brilliant mode of execution in their legs, they can do very well without the fine additional
5 ornament of the arms; and thus exempt themselves from the labour which so important a study

When the arms accompany each movement of the body with exactitude, they may be compared to the
frame that sets Off a picture. But if the frame is so constructed as not to suit the painting;
however well done this last may be, its whole effect is unquestionably taken away. Even so is
it with a dancer: for what gracefulness soever he may display in the performance of his steps,
unless his arms be lithsome, and in strict harmony with his legs, his dance can have no spirit
nor liveliness; and he presents the same insipid appearance as a painting out of its frame,
or in one not at all adapted to it. 

Should you not be favoured with well made rounding arms, you cannot bestow too much attention
on them; and endeavour to supply by art what nature has left you defective in. Diligent study
and exercise often render a thin, long angular arm, tolerably round and elegant. 

Learn also to hold them as best accords with your physical construction. If you are short in
stature let them be higher than the general rule prescribes, and if tall let them be lower. 

A good dancer should omit nothing that may tend to remedy or conceal his personal defects. It
is one of those necessary accomplishments to which the mind of every one who desires to become
a skilful artist ought to be directed. Take care to make your arms so encircling that the points
of your, elbows may be imperceptible. From a want of proper attention in this respect, they
are deprived of all softness and elegance; and instead of presenting to the eye, fine oblique
or circular lines, (see fig. 1, 4, 5, plate I.) they exhibit nothing but a series of angles, destitute
of taste and gracefulness; (see plate III, fig. 1, 2, 3), unpleasing to the spectator, and by
imparting to all your attitudes a grotesque and caricature-like appearance, make you only
an object of ridicule to the painter. 

Let the Saignee 11 be level with the palm of your hand, your shoulders low, and always motionless,
your elbows round and well supported, and your fingers gracefully grouped together. The position
and carriage of your arms must be soft and easy. Let them make no extravagant movement, nor permit
the least stiffness to creep into their motions. Beware lest they be jerked by the action and
reaction of your legs: this is, a great fault, and sufficient to degrade a dancer, what perfection
soever he may possess in the exercise of his legs. 

Simple position of the arms, fig. 1, plate I. 

Position of the wrist and fingers, fig. 1, plate I. 

Arms in the second position, fig. 1, plate I. 

Arms in the opposition. fig 4, plate I. 

Arms encircling above the head, fig. 5, plate I. 

Half-arm, or demi-bras , fig. 2, plate II. 

Oppositions of the demi-bras , fig. 3, plate I. 

Position of the arms in various attitudes, plates V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX. 

Position of the arms in arabesques, plates X, XI, and XII. 

N. B. It must be observed that in arabesques the position of the arms deviates from the general
rule; it is, therefore, the good taste of the dancer that must arrange them as gracefully as

Position of the hand in different attitudes and arabesques, fig. 5, plate V. 

Defective positions of the arms, fig. 1, 2, 3, plate III. 5* CHAPTER V. PRINCIPAL POSITIONS

Always draw your body well up, and especially your head, even in your minutest poses , (See plate
V, &c.) if not, your performance will be void of expression, and your position or attitude become
insipid. In some of the first positions of dancing the head is placed fronting; those are poses
of attitude. Action of the Head . 

"Never let your head rest perpendicularly upon your shoulders, but incline it a little to the
right or to the left, whether your eyes are cast up or downwards or straight forwards; as it is
essential that it should have a pleasing yet natural vivacity of motion, and not appear inactive
and heavy." 

Endeavour to hold your body in a perfect equilibrium; to which end never let it depart from the
perpendicular line that should fall from the centre of the collar bone down through the ankles
of both feet. (See fig. 4 and 5, plate I; fig. 5, plate II; fig. 1, plate IV; fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4, plate
V; fig. 4, plate VII. See Chap. III.) Attitude . 

The pit of the neck must correspond perpendicularly with the feet; if you move one leg forwards
the pit then goes back out of its perpendicularity on the foot; if backwards it is thrown before,
and thus changes its place with every variation of position. 

Besides a graceful carriage, let the dancer acquire uprightness, by forming an exact counterpoise
with every part of his frame, and thus enable himself to support his body on one leg only, as,
also, to obtain an elegant style of attitude upon both. (See plate VIII, X, XI, XII, &c.) Of the
Centre of Gravity in a Dancer . 

The weight of a man standing upon one leg is divided in an equal manner on the point that sustains
the whole, (see fig. 1, plate X.) and as he moves, the central line of gravity passes exactly
through the middle of the leg that rests wholly on the ground. (See fig. l, plate VIII, &c.) Counterpoise

A person that carries a burthen placed out of the central line of his body, must necessarily
add, from his own weight, a balance sufficient to counterpoise it on the opposite side, and
thus form a true equilibrium round the perpendicular of gravity. (See fig. 2, plate VIII, &c.)
But in certain attitudes which the dancer throws himself into as he springs from the ground,
as also in inclined arabesques such as that presented by fig. 3, plate XI, the central line of
gravity is not to be attended to in the same manner as it is in the figures of the plates I, II, III,
IV, &c. (See fig. 1, plate IX, fig. 1, plate X, as relating also to this remark.) Of the Figure
that moves against the Wind . 

A dancer that goes against the wind, in whatever direction it may be, cannot preserve with exactitude
the centre of gravity on the line that supports him. (See fig. 2, 4, and 3, turned on opposite
sides, plate XIII. See also fig. 1, 2, 3, plate XIV, and fig. 4, same plate, which represents
a Bacchanalian group, which I composed, during the first year that I was engaged at the Theatre
of La Scala, at Milan; a theatre much celebrated for its magnificence, and the combination
of talent which it usually displays.) 

That particular position technically termed attitude is the most elegant, but at the same
time the most difficult which dancing comprises. It is, in my opinion, a kind of imitation of
the attitude so much admired in the Mercury of J. Bologne. (See fig. 1, plate VIII, and fig. 2.
id., which exhibit two side views of it; see also fig. 1, plate IX, representing the statue of
Mercury.) A dancer that studies this attitude, and performs it in a chaste manner, cannot but
be remarked as one who has acquired the best notions of his art. 

Nothing can be more agreeable to the eye than those charming positions which we call arabesques
, and which we have derived from antique basso relievos, from a few fragments of Greek paintings,
and from the paintings in fresco at the Vatican, executed after the beautiful designs of Raphael.

Arabica ornamenta , as a term in painting, mean those ornaments, composed of plants, shrubs,
light branches and flowers, with which the artist adorns pictures, compartments, frises,
panels, &c. As a term of architecture, they signify various fanciful foliages, stalks, &c.
with which pediments and entablatures are often embellished. The taste for this sort of ornaments
was brought to us by the Moors and Arabs, from whom they have taken their name. 

Our dancing-masters have also introduced this term into their art, as expressive of the picturesque
groups which they have formed of male and female dancers, interlaced in a thousand different
manners, one with another, by means of garlands, crowns, hoops entwined with flowers, and
sometimes ancient pastoral instruments, which they hold in their hands. These attitudes,
so diversified and enchanting, remind us of the beautiful Bacchantes that we see on antique
basso relievos, and by their aerial lightness, their variety, their liveliness, and the numberless
contrasts they successively present, have, in a manner, rendered the word arabesque natural
and proper to the art of dancing. I may flatter myself in being the first to give the precise meaning
of this expression, as applied to our art; without which explanation it might afford a motive
of derision to painters and architects, to whom it originally and exclusively belonged. 

Dancers should learn from those chaste pieces of sculpture and painting, the real mode of displaying
themselves with taste and gracefulness. They are a fount of beauty, whereto all who aspire
to distinction must resort for purity and correctness of design. In the Bacchanalian group
above-mentioned, I introduced, with some success, various attitudes, arabesques, and groups,
the ideas of which I had conceived on seeing the paintings, bronzes, and marbles excavated
from the ruins of Herculaneum, and by these additional images, rendered its appearance more
picturesque, characteristic, and animated. (See fig. 4, plate XIV, the principal group.)
Those precious monuments of ancient skill have been repeatedly pronounced the best models
for the painter and sculptor: in my opinion they are of equal service to the dancer. 

Poses , preparations, and endings of steps and temps , fig. 4, plate IV, fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4, plate

N. B. Enchainemens and steps may be also finished in attitudes and arabesques. 

Different attitudes, plates VI and VII. 

Attitude, (as technically so denominated), fig. 1, plate VIII. 

The same, side view, fig. 2, plate VIII. 

Different manners of resting in attitudes, fig. 3 and 4, plate VIII. 

Derivatives of the attitude, fig. 2 and 3, plate IX. 

Example of the attitude of the Mercury of J. Bologne, fig. 1, plate IX. 

Arabesques, plates X, XI, XII. 

Arabesques, on both legs, fig. 4, plate VII. 

Arabesques, back view, fig. 3 and 4, plate XI, fig. 4, plate VII. 

Groups, attitudes de genre , plate XIV. 

N. B. I have left out several attitudes and arabesques upon one foot resting flat on the ground,
and the same arabesques upon two feet, which are done by merely putting down the leg that is in
the air, as represented in figure 4, plate VII, which is derived from the arabesque shown in
fig. 4, plate XI. 

Attitudes, poses, and arabesques, may be varied ad infinitum; for the slightest change in
the situation of the body, in the oppositions of the arms, or the motions of the legs, when all
is happily combined, must produce an immense diversity. It is the good taste of the dancer that
must decide on the best manner of combining and changing them, taking especial care to appropriate
them to the style and character of his dancing. These modified attitudes are much practised
in the enchainements of groups, similar to those presented in figures 1, 2, 3, and 4, of plate

Let your grands temps be wide, mellow, and bold; perform them with preciseness, and in ending
them, be upright and firm on your legs. In all your terre-a-terre steps you cannot be too active
about your instep, nor bend your feet too much downwards; as the former gives your execution
considerable brilliancy, and the latter renders it light and graceful. 

A truly good dancer ought to throw a sort of light and shade into his steps, and by great exactness:
of performance, distinctly mark each variation he makes in them, In all your high caperings,
develope a manly rigour, and let your steps of elevation be agreeably contrasted, by the rapidity
of your terre-a-terre steps. Do not, however, forget to regulate your choice of steps, on the
kind of dancing you have adopted, as also, on your physical construction. 

In enchainemes , let variety and novelty be your constant aim; carefully study their composition,
and do all that your taste points out, to make yourself agreeable. Never intermingle with them
any high capers or steps that require much strength to perform, nor relax into coolness by pauses
or long openings; as this would, unavoidably, destroy all the effect which enchainmens produce,
when correctly executed to a quick and lively music. 

The entrechat is a light brilliant step, during the performance of which, the dancer's legs
rapidly cross each other, and then come down either in the fifth position, or in an attitude
upon one leg, as in the entrechat a cinq, a sept, a neuf , the cabriole, brises and the rond-de-jambe
en l'air; all these, ending thus on one leg, may also finish in any of the attitudes and arabesques
pointed out in the plates referred to at the close of the foregoing chapter. Entrechats are
generally begun with an assemble, coupe , or jette; the body then springs into the air, and the
legs pass to the fifth position, to cross and cut. In entrechats , you may cut four, six, eight,
ten, and even twelve times, if you possess the requisite strength. Some can go as far as fourteen,
but such efforts have a disagreeable effect, and occasion nothing more, in the beholder, than
wonder at the extraordinary muscular powers of the leaper. When a dancer endeavours to make
too great a number of cuts, he cannot finish his entrechat in time, and his body, shaken by such
rapid movements, writhes in a variety of contortions, that offend the eye of the spectator.
The most elegant entrechats are the entrechat a six , and the entrechat a six ouvert , done by
opening at the third cut, (see plate XII, fig. 4,) and the entrechat a huit . 

The following different entrechats, viz:- entrechat a cinq dessus; entrechat a cinq dessous;
brise de cote, dessus et dessous; en arriere et en avant; entrechat a cinq de cote et en arriere;
sissonne battue en avant et sissonne battue derriere; entrechat a quatre sur une jambe; entrechat
a sept en avant et en arriere; la cabriole a un et a deux temps; la cabriole Italienne en avant
et en arriere; les deux ronds-de-jambes en dehors et en dedans, &c . may be done in turning, excepting
the entrechat a cinq de cote et en arriee , the entrechat a sept en avant and the cabriole . L'entrechat

The contraction of the muscles, occasioned by the efforts of leaping, stiffens each articulation,
and forces every part back into its natural place. The knees, thus compelled to turn inwards,
regain their primitive thickness, which greatly opposes the beatings of the entrechat . The
more united are the legs at their upper part, and divided at their extremities, the more incapable
are they of beating or crossing; they remain, therefore, nearly motionless during the action
of the knees, which, in consequence, appear to roll uncouthly one upon the other; and thus the
entrechat , being neither cut, beaten, nor crossed at the feet, cannot have that rapidity and
brilliancy which constitute its principal merit. A good method of studying, diligent practice
and time, as I have already intimated (Chap. II, Study of the Legs ,) are the only means of remedying
this defect. Bow-legged dancers . 

These are nervous, rapid, and brilliant, in all things that require more strength than agility.
Nervous and light, on account of the direction of their muscular fais-ceaux , and the thickness
and resistance of their articular ligaments; rapid, because they cross more at bottom than
at top, their feet having but a very small distance to perform the beating steps in; and brilliant,
by reason of the light being so very conspicuous through their legs as they cut or uncut. This
light is precisely what we may term the clair-obscur of dancing: for if the temps of the entrechat
be neither cut nor beaten, but, on the contrary, rubbed or rolled one upon the other, there is
no light to relieve the shade, and the legs, through being too closely joined, present an indistinct
mass, void of brilliancy and effect. Bow-legged dancers are, usually, not very skilful, as
they chiefly reckon on their bodily strength. This very strength it is, that opposes the greatest
obstacle to their acquiring ease and pliancy. Observations on a person in the act of leaping

"Nature instructs and acts of itself, without any assistance from reason. When a person wishes
to leap, he rapidly elevates his arms and shoulders, which are thus simultaneously set in motion,
together with part of the body, and remain elevated so long as they are supported by the movement
of the body (the loins of which are bent), and by the impulse of the joints or springs of the thighs,
knees, and feet. This extension is made in two directions, upwards and forwards; the motion
intended to send the body forward, places it so at the moment of the leap, and that destined to
carry it up, makes it describe a large segment of a circle, rendering the leap yet more rapid."-
Tratt. di Piitura . 

Leonard gives us a true definition of the actions of a man in leaping, and the means he employs
to spring from the ground. He explains the strength and impetuosity of the arms and shoulders
in their movements, and the manner in which they raise the body up after them. He points out the
position of the body, bent and resting gracefully on the hips and knees, which, by folding,
prepare to give the impulse and facilitate the spring of the instep. Much study is required
to make these movements in a graceful manner, for if done carelessly nothing can be more uncouth.
(See Chap. III.) 

In entrechats , and steps of elevation, a dancer can display every attitude and arabesque.
According to my opinion, the finest positions are such as are shown by fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4, of plate
XIII, and by fig, 4, plate XII. 

Entrechat and step of elevation, wherein the body is inclining forwards, fig, 2 and 4, plate
XIII. Entrechat and steps of elevation, in which the body is inclining backwards, fig. 3, same
plate. Ordinary elevation of a dancer, two feet, fig. 4 and 5, plate XII. PHYSICAL REMARKS ON
A MAN IN THE ACT OF SPRINGING FROM THE GROUND. In what manner a man makes three movements in leaping

"When he springs upwards, his head is three times more active than his heels, before his toes
leave the ground, and twice more so than his hips. This happens by reason of the three angles
that are made in the act of leaping; the first of which is, where the trunk is joined in front of
the thighs; the second, where the thighs on the side of the hams are united to the legs; and the
third is formed before, at the joints of the legs and insteps."- Leonard . 

Attitudes of the dancer in tems of elevation and entrechats , fig. 4, plate XII.; fig. 1, 2, 3,
and 4, plate XIII. 

Elevation of two feet, fig. 5, plate XII. CHAPTER VII. PIROUETTES. OF THE MANNER IN WHICH A DANCER

The art of dancing has been carried to so eminent degree of perfection by Dauberval, Gardel,
Vestris, and Other famous artists, that Noverre, who died during the finest period known in
the annals of Terpsichore, must have felt surprised at the rapidity of its progress. The dancers
of the last century were inferior to those who flourished towards the latter end of it, and still
more so to those of the beginning of the present age. We cannot but admire the perfection to which
modern dancers have brought their art. They have a much more refined taste than their predecessors,
and their performance is full of gracefulness and charms. Among our ancient artists those
beautiful tems of perpendicularity and equilibrium, those elegant attitudes and enchanting
arabesques were unknown. That energetic execution, that multiplicity of steps, that variety
of enchainemens , and pirouettes were not then in practice; and the rising art, unadorned with
those complicated embellishments, encircled the performer in the narrow limits of simplicity
* . 

We must, however, grant, in favour of our old masters, that they very much excelled us in the
serious and grave kind, and that Dupre, and Vestris the elder, were the most perfect models
in this boasted branch of dancing, in which they have been equalled by very few of their followers
It is true, they possessed not that diversified execution, that abundance of steps, and variety
of movements, now in vogue, but they were always extremely correct in what little they did.
At present, the art of dancing is become so complicated, and each dancer devotes himself so
much to every branch, that it is somewhat difficult to meet with one truly perfect. 

"Qui trop embrasse, mal etreint * ." 

Pirouettes owe their origin to the surprising advancement made of late years in dancing; they
were unknown to Noverre and all our old masters, who thought it impossible to go beyond the three
turns on the instep. The best dancers of the day prove the contrary, as, by their steady uprightness,
and the unshaken equilibrium which they preserve as they revolve round, we may say that the
present execution of pirouettes is really extraordinary. All beginners, I am confident,
will acknowledge this to be true. They are aware how much labour it costs to hold one's self on
one leg, and how much greater to do so on his toes. Imagine, therefore, what difficulty there
must be in turning in such a position, without the slightest jerk in any part of the body. 

We may reasonably consider Messrs. Gardel and Vestris as the inventors of pirouettes: the
latter, by perfecting and diversifying them, brought them most into vogue. Succeeding dancers
improved on these, and performed some of all kinds in the most wonderful manner. 

A pirouette of three or four turns, in the second position, and stopped in the same, or in an attitude,
offers the greatest proof of a dancer's uprightness. Nothing is more difficult in dancing
than the performance of this pirouette. 

Pirouettes require considerable exercise and study. He whom nature hath favoured with pliancy
and agility, is always able to perform them gracefully; but he that is tight about the hips;
whose legs are not sufficiently lithsome as to open with ease, and who, therefore, cannot turn
well but on his instep, never meets with more than a partial success. Such a dancer should abandon
all thoughts of distinguishing himself in the higher kind of pirouettes. It is the same with
respect to bow-legged dancers, and those who are of too vigorous a construction: the strength
of their muscles deprives them of flexibility and softness, and their bodies are ever wavering
as it turns round. Slender and close-legged dancers, are far better adapted to it than the last
mentioned; their limbs are softer, more pliant, and, in general, turned more outwards; three
essential qualities to perform a good pirouette. 

The sole of the foot is the true basis on which our whole machine is supported. A sculptor would
be working in vain, were he to rest his statue on a round and moveable foundation; it would, undoubtedly,
fall and be broken to pieces. A dancer, for the same reason, must not be seen vacillating on the
point of support, but by making use of all his toes as so many branches or roots, the expansion
of which, increasing the space of ground he rests upon, maintains his body in a steady equilibrium,
he must fasten himself, in a manner to the board, and hold himself with firmness and uprightness.
If he neglects to do this, his pirouette will be far from pleasing; his foot must lose its natural
shape, and rolls backwards and forwards, from the great to the little toe; this sort of wavering
motion, caused by the convexity of the toes, when in that position, impedes all stability,
and by the vacillation of the instep the equilibrium is entirely lost. 

Let your body be steadily fixed on your legs before you begin to do your pirouettes, (see fig.
3, plate VII), and place your arms in such a position as to give additional force to the impulse
that sends you round, as also to act as a balance to counterpoise every part of your body as it
revolves on your toes. 

Previous to the commencement of a pirouette, either from the inside or outside, the dancer
may pause in any sort of attitude or arabesque in which he pleases to end his enchainement. But
the positions best suited to its preparation, and that are generally chosen, on account of
the body being already upright on the legs, are the positions represented in fig. 3, 4, and 5,
plate I; fig. 4, plate IV; fig. 1, and 4, plate V; fig. 1, plate VI; and fig. 1, plate VIII. 

The usual attitudes adopted in the performance of pirouettes are that of the second position,
(see fig. 1, plate VI), that of the attitude of fig. 1, plate VIII, and on the instep (fig. 4, plate
IX). But why should dancers be so limited as that in the position of the body during the performance
of their pirouettes? When an artist has once acquired an easy method of revolving on his toes,
a little exercise will soon enable him to turn in an arabesque, or any other different attitude.
I was one of the first to go out of the common track in this respect, and possessing much facility
in the performance of pirouettes, I obtained some success in the new kind that I invented, one
of which is done in the following manner:-turn three times round in the second position, then
place the leg 6 and the arms in the arabesque attitude shown by fig. 4, plate X, and give three
or four more turns in that attitude, ending it in the same. When this pirouette is correctly
perfumed it has a very graceful effect. 

Another very beautiful pirouette, which I also invented, is this:-having turned a few times
in the second position, change it into that of the arabesque represented in fig. 3, plate XI;
stretch out your body, and incline it forwards as much as possible, whilst your head and arms
gracefully follow its motion. This pirouette has something in it of a magical appearance,
for as the body leans so much over, and seems on the point of falling at each turn of the pirouette,
one might think there was an invisible power that supported the dancer, who counterbalances
his eccentricity from the line of gravity by the positions of his arms and leg, and the great
rapidity of his motions. I believe this pirouette to be the most difficult that can be performed.
I have sometimes turned in the attitude of fig. 4, plate VIII, which is a pirouette of much gracefulness,
and produces a good effect; the angular positions of the right arm giving it a peculiar brilliancy.
It may be made much use of in a pas de caractere . 

On one occasion, performing the part of Mercury, I took, as I turned in my pirouette, the attitude
of the statue of Mercury by J. Bologne. (See fig. 1, plate IX.) This fine position is very difficult
to stand in. Unless a dancer is naturally arched he never can do it well, and the pirouette loses
all its effect. The body must lean forward, and the right arm develope itself almost entirely.
The leg that is in attitude must be bent, and by its motion accompany the rounding contour of
the position of the body. To render this attitude yet more graceful, let the dancer stretch
out his left arm, in which the caduceus is held; this takes off the angle at his elbows that it
would otherwise present, and gives the pirouette much more elegance. In the gesture expressive
of the action, this position is replete with truth, and therefore should not he modified. 

I shall conclude by telling the pupil that he may revolve in any kind of attitude or arabesque,
provided that the design of the body, arms and legs be graceful, and every movement natural,
and free from affectation. 

Pirouettes may be ended in any position, attitude or arabesque whatever. The following are
various different sorts of pirouettes: pirouette a petits battemens on the instep, pirouettes
a rond-de-jambe; a la seconde avec grand rond-de-jambe; avec fouette, pirouette en attitude,
en arabesque; pirouette sur le coude-pied; pirouette en dedans a la seconde sur le coude-pied
et en attitude; pirouette renversee; pirouettes composees, &c . 

Position of the dancer in beginning his pirouette from the outside, fig. 3, plate VII. 

N. B. The feet must herein be placed between the second and fourth position. 

Position of the dancer in beginning his pirouette from the inside, fig. 4, plate VII. 6* CHAPTER

It is in vain that a dancer devotes himself to the serious or heroic branch, unless he is gifted
with symmetry of form, and elevation of stature; indispensable qualities to excel in this
kind of dancing. Those whose persons approach nearest in height and shape to the statues of
Apollo, or of Antinous, and of the Troadian Venus, or of Diana, are perfectly adapted to serious
dancing; but they would never do for the demi-caractere and the pastoral . They are too majestic.
(See fig. 1, plate XIV.) 

All who wish to signalize themselves in this sort of performance must be of a noble, elegant,
and elevated carriage, replete with dignity and gracefulness, but void of the least affectation.
The serious is the most difficult branch of dancing, it requires a close study, and cannot be
duly appreciated but by connoisseurs and men of a refined taste. He who excels in it, deserves
the highest applause. A correct execution of an adagio is the nec plus ultra of our art; and I
look on it as the touch-stone of the dancer. 

It is truly to be lamented that the finest style of dancing is now so much neglected, I might perhaps
say completely laid by. The causes of this sad abandonment are chiefly attributable to that
confusion of branches which at present tarnishes the art of dancing; to that want of perseverance
and study in most dancers, and to that vicious taste, so conspicuous among those who frequent
the greatest part of our theatres. Our masters, as I have before observed, were perfect in this
style; but they have had very few followers. I know only one dancer capable of executing it to
advantage; but let him not, by an ill-placed complaisance, endeavour to please a crowd of ignorant
spectators. It is, nevertheless, in some measure, the province of a perfect artist to bring
back public taste to what is really good and beautiful, by persisting in performing according
to the true rules of art. It was said in one of the Parisian papers, speaking of my debut , in the
serious style, at the Royal Academy of Music, that "for some length of time past the noble and
serious kind of dancing has been treated with a singular contempt. It is, indeed, difficult
to imagine how any one can dance without being lively. Serious dancing, however, possesses
its peculiar attractions. Beautiful positions, majestic movements dignity of step, &c.,
give a certain character of importance to dancing, which, with respect to imitation, assimilate
it in a manner to the art of sculpture. The ancients were very partial to this sort of recreation,
and cultivated it with great success. We despise and neglect it because we are far beneath that
perfection which the Greeks, and especially the Romans, once obtained. Their mimic plays
bore some analogy to our grave style, which is a reason why we should encourage the small number
of dancers who devote themselves to these performances. At some future time they may, perhaps,
afford enjoyments hitherto unknown to us." 

This last sentence proves how great is the decay of the beautiful serious style of dancing;
since the enjoyments which it promises are unknown to the public of the present day. 

A serious dancer should be perfectly shaped in his legs, have a well formed instep, and be extremely
flexible and easy about his hips; without which essential qualities he cannot succedd in the
line that he has taken. In all other kinds of dancing it is not so requisite to possess those peculiar
qualities in the same perfection, as in this. That preciseness and correctness, which we always
expect to see in the heroic artist, are not exacted from a demi-caractere or comic dancer. The
heroic dancer must pre-eminently distinguish himself by the dignity of the upper part of his
body, by the most harmonious combination of movement in his arms, and by the finest polish which
the best rules of art can impart to his performance. 

This kind of dancing comprises the most beautiful developments, all the grands temps , and
the noblest steps. The performer must attract the beholder's attention by the elegance of
his design, the correctness of his poses , and the gracefulness of his attitudes and arabesques.
The finest pirouettes in the second position, in attitude or on the instep, entrechats , and
all other tems d'elevation , are required in the serious branch. We thus perceive that the performance
of the heroic dancer in our days is much more complicated than that of our predecessors, and
that such an artist must now possess a great number of accomplishments. 

The demi-caractere dancer Ought to be of the middle stature, and of a slender and elegant shape.
Those who are gifted with the proportions of Canova's Mercury 12 , or of his Hebe, are well suited
to this charming kind of dancing. 

This demi-caratere is a mixture of every style. Those who devote themselves to it may make use
of all the tems and steps which the art of dancing possesses. Their performance, however, must
be noble and elegant, their tems d'abandon executed with some little restraint, and a certain
amiable dignity ought to accompany their dance throughout. The demi-caractere does not admit
these grands tems of the serious kind. A dancer of the demi-caractere class is chiefly adapted
to perform in the characters of Mercury, Paris, Zephyrus, or of a Faun, and to represent the
elegant and graceful manners of a Troubadour, &c. 

The comic and pastoral must be the department of those whose persons, of the middle stature,
are thick set and vigorously constructed; and if a dancer, together with these almost athletic
proport'ions, ,possesses a stature a little above the ordinary size, he is perfectly framed
for the performance of characteristic steps, the greater part of which are united to the comic
branch. In my opinion, the very type of this branch consists in the imitation of all those natural
motions which have been denominated dances in every age, and amongst every people. To offer
a true picture of pastoral life, the dancer, in his performance, must copy and mimic the steps,
attitudes, simplicity of manner, and sometimes even those frolicsome and rude motions of
the villager, who, inspired by the sound of his rustic instruments, and animated by the society
and liveliness of his cherished companion, or beloved mistress, gives his whole soul up, without
restraint, to the pleasures of dancing. The pupil that aspires to excellence in these imitations
should study nature, and the best painters who have enlivened their eanvass with these interesting

All other dancers of the comic cast may study characteristic steps, and render themselves
servile imitators of every kind of dancing, peculiar to different countries, giving their
attitudes and movements the true national stamp of the dances they are performing. That correctness,
which artists of the demi-caractere kind must possess, is not so rigorously exacted from dancers
of the comic and pastoral branches. 

The following are the characteristic dances most practised: la Provencale, le Bolero, la
Tarantelle, la Russe, l'Ecossaise, l''Allemande, la Tyrolienne, la Cosaque, la Fourlane
, &c. The pas Chinois , the pas de Sabotiers, l'Anglaise , steps of caricature, &c. appertain
to the lower comic style. 

Serious kind, fig. 1, plate XIV. 

The demi-caractere, fig., 2, plate XIV. 

Comic kind, fig. 3, plate XIV. 

Example of the composition of groups, attitudes de genre, and principal picture of a Bacchanalian
dance, fig. 4, plate XIV. 

N. B. The explanation of the plates in their order is given at the end of the treatise. CHAPTER
IX. THE PRECEPTOR. New Method of Instruction . 

A dancer, after having been educated at the best schools, must trust to his execution for the
attainment of the first rank. He that knows the theory only of the art, can never be a perfect
guide. A man should be a first rate dancer before he pretends to the title of a master 13 ; otherwise
he cannot teach but in a common-place and mechanical manner; nothing will be positive in his
lessons, and his demonstrations must be always uncertain and without force. Incapable of
imparting the true principles of a good execution, he affords his pupil no means of gaining
success and distinction. A dancer coming'from the misguiding hands of such a professor, cannot
possibly be perfect, he has not imbibed the true spirit of the art, and his performance is invariably
cool, inexpressive, and devoid of grace. He presents the spectator with a picture incorrectly
drawn, feebly coloured, without any gradations of light and shade, and, therefore, wanting
effect. If then he does not possess those qualities, no less essential in dancing than in painting,
it is in vain for him to hope to please and interest the beholder. 

I have, however, seen instances of dancers bred up at a good school, who, from some circumstance
or other, not being able to attain pre-eminence on the stage, have set themselves to teaching,
and furnished our theatres with excellent dancers. But the number of such professors is very
small, as nearly all those who are not distinguished by their practice are incapable of producing
a finished dancer. 

A master, to whom long exercise and experience have given views beyond the common track of custom,
before he commences teaching a young pupil, will always examine whether his construction
is suited to the attitudes and motions of dancing; and, whether, as he increases in growth,
he will possess an elegant shape, a graceful mien, and perfect pliancy in his limbs; for, without
these natural gifts and dispositions towards making a rapid progress in the study, the scholar
will neither acquire skill nor reputation. 

"- Se adeguata Non avre la figura, non imprenda Un' artes si gentile e delicata." Riccoboni

A famous actor used to say that it was impossible to excel on the stage, without the assistance
of nature. These words, which experience itself dictated, are replete with truth. 

The age of eight years is the best time of life for commencing the first rudiments of dancing;
the young learner soon comprehends the demonstrations of his preceptor, who, being then perfectly
enabled to judge of his physical powers, instructs him to much greater advantage. 

As soon as the master has prepared his pupil by the first exercises, he should immediately make
him study the lesson 14 ; then perfect him in the tems d'Ecole in the principal steps of dancing,
and afterwards point out, and make him practise the kind of performance best adapted to his
disposition, physical construction, and sex. 

Men must dance in a manner very different from women; the tems de vigueur , and bold majestic
execution of the former, would have a disagreeable effect in the latter, who must shine and
delight by lithsome and graceful motions, by neat and pretty terre-a-terre steps, and by a
decent voluptuousness and abandon in all their attitudes 15 . 

All who are of an elevated stature, of either sex, the master must set apart for the serious and
more noble kind of dancing. Those of a middle height, and of a slender and delicate form, let
him appoint to the demi-caractere , or mixed kind. And those who are beneath that height, and
of a thick-set, vigorous construction, let him devote to the comic branch and to steps of character.
The master should finish his instructions, by instilling into his pupil's mind, to make him
truly accomplished, the real spirit and charm of his art. He must carefully point out the difference
that exists between one kind of dancing and another, fix with preciseness the manner of its
performance, and, finally, render his pupil familiar with all the diversified modes of dancing,
which the variety of costumes he will have to assume requires. 

If the pupil is endowed with a genius for composition, and a creative imagination, the master,
skilful in his art, should let him exercise his powers of invention and combination of steps,
and make him acquainted with the finest designs of choreography. 

At the age of twenty-three or twenty-four years, a dancer ought to have acquired the whole mechanism
of his art, and possess the most brilliant execution he is susceptible of attaining. In dancing,
merit is not to be estimated by the number of years the performer has devoted to its practice.
Nor is it to be under-rated as he advances in life. A dancer at the age of forty, if he be of a good
school, and has been diligent in the preservation of what he has learned, may still shine as
an artist of the first order. Of this we have many instances. 

In order to deserve success in the art of forming a good dancer, I have added to the rules contained
in this part, figures, which I have had drawn from nature; these represent the positions of
the body, the arms, and the legs; the different postures, the attitudes, and arabesques . The
learners having these examples before their eyes, will easily understand the theoretical
principles which I make knownto them. The poet of Tibur judiciously observes, 

"Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem. Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus " 

And, in order that their execution may be correct, I have drawn lines for them over the principal
positions of these figures, which will give them an idea of the exact form they are to place themselves
in, and to figure in the different attitudes of dancing. It will remain for the learners to study
well these geometrical lines, paying strict attention to their diversity. As soon as they
have rendered this labour, (which I may venture to term mathematical by reason of its precision,)
familiar to them, they will be sure to place themselves properly, giving proofs that they have
been well taught, and have acquired a correct taste. I have preferred this novel method, which
is undoubtedly a more sure and efficacious one, to that of a long and wearying description of
the movements in dancing, which oftentimes do but perplex and confound the learner. 

Were I to form a dancing school, I should immediately put into practice amongst my pupils the
following method, which I believe would prove very useful, and which all masters might adopt
without having any knowledge of drawing. I should compose a sort of alphabet of straight lines,
comprising all the positions of the limbs in dancing, giving these lines and their respective
combinations, their proper geometrical appellations, viz: perpendiculars, horizontals,
obliques, right, acute, and obtuse angles, &c., a language which I deem almost indispensable
in our lessons. These lines and figures, drawn upon a large slate and exposed to the view of a
number of scholars, would be soon understood and imitated by them, and the master would not
then be compelled to hold a long demonstrative discourse to each of them separately. The most
diligent might take copies of those figures on small slates, and carry them with them to study
at home, in the same manner as a child, when he begins to spell, studies in his horn-book in the
absence of the master. Let the reader compare the two following delineations with fig. 1 and
3, of plate VI, and he will conceive a clearer idea Of this new system. 

It is necessary that the pupil should study these geometrical lines and all their derivatives.
If he subjects himself to this task, which I may venture to call mathematical, on account of
its laboriousness, he is certain of holding himself correctly afterwards, and will show that
he received notions of a pure taste in the school at which he was educated. 

A teacher cannot too strongly recommend his scholars to have incessantly before them those
master-pieces of painting and sculpture, which have been saved from the wreck of antiquity.
Those immortal offsprings of genius, those enrapturing examples of the beau ideal of the fine
arts, will considerably assist the cultivation of their taste. A dancer who knows not how to
develope himself, who is deficient in gracefulness, and void of good taste, can never afford
the smallest delight to the connoisseur and cultivated spectator. Of the Composition of Steps

I shall conclude with an admonitory remark, that may perhaps be of service to young artists,
who, having successfully combatted all the first difficulties of their art, wish to betake
themselves to the composition of steps. 

Why should they not follow the example of Dupre, in order to hasten their progress in this branch
of study? That celebrated dancer used to dance extempore to familiar airs; by which means he
rendered his imagination more creative in the forming of steps and enchainement and accustomed
his ear to catch the measure and rythmus of the music with greater rapidity. 

This exercise would prove extremely useful to develope the genius of a youthful dancer. His
first attempts might probably be incorrect, sometimes even ungraceful, but when he has once
laid the foundation of the step, if I may use the term, he can afterwards correct it and make all
the changes suitable to its perfection. I have very often practised this extemporizing, and
had the good fortune, at times, of producing some things that were tolerable. I have frequently,
by this exercise, been enabled to compose with facility a variety of steps which I had to execute
in public, and particularly when I allowed myself a little time to perfect their combinations.
M. Gardel, speaking once of our old dancers, mentioned, with approbation, this practice of
Dupre, who, whilst he was making himself an excellent dancer, gave a higher flight to his genius.
His remark struck me, and I immediately set about imitating that distinguished performer.
I made my first essays under the eye of my father. Whilst he extemporized on the piano-forte,
I endeavoured to follow his musical intentions , and to form pas de deux, de trois , which I afterwards
performed in his operas of Omphale, Achille, Dibutade, &c . These essays were so fortunate
as to meet with general approbation. APPENDIX. FIRST EXERCISES. First Positions . 

In the first position the legs are much extended, the two heels close to each other, the feet
turned completely outwards in a straight line. (See fig, 1, plate I.) In the second; the legs
are more apart, but only by the length of the foot. (See fig. 2, plate II.) In the third, the feet
half cross each other and are close together. (See fig. 3, plate I.) The fourth is very similar
to the third, with this difference, that the feet half cross each other without touching. (See
fig. 1, plate II.) In the fifth, the feet cross each other entirely. (See fig. 4, plate I.) In
all these positions the knees must be bent without raising the heels in the least from the ground;
but to give flexibility and strength to the instep they should be often practised on the toes.
(See fig. 5, plate I, and fig. 3, plate II.) Battements . 

Battements consist of the motions Of one leg in the air, whilst the other supports the body.
They are of three kinds, viz., grands battements, petits battements , and battements on the

The first are done by detaching one leg from the other and raising it to the height of the hip,
extending it to the utmost. (See fig. 5, plate II, which shows also the manner in which a beginner
must hold himself.) After the performance of the battements the leg falls again into the fifth
position. They may be crossed either behind or before. Grands battements enable a dancer to
turn his legs completely outwards, and give much facility to the motions of his thighs, for
high developments, and the execution of the grands terms; grands battements are made both
forwards and backwards. When they are done forwards the leg must be in the positions shown in
fig. 1 and 2 of plate IV. When backwards its positions must be that of fig. 3, same plate. 

Petits battements are performed after the same way, but instead of raising the leg into the
air you only detach it a little from the other leg, without letting your toes leave the ground.
These battements make the legs very lithsome, because the pupil is obliged to redouble his

Petits battements on the instep. It is the hip and knee that prepare and form these movements;
the hip guides the thigh in its openings, and the knee by its flexion performs the battemens
, making the lower part of the leg cross either before or behind the other leg, which rests on
the ground. Suppose that you are standing on your left foot, with your right leg in the second
position, and the right foot just touching the ground at the toe, cross before the left, by bending
your knee and opening again sideways, then bend the knee again, crossing your foot behind,
opening also sideways; and so continue to do several of these battemens one after the other.
Gradually increase in quickness, till you can perform them so rapidly, that the eye cannot
count them. These battemens have a very pretty effect, and give much brilliancy to the motions
of the legs. They should also be practised a great deal with both legs resting on the toes. Ronds-de-Jambes

To begin your ronds-de-jambes from the outside, take the same position as that in Which you
commence your petits battemens . Suppose it is the left leg that stands on the ground whilst
the right, in the second position, is prepared for the movement, make it describe a semicircle
backwards, which brings your legs to the first position, and then continue on the sweep till
it completes the whole circle, ending at the place from whence it started. This is what we technically
term ronds-de-jambe . 

The ronds-de-jambes from the inside are begun in the same position, but the right leg, instead
of commencing the circle backwards, must do so forward. After the pupil has practised the ronds-de-jambe
on the ground, he should exercise himself in performing them in the air, holding the leg that
supports his body, on the toes. 

The pupil must at first practise in resting his hand On something, that he may keep himself upright,
and exercise each leg alternately. When he has acquired some facility in this, let him practise
without holding, which gives him uprightness and equilibrium, essential qualities in a good
dancer. He will also thereby gain strength, and means of executing, with ease, every kind of
step. He must repeat his practice daily to establish his execution; 7 for were he gifted with
the rarest talent he can never become perfect, but by incessant application and study. OF THE

We call tems a movement of the leg. Of the Pas . 

The pas denotes the various manners of arranging one's steps in walking or in leaping, either
as he moves in front or turns round. It generally means a combination of steps arranged to some
musical air: thus we say such a one made a beautiful pas on such a chaccone , such a gigue . Pas are
often combined for the performance of two or more persons; pas de deux, pas de trois, quatre,
cinq, &c . OF THE LESSON. 

The combination of elementary exercises, and of the principal steps of dancing is what is usually
termed the lesson . 

The learner first exercises himself in bending his knees in all the positions, in the practice
of grands et petits battemens , the rond-de-jambes on the ground and in the air, the petits battemens
on the instep, &c. Afterwards come the tems de courante simples et composes , the coupes a la
premiere, a la seconde, et composes , the attitudes, the grands rond-de-jambes, tems de chaccone
, the grands fouettes , facing and revolving, the quart-de-tour , the pas de Bourree and the
various movements of different kinds of pirouettes. These exercises tend to form a good dancer,
and afford him means of obtaining success. The lesson concludes by the practice of pirouettes,
of tems terra-a-terre , and tems de vigueur . 

But after the pupil is enabled to perform all the exercises which the lesson comprehends, he
does not yet attain that end which he in the beginning hoped to reach. To become a finished dancer
he must divest himself of that school-boy appearance which necessarily hangs about him, and
by his boldness and ease of execution, at length show that he is master of his art. Let his whole
attention be then directed to delight his beholders, by the elegance of his positions, the
gracefulness of his movements, the expressive animation of his features, and by a pleasing
abandon diffused throughout his whole performance. These qualities constitute a truly finished
dancer, and, with them, he is certain of enrapturing all who behold him. GAIT. 

A graceful manner of walking on the stage is of much importance to a dancer, although a number
of our artists neglect it, both in moments of repose and in presenting themselves to the public
for the execution of a pas , which is a serious defect, as it, in the first place, offends the eye,
and, secondly, deprives the performance of its pleasing illusion. 

A good style of walking is very useful, for in that consists one of the first qualities that dancing
imparts, which is a graceful carriage. Let your legs be well extended in their movements or
steps, and your thighs turned perfectly outwards, all the lower parts of your legs will then
be turned in the same manner. Your steps should be no longer than the length of one of your feet.
Avoid stiffness in their motions, which must be neither too slow nor too quick; as both extremes
are equally unpleasing. Do not separate your legs from each other sideways. Carry your head
upright and your waist steadily; by which means your body is kept in an elegant position. Let
your breast project a little and your arms fall naturally on each side. (See Chapter IV.) 7*

Fig. 1. First position, arms in the second. 

2. Position of the wrist and fingers. 

3. Opposition, epaulement du corps; half-arm in opposition and legs in the third position.

4. Arms extended in opposition; legs in the fifth position. 

5. Arms encircling over the head, and legs in the fifth position on the toes. PLATE II. 

Fig. 1. Position of the body, demi-bras , and legs in the fourth position (side view). 

2. Second position, feet fiat on the ground, and position of the demi-bras . 

3. Second position on the toes. 

4. Bend in the second position. 

5. Manner in which a dancer should hold himself in practising; leg in the second position. PLATE

Fig. 1, 2, and 3. Defective positions of the arms. 

4. Defects of the physical construction of the bowlegged dancer. 

5. Defects of the physical construction of the close-legged dancer. PLATE IV. 

Fig. 1. Fourth position forwards and in the air. Arms in the second position (side view). 

2. Same position on the toes. Arms in opposition (front view). 

3. Fourth position, leg in the air behind (side view). 

4. Poses , preparation, and termination of tems and steps. PLATE V. 

Fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4. Poses , preparations, and terminations of tems , and steps. 

5. Different position of the hand and arm in certain positions. PLATE VI. 

Fig. 1. Second position in the air, and on the toes. 

2, 3, and 4. Different attitudes, derived from the second and fourth position. PLATE VII. 

Fig. 1 and 2. Different attitudes derived from the fourth position. 

3. Position of the dancer in beginning his pirouette from the outside. 

4. Position of the dancer in beginning his pirouette from the inside. Arabesque on the two feet.

Fig. 1. Attitude. 

2. Attitude seen side ways. 

3 and 4. Different manners of placing one's self in attitude. PLATE IX. 

Fig. 1. The Mercury of J. Bologne. 

2 and 3. Derivatives from that attitude. 

4. Position of a pirouette on the instep. PLATE X. 

Fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4. Arabesques. PLATE XI. 

Fig. 1 and 2. Arabesques. 

3 and 4. Arabesques backwards. PLATE XII. 

Fig. 1, 2, and 3. Arabesques. 

4. Position of the dancer in movements of elevation and in entrechats. 

5. Elevation of two feel in height. PLATE XIII. 

Fig. 1, 2, 3, and 4. Attitudes of a dancer in steps of elevation and entrechats. PLATE XIV. 

Fig. 1, 2, and 3. Statures of dancers of either sex for the three different kinds of dancing.

1. Serious dancers. 

2. Demi-caractere . 

3. Comic dancers. 

1, 2, 3, and 4. Attitudes de genre; groups, modifications, epaulement of attitudes in groups;
costumes the most suitable to dancers. 

1. Greek tunic. 

2. Spanish Troubadour. 

3. Villagers. 

4. Principal group of a Bacchanalia, composed by the author. NOTES TO PART THE SECOND. 


Second Part was commenced at Paris, and completed and published at Milan, in the month of April,
1820. It is styled an Elementary, Theoretic, and Practical Treatise on the Art of Dancing,
containing all those discoveries and demonstrations of general and individual principles
which ought to guide a dancer . Two translations were made of this work into Italian, the first
by Mr. Grini, the second by the Chevalier Valmarana. Conservatoire de Naples , and Governor
of the Section Philharmonique du Museum d'Instruction Publique , at Bordeaux: First Part
, Origin and Progress of Dancing , has also been translated into Italian by Mr. Velli, and, together
with the above mentioned Treatise, placed in the Gallery of celebrated artists.-( Galleria
Degli Art. celebri .) 


Metastasio . 



anch' io son pittore . 



. This is perhaps the best work in existence on this sublime art. Leonardo da Vinci, its author,
was one of those extraordinary beings on whom nature sometimes pleases to lavish her highest
gifts. He 

7. All the fragments marked with commas, and to which no author's name is subjoined, are extracted
from the French Encyclopedia. The article that furnished them is the only one in the work that
treats of dancing in such a manner as to be useful to our present dancers. Those observations
concerning the mechanism of certain branches of the art, and especially those which relate
to the physical constructions of many individuals, are full of judgment and sound reasoning.

8. Cadence * is that movement which, in good music, affords the performer a quick comprehension
of its measure, so that he feels it gradually fall, and marks its decline without thinking,
as if directed by a kind of instinct. 

Cadence is particularly required in tunes for dancing. We commonly say "that minuet marks
a good cadence , that chaccone has no cadence." Cadence moreover denotes the accord of the dancer's
steps, with the time of the accompanying music. But it must be observed that the cadence is not
always marked precisely as the time is beaten. The music-master beats the time of the minuet
by striking at the beginning of each bar; the dancing-master only beats at the commencement
of every other bar, as it requires that time to perform the four steps of the minuet. (J. J. Rousseau,
Dict. de Musique .) 

This applies only to Minuets. 

9. Rythmus, in its general definition, means the proportions between the several parts of
the same whole. In music it is that difference of movement which results from the slowness or
vivacity of the time, and from the length or shortness of the bars. This is Plato's definition
of it.-(J. J. Rousseau, Dict. de Musique .) 

Rythmus is a Greek word, signifying number : which number is applied in ennumerating and measuring
equal and unequal distance. 

Rythmus serves to mark musical composition more sensibly; for the varied and infinite combination
of bars that music freely borrows of Rythmus, consitutes the difference of one air With another;
and that difference also which subsists between the meaning, thoughts, and ideas, of the same
subject. This caused Virgil to say, "That he could recollect an air, if the words were present
to his mind." By the assistance of this number, or Rythmus (which is regulated by measured time),
dancers can, without any other accompaniment of melody or harmony of voice and instrument,
perform their parts. On this account it is that Ovid gives to the arms of a dancer, the epithet
of numerous instead of harmonious . 

"This dancer, delighting in gesture, gently moves her numerous arms, gracefully inclines
or turns with ease her beauteous body."- Metastasio . 

10. Statuaries, painters, and antiquaries, give the upper part of the body the name of torse;
but we are here obliged to make use of such terms as are generally employed in our dancing schools.

11. We ought rather to say, the point of junction of the humerus or shoulderbone with the radius
or lower bone of the arm; but our scholars will better understand it by the name of saignee . 

12. I cannot refrain from paying, in this place, due homage to that great sculptor, the Praxiteles
and perhaps the Phidias, of our age. His talents have placed him on a level with Michael Angelo,
Flamingo, Algardi, and other sublime geniuses, that Italy can boast of having produced. Canova
alone holds the sceptre of modern sculpture * . His numerous works, dispersed through all Europe,
are known by that softness of contour, that infinite expression, that enchanting simplicity,
that natural grace and rare suavity, which have been so much admired and extolled by all who
have had the pleasure of seeing his Hebe, Madeleine, Paris, Venus, Cupid and Psyche, Daedalus,
Dancer, Muse, &c. 

Il ne manque rien a ces charmantes sculptures, Ni le melange exquis des plus aimables choses,
Ni ce charme secret, dont l'oeil est enchante, Ni la grace plus belle encor que la beaute. La
Fontaine . 

Let the beholder, after he has been charmed with the ease, purity, delicacy, and lightness
that reign so conspicuously in these delightful statues, turn to the contemplation of the
grand sublimity which this immortal sculptor has displayed in his Hercules defeating Lychas;
in his Theseus, conqueror of the Centaurs , and in many other of his productions of the same class.
The statue of M. Letizia is remarkable for that noble simplicity by which file Greek chisel
is so easily distinguished. 

13. I myself have had a convincing proof of this. After receiving first rudiments of dancing
and studying sometime at the school of a coryphaeus , my parents, thinking I possessed some
natural disposition for the art, and wishing to accelerate my progress, placed me in the hands
of M. Dutarque, a ballet-master. No sooner did I begin studying under the directions of that
artist, who had been educated in the best schools, and had already distinguished himself as
a first-rate dancer, than I was obliged to learn all over again, and forget get what I had previously
acquired. I found in him a very different method of demonstrating, and the art of dancing appeared
to me altogether in a new light. I discovered in its cultivation a seductive charm, accompanied,
however, by increasing difficulties; but the manner in which he instructed me to surmount
every obstacle, encouraged me to proceed with redoubled ardour, and strengthened me in the
hope that my endeavours would not prove entirely fruitless. Several tours, which I afterwards
made through some of the principal cities, such as Marseilles, Bordeaux, &c. * afforded me
further acquirements and a more extended knowledge of my profession. It was at the Opera of
Paris, that I first saw to what degree of perfection the art of dancing was carried . M. Gardel,
the first among modern orchesographers , showed me, in his various productions, the richest
beauties of the art, Encouraged and assisted by his advice it was, that I danced at the Royal
Academy of Music. 

14. Vide-Appendix. 

15. I am acquainted with a master of great repute in Paris, who has the defect of teaching men
and women to dance after the same manner, so that all iris pupils have a certain air of affectation,
by no means pleasing to the eye of a person of taste. PART THE THIRD. ON PANTOMIME, AND THE STUDIES

"- atto degli occhi e delle membra." Le Tasse . 

"- art ingenieux De peindre la parole et de parler aux yeux." Breboeuf . 

Having frequently reflected on Ballets, and the usual method of composing them, it has as frequently
occurred to me, that their prevailing defects might be separated from them; and that, by enlarging
the pantomimic department of them, and by improving the incidental dancing, they might be
advanced to something like perfection. 

Pantomime is, undoubtedly, the very soul and support of the Ballet. The art of gesture possesses
powers capable of raising an interest, unknown to the generality of artists; and it is to the
slight attention paid to this department, and to a want of useful information in composers,
that must be attributed the glaring imperfections that prevail throughout out the greater
part of those pieces improperly styled Ballets , which, however, are continually performed
at theatres of the first rank. 

Gesture is the earliest sort of language which man acquires from nature. Children and savages
make use of it, for the purpose of supplying their wants. It is a means of communicating the ideas
and the sentiments of those who talk different languages, and is, in fact, a resource for such
unfortunate beings as are deprived of the faculties of hearing and speaking. What a subject
then, for exciting an interest in this imitative art, and for its cultivation! "Pantomime,"
says a great master of the fine arts, "expresses with rapidity the movements of the soul-it
is the language of all nations-of all ages-and of all occasions; it portrays, more perfectly
even than speech itself, extreme grief, or excessive joy." The ardent mind of Diderot knew
how to appreciate this natural expression, and he lavished upon it all due eulogium. 

The following beautiful lines will perhaps convey a still clearer idea of the importance of
our subject:- 

"Negli occhi, ore il sembiante piu si ficca." Dante . 

"E cio che lingua esprimer ben non puote Muta eloquenza ne' suoi gesti espresse." Le Tasse .

"Words (when the poet would your soul engage) Are the mere garnish of an idle stage. When passion
rages, eloquence is mean; Gestures and looks best speak the moving scene." Prologue to Busiris
.- Young . 

"His rude expression and untutor'd airs , Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold The form
of beauty, smiling at his heart; How lovely! how commanding! Akenside . 

Independently of the natural gestures, it is known that the figurative and symbolical language
of motions, composed of regulated signs, or signs of intelligence, is sometimes more striking
than the slower and systematic language of words. It derives its origin from Pantomime. The
Oriental nations have adopted it, and are greatly attached to it. Their imagination ardently
availed itself of this mode of expression, that is, by an imagery of things; and hence arises,
also, their partiality for a picturesque style. It was from reflections like these, so favourable
to the art of Pantomime, that I studied the science of composing Ballets, and establishing
more precise and exact rules for conducting them, consulting on such a subject the rules both
of art and of taste. "Art furnishes rules, and taste exceptions; taste discovers to us on what
occasions art ought to be subservient, and when, in turn, the latter should submit."- Montesquieu

"Man has three means of expressing his ideas and feeling:-by speech, tone of voice, and gesture.
By gestures we understand, those exterior movements and attitudes of the body which relate
to the inward operations of the mind. ' Gestus ,' says Cicero, ' est conformatio quaeedam et
figura totius oris et corpotis .' 

"I name speech first because we generally pay more attention to it than to the two others; which
latter, however, possess many advantages over the former. Our tone of voice and gesture are
of a more natural and extensive use; for by them we supply every deficiency in speech. By gesture
we present to the eyes all that we cannot express to the ears; it is a universal interpreter that
follows us to the very extremities of the globe, and makes Us intelligible to the most uncivilized
hords. It is understood even by animals. Speech is the language of reason: it convinces our
minds; tones and gestures form a sentimental discourse that moves the heart. Speech can only
give utterance to our passions, by means of reflection through their relative ideas. Voice
and gesture convey them to those we address, in an immediate and direct manner. In short, speech,
or rather the words which compose it, is an artificial institution, formed and agreed upon
between men, for a more distinct reciprocal communication of their ideas; whilst gestures
and the tone of voice are, I may say, the dictionary of simple nature; they are a language innate
in us, and serve to exhibit all that concerns our wants and the preservation of our existence;
for which reason they are rapid, expressive, and energetic. Such a language, of which the terms
are rather those of nature than of cultivation, cannot but be an inexhaustible source to an
art whose object is to move the deepest sensations of the soul!"- Le Batteur . These lines speak
sufficiently in favour of Pantomime, and may serve for an introduction to the lessons of the

Gestures are of two kinds, natural and artificial . The first are in our nature-we are born with
them, they are the outward signs of all that passes within us. The latter we derive from art;
they express, by imitation, all objects that are independent of ourselves. Natural gestures
are the physical signs of our sentiments; artificial ones the emblems of all that is without
the moral world. Those of the former kind exhibit the emotions of love, sadness, anger, hatred,
joy, fear, pleasure, despair, &c., and are what we may call the mechanical effects of our intellectual
over our physical being. Those of the latter sort serve to represent objects, as a warrior old
age, a child, a temple, a ship, arms, robes, &c., they can also describe a storm, a fallen edifice,
a fight, a death, &c. There is another class of gestures, termed, in Pantomime, gestures of
convention , which are often necessary to cast a light on some obscure parts of its performance.
These gestures of convention , which art has created and custom established, paint those things
that we cannot perfectly understand but with the assistance of our imagination; and all events,
of which the extent and multiplicity cannot be represented by one person only. Such are, for
instance, a festival, a wedding, a coronation, the imitation of a father, a husband, a son,
the indication of power, slavery, revolt, &c. All of which cannot be clearly understood but
by gestures of convention . The spectator soon learns their meaning from theatrical habit;
besides, they always bear some kind of analogy to the things they represent, which makes them
sufficiently intelligible; they are, indeed, a sort of symbolic signs. From what we read of
ancient Pantomimes, it seems evident that they had a great variety of gestures, both of art
and of convention or agreement, since we are told that they could express past and future time,
and even abstract ideas. An ancient writer 1 speaks of a trial of skill between Roscius and Cicero,
in which these two celebrated men were to express the same things by different means-the orator
by his speech, the player by his gestures. It does not appear that Roscius gained the victory
over his rival, neither is he to be considered as vanquished, for he conceived so high an idea
of his own art from this trial, shat he immediately wrote a work on gesticulation, which he therein
placed on a level with eloquence itself. A greater proof cannot be brought forward, in favour
of the perfection of ancient mimicry. 

Among the ancients, the name of mimes was originally given to those dialogues, which were founded
upon their habits and morals. These dialogues were spoken by men, and, when necessary, by women
also. The best compositions of the kind were those of Sophron, who lived before Plato, those
of Xenarchus, and those of Publius Situs, a Roman. Laberius, Philistion, Lentulus and Marulus
shone also in this class of comedy, which was very similar to the Atellanes formerly represented
at Averso. These authors were termed mimographers , from the Greek words mimos an imitator,
and grapho I write. The name of mime was afterwards given to those performers who imitated,
by their gestures only, what was spoken by the histriones , or comedians and singers, or declaimers,
both in tragedy and comedy * . These performers in the sequel, degenerating into frivolity,
bombast and indecency, were merely regarded as buffoons and jugglers. The men were treated
with the utmost contempt 2 , and the women regarded only as concubines and prostitutes. 

Some time afterwards, two celebrated actors, in the reign of Augustus, gave the art of mimicry
a new birth, which they brought to much perfection and distinction. It was under these skilful
hands that it acquired a splendour and importance unknown even to the brilliant ages of Greece.
Their dexterity, in representing sentiment by gesture, became at length astonishing 3 . 

The Romans gave the name of pantomimes (from the Greek pantos , all, and mimeomai , to counterfeit)
to those performers who expressed all kinds of things by means of gestures. The arts of Pantomime
and dancing were afterwards called saltatio . The word Tripudium was also used to signify dancing.
The Greeks termed both, when united, Orchestica 4 . 

Lucian, in his celebrated dialogue upon dancing, raised that art to much dignity, by presenting
it in its true light. He pointed out its utility; the many advantages derived from it; presented
all the charms with which it abounds, and confirmed the judgment of those who decreed it an equal
rank with tragedy and comedy. 

Scipion Maffei very erroneously believed that Lucian was merely railing, according to his
usual way, when he in his work gave a certain character of importance to dancing, and set a high
value on the talent of the performer. His motive for writing on pantomimic representations
cannot in any way be suspected; his ideas of it seem the same throughout; he no where contradicts
himself; besides, he is not the only author that speaks with enthusiasm on these ancient spectacles.
The illustrious Veronese, it is true, does not appear to have bestowed much thought upon this
subject; but, it is no less true that dancing, Pantomime, and Ballets were, in his time, very
far from that degree of perfection to which they have since been carried, both in France and
Italy. What we are told of the ancients surprises us, but we have discovered many things that
might have astonished them. 

Let us only require that which is reasonable and natural to make a Pantomime truly interesting
and agreeable. Let us go no further; if we exceed those limits which art and good sense appoint,
our efforts will unquestionably be fruitless. 

The outward motions of the body are effected by the influence of the inward operations of the

All gestures that indicate, in a clear and striking manner, the objects to which they refer,
never fail of meeting with applause at a theatre. Beware, therefore, of making use of any that
are trivial or ignoble; copy the best models, but improve, if possible, on them in your imitation.

M. Gioia, among other philosophers, observes, "I sentimenti da communicarsi o riguardan
oggetti esterni presenti o lontani," &c. ( See Note 5.) 

The actor points out with his hands every part of his body, as also all objects at a distance from
him, by stretching them towards the same. His eyes should accompany each motion, and, by adding
to the general expression, 8 serve to point out more clearly the object to which he directs his

Symbolic gestures, and gestures of convention and of art, are employed to signify every thing
that cannot be exactly imitated or counterfeited by means of simply natural gestures alone.
They point out to the imagination of the spectators all that cannot be seen by them on the stage.
They in general bear as much analogy as possible to the things they endeavour to describe. This
is their chief object. 

Study to make yourself understood by imitating the form of the objects you wish to signify;
and, when that is not possible, point out, as clearly as you can, their use, &c., so that your
beholders may conceive your meaning without ambiguity. Let all your expressions be precise
and distinct. One of Lucian's commentators has said, that Pantomime is capable, by gestures
of convention , to express past and future times, with every abstract action which bears no
relation to the passing moment: this is precisely what was done by the ancient Pantomimes.
I am aware that many persons would be ignorant of the meaning of those artificial gestures not
immediately founded on passion and nature; but in that case, to raise a desire to learn their
signification, the Ballet-master, and those who represent his compositions, should exhibit
pieces both easy and accurate, thus would such be obliged to relish their excellence by applying
themselves to the grammar , if we may so call it, of this new language 6 . 

This is, in some measure, reasonable enough, and might be done with no great difficulty in Italy,
where the people are naturally inclined to Pantomimes, and where the mimes already make use
of gestures of convention . In France, some length of time, and a course of deep study, would
be required to attain the same degree of perfection. The French Pantomimes have adopted only
a small number of gestures, of which the greater part is destitute of correct expression. Thus
circumscribed in their means, their art cannot accomplish its due end, which is to represent
to the eye a picturesque imitation of all things. 

In certain theatres, where Ballets have been intended as much to please the intellect as the
sight, this art has made considerable progress; and the number of gestures of art has much increased.
The want of them was felt, their advantages were discovered, and success seems to have crowned
the innovation. 

It is natural to the Italian to gesticulate; it is not surprising, therefore, if the mimes of
Italy are superior to those of other countries; or if Pantomime is there carried to so great
a degree of perfection as to be capable of expressing perfectly all the passions, with every
object sensible to the sight. They are, however, most materially assisted by the gestures
acquired by art, which have greatly enlarged the sphere of their performances. 

Pantomime being incapable of producing any very striking effect, but when employed in expressing
strong emotions, and objects easy of perception, the Italians have selected the most celebrated
deeds of both history and fiction, the more deeply to fix the attention of the spectators; their
magnificent pictures are represented always vigorous, and sometimes sublime. This system
excites great interest for the Ballet, and renders the pantomimic department important;
at the same time augmenting and varying the pleasure of the public. 

The Italian, endowed by nature with deep sensibility and a vivid imagination, is attached
to powerful impressions, and prefers the stately and pathetic style to the comic or even the
pleasing. He is willing to be amused by theatrical representation, but he had rather be affected;
8* and hence arises the interest taken by him in the performance of Ballets. It may be observed
here that the Ballet has been more essentially assisted by the art of painting in Italy than
in France; nor has the art itself lost any thing by it, but, on the contrary, gained infinitely.

In France, however, lately, several of my friends have distinguished themselves as mimes,
and have attained the same perfection in expressing the passions as I have witnessed in Italy.
This need not appear extraordinary, if it be considered that man is every where nearly the same.
The only defect in these performers was a want of sufficient gesture to express perfectly every
circumstance; but this was less their fault than that of their art. Notwithstanding this,
their description of sentiment was true; their features spoke, and their attitudes were gracefully

I remarked that the best of these pantomimic performers were from provincial theatres; they
are more industrious, and their stock of pieces is greater than at the capital. In Paris, about
a dozen pieces form their round of representation; at Bordeaux, Marseilles, Lyons, &c., every
Ballet that has succeeded is performed; at Paris, on the contrary, those only are performed
that have been introduced by private interest and favour. I remember at Bordeaux, upon one
of my benefit nights, it occurred to me, in order to raise public curiosity, that my Ballet companions
should represent a comedy. The attempt appeared very extraordinary, and was deemed impossible
of execution. The performers, however, being all endowed with some talent, and very expert
in Pantomime, boldly undertook the performance, and succeeded in giving a perfect representation
of that delightful comedy, called Folies Amoureuses . A severe but just journalist, giving
an account of this performance, thus expresses himself:-"The piece was played not only with
spirit , which might be easily expected of dancers, but with truth also, a quality that becomes
every day more rare. Regnard was both felt and expressed. The novices in speech did not stand
in need of that indulgence which had been prepared for any failure in this hazardous attempt."

This occurrence ought to prove satisfactorily, that in France there are dancers capable of
performing Pantomime perfectly; and if they do not introduce more of it into their parts, the
cause of it should be attributed to the composers who neglect too much this department, or who
have not sufficient talent to put Pantomime upon an equality with dancing. 

It is not consistent with the character of Ballets to treat of abstract things, nor to entertain
the public with long details. This sort of representation ought only to exhibit such actions
and images as create interest and pleasure, without giving the spectator the least occasion
to guess at the intentions of the performer. A Pantomime must be simple, clear, and correct,
if it be meant for a faithful interpretation of our sensations. All that cannot be understood
at the moment of the action is mere imperfection, which it is the Ballet-master's duty to reject
as useless. 

Pantomime, like dancing, has its different kinds. Gesture, look, carriage, in short all the
physical expressions, are not exactly the same in every person; they vary with the age, character,
and condition of the actor, who ought, therefore, to pay the strictest attention to those kinds
only of which he finds himself more peculiarly capable. 

Unless the actor possesses certain physicial qualities, and a natural disposition to Pantomime,
he cannot expect to see his endeavours crowned with success. It is an incontrovertible fact
that, without the gifts of nature, it is impossible for us to become perfect in any one art or
science whatsoever; but, at the same time, though endued with every requisite, were we to neglect
the sage precepts of art, we should equally fail of our end. Those lessons of advice, formed
into established laws by ages of experience, are essential, nay almost indispensable, to
the attainment of perfection. The great Longinus says, "that nature is mainly instrumental
in conducting us to the grand and the sublime; but unless art takes her by the hand, guiding her
steps, she is as one blind-folded, knowing not whither her steps are leading her." 

It was by such a direction of art that the chisels which created the Apollo and the Venus surpassed
the hand of nature in the formation of beauty. Ars naturam perficit . 

What is said of sculpture, painting, and all the fine arts, can be said with the same truth of
Pantomime. A mime requires considerable assistance from art to be much valued; his imitations
should be faithful, but at the same time finer than their original. This is the end he must try
to attain. Experience, good taste, diligence, and study, will conduct him towards it. Art
embellishes, while she corrects nature; the former assists the latter, and receives an ample
reward for her aid 7 . 

The first study of the pantomimic actor ought to be dancing; to acquire which, he must devote
a few years of steady application, that he may know it well, and be thus enabled to profit by its
advantages. Some notion of drawing would be also very useful to him. Here let us observe, with
the celebrated Hogarth, "that all those actions which are continually employed in our ordinary
and daily occupation, are performed nearly in right lines, or as nearly so as possible; but
all graceful movements, which display cultivated manners, are performed in undulated lines."-
Analysis of Beauty . 

This judicious remark is worthy of the attention of every class of actors, as by it they may learn
to give gracefulness to their actions and gestures. The study of oblique lines is also of much
utility in varying their gestures, and in making their attitudes and motions appear more picturesque.
By a knowledge of drawing, their performance will present many attractions of the most pleasing
kind, and when united to that of dancing, afford them powerful means to attain perfection.
These two arts enable the actor to be light, nimble, and flexible; all his motions will be easy,
graceful, and executed with taste; his attitudes and gestures will be elegant and natural.
Music, also, is of equal service, and will contribute in no small degree to the attainment of
excellence. By the study of music, he makes himself capable of following more exactly the rhythm
of the tune, and occasions his performance to accord more happily with the measure and cadence
of the notes. To these requisite accomplishments, let him finally add an expressive countenance,
always in strict unison with the subject he represents, and thus complete the theatrical illusion.

It is very advisable for an actor to study history and poetry; from them he will reap much profit.
They enlighten his mind, enlarge his views, and give him true notions of taste. They afford
him the first lessons towards a knowledge of nature, the human heart in its full extent, and
the real character of those personages he will be frequently called upon to represent. 

We may see, from what has been said, that the modern pantomimic actor does not require all those
qualifications which constituted the art of the ancient, who was obliged to be at once perfect
in pantomime, dancing, and composition. These arts have, in our days, been carried to a degree
of excellence which neither the Greeks nor Romans ever arrived at. This pre-eminence may be
ascribed to the better judgment of the moderns, who have made an appropriate division of each

Les sept chefs devant Thees, Hercule furieux, Ajax, l' Adultere de Mars et de Veus, Paris , and
a few other Ballets of the ancients, are but weak and imperfect sketches when compared with
Telemaque, Psychee, Promethee, Niobe, Les Amours de Venus, Ulysse, Almaviva et Rosine, Cleopatre,
Zehyre et Flore, &c . all modern productions, in which taste, genius, and reason are happily
combined to charm the eyes and interest the heart. 

With us, it is only young men thai devote themselves to dancing and Pantomime, whilst those
of more advanced years, who possess both talents and experience, apply themselves to composition.

Lucian says, that the stature of a pantomimic actor must be neither very tall nor extremely
short; his limbs neither too strong nor too slight. He wishes his person to be as nearly as possible
of the proportions of the statue of Polycletes 8 . But as this masterpiece of sculpture has not
been transmitted to us, we must take as a substitute that of Antinous . A performer of this height
and muscular construction may undertake a number of different characters, since his physical
powers are adapted to all branches of the art. 

An easy remedy for trifling defects is found in the manner of dressing and acting. 

Our ballets have the advantage of being performed by a greater number of persons. Each mime
or dancer takes that part which best suits his peculiar figure and talent. It is the duty of a
Ballet-master to look into these particulars, and judiciously to distribute and appropriate
the parts. The various characters of youth, manhood, and old age should be filled by different
actors, whose stature and features resemble, in some degree, the idea we have of such personages.
The theatrical system of the present time is not the same as it was formerly. Now, each actor
and actress always takes one particular kind of character, by which means our dramatic representations
are more naturally, and therefore much more perfectly, performed. 

In France, the parts and lines of actors have been divided and sub-divided in the minutest manner,
that all may be in a sort of exact accordance. The following is a classification of some of the
principal parts: Jeunes premieres; jeunes premieres ingenuites; amoureux; amoureux marques;
coquettes de Marivaux; grandes coquettes; petits maitres; marquis; premiers roles; peres
nobles; meres nobles; roles a manteau; duegnes (Spanish personage); financiers; soubrettes;
valets; Figaros; soubrettes de bon ton; grandes livrees; servantes et valets de Moliere;
travestis; Crispin; Scapin; caricatures; Cassandre; grimes; rois; reines; princesses;
chevaliers; grands pretres; confidents; utilites, &c. &c . 

This example deserves to be followed in every branch of theatrical art. But it frequently happens
that, through motives of interest or ambition, an actor is induced to aim at acquiring a talent
as universal as possible. This is well enough, if he finds himself really endowed with the requisite
qualifications. Indeed I would then advise him to imitate every thing, to render himself a
perfect master of mimicry in every kind. It may be here remembered that the Greeks called their
players hypocrites . Among the ancients, one and the same actor used generally to represent
a great number of personages (see Lucian, Cassiodorus, and others). Sometimes, also, two
performers undertook to play every part in a piece; but afterwards, their number having increased,
there were as many actors as parts; still this was not always the case. A player ought to study
the genius, character, manners, and customs of the various nations, the natives of which he
may have to represent. Let nature be his constant model. In this respect he then shares the labours
and honours of the composer. The varied features of his countenance must exhibit the different
sensations of his soul, and his eyes, particularly, must add to the expression of all those
feelings which his gesture is intended to convey. The gesture of the mime, being ever in accord
with his eye, should, as it were, speak. 

Signat cuncta manu, loquitur Polyhymnia gestu .- Virgil 9 . 

"La passion toujours, selon l'age et les rangs, Dans des signes pareils eut des traits differens.
Pour nous peindre l'acteur, mesure son theatre. La douleur d'un heros n'est point celle d'un
patre; Distingue par le sexe autant que par l'etat, Les larmes d'une femme et les pleurs d'un
soldat. Le meme sentiment, selon les caracteres, Se manifeste encor par des signes contraires
Ce pere en sa douleur, d'un courage assure, Peint les livides traits de son fils expire. Toi,
malheureux Dedale, auteur de ta blessure, Deux fois tu veux graver ta fatale aventure, Deux
lois ton coeur se serre, et tu sens sur l'airain, De ta main paternelle echapper le burin." Lemierre

Every thing must be well understood, every thing deeply felt, if we wish to represent it correctly.
We hear that Polus, to enable himself to act with greater truth the scene in which Electra , in
the most poignant anguish, brings the urn that encloses her brother's ashes, took that which
did really contain the last remains of one of his own sons; the sight of this, by renewing his
grief, could not fail of making him express, with an energy and perfection that art can never
teach, that keen anguish under which his mind must have laboured 10 . 

Let nature, therefore, be most attentively studied, even down to her minutest operations.

It is the composer's duty to inform the actor of the subject, argument, and meaning of his Ballet,
and especially to instruct him as to the nature of the part which he has to fulfil. He ought to
show him the proper gestures that will express his own ideas in the Pantomime, and also guide
him in all his motions, that the time and cadence of the music may be observed with precision.

Every action in Pantomime must be regulated according to the music, which ought also to participate
in the expression of the passions. The effect resulting from this harmonious union creates
the most pleasing emotions in the spectator. The Ballet-master should set the gestures, attitudes
and steps exactly to the rythm of the tunes, and so manage that each sentiment expressed may
be responsive to the measure. Let the mime or dancer, however, beware not to force his action,
in order to prove that they really are in accord with the musical phrase. All must be blended
together, and art be concealed as much as possible. 

"Salle dont Terpsichore avait conduit les pas, Fit sentir la mesure, et ne la marquait pas."
Voltaire . 

The accompaniment must possess the true tone and colouring of the pantomimic action. 

The Ballet-master must avoid in his demonstrations all that is exaggerated, dull, vulgar,
or trivial, particularly in subjects of a serious nature. 

The expressions of violent passion, or of those which arise from any extraordinary situation,
are not the most difficult task of a mime. "The great difficulty in the art," Marmontel observes,
"is in a simultaneous expression of two sentiments agitating the soul, when the mind wavers
from one to the other, or in the gradations and shades either of one passion or of two contrary
ones, in their delusive momentary calm, in their rapid fury, their impetuous transports,
in short, in all the varied accidents that form together a picture of the storms which convulse
the human breast." 

What skill is here required to offer a faithful representation of such emotions on the stage.
It is, indeed, the nec plus ultra of the comedian's art! To this desirable. point of perfection
it is, that such celebrated actors have arrived as Garrick, Le Kain, Talma, Kemble, Kean, Young,
Demarin; Ekhoff, Iffland, Mayquez, Siddons, Oldfield, O'Neil, Clairon, Dumenil, Pellandi,
Marchionni, Duchesnoy and some few others 11 . 

It is by that dumb action, and those energetic expressions, that we discover a truly good actor.
One of a middling talent may declaim a speech tolerably well; but it is the sublime artist alone
that can paint, in one rapid look, all the natural violence of a strong passion. In this respect
it is that a mime always surpasses a comedian or tragedian. 

The gestures and countenance of the performer must express to the spectator all that passes
in the soul, and minutely point out every variation in its emotions. The heart should feel all
that is exhibited by the features and gestures, which cannot act perfectly without its consent.

"-ogni membro all' animo risponde."- Petrarch . 

That accord which exists between our moral and physical faculties must be strictly observed.
The most studied dissimulation can never entirely hide the feelings that agitate us. Nor are
they ever so expressed as to be glaringly conspicuous. It is very easy for the performer to make
the personage he represents perfectly dissimulate, as his action is, of course, much calmer.
He must always try to throw a veil over all his expressions and gestures sufficiently transparent
for the spectator to perceive the shades of that secret passion which he endeavours as much
as possible to conceal. 

The performance of the mime sometimes depends on those who act with him; if they are not animated,
he necessarily becomes cold. But the principal performer should rather take possession,
as it were, of the stage, and give a tone to the rest, whose acting should be responsive to his,
and form a part of it. It is this harmony between the characters of Pantomime which contributes
most essentially to general theatrical effect. 

It may be here observed, that an actor performing in a small theatre may restrain his gestures
and moderate his exertions; but if, on the contrary, the theatre is of extensive dimensions,
his pantomimic action must be increased in vigour also, and more strongly marked. ON THE ORIGIN

The following short discourse upon masked characters is taken from Pietro Verri . Supposing
it to be a subject not void of interest to theatrical amateurs, treating as it does on the origin
of Mimes , whom we have already so often mentioned, we thought ourselves sufficiently authorized
for introducing it here. 

The custom of performing in masks, may be traced to the most remote antiquity. During the polished
ages of Greece, no actor appeared on the stage without this peculiar appendage. In ancient
comedy, masks were in such universal use that they were adapted to every species of character:
there were the miser's mask, the parasite's mask, the mask for the good servant, and the mask
for the knavish one; an actor, therefore, had only to make his appearance thus masked, when
the nature of his character was immediately recognized, even before a word was spoken; this
is precisely the case with respect to the mask of the modern harlequin, which is always the same;
while those of Brighella, ( the Clown ), Dottore, ( the Doctor ), and Pantaloon, present so truly
their peculiar dispositions, that it is impossible to be mistaken in the foolishness and stupidity
of Brighella, or in the tricks and roguishness of Harlequin. 

We must, therefore, establish it as fact and foundation, that the custom of wearing masks,
which never varied when once adapted to its peculiar character, is derived from the ancient
Greek and Roman theatres. 

Amongst the ancient Romans the profession of an actor was divided into two branches, the Mime
and the Comedian . The Mime had his face blackened, and appeared upon the stage fuligine faciem
obducti; for at that time, the custom of performing in the high dramatic buskin had not yet been
introduced among the Mimes , the bottom of their feet being bare, and on that account, indeed,
they obtained the name of Mimes , according to Diomedes: " Planipes Groeci dicitur Mimus, adeo
autem latine planipes quod actores planis pedibus proscenium introirent ." We may hence gather
how strong a resemblance exists between the modern Harlequin and Brighella (or Clown) , and
the Mimes of antiquity, particularly in those unvarying characteristics, the blackened
visage and the buskins. Their general attire also bore a great similarity to that of modern
times; their Mimes were dressed precisely like our Harlequins: see that passage of Apuleius,
in which he says, " Num ex eo argumentare uti me consuevisse tragedi sysmate, Histrionis cocosta,
Mimi centunclo ." Where observe, that to Mimes was assigned the Centunclus , which means, a
dress of patches of a hundred colours, Anglice a Harlequin's suit. And further it may be remarked,
that Vossius, in his Institutes , informs us that, Sanniones Mimum agebant rasis capitibus;
in which words two things are worthy of note; first, that Sanniones and Mimes were both in the
same line of profession; and secondly, that Harlequin and Brighella are now called Zanni *
, which word is doubtless no other than a corruption of the original term Sannio . Thus then a
Mime with his head shaved, his face blackened, and a suit of party-coloured patches, bare-looted
or nearly so, and bearing the name of Sannio , according to ancient historians, must have been
the worthy ancestor of our magical Harlequin. 

Perhaps it may be doubted whether the severe Cato, or the grave Cicero, had witnessed the performance
of a Roman harlequinade, but the doubt will soon be removed upon reading the following passage,
extracted from his book De Oratore , in which it may be seen he describes a harlequin exactly.
Quid enim potest tam ridiculum, quam Sannio esse, qui ore, vultu, imitandis motibus, voce,
denique corpore ridetur ipso! From this it must be concluded that the Sanni or Zanni of modern
comedy are derived from the most ancient theatricals even of republican Rome, and thus transmitted
down to us. It is not at all improbable that good and legitimate tragedy and comedy, might have
been buried amid the barbarism that succeeded the fall of Rome, and with which all Italy was
overrun, but the pleasure that unpolished ignorance would take in such gross representation
of mimicry as that of the Sanniones , preserved them from oblivion, while nobler amusement
was despised and forgotten. It appears, in short, that when the Italian drama was destroyed,
those mimic farces continued to be performed, though it were only in open squares, or any corners
where such shews could be conveniently represented. Proofs of this may be found as far back
as the twelfth century 12 , beyond which period the traces of the existence of the Dottore are
not observable. Then it was that Irenerius opened, at Bologna, a school of jurisprudence,
from which such institutions take their rise throughout the greater part of Europe, and so
continue to the present time. And it appears that the origin of the mask called Dottore may be
fixed at that epoch, when the two celebrated doctors, Bulgaro and Martino, disputed upon the
question, whether the whole world belonged to the reigning emperor, as sole proprietor, or
whether he was only a kind of tenant? Certainly it required some such an appearance as this grotesque
mask, with black nose and scarlet cheek, which is supposed to represent exactly the man who
could gravely inquire whether the world belonged to one man, or whether he was only a mere tenant?
Some learned persons, indeed, contend that the original model of this mask was the only good
ever bestowed upon posterity by the school of Irenerius. 

With respect to Pantaloon, it seems that it was at the end of the fourteenth, or at the beginning
of the fifteenth century, that this mask was introduced at the theatres; at a period when the
extensive commerce of the Venetians caused the sum of 695,000 sequins to circulate annually
through the state of Milan, the product of woollen manufactures, which were sent to Venice,
and again sold in the Levant; this may be proved by reading a controversy of the time, of the Doge,
Thommaso Mocenigo, as related by the historian Sannudo, in Rer. Ital. Script. Tom. 22, page



Adultery of Mars and Venus , with the most obscene gestures and particularities. Suetonius
tells us, that under the reign of Nero the infamous loves of Pasiphoe were frequently represented
on the stage, and in so natural a manner that many believed the rent scene was passing before



Ger-jo Vossius , Jstit. Poet. lib. 2. cap. XXX, 3 et 5. 



indicative . 

imitative . 

"When the same person would express his own peculiar wants, fears, or any feeling which the
eye cannot perceive, he first exhibits those peculiar attitudes which are produced by such
feelings. B. seeing the place where he had been aftrighted, will repeat the cries of fear, and
the movements of terror in order that his companion, A. may not expose himself to the same danger
which he had experienced. A person deaf and dumb, wishing to show how he was trampled on by a horse,
first describes the swift motion of the horse's feet with his hands, and then with his fingers
be traces out on his body those parts that have been injured, showing at the same time how he fell.

"After exhibiting those external signs which accompany the affections, the savage, like
a deaf and dumb person, seizes on the.resemblance he finds between the internal sensations
of the mind and the external qualities of bodies, employing the latter to express the former.
Thus, violent anger is compared to the flame or the tempest; tranquillity of mind to a serene
sky; doubt is expressed by the two hands that would weigh two bodies;-and such signs as these
are called figurative or symbolic . 

"These indicative, imitative , and figurative gestures then, provide a threefold means of
communication between ideas and feelings, enlisting into their service all the aids afforded
by the laws of association. 

"To give a class of those elementary materials, of which this language is composed, we must
reduce, them into three kinds, namely gestures,: sounds, and symbolic writing. 

"The first class comprehends those actions and attitudes of the body employed to express the
form or motion of a visible object; the second contains those sounds of the voice with which
is described the cry of animals, or the noise accompanying the motion of inanimate bodies;
the third comprehends those hieroglyphics which are frequently traced upon the sand, the
bark of trees, or any other surface to indicate visible objects, or the motions appertaining
to them." M. Gioia . 

6. Were it possible to put such a project into execution, would it not be more adapted to the formation
of a universal language than the chimerical plans of George's 'Kalmar'? (See his Essay on a
Philosophical and Universal Language: a work which like all others that have been written
by great authors upon the subject, is replete with useless speculative ideas, about as easy
in execution as the ingenious method of Dean Swift, in his Voyage to Laputa .) 


Anzi l'accresce e'l suo valor congiunge 



Regle , a celebrated statue of the famous sculptor Polycletes, of Syciones, which represented
a guard of one of the kings of Persia. It was so called by reason of the just proportion and exact
symmetry of all its forms, and was considered a perfect model of the human figure. Amateurs
and artists came from all parts to see and consult it. basso relievo , and possessed the same
facility of execution on bronzes as on marble. He was also an eminent architect. 


chironomy , a word signifying the art of making gestures in a graceful manner. The word is derived
from hand and law. This art also consisted in calculating and making expressive signs with
the fingers. 


Niobe , of Canace in Child-bed , and of several other women. In pantomimes women played their
respective parts, and produced a much better effect. Those who remain on record as having been
distinguished in their art, are Arbuscula, Lucilia, Tymele, Denise Cytheris, (whose beauty,
talent, and wit, inspired the poet Gallus with the most violent love for her,) and Valeria Cloppia,
who also gained some repute by the composition of several Pantomimes. 

Madame Pernelle, Madame Jourdain, Madame de Sotenville , and of the Comtesse d'Escarbagnas

11. Baccio Ugolino, who had the honour of playing the principal part in Politien's celebrated
piece l'Orfeo , may be regarded as the first actor who appeared upon the Italian theatre after
the revival of the arts. Verato, surnamed the Roscius of his time, lived in the sixteenth century,
and was celebrated as the original performer of Tasso's Aminta . Baron, Mondori, La Noue, Poisson,
P. Susini, were Italian actors of the seventeenth century. Mole, Preville, Thomassini, Doggert,
Watton, Gibbon, Zannoni, Petronio, Monvel, Vestri, Champmesle, Le Couvreur, Gaussin, Contat,
Ellena Riccoboni, Sainval, Silvia, Balletti, Lawrence, &c. 

The following are the modern Mimes:-A. Vestris, Ferdinand, Molinari, Costa, Melle, Chevigny;
Dutacq, Robillon, Theodore, Dauberval, Bigottini, Pallerini, Leon, Cheza, Pezzoli, Bocci,
Conti, Olivieri. 

The actors of antiquity are:-Esopus, Roscius, Nestor, Paris, Laberius, Pylades, Hylas,
pupil of the latter, Bathylus, Mnesterius, Coramalus, Phabeton, Plancus, Sophronius, Polus,
Aristodemus, Demetrius, Callistrates, Philonides, Neoptolemus, Apelles, and Stratocles,
which latter was the Preville of his time. 

12. Those who would have a more detailed account of this subject may read Nieuport:-Rituum
qui apud Romanos obtinuerunt. Dubos:Reflexions sur la Poesie. tom . 3, and Riccoboni's Treatise.

"- eloquente et muette, Elle ( la danse ) est des passions la mobile interprete: Elle parle a
mon ame, elle parle a mes sens, Et je vois dans ses jeux des tableaux agissans. Le voile ingenieux
de ses allegories Cache des verites par ce voile embellies. Rivale de l'histoire, elle raconte
aux yeux: Je revois les amours, les faits de nos ayeux: Elle sait m'inspirer leur belliqueuse
ivresse. J'admire leurs exploits, etje plains leur faiblesse." Dorat . Introduction * . 

It appears to me that the plan and conduct of a Ballet should be nearly similar to those of a comedy
or tragedy; since Pantomime is now capable of explaining our feelings almost as perfectly
as the voice; and, as we have already observed, it expresses the transports of passion even
more energetically. Hence it may be concluded that this art of expressing ourselves by looks
and gestures is sufficient to represent every species of action or historic exploit; if the
pantomimic performer, therefore, be well understood he will awaken interest, and be finally
triumphant. Gresset, speaking of Terpsichore, the patroness of dancing, expresses himself

"Her allegorical positions form a mute poetry, her attitudes are living and moving pictures,
and become a faithful representation of sentiments arid passions. Rivalling history, while
she displays to the eyes (the Ballet) deeds of renown, she exhibits to the spectator the peculiar
genius of every nation; by her steps she represents every characteristic. In her vehement
movements, and uncertain wandering, I can perceive anger, indignation, and despair; her
irregular and negligent gestures exhibit a soft voluptuousness; in the nicety of her balancemens
, and the exactness of her equilibres , we trace an easy languor; in the sudden agility of her
steps, we perceive the gaiety of the Graces, and the sprightliness of delight; amid the labyrinth
of her aerial bounds we are reminded of the village fete and the joys of the vintage. In short,
dancing, which at first view appears to be only a pleasure, conceals a useful lesson. Thus,
anciently, the wise citizens of Sparta, to inspire their children with the horror of intemperance,
caused their drunken slaves to dance before them. This dancing, however, cannot certainly
be taken for a model, but only as an example of the moral power contained in the Ballet. Describo
mores hominum , is the motto of comedy; and might be applied to every kind of theatrical representation.

Those laws and maxims which ought to guide the composer of Ballets, are no other than those which
have been laid down by the greatest critics on the drama. I have, therefore, laboured to make
extracts from whatever work has treated on the subject; and afterwards to deliver them to my
readers in a clear and condensed shape, in order that they may be enabled more easily to perceive
my object. 

Divesting the arguments and observations contained in certain authors of their obscurity
and tedious verbosity, which so often confuse and repulse the inquiries of those who would
otherwise have studied them, I have endeavoured to render them useful and advantageous to
the professor of dancing; being well convinced that truth, clearness, and precision are the
qualities required in delivering precepts. 

The following subject has never yet been treated on, namely:-the application of dramatic
principles in the composition of Ballets. The enterprise is not an easy one; in order to succeed
in it, however, I have spared neither time nor labour; making an infinity of notes, and searching
through a multitude of authors. This part, therefore, will treat on the object of the Ballet,
its peculiarities, and the method in which it should be composed. An attempt will be marie also
to point out what kind of dramatic subjects are suitable to it; with the means necessary to be
employed in order to insure success in the pantomimic department, and by what method the Ballet
may be raised to anequality with tragedy and Comedy. Thus, in the end, it may attain the same
object as the speaking drama, though by a different rout. I have also shown that a more liberal
application of theatrical scenery and decoration should be accorded to the Ballet; calling
in the aid of those arts to which it bears a striking analogy. Each art, indeed, is united to the
other, and all concur in mutual embellishment. CHAPTER I. ON THE EXPOSITION, OR INTRODUCTION.

Qualunque oggetto si vegga nelle belle Arti, si ha da conoster subito the cosa fa, chi e, che
significa, che vuole, the ci dice di bello e d'importante.- Milizia . 

Every dramatic action represented upon the stage, ought to consist of three divisions, namely,
the exposition, the plot ( noeud ), and the catastrophe ( denoument ). If any one of these parts
be defective or ill-contrived, the action loses its interest, in proportion to its imperfect
state; if, on the contrary, there exists a harmony in the parts, arising from a certain uniformity
of arrangement, the dramatic action is perfect and complete; the effect that will be thus produced,
aided by the illusion of theatrical embellishment, must secure success to the author. 

The unities also, as we shall shortly see, must contribute in some measure to the perfection
of the work; and the composer should be exact to a certain degree in observing them, not attempting
to introduce anything without a sanction from them. We must, however, remark, that a Ballet
does not always oblige the writer to a strict observance of unities. 

The exposition unfolds to us the subject upon which the author writes, and the nature of the
action about to take place, and may be termed also the introduction. A good author should know
how to awaken interest in this first part, and to keep it up by inspiring a desire of seeing the
final consequence. This exposition , however, must be clear and concise; for here it is that
many authors fail. In this division we expect a description of characters and manners, with
the peculiar qualities of the persons about to appear upon the scene. Those who are to take an
active part in the piece should be advantageously introduced to our notice, without, however,
concealing from us their failings, when the latter are essentially necessary to the conduct
of the subject. "Let your heroes be great but not faultless," says Aristotle; from which precept
we may learn that nothing should be exaggerated, but rather probable and natural. 

During the action every character should be sustained in a tone consistent with their beginning.
The action itself, even from its commencement, should advance in such a manner as gradually
to increase interest; an effect which requires some ability to produce; every effort, therefore,
must be employed to raise emotion and pleasure; this, indeed, is the object at which true talent
ever aims. 

The exposition may be made either suddenly or gradually, according as the peculiarity of the
subject may require. Sometimes, the veil which conceals from the spectator the actual state
of things may be instantaneously lifted; at others, it must be slowly raised during the course
of succeeding scenes. "When a subject is celebrated, and, Consequently, well known, its exposition
is both brief and easy; thus, on hearing the names of Iphigenia, OEdipus, Dido, Caesar , Or Brutus
, not only are their characters immediately recalled to mind, but the peculiar events in which
they have borne a part. To explain in such a case requires not many lines. But when a subject is
not generally known, it should be both clear and striking of itself, and the characters marked
by such strong traits of distinction, as to make an impression on the mind at their first appearance."-
Marmontel . An exposition extended to too great a length, fatigues the audience and causes
inattention. Do not promise too much at the opening, as it always raises a proportionate expectation.

Que tout soit lie dans l'action principale, et que tout marche vets le meme but.- Anonymous

The poet or composer having informed the audience of the nature of the subject, he must raise
interest, and, as it were, take the audience with him, by the emotion created by the incidents.
A well-contrived episode, though proceeding from the action, crosses and embarrasses it,
and interrupts its progress, yet at the same time its unexpected events excite curiosity,
and agitate the mind: all these, aided by characters vigorously drawn, inspire an ardent desire
to know what will be the end of so singular a history, without, however, being able to divine
the catastrophe. Such is the state of things when the plot is well conducted and well sustained.

Episode 1 produces good effect and adds to the pleasure of the piece, by giving the imagination
a kind of repose, or by diverting the attention from the principal personages. It must not,
however, be too much prolonged, or it will injure the first action, and diminish the dramatic
illusion which had been raised at the beginning. 

By reading ancient dramatic writers, it will be seen that two or three actions are passing at
once in their pieces; but it will also be observed that their theatres were divided into several
parts, so that, frequently, that which on the modern stage is recited by them, was exhibited
in action. The Olympic theatre at Vicenza will fully prove what is here advanced. This masterpiece
of Palladio is an imitation of ancient theatres; and the most remarkable circumstance in its
construction is, this identical threefold division 2 . CHAPTER III. ON THE CATASTROPHE OR

"Que le trouble toujours croissant de scene en scene, A son comble arrive se debrouille sans
peine. L'esprit ne se sent point plus vivement frappe Que lorsqu'en un sujet d'intrigue enveloppe
D'un secret tout a coup la verite connue Change tout donne a tout une face imprevue." Boileau

These verses of the celebrated imitator of Horace, who was the preserver of true taste 3 , have
already shown the signification of the word denoument (catastrophe). If it is difficult to
succeed in the exposition , and in the plot when incidents increase and obstacles embarrass,
it is still more so, to contrive a happy or unexpected catastrophe; in this, even the greatest
geniuses have sometimes failed; it is indeed a rock on which many have split, of which Moliere
and Goldoni are a proof. Diderot, therefore, has sufficient reason for the accusation he brings
against most dramatic authors. Shakspeare is often very defective in his catastrophes; the
conclusion of Othello is void of all good sense, and produces nothing but horror 4 . The author
should conduct the spectators gradually towards the catastrophe, by unknown ways, which
continually excite interest as they develop themselves. At the end he surprises by the force
of the sensations, whether they be of the terrible or gentler kind, according as the subject
may demand; a fertile fancy, enlightened by the study of good authors, and, above all, by that
of nature, will easily discover means for producing the necessary effect. 

Thus the approach and completion of the catastrophe cannot be too much attended to; studying
deeply the conduct of some sublime dramatic production, such as the Orestes of Alfieri. The
Plan and progress of this piece, with its final catastrophe, are constructed with admirable
art; the interest goes on, gradually increasing, till at last the poet astonishes the audience
by a catastrophe as terrible as it is unexpected. On such works as these we should Continually
meditate. Than the tragedies of this Sophocles of Italy, I know nothing in modern times more
classic-more correct. The catastrophe, says Marmontel, to be unexpected, must proceed from
uncertain means which lead to an unalterable conclusion. The fate of persons concerned in
the plot is, during the course of the action, like a vessel tossed in a stearin, which is at last
terribly wrecked or happily conducted to a port, and this is the catastrophe. CHAPTER IV. OF

"Tous les beaux Arts ont quelque unite d'objet, source du plaisir qu'ils donnent a l'esprit;
car l'attention partagee, ne se repose nulle part, et quand deux objets nons occupent c'est
une preuve qu' aucun des deux ne nons satisfait."-J. J. Rousseau . 

In order that the plan and progress of dramatic pieces may appear natural and probable, and
that nothing may be introduced foreign to the plot; that the sentiments may be exactly what
they ought to be, and the passions such as arise from the whole, the unities of action, place,
and time have been established as essential qualities of dramatic writing; a law, indeed,
enacted by taste and judgment. 

Noverre does not wish to subject the Ballet to these three unities; but, considering the progress
in the art of dancing, we shall adhere to whatever maxims may appear more admissible than the
opinion of this celebrated artist. We shall, however, agree with him in a certain class of compositions,
which we shall notice during the course of this work. 

The plots of the Grecian dramas are too simple, and they are consequently often barren of interest.
The moderns have escaped this error, by introducing into their works an amusing variety, but
it should be done with moderation. 

Unity of place requires that the action should always pass on the same spot on which it began,
and that the scene should not be removed from it. Unity of time , that it should be completed in
the space of twenty-four hours. These rules are, perhaps, too rigorously observed by French
authors. The English and Germans disregard them totally 5 , and widely wander from whatever
regulation depends upon them. 

Nothing, however, is more pedantic, ridiculous, or awkward than to oblige the poet or composer
of Ballets to continue his characters in the same place in which they first appeared, and where
the action commenced: an author would be thus constrained and enchained, by one of the most
palpable blunders. If sometimes a talented performer do not answer general expectation,
it ought tobe attributed to some such shackles as these; and he may answer his censurers in the
following words: 

"Non mi lascia piu ir lo fren dell'arte."- Dante . 

The celebrated Abbe Conti was one of those who piqued himself on paying a religious respect
to the law of the unities; and fancying that any subject might be subjected to these rules, he
was ridiculed by every sensible man. He wished every act of his tragedy of Caesar to pass in the
same place. The unalterable scene was a vestibule, and here every circumstance of the death
of the illustrious Roman was to be transacted. But was it possible that the orations and every
particular of that great event could pass on the same spot? What improbability arid absurd
falsification! A production of this sort might have been admired by Pere Brumoy. Conti did
what many have done; he distorted history, and outraged common sense. La Motte, on the other
hand, is not less to be blamed for having attempted to destroy the unities entirely. 10 This
doctrine, Voltaire successfully attacked, and prevented any proselytes from being made,
who, however, could not have obtained much encouragement. In England, it may be observed the
unities are almost totally disregarded; the audience are carried to and fro, almost from one
side of the world to the other, and consequently during any indefinite space of time. The English
have, indeed, some few tragedies in which the unities are preserved. One of these ( Cato ), though
written by a celebrated genius, and containing great beauties, being considered dull from
want of motion, is seldom performed. It is evident that Shakspeare is the father of that unbounded
license, to be Observed in the English dramas. 

What fine opportunities for display have not been lost while paying too strict an attention
to unity of place ! I do not pretend that the composer should keep his characters journeying
from town to town, or that he should transport us into another country at the beginning of every
act; but I am of the same opinion as those who, proceeding to neither of these extremities, do
exactly what the plot and design of the piece require, and, if it is necessary, convey their
characters from one city to another, or from one quarter to another in the same town. By this
means dramatic pieces become more varied and natural, and, consequently, more interesting.
The ideas of the composer, also, will have a greater latitude to range in, his resources multiplied,
and he may rove indeed nearly in unlimited liberty: while the imagination, feeling itself
thus unconstrained, invents with a greater facility. In short, taste and judgment have a right
to destroy the works of pedantry 6 . 

With respect to unity of time , even the philosopher who first promulgated these laws, which
many consider indispensable, remarks, that, when the nature of the action renders it necessary,
the time of twenty-four hours may be either lengthened Or abridged. This is a most reasonable
exception, of which also I would make a free use, were I endued with talent which requites its
assistance. It seems to me, that the great effects to be produced during an action that lasts
two days instead of one, may well inspire us with a contempt for such ridiculous regulations;
when it is remarked also, that there is nothing in such a license either contrary to nature or
probability. We have excellent pieces constructed on this plan. 

In Ballets we may proceed still farther; we may allow ourselves still greater licenses, without,
however, abusing them. The plot of a long historical piece may be contracted, and an abridged
representation of it may be produced, but it must appear so probable that the audience may believe
in what they behold. 

"-quel, ch' d'incredibile, jo lontano E dentro a breve spazio non si chiude, Nol cercherai,
perche 'l cercalo e insano." Menzini . 

The action must never appear to stand still; each part Of it must succeed the other without interruption.
For if, at the end of the first or second act, circumstances required a delay of some days, a week,
a month, &c., before the thread of the story could be continued, good taste would never allow
it, and the whole would be rejected. Almost every liberty is admissible in fabulous, mythologic,
and fairy classes of pieces; the mind of the composer, appears to be then in a certain dythyrambic
state, if we may be allowed such an epithet, and he may be permitted every irregularity. However,
the man of talent may be perceived in such productions, from the method in which he makes use
of his freedom. 

Care must be taken, therefore, not to compose after the Greek model, with respect to the dramatic
unities of which 10* we have been speaking. Metastasio, in his observations upon the Poetics
of Aristotle, clearly demonstrates to us the defects of the most celebrated of ancient poets.
Here then we must admire the genius of Shakspeare; but let us avoid following his system in every
particular, or in adopting that of his imitators, in the same manner as we should avoid the renowned
Schlegel, and his romantic sect. CHAPTER V. ON THE DIVISIONS OF DRAMATIC PIECES. 

"Neve minor quinto: neu sit productior Actu Fabula, quae posci vult, et spectata reponi."-
Hor . 

This is the precept of the Roman satirist. Vossius makes the same division of dramatic productions

"Fabula, sive tragica, sire comica quinque actus habere debet." Asconius Pedianus . 

It is indeed an established law, that all the greater pieces should be divided into five acts.
But there is a certain class of dramas, in which may be ranked the Ballet, that requires an exception
to this rule. The Grand Ballet is capable of the same division as a tragedy; this is done in Italy,
and ought to be done in France; it augments the means of the composer, and on the other hand increases
the stock of public amusement. Comic Ballets, and those of the melo-dramatic class, may be
written in any number of acts beneath five, for generally that class of sentiments represented
in these Ballets, from their sameness, want of force, and contrast, will not allow of an action
so prolonged as that of the serious sort. 

At the conclusion of each act a pause of the action should appear to take place naturally; the
construction of the piece should be of a nature to demand such a rest. The imagination of the
spectators should fill up this space by supposing what might happen with respect to the principal
action during this cessation. M. E. Gosse justly observes, that the moment the performers
withdraw, is not that in which attention should be withdrawn too. When retiring from our view,
they should excite a desire for their re-appearance; though they are absent from our sight
they should be present to our imagination; for if interest and curiosity languish but a very
short time, the whole flags and dies away. The exposition of a piece being effected in the first
act, the plot begins properly in the second; and is continued during the third and fourth; and
in the: fifth we naturally expect the final catastrophe. CHAPTER VI. ON THE SUBJECTS PROPER

"La virtu del ballo sta nel rimettere in atto le principali e le piu vive impressioni che ricevono
i nostri sensi."- Q. Viviani . 

"Esso costuma piu di affascinare il cuore, che concettizzare alia pensierosa ragione.- De
Velo . 

It is not every subject that can be rendered suitable to dancing; the composer, therefore,
should know how to make a selection. A subject of the least importance may be worked up to interest
greatly either as a tragedy or a comedy; but in a Ballet, the case is otherwise. Thus, for instance,
the Tartuffe; the Legataire Universel; the Grondeur; the Philosophe Marie; L'Ecole des Femmes;
Le Joueur; La Metromanie; the Dehors Trompeurs; the Mechant , and the Coquette Corrigee , are
all excellent performances, but which, transferred to Ballets, would produce no effect.
What could be substituted for the finished and witty dialogue of these pieces? Where is the
pantomimic performer who could exhibit a true imitation of the minute details, delicate jests,
or give an exact transcript of the characters, with all that striking originality so remarkable
in these comedies? Could the Ballet-master attempt to introduce the heroes of the French Plautus
and Terence dancing? Could he, in short, put a dancing divertissement into the Orgonte or the
Tartuffe ? In certain situations, speech possesses more power than gesture, and can give a
far more effectual representation. 

The soliloquies of Shakspeare possess an extraordinary sublimity; the thoughts contained
in them are profound and beautiful; but what would become of these qualities if transferred
to the Pantomime of a Ballet?. No actor by gesture alone could give a faithful transcript of
the fine scene to be found in the fifth act of Richard III , that great tragic production of the
English AEschylus? The same difficulties attend the celebrated soliloquy of Hamlet 7 . Gesture
is beautiful and effectual only when grief, tenderness, pride, or sprightliness is to be described;
in logical reasoning, it becomes totally useless, and even ridiculous.- Batteux . 

It appears then the province of the Ballet generally to exhibit a picture and imagery of things;
action, striking situations, a peculiar life in all its motions; but vigorous representation
of passions of the more powerful kind, and of exalted sentiments, are qualities essential
to the Grand Ballet . The character and colouring of melo-dramatic and comic productions,
require less rigour, but more of the agreeable; in these, a sprightly and interesting style
must be preserved throughout. Hence it appears that the qualities of a good Ballet have a near
relation to those of a good poem. According to Plutarch, the poet Simonides required that dancing
should be mute poetry, and that poetry should be a speaking dance 8 . Consequently, the best
poetry, is that in which we perceive the most action; the same may be observed of the Ballet 9

The Menteur of Corneille, the Plaideurs of Racine, the Turcaret of Le Sage, L'Homme a bonne
fortune of Baron, all sparkling with wit and gaiety, would become vapourish and insignificant
if Changed into Ballets. The clever pieces of Marivaux, the amusing, pieces by Collin d'Harleville
(an author not sufficiently known and esteemed), together with the amusing comedies by Picard,
would be flat and dull if represented by Pantomime. It is, therefore, a task of some difficulty,
and requiring discernment, to select such subjects as will admit of Pantomime and dancing;
they should be provided with a fund of interesting incidents, and the progress of the action
should be sprightly and vigorous. No composer can succeed well in his work, if he has not, in
the first instance, made choice of an appropriate subject, which, while furnishing the means
of employing and displaying his talent, delights and inspires him. Every thing depends upon
the selection of subjects. It sometimes happens, that a subject of very unimportant appearance,
and that seems destitute of the requisites for a Ballet, unpromising, in short, in every respect,
may still be essentially useful; but it must contain the germ of production, the spark that
gives the hint, and illumines and Warms the composer so as to awaken his powers of invention.
He then by some appropriate additions, some well contrived episodes and embellishments of
his art, augments and adorns the principal action; and thus, upon a small foundation, raises
a sumptuous edifice. As it is a peculiar mark of genius, says L. da Vinci, to produce a great work
with small means so is it a sign of mediocrity to produce but a small matter from a plentiful fund.
Frequently a word, a sketch, a fragment of sculpture striking the mind of a talented artist,
forms the foundation of a masterpiece. 

Subjects of universal interest and well known are very proper for Ballets; when such is not
the case, events should be as naturally represented as possible. 

"Lo natural e sempre senza errore."- Dante . 

An intrigue may be invented, embarrasments cleverly contrived, and as cleverly cleared up;
but all this must have the face of probability on it, if it is intended the illusion should be
complete 10 . Truth may be mingled with fiction, provided it be done With art and prudence, and
that such a composition proves moral and amusing. No complicated or compound action can be
admitted, and but a very small portion of episode; in these particulars Alfieri and the French
tragedy are good models. Nothing could be more ill-judged than to attempt to change into Ballets
certain pieces of Calderon, or more foolish than to expect that Pantomime could express his
twofold action, or gesture explain his entangled intrigues, still further confounded by
his episodes. 

All the dramas of the Spanish theatre, as well as a great many of the ancient English pieces,
are scarcely any thing else but an assemblage of unconnected scenery, any imitation of which
should be carefully avoided; and the same may be observed with regard to the greater part of
romantic productions 11 . Whatever is attempted in a Ballet, must be executed with clearness,
precision, and a certain exactitude of manner. Digressions and long narrations are inadmissible;
instead of which, action and incident must be employed; these alone are capable of conveying
the meaning of the subject, and of making any deep impression. A recitation which the performer
has closely studied in order to explain it by gestures, cannot be perfectly understood, unless
some preceding action, upon which it must be founded, has been exhibited. The beautiful narration
of Theramene in Pantomime would become downright nonsense, if the catastrophe which it describes
had not already been represented. 

We may be allowed to work up a subject that has already been treated on by others. History and
fiction are open to all; the difficulty is, to know how to make a proper use of them; when the attention
of genius is drawn to any part of them, it is then alone we may expect to see them successfully
employed. AEschylus, Sophocles, Euripedes, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, Metastasio,
Zeno, and Alfieri, have often written on the same subject; but each has made it different by
giving it after his own peculiar style and genius. The same observation may be made with respect
to the great masters in painting. The tale of Psyche has been handled by Raphael, Gerard, Errante,
and Appiani; that of Galatea by Raphael, An. Carracci, and L. Albano; Aurora was painted by
Guido, Guercino, and Le Brun. D. de Volterra, Carracci, Guido, Tintoretto, and Rubens have
all employed themselves upon the subject of Goliath; the Slaughter of the Innocents has occupied
the talents of Raphael, Poussin, Rossi, Rubens, Gioseppino, and Le Brun. G. Campi, fearless
of the rivalry of Titian, painted the Assumption , and in this masterpiece perfectly imitated
the Venetian artist. Numerous other subjects were considered by the great masters as common
property. Each embellished the same history or fable differently to the other, by introducing
some new circumstance, or by adorning it with some beautiful episode; which traits of distinction
would have been lost to us without this sort of emulation. Hence it appears that as often as the
same subject falls into the hands of genius, it may be adorned by novelty and variety. 

This is a sort of exercise of emulation very advantageous to young artists, since it gives rise
to comparisons between their respective productions; faults are thus almost instantaneously
perceived and as soon corrected. They would thus acquire experience also, without which we
cannot attain to truth and perfection. While engaged in selecting a subject, be careful in
make choice of one proportioned to your own peculiar ability: undertake nothing above your

"Les passions sont les dieux du theatre."- Marmontel . 

Genius must be restrained by rules, and nature should be regulated by art. How well contrived,
and finely constructed is the Saulle of Alfieri! It is a masterpiece of the modern drama. But
what absurdity may be observed in the arrangement and execution of the subject of the Heraclius,
or Famous Comedy , by Calderon! Unbridled imagination quickly falls into senseless extravagance;
but when guided by taste and philosophy, she produces an Iphigenie or an Athalie . "In order
that the design of a work may be comprehended, it should be simple, and independent of that general
harmony which insensibly delights the, eye or ear; any discordance between the lesser parts
proves, not the genius, but, the stupidity of an artist. What obliges us to admire a noble work
is a fancy at once fruitful and well regulated, which could conceive and reduce to uniformity
any vast design." Marmontel . 

In Ballets, as in the Grands Operas and lyric tragedies, the imagination may be allowed some
irregularities; the scenery and embellishments that pieces of this kind require, give permission
to such liberties, but they should be indulged in with care. In certain situations some license
may and ought to be permitted, particularly to produce effect or increase the interest of the
piece. Even the ancients themselves sometimes passed the limits of these severe regulations,
but it was always done with good taste and great art. Their example in this instance may be imitated,
as well as that of several celebrated moderns; and whenever the subject on which we are occupied
can, by this means, be improved, it should be remembered that the unity of time and place is not
a law that may never be broken. 

Although a dramatic and pantomimic action may be perfectly conceived in all its parts, yet
not furnished with interest and incident, it will produce but little effect. To avoid falling
into such defects, therefore, it is necessary to select a good subject, as has already been
observed; one that continually exhibits a varied and striking picture of the passions 12 .
When these are faithfully portrayed our attention is fixed, and our interest never flags.
The Varron by De Grave, though a production full of art and contrivance, and very witty, could
not retain its place on the stage from want of action and interest. Pathos is the most essential
qualification of dramatic pieces, and it ought to be the same in Ballets d'Action . It is admirable
in Ines, Merope, Iphigenie, Zayre , and Romeo and Juliet . Imitate in this particular the celebrated
Voltaire. Where is the writer who has treated on the passions in a more masterly manner, and
with more philosophic knowledge, than this extraordinary man? He is the most pathetic of tragic
poets. He moves, inflames, and transports us! What an endless variety of pictures does he display!
He is as much a painter as a poet; all is great and true in his productions. He has beheld nature
with the eye of a Titian, and he has described her with all the depth and energy peculiar to that
divine artist. The dramatic art was advanced by Voltaire to its highest perfection. In the
plots of his pieces there is more life, and in his characters there is more variety, than in those
of any writer who preceded him. He is also more diversified in the choice of his subjects, and
has exhibited more novelty in his representation. 

This philosophic poet understood better than any of his rivals how to instruct, at the same
time that he delighted and interested the spectators. From whatever age or nation he took his
subject, he had always a moral end in view which tended to our improvement: at once to delight
and instruct, is the first axiom of dramatic writers. 

We may remark with men of learning that-the beautiful in sculpture, in poetry, in painting,
and in dancing, is not the geometrical beauty of proportion, but it is expression , and that
vividly portrayed. The general action and progress of theatrical exhibitions arrest our
attention, when accompanied by interest; then it is they stir and agitate the passions, and
oblige us to take a part with the characters of the piece. The art of taking possession of the
minds and affection of an audience constitutes the highest praise of a dramatic author. It
is then that the exhibition of a beautiful theatrical production, "vi sentite commuovere
tutta la macchina: v'adirate, o temete a vicenda; vi sentite raccapricciare i capelli, nascere
il piacere, germogliar la speranza, &c. Un pezzo di pittura, o di scultura, il meglio fatto
seconde le regole dell'arte, se non traspira azione, e un pezzo dimaraviglia, come l'opera
della Sfera, e del Cilindro di Archimede, le Galleggianti di Galileo, i principj di Newton;
ma non gia bello. La prima sorgenre di quest'azione, e che il poeta, o il pittoren'abbia molts
nel suo temperamento, e sis capace di riceverne molts dagli oggetti o reali, o fantastici.
Un temperamento lento o freddo potra per avventura essere un grin geometra ma non un poeta,
un pittore, uno scultore, che piaccia * ."- Genovesi . 

The passion of love which is the soul of the stage and the source of so many other passions, whose
variety and contrast produce numberless dramatic situations, is essentially necessary
also to the Ballet. On it depends a multitude of striking and pathetic effects, which appear
to be naturally allied to Pantomime and dancing. Love is the principal spring of action in a
Ballet, the object of which is to produce gentle, agreeable, and sometimes even terrible sensations.
Love has been employed in a masterly manner by the authors of Phedre and Zayre . These great poets
will teach in what method love, of all passions the finest and most powerful, contributes to
delight us on the stage; they were the organs of nature, which, together with their works, should
be studied as models and guides. 

The exalted stateliness of Corneille's genius appears above describing the scenes and events
of this passion, which he has frequently treated in an episodical and even insipid style in
his tragedies. In Alfieri, love is generally no more than secondary and accessary, excepting
in the fine tragedy of Myrrha . The harmonious Metastasio, however, is a worthy rival of the
great Racine, who may be termed the poet of the heart. The former treated the tender passion
in a most elevated style; but what merits remark in him is, that a moral may frequently be traced
in his most seductive scenes; he is superior to Alfieri in pathos. However, instances of tragic
terror are to be found in his productions. His characters are drawn very much in the manner of
Corneille. The delightful Quinault is also another dramatic model; he is tender, impassioned,
and sometimes even sublime; his descriptions are frequently equal to the pictures of Correggio
and Guido. Apostolo Zeno is full of dramatic fire and feeling, and treats on the passions with
great energy. Shakspeare is another great painter of the passions; the truth and vigour of
his conceptions are equally astonishing. Nature is his model, and his creations are not, in
any particular, inferior to her. His pathos is often overpowering and sublime; his works are
a mine, the gold of which must be extracted with care. In my opinion, however, the Avonian bard
should not be consulted until after all the other great authors have been studied, since his
numerous errors might spoil the taste of a young and inexperienced composer * . 

The ancients neglected love as a subject for tragedies; we find in them but very weak representations
of a passion Which, however, I will venture to say, as handled in modern dramas, principally
constitutes their superiority over the ancients. The classic poets contain nothing that
can be compared to the character of Phedre , or the last acts of Zayre , to Metastasio, or to the
Myrrha of Alfieri. These seductive and powerful poets, to whom the modern drama owes all its
interest and excellence, assisted essentially by the wise regulations of our theatres, must
not be ranked second to any name mentioned in this work. In the mean time, it must be confessed,
we are greatly indebted to antiquity, Whose poets contain beauties that have never yet been

A Ballet, however, can still be made to excite interest without making love the sole subject,
to the exclusion of all other passions, of which there is a numerous train, capable of fixing
and amusing the mind of an audience; love, then, treated as an episode, produces a most agreeable
contrast, and increases the effect of the other passions. Almost every species of passion
may be produced in a Ballet, each in its place; but one should not be admitted to the exclusion
of another, and particularly that of love , which even when introduced only as an accessary,
often becomes a primary object. There are a number of historical and fabulous subjects that
maybe agreeably treated on, and in which it is not necessary that love should usurp despotic

"Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet: Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus." Hor

When selecting passages from history for the purpose of adapting them to the Ballet, it is not
necessary to make choice of those horrible deeds that have disgraced mankind, nor to extract
from fiction those atrocities of which human nature appears almost incapable. The composer
should reject those shocking and sanguinary events which generally form the subjects of the
Spanish and English dramas. He should avoid also the slightest imitation of that gloomy and
improbable stuff with which certain authors are filled; those poets who take a pleasure in
describing all that is most desperate and dreadful in nature are not to be followed. Perhaps
this species of subject may be adapted to the deepest tragedy; but even then, good taste would
reprove and reject productions carried, by an overheated imagination, beyond the bounds
prescribed to imitative arts. We must, in short, banish from the Ballet the Fausts , the Manfreds
, and the Frankensteins 13 . 11 

It is not possible to atone for the horror and disgust inspired by these monstrous dramas, by
any object they may finally tend to, whether useful or pleasing. I can compare such compositions
to nothing but those hideous masks among the ancients, known by the name of Mormolicia , whose
very name, according to Esichius and some others, pronounced by nurses and governesses, was
sufficient to inspire children with dread. The greater part of these productions, indeed,
contain neither solidity nor truth, and are only calculated, like the Mormolicia , to frighten
children and women. In searching for subjects, therefore, among historians and poets, we
should reject the atrocious deeds recorded in the former, and avoid imitating the reprehensible
subjects exhibited by the latter. Exclude every subject, the nature of which will not allow
of the introduction of dancing, and in which dancing would seem misplaced and ridiculous.

AEschylus, who was the father of tragedy, never stained the scene with blood; a conduct, the
wise moderation of which can be never enough admired. This mighty genius, while occupied in
creating the drama, knew how to restrain the flights of his imagination. He discovered and
tried every means of arriving at theatrical perfection. 

Horace also, as may be seen by our motto-the great lawgiver of Parnassus-condemns sanguinary
deeds; he firmly forbids such an exhibition as Medea murdering her children; or the detestable
butcher Atreus, preparing human flesh. One of the commentators on this poet says, that his
precept is founded in nature and in reason; for that it is sufficient to excite terror and not
horror; the heart is not amended by exhibitions of blood and murder, but by pathetic distress.
This is in some measure only a repetition of the principles laid down by Aristotle. Let us now
hear what that great philosopher delivers, who is almost always perfect in his conceptions:
"Since tragedy" says he, "is an imitation of the noblest qualities to be found amongst men,
we should follow the example of those good painters who give a true likeness, but at the same
time beautified; thus a poet, who would describe an angry and outrageous man, or any similar
kind of character, should exhibit what it is possible passion might do, rather than what it
has in reality done."- Poet . Chap. XV. 

These excellent precepts ought to be engraved on the memory of every writer who composes for
the theatre. "If the arts are indeed imitators of nature, the imitation should be excuted in
a wise and enlightened style, not performed like a servile copy: every trait should be preserved,
but it should be described with all the improvement of which it is susceptible. In short, it
should be an imitation that exhibits nature, not as she really is, but, such as the mind conceives
she might be. How did Zeuxis proceed when he wished to paint a perfect beauty? Did he produce
the portrait of some beautiful individual? No; he assembled the peculiar beauties of certain
persons; he then formed in his own imagination a portrait in which all these separate perfections
were united; and this imaginary portrait was the prototype or model of a picture, which was
not true to nature except in its separated parts. This is a precedent for artists of every description;
a path in which they should walk; a path, indeed, which all the great masters, without exception,
have continued to follow." 

This may be termed imitating beautiful nature; to do which is the business of poetry, music,
dancing, painting, and sculpture; and which, says Le Batteux, does not prevent truth and reality
from being the ground work of the Arts. 11* The muses themselves will explain this in the following
lines, imitated from Hesiod:- 

"When we the magic Of our art apply, With truth's appearance, we can paint a lie; But by that art
we can delight inspire, By showing simple truth in plain attire." 

If a historical event happens to be so related as to be susceptible of becoming a subject for
a poem or a picture, the poet or the painter would employ himself upon the work, each making use
of his peculiar powers, inventing certain additional circumstances, contrasts, Situations,
&c. When Le Brun painted the battles of Alexander, he found in history the action, the actors,
and the scene of action; but, at the same time, with what invention, what poetry did he adorn
his work; what design, what attitudes, and what expression! All these are the creation of his
genius; they are indeed models 14 ." 

The Grand Ballet d'Action , or serious Ballet, must be principally modelled on tragedy; but
must be less gloomy, substituting more Cheerful traits for the latter quality. The picture
should be 

"Vrai, mais flatte, tel qu'il est, mais en beau." Bernard . 

Corneille and other French tragedians, with Metastasio, were always of a contrary opinion
to that which allowed of sanguinary exhibitions. Neither is there any authority for effecting
the catastrophe of a tragedy by blood and murder, which can only then be admitted when the subject
absolutely requires it. There are excellent tragedies that are quite free from scenes of horror;
this exalted department of the drama may, in short, be composed without such assistance. If
the critics, who are the guardians of Parnassus, have obliged even men of taste to banish from
the stage revolting spectacles, can we mention without blame those composers who would mix
up dancing with the subjects of an ill-judged selection of pieces from Shakspeare, Otway,
Crebillon, Schiller, and Nathaniel Lee? 

Every style should be allowed its own peculiar characteristics; and it must be remembered,
that nothing extraneous and foreign should be admitted. It is the province of history to relate
every thing-she is the slave of truth. Tragedy portrays exalted nature: while deeply affecting
us, she imparts the sublimest lessons. Let the Ballet-master seek and seize these and other
beauties; and let him employ all his powers to turn them to the best advantage. 

If a composer of Ballets, in his admiration of certain passages in some poets, who have otherwise
exceeded the rules of Aristotle and Horace, by, giving horrible descriptions, falls into
the same error, his transgression will be greater than the others; for the peculiar object
of his art is to excite gentle and sometimes pathetic sensations, but never terrifying and

"Il n'est point de serpent, ni de monstre odieux, Qui, part l'art imite, ne puisse plaire aux
yeux: D'un pinceau delicat l'artifice agreable Du plus affreux objet fait un objet aimable."-
Boileau . 

The composer of Ballets should imitate those sculptors of antiquity who, in order to conceal
the disproportionate length of Pericles' head, always represented that great man in a helmet
15 . If the author possesses sufficient talent to ennoble an indifferent subject, it will he
sure of producing a good effect. How much genius does it require to perfect and embellish certain
productions of nature, and, at the same time, to cover the art by which such improvement is effected!
That peculiar and genuine ease to be observed in the works of the great masters was not produced
without unwearied application. Whatever is added or withdrawn from a model should be done
with a cultivated taste and a profound knowledge of nature. The best designs are drawn from
nature, who also suggests to us every means of improvement and embellishment. Raphael is a
model both for authors and artists; he imitated nature with profound judgment, and ennobled
whatever he imitated. His exalted taste rejected whatever was mean, trivial, or indecent;
whatever, in short, might offend the sight or wound the feelings. He imparted an air of novelty
to the most ordinary subjects; and the simplest circumstance is rendered interesting by his
pencil. To him, in his art, nothing was impossible. Often, when treating on subjects universally
known, the fertility of his genius, aided by the profound knowledge of his art, surprises and
delights by the manner in which objects are presented to us, and by the new forms in which they
are clothed. We always find nature in him, but it is nature made beautiful and perfect. Whatever
is disgusting and unworthy of representation, or that requires a veil, is but dimly discovered
in his works. 

Raphael has improved upon the beauties of the antique; he is as true, perfect, and sublime as
the statuaries of Greece, and more universal and lovely: he, above all others, exhibits the
beau ideal . Never did any man create and compose as he. An harmonious union is the characteristic
of all his works, and produces the most wonderful effect. Every constituent part is arranged
with taste; his manner of grouping is charming; every object being placed with unerring propriety.
He has sometimes assembled things the most heterogeneous, but he has charmed them into union
by the magic of his touch. The Vision of Ezekiel , together with some other allegorical pictures,
exhibit a power of grouping at once gigantic and extraordinary. Here it is that the talent of
ennobling every thing is carried to the highest point of perfection. 

The great painters present to persons who are composing for the stage, advantages not possessed
by writers; for at the same moment that the former present the fable of a piece, they exhibit,
also, the physical effect of the passions upon each actor in the scene. The imagination of young
persons, while reading a dramatic piece, may indeed supply a representation of things described;
but if they are not formed by study and nature, such imagery may be defective, and, accordingly,
appear so at the theatre, by a flat and faulty style of performing. If, therefore, the best painters
faithfully imitate the most beautiful parts of nature, let both the composer and performer
of Ballets make them their study and model. The effect produced on the person who beholds a fine
picture is more universal and striking, than that on him who reads a piece of poetry; for, our
mind is more quickly and powerfully affected by impressions received through the sight, than
by those conveyed through the ear and the memory. CHAPTER X. ON ORDER. 

"- des proportions la savante beaute A joint la symetrie a la variete." Delille . 

It is requisite that a perfect harmony should pervade the parts of every production. Every
circumstance should be appropriately arranged, confusion avoided, and an exact order established
throughout. That analogy which should subsist between each object must not, however, confound
the traits of distinction, for if this analogy should cause a universal resemblance, the composition
would then become void of that variety ever observable in nature, and the want of which causes
monotony. Order excludes improprieties, transpositions of subjects, and a wild disproportion
of parts. Every circumstance of a composition should have a mutual and natural relation to
each other; and all should unite in forwarding the principal action, Every thing should be
rendered so clear, as to be felt and understood. Events ought to be artfully linked together,
forming a clue of explanation at once useful and agreeable. It is such a skilful arrangement
as this, where every circumstance is disposed exactly where it is required, which is called
order . Unfortunately, however, this order , which is so delightful and essential also, to
works of taste, is not always to be found in the productions of genius. Imagination often transports
us, and the bounds prescribed by reason are then quickly passed. La Bruyere remarks, with his
usual discrimination, that it is more easy for a great genius to excel in sublime compositions,
than to avoid falling into any error whatever. Art, indeed, is not always the companion of genius.
The Pleasure arising from Order . 

It is not sufficient, says Montesquieu, to present a multitude of objects to the mind; they
must be presented with order. Then it is, that we can remember what is already past, and even
imagine what is to come; and our mind congratulates itself on such an extent of its perception:
but in a work where there is no order, the mind is continually labouring to introduce some sort
of arrangement itself. The end the author has in view, and that which we have formed for ourselves,
are thus confounded: the mind remembers nothing and foresees nothing, and becomes stupified
by the confusion of her own ideas, and the senselessness of what she beholds; at length; being
quite wearied, she is rendered totally incapable of tasting any pleasure; it is on this account
that, though there is not an intentional display of confusion, order introduces itself voluntarily.
Thus it is that painters group their figures; if the subject be a battle, they place in the foreground
of their pictures whatever objects must be distinctly seen, while the confused part of the
picture is shown in the distance. CHAPTER XI. ON VARIETY AND CONTRAST. 

"Jucundum nihil est, nisi quod reficit varietas." P. Syrus . 

"Le contraste nous frappe en de contraires sens; Des termes opposes qu a nos yeux elle etale
L'imagination mesure l'intervalle." Delille . 

Whoever desires to excite interest or pleasure, must introduce variety into his works. Nature
is our model, and nature is never long the same. The composer must strive to display variety
in the plot in each succeeding scene, and in every act; the passions and the characters must
also partake of this amusing quality. It must be observed also, even in the dances and decorations;
and every where lend its aid to produce a pleasing effect. Avoid uniformity, for with it comes
monotony, and monotony begets weariness. 

Opposite qualities and striking contrasts are ever expected both in tragedy and comedy; but
in the Ballet, they are indispensable. It is the peculiar province of Pantomime to express
the widely-differing classes of passions and sentiments; without such an opportunity the
art of gesture could not long excite interest. Contrasts are palpably remarkable in nature,
and they must therefore be found on the stage; they are essential to the drama, and never fail
in producing great effect. They impart life and vigour to the Ballet. It is by the remarkable
contrast observable in their works that men of great talent may be recognized. Shakspeare,
that giant of the British stage, is ever producing the most extraordinary contrasts. Voltaire,
Racine, Corneille, and Metastasio, together with the best epic poets, must be our models in
this respect. 

"The contrasts between the gay and the noble, the great and the agreeable, the agreeable and
the gloomy, do not excite deep emotion, but they are pleasing from variety, and free use should
be made of them. The contrast which produces the greatest effect is the terrible and sublime,
as opposed to cheerful and beautiful objects; but the assistance of this is seldom required:
first, because this contrast is uncommon in nature, and, secondly, because the effect of the
sublime is to excite astonishment; if, therefore, this contrast is frequently repeated,
astonishment ceases. 

"Contrasts may be sometimes raised from the peculiar situations of characters; and from change
of scenes, pleasure may be introduced amidst horrors, and melancholy into the garden of delight.
Thus scenes may be produced capable of inspiring opposite emotions, of moving the affections,
and of transporting the soul."- St. Lambert . 

The contrast of situations must be particularly attended to, in order that they may be varied
accordingly; thus several scenes of love succeeding each other are wearisome; the same may
be observed with respect to enraged passion. 

Variety may be also observed in the arrangement of the scenery; thus a gloomy representation
should be succeeded by a bright and cheerful prospect. Let the sumptuous embellishments of
a palace, be followed by the plain simplicity of private life. In the colours employed upon
costume, also, sameness must be avoided. In short, the smallest circumstance in regard to
contrast and variety should not be neglected, since it is the judicious union of these that
produces the grandest effect. CHAPTER XII. STAGE EFFECT. 

"C'est la ce qui surprend, frappe, saisit, attache." Boileau . 

Many Ballet-masters, as well as dramatic authors, place great confidence in stage effect.
Every opportunity of such a species of display is seized with avidity, and such persons think
they have completely succeeded by representing an improbable and extravagant event, or by
emblazoning forth some horrible scene of assassination. They imagine, also, that sudden
changes of scenery, a multitude of supernumeraries, apparitions, showers of fire, and, above
all, military evolutions by horse and foot, are all indispensably necessary, as producing
stage effect. It is with such unmeaning noise and bustle as this that bad composers generally
stuff the trash they produce, and, Unfortunately, if through chance and ignorance they succeed,
true taste and talent are despised. Such a triumph, however, cannot continue unchanged; clatter
and tinsel cannot always drown the opposing voice of good sense. 

"-il volgo ignaro, che non e bastante A discernere il yet con vista acuta, Tutto cio, che ha del
nuovo, e del brillante Piu che il solido, e l'utile valuta." Casti . 

These are the sort of connoisseurs who dictate laws, but it is the ignorant only who submit to

The meaning of stage effect is not generally understood; the real explanation of this cannot
be gathered from what is so termed. I cannot do better, therefore, than supply an elucidation
of this subject as contained in part of a letter from La Harpe to Voltaire:-"I continually hear
people talk of the power of stage effect;" says this writer, "but what is really stage effect?
Does it consist of sanguinary executions? No. Orestes, in the tragedy of Andromache , loves
Hermione; he has just obtained permission to marry her, should Pyrrhus be united to Andromache;
in effecting which he appears determined, having refused to give up Astyanax, and making every
sacrifice in order to get possession of the Trojan lady. Orestes is revelling in happy expectation;
Pyrrhus enters; every thing assumes a new appearance; he has been braved, and now again solicits
the hand of Hermione; and, yielding up Astyanax, he even invites Orestes to witness his espousal
with the latter lady. Orestes becomes motionless with astonishment, and the audience partake
of his distress." This is truly stage, or dramatic, effect: it is the production of a master.

How different is such dramatic effect as this, from that which we have mentioned above; but
which, however, is frequently applauded by the most considerable part of the public. In the
drama it is not necessary to dazzle the sight, the heart must be affected. Stage effect, properly,
consists of unforeseen events, sudden changes in the sentiments of the characters, and noble
and extraordinary acts. Astonishment and admiration must be excited, but they should be accompanied
by probability. 

In the last act of the same tragedy, by Racine, Orestes, after having slain Pyrrhus to satisfy
the desire of Hermione, returns to receive her hand, the reward promised to his crime; but what
is his situation on being attacked by the reproaches of her for whom he had committed such excesses?
She accuses him of the King's death, whom she still loves; here is another terrible situation
both for Orestes and the spectators. At the moment Orestes believes himself the happiest of
mortals, he becomes an object of horror to her whom he loves. This is one of the most tragic situations
of which the stage is capable; and Racine has bestowed on it all the great talent for which he
is so celebrated. This instance, in our opinion is still more powerful than that which is cited
above. They are both scenes that take forcible possession of our heart and imagination; and
such an effect as this the composer should endeavour to imitate. The poets who have adorned
the French theatre; Metastasio, Alfieri, Ap. Zeno, and Shakspeare, must be deeply studied
by those artists who would prosper in their dramatic career. The drama of Spain also frequently
furnishes striking dramatic effects, instances of which may be found in Calderon. Excellent
passages may be gathered from the pieces of Kotzebue and Schiller. While studying modern authors,
do not neglect the ancients, their masters; for they possess dramatic situations and the deepest
pathos. Since their time, indeed, theatrical performances have made an astonishing progress,
for which we are indebted to Poliziano, Trissino, Corneille, Racine, Mollere, Crebillon,
Voltaire, Maffei, Metastasio and Alfieri. 

It is not necessary to be continually seeking after dramatic situations and stage effect;
nor to be ever introducing scenes in which contrasts are exhibited; the most delicious dish
may be too often served up; and the same beauties, presented too frequently, become affected
and monotonous. When incidents of the sublime are too much multiplied, the attention of the
spectator immediately becomes fatigued. During every dramatic action, the poet and composer
should occupy our minds entirely, by a natural description of the passions; each by turns Should
delight us, the one by his poetic ideas, the other by the gaiety of the dance, and the pomp of decoration

"Conservez a chacun son propre caractere. Des siecles, des pays, etudiez les moeurs: Les climats
font souvent les diverses humeurs." Boileau . 

Avoid introducing a crowd of characters; they cause confusion, and injure the effect of the
piece. A useless part must not be admitted; when there are sufficient to explain the subject,
no more need be added. In this respect Alfieri is the most perfect of models; all his characters
are essential and indispensable to the subject; there is not one too many, and all are disposed
of in the most interesting manner. To this poet we are greatly indebted for having banished
from the scene those useless and troublesome personages called confidents , who generally
answer no other end than that of exposing the barrenness of the author's invention. In French
tragedy these idle characters impede the development of the subject; as do also certain amorous
couples to be met with in Metastasio. The kindness of the latter poet to singers, who would all
have principal parts, frequently caused his operas to be very monotonous. Horace wished not
to see more than four persons performing a piece, considering that number sufficient to explain
the subject to the audience.-"Nec quarta loqui persona laboret." 

We may certainly be allowed to admit more characters than prescribed by the great poetical
law giver; but whatever characters are admitted must be necessary to the piece, and should
share in the general interest. We should take care, however, not to imitate Schiller, who,
in one of his plays ( William Tell ), has introduced fifty persons who speak, without mentioning
an infinite number of mute parts, and characters who merely make their appearance. There are
also twenty persons in the Julius Caesar of Shakspeare. But this is one of the characteristics
of writers in the romantic style 16 . 

A Ballet-master should make human nature his profound study; and should extend his observations
over every class of society. He ought also to remark the customs and manners peculiar to different
countries, even to their particular features, and whatever other mark of distinction is remarkable
between them. Some resemblance may sometimes be traced between the manners of certain nations,
still there is always a sufficiency of characteristic to mark the distinction. Nothing, in
short, should escape the observation of a composer, for there is scarcely any thing in nature
that may not be turned, to his advantage. He must note particularly the peculiarities of the
times or historical epochs in which his personages flourished. In classical representations,
the audience should be enabled to recognize each character from his peculiar style of performing,
and method of developing the passions. What a dissimilarity, for example, exists between
the characters of Caesar and that of Achilles; between Achilles and that of Paris! The character
and conduct of Mahomet are totally opposed to those of Trajan. What an immense difference is
there between the characters of Philip and that of the father of Virginia 17 ; between Rodrigue
and Zayre; between Iphigenie and Agrippine! The mind and manners of the inhabitants of Africa
are of another. nature to those of Europe . The education, manner, behaviour and deportment
of a country person, or of a mere bourgeois , are entirely unlike those of a king or a hero. These
marks of distinction are termed by Aristotle costume, and he recommends the study of them to
every dramatic author:- 

"Observez, connaissez, imitez la nature." Delille . 

Characters must be shown in contrast. If there appears in your production a Clarissa , her goodness
and virtue must be opposed to the villanies of a Lovelace . The conduct of Britannicus heaps
hatred upon the part of Nero . The abstinence of Hyppolitus is properly opposed to the unbridled
passion of Phoedra; and, in Fielding's novel, the hatred we entertain for Blifil serves to
increase our love for Jones . All dramatic characters must be prominent, every feature must
strike us immediately, so as to be easily comprehended. The greater the contrasts, the more
plainly does the eye find the peculiar traits. A character, when tranquil and inactive, says
little, and exhibits but few peculiarities; but the same being excited by reproach, immediately,
as it were, starts into existence, evincing its own inherent qualities. Ovid, in one of his
animated descriptions, presents us with a striking image in proof of this: "Envy is slumbering
in her den, immersed in solitude; her snakes find no object on whom to wreak their ire, and remain
in motionless stupor. Minerva suddenly appears, Envy immediately exhibits signs of reviving
action and agitation; the deadly poison in her breast ferments, and livid fire flashes from
her eyes. The serpents around her 12 head dart forth their stings, and hiss for an opportunity
to inflict their venom." The allegorical sense of this passage may be applied to the theatre.
"Would we introduce an envious character, it is only necessary to bring it in contact with virtue;
and its hideous deformity is immediately perceived. An assemblage of various descriptions
of characters forms a relief to each other; thus the Misantrope becomes enamoured of a Coquette;
while the Glorieux has an indigent unpresuming and secluded father. The integrity of Severus
, in the Polieucte , defeats the suspicious policy of Felix ."- De Chabanon . 

In the characters of Racine, we should frequently be glad to find more variety; the same remark
may be made with respect to Alfieri and Metastasio; these great poets, adhering too strictly
each to his peculiar style, did not perceive that they employed the same materials in describing
characters totally opposite. Voltaire was aware of this, and we rarely find him in such an error;
he is varied and natural both in character and incident. Corneille may be termed the Michael
Angelo of the drama, he is sublime and true to nature. Shakspeare frequently excels in the varied
and striking style of drawing his characters, but his imitations of nature are not always finished,
nor historically true; he, however, appears as inexhaustible as nature herself; he creates
with ease, but his imaginings want finish, and appear never to have been corrected. When, however,
the English poet does Succeed, he surpasses all; his characters are life itself, and their
power over us is prodigious. Those inequalities we perceive in some of his personifications
proceed, most commonly, from the nature of the events that happen during the piece, rather
than from their own peculiar nature. The genius of Shakspeare was endued with a power capable
of undertaking any thing, and of completing what it undertook; but taste and art seldom accompany
his daring flights. One of the peculiar qualities of Schiller, and which deserves notice,
is, the almost endless variety he has spread over his characters; and in this peculiarity,
rather than in any other, this poet ought to be imitated. Allow your characters some moments
of repose, which will form, as it were, a shadowing to their action. What is continually before
the eyes of the audience, and ever speaking on the same subject, must necessarily weary them.
A character, for instance, that is mad from the beginning to the end of the piece, becomes a disgusting
and ridiculous object; a love-sick lady may be considered in the same light, who continues
throughout the play lamenting her fate. Let sentiment be varied, therefore, and passion crossed.

The principal person of a piece should be more frequently before the audience than the less
important characters. The latter are, indeed, entirely subordinate to the former; they appear
to be generally employed either in causing the passions or in crossing them, and in producing
incident, and heightening the interest. Interest must pervade every part of the production,
but the greater share of this must be attached to the principal subject, rather than to the underplot.
Two leading characters may be opposed to each other, but in the end the hero must triumph, though
even by death. Your hero must be kept sometimes out of sight, which causes that repose and variety
that are essential to his very being. Never withdraw him, however, so long that he may be forgotten,
for the interest with respect to his fate must not be suffered to languish. The performance
of secondary characters lends a variety to the scene, securing, at the same time, a sort of welcome
for the return of the hero; whether fabulous or historical, therefore, they are indispensably
necessary. The fate of the hero must be the universal object of hope 12* or fear, and his presence
must be always impatiently expected; whenever, also, he re-appears, he should bring with
him some subject for renewing the interest, and encreasing the animation of the piece. 

Homer, Virgil, Ariosto and Tasso present a treasury of characters; in delineating which,
these pictorial bards have excelled; they exhibit the finest and faithfulest description
of mankind. Perhaps the great Torquato, in this respect, outrivals the rest. His characters
are drawn With a philosophic hand, they are ever true and consistent. Gofredo, Rinaldo, Argante,
Tancredi, Saladino, Armida, Clorinda, Erminia , &c., are perfect and finished portraits,
and cannot be too much studied. The secondary personages of this poem are also drawn in an admirable
style, and they are worthy of imitation. 

Soliloquy; this word designates that reflection and reasoning a man holds with himself. Monologue
is a sort of dialogue, in which a character performs at once his own part and that of some confidential
person. If soliloquy may be frequently found in nature, it is not wrong to introduce it into
the drama. There are certain interesting situations in ordinary life where a person finds,
that it is in himself alone he can confide, and he accordingly enters into a monologue. It is,
however, difficult to admit these sort of addresses into the Ballet; if they are attempted,
the subject of them must be easily imagined, and they must contain only such ideas as can be expressed
by pantomimic gesture. The action employed must be of a simple nature, calculated to convey
the thought with clearness, ease and precision. 

Soliloquies which suppose but one person are, therefore, not so difficult of execution as
monologues . They require an exalted and imposing style. They produce a good effect when properly
introduced, and when they appear a natural consequence of that part of the piece that preceded
them. The pantomimic action of which they are composed, requires the greatest attention and
study, otherwise they become totally unintelligible. 

There should always appear a good reason for the introduction of soliloquies and monologues;
and the composer should make an appropriate use of them. Some authors are too lavish in the employment
of them in their productions; but this is extremely blameable 18 . Soliloquy is a refuge and
resource for writers, but it ought not to be abused. They must arise naturally out of the subject,
and be essential to its explanation. A person finding himself alone, gives himself up freely
to his reflections; the feelings, under the influence of which he labours, break forth into
exclamation from time to time, accompanied by a peculiar species of gesture; but all this is
done in a sort of under tone, and generally lasts not long; he does not, however, ask himself
questions and reply like any one deranged. 

This appears to be the simple and original state of the soliloquy; and keeping this always in
mind, we may heighten and adorn its expression by the power of gesture. Nature is generally
content with very little gesticulation to explain her intentions; but those signs she does
employ clearly express what passes within us, by their energy and propriety. The language
of nature is simple, and if an actor will strive to imitate it, his Pantomime will triumph by
such an effort. Scenes of a monologous nature frequently produce a powerful effect, particularly
in the hands of a performer of talent, who will sometimes adorn them with all the beauties of
his art. 

Many of the ancient Pantomimes were nothing more than monologues , and were represented by
a single performer, who undertook to describe every character mentioned in the programme.
We shall conclude this chapter by recommending young composers always to show a reason for
the entry of a character, and motive for its exit, since nothing can be imagined more improbable
or preposterous, than that a character should appear and withdraw, because the author may
have his own particular reasons for so doing. CHAPTER XIV. ON DRAMATIC MORAL. 

"Se nessun componimento dee essere rettamente accostumato, e sano; cio si conviene a quelli,
che debbono essere recitati in pubblico." G. Gozzi . 

The drama may be said to have two principal objects in view-to please and to instruct; to compass
such ends, therefore, works of a decorous character should be produced, tending rather to
correct than to demoralize manners. 

To authors and artists, therefore, should hot be adjudged the palm of merit, except, after
having realized this important intention as expressed by Horace, that is, by uniting the useful
and amusing. Every artist of celebrity, and almost all great poets have conformed themselves
to this wise regulation. Voltaire, Matastasio, Racine, and Zeno ever aimed at some useful
end in their productions 19 . 

"Qu'un sublime talent soit un talent utile" La Harpe . 

Let this maxim be continually present to the mind of the young composer: a piece is not perfect
without a moral. The learned and judicious Pompignan required that every theatrical production
should carry a moral with it, considering that as indispensably necessary to render the whole

The greater part of Grecian tragedies are immoral; little instruction, therefore, can be
reaped from them. On the other hand, the comedies of Greece are rather biting satires, than
works of art produced with the intention of correcting the manners. It is with no pleasant feeling
we observe the same spirit of immorality prevailing through many scenes of Moliere and Goldoni,
that defile the dramas of Plautus and Aristophanes. The ancient comedy of England is nothing
but an abuse of morality and good manners. Shakspeare is any thing but moral in his comedies;
and his tragedy is far different from that required by Aristotle. 

Metastasio, Voltaire, and Euripides may be termed theatrical philosophers; the pictures
they draw at once delight and impart instruction. The first two, more particularly, are the
most moral of all dramatic writers. While presenting to us a living history of past ages, mixed
up with the passions of men, they provide us with most excellent instruction, and inspire the
most exalted philosophy. And here the Italian poet surpasses every rival, and Voltaire remains

"Music and dancing are a married pair."- Lucian . 

The ancients required that a perfect agreement should exist between the expression of music
and the movements of dancing. Every gesture, and every change of countenance in the performer,
was supposed to be produced by the peculiar measure and rythmus of the air, and the air was made
to respond and reflect, as it were, every pantomimic movement in its melody and modulations
20 . In the cultivation of such an art, both taste and reason should be consulted. This agreement
was made by the Italians an important study, particularly with respect to their Pantomimes.
But, as has been already observed, it is not necessary to proceed to the extent of affecting
to present a step and a gesture for every note. Dramatic illusion may be destroyed by being overacted.

Music is an essential part of the Ballet; by its powerful means, the truth, force, and charm
of pantomimic acting is brought to perfection; and by their delightful union the most surprising
effects are produced 21 . 

The music of the ancients, as well as their poetry, contained a variety of rythmuses, measures,
and styles, the nature of which served to express the sentiments of the soul, in a most impressive
manner. The most particular attention was paid in suiting the action to the music exactly;
and those who failed to observe this rule, were severely attacked and censured. 

Scrupulous care should be taken to adapt the music with precision to pantomimic gesture. Particular
attention also should be paid to avoid those mistakes to which we are but too often witnesses,
namely, the ridiculous endeavour to suit an air taken from a serious opera to the action of those
who are performing a comic scene; and, on the contrary, pretending to represent the discourse
of two grave characters by playing gay dancing music. This would be doing, as the satiric artist
has it,-"Cantar su la ciaccona il miserere."- Salv. Rosa * . The music should describe the characters
and passions belonging to it; striving to strengthen and complete the picture. The accent
and melody of the airs, should always vary with the subject of the Ballet. The music of an Asiatic
Ballet ought certainly to be of a different character to that of which the scene and action lie
in a village; again, the rythmus and melody of the airs in a mythologic Ballet must not be of the
same species as those of a ballet of chivalry and romance. A perfect analogous concord should
subsist between what we see and what we hear. The ideas of the composer should accord with those
of the author; and the labours of both should be ever most closely and agreeably united. 

Let us profit by the examples of the ancients, and attend to the lessons of the great masters
of Italy. By these means the multitude may be reclaimed to a just taste for music of a description
truly pathetic, capable of delighting the soul as well as the sense; of a style, also, so pure
that it ceases to delight as soon as the artist neglects the rules of science and the laws of reason

"Loin les ornemens froids, les details superflus, Tout ce qu'on peint de trop pese sur le tissus."
Lemierre . 

Aristotle recommends embellishment, and, indeed, productions of importance stand in need
of such an addition. A theatrical representation, to be complete, requires decorations,
properties, and costume; for though acting and declamation may be fine, and singing charming,
they still stand in need of these powerful and palpable illusions. D'Alembert justly remarks,
how Small and faint is the dramatic charm that is exhibited at the performance of French tragedies.
Those productions, though of a noble nature, can never produce the effect intended, unassisted
as they are by theatrical embellishment. It is an easy matter to dazzle the multitude by too
great a display of machinery and ornament; and when these are not required by the subject, I
feel justified in treating them with contempt; with respect to the Ballet, it is rather on pantomimic
expression, and on dancing, that I would rest my Claim to approbation; and from the proper application
of these two arts I dare augur entire success. I should not seek merely to satisfy the eye, I would
attempt also to touch the heart, and good Pantomime, explained by good music, is capable of
moving the heart deeply. 

Costume, properties, machinery, and decorations are particularly requisite in embellishing
the Grand Ballet 23 . This theatrical display is indispensable also in pieces of the fabulous
or heroic kind. If the study of painting be considered necessary to a full knowledge of the art
of dancing, the assistance of that art is required in adorning the entire action. When, however,
these embellishments do not arise out of the subject, and so become necessary to it, they lose
their charm, and become useless and heavy. "It appears to me," says Dauberval, "that the most
essential parts of the Ballet are dancing, Pantomime, music, painting; and all other embellishments,
should be- 

"Per bellezza di parti aggiunte insieme, E con giusta misura in un composte." Tasso . 

It is a systematic and harmonious union of these by which the senses are delighted, nay, even
ravished. Though embellishment should he properly introduced, still it is not upon that alone
success depends. The heart must be first interested, and the study of ornaments may follow
as secondary; and it belongs to taste and judgment appropriately to arrange them, placing
them only where they seem to be required. Pantomimic action must claim our principal care throughout
the piece, to which scenery and embellishment are certainly necessary, but subservient.

When an indifferent composer is determined to obtain success, he finds himself obliged to
display to the public tinsel finery, dazzling colours, properties of every description,
dresses bedecked with gold and silver, a multitude of mechanic tricks, and a crowd of characters.
He expects by all this theatrical noise and parade to excite interest, but he is deceived. His
production pleases for a while, until critics and connoisseurs inform him to what rank he belongs.
These self-constituted artists, who would wish to adorn themselves with the laurels of talent,
act like the pupil of the celebrated ancient, who, unable simply to represent the beauty and
grace of Helen , dressed her in jewels and embroidery. "You must paint her handsome, not rich,"
said his master. That which pleases the eye without satisfying the mind, is not received long.

Scenery and embellishment naturally belong to Ballets. They should be appropriately varied,
and whatever is introduced should be founded on the nature of the piece; every ornament must
have a meaning and a reason 24 . If it is a fault in plays to be continually changing the scene of
action, even in the same act, so as to confuse the attention and spoil the interest, it is still
more blameable, not to avoid such an error in Ballets, where pantomimic action, in certain
situations, cannot, like words, either connect one scene with another, or show a reason for
sudden changes. 

Hence, it appears, that whatever changes we make, whatever novelty and variety we introduce
into a Ballet, our first and principal care must be, not to break the thread of its history, which
thread is represented and sustained by pantomimic gesture . This gesture is the only means
in which the mind confides for an explanation of what is going forward; and which is now interrupted
and destroyed, by dancing continued to a most unreasonable length of time. To this practice,
perhaps, principally may be attributed, the just complaints so frequently vented against
the prevailing system of Ballet representation. CHAPTER XVII. ON COSTUME. 

"La leggiadria del vestirsi, che tanta vaghezza a natural beltade accresce."- Algarotti

Each performer should be obliged to wear that species of costume which is exactly appropriate
and peculiar to the character he represents. Every remarkable characteristic of dress should
be carefully studied; after which they may be modified and embellished as theatrical taste
shall dictate. 

This is an art that should not be neglected in theatres, since it greatly increases stage effect,
and is advantageous both to the dancers and to those who perform Pantomime. Persons of our profession
cannot be too studious to dress in such a style as not to prevent the display of attitudes used
in dancing, and yet at the same time to preserve the true character of the costume. Dancers are
frequently obliged to make great alterations in their dresses, when the peculiarity of shape
or make might prevent or conceal the grace of their motions. They require, in short, to be lightly
and elegantly habited; and their costume should be so arranged, as to add a new charm to the art.

If, for instance, it is necessary to introduce a Turk or eastern caliph dancing, could such
a thing be effected with their usual enormous costume? To attempt it would be ridiculous to
the utmost; the dancer would be imprisoned in his apparel, and deprived of the means of displaying
the simplest movements. Or, could it be expected that any performer in the part of an ancient
knight, should attempt to expose himself in a dance, habited in boots and spurs, military gloves,
mantle and scarf? 

It may be admitted that the court dress of those times was chivalric and picturesque, but were
it preserved by dancers in all its severe formalities, it would be found impracticably heavy.
Would any one require of us to execute well struck positions, clothed in the furred robes of
Russia, or the thick stuff gowns of Poland, accompanied by caps and boots of a fashion almost
barbarous? Truth and nature cannot appear simply as such at the theatre. A certain resemblance
to these can be always preserved, but still remember to display so much only, as is pleasing
and decorous. Adorn the original model, and reject what is faulty in it. 

In Italy, and particularly at the great theatre of Milan, the most scrupulous attention is
paid to the peculiarities of costume in their Ballets. With them nothing is of greater moment
than the dressing a piece. Every habit is constructed after authentic monuments of art; and
nothing is left unessayed by the management to complete the theatrical illusion. It were indeed
sometimes to be wished that Italian artists would not copy with so severe an exactness those
costumes, the form of which restrains the easy movements of the body, and prevents a freedom
of pantomimic action; for in such a case the Ballet-master should certainly sacrifice something
to the graces. 

In France, excepting at the Opera of Paris, every one has to find his own dresses; and he arranges
them, consequently, according to the imperfect ideas he may have formed of peculiar styles
in costume. Hence it happens that the characters of a piece are very rarely seen to be habited
either with truth or dignity. Many of those performers, indeed, want the means to perfect their
imitations. In provincial theatres, neither actor nor audience pay any attention to costume;
if they are but gay, and fit the shape well, nothing further is required. The principal performers
indeed are more appropriately dressed; but those of the secondary and lowest class are habited
in the most paltry manner. These glaring faults belong to the peculiar system of management
in France, and consequently the artistes must not be exclusively blamed. Some means, indeed
ought to be suggested to remedy the defects attending the French theatrical government; that,
however, cannot now form a part of our inquiries. In the mean time, it is impossible to forbear
condemning certain performers, who, through ignorance and inattention, commit the most
palpable blunders, not caring to preserve a shade of resemblance between their habits and
what is really original; yet these are well provided by the management with all that is requisite
for costume, and have, besides, at Paris, every opportunity of consulting productions of
art and of inquiring of men of learning. Their faults therefore are inexcusable; let those
young persons who follow the theatrical profession avoid their example * . 

Talma performed the part of Coriolanus in a rich tunic and a Grecian helmet, which he had worn
in the part of Achilles . Thus exchanging the appropriate and unadorned simplicity of the Roman
casque, for the magnificence of Grecian armour. The same performer, also, played Niomede
in the costume he had displayed as Orestes . This might appear incredible when related of such
an actor, who is esteemed the founder of tragic costume in France. Lavigne, the celebrated
singer, who held one of the first places at the Academy of Music , played the part of Orpheus with
the helmet and sword of Achilles . Thus the Thracian bard appeared in the borrowed arms of the
Grecian hero. This performer also appeared before the audience as a Roman consul, adorned
with the costume of Greece , the magnificence of which was worthy of Alcibiades himself; and
certainly the severe and plain republicans of ancient Rome never dreamt of beholding their
chief in such sumptuous garments. The same Lavigne performed the shepherd in the Devin du Village
, or Village Conjuror , dressed in a shirt, the bosom of which was plaited with the greatest nicety,
worked and trimmed with lace. His Coat was silk, decorated with satin ribands, and cut after
the fashion of Geliot, the singer. His waistcoat was dimity; while his cap or hat was carried
to a point like a conjuror's, and thus this piece of extravagance was completed. Vestris danced
the part of the lover, in the Ballet entitled La Fille mal-gardee , in one of those fashionable
dresses in which an exquisite would go to some ball. He played also the part of Mars beardless
as a boy, and barefooted too; not being buskined, he might at least have appeared in simple sandals.

In his Ballet of The Barber of Seville , where he sustains the character of Count Almaviva , instead
of disguising himself as a farrier, according to the piece, he performed that amusing scene
of the second act in an elegant officer's uniform, wearing silk stockings. The same artiste
danced in the opera of Aristippe in a tunic and turban! 

Melle. Georges appeared in the part of Clytemnestre wearing the same scarf and tunic she had
worn in the part of Idamee . A certain critic observed upon this, that she was more excusable
for having dressed a Grecian lady in Chinese costume than Voltaire was for having endued a Chinese
with virtues of so sublime a description. This actress frequently confounds the garments
of Greece with those of Rome. She has also the weakness and affectation of displaying her diamonds
on every occasion, and in every species of character. She decks herself with them even when
personating Antigone , who accompanies her father in circumstances of misfortune and wretchedness.
There are those who can remember Lafond performing Pygmalion in the same magnificient attire
he had worn as Nero. Niomedes , who should be plainly habited, as he appears incognito , at his
father's court, was played by this actor in the splendid dress of Ninias . 

When the Ballet-master issues out his orders for costume, let him pay attention that there
be some sort of unison between the character of the dresses and that of the scenery; the colours
of which maybe different to the scene, but not more splendid. In dressing the costume peculiar
to a country, the period in which the scene is laid should be carefully examined and imitated.
The selection and disposition of colours and shades must be intrusted to taste. 

Costume, in short, may be defined to be a kind of epitome of history, geography, and chronology;
for it not only determines the country, but, if exactly adhered to, declares even the epoch
of time to which the piece relates; a man of sense and general information will require nothing
but costume, strictly true, to direct him to the country and period of a drama, though he had
never read or seen it before. Perhaps it is impossible to give more cogent reasons than these,
to show the importance of paying rigorous attention to costume. 13 CHAPTER XVIII. ON FRENCH

L'ame veut etre emue , et sentir est son sort. L'inaction, pour elle, est une lente mort, Et cette
activite, partage de son etre, Au feu des passions, elle le doit peut etre. Dulard . 

Generally speaking, French Composers, or Ballet-masters, neglect, in their productions
to preserve the interest of the action. They are defective both in variety and incident; thus,
weak and void of theatrical effect, it is impossible they can please long. As it has been already
observed, action, passion, and intrigue are always looked for on the stage, and without these
the attention can be neither fixed nor pleased. 

The French composers should model their scenes upon the most celebrated works of the great
masters, and particularly upon those important compositions that adorn the drama. These
writers deal too much in the mythologic style; they, seem determined to repeat, without intermission,
the same tales and descriptions contained in ancient fiction, and in the Metamorphoses . This
renders their productions flat, monotonous and wearisome. The characters of their pieces
are ever Venus, Cupid, Flora, Zephyr , the Graces , sports, and pleasures; and with these the
audience are doomed to be treated ad nauseam . Though only a Divertissement , Olympus and its
inhabitants are still crowded in. Were, this style but altered, agreeable novelties might
succeed, and public attention would be drawn and amused. 

The ancient and modern history of every country and people, the accounts of celebrated men
of every age, the relations of travellers, and the writings of great authors, present an infinite
number of fine subjects, perfectly fitted to be represented as Ballets; to such, artists should
direct their abilities and attention; while, by clothing these in a dramatic garb, their own
names would become distinguished. A selection of these events, exploits, and deeds of renown

"- argomento grande Porge a i piu dotti ingegni -." Pindar . 

It has often been wished that persons of talent would apply themselves to composing on those
subjects, hitherto totally neglected at French theatres; and that enlightened composers
would prefer history to mythology, selecting, with taste such parts as may be appropriated
to dancing, and which are susceptible of beautiful scenery. I am of opinion that subjects of
this class, worked up with talent and art, would be certain of success. By thus varying the amusement
of the public, the Ballet would gain in the end, and become more popular. Sometimes a fable,
an anecdote, a romance, or a poem, may suggest the plot of a Ballet. A hint of this sort is often
sufficient for the man of genius; he seizes, illustrates, augments, and embellishes it; and
theatrical mechanism brings the whole to perfection. 13* 

A great number of operas, by Quinault, by A. Zeno, and Metastasio, have been altered and adapted
to Ballets in Italy: why then should not the same thing be done in France? The pomp, parade, and
magnificence peculiar to the Grand Ballet d'Action would even heighten the interest of a fine
play. Let, therefore, productions of a noble and pathetic, nature be sought after; a national
theatre requires great and powerful representations. Several Ballets indeed have been represented
at the opera of Paris composed in a style somewhat different from those usually produced: L'Enfant
prodigue, Le Retour d' Ulysse, Nina, Cleopatre , and some others of the same Class, were very
well received by the public; why, therefore, do not the authors of these strive to obtain new
honours, by continuing in such a career? They were not even followed by imitators bold enough
to continue in what had been so happily begun. The enterprise was noble and worthy of praise;
and had they proceeded steadily in the path they had discovered, success must have crowned
their perseverance. The most plausible reason, I suppose, that can be advanced for such indolence
or irresolution, is the defective state of their Pantomime, which is incapable of explaining
sentiment, and which fails even in those necessary gestures that are employed to indicate
surrounding objects; consequently, it cannot enter into detail, and its language is often
obscure 25 . Pantomime failing in that Class of gestures which describe sentiment, and those
other natural and imitative motions not being clearly made out, the whole must become languishing
and uninteresting. 

With such means as these, it is impossible to exhibit the intrigue of a piece; frequent interruptions
by intervening scenes, which suspend the action, require the most exact explanation. Thus,
not being able to obtain a clear elucidation of their ideas, French composers are obliged to
confine themselves to subjects of a plain and simple construction, to well known events, and
to such as have already been treated on. Added to these, a faulty system, and certain foolish
customs, prevent the progress of this art amongst them. Every one fears to attempt an innovation,
and would imagine himself ruined the moment he dared to quit the track marked out for him by preceding
authors. Ignorance is satisfied, and envy triumphs at such imbecility. 

A profound study of Pantomime will discover the means of explaining every description of subject.
It will augment the resources of the Ballet-master, and will contribute to vary his compositions.
Were this study pursued in France, they would consequently soon enlarge the limits of their

In selecting originals, seek variety; choose of every style, of every class. Always copy from
productions of talent, not from those of mediocrity; and in this we should not be swayed either
by caprice or private interest. Nature, ever varied and fruitful, will continually supply
entire subjects, or hints at least. Neither are the works of poets and historians yet exhausted,
they still present great resources to the Ballet master. The same subjects, too, may be again
and differently treated. It is no difficult matter for a man of genius to give a fresh form and
a different turn to what has already been before the public. Art can add a new interest to a known
subject. A lively and active imagination surmounts every obstacle. Thus there appears to
be a crowd of characters to describe; and the French artist will dispose of them in a manner the
most advantageous to his production. CHAPTER XIX. ON ITALIAN COMPOSERS AND MIMES, OR BALLET

"Les arts imitatifs otent a la realite ce qu'elle a d'odieux, et n'en retiennent ce que qu'elle
a d'interessant. Il suit de la, qu'il faut epargner aux spectateurs les emotions trop penibles
et trop douloureuses."- Barthelemy . 

If French composers give up too much to the fabulous style, the Italians appear to abandon themselves
too much to the tragic, and in their productions scenes are rarely exhibited that are calculated
to relieve the depression of mind caused by the gloominess of the subject. These mournful pieces
are characterized by scenes of a horrible description; and the stage appears like the theatres
of old, where gladiators came to combat and die. The imagination of such writers delights to
revel amid slaughter and tombs; the furies of destruction seem to attend all their conceptions;
and their dark and dreadful exhibitions generally terminate with crimes or revolting executions.
Cold enthusiasts may applaud such a style, while they remain unmoved at representations of
true pathos; sublime composition has no attraction for them. The multitude also delight in
such exhibitions; but it is in the power of true taste to destroy the charm 26 . The dance withdraws
itself from such terrible scenes; Terpsichore flies from the sight of murder, death and corpses.
There are certain things that should be kept entirely away from the scene, and there are others
of which a glimpse is sufficient. 

Too much attention cannot be paid in selecting subjects intended for Ballets. Those in which
dancing may be introduced, must not be appropriated to the tragic style; and on the contrary,
the gay movements of the comic ought to have nothing to do with tragic gravity and pathos. When
working up serious subjects, the original, as has been already observed, must be modified
and embellished, Those representations that are rather horrid than tragic should never stain
the scene; they are rejected by good sense, and our feelings are wounded by them. Many artists
are aware of the defects of such pieces; but still do not avoid them while composing for certain
audiences, whose taste appears to rival that of the more serious and calculating inhabitants
on the banks of the Thames * . 

The Italians like to be deeply affected and agitated by the power of theatrical representation.
Melpomene holds strong dominion over them, while the empire of her sister Thalia is weak. Such
a predilection may be attributed to the force and fire of their imagination, and to a deep and
characteristic sensibility. They require to be as much moved and transported by a Ballet as
by a spoken piece. They require of pantomimic performers the utmost exertion; and criticise
a Ballet-master as unsparingly as they would a dramatic poet. This severity, however, is advantageous
to the art, since it excites talent, and is a proof of the greet interest taken in it by the public.
It maybe remarked of those artists to whom this chapter is dedicated, that the Pantomime of
their pieces absorbs all the action, to the exclusion of dancing. That, however, cannot be
called Ballet that consists of Pantomime only. Those plots, therefore, should be chosen in
which dancing can be appropriately introduced, for it would be impossible and ridiculous
to exhibit a Divertissement on a subject of a character too tragic for such joyous amusement.
Let the colouring of your picture be varied, but let that variety be disposed with art. Thus,
let gloomy scenes be insensibly shaded off into the light and gay. Painful and pleasant emotions
depend upon such an arrangement, which, if managed with taste and judgment, enable us to witness,
without surprise, tragic scenes succeeded by the graceful movements of the dance. Such well-disposed
contrasts as these constitute the Ballet, instead of the simple Pantomime. And in this method
certain tragic subjects also might be treated, which, at first, might not seem adapted to the
object of a Ballet. 

In Italy, excellent historic and mythologic Ballets have been produced, and represented
with such magnificence and perfection as have remained unrivalled; and the severest critics
found themselves obliged to applaud. These, however, exhibited no disgusting horrors, nor
any circumstance tending to corrupt the manners. Those who wish to attain celebrity as composers
should constantly refer to such models, keeping them ever in view, even amidst their own inventions;
thus would they secure the applause of men of taste. By this method, young composers would avoid
committing these two palpable errors: first, that of seeking to inspire horror instead of
pathos; and that of making Pantomimes instead of Ballets. In a Ballet the dance should partake
of the plot and interest of the piece, at the same time that it becomes an ornament to it. Some
Italian artists, either from an ignorance of the art, or from a determination to give up all
to Pantomime, neglect dancing. French composers, on the other hand, pay not requisite attention
to the art of gesture, treating as secondary the principal and most important part of a piece.
But each department claims its due share of attention; when one encroaches upon the rights
of the other, the performance must become extravagant. 

To the greater part of Italian composers, it might be suggested, that to enlarge the limits
of their productions, and in order to become less tragic, and more varied, they should examine
the best ancient and modern romances, the renowned deeds of chivalry as described in certain
poems, eastern fictions, and Fairy prodigies. These works present a treasury of excellent
materials, capable of enriching the repertoire of Ballet-masters with every kind of novelty.

There are certain composers, not content with the system of performing already established
by taste and reason, who would introduce a new method, of which the following are the principal.
They declare that Pantomime should be regulated, not only by the rythmus and cadence of the
air, but that an actor should mark with his arms or his legs every bar, and even every turn in a
phrase of music. They require also that a step should be executed, in certain passages, to every
note. Thus steps and gestures would be multiplied to infinity, while the spectator, dazzled
and confused by rapid motion, finds himself unable to attend to the plot of the piece. The performer,
too, exhausted by incessant exertion, finishes the scene, but without producing the least
effect. The consequence of this false system is, that the dancer, being obliged to take for
each single gesture, two or three steps, to keep up with the measure of the air, and being obliged
also to fly over the stage in diverse directions, his steps must absolutely become pas dansans
, that is to say, pas de bouree, des chasses, des contre-tems, des glissades, &c . It is easy to
imagine what would be the laughable effect of Pantomime thus executed. What would be more ridiculous
than to see the most important characters, such as heroes and divinities, dancing with rapidity
at a time when interest should be raised by gentler and pathetic action? Composers who would
exhibit Pantomime in this style, are defective even in those gestures and positions they pretend
to execute by extravagance of method. How widely different is this affectation from a true
imitation of nature! 

It is impossible that an actor, constrained to observe the rules of such a system, can express
himself with grace or ease; nor can he find any opportunity to give vent to the feelings that
agitate him. His spirits receive a damp, and his gesture partakes of the same quality, and he
performs his part ineffectually. This new method, indeed, considered in its most advantageous
light, and even when sustained by talent, must ever appear paltry and insignificant, producing
only the effect of a puppet set in motion by wires. To such a pass must a performer come, who falls
into the hands of a composer of this class, that would bind him to observe the rules of this school,
in order that he might, as it were, sacrifice him to this extravagant idol of innovation.-Follow
rather the rules of truth and beauty: 

"-i'vo' credere a'sembianti, Che soglion effere testimon del core." Dante 27 . CHAPTER XX.

"Sua cuique proposita lex, suus decor est; nec comoedia in Cothurnos assurgit, nec contra
Tragoedia socco ingreditur."- Quintilian . 

Of the Ballet there are three kinds:-the serious , the melo-dramatic or demi-caractere , and
the comic . The serious Ballet embraces the following subjects:-the tragic, the historic,
the romantic, the mythologic, the fabulous, and the sacred 28 . The melo-dramatic Ballet is
of a mixed description; certain passages in history, some romantic subjects, marvellous,
oriental, allegoric, pastoral, and anacreontic tales are admissible to this class, provided
they be of a cast neither too serious nor too comic. Subjects of a triumphant, national, bourgeois
, satirical, trifling, burlesque, heroic, comic, or tragi-comic nature, are peculiar to
the comic Ballet. The Divertissement , or Fete , is that theatrical spectacle in which dancing
alone is the constituent part. The action of the piece, indeed, excludes this exhibition,
as not belonging to it; notwithstanding which, however, it not only represents the celebration
of some public or private event, but serves to render homage to some illustrious characters,
or to revive, in a solemn and ceremonious manner, the remembrance of some renowned deed. 

It may be thus perceived that the Ballet consists of as many varieties as other theatrical performances.
It follows, also, that in pursuing this object, great authors should be deeply studied, together
with the whole range of the drama, and those good Ballets, also, that may fall under observation.
Nor can the talents of young composers be better employed and developed, than in uniting the
principles of art to the remarks of experience. 

Pity and terror appertain to tragedy; those authors, therefore, who, in order to produce striking
effects, dispose of events so as to produce unmixed horror, rather than simply to inspire terror,
cannot serve as models in the art of moving the affections, or of raising interest. Feeble minds
are greatly alarmed by auch productions; and this, in fact, in the judgment of men of taste,
who can properly appreciate what is good, is the Only object they attain. These representations
merely serve to augment such horrible and disgusting productions as the Parthenius de Nicee
, and the romances of the Radcliffe school. The great Arouet requires that the scene should
not be stained by blood, except upon extraordinary occasions, when it becomes indispensable,
and even then it should be executed with such care, that the public may be spared, as much as possible,
the sight of such horrors. We may remark, also, with Dubos, that "it is not the quantity of blood
that is shed, but the manner of shedding it, which constitutes the character of tragedy. Besides,
tragedy, when extravagant, becomes cold; and we are rather inclined to laugh than to weep at
the productions of a poet, who fancies that he is pathetic in proportion to the quantity of blood
he spills: some wicked wag might even send to him for a list of killed and wounded." It is rarely
necessary at the theatre theatre to deepen terror into horror; the pathetic alone should be
deemed sufficient to produce tragic illusion. 

It was a custom with the ancients that government should furnish poets with subjects for tragedy,
and upon these the writers were obliged to treat. The most celebrated deeds of history or of
fable were chosen, in order that, as they were generally known, they might be the more certain
of exciting general interest; and in the end the custom proved very advantageous to the poet.
Comic poets, on the contrary, were allowed to make choice of their own subjects, each selecting
whatever was most agreeable to his own peculiar taste and genius; they might invent their own
subject, and the piece became entirely their own. Blair does not give sufficient latitude
to comic authors in the choice of their subject. Some limit is necessary in the selection of
a plot; but it is my opinion, the more universal a comedy is, the better it is, and the more likely
to meet with success. 

Comedy, in its beginning, was nothing more than a representation of the simple truth, which
exposed upon the stage some transaction of private life. Writers having at length ceased to
adopt actual occurrences, betook themselves to imaginative subjects, to the great peace
and satisfaction of the public. 

The same remark cannot be made with respect to tragedy, because, in treating on great and exalted
subjects, it was always necessary that they should be founded on truth, or on fables which,
by becoming well and universally known, assumed the appearance of truth. The truth, however,
was not always scrupulously adhered to by some writers, who paid little attention to public
opinion with respect to place and time. They even differ from each other in these particulars,
when bringing the same subject before the public. Upon this, Gravina, as well as Aristotle,
observes, that Medea did not kill her children; that was a crime invented by Euripides. In the
OEdipus of Sophocles, Jocasta strangles herself; according to Seneca, she died by the sword.
Both Sophocles and Euripides have written upon the subject of Electra; but one represents
hera virgin; always dwelling in her own Country, while the other describes her married and
living out of her native land. The latter poet; in his Trojans , sacrifices Polixenes at the
tent of Achilles; and in his Hecuba , the same Polixenes is slain in Thrace. 

When a poet is engaged in describing imaginary beings, he sometimes allows his fancy to transport
him beyond the bounds of probability, but some resemblance to nature must always be preserved;
some meaning or allegorical sense should always be perceptible. The poet, in short, must imitate
those sculptors who, though producing colossal statues, of dimensions immensely super-human,
yet still preserved the proportions of man in his ordinary size. Taste and judgment thus ever
avoid folly and extravagance; and thus treated, subjects of the fabulous, allegorical, or
fairy nature, may insure success. 

Numerous examples of this kind might be cited. We may, therefore, conclude, that there is no
necessity for making any alteration either in history or fable as iris generally received;
the authors, however, may be allowed to make some slight changes in the action, provided they
are of a nature uniform with the subject, and calculated to increase dramatic effect. Additions
as well as retrenchments should be made judiciously, and in those places only where they are
required, particular care being taken that the general resemblance between parts be not destroyed.
In such compositions the author has permission to exercise his invention; but let him remember
that his fictions should wear the garb of truth. 

The Greeks did not confine themselves to comedy, whose province it is to describe the ridiculous;
nor to tragedy, which inspires only terror and pity. They understood how to introduce serious
scenes into their comedy, as may be seen in Aristophanes; while tragic pieces frequently admitted
the gaiety of comedy, as the works of Euripides will prove: 

"Interdum tamen et vocem comoedia tollit; Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri."
Hor . 

The Greeks had also other kinds of dramas, namely, the Satirical , the Ilarodia , and the Magodia
, which being ranked between tragedy and comedy, partook more or less of each, and formed a very
agreeable and convenient connexion between the two extremes of the dramatic art. 

With such a license poets would present every species of character, with every shade and gradation
Of passion. Nature in her course advances not by leaps; nor does she fly in an instant from the
obscurity of night to the brightness of day; or from the frosts of winter to the heat of summer;
on the contrary, she proceeds gradually and imperceptibly. 

Of all the varieties of drama to be found in the two principal divisions, the tragi-comic is
most remarkable. The characters of this class are those of princes and great men, who, though
preserving a certain noble and imposing style, perform with a kind of condescending cheerfulness.
The aid of deep and powerful passion is not required; and the catastrophe is never of a terrible

Very few French authors have availed themselves of this literary license; they have deft it
to the Spaniards, English, Italians and Germans, who have cultivated this kind of composition
eagerly and successfully. By such a neglect variety is excluded, and a multitude of subjects
to be found in nature remains entirely untouched. The tragi-comic class of pieces present
a vast field in which a fertile fancy may range at pleasure. It requires, however, deep discrimination
to succeed in this style, nothing being more difficult than to pass 

"From grave to gay; from lively to severe." Pope . 

"Passer du grave au doux, du plaisant au severe." Boileau . 

Were we to admit nothing into tragedy but horror and dread, and nothing but the jocular and ridiculous
into comedy, what would then become of that immense space that lays between these two extremes?
Should not this blank be adorned by representations of those sentiments and incidents which
are neither terrible nor trite, neither grave nor gay? 

Thus it appears there are several kinds of tragic and comic productions. Can the style of Corneille
be termed tragic in his Nicomede , as it is in Rodogune? How widely different is the style of Tancredi
from that of Otello ! Yet both are of the tragic cast. The style of Alfieri is entirely different
from that of Racine. The comic humour of the Misantrope is not the same with that of the Femmes
Savantes , and the style of the Etourdi differs from that of the Glorieux . Goldoni presents
still another sort of comedy in his Padre di Famiglia , not at all resembling that of Gl' Innamorati
. Le Dissipateur, Nanine, La Gouvernante , &c., are all dissimilar. 

The same characteristics are perceptible in the style of Ballets as in that of poetry, and it
belongs to the man of talent to appropriate to each its peculiar colouring. 

There are many French comedies, however, which, had they been written inverse, with a classic
change in the names, might pass for legitimate tragedies. On the other hand, there are tragedies
in which it would be necessary only to change the names, with a little alteration in style and
action, to render them complete comedies. But care should be taken to avoid this latter error,
as well as that of choosing subjects too elevated and serious for comedy; neither should Melpomene
be divested of that interest which moves and melts the passions, and gives rise to situations
of pathos and terror. In tragedy the characters should be sustained as heroes; in comedy they
should move and act like ordinary men. 

The dramatic style may be adapted to the Ballet, but it is not necessary to make use of it as those
authors do who would raise it upon a level with tragedy, when making choice of subjects. 

The greater part of those who manufacture Drames Bourgeois, Drames Sombres and Drames Honnetes
attain no other object but that of making the spectator tremble with horror, while presenting
him with pictures which dishonour humanity, and shock the feeling, by the exhibition of that
wretchedness to which nature and fate have subjected us; and nothing is left untried to arrive
at this very amusing object. 

Dramas include at once the pathos of tragedy, and the gaiety of comedy; and they should convey
the same moral as tragedy or comedy separately considered. When this mixture is made with talent,
its effects are novel, agreeable and interesting. Without bestowing on this class of theatrical
performance all that panegyric with which a sort of fanaticism inspired Diderot, Beaumarchais,
and some others, to load it, I shall only remark that it is more suited to the intention of a Ballet
than might be supposed, for it affords a great variety of scenery, together with very striking
and contrasted situations, in which dancing and Pantomime triumph by turns. A piece of this
description 14 furnishes also a great variety of characters and passions, developed in scenes
alternately serious and gay. The Avonian bard is often successful in this medley of tragedy
and comedy; he handles with ease the pencil of AEschylus and the pen of Moliere, painting with
equal talent the comic and the sublime. If Denina * and some others had taken the trouble to observe
this, they might have spared themselves their unjust criticisms upon this celebrated man.

It must be repeated, that discernment is necessary in the choice of ornament and effect. The
theory of bad composers, who, without taste or genius, would impose upon the multitude by noise
and show, is similar to that of many play-wrights, who suppose that every thing to be found in
nature will produce an effect upon the stage; and, provided that some emotions are awakened,
and a certain quantity of tears shed, they trouble not themselves about the means by which that
object is attained. This new system of poetics appears to have been created by some German writers.
I prefer the Proverbes Dramatiques of Carmontelle to all such extravagant and unmeaning commotion
as attain no useful end. The pleasant morality spread over this work amuses the mind, and becomes
extremely serviceable. 

While discoursing on the different styles, it will not be unseasonable to say something on
the romantic , and such productions as may prove useful to the composer, by introducing variety
into his works. A fragment of M. Chaussard, relating to this subject, may furnish a kind of preface
to our observations. 

"The followers of the romantic," says he, "declare that imagination alone is the essential
soul of poetry. The classics, on the other hand, lay it down as a principle, that reason and imagination
united is the essence of poetry. 

Each of these, according to his own position, draws the following inferences:-the first say,
all the wanderings and extravagances of fancy constitute the beauty of the romantic style;
the others admit of these, but always on condition that they be not contrary to reason. Hence,
it is evident that the romantic system is the direct road to absurdity, and that the classic
system leads to liberal and enlightened reason, still leaving to the imagination sufficient
opportunity for the most lofty flights; then is fancy a fiery steed guided by reason, Who does
not impede his course, but prevents him from stumbling." 

"And further, let fact decide the question. When those of the romantic school shall produce
a man equal to Homer or Ariosto, we will yield to their opinion; but Homer has united deep reasoning
to exalted imagination, while the very simplicity of Ariosto is concealed wisdom. When we
come to reflect upon the circumstances attending the appearance of the phantom of romance,
for I cannot bring myself to call it style , we shall be something surprised at the result: it
has no less a tendency than that of leading back to barbarism. In a word, all the horrors of feudal
times, all the superstitions of the thirteenth century, together with the legends of the Autos
Sacramentales of Calderon 29 , form the material and the essential elements of these depraved
compositions, which are a part of that dark conspiracy, whose end is again to impose fetters
on the human mind, even after reason has burst them asunder." 

"In short, to develop the imagination according to the system of some, is to place implicit
faith in the most ridiculous absurdities, of which error and degradation are the consequences.
Rather 30 let reason be followed; it is the basis of a good education, and hence will arise a race
of powerful, enlightened, and virtuous writers. The poets of antiquity were no trifling and
unmeaning seducers into 14* amusement; they were rather masters in morality, and the first
instructors of mankind. This consideration will, doubtless, separate from the romantic
school every person of credit, that otherwise, perhaps, would not have perceived its fatal
and lamentable consequences. The above cited author says elsewhere, "It (the romantic) certainly
affords specimens of charming compositions, and I could wish to applaud them; but they are
always inferior to the great classic productions. The strain of the Syrens is not equal to the
song of the Muses." 

The romantic class is of a mixed nature, it embraces almost every style, for every object in
nature becomes the property of the poet of romance. Taste or art is rarely employed in the choice
or embellishment of subjects of this description. If, however, this medley were generally
treated as it is by certain authors, it would have an effect infinitely more agreeable and interesting,
considering its great variety and striking contrasts. A fruitful imagination should ever
place before it the image of the beau ideal , without which, as it has been shown, the descent
into the absurd and ridiculous is easy and immediate. 

As models, I would rather propose certain works of its followers, than the system itself. They
should be followed with taste and discretion. It is impossible that a production truly romantic
can be a model in all its parts; it ever presents a great disparity of objects; notwithstanding,
parts maybe found of great utility to the artist. 

There are many critics and innovators who give the preference to this style above all other
kind of dramatic composition; accusing classic authors, who keep within the bounds of reason,
of being sterile, flat and cold. May it not be said that these critics resemble Demonatus, who,
being opposed to the laws of a certain state, first declared them useless, and then, by consequence,

The craving that authors, and the public also, have for novelty, is frequently injurious to
the arts; hence it is that men of talent have united themselves to extravagant systems and styles,
and it must be confessed that their inventions are of the miraculous order. 

"Humana natura est novitatis avida." 

Let us seek for novelty, but let not our compositions be void of good sense. 

"-des chemins nouveaux, il est un heureux choix." Lemierre . 

Racine, Voltaire, Metastasio, and Alfieri, opened each for himself an untried way, through
which they have passed like great and creating geniuses. Reason readily bestows on them admiration
and applause; and the style of unaffected beauty to be found in their works is universally admired.

Concerning English dramatic poets who are of the romantic class, Montesquieu observes that,
"their genius is of a singular description; they do not even imitate the ancients whom they
admire; their productions bear less resemblance to the regular course of nature than to those
happy freaks in which she sometimes indulges; and this may be proved by Shakspeare and all his
numerous imitators; and on this system it is that their style has been formed. The same may be
observed with respect to Calderon and his rivals, 31 Vondel, and the tragic poets of Germany."

These authors, however, have not always represented the happy freaks of nature; for, what
puerilities, absurdities, and extravagances may not be found mixed up with their natural
and sublime passages! They must be examined with peculiar care, for we can obtain no profit
from the good things to be found in such authors, except we bring to their perusal a taste already
firmly established. 

The crowd of imitators whom the splendid genius of these great men has attracted is very pernicious
to young artists, who flatter themselves that they have faithfully reproduced their originals
by copying all that is faulty in them. Void of bath taste and fancy, these theatrical apes believe
they work miracles, by straying from the road marked out by good sense. The vulgar, surprised
and even astonished, second such efforts by vehement applause, and the frenzy endures a short
period in opposition to the better understanding of connoisseurs; and, it even gives birth
to other and similar productions. 

"Credite, Pisones, isti fabulae fore librum Persimile, cujus, veluta egri somnia vanae Fingentur
species: ut nec pes, nec caput uni. Reddatur formae -." Horace . CHAPTER XXI. ON MODELS, AND

"The subject selected should be both known and appropriate." Aristotle . 

The origin of tragedy may be traced to the immortal poems of Homer; and it is to his Margites and
his other satirical poems, that we are indebted for the discovery, of comedy. According to
Suidas; Alceus Epigenes and Thespis made the first attempts at tragedy, which was soon after
to be fully developed by the genius of AEschylus. Phrynicus, a disciple of Thespis, introduced
female characters upon the stage. Thespis himself was the first actor of whom we have any account.

Thelestes made great progress in his art by performing in the pieces of AEschylus: he was both
actor and Pantomime. Aristocles loads him with panegyric as having brought to perfection
the art of gesture. The masterpiece of AEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides followed almost
immediately the Alcestis of Thespis, with an astonishing and gigantic stride towards perfection.
Under Solon, lived Susarion and Dolon, who were the first that produced farces on the stage.
AEschylus, Acheus, and Hegemon also distinguished themselves in this class. But it is to Epicharmes
we owe the model of legitimate comedy. Cratinus, Maenander, Philemon, and Aristophanes brought
it to perfection. Livius Andronicus, Ennius, Naevius, Varius, the second Pomponius, Pacuvius,
the Sophocles of the Romans, Plautus, Trabea, Terence, &c., adorned the drama of ancient Rome
by imitating the Greeks. 

The plots or intrigues of the dramas of AEschylus are extremely simple, and I may compare his
manner to that of Michael Angelo. It must, however, be objected to him, as well as to Alfieri,
that he has not given sufficient attention to the pathetic. The Italian poet seems to have modelled
himself upon the Greek; they are nearly similar in style; and the lofty genius of both has frequently
directed them to objects of a moral or political character. 

Sophocles, on the contrary, manages the plots of his tragedies with more skill and address.
He is ever pathetic, and often sublime. In the works of this great poet, and in those of Alfieri,
nothing is said uselessly, or without a meaning. Their characters neither act nor speak but
when the subject requires them. Their productions are not at all overcharged with false or
superfluous ornament; and indeed they well understood where to stop, by observing that limit
beyond which it is absurd to pass; this is a point of perfection, at which it is not in the power
of every genius to arrive. Mediocrity ever misses this mark, and even men of talent cannot always
impose needful restraint upon their flights. And here, unfortunately, it must be confessed
how very much out of place are those fine tirades in French pieces, together with the poetic
and philosophic airs even of Metastasio, bearing no relation to the principal subject, and
serving only to interrupt the progress of the action. Euripides is regarded, and with reason,
as the most tragic of ancient poets. He is true to nature in the pictures he draws, and he possesses
more variety than is to be found in his rivals. He is both pathetic and moral, and well deserves
the name of the theatrical philosopher. 

Modern Italy, to whom Europe owes the revival of letters, has greatly contributed also to the
rise and progress of the drama. Albertino Mussato was the first who wrote a regular tragedy;
and Sicco Polentone signalized himself by giving to the modern the first comedy. L'Ezzelino
and La Catinia , the first of our essays in the dramatic art, were written in Latin, which at that
epoch was the language of authors. Orpheus , a tragedy of the celebrated Poliziano, and the
comedy of the Calandra by Bibiena, succeeded the above productions, and being written in Italian,
they became models to all who wrote for the theatre. Poliziano did for Italy what Jodelle, with
far less talent, did for France; and every French writer of that period both imitated and translated
Italian authors. 

The tragedies Of Trissino, Speroni, Torelli, Tasso, Ruscellai, Giraldi, Dolce, Anguillara;
the pastorales of Tasso, Guarini, Bonarelli, Beccari, Buonaroti, Cortese; the lyrical dramas
of Rinuccini, the comedies of Ariosto, of Aretino, Firenzuola, Groto, and Lasca; and above
all the Mandragora 32 , of Macchiavelli have each contributed to polish and perfect the drama
from the time that it arose out of barbarism. The Italians imitated the ancients, but their
comedy possessed more sentiment, and had a greater regard for decency 33 . Nearer approaches
to those almost faultless models of antiquity were reserved for more civilized times. 

The great Corneille, Moliere and Racine effected prodigies, and arrived very nearly at perfection.
The Italians, in their turn, profiting by the example of their neighbours on the other side
of the mountains, produced Croesus, Cleopatra , and Octavia , which were regarded as their
best tragedies during the seventeenth century. S. Maffei, and P. J. Martello, in the following
age, distinguished themselves in the same career. Shakspeare, Calderon, Lope de Vega, and
Guillin de Castro, have rendered themselves illustrious, by the untried ways they have trod,
but they have made very small advances to the classic idea of perfection. 

Gottsched obtained the glorious title of reformer of the German theatre. Holberg created
the Danish drama. P. J. Martello, Voltaire, S. Maffei, Zeno, Metastasio, Geldoni, Alfieri,
Monti, Kotzebue, Schiller, and Moratin, the Moliere of Spain, carried their art to the highest
pitch, each according to the peculiar genius of his nation. 

Racine felt deeply what is due to the worth of the ancients; he studied them learnedly and philosophically,
or, in other words, as a man of talent. It was from these models of perfection that he formed for
himself a style which, in grace, beauty, and pathos, rivals the originals. Nothing finer can
be imagined than his tragedies of Phedre, Iphigenie, Athalie, Britannicus , and Andromaque
34 . Whenever this illustrious manhandles a subject that has already been treated on by the
ancients, he has, as it were, brought it to greater perfection, or imitated them to rivalry.
But Racine studied nature as well as the classical productions. The moderns too often neglect
the study of nature for that of authors; and Le Batteux justly observes, "that the ancients
are to us, what nature was to them." The works of nature will bear a deeper study than those of

It may be said of the French Euripides, that he has avoided the faults of the illustrious ancients
by exchanging their defects for his own natural beauties; and fortunate are those who can pursue
a similar system 35 . 

Since even models possess defects, care must be taken to avoid them when studying. Feebleness
and mediocrity would frequently appeal to their authority as precedents for the faults they
commit. The vanity of young artists is easily flattered in perceiving that some slight resemblance
may be seen between certain parts of their own productions and those of the great masters; but
it is in their beauties and perfections only that this resemblance must be sought. Men of genius
may be accused of errors, but their excellence never wants admirers; and he is justly despised
who presents in his works nothing but an imitation of their failings. Favour and excuse may
be easily procured from the generality of observers; but connoisseurs bestow praise only
in proportion to real merit. 

Voltaire also possessed the rare talent of perfecting his originals. Endued with the double
advantage of vast experience, united to a brilliant genius, which was adorned with almost
universal erudition, he was well fitted to enrich the stage with productions at once varied
and natural. 

Things apparently of very small importance are often turned to great account in the hands of
genius. Thus it has been seen that talented artists have greatly profited by the simple frescoes
of Herculaneum, and from the time-worn bass reliefs of the Parthenon. 

The Torse of Belvidere has served as a model to crowds of painters and sculptors; indeed this
precious relic of antiquity has formed a school. There are, however, men of great talent, who
having first conformed themselves to certain styles, have afterwards left them, and entered
upon others. Amongst these may be instanced Annibal Carracci, who, subsequent to studying
Raphael, M. Angelo, Titian, Correggio, and the antiques, created a style for himself, which
has rendered him immortal. The same may be observed in literature. Theophrastus, the pupil
of Aristotle, followed another style than that of his master. Menander, after studying the
characters of the former, produced the most perfect comedies of antiquity, and which served
as models to Terence, who was imitated by Moliere, till the latter, following the example of
other great geniuses, traced out a way for himself, and became an original of the first order
36 . 

The tragedies of Corneille, who was the father of the French drama, are filled with poetic and
tragic beauties, but the conduct of his plots is sometimes defective. He must, therefore,
be examined with care; nor should we suffer ourselves to be overcome by the enthusiasm of the
poet. He is sometimes sublime, and often original; but his pieces have never any moral object
in view, paying, at the same time, but little regard to certain theatrical regulations. 

The author of Cinna, Rodogune, Polieucte , and the Cid , filled with the fire of poesy, and endowed
with an exalted genius, created for himself a new style. He appears to have disdained to subject
himself to many of the laws prescribed by theatrical legislators. Some of his models he took
from a nation whose taste and character were more conformable to his own peculiar manner. The
Spanish drama has the honour of having furnished materials to some of the principal productions
of the French Sophocles. Spanish pieces, during a certain period, found a good reception in
France, and theatrical writers readily imitated them. Exhibitions of heroic Moors, together
with extraordinary events, attended by stage effect and bustle, were capable of some attraction,
and amused the generality. 

Racine brought tragedy to perfection; he was well versed in the theatrical art; the conduct
of several of his pieces is admirable, He is a master who cannot be too much studied. He is always
true, interesting and pathetic; while nothing interrupts the advance of the action. Unfortunately,
however, those idle characters, called confidents, sometimes prevent him from being perfect
in the formation of some of his productions, Thanks are due to Alfieri for having delivered
us from this trifling set of creatures, who have only owed their existence to mediocrity of
talent. And it is custom alone that has continued them in modern masterpieces; but genius does
not require their ineffectual assistance. These confidentials ought not to make their appearance,
except when it is absolutely necessary to the plan of action. 

In the plots of Racine and of Metastasio, too much uniformity may be observed. In the first,
this defect is owing perhaps to that pathetic style to which his genius inclined him; and in
the second, it has been caused by his complaisance in conforming himself too much to the desires
of musicians, who require that the action of a piece should be subservient to their inspirations.
Metastasio is one of the greatest philosophic poets that ever existed. In him the most useful
and important truths are adorned by poetry. Being deeply versed in the movements of the human
heart, he has painted passions and characters in the most striking colours. Ever under the
direction of nature, he is, like her, true, elegant, noble, and sublime; no dramatic writer
has shown greater resources. He had also the advantage of writing in a language which, of all
modern tongues, is the most suitable to poetry. M. Schlegel, in one of his unaccountable criticisms,
affirms that in Metastasio nothing can be found that strikes the imagination , and that Alfieri
is only read in Italy because it has been fashionable to study him. This writer can have but merely
turned over the pages of these two great writers, or otherwise he has but a slight acquaintance
with the language of the authors upon whom he has made these observations. This in a critic is
unpardonable; for a sound opinion cannot be thus formed of the productions of genius. In every
country, where taste and nature prevail, the tragedies of Alfieri must always be fashionable
, and admissible to the bon ton; and the works of Metastasio will ever be admired in nations where
learning flourishes. 

How has it happened that M. Schlegel, with all his information and great talent, should have
forgotten to notice the genius of Moliere and Goldoni, and the excellence of the Aminta ? A malady,
caused by the study of the romantic, must have deceived him into these omissions. He requires
that Greece, France, and Italy, should yield to England and Spain in dramatic works. This Coryphaeos,
in the above style, pretends to quote a scene from the opera of Raoul de Crequi , as a chef-d'oeuvre
of theatrical effect, and as a model for writers both of tragedy and comedy in France. The extraordinary
penetration of his mind has induced him to panegyrize the operas of Nina and Richard Coeur de
Lion , passing over in silence productions of acknowledged excellence. This German critic
has not spared even the writer of Vaudevilles , for he cites the miserable piece called Le Desespoir
de Jocrisse , as the only performance of that kind worthy of notice. Such criticisms as these
are extremely injurious to rising talent, and very little attention should be bestowed on

Zeno was one of the restorers of the modern Italian drama, and he served as a model to Metastasio.
His manner is learned, free, and full of fire. He treats on the passions like a master; working
on the affections, and keeping interest awake. It were to be wished that in some of his pieces
there had been fewer incidents, for they are in some cases so abundant as to draw the attention
of the spectator too much from the principal action. A pomp of style is every where observable
in his works; he is ever varied, and always dramatic; his language is always equal to his subject;
in short, he may be considered as the Julio Romano of the Italian theatre. It ought to be observed,
also, that all his scenes are accompanied by a moral. 

Alfieri modelled himself at once upon the Greek, English, and French theatres. Of the first,
he imitated their beautiful simplicity; he followed the peculiar manner of the second in the
vigorous pictures they have drawn of strong passion; and conformed himself to the classic
regularity of the third. Such a learned acquaintance with national style, joined to his own
creative genius, rendered him equal to the greatest dramatists. According to my humble opinion,
Alfieri is the most irreproachable and correct of all dramatic writers. 

Moliere, the father of modern comedy, is the most perfect of comic poets. To the composer of
Ballets, he presents an extensive field for study, and his pieces may be turned to great account
in the pursuit of this object. The design, conduct, and characters of these excellent comedies
should be most carefully examined: they are pictures of nature. 

The numberless traits of genuine comedy with which the writings of this great man abound cannot
be too deeply studied. The author of the Tartuffe and the Misantrope is more delicate, elegant,
correct, and even more decorous (at least in his higher comedies) than Goldoni. He is also more
universal, learned, and finished than the Italian writer; but the latter seems to surpass
him in invention; in Goldoni, there is indeed to be found an astonishing variety of subject
and intrigue. He is always true and natural, and appears to paint by inspiration. On whatever
subject he is occupied, he treats it with a certain delightful facility; nothing can embarrass
or obstruct his course; and the fountain of his ideas appears inexhaustible. Several of his
pieces, which have deservedly attained a brilliant celebrity, are founded upon very unimportant
subjects. It was, perhaps, this great facility of imitation which gave him a disinclination
for correcting and perfecting his comedies, which may, therefore, be regarded rather as sketches
than finished pictures; but, it may be added, they are the sketches of a great master. 

Moliere surpasses his rival of Italy in the composition of his pieces, in what may be termed
elevated comedy, particularly in his method of writing, and in the energy of his versification.
In this department of his art he is infinitely superior to the Italian poet. Goldoni paints
with fire and truth, and his humorous scenes are replete with a sly gaiety. His comedies present
perfect pictures of vice turned into ridicule, and they are, therefore, always moral. He may,
however, be justly reproached with having always represented characters and manners of a
vicious description; a peculiarity in which he excels; but he should either have made his comedies
universal, or have confined himself to exhibiting the characters, mind, and manners of Italians.
He was equal to the task, and Italy might then have been indebted to him for a national comedy.
He is an author whose genius is equal to that of the first dramatists, and his works offer to the
composer a numerous train of characters, dramatic situations, bright pictures of manners
and passions, which may be easily transferred to Ballets of the comic or melo-dramatic class.
From some of Goldoni's pieces, also, may be learned the art of arranging a plot, and of raising
interest by an adroit progress of the action, without introducing useless episodes or unlooked-for
incidents. This is a writer who, possibly, is not always guided by art, but he always follows

The greatest poet of England was created and formed by nature, and for her alone. "In works of
art, it is the labour and ingenuity that attract attention; but in those of nature we are astonished
by the sublime and prodigious." This passage of Longinus may be applied to Shakspeare; he can
only be considered as a prodigy of nature: study contributed little to the formation of his
mind. He is great, unequal, sublime, fantastic, like his model-nature; and he who can at once
imitate his beauties and avoid his defects, may be regarded as one possessed of a happy discrimination.
We might sometimes even suppose that this poet had formed himself upon the Grecian school;
for it is well known that, in some ancient tragedies, certain characters were introduced,
who, by the jocularity of their manners, witticisms, ribaldry, and satire, pleasantly broke
in upon the monotony that characterizes tragedy, particularly when written by mediocre authors.
These interlocutors relieved the audience from that oppressive melancholy attendant upon
tragic representation. But when tragedy was brought to perfection, an equal tone was preserved
throughout, as it should be. Shakspeare, however, and his followers admitted this medley
of tragedy and comedy; and, for the sake of a ridiculous variety, they allowed scenes of the
most trivial, irrelevant, and extravagant nature; and it must have arisen from a desire to
please the depraved taste of the vulgar of that period, that these authors fell into such errors.
The plan and disposition of parts in the dramas of him who produced Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet
form, as it were, an irregular order of architecture; grandeur of design, however, frequently
prevails. There is a want of harmony and classic uniformity of tone; still there is more life
and energy in the tragedies of the great English poet than in those of the principal part of French
dramatists. There must be a movement of action caused by incident, if it is intended to raise
interest or to move the passions. Sterne justly observes on the tragedies of certain French
writers, that they resembled sermons . Voltaire, also, and D'Alembert tax the French tragedy
with a want of action; and Blair is of the same opinion. Tragedy divested of scenic embellishment,
and lifeless for want of incident, can engage the attention but slightly, and can awaken no
interest. Voltaire availed himself of the good qualities to be found in English dramas, and,
with great taste, transferred from the British AEschylus the beauties expanded over the tragedies
of Hamlet, Othello, Julius Caesar , and some others, into his own productions. It is owing to
this acquaintance with the theatres of foreign nations, that he has been enabled to give the
drama of 15 France a new, more varied, and more interesting structure. The English have a predilection
for the dark and terrible style of writing. The muse they invoke frequently frightens away
the graces, and unhappy consequences attend their flight, for the former immediately bedecks
herself with the gingling bells of Momus 37 . Such writers may be regarded as the Riberas, the
Calabreses, the Rosas, and the Caravages of the stage; Crebillon is weak, and Alfieri is but
demi-tragic in comparison with them. 

To such authors as these, inequalities and transgressions may justly be objected as well as
to their imitators, the Germans and Spaniards. But we must also remark with Le Tourneur, that,
"If the English frequently transgressed through too much license and daring, the French may
be accused but too often of want of courage on the the dramatic field; they permit their genius
to be stifled under the influence of a slavish subserviency to taste." Moderns, however, are
generally more free from such a reproach; the progress of art has incited them to throw off the
yoke of cold and formal regularity. 

The words of the above-cited celebrated translator should be engraved on the memory of young
composers, who, engaged in bringing each class to perfection, are also honourably availing
themselves of the mine of riches to be found in the works of foreign writers. Care must be taken
not to listen to those who are enslaved to a certain fixed idea, that there can be but one particular
style of beauty. They will deceive you, far the more universal an artist is, the more universally

"Rapproche les climats, les peuples et les tems, Realise la fable, et reproduit l'histoire;
Et des feux de son ame embrase tons les coeurs." Delille . 

The Ballet-master should unite to a perfect knowledge of of the arts of dancing and Pantomime
an acquaintance with music and painting. The study of polite literature, and particularly
of celebrated authors, will prove essentially serviceable to him. He should also have a just
idea of the various mechanical arts, joined to some instruction in geometry; which will enable
him to execute the design and movements of his dances with truth and precision; besides, a certain
degree of mathematical learning imparts clearness and exactness to all our conceptions.
But the study most requisite to a theatrical artist, and which claims his deepest attention,
and on which depends the entire effect of his compositions, is that of nature and the human heart;-without
this no dramatic work should be attempted 38 . In shore, a complete Ballet-master is at once
author and mechanist; in him should be joined an experience, 15* almost universal, to a fertile
and varied imagination. Let it not be thought extraordinary that so much should be expected
from a composer. He never loses his time who knows how to employ it. There is nothing prodigious
in such an extensive acquisition; besides, nature herself assists the progress of those whom
she destines for celebrity. 

Maffei remarks that, in the list of qualifications deemed indispensable for a composer of
dances, according to Lucian, "the study of morals is not required." Why, it may be asked should
not a Ballet-master complete the course of his studies? Is not his art essentially considered
equal to that of Corneille, Alfieri, or Moliere? Should not he, whose business it is to display
men and their passions on the stage, be acquainted with a science which introduces us to a knowledge
of the virtues and vices of our species? This criticism, therefore, of the Italian author is
inconsiderately pronounced. Without a knowledge of mankind, he could never have produced
so fine a piece as Merope , which subject also, as treated by Voltaire, is a masterpiece. The
former could not have been ignorant of this truth, but perhaps he thought it would not be expected
in a composer of Ballets. Manufacturers of Ballets are plentiful, but talented composers
are rare. The office of composer is often filled by ignorant impostors, and the imperfections
in this department may, in some measure, be attributed to audiences which have become too easy
and indulgent towards avaricious managers, and to performers who are too indolent to acquire
perfection in an art which, however, they are proud of professing. 

The intrinsic value and excellence of a picture, fresh from the hands of an artist, consists
in its perfect imitation of nature; the same observation may be made with respect to Ballets.
A Ballet should represent a picture put into motion; its colouring should be varied; its shadowing
clear; and its drawing correct: grace must be its predominant characteristic; the groupings,
positions, and scenery should be elegant and clearly delineated:- 

"Ne nous presente point dans tes folles peintures,- Ce desordre jete par l'amas des figures,
Ces corps s'entrechoquant, ces groupes mal concus, Montrant une melee au milieu des tissus;
Mais que dans le tableau la figure premiere Frappe d'abord les yeux par sa vive lumiere 39 ."
Lemierre . 

A taste for painting and an acquaintance with it masterpieces are of the utmost utility to a
composer. What assistance may he not derive, with respect to action, expression, and pictorial
effect, from a contemplation of the magnificent compositions of Raphael, the Carracci, Andrea
del Sarto, J. Romano, Tintoretto, Dominichino, M. Angelo, P. di Cortona, Poussin, Le Brun,
Rubens, Ricciarelli, Joseppino, Albano, Guido, &c. The powerful designs of Flaxman, and
some other moderns, will also add greatly to his resources. Painting, Sculpture, and dancing
have, indeed, a most intimate relation to each other; and as they are expected to produce similar
effects, each of them should possess the same inherent qualities. 

It frequently happens that a fine picture, or a good piece of sculpture, suggests the design
of a dramatic representation. Of this, the bass-reliefs of the sumptuous urn of Alexander
Severus, which was discovered in the capitol, may be adduced as a proof. The following is the
description of the urn, given by the keeper of the Musee Capitolin :-"The bass relief in front
epresents the dispute between Achillies and Agamemnon for the possession of Chryseis: Achilles
appears in the centre, with his sword drawn, and in the attitude of aiming a blow; Agamemnon
is seated before him; Minerva , supposed to be invisible, is restraining the wrath of Peleus
' son, and Chryseis is standing, apparently in great fear, near Achilles . The other figure
is most probably intended for Menelaus . The group behind represents the Greeks, assembled
round their kings in council. 

" Side View .- The seizure of Chryseis :-She is embracing and taking leave of her father Chryses;
her head is turned towards Achilles , who appears looking at her with impatience; the latter
is also holding his horse by the bridle, while he makes a sign of departure to his attendant Automedon
, who is, near him. Two damsels, bearing small parcels, follow the prisoner. 

" Opposite Side View .- Achilles resuming his arms to avenge the death of Patroclus :-He appears
in the midst of his armour, holding with his right hand the bridle of his horse, while his left
hand grasps a sword; the other figures surrounding him are the princes come to implore him to
return to the combat. 

" The Hinder Side .-Here the ransoming of Hector's body is described:- Priam , the aged king
of Troy, is on his knees before Achilles , whose hands he embraces, while entreating for the
remains of his son; the chariot, placed, behind the monarch, is filled with costly articles
destined, for the ransom." 

This subject has been dramatized, and frequently and variously treated by theatrical writers.
Numerous are the examples of such adoptions, which, on the part of the artist, only require
arrangement and adaptation to the taste of the modern audience. Moral as well as allegorical
subjects may be clearly explained in a picture, and indeed, on such the talented painter may
employ all the riches of his art. Jordan has handled, a great moral truth both as a painter and
as a philosopher; and his picture exhibits a fine dramatic representation. The following
is the manner in which Dupaty expresses his admiration of the painted ceiling in the palace
of Ricciardi, at Florence. The subject is The Destiny of Man . 

The attention is first drawn to the representation of the birth of man. Fate, Time , the Parcae
, and Nature appear waiting in expectation; Fate is beckoning to Time , and Time makes a sign
to the Parcae; the spindle of the latter seems to have been just put in motion, and a child is discovered
in the arms of Nature. Prometheus approaches, waving his torch; a spark falls, and inspires
life. The child now appears creeping at the feet of Nature; he rises, walks, and wishes to leave
his foster-mother; in vain does she endeavour to detain him, in vain she weeps, already is he
far from her, and he soon loses his way. After having wandered for some time, two roads present
themselves to the youth; one of which appears steep and rugged, paved with flints, and hedged
with thorns; but the other is represented smooth, level, and enamelled with flowers. At the
entrance of these roads two troops of men and women are seen. Those in the first evince a sweet
but sedate air; their apparel is decent, and without any ornament, except a simple wreath of
laurel in their hair: they are standing near the thorny road. Without attempting to mislead
the traveller, they merely address him in these words:-"Young man, this is the way to happiness."
They are the Virtues . The troop upon the smoother road are far more numerous than the first,
and exhibit a more interesting appearance; their countenances appear joyous and animated;
they laugh, sing, and exhibit a wantonness in their movements; their attire is of the most luxurious
description. Their hair is decorated with flowers; they are crowned with flowers; and flowers
are in their hands. So lovely and smiling do they appear, that it is easy to mistake them for the
Graces; however, on observing where the fillet binds their hair behind, it may be seen that
their charming faces are but masks; from this aperture, visages of the most hideous description
can be discovered. This deceptive troop hasten to meet the traveller; they smile on him, carress
him, and take his hand, "Lovely pilgrim," say they, "behold the way to pleasure; so come with
us." He follows. Wretched youth! they are the Vices . 

Very little alteration would be required to transfer the action of this piece to the theatre,
in the Ballet form; the allegory has already been well dramatized in a lyrical tragedy, by Metastasio.-(
See Alcide al Bivio 40 .) 

The Ballet-master should know how to adapt such subjects to the theatre, and to bend them, as
it were, to his purpose. A poetical description, also, can furnish a composer with ideas, and
aid him in the selection of characteristic scenery. The objects of representation should
be chosen with taste, and constructed with art. The author should study the peculiar taste
of that public for which he labours, and which it is his duty to please. The natives of certain
countries think slightly of their own national productions, and laboriously search for whatever
is foreign; others, on the contrary, despise every thing that is not of "home manufacture."
Certain characters and events have, however, invariably been received with universal respect.
Such as those illustrious men, and celebrated deeds, which are enshrined in the works of the
best and most accredited historians; they are of all times and all countries. From these the
composers may select with great advantage; for in them spectators of all nations may be interested.

"Sia vergogna il giacer vile, e sepolto, E'l risorger sia gloria." A. Guidi . 

"-se tu segui tua stella, Non puoi fallire a glorioso porto." Dante . 

Occupy yourself according to your own peculiar inclination and talent: if your mind is formed
for the grand and serious, those laws must be observed which such a style requires; if you attempt
to counteract a natural bent or disposition, your productions will not succeed. 

"Ne forcons point notre talent, Nous ne ferions rien avec grace." La Fontaine . 

If, on the contrary, your genius and taste tend to the gay and comic style, should you assume
the robe of tragedy you will most probably become fiat and ridiculous, instead of great and
sublime. "Non omnia possumus omnes;" a Raphael and a Voltaire occur but rarely in the family
of man. Be convinced of this, and undertake nothing without consulting your own peculiar powers.
If, upon examination, extraordinary qualities are discovered attempt, without hesitation,
to realize whatever ideas may fire the fancy; boldly enter upon your designs, at the same time
be guided by prudence and judgment, and success will, in all probability, attend you. 

To attain celebrity, it is necessary to possess a certain sensibility of soul, which is instantly
struck, moved, and interested by surrounding objects, and which is ever alive to the least
emotion; without that kind of sensibility which raises in the mind a sort of enthusiastic energy,
we cannot attain renown. It too frequently happens that an ardent desire to equal our superiors,
or to produce things which may honour or perpetuate our memory, springs within us, in proportion
as we find ourselves capable of accomplishing the desired object, and we are rarely deceived.
The mere desire of doing something praiseworthy inspires us with a certain extent of power.
Vanity and envy also may suggest a wish to equal, or even surpass, the works of genius; but there
is not then the same foundation for such pretensions. If ordinary and uninstructed artists
continue in their ridiculous attempts, they will become rivals only to Le Moine, who pretended
to equal the heroic poetry of the ancients with his ridiculous verses; or Borghese, who undertook
to write a poem which should suspass that of Tasso. 

Let your application be continual; meditate on and analyze your productions; reflection
and examination lead to perfection. Compare your own works with those of others which are generally
acknowledged to be truly beautiful; nothing can be more beneficial than comparison. A spirit
of remark and review (so necessary to dramatic authors) should accompany all your studies,
if you wish to render your imitations of nature perfect. Let the rules of art curb the impetuosity
of your imagination, whose flights frequently transport us beyond the hounds of reason and
tasted which should never be offended. In order to secure universal approbation, let the beauties
of nature shine throughout your productions. Never forget that the sound critic is generally
sitting and ready to pass judgment on your production. D'Alembert says, reason is a severe
judge and ought to be respected! A man of the lowest class and the least enlightened would cry
down a piece in which neither consistency nor true imitation appears; and the author of the
Metromania has justly observed- 

"Le bon sens du maraud, quelquefois m' epouvante." 

But although it is indispensable that we should respect the acknowledged rules of art, we need
not be enslaved by the dogmas of mere pedants; pay no attention to the maxims of those who, without
talent and void of invention, seek only to fetter genius and encumber its progress. The writer
of Sulmone observes, that envy is never so severely punished as when it witnesses the glory
and success of another. 

Although, nothing should be thrown hastily out of hand, and improvements may be made on reviewing
our productions, yet it is a fault to be incessantly retouching; for too elaborate a finish
often destroys expression; Apelles reproaches Protogenes with this error. The latter was
ever by the side of his pictures, endeavouring to give them a finish that frequently degenerated
into affectation. This failing must be avoided, and the example of the Grecian painter may
become useful to artists of every class. We are sometimes content to see in the productions
of art a certain carelessness and easy negligence, which serve to conceal the labour and study
which the artist has undergone. 

A suitable and appropriate subject should be fixed on; on this the success of a piece in a great
measure depends. An interesting plot, cleverly treated by the author, and sustained by performers
of talent, must necessarily meet with applause. Every circumstance in the piece should be
connected and dependent, and the whole should tend to produce the final catastrophe; avoid
the example of certain authors of the romantic style, who, by continually multiplying incidents
and episodes, cause the principal subject of action to be totally forgotten. Boileau, deriding
a writer who had produced a piece of this description, sings thus:- 

"Son sujet est conduit d'une belie maniere, Et chaque acte en sa piece est une piece entiere."

When the thread of the tale is too often broken and interrupted, the interest is weakened; the
attention of the audience being diverted to too many objects, fixes on none. 

"Pluribus intentus, minor est ad singula sensus." 

While your characters are natural, the action must create interest; theatrical embellishment
will then indeed adorn your work; and the powerful assistance of music render the illusion
charming and complete. Seek not the society of such pretended critics as flatter without ceasing;
but rather court the company and opinion of men of sense, who will speak with sincerity: their
criticisms are of the utmost utility, and beneath their observations talent strengthens,
and advances nearer towards perfection. Happy is that artist who finds in his friend an able
and impartial critic! the very difficulty we experience in satisfying such a friend, is the
sure way to avoid error 41 . It is no easy matter to judge of our own productions impartially:
self love, together with a certain propensity to prefer one part to another, prevents us from
forming a just opinion. Attend, therefore, to the observations of others, and profit by them.
If you adopt a subject let your imagination embellish it, but remember that it is better to produce
an indifferent original than to finish a faultless copy. Aspire to place your name amongst
those whose originality and genius have rendered them illustrious. Non parvas animo, dat
gloria vires .- Ovid . Essay to deserve the praise of able judges; but despise and avoid stupidity,

"Que - l'action preparee, Sans peine du sujet applanisse l'entree."- Boileau . 

Several professors have averted that a good Ballet needs no programme, provided the plot is
well and clearly displayed; and the Pantomime so executed as to give a perfect idea of the passions
and sentiments meant to be expressed. This opinion is just, and I am persuaded that the composer
should be understood by means of the art itself, rather than by the reading of a written plot
or programme. According to this plan, it is sufficient to print the title of the Ballet on the
theatrical bill, together with the names of the characters. I must, however, observe, that
programmes are necessary to explain certain mythological and allegorical subjects; and
also where some circumstance or event has preceded the principal action, and on which the progress
and catastrophe of the piece depend. Without programmes, which acquaint us with what is about
to be represented, and inform us of each principal event, upon which the whole action is hinged,
a number of interesting and agreeable circumstances would pass unnoticed and not understood.
Without such an expedient, the Ballet-master must necessarily employ himself during the
whole performance, in explanation and directions to actors how to execute their parts. Every
composer, not being equally endued for such a task, programmes become extremely useful. Those
who are thus situated would be infallibly undone, should the custom of distributing programmes
at the entrance of the theatre be forbidden, or should the practice of exhibiting certain devices
and explanatory bills during the piece be abolished. 

Programmes are found to be extremely serviceable to those artists who wish to produce the Ballets
of another composer, as they mark particular passages, which must otherwise escape the observation
of him who did not originally compose the piece. They serve also to direct the attention of spectators
to certain scenes and situations, which would have passed off unregarded. 

The ancients were in the habit of distributing a sort of programme before the performance of
their Pantomimes; in these the piece was announced, and whatsoever preceding event had produced
the subject of the drama about to be represented was particularly noticed 43 . Sophrones and
Xenarques always wrote programmes to their compositions. 

It requires great talent in an artist clearly to exhibit to the spectators that progress of
events which completes the subject of a Ballet; upon this depends the entire interest of the
composition. If the representation is confused or obscure, dramatic effect is lost, and the
programme then becomes a feeble aid to the public, and almost useless to the artist. The mode
of representation should be clear, simple and exact. It is not necessary to employ an infinity
of gestures though even there are many ideas to be expressed, for this practice is only calculated
to mislead the spectators; be rather brief and precise, and avoid long pantomimical narrations.
Render your plot interesting at its commencement, and the final denoument will then be expected
with a pleasing impatience. 

Programmes should be written with clearness and simplicity. Every circumstance in the Ballet
should be there detailed with the utmost perspicuity; the succession of scenes should be described
in exact order. The intention of the composer being thus perfectly explained, each performer
is enabled to form for himself a just idea of the successive order of scenes, peculiarities
of characters, the depending class of passions, and the nature of his own part. A plot may often,
however, be more easily composed than developed on the stage. In writing programmes, it is
usual to omit a quantity of details useles and uninteresting to all except the Ballet-master,
whose business is to superintend rehearsals, and to conduct the representation. A quantity
of pantomimical business, therefore, instructions for dancers, and mutual explanations,
are only expressed in stage directions, in giving which, particular care should be taken that
every circumstance tends to produce clearness and general effect. NOTES TO PART THE FOURTH.



Imperial Gate , through which persons of distinction passed; the other two divisions on each
side were termed the Strangers' Gates , being constructed for foreigners; the lower class
of people, also, went in by these latter named entrances. The scenery generally represented
merely a street, a public square, or the country. 


had not yet written but a few indifferent satires . He afterwards instructed young persons
by describing to them the beauties of those great originals. While waging war against bad writers,
he certainly merited the title of preserver of true taste, rather than restorer . This great
and celebrated versifier might be followed on every subject, had he not been guilty of some
false criticisms, which may be found in what he has said against Quinault, as good a poet as himself,
and possessing all the Sweetness we admire in Metastasio. But when Boileau was jealous, he
traduced the greatest geniuses of Italy, England, and even of France. 


Othello himself. Many actors, and authors too, are indebted to this tragedy for a great part
of the fame they have acquired. Duels, taking Shakspeare for his model, on this subject has
given an excellent tragedy to the stage. Voltaire has introduced into two of his pieces several
passages taken from the English poet. In the character of Othello Talma greatly added to his
reputation; the same may be observed with respect to Kean. Garrick, according to the relations
of that period, always excited astonishment when depicting the ardent passion of the Moor,
and concluded by inspiring at once both horror and pity. At length music took possession of
this tragic tale; and, perhaps, the Otello of Rossini is the noblest opera he ever produced.
With respect to the latter, it may be observed, that to find an actor who could at once sing and
act the character of Otello was no easy task. Signor Curioni, however, of the present day, has
particularly distinguished himself in this part, both by his singing and acting; he possesses,
perhaps, the finest tenor voice at present in existence, to which he joins every physical power
necessary to such a performance. In short, no singer would attempt to take the part out of his
hands, as there is no performer now on the Italian stage who could give it equal effect. Connoisseurs
are aware of the difficulty of representing all the powerful energy of this character, and
at the same time to do justice to the fine but difficult music with which it abounds. From his
first appearance to his final exit, Otello sings and acts without intermission; a gigantic
effort totally unknown to singers of the last century. 

5. It is not lung since that E. Gosse said, unity of time and place is too great a restraint on the
dramatic art, and particularly when applied to tragedy. 

6. The witty and judicious Marmontel observes, with respect to unity of place, that those poets
who would restrain themselves to a rigorous observance of unity of place, have been frequently
obliged to force the action in a manner quite opposite to that probability which might have
accompanied a liberty of changing the place; for if the act of changing the place destroys the
illusion but for an instant, when the action passes where it is impossible it could have passed,
the idea of the place being continually at variance with what is passing in it, the illusion
is thus far more materially injured, and every probability of dramatic illusion is entirely

7. Let but any person give himself the trouble to peruse those pieces mentioned, or to read extracts
from Shakspeare, and he will be convinced of the truth of what we have advanced. 16 



La Ragione Poetica , liv. 1. 





Varron of De Grave is a production both witty and well-contrived; but, being defective in interest
as well as incident, was soon rejected at the theatres. Numerous are the pieces of this kind,
and similar is the fate of them all. 


Perhaps no dramatic writer abounds more in dramatic action than Shakspeare. Schiller also,
following his great model, is fruitful in incident. Calderon, 

13. Faust , a drama by the celebrated Goethe; Manfred , by Lord Byron; Frankenstein; or, the
Modern Prometheus , by Mr. Shelly, are works of the terrific class. 

"Simile mostro visto ancor non fue." Dante . 

14. The celebrated Pagano has also written a treatise on the beautiful; it contains observations
that may prove very useful to performers. 

15. Apelles being desired to paint the portrait of King Antigonus, who had but one eye, in order
to conceal this defect, painted that king in profile. 

16. "The multitude of actors employed by some tragic poets, frequently, for want of invention,
become very embarrassing as the catastrophe approaches, when it is necessary to get rid of
them by some means or other. The author, therefore, finds himself obliged to seize the first
opportunity of despatching them by sword or poison." 

What this writer has said with respect to the number of characters is perfectly true; but it
may be added, that it is not necessary the poet should kill a troop of characters at the denoument
of his piece. Tragedy, as we have aleady remarked, may still be tragedy , and produce effect,
without sanguinary scenes; this may be proved by examples: the dagger and the poisoned bowl
are not the only objects necessary to excite terror and pity. 

17. Philip and Virginius are two characters from Alfieri's tragedies. The following characters
from Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire are models for the deep study of performers;- Curiace,
Auguste, Don Carlos, Le Cid, Sertorius, Nicomede, Chimene; Acomat, Neron, Mithridate, Achille,
Agamemnon, Narcisse, Phedre, Hermione, Berenice, Athalie, Roxane, Clitemnestre, Andromaque;
OEdipe, Brutus, L'Orphelin, Tancrede, Mahomet, Orosmane, Gengis Khan, Merope, Alzire,
Semiramis, Adelaide . 

For characters of comedy, Moliere alone will supply a sufficient quantity. 

18. "If a soliloquy has neither object, interest, nor consequence, it must necessarily become
puerile; for children, idiots, and drunkards are accustomed to soliloquize in this manner.

"The monologue appears absurd if employed to give a historical recital which is neither expected
to arise from the situation of the person who delivers it, nor from the general progress of the
action; this is, in effect, not a monologue 16* but rather the author, Who is thus prating, while
the character through Whom he speaks ought to be acting instead of trifling away his time, and
exposing the poverty of the poet's genius."- Roubaud . 

19. See D'Alembert, Batteux, Beaux Arts , Part III., chap. iii.; Marmontel, Gravina, Du Bos,
Maffei, Montesquieu, &c. The last writer had a particular predilection for the comedy of Esope
a la Cour , on account of the moral it conveyed. This production of Boursault's gives, indeed,
the most useful instruction, and is capable, without any other assistance, satisfactorily
to answer J. J. Rousseau's theatrical paradoxes. Beaumarchais, also, in his sprightly and
satirical prefaces, inculcates the dramatic moral of his pieces. 

20. The measures, movement, and character of Grecian music. 

The Pyrrhic (v v) and the tribrach (v v v) are employed to express the light and joyous movements
of the satiric dance; slow and sedate movements are accompanied by the spondee (--) and the
molossus (---); passions of a quiet and pleasing character maybe represented by the trochee
(- v), and sometimes by the amphibrach (v-v), which latter is a sweet and gentle measure. The
iambic (v -) is full of force and fire; the anapaest (v v -) is nearly of the same nature, expressing
violent and warlike movement. To express gaiety and joy, we should employ the dactyl (- v v),
whose character corresponds very well with such feelings. The antipast (v--v) gives a striking
idea of whatever is rude and clownish. If we would express rage and madness, not only should
the anapaest be employed, but the fourth Paeon also (v v v -), which is still more effective.-
Vossius . 

21. See, Traite Elementaire Theorique et Pratique de l'Art de la Danse . See that part, which
treats on music. 

22. The science of music, appears unhappily to be somewhat on the decline. The styles of music
peculiar to each class of the drama are now confounded; modern musicians seem to have forgotten
that such men as Pergolese, Jomelli, Sacchini, and Cimarosa, ever existed; at least such a
conclusion may be deduced from the fact-of their paying so little attention to the models for
every style that those talented men have left behind them; were the works of these composers
deeply, studied, dramatic music would, perhaps, become more appropriate and natural. But
I have spoken more at length upon this subject in Observations upon Singing, and the Expression
of Dramatic Music; and also in an Essay upon the Introduction of Italian Music into France .

23. The properties ( accessoires ) of a theatre consist of whatever, in scenery and decorations,
is of a detached and portable nature, such as furniture, fire-arms and instruments of every
description, whether for use or pleasure. In Italy, a most particular attention is paid to
this department. 

24. I am aware that Addison has observed, speaking of tragedy, in words nearly to this effect,
"Ordinary minds are as much delighted with the decorations as with the words; but a man of sense
is inspired with admiration from what a hero says, not from what accoutrements he wears. All
the pomp and parade of royalty bestows not on Brutus one half of the majesty with which a single
verse of Shakspeare adorns him." 

The theatre displays its pompous scenery and gorgeous decorations equally to the learned
and to the illiterate; and, if necessary, to the subject and conformable to truth, such exhibition
will not be blamed by men of taste. But when an author, confiding, in these aids, neglects the
interest of the plot, and leaves the characters imperfectly delineated, to give the painter
and mechanist an opportunity of displaying their talent, he becomes a proper subject for the
severity of criticism. In order that the charm of dramatic illusion may be perfect, decorations
should accompany and help to explain a piece in its progress, but should never be made principal

25. Who among an audience could possibly conclude that in the second act of the Ballet of Psyche
, the person whom Psyche supposes to be her mother is Venus herself, concealed beneath that
disguise in order to deceive and destroy her hated rival? Without the assistance of a programme,
or a knowledge of Apuleius , or of La Fontaine , this piece could never be understood. This inconvenience
must be attributed, in the first instance, to a meagre supply of pantomimic action, or, in other
words, explanatory gestures . It is the composer's business to exert his utmost, that he may
avoid falling into such incertitude: even the Italians, when the subject is complicated,
are not always sufficiently clear. 

26. "If it is against the principles of morality to endeavour to debauch the mind by licentious
exhibitions, in which every sense appears lost in pleasures. Should it be permitted to display
to the eyes of an audience execrable and unnatural passions? Which is more scandalous, the
fury of a tyrant, or the ecstacies of licentious pleasure?" Lemierre . 

27. We shall here quote some verses by Riccoboni, which occur very oppportunely to sustain
our argument and to assist young performers in counteracting the force of bad example. The
poet is addressing an actor:- 

"Non stupir se ti esamino e ti squadro; Quel moverti per arte e col compasso Ti rendon, se nol
sai, scipito e ladro. 

Per numero tu caleoli ogni passo, E per linea le braccia stendi in giro Con molta attenzion per
l'alto e il basso. 

Talor bilanci un guardo ed un sospiro Volgi il capo, e la mano movi, o il piede A battuta, quat
canta un semi-viro. 

in te ogni membro si contiene Cosi che un parte, un resta, e uno altro riede. 

Parmi veder, come sovente aviene Quei fanciulletti che un pedantc in scuola Ammaestra per
porli in su le scene. 

Imparata che s'han la cantafola, Che devon recitar, quegli innocenti Ti fan cinque o sei moti
ogni parola. 

Non crederesti, e pur non altrimenti Far ti redo talor comico sciocco, Tanto prodigo sei di
movimenti." Art. Rappres . C. II. 

28. In Spain, composers are permitted to select subjects from the Bible. The same thing has
been frequently done in France; they may be termed a sort of Oratorios dansans . 

29. For the hero of the romantic, see Schlegel. This writer may be very properly contrasted
with an excellent work upon the romantic by Count Segur, a production remarkable for purity
of taste and elegance of style. 

30. If any person reflects deeply on this, he will find that the imagination is a passive faculty,
but reason an active one. Upon this subject many are greatly mistaken in their ideas. 

31. A Dutch poet, whose genius, according toms countrymen, is equal to that of Corneille or
of Shakspeare. 

32. Voltaire said of this piece, that the Mandragora alone, by Macchiavelli, was, perhaps,
worth all the comedies of Aristophanes. 

33. About this period, Hardy, Ronsard, Duche, Follard, Bolsrobert, Boyer, Desfontaines,
Mayret, Roy, Scudery, Du Ryer, Desmarest, Coypel, La Calpreuede, le P. la Colonie, &c., inundated
the French stage with their productions. 

34. This piece, with that of Britannicus , are noble productions; and those critics who pretend
that this great poet wants tragic vigour, both in style and in the arrangement of the subject,
betray their own want of judgment. The same observation may be made with respect to those detractors
from the merit of Metastasio, who deny him energy when describing the passions, and elevation
of style, when treating on heroic subjects. Let such persons read his Temistocle, la Clemenza
di Tito, Regolo, &c . 

35. There is as much difference between the Phedre of Racine, and the Hippolytus of the Greek
poet, as there is between the latter piece and that of Seneca upon the same subject. 

36. There are certain authors who would have the public believe that they are not indebted to
the ancients either for style or invention. Even Metastasio, Alfieri, Goldoni, and some others
may be accused of this species of ingratitude. Such authors insist that their best works were
produced before baring become acquainted with those of the celebrated men who preceded them;
the excellence of their talents, however, stood in no need of the aupport of falsehood. Virgil
was not the less a great genius for having modelled himself upon Homer; and would these moderns
conceal their imitations of the Greeks and Romans? This, indeed, is a contempt and negligence
almost unpardonable in men of genius. Would not that curiosity and emulation, so natural to
talent, inspire Goldoni with the desire of becoming intimate with Plautus, Terence, Aristophanes,
and Mollere? Could the learned Gravina keep his scholar, Metastasio, from a knowledge of the
Grecian drama? Again, it is certain Alfieri could never have carried the Italian tragedy to
such a pitch of perfection, if he had not previously studied the Greek and French drama, and
even Shakspeare too. Voltaire, Boileau, and Moliere also, have not been always sincere in
acknowledging literary obligations. Justice should be done to those who have had so great
an influence on modern fame; without the aid of the ancestral antique, should we have had a Gierusalemme
, a Raphael, and a Racine. 

37. "A nation of a character confessedly gloomy and melancholic, where the enjoyment of society
is so difficult of attaining, where men are divided into a species of castes who seldom communicate
with each other; such a people require theatrical representations of a PeCuliar description,
perhaps such as are intended for the eye rather than the heart, something shrewd and witty,
rattler than tender and pathetic. The more solitary men are, the deeper and stranger are their
passions; it is only, therefore, by a representation of these passions in all their power and
energy that suech can be moved or interested. At Paris, a tragedy, whose subject is love, is
required only to draw tears of tenderness; in London, tragedy is expected to be infuriated
with passion and filled with horror. A, Frenchman is delighted with the pathos of Zayre; an
Englishman, with the terrible frenzy of Orosmane . The haughty Achille , raging and menacing
to preserve the object of his affection, opposed by the anger of Agamemnon and of all Greece,
would draw more attention at the theatres of London than the dark and deep dissimulation of
the jealous Eriphile . Thus it appears, that a study of the theatrical taste of different nations
is an excellent means of attaining a knowledge of both individual and national character;
indeed it is almost impossible to be perfectly informed upon such a subject without the aid
of the drama."- L' Observateur Francais a Londres . 

With respect to English comedy, the same species of remark still holds good. The connoisseurs
of Englaud generally require representations and characters to be finished in such a style
of extravagance as almost to approach carricature; such productions as those of Moliere,
Regnard, Destouches, and Goldoni are not conceived with sufficient vigour for the generality
of an English public; they prefer a species of nondescript pieces, in which appear characters
of the strangest and drollest description, incidents of a most extraordinary nature, and
situations conceived with all the grotesque of Scarron. 

The Harliquinades, or Pantomimes , as they are improperly termed, may be cited as a good example
of national comic taste in England; they are truly national, whatever may be said to the contrary,
for old and young, rich and poor, the nobility of the boxes, the learned of the pit, and the whole
of the middling and lowest classes to be found in the galleries, all universally join in broad
laughter at a Christmas Pantomime . 

Of these farcical extravaganzas the principal characters are, Harlequin, Columbine, Pantaloon
, and Clown; with respect to the latter personage, so great is his influence it seems doubtful
whether he or Harlequin ought to be considered the hero of the piece. Nothing is left untried
to excite both laughter and astonishment; metamorphoses, called tricks , are, by the assistance
of the most powerful and excellent machinery, carried to a point of perfection unknown both
in France and Italy. 

38. Among the moderns, Shakspeare, Racine, Metastasio, Moliere, and Boccacio must be considered
as the great organs of nature. These writers should be ever present with you; nature speaks
in their persons. 

The Decameron is more useful to the composers of Ballets than is . It furnishes an infinity of
interesting subjects, in which are to be found faithful portraits of mankind; every character
and passion is described in the liveliest colours. From these learned and witty novels of this
great writer, we may learn to delineate perfectly the magnanimity. of a king, the prudence
of the counsellor or courtier, the valour of the general, the virtue of the matron, the modesty
of the virgin, the looseness of the courtezan, the knavery of a servant, the fidelity of a friend,
the ecstacy of love and the jealousy that often attends it, the fury of despair and idiot simplicity,
the misery of a miser and the munificence of a great mind, village rusticity and polite libertinism,

39. "Though every person present at a scene becomes an actor in it, yet every one must not be equally
affected at what is passing: thus, the soldier who witnesses the sacrifice of Iphigenie ought
to be moved by such an event, but certainly not so deeply as the brother of the victim. A woman
present at the trial of Susanna , and who does not appear from any outward mark to be related to
her, must not evince the same degree of affliction as the mother or sister of Susanna . Again,
a young man appears with more spirit than an old one. A young man will appear totally absorbed
at a pathetic scene; while the man of more years and experience exhibits less feeling, though
more consideration. When the features of a spectator are marked by sense and study, he does
not become so wrapt in imagination as one whose phisiognomy exhibits a kind of idiot simplicity.
Astonisthment, as seen in the part of a king, is different from the same passion as displayed
in an ordinary man." 

A person placed in the distance does not appear so visibly affected as he who is nearer to the
spectator. Attention, as portrayed in him who sees, is different from that of hint who hears.
A person of lively temperament sees and hears with gestures differing from those of a melancholy

These observations may, perhaps, appear too nice and over-laboured; yet it is by this appropriate
and universal expression, that a scene is rendered complete in all its parts; the principal
actors in a scene always exhibit the necessary feeling; but it is over the secondary parts that
this feeling should be spread and continued, thus rendering the picture an entire imitation
of nature. And it in the Ballet-master's business to give the instructions necessary for producing
such an effect. 

40. We have thought it requisite to introduce here the following description of the Loves of
Venus and Adonis -a picture by Albano:- Venus , impatient to try the effect of her charms upon
the heart of Adonis , is beholding herself in a glass, and seems confident of the conquest. As
she reclines upon the bank of a river, she is surrounded by Cupids and the Graces , who are still
occupied in adorning her. The God of Love is already singing the delights of the expected union;
while winged children are employed in feeding the swans about to be harnessed to the Goddess's

Vulcan is observed sleeping at the feet of his wife; while little Cupids are manufacturing
and sharpening their arrows, and stringing their bows; and to prove their unerring aim, others
are showing to Venus a shield pierced in every part. Diana and her nymphs, borne or the clouds,
are anxiously observing the labours of the Loves . After their work is finished, the winged
children sink into a pretended sleep; in this state, Diana's nymphs surprise them, break their
bows, and destroy their arrows; the wounds of which they so much dreaded. Calisto is going to
awaken the deities, but is deterred by her more prudent companion. Diana , viewing the scene
from above, enjoys her victory. 

The little Loves , however, soon repair their loss, when every thing in sea, earth, and air yields
to their power. One of them conducts Adonis to the feet of Venus , who seems slumbering. The faithful
dog of the young hunter vainly essays to draw him back to the forests, the charms of the Goddess
have rivetted him. The winged boys near the bed of Venus appear, by their signs, to command silence
and secrecy. 

41. Many authors owe their celebrity to the counsels of those wise and enlightened friends
whom nothing could deter from speaking the truth. From their remarks, men of talent have sometimes
even destroyed their productions, and have improved by repetition. Perfection is obtained
by docility and perseverance. An inordinate love of vain flattery conceals the truth from

Euripides, Virgil, Ariosto, Boileau, Pope, and Gray, all of whom were men of the greatest celebrity,
found a great difficulty in satisfying their own judgment, and were ever ready to listen to
the voice of sound criticism. They frequently effaced what they had written, and were never
hasty in publishing their productions. Such examples as these, together with the Epitre aux
Pisons , which every lover of the fine arts ought to know by heart, are Surely sufficient to restrain
vanity, and to point out the way in which we ought to proceed. 

42. When our cowardly Zoiluses are opposed by talent, they quickly return to the mire from whence
they sprang. "Untoward circumstances, disputation, envy, jealousy, and ignorance, very
often contribute to the development of talent equally with good criticism, and thus become
the prime cause of their celebrity. Sergent rightly observes, that if a Cardinal Minister
had not excited, through jealousy, some wretched scribblers against the author of the Cid
, the great Corneille would not, probably, have bestowed on us so many masterpieces. The protection
afforded to bad taste, by a powerful party at court, doubtless induced Moliere to imagine the
designs of his two comedies, the Femmes Savantes and the Precieuses Ridicules . Who can say
whether we do not owe the excellences of Racine to Boileau, who did not pass him over, while satirizing
the Pradons, the Breboeufs, and the Cottins of that day. 

Thus Freron was very serviceable in establishing the fame of Voltaire: and, had not La Harpe
quarrelled with Clemeot, probably he would never have become so finished a judge of literature.

How many pigmies, elevating themselves on stilts to climb Pindus, and having violated Melpomene
and Thalia , have at length been precipitated amongst college drudges by such fearful critics
as Royou, Aubert, Suard, Geoffroy, &c.!"-See Lettre a l'Auteur du Mercure Encyclopedique

"Miroir universel - Les siecles recules, les grands evemens, Tousles faits consacres dans
la Fable et l'Histoire." Dulard . PRELIMINARY REMARKS. 

The reader is here presented with the different kinds of Ballets, each being treated in a style
peculiar to its class. In doing this, the author has endeavoured to enlarge the sphere of this
sort of composition, by introducing a great variety of subjects, by producing more striking
contrasts of sentiments and passions, and by giving to certain scenes, hitherto not adapted
to the Ballet, their appropriate tone of expression. I have frequently considered the Ballet
as a kind of poem or romance, reduced to those dramatic rules and principles which must be observed
on their production at the theatre. 

Compositions that can speak to the eye, and interest the heart, should be honoured with the
same attention as any production of the fine arts; for what else is a good classic Ballet but
a picture in motion, with the additional charm of well adapted music? 

It has here been thought necessary to recal some observations made in the Fourth Part of this
work. In composing programmes for Ballets, we must remark, First, that the programme may please
the reader, while it is useless in explaining the performance; for it frequently happens that
a bright and well written description becomes fiat and void of effect, when put into a state
of theatrical action. Secondly, what is easily comprehended by means of words, is not explained
with the same facility by gesture. Thirdly, the subject may be interesting and well contrived
and yet not be dramatic. Fourthly, what really is dramatic, is not always exactly conformable
to reason and probability. In order, therefore, to avoid falling into these errors, to make
the programme answer the performance, and to show the real object prescribed by our art, it
is essentially requisite, First, that the subject should be of a sustained sprightliness
throughout, representing nature beautified by art. Secondly, that the passions be picturesque
and strikingly contrasted; characters deeply shaded and strongly made out (if we may make
use of these terms), and, that incident and action be employed rather than long dialogues,
which latter must be particularly avoided. Thirdly, the imagination must be continually
amused by a variety of scenery, capable of exciting surprise and admiration; to which must
be added costume, machinery, and every species of appropriate decorations, for they are indispensably
requisite to dramatic effect. Fourthly, let nothing of the marvellous and supernatural be
admitted, unless it is well founded on the nature of the piece, and executed with a good taste.
What is called theatrical show and stage effect become puerile, insignificant, and absurd
display, unless closely connected with the incidents of the play in which they are exhibited.
It is presumed from the author's own experience, which has guided him in this selection, that
whatever effect the following examples may produce in the reading, they will not fail to tell
well in representation, some of them having been already performed on the continent. THE WRATH

The subject of this Ballet is borrowed from the Iliad. The action opens at the time when Achilles
, swayed by his resentment for the insult offered him by Agamemnon , who had conveyed away his
dear Briseis , withdraws into his camp and refuses to assist the Greeks. In the mean time Patroclus
, having been permitted to appear in the armour of his friend to encounter Hector , revives among
the Greeks hopes of seeing again the son of Peleus in the field of battle. He goes forth, fights
with Hector and perishes by his hand. The fate of the unfortunate Patroclus induces Achilles
to alter his resolution; he advances against the Phrygians to avenge the fall of his friend.
Hector being slain, Agamemnon acknowledges himself to have been in the wrong, and makes ample
amends to Achilles for the injury he had done him. The affectionate Briseis flies to the arms
of her lover, and the banishment of discord is succeeded by a lasting reconciliation between
all the Greeks. CHARACTERS. 

Achilles , King of Thessaly, son of Thetis . 

Patroclus , a Grecian Prince; a friend of Achilles . 

Calchas , Chief Priest . 

Ulysses , King of Ithaca . 

Agamemnon , King of Argos and Mycencoe, Commander-in-Chief of the Grecian army . 

Thetis , a Deity of the sea . 

Briseis , daughter of Brises, Chief priest of Jupiter, in love with Achilles . 

Automedon , armour-bearer of Achilles . 

Menelaus . 

Nestor . 

Ajax , son of Telamon . 

Ajax , son of Oileus . 

Diomedes . 

Phoenix . 

Merion . 

Antilochus . 

Grecian Soldiers; Thessalians, under the command Of Achilles; Trojan Soldiers; Princesses,
attendants of Briseis; Grecian Princes; Priests, attendants of Calchas; Nereides, attendants
of Thetis; Sa Deities Cyclops; nine slaves alloted to Achilles; Phrygian slaves; Smiles,
Sports, Pleasures, and Graces . ACT I. 

Scene * .- At the right; the camp of Achilles; at the left, afar off, a large plain bounded by hills,
above which rises the city of Troy. The tent of Peleus' Son stands partly on the stage, his armour
hangs on a pillar. The prospect is limited by the sea, and the Thessalian ships are seen along
a part of the shore . 

Achilles is seated near a table, striking a lyre. After he has stripped himself of his armour,
and withdrawn into his camp, the workings of his countenance express deep resentment of the
injury inflicted on him by Agamemnon , and concern at the loss of Briseis , with whom he is enamoured.
He endeavours to smooth his cares with the charms of music, which seems to afford him some relief.
Its sweet modulation is expressive of the delights of peace and the charms of friendship. Patroclus
is near him, bewailing the misfortunes of the Greeks and his friend's obstinacy. 

Of a sudden the sky is rent by the sounds of war. The song of Achilles is interrupted by the clang
of clarions and trumpets, which is a signal for the Trojans to attack the Greeks. The Trojan
army is discovered filing off in the distance. Grief of Patroclus ! Achilles is thrilled with
the din of war; his lyre falls from his hands; he snatches up his armour, as on the day when, disguised
among the daughters of Lycomedes , he betrayed himself at the sight of a sword. His emotion is
perceived by Patroclus , who draws a favourable omen from it, points out to Achilles where the
Phrygian warriors are advancing, and solicits him to assist his allies. But the hero is presently
checked by the remembrance of the wrong done him by the Greeks; he retraces his steps, inflamed
to the highest pitch of anger, peremptorily refuses his assistance, and makes vows for the
success of Hector . He lays down his armour and resumes his lyre. He turns a deaf ear to the entreaties
of his friend, who represents in strong colours the misfortunes consequent upon his inflexibility.
But Achilles is sensible only of his affront. Grief of Patroclus ! He implores the hero's clemency,
and comforts him with the hope of Agamemnon's making him ample reparation. Achilles , however,
remains unmoved, and entreats him not to intercede for his dastardly enemies. A celestial
symphony is heard, The sea divides, and Thetis is seen wafted in a concha by sea Gods, and surrounded
by Nereides , attending upon her. The mother of Achilles , delighted with her son's inactivity,
conceives hopes of the non-fulfilment of the predictions respecting him. She endeavours
to strengthen his resolution and induce him to return to Thessalia. Achilles and Patroclus
express their joy at the arrival of the august Goddess. Thetis and her train emerge from the
waves. Achilles gives his mother an affectionate welcome, and shows himself sensibly affected
by the tokens of her love and the vows she offers up for his happiness. Thetis commands her train
to entertain her son and beguile his grief. 

The scene changes, and clouds are seen descending from all parts, wafting down Smiles, Sports,
Pleasures , and Graces , who, joining the sea nymphs and the women of the suit of Achilles , form
grottoes of coral and other phenomena. Thetis and her son seat themselves Upon a throne just
erected, and Achilles is presented with crowns of laurel and roses, in token of homage. He views
with pleasure the dances and sports which the sea deities indulge themselves in, for his entertainment.
Every thing is calculated to give him a relish for pleasure and a distaste of the dangers of war.
When the dancing is over, Thetis , her son, and Patroclus , come down from their thrones. Before
departing Thetis wishes to see her son in a disposition to return to his own states; but all her
entreaties are of little avail to change his frame of mind. He prefers the pursuit of glory;
the effects upon his mind of the delightful entertainments he has just beheld, are of short
duration, and he avows his resolution of resuming arms when his injury is avenged. 

Thetis is anxious about the fate of Achilles , and grieved that he maintains his resolution.
During this scene Patroclus , fearing lest he should be persuaded by Thetis , departs hastily,
as though to execute a project that seems to engross all his thoughts. 

Thetis endeavours to appease her son, and entreats him to preserve his life. Achilles , sensible
of her tenderness, expresses his gratitude. Thetis bids him farewell, and ascends to heaven
with a view to his happiness. She is wafted up in a cloud and soon disappears. The Smiles, Sports,
Graces , &c. fly up with her. Her numerous retinue plunge into the sea. Achilles bids his mother
farewell, and withdraws to his tent, musing on his fate. ACT II. 

Scene .- Interior of the camp of the Thessalians. At one side is the tent of Achilles. 

Achilles appears absorbed in reverie. Full of the remembrance of his Briseis , he expresses
his love and grief at her loss. He threatens with dreadful vengeance Agamemnon , the author
of all his misfortunes. He cannot for one moment forget his affront, and feels a transport of
rage. The Thessalian trumpets and the clamours of his soldiers are heard. Achilles stands
amazed, unable to account for the noise. Patroclus comes in, acquaints him with the disasters
of the Greeks, the triumph of Hector , and the rebellion of the Thessalians, who, tired of repose,
wish either to march against the enemy or return to their country. Achilles , surprised, gives
vent to his indignation, while Patroclus tries to excite his compassion in favour of the Greeks.
Achilles puts him in mind of the outrage committed against him. As he is going forth to Chastise
the insolence of his soldiers, Patroclus stops him, and excuses them on the plea that they are
animated by honour. He prays to the Gods that his friend may lead them to combat; but Achilles
remains inflexible. 

The soldiers enter in disorder, headed by Automedon . They complain of their inactivity, and
show their ardent wish to be led to battle. The son of Thetis scarcely contains himself, and
burns with desire to punish their rebellion. Patroclus endeavour to calm him; entreating
him to yield to their wishes. Achilles restrains his impetuous temper, and commands his warriors
to await with him the command of the Gods to encounter the Trojans; but their minds continue
in the same agitation, and grief preys upon their hearts. At last Patroclus , seeing his friend's
resistance, snatches up a weapon, with an intent to stab himself, unless Achilles will comply
with his request. Achilles withholds him, is moved, and promises compliance. Patroclus demands
his armour, which is proof against all weapons, and the command of the army, to take vengeance
on the enemy. Achilles yields reluctantly, and seems apprehensive from his friend's zeal.
A general expression of joy. Achilles delivers his armour to Patroclus , and helps him to buckle
it on. All give thanks to the immortal Gods for hearkening to their prayers, Achilles bids them
return quickly after the victory they are about to gain over Hector and not increase his own
sorrow. He bids Automedon drive up his car, which he causes Patroclus to ascend: the charioteer
mounts beside him; and Achilles bids adieu to Patroclus , recommending to him moderation in
victory. The army, preceded by the chariot, commence their march to the walls of Troy. The Thessalians,
rejoicing in expectation of the combat, point to the hostile towers. Being departed, Achilles
follows them with his eyes; puts up prayers for the success of his friend; then enters his tent.

The stage represents the magnificent tent of Agamemnon , who appears in council, surrounded
by the Grecian chiefs, profoundly affected by the misfortune consequent to their enterprise,
Doubt and embarrassment prevail; some propose another attempt against the Trojans, while
a few advise to inquire the will of the Gods, and each to return to his country. At length, Nestor
, rising, proposes to effect the return of Achilles , showing how necessary the valour of that
hero is to insure success, and that the Oracle must be obeyed in order to become victorious over
the Trojans. He adds, that the past should be forgotten; and that, by atoning for the injury
done to Achilles , that hero might be turned from his desire of revenge. Deep silence follows
the oration of Nestor every one being wrapt in reflection upon this proposition. Calchas,
Ulysses, Menelaus , the two Ajaxes, Diomedes, Phoenix, Merion , and Antilochus , unanimously
fix their eyes upon Agamemnon , and await his decision with impatience; he approves of the counsel
of Nestor , and appears prepared to do any thing for the public good. As a proof of the change of
his sentiments with respect to Achilles , he restores Briseis , whom he had detained from the
hero. He sends away the damsel, accompanied by magnificent presents. Universal expressions
of joy; every one evincing his gratitude to the King upon the happy occasion. Phoenix, Ulysses,
Calchas , and Ajax Telamon are deputed Ambassadors to Achilles. Agamemnon gives them instructions
on the nature of their mission, and receives their protestations of fidelity. A warrior now
enters, and announces that Achilles having listened to the entreaties of Patroclus , the latter
was on his march against Hector and Troy. Expressions of joy, every one drawing a happy presage
from the event; hope animates every heart. Calchas beseeches them to invoke the propitious
aid of the Gods, All obey; and each, pouring out the contents of his cup, makes libations in honour
of Jupiter. The embassy departs, and the remaining chiefs retire to await the happy result.

Scene .- An extensive prospect adorned by trees. The camp of Achilles appears at a distance
on the left; on the right a Statue of Jupiter is discovered . 

Calchas , Ulysses, Ajax, Phoenix , and their suit arrive. Briseis appears preceded by slaves,
destined for Achilles : she is followed by warriors bearing presents of tripods, vases, armour,
&c., intended for the hero; Briseis evinces the pleasure she feels at being restored to the
dwelling of her lover. Calchas prays Jupiter to prosper their undertaking, and to punish the
Trojans. Approaching the statue of Jupiter, they all implore his assistance; while Briseis
appears to anticipate her tender reception. 

Achilles , followed by warriors, enters from his tent; he seems agitated by deep thought. He
is discovered by the Greeks, who prepare to address him; Achilles , recovered from his meditation,
appears astonished at their presence. Ulysses advances to speak, but remembering the ancient
hatred between them, his indignation returns; he is on the point of drawing his sword, but is
restrained by Calchas and Briseis : the former of whom prevails with him, from the reverence
due to his character, and the latter calms him by the power of her love. Ulysses now endeavours
to appologize, and joins with Calchas in persuading the hero, by the will of the Gods, and the
welfare of Greece, to change his resolution, displaying at the same time their rich presents.
Briseis is now brought forward and led towards him, accompanied by more gifts. Achilles , notwithstanding,
remains inexorable; he turns a deaf ear to the prayers of the Greeks, and even resists the tears
of Briseis , who embraces his knees; he lifts up the latter, but with, eyes averted from her.
She continues to give expression to her love and grief, representing to the hero what glory
awaits his return. The Grecian chiefs remind him of the atonement made by Agamemnon; but vengeance
alone seems to inspire the son of Thetis. Calehas , advancing, denounces celestial wrath against
him, and, in the style of prophecy, menaces him with every misfortune, should he continue insensible
to the woes of Greece. 

This solemn warning seems to move Achilles; he becomes agitated, and sinister presentiments
appear already to have taken possession of his breast. This is remarked by every one present,
who now expect a happy change: a movement is made to induce him to decide favourably, and prayers
are repeated. But Achilles , resuming the haughtiness of his ungovernable character, exhibits
all his former rancour, and refuses his aid, while the Ambassadors, hopeless of success, abandon
him to the wrath of the Gods. At this conjuncture, as they are on the point of departing, Automedon
arrives in despair, bringing news of the defeat of the Thessalians , and the death of Patroclus
. Universal consternation! Achilles is plunged into an agony of grief. His friend being dead,
life becomes insupportable to him; he rushes upon his sword with the intention of slaying himself;
he is, however, instantly prevented and disarmed; but he conjures his friends to put him out
of his misery. Despair now takes full possession of him; he raves deliriously, and refuses
every attempt that is made to console him. The regions of eternal darkness appear opening to
his disturbed fancy; the shade of Patroclus seems advancing towards him, weeping and pointing
to the mortal wound; he groans, and commands Achilles to fly to the combat and revenge his death.
The latter swears to sacrifice Hector to appease his ghost. The hero now gradually regains
his spirits. The Grecian chiefs applaud his resolution, and implore the Gods to crown him with
victory. Achilles now no longer hesitates, no longer refuses; he furiously seizes a sword,
gives the signal to his companions in arms, and rushes forth at the head of them, breathing revenge
and death to the slayer of his friend. Prayers follow him for his success * . ACT V. 

The scene represents the adjacent part of mount Ida, which appears in the distance. The Trojan
army is routed. The growling of a tempest is heard, and lightning illumines the gloom. Companies
of soldiers, supposing they are still pursued by the sword of Achilles aided by celestial wrath,
are seen traversing the mountain in disorder, The storm now relaxes; the clouds roll off, and
light appears. The Grecian trumpets rally their victorious army and proclaim their victory.
They enter and arrange themselves at the foot of the mountain. Agamemnon and Achilles arrive,
accompanied by the Grecian princes. The King acknowledges his injustice, for which, however,
he has just atoned by contributing to the late victory. Achilles appears fully satisfied and
reconciled. The services of Agamemnon have calmed every feeling of resentment. Notwithstanding
the joy at having revenged his friend, Achilles cannot recover from the sorrow he feels at his
own loss; Hector's death cannot remove the rankling dart of grief in his bosom; Patroclus is
ever before his eyes. All partake in his sufferings; and the hero expresses a wish that his friend
should receive the last honours due to his valour; upon which Agamemnon orders preparations
to be made for celebrating the funeral ceremonies. A tomb is quickly erected, constructed
of the spoils of the vanquished. Every one crowds around this monument to do homage to the memory
of the warrior, placing upon it coronets of laurel and garlands of cypress; Achilles himself
deposits a laurel crown; and the rites are thus completed. 

During the funeral hymn, Achilles , his face bathed in tears, bends over the tomb of his beloved
friend, strewing cypress and evincing symptoms of the deepest anguish; then swears again
to satiate his revenge upon the Trojans. After this melancholy scene, he sinks into a trance
of grief upon the trophied monument, embracing the urn that contains the ashes of the valiant

Agamemnon and Calchas arouse Achilles , and recall him to himself. Calchas assures him of the
immortal happiness of his friend, and announces the arrival of Thetis . Celestial music is
heard spreading a charm over the whole scene, and reviving every heart. The Goddess appears
accompanied by Briseis . The immortal mother, deeply affected at her son's misfortune, comes
to administer consolation, and to restore his beloved Briseis . The lovers evince marks of
mutual affection. The heart of Achilles becomes cheerful, and he thanks his mother for her
care. The Greeks invoke the Gods to crown their efforts with success, while Agamemnon commands
that the presence of Thetis and the glory of Achilles should be appropriately celebrated.
The princes seat themselves in state, and preside over the games and dances. By order of Thetis
, the Cyclops are now introduced, bearing the magnificent armour forged by Vulcan; they advance
towards Achilles and present the heavenly gift; the hero is wrapt in admiration, and expresses
his deep sense of gratitude to his august mother, promising to make the best use of them. A Divertissement
follows, after which the Ballet terminates with a general and pictorial grouping. HERMANN

Captain Hermann , son of the Baron de Botzen , is deeply enamoured of the beautiful Lisbeth ,
a young villager, whose father, Scharff , an old veteran, is now become a rich farmer. The young
officer determines to disguise himself as a peasant, in order more easily to procure interviews
With her he loves, and to secure unbiassed affection, by laying aside the signs of his rank.
The design succeeding, he gains the affections of Lisbeth; and the only obstacle to their union
is, the nephew of the Burgomaster, a person enjoying a title. In the heat of his affection, the
Captain forgets the importance of his rival; besides which the father and mother of Lisbeth
are determined to marry their daughter to the above-mentioned personage, whose name is Tunder
, a simple and ridiculous character. Preparations are making for the wedding, which is on the
point of being celebrated. The two lovers are in despair, and know not how to proceed; at length,
blinded by affection, they decide on flight. The nephew of the Burgomaster becomes acquainted
with their intentions, of which he informs his uncle and the parents of Lisbeth; and they are
followed and taken. The Baron de Botzen , coming by chance to the dwelling of Scharff , learns
the whole affair; he severely reproaches his son with his wild and extravagant conduct, while
the parents of Lisbeth , refusing to pardon her, remain irreconcilable, The villagers, hearing
of the adventure, assemble at the scene, and soon join in demanding forgiveness for the young
delinquents. At length, the anger of the two fathers being somewhat allayed, they satisfy
the general desire, by granting their pardon, to the lovers. The Baron , forgetting pride and
prejudice, consents to bestow his son upon Lisbeth , thus uniting himself to the family of the
worthy Scharff . Joy and congratulation become universal. The Burgomaster and his nephew,
upon the representation of the Baron , finding that Lisbeth would never have married Tunder
, excepting by force, submit to a compromise. CHARACTERS. 

The Baron de Botzen . 

Captain Hermann , his son; in love with Lisbeth . 

Scharff , a veteran soldier; now a rich farmer . 

Dame Wolf , his wife . 

Lisbeth , daughter of Scharff, and in love with Hermann . 

Roff , a Burgomaster . 

Tunder , his nephew; rival of Hermann . 

Franck , Hermann's servant . 

Village lads and lasses; Tyrolese; Guards, and attendants on the Baron . 

The scene passes in Germany, on the estate of Baron de Botzen, near the Tyrol . ACT I. 

The Scene represents a village. In the distance a hill is seen, at the foot of which stands the
Burgomaster's house. On the right is the dwelling of Scharff. Trees are promiscuously scattered
over the prospect . 

Scene I.-At the rising of the curtain a storm is heard, during which two men appear enveloped
in long cloaks; having passed over the scene, they are at length driven by the inclemency of
the weather to seek shelter, and retire. 

Scene II.-The storm ceases, and the sky becomes clear; the sun shining forth, the whole landscape
rejoices in his rays. Shepherds leaving their huts on the hill, call, by the sound of their pipes,
their companions to labour; the summons is answered by other pipes, and villagers enter, bearing
their rustic tools; and, displaying health and cheerfulness in their countenances, they
prepare to go into the fields, indulging before they depart in a rural dance. 

Scene III.- Franck appears cautiously advancing, as unwilling to discover himself; observing
no one near, he calls his master, assuring him that there is no danger. Hermann expresses his
joy at the sight of Lisbeth's dwelling, Franck declares his Wish to be made acquainted with
his master's designs; the latter confides the secret to his servant, telling him, the motive
of his present disguise is to secure more easily the affections of the beautiful young villager,
Lisbeth. Franck evinces great surprise; but his master engages him to acquaint no person with
his intentions, and to obey in whatever is commanded him. The servant assures the Captain of
unshaken fidelity. The hour of appointment arriving, Hermann and Franck lay aside their cloaks,
and appear in the habits of peasants; the Captain signs Franck to retire, and wait for his orders.

Scene IV.- Captain Hermann now advances and fixes his eyes upon a balcony, in which he has before
beheld his pretty Lisbeth , who not appearing, he seems anxious and impatient. A noise is heard,
and the door of the Burgomaster's house is opened; while Hermann , disappointed at the unlucky
circumstance, immediately conceals himself in a tree, to observe what is passing. 

Scene V.- Tunder enters from his uncle's house. He wishes, no doubt, agreeably to surprise
Lisbeth , by presenting her with a bouquet of flowers, which he carries carefully in his hand;
she, however, does not appear; he calls her several times, and grows angry at her absence. At
length, supposing it is her beloved Hermann , she appears, but soon evinces her disappointment
on seeing Tunder. Hermann , having witnessed this scene, contrives to discover himself to
Lisbeth; and looks of love and delight are quickly exchanged between them. Tunder , supposing
they are meant for him, rejoices in the happy omens, and, taking advantage of such a favourable
opportunity, encourages himself to declare his passion, and becomes a laughing-stock to
his rival Hermann . He entreats Lisbeth to accept of his flowers, but she refuses; he threatens
to throw them at her, but she prevents him. Her lover having motioned her to descend, she tells
Tunder she will come down to accept his present; upon which pleasure is visible on the countenances
of both the rivals, and Tunder exults in his triumph. Lisbeth enters from the house, and Tunder
immediately throws himself at her feet and presents the flowers; she accepts them, but at the
same time, unperceived, presents her hand to Hermann , who covers it with kisses; while the
simple Tunder becomes the ridicule of both the lovers. He proceeds even to greater lengths,
expressing a sort of grotesque triumph; while the bouquet gives rise to various and beautiful
groupings and mutual attitudes between the enamoured pair. 

Dame Wolf comes into the balcony, and discovers the whole intrigue; she at first laughs, but,
resuming a serious air, she prepares to surprise the harmonious trio. 

Scene VI.-The noise made by Dame Wolf opening the door disturbs the lovers; she enters, and
scolds Lisbeth 18 for her intriguing behaviour with Hermann , who entreats for pardon, while
Tunder joins with the old lady in threatening and accusing them both. The Dame orders her daughter
to enter the house, she obeys; but on going casts a significant glance at Hermann . Her mother
then forbids both the rivals ever again to come near her house; and they attempting to intercede
for themselves, she shuts the door in their faces. 

Scene VII.- Hermann evinces gloom and disappointment; he seems meditating on the consequences
of the adventure, and appears unable to leave the dwelling of his love. Tunder , on the other
hand, at once indignant at such treatment and jealous of his rival, seems forming projects
of revenge. The presence of the Captain preventing him from executing his intentions, he wishes
to get rid of him. At length, finding him not disposed to go, and weary of waiting, he calls to
him and makes a sign, as if desiring his absence; Hermann , deeply engaged in his own reflections,
pays no attention to his signal. Tunder , supposing this silence to be intended as a mark of contempt,
approaches Hermann , and taking his hand, shakes it most violently, in order to arouse his attention,
while endeavouring to affright him by the tragi-comicality of his anger. Hermann is surprised
at such liberties, but excuses them, and begs that he may not be interrupted. Tunder , mistaking
this moderation for fear, boldly demands why he still continues to stay in a place which he has
been desired to quit. Hermann , darting a threatening look at him, pushes him away; Tunder returns
to the attack in great anger; the Captain, unable longer to restrain his wrath, takes him by
the arm, and twirls him off to some distance. Tunder again returns to the attack, when the Captain
seizes and throws him to the ground. Tunder , not expecting such usage, becomes affrighted;
Hermann making a certain sign, the other rises and runs away, seemingly to seek means of revenge,
and to relate the whole affair to his uncle. 

Scene . VIII.- Hermann now calls his man, and informs him of the obstacles that have arisen to
cross his intentions. Both appear determined to bring the adventure to a more happy conclusion,
and retire. 

Scene IX.-The Burgomaster enters, accompanied by his nephew, and followed by a troop of guards.
Tunder has related the whole affair to his uncle, and now returns prepared to take revenge upon
the supposed peasant; for whom, after searching in vain, they are compelled to postpone the
intended arrest; not, however, without leaving a watch to prevent his escape. Tunder , in the
mean time, takes the opportunity of reminding his uncle of the promise he had made to demand
for him the hand of Lisbeth , and expresses an impatient desire to have it realised. Roff promises
to keep his word and secure happiness to his nephew. He desires him to go and change his dress,
which has suffered in the scuffle; and that afterwards he will present him to the parents of
Lisbeth. Tunder , overjoyed at this information, leaps upon his uncle's neck, and they both
enter the house, the guards accompanying them with a laughable air of severity. ACT II. 

The stage represents the interior of Scharff's farm. In the distance is discovered a shaded
walk, enclosed by a wall with a gate. On one side a part of the house of the Burgomaster is perceived

Scene I.-A troop of peasantry enter dancing, as 18* they return from labour. Roff and his nephew
appear habited for the ceremony. Scharff makes a sign to his people, and they retire. 

Scene II.-After compliments being exchanged, the farmer inquires the reason of the Burgomaster's
visit. The latter replies, that his nephew being deeply enamoured of Scharff's daughter,
he is come to ask her in marriage. The former and his Dame appear to consent to the proposition;
while the Burgomaster boasts of his nephew's birth and fortune. The father and uncle appear
to consult further upon the affair; when the former, representing that his daughter is disengaged,
there can be no obstacle to the match, requiring, however, to retire for the purpose of considering
on the affair, and of acquainting Lisbeth with their intentions; Roff immediately consents
to this, while Tunder exhibits an expectation of success. 

Scene III.- Roff partakes in the triumph of his nephew, expressing his satisfaction at seeing
the prosperous progress of Tunder's designs. During this scene Hermann is perceived endeavouring
to gain admission to Lisbeth's house, in order to acquaint her with his projects; he employs
every precaution to prevent discovery. Finding the gate of the walk open, he immediately enters.
He already understands the motive of the Burgomaster's visit, and that Scharff has consented
to the propositions in favour of Tunder; he is accordingly greatly disappointed, appears
very gloomy, and conceals himself behind a projection to overhear what is passing. 

Scene IV.-The farmer enters, conducting his daughter, who is followed by her mother. But how
great is the surprise evinced by Lisbeth on beholding her intended husband! Her parents informing
her of their design, express their entire approval of the expected union. Lisbeth appears
in great trouble and agitation. Her emotion is remarked, and every one is desirous to know the
cause of it, but she is unable to give an answer; she is urged to satisfy their inquiries, but
eludes them by giving an uncertain reply. At this moment she perceives that Hermann witnesses
her distressing situation. He consoles and encourages her by his gestures. She is on the point
of giving a decided refusal to the proposed match, but is deterred by the motions of her lover,
who would inspire her with hopes of defeating the projects of Roff by other means. Tunder and
the Burgomaster are greatly disconcerted at the conduct of Lisbeth. Scharff and his wife endeavour
to assure them that the emotion of Lisbeth , must be attributed to the approaching separation
from her parents; upon this assertion the nephew and uncle appear satisfied. Lisbeth , wishing
to prepare for her approaching change, demands permission and retires; as she is going, she
casts a significant glance of love and hope at Hermann , who, by gestures, bids her be confident
of success. 

Scene V.- Scharff, Dame Wolf , the Burgomaster and Tunder , consult upon the preparations for
the wedding, which they fix for the next day; satisfied with their projects, each takes his
leave and retires; during this, Hermann evinces marks of deep concern. 

Scene VI.- Hermann now quits his concealment and comes forward; he appears undecided as to
what means he should employ to counteract the designs of his rival. At length, after some consideration,
he is resolved to carry off Lisbeth , and to be united to her. 

Scene VII.- Lisbeth enters and flies into the arms of Hermann , who, though crossed in his career,
swears that nothing shall now separate them. They express mutual sentiments of unalterable
affection; but the recollection of the intended marriage destroys their moments of delight,
and they appear dejected. 

Scene VIII.- Tunder enters; he brings certain orders from his uncle to Scharff . Scarcely has
he passed the gate, when he perceives the two lovers supported in each other's arms; he becomes
motionless with astonishment. Having recovered himself, rage and jealousy take entire possession
of his heart. He is ready to rush upon them, but recollecting himself, he dares not, and seems
determined to await the sequel of this interview; fearing to be observed, he creeps into the
hollow of a tree, and so hides himself. From time to time he puts his head out to spy what is going
forward; but whenever the Captain displays a gesture of menace, supposing it relates to himself,
he immediately draws back. Hermann proposes flight to Lisbeth , and a secret marriage; but
the latter fearing such an attempt, she refuses with tears in her eyes, while Hermann laments
his unhappy fate. Tunder exhibits the most grotesque gesticulations; he will hear no more;
and leaving the tree, runs to his uncle to inform him of the intended flight; vowing vengeance
as he retires. 

Scene IX.- Hermann employs every means of persuasion to induce his mistress to follow him;
but still she dares not consent to his proposal; upon which Hermann reproaches her with indifference,
and as being the cause of his misfortune. Lisbeth weeps, wavers, and at last yields to the desire
of her lover. Hermann , transported with joy, now discovers his real rank in life, and on his
knees he swears eternal fidelity to her. Lisbeth , struck with astonishment, scarcely believes
what she hears; and supposing the Captain would deceive her, she reproaches him with inconstancy;
Hermann protests the truth of what he advances, and the purity of his intentions; but she still
evinces great anxiety and agitation, while Hermann is deeply affected by her unbelief. 

Scene X.- Franck , who has never neglected the interest of his master, enters hastily to announce
the arrival of the Baron, who, returning from the chase, has fixed upon this farm as a place of
repose; the consternation is general; in the mean time Franck assures Lisbeth of the honourable
intentions of his master. Lisbeth falls into the arms of Hermann , who tells her they must now
depart instantly; that it must be done quietly and secretly, to avoid the anger of their parents;
Lisbeth gives herself Up to the guidance of her lover; and all three hasten away. 

Scene XI.-But scarcely have they began their flight, when they are stopped by Tunder , accompanied
with a troop of peasantry armed with cudgels. The Captain is immediately attacked, but he,
snatching a stick from the hands of the affrighted Tunder , and aided by Franck , makes so vigorous
a resistance, that his opponents betake themselves to flight. Hermann then attends to the
distressing situation of Lisbeth , endeavouring to encourage and console her. As they are
about to continue their journey the Burgomaster is discovered, followed by a troop of his guards.

Scene XII.-He causes the Captain to be arrested; the latter demands an explanation, and surprises
every one present by his spirited conduct. The Burgomaster, however, is inexorable, and Tunder
increasing his anger against his rival, desires instant revenge. The sound of a horn is heard,
announcing the arrival of the Baron, while Hermann and Lisbeth , without making further resistance,
wait the result in silence. 

Scene XIII.-The Baron enters, accompanied by 

Scharff and his wife; but what is their surprise on beholding the lovers fall on their knees
before the Baron. Hermann's rank is now discovered; and the astonishment is universal. The
report spreading, a number of villagers assemble to witness the event, and every one waits
respectfully for the decision of the Baron. The latter severely reprimands the conduct of
his son, and finally disowns him; while Lisbeth vainly strives to regain the affections of
her parents; and the two lovers are accordingly deeply dejected. In the mean time, Tunder and
his uncle tremble for the consequence of their treatment of the Baron's son. At length, the
father of Hermann , moved by the repentant grief of his son, and the distress of Lisbeth , joined
to the prayers of all present in their favour, is resolved to pardon and forget the offence,
wishing also to avoid general scandal by settling the whole amicably. Lisbeth's parents readily
consent to so advantageous a match. All express their joy and gratitude, and the Baron receives
the homage of his vassals; he embraces his children, and evinces his satisfaction at being
allied to the family of the brave and respectable Scharff; while the delight of the lovers is
extreme. The Burgomaster and his nephew excuse themselves to Hermann , who is not long in granting
pardon. The Baron orders the celebration of the happy union to begin, and all withdraw to make
the necessary preparations. 

Scene XIV.-The stage represents the village green, where sports and frolics usually take
place. The Baron's mansion appears in the distance. Peasants enter, and raise a seat of state
adorned with flowers, and ornament every place with garlands. They construct also a swing
and a balance, and arrange tables for the feast. The Baron now appears, accompanied by the bride
and bridegroom, Scharff , his wife, the Burgomaster, and Tunder; he is conducted to his seat,
and presides at the ceremonies. Universal joy and gaiety reign around; sports and dances now
begin; Hermann and Lisbeth , at the general request, mingle with the dancers. Every one seems
by his cheerfulness to evince his attachment to the Baron. The Divertissement being concluded,
the Baron rises and expresses to his tenantry the happiness he feels at the joyful event. A general
group is formed, conveying an idea of the sentiments with which all are inspired, and terminating

This Ballet was founded upon what has reached us of Euripides, upon Seneca, and more particularly
upon the Phedre of Racine. The plot has given me great trouble in forming, from the necessity
of explaining that part of the fable which precedes the action, and which cannot be related
or expressed by gesture.- Bourdeaux , 1814. 

In the first Act, therefore, I have supposed the incident of a dream, which, by representing
all that is necessary for unfolding the subject, enables the spectator easily to comprehend
the whole of the following intrigue. Before my performance, no one had attempted a Ballet upon
this subject; no Ballet-master, I believe, has yet adapted it to his purposes in any shape.

Theseus , Son of Egeus, King of Athens. He is returning into his Kingdom, after having vansquished
the tyrant, who detained him long a prisoner for having assisted his friend Pyrithous, the
companion of his labours . 

Phaedra , wife of Theseus, and daughter of Minos and Pasiphoe; in love with Hippolytus . 

Hippolytus , Son of Theseus and Antiope, Queen of the Amazons; in love with Aricia . 

Aricia , a princess of the blood-royal of Athens; the last survivor of her family; now a prisoner
at Theseus' Court, and beloved by Hippolytus . 

Theramenes , Governor of Hippolytus . 

Oenone , Nurse and Confidant of Phaedra . 

Ismena , confidential attendant on Aricia . 

Neptune; Esculapius; the Winds; Hunters attending Hippolytus; Huntresses attending Aricia;
Women attending Phaedra; Guards and Soldiers of Theseus; Princes and Princesses of the Court;
Priests of Diana; Priests and Priestesses; the People . CHARACTERS OF THE DREAM. 

Venus . 

Love . 

Phaedra . 

Hippolytus . 

Theseus . 

Princes and Princesses of the court . 

The Scene lies at Threzene, a town of Peloponnessus . ACT I. 

A forest; mountains are seen in the distance, and several clusters of trees are dispersed over
the scene. On the right appears the statue of Diana, and further on a green bank . 

Hunters in the train of Hippolytus are discovered on the mountains. Having spread themselves
over the scene they take various paths, and prepare for the pursuit. Hope and joy animate them
to the chase, they brandish their javelins, while the air re-echoes with the sound of their
instruments, until they disappear. 

Hippolytus enters, he seeks his beloved, he has not yet beheld his Aricia . Exhausted by the
fatigues of the chase, and a fruitless search for his love, he sinks down upon a bank. In a short
time sleep takes possession of his senses; his imagination is, however, disturbed by a terrible
dream. THE DREAM. 

The back scene changes, and discovers a charming rural prospect. The remaining parts of the
stage with the front scenes are darkened, consequently the representation of the dream becomes
more brilliant. Venus and Cupid , borne through the air, in a chariot drawn by swans, descend.
Rage inspires the breast of the Goddess, she breathes nothing but revenge, and menaces by her
gestures. Her son inquires what are her designs: she reminds him of the hatred she bears the
house of Phaedra , and declares her intention of destroying even Phaedra herself; she requires
of him to assist in her projects, by wounding her victim. Phaedra arrives accompanied by her
consort; they are attended by a part of the court. Venus directs the attention of her son to them;
he promises obedience to her commands, and each withdraws to some distance. 

Theseus and Phaedra repose themselves beneath the umbrageous shade; they exchange mutual
marks of affection. Venus causes Cupid to approach, and incites him to strike Phaedra with
love for Hippolytus . The malicious God replies with a smile. He draws from his quiver one of
his deadliest darts, and menaces Hippolytus , who is seen ranging through the forest and hurling
his javelin at the timid inhabitants. 

Theseus , obliged to depart, reluctantly takes leave of his Queen, who shares deeply in his
sorrows, and conjures him to hasten his return. 

The implacable Venus , seizing this opportunity of reverge, makes a sign to her son, who levels
a dart, and Phaedra is wounded. Whence the pain with which she is seized? In vain does she endeavour
to discover the cause; she laments her fate, and implores for aid; her attendants endeavour
to administer relief; Venus causes Hippolytus to approach, and desires him to console Phaedra
, and to alleviate the sorrow she feels at the absence of his father; the young Prince obeys and
presents himself before her. Phaedra evinces great emotion! The society of Hippolytus suspends
her grief: joy succeeds to woe; and she seems revived and happy. It is Hippolytus who causes
this change; he is the author of the charm; and she cannot exist without him. He redoubles his
attention, and assures her of his father's love; but Phaedra requires something more than
such an assurance. Being now recovered, she thinks both on the duty she owes to the father, and
on what may be the sentiments of the son; obstacles insurmountable! Pleasure is already fled,
and woe has taken her place. Hippolytus knows not what to conclude from her deportment. He tries
to tranquillize her; but Phaedra , unable longer to resist the torments of her passion, and
the power of Venus , confesses her love to Hippolytus; he recoils with horror and remains motionless
with astonishment. The daughter of Minos tries to allure him by prayers, caresses, and tears;
but nothing can shake the virtue of the young Hippolytus . He essays to break from her, while
she employs every art to detain him; but her strength failing, she beholds him hastening from
her for ever. 

Venus , triumphing in success, then offers herself to the eyes of the wretched Queen. Phaedra
, recognising the divinity, flies to her and throws herself at her feet, imploring mercy. She
next addresses herself to Love , but in vain. The two powers, deaf to her prayers, and rejoicing
in her pain, abandon her to her fate, and ascend towards the skies. This last trial convinces
Phaedra that her enemy is implacable. Every hope forsakes her, she becomes distracted, and
unable to support the weight of her sufferings, till oppressed by wrath divine, she falls and
expires. The scene disappears, and the stage resumes its former aspect. 

Hippolytus , awakened by the terrible conclusion of the dream, shudders with the impression
it has produced; he is wrapt in the recollection of it, and dreads the future consequences:
he revives a little, but again falls into a deep reverie. The echoing of distant horns is heard;
Hippolytus is aroused, and recognizes the signal of the arrival of Aricia; his gloomy thoughts
are dissipated, and pleasure takes possession of his heart. His love appears upon the mountain
side, and he flies to meet her. Aricia is attended by huntresses, she presents her lover with
the game taken in the chase. They express to each other their mutual flame, while their companions
partake in their delight. Hippolytus , at the height of his wishes, receives an oath of fidelity
from his affectionate Aricia . Preparations are now made for a fete in honour of their patroness.
Offerings are made to Diana, and each takes a part in the dances and sports. After the celebration,
Hippolytus commands to depart to the city. ACT II. 

The interior of a magnificent Temple dedicated to the worship of Venus. In the centre appears
a statue of the Goddess, before which an altar is raised . 

The adorers of Venus enter dancing, some bearing baskets of flowers, others garlands, coronets,
&c. Sacrifices are made to the divinity; and dancing accompanies religious ceremonies. 

Phaedra now enters, attended by Oenone . She slowly approaches, and prostrates herself before
the statue. Every one follows her example; a basket of offerings is then given to Oenone , who
receives it and presents it to her mistress, who places it upon the altar. The sufferings caused
by a violent and unfortunate passion appear deeply marked upon the features of Phaedra; her
deportment evinces the dreadful state to which she is reduced. She invokes the Goddess, and
implores aid in her distress. After the gifts are offered, the dances are renewed. Oenone has
closely observed her mistress; greatly surprised, and sensibly affected at the pain she appears
to suffer, she desires to know the cause. The amusements are now suspended, and Phaera motions
all to retire but Oenone . (During the preceding ceremonies, Phaedra commands Oenone with
a mysterious air to seek for Hippolytus, to whom she would speak; her confidant obeys, and after
some minutes returns.) 

The looks and gestures of Phaedra express the disturbed state of her heart; Oenone observes
it with astonishment, and wishing to interest herself in the fate of her mistress, demands
the cause. The distress of Phaeedra increases, she shudders at the idea of disclosing her griefs.
Oenone presses her with prayers and tears to reply. Phaeedra is unable longer to resist these
importunities, and the declaration of her abominable passion escapes her bosom. The name
of Hippolytus and the vengeance of Venus make so terrible an impression upon Oenone , that scarcely
can she believe what Phaedra has avowed. The Queen, overwhelmed by woe, implores the Gods to
annihilate her. 

Her deplorable situation greatly affects the sympathetic tic Oenone , who endeavours to raise
her drooping spirits and to inspire consolation by directing her to confide in the goodness
of the Gods. Phaedra throws herself at the feet of Venus and implores her pity; Oenone joins
in the prayer. The woe of Phaeedra appears to augment, and Oenone is in despair. At length both
are resolved to confess every thing to Hippolytus , and to plead the death of his father (a report
of which is already in circulation) as an excuse for the Queen. Oenone flatters Phaedra with
a happy result. 

They are interrupted by the arrival of Hippolytus , who comes in obedience to the Queen's command.
Phaedra is agitated at his approach, while Oenone tries to support her. The place which Phaedra
has chosen for the interview awakens in Hippolytus a melancholy remembrance of his dream,
which seems to have presaged some misfortune. Banishing, however, these gloomy ideas, he
respectfully approaches Phaedra to know her pleasure. She receives him graciously, but at
the same time betrays unusual emotions of pleasure, caused by his presence. Grief seems to
have given place to hope and joy. She at length informs Hippolytus that she has dedicated this
temple to the most amiable of the deities, whose favours are so dear to mankind, who causes happiness,
and to whose empire all should submit. The son of Antiope shows some surprise. Phaedra continues,
that as he was made to hove, he should prefer this worship to every other, desiring him to devote
himself entirely to the service of the Goddess of Cythera. She feels her heart palpitate while
waiting the reply of Hippolytus . Oenone incites and applauds her. Hippolytus blushes at the
words addressed to him, and appears agitated. Is the dreadful dream about to be realised? He
evinces surprise and embarrassment. Phaeedra would induce him to sacrifice to the Goddess;
but the severity of his education, and the sobriety of his manners will not permit him; and beholding
the resemblance that exists between the dream and his present situation, he entreats permission
to withdraw. Phaeedra detains him, while her looks and behaviour begin to unveil the secret
of her heart. Hippolytus dreads the consequence of what he sees, and is astonished at the deportment
of Phaeedra , who, incapable of containing her transports, and emboldened by Oenone , declares
to the son of Theseus her unlawful love for him. This avowal strikes Hippolytus motionless;
recovering from his stupor, the first feeling he evinces is that of horror: his dream was but
too true an image of the dreadful reality. The offence against nature and his father fills him
with indignation. Phaeedra , a prey to her destructive passion, endeavours to calm Hippolytus
, and to extort his pity for her fate. But he, unwilling to offer violence to the wife of his father,
and fearing to be overcome by her entreaties, is about to leave her presence, but is prevented
by Phaedra and Oenone . Terrible is now the situation of Hippolytus ! The Queen and her confidant
essay by prayers to soften him, but he is immoveable, and threatens them with the wrath of heaven.
Phaedra , forgetting her rank, throws herself at his feet, entreats his regard, paints the
grief that destroys her, the hatred of Venus , and the death that awaits his cruel refusal. Hippolytus
obliges her to rise from her abject position, then repulses her, and is 19 flying from her but
is again detained by Phaedra , who demands the punishment due to her crimes, since he will riot
listen to her love. In vain does Oenone try to bend the young Prince; his virtue remains unshaken.
At length the consort of Theseus , lost to every hope, and transported at once by love and rage,
rushes upon Hippolytus , seizes his sword, and is on the point of stabbing herself, when Oenone
employs every effort to disarm her, and then drags her out, lamenting her own error and the insensibility
of Hippolytus . The latter, filled with fear and consternation, implores the assistance of
the Gods, and, confiding in their protection, hastens from a place so fatal, and goes to prevent
greater misfortunes. ACT III. 

Scene .- The Palace Theseus; on the right appears a statue of Neptune, raised by that hero in
gratitude . 

Aricia enters, attended by Ismena; she awaits with impatience the approach of her lover. Her
faithful attendant endeavours to remove every doubt. Hippolytus enters haggard and pale,
nor can the pleasure of beholding his mistress restore peace to his mind. She perceives his
situation and demands the cause. He tries to dissimulate by answering dubiously. Suspicion
seizes Aricia , and she entreats Hippolytus to conceal nothing from her; but he begs her not
to require of him a confession painful to both. The inquietude of Aricia increases, and she
implores to be allowed to share in the pains of her lover. The latter endeavours to avoid an answer;
but the tender solicitations of Aricia , and the proofs of her affection, at length obtain an
explanation, and he informs her of the unhappy passion that possesses the breast of Phaedra
. Aricia is astonished; and the consternation is equal on both sides. They are alarmed at what
may ensue: their enemy is powerful; and the fury of her passion may set no bounds to revenge.

The son of Theseus is resolved to quit Threzene, and communicates his determination to Aricia
, entreating her to accompany him; this being the only method to avoid both the love and hatred
of Phaaera . Aricia hesitates, modesty will not permit her to accept of Hippolytus such an invitation;
but he assuring her of safety and protection, dissipates her fears and expresses to her the
transport and delight he shall experience in being united to her by sacred ties. Aricia consents,
and both swear eternal fidelity, and implore the protection of the Gods. 

During this scene, Oenone appears in a distant part of the palace; she perceives the two lovers,
and is witness of their tenderness. Her surprise increases on discovering her mistress's
favoured rival, and she flies to inform Phaedra . 

Theramenes enters to announce the unexpected arrival of Theseus , The two lovers express their
joy at this happy news; hoping now, for a fortunate result. Hippolytus causes Aricia to withdraw,
promising to endeavour to prevail upon his father to consent to their union. 

Theseus appears; he is followed by warriors and a part of his court; on beholding again his family
and his people, the King rejoices. His son approaches to embrace his knees, he raises him, and
presses him to his heart; while the young Prince exhibits traits of reverence and love. 

Theseus now expresses his surprise at the absence of the Queen. He demands her of his son, who
replies, he knows not where she stays. The distress and agitation with which Hippolytus answers,
is remarked by his father, 19* who desires to know the cause. The Prince's silence raises his
suspicion; and he commands Theramenes to go and announce to the Queen his arrival. Hippolytus
evinces embarrassment and dread. The Queen enters, accompanied by Oenone; sadness is spread
over all her features. Theseus is surprised at the languor and melancholy of Phaedra . He hastens
to her, declaring the joy he feels at beholding her, demanding at the same time to be informed
of the cause of her grief; she replies with sighs, her agitation increases, and Theseus presses
her to reply. Oenone too encourages her to declare it, but still she refuses; Theseus , impatient
of suspense, at length obliges her to answer. Phaedra , transported with hatred to her rival
and to Hippolytus , and determined to rescue her character from suspicion in presence of the
King, accuses Hippolytus of her own crime. Oenone produces the sword left in her possession,
adding, that it was thus he had threatened her refusal to comply. Theseus is struck with amazement,
and Hippolytus becomes motionless. Phaeedra , stung by remorse and unable to endure the presence
of those she had injured, retires, supported by Oenone . 

Hippolytus trembles with indignation, and implores the assistance of the Gods. Theseus ,
recovered from his stupor, gives way to his wreath; and menaces his son with the most Cruel punishment.
The air of innocence displayed played by Hippolytus , his oaths, and his prayers, avail nothing.
The too credulous King, incapable of curbing the fury of his temper, curses his son, who is kneeling
at his feet, and inhumanly shakes him off. Blinded by his rage, he hastens to the statue of Neptune
, invokes his aid, and resigns the punishment of Hippolytus to the will of that God. The Prince
appears overwhelmed with distress; the King then commands him to quit the kingdom, and, giving
him over to divine vengeance, retires. 

The wretched Hippolytus , not having ventured to render Phaedra an object of disgust to his
father, yet finds himself labouring under paternal hatred; and dreads the fatal Consequences.

Aricia appears. She comes to learn the result of the interview, and is astonished to see the
grief into which her lover is plunged. He revives at her presence, but it is only to inform her
of the horrors of his fate. Aricia shudders with surprise. The abominable crime of Phaedra
and the wrath of Theseus is about to force them into exile. Aricia , her heart oppressed and torn
with what she has heard, gives new proofs of her affection to Hippolytus , by swearing to be his
for ever. After having implored the protection of the Gods, they give orders for departure.

The scene discovers the sea-port of Threzene in the distance. Farther still appear the tombs
of the ancestors of Hippolytus. In the centre stands a temple of simple but majestic architecture,
dedicated to Diana. A vessel lies near the shore . 

Priests open the temple; they appear occupied in the service of the divinity they adore; and
are preparing for a religious ceremony. 

Hippolytus, Aricia, Theramenes , and their equipage arrive. The young Prince directs attention
to the temple, and to the scene, as objects of his dearest wishes, it being here that he hopes
for the joy of being united to the beautiful Aricia , who then expresses her entire affection
for him. Every one appears to take a lively interest in their fate; and the sacred Priests receive
them with kindness. Hippolytus , taking the hand of his intended tended bride, advances with
religious reverence towards the altar. He expresses the delight he feels in uniting himself
to the object of his heart, and calls heaven to witness the purity of his love. Aricia , overjoyed
at the happy event, evinces all the tenderness of affection. The High Priest then unites them,
and implores the divine favour for the welfare of so virtuous a couple. The happy pair express
their joy. Theramenes , forgetting awhile his grief, partakes of their pleasure. The whole
company are delighted. The offerings being placed on the altar, every one supplicates the
immortal power favourably to regard the august alliance. The Priests await in solemn silence
some manifestation of approval from their divine patroness. 

The figure of Diana suddenly appears in the skies, and the victim is consumed by sacred fire.
The joy is universal! The happy prognostications reanimate every breast. Hippolytus and
Aricia , beholding their prayers regarded, take leave, and prepare for departure. Hippolytus
era, braces his faithful and respected tutor with marks of the fondest attachment. Theramenes
desires to accompany him, but the Prince engages him to remain with his father; at which request,
tears flow from the eyes of Theramenes . The newly espoused pair, accompanied by their attendants,
embark, and the vessel departs from Threzene. 

Scene changes, presenting that of the Third Act . 

Theseus appears musing on the unhappy event which destroys the peace of his family; his looks
and gestures are disturbed and agitated. He is assailed by gloomy presentiments, and fears
the approaching confusion. He fancies he hears sighs and groans; and his troubled imagination
presents him with sights of woe. He complains bitterly to the Gods, prays for death, and then
falls into a state of deep dejection. 

Phaedra , accompanied by her accomplice Oenone , enters. She has learned the fate of Hippolytus
, and, torn by remorse, she comes to implore his pardon and return, whose banishment has redoubled
her grief. Her presence serves but to increase the fury of Theseus , and to render him inexorable
to his guilty son. He evinces, however, surprise at the intercession she would make for one
who had attempted her honour and her life. He would rather persuade her to unite her prayers
with his in obtaining of the Gods, speedy and terrible vengeance, as a punishment due to the
abominable crime of their son. He then leads Phaedra to the feet of the statue, and commands
her to obey; she turns pale with terror, and trembles. At this instant Theramenes arrives,
bringing intelligence of the departure of Hippolytus and Aricia . This last act of his son's
seems to Theseus a new proof of disobedience. His rage returns and increases; he demands of
Neptune the accomplishment of his ancient promise. So great are the jealous torments of Phaedra
, that her emotions attract the attention of Theseus and astonish him; he seems to have discovered
in them some new misfortune; he requires of her a full explanation. She tries to conceal her
feelings and endeavours to dissimulate still. Theramenes darts a look at her, which seems
to reproach her with the destruction of Hippolytus . She appears disconcerted, and guilt is
depicted on her features. Nothing has escaped the observation of Theseus; suspicion distracts
his soul. The growling of thunder is heard; and it bursts with a terrible crash. Lightnings
blaze forth awfully bright the statue of the God of the Ocean moves and emits fire, attesting
the accomplishment of Theseus' vow. Dread seizes on every heart. Overwhelmed with woe, Theseus
laments, but too late, the rashness of his rage; he darts at Phoedra a look of indignation; suspecting
the cause of all his unhappiness, he fears to behold the effects of his prayers. Theramenes
attends the King with the most respectful solicitude. Phoedra can no longer resist the divine
power by which she is stimulated; while love and despair appear in every feature. Her mind becomes
disturbed, reason seems to have abandoned her; she declares to the King the passion that consumes
her, and exculpates the innocent and virtuous Hippolytus . Having made this confession, she
draws a poniard concealed beneath her robe, stabs herself and falls into the arms of Oenone
, near the statue of Neptune. The storm increases; Theseus , sinking beneath the weight of his
sufferings, is supported by Theramenes; he expresses horror at having been united to the daughter
of Pasiphoe . He weeps for the fate of his son; and asks of the Gods the punishment due to his rash
anger. He hates the light, and seeks to terminate his existence. 

His faithful servant Theramenes employs every art to persuade him from so terrible a resolution;
endeavouring to recall his scattered senses, and to restore tranquillity to his soul, he represents
the time may come when his son will return; and this hope revives the drooping powers of the wretched
father. Every one now hastens to prevent the fate of Theseus . ACT V. 

The scene presents the shores of Threzene. A storm. Neptune appears drawn in a chariot; he is
armed with a trident; and every circumstance announces the rage of the God. At his command the
winds are raised around him, which shake his dominions. Thunderbolts and lightnings add to
the horrors of the dreadful scene. Every thing announces the approaching fate of Hippolytus;
and Neptune departs satisfied. The vessel conveying Hippolytus and Aricia appears struggling
against the fury of the waves; while the seamen strive in vain to resist their turbulence. The
ship is shattered, and becomes the sport of the tempestuous billows. The distress is universal.
Every one prepares for death. Hippolytus and Aricia , locked in each other's arms, endeavour
to effect an escape, or to find an equal fate. The sea opens and engulfs the vessel. 

All now appear entombed in the waves. Aricia a lone is thrown upon a huge rock; she moves with
pain; and, gradually recovering, she seeks her lover, but finds him not; his companions have
perished, and he must have shared the same fate; she shudders, her powers fail, and she prepares
to die. Suddenly the body of Hippolytus floating on the sea meets her eyes; it is washed by the
waves on the rock where she reclines; she throws herself upon the remains of her lover, embraces
him, covers him with kisses and tears, and then supplicates the Gods to be permitted to join
her lover in death; thus ending her woes. 

Theseus and Theramenes , followed by the people, enter in haste, and become witnesses of this
terrible spectacle. They surround the body of the unhappy Hippolytus; and the affliction
is universal. Despair has taken possession of Theseus . Each prostrates himself, and implores
the mercy of the Gods. The virtues, misfortunes, and prayers of Aricia at length prevail; and
the immortals are moved. Melodious music is heard, as the first sign of the favour about to be
bestowed. Every circumstance announces the immediate descent of some deity. 

The scene brightens, and becomes filled with clouds of azure and gold, and Esculapius , seated
on a throne, is beheld descending. Sent by the God, he comes the bearer of health and happiness
to man. Hope and joy appear in every face. By the peculiar power of the God of Epidaurus , the body
of Hippolytus gradually revives, and becomes completely reanimated; during which the scene
changes into a princely palace, embellished by art and nature; on one side appears a throne.
Hippolytus , restored to the desires of all, and beholding the scene of calm delight, falls
at the feet of Esculapius, who unites him to Aricia . The happy Theseus , shedding tears of joy,
presses to his breast his son, and shares in the pleasure of his children. 

Esculapius having executed his beneficent commission, reascends the skies; while on the
spot which he leaves, rises a golden image of the God; and Theseus commands a feast to celebrate
the power who has restored life and joy to his dear Hyppolitu Virbius . 

A Divertissement and General Picture . 

Note .-The death of Hippolytus has been altered, for it is impossible to represent it on every
stage in the manner in which it has been related in the fable. The resources of managers, and
the talents of mechanists are not alike in every theatre. The chariot, therefore, drawn by
sea horses and marine monsters, have been changed into a vessel, which is wrecked in the tempest,
an incident easier and less expensive to perform. At greater theatres, where expense is not
so much regarded, and where good mechanists may be procured, it is preferable to perform the
death of Hippolytus as described by antiquity, besides, it is a novel incident, and the scene

Cyllenius, or Mercury . 

Zephyr . 

Egle . 

Flora . 

Terpsichore . 

Nymphs . 

Shepherds . 

The Scene lies at Nysa, a city of Greece . ACT I. 

The stage represents the prospect of a pleasant country; on one of the sides, and beneath a bower,
are seen the statues of Love and the Spring; higher up is a cluster of trees, and in front, opposite,
fountain. The sea appears behind . 

At the rising of the curtain, groups of nymphs, beneath some trees, make the air re-echo with
the melodious sounds of their instruments; other nymphs join their dancing to the melody of
their companions. Others at a distance, the friends of Egle , arrange their dresses by the crystal
reflection of a fountain, whilst part of them amuse themselves in gathering flowers, and in
forming garlands and wreaths. 

The frolicsome Egle comes on dancing. Her companions go to meet her; they are profuse in their
expressions of friendship. Egle informs them of the arrival of Zephyr and Flora , who are come
to celebrate with them Love and the Spring. They all evince the utmost joy at it. 

Flora reclining in a light bark, and Zephyr fluttering over her, arrive at the bank. The Nymphs
receive them with joy, and sports and dances follow their delightful meeting to celebrate
their divinities. 

During these floral sports, Zephyr , busied in wantoning with some of the Nymphs , seems to have
forgotten Flora , who, hurt at his neglect, consults with Egle for some moments, and determines
to abandon her inconstant lover, in order to punish him for his inconstancy. 

They depart without being noticed by him. The Nymphs , surprised at the disappearance of their
companions. at length guess the cause, finish their sports, and fly off, laughing at Zephyr
. He, astonished, knows not what can be the reason of his being abandoned. He can no longer see
Flora , she has also fled. He endeavours to discover which way these Nymphs have directed their
flight. He finds himself sported with, is piqued at it, and promises to be revenged on them.
He is just going off. At this instant Mercury , cleaving the air, flies after him, and stops him.

The son of Maia appears agitated, a soft languor is visible in his countenance. Zephyr expresses
to him a wish to know the purpose that brings him, and what can be the cause of his agitation. Mercury
confesses to him the passion Egle has inspired him with, and the desire he has to make an impression
on her, and to be by her beloved under the disguise of a mere mortal. Zephyr interests himself
in his fate, and assures him of success in his project. Hope brightens in the eyes of Mercury
. Zephyr advises him to personate Faunus , and to be present at the Dyonysian Festivals, which
are celebrated in honour of Bacchus, as there he might enjoy the pleasure of beholding her he
loves, and accomplish his designs. 

The son of Jupiter, arrived at the summit of his wishes, testifies his gratitude to him. They
both direct their flight towards heaven, and proceed to the commencement of their project;
then insensibly disappear. ACT II. 

The Stage represents the magnificent temple of Bacchus. The statue of the God is placed in the
midst of the Scene . 

Terpsichore comes in dancing, and is to preside at the festival. Egle and her companions, in
the habits of Bacchanalians, follow her steps, and form groups around the statue of Bacchus.

Zephyr and Flora , being reunited, appear, and strew the portico with flowers. Terpsichore
encourages them, every one imitates them, and they accompany the action with dancing. 

The sound of the instruments of shepherds, disguised as Fauni, makes the sacred walls re-echo,
and announces the votaries of the God of Nysa. Cyllenius , in the dress of a Bacchanalian, is
at their head. Love and gaiety prompt their steps arid movements. Zephyr and Mercury make signs
to each other of a mutual understanding. Egle notices this strange Shepherd; there are visible
in him an air and manner different from the rest of the train. The divinity seems to betray itself

However, the rites begin by order of Terpsichore , and from her example, Flora, Zephyr, Mercury,
Egle , and the Bacchanalians, taking urns and goblets filled with wine, pour out libations,
and drink in honour of the God who inspires them. During this scene, Cyllenius has not ceased
to attract the attention of the fair Egle . The nymph seems already to feel a tender attachment
to this amiable stranger. Mercury expresses to Zephyr the joy he feels at the happy auspices
of his love. 

The ceremony commences, and they all devote themselves to dancing. The son of Maid is noticed
for the grace and excellency of his steps, and his total object is to delight his nymph. Egle
is agitated and her heart begins to beat. At the conclusion of a dance, and in a group, Cyllenius
whispers to Egle; she blushes at his discourse, and hangs down her head. Zephyr perceives them,
interrupts them, and thereby prevents their being discovered by the assemblage. The dance
recommences; the sound of the horn puts an end to it, announcing their departure for the chase.
A Bacchanalian, holding a bow, gives a signal and each of them separates to prepare their arms,
expressing pleasure in devoting themselves to the pursuit of the tenants of the forest. 

The amorous Cyllenius prepares to avail himself of the opportunity, and to see himself crowned
with success. Zephyr encourages him, and they both follow the lovely Egle . They all depart.

The stage exhibits the interior of a thick Forest . 

Mercury appears; he seeks the object of his passion; he does not perceive her; he evinces the
deepest impatience at it; he calls in vain; he falls into a mournful languor. A noise of hunting
is heard; several Nymphs cross the stage. Egle follows them; she is herself in quest of her successful
lover. She at last espies him, she pretends to wish to fly. Mercury , at the summit of his wishes,
rushes upon her, and stops her. 

Egle becomes agitated, Mercury endeavours to calm her, and assures her that his passion for
her is as pure as it is sincere. 

The nymph, abashed, gently withdraws herself. Her lover attempts to seize her hand; she withholds
it; agitation is betrayed in all her demeanour; she will listen to him no longer. Mercury tenderly
presses her, complains of her Cruelty. Egle languishingly turns her eyes upon him, and begins
to tremble. The God exhibits the most lively joy at it; he redoubles his entreaties, throws
himself at her feet, conjuring her to return his affection. He assures her of the constancy
of his passion by oaths. Egle can no longer resist the passion which impels her, and the ascendancy
of the God who has triumphed over her. She abandons herself entirely to the pleasure receiving
from her lover assurances of his constancy, and she avows her own tender sentiments towards

Mercury enjoys the pleasure of being beloved on his own account; he vows to his fair one the most
tender passion, and they sink into each other's arms. At this instant the scene changes, and
represents the temple of Mercury . 

Zephyr , holding the caduceus in one hand, and with the other pointing to the amorous Faun, discovers
Mercury. Flora , the muse of dancing, as well as the Nymphs and Shepherds , express the surprise
they feel at the disguise of the God. 

Mercury throws himself at the feet of the trembling nymph, and swears to her to continue ever
the tender and faithful shepherd who found means to please her. 

Egle can scarcely believe her felicity; all applaud so excellent a choice, and joy summoning
each of them back to the dance, thus are celebrated the amours of Egle . MARCUS LICINIUS * , AN

Licinius , Emperor of the East . 

Constantia , his wife, a Christian . 

Statira , maid of honour to the Empress, a Christian . 

Benin , captain of the Emperor's Guards . 

Narsis , the lover of Statira, a Christian . 

Agenor , father of Statira, a Christian . 

Guards; Princes and Princesses; Pagan Priests, Populace; Retinue of the Emperor and Empress

The action of the Ballet takes place at the commencement of the Fourth Century. The scene lies
at Nicomedia, a City of Bithynia . 20 ACT I. 

The scene represents the neighbourhood of Nicomedia. A temple dedicated to the Christian
faith is seen in the middle of the stage . 

Narsis outstrips the dawn; he is waiting with impatience for the arrival of his beloved. He
expresses the love he feels for that fair one, and invokes the protection of the God he adores.
Statira , accompanied by her father, and a group of Christians, presents herself to the notice
of Narsis . Tender transports of the two lovers; they fly into each other's arms, and fall down
at the feet of Agenor , who raises them, and presses them to his heart. That venerable old man
unites them in the sight of Heaven, and bestows upon them his benediction. Narsis and Statira
vow an eternal attachment before the altar, and every one present participates in their happiness.
Harps make the air resound with a hymn, and they all with one consent invoke the Eternal. Sacred
dances celebrate the religious festival. Agenor commands them all to retire, and he goes off
attended by his children. ACT II. 

Magnificent apartment in the Imperial Palace . 

Licinius appears; he seems to be agitated by some violent passion. He seats himself by a table,
and meditates on his condition. Love is the cause of his sufferings. He shows himself indignant
at being a slave to this tender passion. The fierceness of his disposition in vain prompts him
to despise it; the charms of Statira have attained too much influence over him: he adores her!
The attractions of that young Princess have enchanted his heart. He knows not what stratagems
to use to put him in possession of the object of his love, and to make himself beloved by her. He
is in the greatest agitation, and appears to have lost all hope. 

He is surprised by Benin , who has been a witness to his transports of love. His confidant evinces
a wish to be made acquainted with the cause of his sorrows, and makes him an offer of his services.
Licinius , unable to resist the transports of his soul, and his situation needing some consolation,
confesses to Benin the passion Statira has inspired him with. Benin , delighted at this proof
of confidence and attachment which he has received from his master, avails himself of this
opportunity of making himself serviceable. This artful courtier flatters the passion of
Licinius , devotes himself entirely to him, and promises him success over the heart of Statira
. The Emperor is restored to the most delightful hopes, and retires depending upon the promise
of his confidant. 

Benin reflects upon the means he is to use to win over Statira , and render his master happy. Should
his projects succeed, his ambition points out to him, in anticipation, the most brilliant

Statira appears; she desires to speak to the Empress. The secret joy of Benin . He begs that Princess
to condescend to listen to him for a moment, having a secret to impart to her which may render
her the happiest of woman kind. The astonishment of Statira . Benin , after having flattered
the vanity of the young beauty by the most fulsome compliments, which greatly surprise Statira
, informs her of the impression her charms have made upon the heart of Licinius , and of the desire
he feels of finding his love returned. Statira stands petrified at these words. Benin attentively
watches her. He does not abate his 20* efforts, he portrays to her the advantages and the honours
which would accrue to her from the Emperor's affection, and, in short, that she would become
mistress of the Emperor's will by submitting to his desires. 

Statira , deprived of utterance, knows not what reply to make. The glory and honours which are
Offered her are, in her mind, but so many insults, and so many degrading affronts. She blushes
on seeing herself thus despised; she is aware of the inflexibility of Licinius , and she trembles
at her situation. 

Benin endeavours to allay her agitation, and to weaken her notions of virtue; he tries to dazzle
her mind by the splendour of Licinius ' rank. However, prudence demands of Statira that she
should manage the perfidious confidant, and that she should not affect the character of her
Worthy master. She answers evasively, dissembles, and begs for time to reflect upon her destiny.

Benin , fearful of losing the golden opportunity, warmly urges her to give him a favourable
answer; but Statira , no longer able to brook such humiliation, and resuming her resolution,
manifests to him by her gestures the most profound contempt for her vile seducers. The energy
which virtue inspires her with renders her superior to all fear, and she forbids Benin ever
more to approach her. He stands dismayed at the firmness of Statira , which his base soul did
not expect from her. Recovering himself, he shows his resentment towards Statira; vengeance
alone can console him for the ill success of his base attempt, and he hastens to inform Licinius

Constantia , surrounded by the ladies of her court, presides at a festival. Each of them is endeavouring
to testify her love and respect for her. 

The dances and sports are interrupted by the arrival of Statira and her father. Statira implores
the Empress to grant her a moment's private audience; Constantia makes a sign, and her court

Statira describes in the most lively colours the sentiments and desires of Licinius , and her
own unfortunate situation. The astonishment of Constantia . Agenor and his daughter prostrate
themselves at her feet, and implore her to protect them. Constantia promises to save them;
she pities their condition, and expresses the indignation which the conduct of Licinius inspires
them with. 

Agenor introduces Narsis , and presents him to the Empress as her daughter's husband. 

Constantia seems to be meditating upon the plan they ought to adopt. At length she sees no other
means of rescuing them from the fury of her husband but by flight. She proposes to Statira to
disguise herself in man's attire. She promises them her assistance. Agenor and his children
depend on her kindness for everything. Narsis goes to make preparations for their departure.
Constantia, Agenor , and Statira implore the protection of heaven. 

During this scene Benin appears, he discovers the understanding that prevails amongst these
personages, and he hastens to acquaint his master with the movements of Statira . 

Constantia invites Agenor to follow her, to communicate to him her ultimate intentions relative
to the flight, 

Statira remains, and waits for the arrival of Narsis . She reflects upon her situation; the
fate of her husband distresses her more than her own. A slight noise is heard, she expects to
see her lover appear, but it is Licinius who presents himself. The dismay of Statira . Rage at
first transports the tyrant; the virtues of this young female act as stings to him, but soon
the charms of Statira soften the asperity of his impetuous nature. Love has taken possession
of his soul Licinius strives to appease the fears of the object of his passion. He endeavours
to give to his countenance a less terrible aspect, and tenderly declares his sentiments. 

Statira with difficulty recovers her spirits; she finds herself undone. Licinius tries to
render himself more agreeable, he assumes a less haughty mien, and his countenance seems,
for the first time, to wear a smile, that he may better carry his aims. Statira , trembling, meets
him with respect and modesty. Licinius declares to her how fondly he loves her, and all the sacrifices
he is prepared pared to make for her sake. The agitation of Statira is increased, she sheds tears.
Licinius implores her to compassionate his fate; she points out his obligations, alluding
to what he owes his wife. Nothing can move him; he uses the most tender entreaties. Statira conjures
him to relinquish his designs, and to spare her. He throws himself at her feet; She attempts
to escape from him; he ardently presses her; she repels him, he redoubles his entreaties, but
Statira , arming herself with noble resolution, tells him that she will never be his. Fury and
threats of Licinius . But nothing can allure Statira . She endeavours to fly. Licinius stops
her, and threatens her with death, if she persists in her resolution. Statira points out to
him the vengeance of heaven Transport of rage of Licinius; he completely relapses into his
terrible character. He calls his guards. They enter; Benin is at their head. Constantia , attracted
by the noise of this transaction, comes in attended by a part of her retinue. Aware of her husband's
disposition, and of the impetuosity of his raging passions, she endeavours to appease him
by her prudence, and pretends to be unacquainted with a part of the adventure. But all in vain.
Licinius orders Statira to be dragged off and imprisoned. He goes off animated by a desire of
vengeance. Constantia deplores her own fate, and that of the her husband's victim. ACT IV.

Interior of the temple of Jupiter; it is adorned with the statues of the principal divinities
of Paganism. An altar stands in the middle . 

Sacrifice to Jupiter. The Priests burn incense on the altars of their Gods, and religious dances,
accompanied by the sound of various musical instruments, celebrate the festival. 

Licinius , attended by his court and guards, makes his appearance. He comes to worship his Gods.
He Orders all his subjects to revere none but them, and to banish every other kind of worship
from his territories, under pain of death. They all submit to his will. 

The ceremony is interrupted by Benin , who comes to announce the escape of the prisoner, favoured
by the arms of the Christians. Licinius is in the height of fury. He places himself at the head
of his warriors, and after dreadful threats, he rushes out to effect the destruction of his
enemies. ACT V. 

The City of Nicomedia is seen in perspective at the back of the stage. The ruins of ancient edifices
are scattered about the scene . 

Narsis , at the head of his faithful companions, pursues a party of Licinius ' Soldiers. The
latter brings assistance to his warriors, whom he sees on the point of being over-powered.
He has the advantage on his side, and the Christians are obliged to yield to the numbers which
overwhelm them. Licinius , wounded by Narsis , rushes upon him, and aims a terrible blow at him,
which a warrior, who has placed himself before him, purposely to shield him, receives. 

The young hero totters; his helmet falls, and his hair and features discover the person of Statira
, disguised in the garb of a man, in order to escape from the tyrant. Universal surprise! Mournful
feelings of Licinius . Despair of Agenor and Narsis , the latter of whom rushes upon his sword,
and falls by the side of his beloved. 

Constantia arrives at the moment of this terrible scene. She sheds tears over the unfortunate
objects of her protection. Statira recommends the fate of her father to Licinius , and conjures
him to pardon his Christian subjects. She embraces Agenor and Constantia , and dies in the arms
of her husband. 

At this moment a celestial brightness illumines the clouds, and on a sudden the heavens are
darkened, and the thunder rolls in grandeur. The spotless soul of Statira appears translated
to the abode of the blessed. 

Constantia invokes the eternal in favour of her husband, whom this distracting scene has rendered
motionless with terror. 

General and pictorial grouping, in which is portrayed the contrast of the different sentiments

Argenia . 

Sidonius , son of a Phoenician King . 

Dorisbe , daughter of Argenia and Morastus, who was killed in battle by Sidonius . 

Arsenia , confidential attendant on Dorisbe . 

Narbas , an aged servant in the Palace . 

Griffe , his wife . 

A Page of Dorisbe's; a Squire attending Sidonius; Priests, People, Court, and Guards . 

The Scene passes at Memphis . ACT I 

Scene .- The country about Memphis. A temple is discovered dedicated to Nemesis, the Goddess
of Revenge, whose statue appears covered with votive funereal ornaments. Upon an altar is
placed an urn, containing the ashes of Morastus . 

Argenia enters, she is followed by her daughter, guards, and people. A sacrifice is made to
Nemesis, at which nil assist, taking a remarkable interest in the solemnity. Argenia promises
the hand of her daughter to him who shall revenge the death of her husband by slaying Sidonius

The latter is conducted by chance to this scene, and enters disguised, and unknown to any; he
learns with astonishment the motive of the sacrifice; he passionately loves the beautiful
Dorisbe , but dreads the consequences, Argenia again proclaims the promise with its conditions;
and the more deeply to impress her subjects with a desire of revenge, she directs their attention
to the ensanguined armour of her husband. A general expression of indignation follows; while
Argenia , in tears, calls down the wrath of heaven upon the victor's head, whose life all swear
to sacrifice. The distress of Sidonius becomes extreme; and he complains to the Gods of his
cruel fate. ACT II. 

The Palace and Royal Gardens . 

Dorisbe is discovered sporting amidst a troop of young companions;music and dancing contributing
to their pleasure. Sidonius , disguised as an Arabian shepherd, appears, and endeavours to
gain admission to the Princess, whom be loves. He accordingly promises the old governor of
the gardens to discover a treasure for him, if he will grant him admission into his dominions.
Narbas seems to raise great difficulties, but Sidonius informing him that the enchantment
that will put him in possession of this wealth must take place in the palace, both the old man
and his wife immediately grant him an asylum, and Sidonius passes for their son. 

He is then presented to Dorisbe , who receives him graciously, and Sidonius endeavours to attract
her attention by the amiability of his conduct, and by offering a bouquet of flowers recently
gathered. Already does the young Princess feel a certain pleasure in beholding the youth,
Who soon perceives this, and becomes inspired with a modest confidence. He plays upon certain
instruments, dances, and evinces qualities far above his apparent rank in life. Dorisbe is
surprised at such abilities, and examines the pretended shepherd with a pleasing curiosity,
while her heart becomes unusually perturbed, and the affection of Sidonius increases. Narbas
and Griffe , his wife, inspired by avarice, now advance and remind the supposed peasant of the
promised discovery. Sidonius , to appease their avarice, and to gain time for his designs,
presents them with a cup of gold, procured, as they imagine, by his knowledge of magic. They
seem peculiarly delighted with the gift. Here a banquet takes place, at which Sidonius fills
the office of cup-bearer, and offers wine to the young Princess. Their eyes encounter each
other as by accident, when a certain tender and lively expression informs each of what is passing
within. Dorisbe , taking the cup given by Sidonius , admires the beauty of its workmanship,
and asks him how he got possession of it? The shepherd replies that he won it at rustic games.
All that Dorisbe sees fills her with suspicion and a curiosity to know more; tranquillity,
in short, no longer reigns within her bosom. ACT III. 

Scene .- A grove in the garden; break of day . Enter Narbas and his wife; they display the cup of
gold lately given by Sidonius . Unable to take rest, from an insatiable desire to increase their
possessions, they now consult on the means necessary to be employed to Oblige Sidonius to discover
the promised treasure. They indulge the flattering hope of changing their present servile
condition: inspired by such sentiments, they hasten away to find Sidonius , and force him to
keep his promise. Dorisbe enters alone, she exhibits signs of those feelings with which the
shepherd stranger has inspired her breast; but remembering the meanness Of his birth, she
becomes greatly agitated, and laments her fate. Sidonius appears; love and fear by turns affect
his breast. Upon perceiving Dorisbe he is greatly surprised; his agitation increases, but
inspired by his passion, he approaches and presents himself before the astonished Dorisbe
. After some gestures of fear and restraint on both sides, nature at length triumphs, and the
lovers reciprocally express the sentiments of affection they entertain for each other. Sidonius
discovers his rank; he informs her of the stratagem he has practised to gain admission, but
conceals in the deepest silence his real name. Dorisbe seems unprepared for so much happiness.

The sound of horns is heard- Dorisbe takes a hasty leave of her lover, and retires; but Sidonius
remains and joins the train of the Queen.-Squires announce the approach of Argenia; she appears
and gives orders to prepare for the chase, and departs in procession. Scene, a forest-the chase
. Excursions are discovered in various directions; at length a furious boar rushes toward
the Queen Argenia , upon which Sidonius instantly flies to her relief, and slays the sanguinary
animal; while the whole company axe overjoyed at the victory; and Sidonius becomes an object
of royal and universal congratulation, and is distinguished by peculiar marks of honour.

An apartment in the Palace.-Dorisbe and Sidonius are discovered exchanging marks of mutual
affection; they express their determination to be united for ever. In the midst of this, however,
a deep melancholy appears on the countenance of Sidonius , and mixes itself with their hopes
of future happiness. Dorisbe perceives this with anxiety, and fears that she has been deceived
by her laver; but Sidonius assures her of his constancy, and entreats her to forgive the feelings
caused by a secret woe. Dorisbe instantly seeks to know what is the concealed grief that so affects
him; unable to resist her affectionate inquiries, Sidonius discovers his name; when both
are immediately plunged into the deepest woe. Sidonius protests his innocence, but Dorisbe
dares not pardon him; he implores forgiveness on his knees, and bathes with tears the hand of
Dorisbe . At this moment Argenia appears, and immediately exhibits marks of indignation.
The lovers throw themselves at her feet, and beseech her pardon, but in vain; both are seized
as equally guilty. Death is the sentence adjudged by the law, unless their innocence be proved
by two knights who must enter into combat, as their representatives. Sidonius , unwilling
to augment their mutual sufferings, still keeps his real name and rank concealed from the Queen.
Scene, a prison.-Sidonius appears in the deepest distress. He, however, prevails by a present
of gold, and the gaoler allows him to escape; he flies upon the wings of love to seek and save Dorisbe
. ACT V. 

Scene . An open place, in the centre of which stands a funeral pile . 

Argenia and her court assist at the solemn ceremony. Combat between two warriors, one being
habited in white armour, the other in black; the first appears as the champion of Sidonius ,
while the second sustains the cause of Dorisbe . The black knight is victorious, and discovers
that his antagonist is no other than Dorisbe herself; while he proves himself to be the Arabian
shepherd; the astonishment and joy become universal, all admiring such an unequalled example
of love and valour. Argenia is deeply affected, and loses all power of inflicting further punishment.
All hasten to the assistance of the fainting Dorisbe; she gradually recovers; the real name
of the unknown conqueror is now demanded; Sidonius declares himself, and the consternation
becomes universal The indignation of Argenia is immediately kindled; while Dorisbe remains
unnoticed and oppressed by the weight of her woes. Sidonius declares that, though innocent,
he is ready to sacrifice his life to satisfy Argenia , and appease the manes of Morastus . The
court is moved at the unfortunate situation of the young hero. The Queen, though not forgetful
of what she owes to the Prince, suffers the desire to revenge her husband's death to overcome
every other consideration. At this moment Dorisbe rushes on a sword to stab herself, but is
prevented from doing the horrid deed; the nobility implore the Queen's mercy for the lovers;
at length Argenia yielding to sentiments of justice and gratitude, grants a pardon, to the
joy of all her subjects, and the delight of the happy pair. Universal fetes and rejoicing in
honour of the Queen's magnanimity terminate the Ballet. APHRODITA * , A MYTHOLOGICAL BALLET,

The following is nearly a literal translation of the description of the birth of Venus from

"-He threw the bleeding mutilation into the stormy sea of Epirus; it floated long amid the waves,
till at length a white and foamy scum gathered around; a charming child appeared, and soon a
lovely nymph arose. 

"To Cythera first she passed, isle divine; then she fled to sea-surrounded Cyprus. She went
forth an adored deity, divinely fair; beneath her tender foot the grass more gladly grew. Gods
and men have named her Aphrogenia and Aphrodita; she is entitled, also, the garland-crowned
Cytherea, because begot on froth, and first received 21 upon the Cytherean shores. She was
surnamed Cypria too, because bred up on Cyprus isle. 

"The wonder of her birth endows her with the name of Philomedia. When first presented to the
assembly of immortal Gods, Love and Cupid * bore her, company. These are the honours and the
titles adjudged to her by Gods and men. She holds dominion over sweet discourse, innocent deceits,
smiles and gentle flatteries; loves and pleasures follow and surround her as their Queen."
Theogony . 

Cicero mentions four Venuses; the first is the daughter of the Sky and the Day; she had a temple
at Elis; the second sprung from the froth of the Sea, and was united to Mercury , who begat Cupid;
the third, was the daughter of Jupiter and Dione , was married to Vulcan , and had a son by Mars
, named Antirus; the fourth was the child of Sirus and Siria , and was worshipped by the Phoenicians
under the title of Astarte . All these Venuses, however, are generally included in one, namely,
the second mentioned above. Boccaccio, in his work on The Genealogy of the Gods; Poliziano,
in his Stanze; Sannazzaro Marino, and a number of other moderns, have followed the opinion
of Hesiod. CHARACTERS. 

Venus , or Aphrodita . 

Jupiter . 

Juno . 

Neptune . 

Ceres . 

Minerva . 

Mercury . 

Vesta . 

Apollo . 

Diana . 

Mars . 

Vulcan . 

The Fates . 

Saturn . 

Genius . 

Pluto . 

Bacchus . 

Cupid . 

Cybele . 

Proserpine . 

Pan . 

Pales . 

Flora . 

Zephyr . 

The Graces . 

Hymen . 

Hebe . 

Nymphs . 

Fauns . 

Satyrs . 

Shepherds . 

Shepherdesses . 

Hunters . 

Lemnians . 

Nereids . 

Tritons . 

Cyclops . 

Warriors attending Mars . 

Bellona . TABLEAU I. 

The stage represents the sea-coast of Epirus. A bright prospect of fields stretches down to
the ocean. On the right is perceived the statue of Spring The light of the scene shows the break
of day . 

Flora , Zephyr, Pan , and Pales , followed by Nymphs Fauns, Satyrs, Shepherds, Shepherdesses
and Hunters , enter dancing; they carry baskets of fruits and flowers; garlands 21* lands and
coronets; the sound of their rustic instruments regulates and animates their steps. After
a measured march, they proceed to deposit their offerings at the feet of the statue of Spring,
adorning it with flowers and the gifts of Pomona. The feast is celebrated by sports and dances,
until they are interrupted by a rumbling noise, which seems to proceed from the earth. The sea
is observed to be greatly agitated, tossing on high its foaming waves; every one, struck with
astonishment and dread, hastens to the shore to discover the cause of this unusual commotion;
when Venus is seen rising from the troubled ocean; she is borne in a marine shell * by Nereids
and Tritons . The Goddess, enveloped in a great veil, and reclining in an attitude of repose,
appears in all her splendour. When the daughter of Ocean has arisen from her wavy bed, Apollo
arrives in his chariot of fire; he comes to dissipate the twilight that hangs around her, and
to illumine her charms; he then remounts on his course. In the skies are seen the assembled deities
who presided at the birth of Venus . Both gods and mortals are wrapt in admiration at her extraordinary

The youthful Goddess, lifting now her eyes, Throws round a gaze of terror and surprise She wonders
at the waves, the skies, the light, Whose brightness wounds her unaccustom'd sight; Sighing
she speaks, and her first accent tells The future mistress of enchanting spells. Where am I?
whence awaked? what bliss I feel! What gentle gales perfum'd around me steal! How beautiful
is nature, and how blest! What genial warmth pervades my heaving breast! What's this that beats
so quick beneath my hands? And as it beats the gentle heat expands. On breasts exposed, her downcast
looks are stayed, Vainly she tries their nakedness to shade O'er the soft hills, her pressing
fingers stray, She droops confus'd, and seems to die away. From the French of Demoustier * 

At the sight of this seducing beauty all hearts are filled with admiration. Zephyr flies around
Venus , he gathers together hisazure clouds, and envelopes the Goddess in them; and then transports
her into the skies, conducting her to those scenes she is destined to adorn with her presence.
The attendants of Zephyr and Flora , gazing still on Venus , follow her until she disappears.
General Picture . 

The marine powers regain their watery dwellings, and Flora departs, accompanied by her train.

The stage exhibits the enchanting abodes of the island of Cyprus. The sea is discovered in the
distance. To the right rises a lofty rock; on the same side appears the statue of Jupiter . The
scene is filled with Nymphs, indulging in light dances and joyful sports. Venus and Zephyr
now appear in the air, and descend into the isle. (They enter on the right.) 

The Nymphs , in surprise, admire the charming visiter. Zephyr confides to their charge the
care of the Goddess; he describes to them her birth, and after having taken leave, he departs
on a bed of roses, Composed by some nymphs, who, grouping around him, follow him with their eyes
till he disappears, presenting an agreeable picture. The Nymphs having joyfully received
the orders of the God of gentle gales, signs of mutual kindness are exchanged, and each seems
charmed with the happy event. A troop of nymphs hasten to enrobe the daughter of Ocean, and adorn
her with flowers; others invite her to prepare a sacrifice to the Gods. She obeys, and following
their example, prostrates herself before the statue of Jupiter , whose nature and worship
is taught her by one of the nymphs, her companions; Venus then burns incense upon the altar of
the governor of Gods. After this religious ceremony, the feast is celebrated by dances, in
which Venus is instructed by one of the amiable Nymphs . These amusements are interrupted by
the unexpected arrival of Mercury , who, descending from the skies remains motionless before
the resplendent charms of Venus . Every one is attentive in listening to the celestial messenger,
who, by order of Jupiter , is to conduct Venus to Olympus. The command of the consort of Juno fills
the nymphs with grief, which is displayed in their gestures. The sovereign decree must, however,
be obeyed, and after an affectionate adieu, Venus , accompanied by Mercury , ascends a flying
chariot, and leaves with reluctance her beloved companions, who show lively emotions of sorrow
at the loss of their divine charge TABLEAU III 

Represents the interior of Olympus; the edifice is supported on masses of azure and golden
clouds spread entirely over the stage. Jupiter reclines majestically amongst the other divinities

The Gods appear to pay homage to their governor. A distant noise is heard, which announces the
approach of Vulcan: the clouds dividing discover the Lemnian God ascending into the heavens.
He is come from his island, and, advancing respectfully towards his father, he begs him to arm
his powerful hand with the bolts he has just forged. The son of Saturn shows signs of satisfaction;
while the performance is beheld by the Other powers with admiration. In the mean time Venus
, accompanied by Mercury , attains the palace on the same side at which Vulcan had entered, and
presents herself to the observation of the celestial assembly. The admiration and astonishment
become universal. Jealousy takes possession of the hearts of the Goddesses. The thundering
King admires the divine stranger. The flame of love is already kindled in the breasts of Vulcan
, Mars , and Apollo . Jupiter descends from his throne, the deities follow him; he approaches
Venus , embraces her, and, placing a crown upon her head, proclaims her Goddess of Beauty. The
ruler of the skies declares, that as Juno partakes with him the empire of heaven, and that as
Pallas is patroness of wisdom, so shall Venus be the mistress of beauty. He commands also that
the young Goddess should have as inseparable companions, Love * and the Graces . Venus seems
confused and modestly displays her joy. The rival Goddesses, endeavouring to dissimulate,
conceal their real envy. Her reception is celebrated by dances, in which Apollo , Mercury ,
Hebe , the Graces , and Love take a part. Venus is distinguished by her seducing manners and voluptuous
attitudes. Vulcan , deeply enamoured with the charms of this ravishing beauty, finds himseIf
excited to demand her hand of Jupiter , as a reward for the service he had just performed. Mars
and Apollo , also, as much overcome as their rival, entreat possession of the charming deity,
as a recompense of their heroic deeds; but Vulcan having made the first demand, and in Consideration
of his late services, and reiterated supplication, is preferred, and obtains the accomplishment
of his desires. Anger and resentment take possession of Mars and Apollo. Cupid appears inclined
to take part with the first, in whose fate he interests himself, and approaching him slily,
by a sign, inspires him with sentiments of hope. The Thracian God, revived at the happy intimation,
expects every thing from the assistance of Love; he essays to engage the attention of Venus
by pleasing assiduities. In the mean time Jupiter unites Vulcan to Venus; the latter, submitting
to his orders, becomes the ridicule of her jealous rivals, who observe with pleasure this preposterous
union with the hideous offspring of Jupiter; Hymen presides at the ceremony. Vulcan , his wishes
being now gratified, returns thanks to his father, and taking possession of his bride, he departs
from Olympus, and returns to his island. The divinities attend Jupiter into his palace, while
Mars and Cupid , slily slipping from the assembly, hasten away to forward their designs. TABLEAU

A view of the beautiful and fertile fields of the Island of Lemnos . 

Venus and Vulcan descend in a golden chariot; the inhabitants receive them with marks of reverence
and love. Vulcan introduces to them their charming Queen; they are surprised at her beauty.
He expresses his own love and delight, and Venus returns in an agreeable manner the advances
of her husband. Various occupations call Vulcan to his forge, he is obliged to leave his consort
but promises shortly to return. The men of Lemnos follow their king, leaving their wives to
attend upon Venus; each of whom endeavours to pay homage to the Goddess, placing her on a throne
of flowers which they had constructed. 

This pleasing scene is interrupted by the noise of warlike instruments; fear taking possession
of their breasts, the Nymphs disappear, while Venus seems overpowered with dread. It is the
God Mars , who appears in a chariot driven by Bellona; he is armed with terror, accompanied by
Love and attended by warriors. Venus gradually recovers, but her timidity cannot support
the sight of the warlike deity; trembling she attempts to fly. Mars pursues, stops her flight,
and throws himself at her feet. Cupid , seizing this propitious moment, draws his bow, and Venus
is wounded by his dart. A Picture . The young Goddess, for the first time, feels the pains of love,
inflicted by a deity, powerful though a child. She feels emotions at her heart; she is confused
and agitated, yet beholds Mars with pleasure, who adores her. She listens with pleasure to
his enamoured language, and receives with joy his oaths of love and sincerity. Notwithstanding
this, the habiliments of the God of battles and the warlike train attending him still alarm
the timid Goddess, and she expresses her fear of them to Mars . The condescending hero obediently
lays aside his arms, and causes his attendants to withdraw. Love , who has not remained idle
in this scene, now presents his new convert to Venus more agreeably dressed, and suitable to
his present situation; and having woven a crown of flowers, he presents it to Venus , who places
it upon the head of her lover. The Goddess contemplates with delight the change that has taken
place, expressing to Mars how much more pleasing and amiable he appears in his present attire.
The God accosts her with a peculiar ardour of passion; Venus blushes, is confused and hesitates;
Mars perceiving her irresolution, redoubles his solicitations, and conjures her with increased
fervor to satisfy his wishes; but it is Cupid who completes the conquest, and the two lovers
fall into each other's arms, while he triumphs in their reciprocal transports. Mars and Venus
, in the excess of their delight, swear eternal fidelity, and then betake themselves to the
pleasure of dancing. 

Their enjoyment is now interrupted by the arrival of Minerva and Mercury , who descend in a chariot
drawn by owls. They are commissioned to announce to Mars the necessity of his departure into
Thrace to subdue the Titans; such being the royal pleasure of Jupiter . The two lovers appear
thunderstruck: by this news; they become motionless; and all their vows of affection must
be broken. The Ocean's daughter feels the most poignant grief. Rage and revenge inspire her
breast. Minerva persuades them to be calm, and induces them to act promptly and resolutely.
The son of Juno , unable to withstand the power of Jupiter , takes an affectionate farewell of
his mistress, and departs fully armed, but a prey to despair. Minerva consoles Venus , and covering
her with the AEgis, protects her from the fatal passion. Love , to try the effect of his arrows,
engages in a contest with the Goddess of Wisdom, but he is vanquished, and finding himself deceived,
and his designs frustrated, he wings his way into the skies, the daughter of Jove laughing at
the rage of the malignant boy. 

Vulcan now enters, accompanied by his attendants, he revisits his wife with delight, the influence
of Minerva having entirely obliterated every trace of what has happened. The happy couple
exchange marks of mutual attachment, while Vulcan invites Minerva and Mercury to attend him
into his palace to partake of a banquet. TABLEAU V. 

A magnificent interior of the Palace of Vulcan . 

The Gods arrive; a superb throne is prepared to receive them, and they preside at the dances
and games. The court of Vulcan , the Lemnians and the Cyclops , who are armed with hammers, and
whose grotesque gestures and dancing form a marked contrast to the graceful attitudes of the
Nymphs , complete the entertainment. Mercury partakes of the dancing, and Venus , to satisfy
the wishes of the assembly, joins the troop of Terpsichore, unfolding new charms by the graces
of her motion. After a general dance, the Ballet finishes by the formation of a group intended
to convey an idea of the homage due to the Goddess of Beauty. DIBUTADE * , OR THE ORIGIN OF DESIGN.

The ancient traditional allegory, which relates Love to have been the inventor of the wonderful
art professed by Apelies and Raphael, suggested the design of this dramatic performance.
Love, who is every day producing prodigies, and who gave birth to all the fine arts, incited
the young Dibutade to this discovery: warmed by his inspiration, and animated by his genius,
she made the first essay in Design. This young damsel, in the excess of affection for her absent
lover, which amounted to a delirium, fancied him present to her eyes. She instantly desires
to preserve his image. Love , guiding the ardour of her fancy, teaches her to trace file likeness
of Polydore , and the sight of these simple lines supplied to mankind the idea of the admirable
art of painting. 

According to the writings of Pliny, the inventor of this art was Gyges of Lydia, who taught it
to the Egyptians. This author relates that Gyges being near the fire, and perceiving the reflection
of his shadow, he took a coal and drew the outlines of his body upon the wall. Apollodorus afterwards
invented the pencil. 

Philocares of Egypt, and Cleanthes of Corinth, passed also as the inventors of painting. Enchires,
brother-in-law to Daedalus, calls him the original discoverer, as his relative had been of

Further, it may be gathered from the ancients, that Crato of Sycion was regardedas the inventor
of painting, he having traced the outlines round the shadow of his horse, while the sun was shining
upon the sand. The name of Corinthia has also been assigned to Dibutade when relating her essay;
but the name and anecdote of Dibutade being more generally known, they have been preferred.

Philocles , manufacturer of earthen vases . 

Dibutade , in love with Polydore, and daughter of Philocles . 

Polydore , a Greek Officer, enamoured of Dibutade . Cupid . 

Apollo . 

The Muses . 

Dryads . 

Sylvans , 

Shepherds , 

Shepherdesses . 

People of Sycion . 

The scene is laid at Sycion, a town of Greece . ACT I. 

The scene represents a rural retreat consecrated to the God Pan, whose image, together with
that of Cupid , adorns the prospect, In the distance the sea is discovered. Trees of majestic
growth and verdant bowers, swelling banks and glittering fountains delight the eye. The silver
rays of the moon illumine the landscape . 

Within the bowers, and beneath the spreading tress, Dryads and Sylvans are reposing. Shepherd
swains, each accompanied by his partner, enter dancing to the sound of rustic music. The woodland
divinities awaking, join in the dance and celebrate their patron, Pan , and the God of Love .
During this Divertissement , night disappears, and rising, day chases the moon beneath the

Towards the end of these amusements, the sky becomes darkened, and every circumstance indicates
an approaching storm. The dances are suspended; the sea is agitated; lightnings blaze forth,
and the thunder roars; the woodland train hastens away to seek shelter. A vessel appears struggling
amidst the waves; it drives towards the shore; unable to resist their fury, it is at length run
aground, and dashed upon the rocks. A few moments afterwards, Polydore is seen clinging to
a wreck of the vessel, and, impelled by the billows, he is at length tossed upon the land. He appears
exhausted by exertion, yet he strives to keep himself on his feet. He essays to discover on what
country he is thrown, but finds no mark of information; he knows not which way to direct his steps,
and is ignorant of what may be his fate. The wretched lot of his lost companions, who are become
the victims of the storm, presents itself to his mind, renders him miserable, and plunges him
into despair. He now recalls the image of Dibutade , it revives his drooping powers, and fortifies
his breast against misfortune. His woe is alleviated by the remembrance of his love; she alone,
even in idea, transports him amid distress; and could he but behold her, that distress would
be forgotten; but, how shall he discover her dwelling? distressing situation ! He now perceives
the statue of Love; hoping for aid from that divinity, he implores for pity and protection,
and to have his desires granted. Oppressed by his woe, he then sinks upon a bank. 

Love at length appears, he comes to console Polydore , and to restore his mistress. The God seems
occupied with Some important project; and he intends to render his suppliant instrumental
in his designs. He approaches the young lover, and touches him with his bow; Polydore awakes,
restored by the magic application; he is lost in astonishment at the sight of the deity; he prostrates
himself; Love encourages him, and on the pedestal of his own statue traces these words:- 

While hast'ning to bring thee desired delight, I discover an art that shall ravish the sight
* . 

Polydore is scarcely able to contain himself, so greatly is he overjoyed. Love again encourages
him, and striking the earth with his bow, the scene changes, and they are at once conveyed to
the dwelling of Dibutade . 

Scene , the house of Philocles. To the right and near a projecting wall which forms a kind of portico,
are observed various kinds of earthen vases. Polydore throws himself at the feet of Love, and
appears anxious to behold his dear Dibutade . The young God commands him to announce his arrival
in writing, directing him to perform it with the point of a dart upon a papyrus. Polydore obeys,
and writes what Love dictates, who takes the epistle, and causes Polydore to conceal himself
until the accomplishment of his wishes; the lover submits. The mischievous boy of Cythera
the disguises himself as Anthenor, a pupil of Philocles , and betakes himself to the manufacture
off vases. He seems meditating on his designs, and expresses himself confident of success.

Dibutade enters; love appears to engross all her thoughts; the absence of Polydore Causes
all her woe; Cupid watches her motion, and shortly after approaches and presents himself before
her. His sprightly air and gay behaviour are offensive to Dibutade; and she desires him to show
more respect to her situation; Love smiles and continues his roguishness; Dibutade , impatient
of such effrontery, is going, but is prevented by the pretended Anthenor, who entreats her
to pardon his jocular humour, which is caused by a piece of good news that he is going to inform
her. Dibutade is surprised! does it concern her love? Cupid replies in the affirmative. Dibutade
implores him not to keep her in uncertainty, but to explain himself without further delay.
The mischievous boy gaily resumes his discourse, smiling at the torments of the affectionate
girl. He at length satisfies her request, by telling her that a message has been sent to him announcing
the arrival of Polydore , and that probably she may soon behold him at her feet. After this information
he delivers the letter from her lover. Dibutade seizes it with transport, she cannot contain
her joy; 22 she devours with her eyes the much-beloved and long-desired characters. Philocles
is introduced by Love to partake of the happiness of his beloved daughter; they embrace; but
the epistle of her lover again attracts her attention, and she becomes immoveable with admiration;
it inflames and transports her, until she falls into a sort of delirium. She imagines she is
addressing Polydore , and describes to him the feelings he has inspired and the ardour with
which she burns. Philocles , greatly affected, endeavours to calm her. Love , seizing the propitious
moment, leads forth Polydore in one hand, while in the other he bears his torch. The scene is
brightened by its flame. Cupid and Polydore are standing behind Philocles and his daughter.
Immediately upon their entrance, the shadow of Polydore is reflected upon the wall of the apartment.
Both parties are equally surprised. Inspired by affection, and burning to preserve the traits
of the beloved youth, Dibutade seizes a pencil, and, guided by Love , she traces the outlines
around the shadow of Polydore . 

Satisfied with the success of his intentions, the young God waves his torch over Dibutade and
she is restored to her senses; he then resumes his own shape and resigns Polydore into the arms
of Dibutade . 

Love recalls the recollection of Philocles and his daughter, who are struck motionless with
surprise: all now prostrate themselves. The performance of Dibutade is universally applauded;
and all do honour to the art that ravishes the sight. ACT II. 

Scene .- A charming prospect, representing the sacred Valley . 

Apollo appears seated on Parnassus, in the midst of the Muses; Love advances with those whom
he has patronized. The rural divinities, &c., assemble themselves to witness the solemn celebration.
Cupid , accompanied by the two lovers, offers his own Dibutade' s performance, which Apollo
receives graciously to the Muses, who, decorating it with flowers, do honour to the newly discovered
art. The son of Venus receives from the hands of Apollo a resplendant crown, as the reward of
his genius. His deeds are duly celebrated; while Dibutade is united to her lover by their divine
protector. The Ballet is terminated by universal dancing, and allegorical representations
analogous to the subject. 22* THE FALSE LORD * . A COMIC BALLET, IN TWO ACTS. CHARACTERS. 

The Marquis . 

Frontin , his servant . 

The Steward . 

Louise , niece to the Steward . 

Colin , in love with Louise . 

Mathurin , in love with Louise also, a simpleton. Village Lads and Maidens; Servants of the
Marquis . 

The Scene is laid in France . ACT I. 

Scene .- A green bower adjoining the chateau, the front of which appears on the right. On the
left is discovered the village. Near the bower rises a green bank . 

Colin and Mathurin are rivaling each other in endeavouring to procure the smiles of Louise
, who is inclined to favour the first, but rejects the latter. The two lovers amuse themselves
with the simple Mathurin , who exhibits all the marks of disappointment. 

The Steward enters, he holds a paper in his hand, and seems occupied in preparing a speech he
is to deliver. Mathurin , perceiving him, leaves Colin and Louise and hastens to make complaint
of his treatment. The Steward , busily engaged in his own affairs, pays no attention to him.
Mathurin is offended, and all present themselves before the Steward , to acquaint him with
their several pretensions; but the latter, not attending to their request, wishes them to
listen to the address he has prepared for the Marquis; they turn away from him offended; upon
which the Steward forbids both the pretenders to speak to his niece, adding, that he shall not
make known his intentions until the arrival of the Marquis; he then withdraws draws, taking
Louise with him; Colin steals after, unperceived. 

Mathurin , left to himself, is in despair; he knows not on what to resolve, and falls into a reverie.

Frontin enters; having left his master at the house of a favourite lady, he has preceded him
to announce; his arrival. He examines the place in which he is. Mathurin perceives him, and
observing a dress and air he is unaccustomed to see, mistakes Frontin for the Marquis . He bows
without knowing when to have done. Frontin appears surprised at such a reception. Mathurin
gives him to understand that all are impatient to behold him in the village, and describes the
honours that will be paid him, and the fetes intended to celebrate his arrival. Frontin , charmed
at this description, and dazzled with the honours of distinction, makes several awkward reflections.
An idea strikes him, he appears delighted at it; but hesitates before attempting to put it into
execution; at length, however, he is determined to personate, the Marquis . He buttons up his
coat to conceal his livery. He imitates the manners of persons of rank, gives himself awkward
airs, and promises his patronage to the peasant before him; at which Mathurin is overjoyed,
and begs the pretended gentleman to take some refreshment. Frontin instantly accepts the
invitation with pleasure, anal in a trice finishes bottle of wine, so great is his thirst, while
the villager stares in astonishment. The footman, finding his courage rise under the influence
of the wine, is determined boldly to continue the cheat. Mathurin , observing his good humour,
profits of it, and makes a confession of his love for Louise , begging Frontin to procure him
her hand; the latter engages to satisfy him, Mathurin returns a thousand thanks, and hastens
to announce his arrival in the village. 

Frontin now exercises himself in imitating the manners of his master, whom he apes in every
action. Knowing his indulgence, he is not at all troubled with the idea of punishment, and prepares
himself to enjoy the fruits of his successful deception. No time, however, must be lost; he
is going out to change his dress, but is detained by the entrance of Louise , who asks him, with
modest fear, if it is to the Marquis she has the honour of addressing herself. Frontin replies
it is. She then entreats him to pay no regard to Mathurin , but to unite her to Colin , whom she loves.
Frontin has remarked her interesting appearance and becomes enchanted with her amiable simplicity.
He evinces a design upon her; but does not yet venture to inform her; unwilling, however, to
disappoint the pretty villager, he bids her entertain hopes that she shall he satisfied. He
desires her to see that every thing is prepared for his reception in the village; and then withdraws
casting significant glances at her. Louise is overjoyed at her success, and confides in the
kindness of the supposed Marquis. 

The Steward now arrives, accompanied by country people of both sexes, together with Colin
and Mathurin , the latter of whom has informed them of every thing, Preparations are made to
receive the Marquis , and the Steward's orders are promptly executed. 

Frontin now appears dressed in his master's clothes; he receives, with amusing air of assumed
grandeur, the compliments of the villagers, acknowledging, in a burlesque style, their declarations
of attachment. The Steward , in affection; at the same time presenting his niece with her two
rivals, and asking his consent to the marriage of Louise . The pretended Marquis, having his
own views upon her, defers giving his decision from some certain secret motive, and gives orders
for the fete to begin. Every one obeys. The enamoured party appear in great anxiety. After the
Divertissement, Frontin rises, and declares his intention of giving a dinner at the chateau,
to the surrounding nobility and gentry. Every one now prepares himself for the new fete. 

The joyous peasantry and the Steward accompany Frontin to his residence. Colin and Louise
steal away from the crowd and return to complain of their fate. 

The Marquis himself now appears, he seems extremely disappointed at not having met his lady;
at being obliged to hasten his journey, which he has performed on foot: he is exhausted by fatigue.
Perceiving the two villagers, them if they had observed any person They reply yes, and that
the Marquis is arrived at the chateau. The Marquis is astonished! On making further inquires
he learns clearly has taken place, and suspects his roguish footman to be the author of the deception.
He, however, conceals his indignation, and seems meditating on some new project. The two lovers
appear desirous of knowing who he is. He replies that he is an agent of the Marquis , and also his
banker. Colin and Louise apprise him of their mutual passion, and entreat him to conciliate
the consent of his master to their union. The Marquis appear interested in their behalf, and
informs them that he wishes to be secretly introduced into the chateau. They consent to assist
him to the utmost of their abilities. The Marquis seems prepared to take revenge, and to punish
his impudent servant. He withdraws, attended by Louise and Colin . ACT II. 

The scene represents the hall of the chateau; the garden is discovered through the entrance
at the lower end . 

The Marquis enters, and waits the arrival of Frontin , in order that he may observe his conduct.
The latter soon makes his appearance, accompanied by the Steward; they are discoursing on
affairs. The Marquis conceals himself to make remarks. The Steward draws from his pocket a
quantity of money, and deposits it on the table; then makes up his accounts. Frontin is electrified
at the sight of the gold. The Steward gives him to understand that the money belongs to him as
his right. Frontin knows not how to contain himself; his eyes devour the money, while his hands
are employed in counting. He, however, recollects himself, and shrinks from dishonesty;
but finding himself unable to resist the temptation, he orders the Steward to take it, and lock
it up himself, and to prepare the fete immediately. The Steward obeys, though surprised at
the in difference of his master. This action of Frontin at once appeases the resentment of his
master. The fellow muses on his new condition, but the entrance of Louise puts an end to his meditations,
and Changes them into joy. She does not venture to approach him, but Frontin encourages her
by his gestures. She informs him that she is again come to implore him to unite her to Colin , and
to appoint the day Of marriage; butts proposal not answering the intentions Of Frontin , he
turns the subject of the conversation, flatters, and compliments her on her agreeable qualities.
The young village maid blushes, and appears confused. Frontin growing impertinent, Louise
attempts to escape from him, but he arrests her flight. He now makes confession of his love on
which Louise becomes greatly agitated. Fearing to offend the supposed Marquis, she knows
not how to proceed. At length she sees no hope, but in artifice; she pretends to faint, and is
on the point of falling. Frontin , fearing discovery, is greatly perplexed. He places the maid
in an arm chair, and searches on all sides for assistance; he knows not what to do. The design
of Louise has succeeded and while Frontin is seeking for aid, she rises and runs away unperceived,
thus avoiding his disagreeable advances. Frontin now returns to the spot where he had left
the young villager; but what is his surprise on finding her gone! He perceives himself tricked.
He storms and menaces Louise with the effects of his rage, and meditates on the means of revenge.
The Marquis has observed all that passed, and has been much amused at the scene, particularly
at the vexatious predicament of his man Frontin . 

The Steward , the two lovers and the peasantry enter. The repast is prepared, and each takes
his place. Frontin endeavours to overcome his agitation, and to effect an easy and genteel

The villagers enliven the fete by dances and pantomimic gestures. Frontin unmercifully devours
whatever is set before him, from time to time casting a leer at Louise , at once reproaching her
indifference, and striving to regain her favour. 

The Marquis , who is continually straying about, arrests the attention of the Steward , and
he inquires of his niece Who it is that is standing near her. Louise , upon this, acquaints him
with the secret, begging him not to divulge it. Her uncle, not hearing this, asks Frontin , who
being surprised, demands who that man of business may be, and soon recognizes his master! lie
finds himself greatly embarrassed, and is running towards the Marquis , when the latter stops
him by a gesture, which is observed by none but Frontin . The company, remarking the change in
the countenance of their supposed master, believe that he is taken ill, and inquire if he is
unwell, but he is not prepared with an answer. At length, leaving the table, he entreats his
master to take his place. He declares, that finding himself indisposed, he must withdraw into
the air, and instantly makes off. 

The Marquis now sits down to table, laughing at the affair. The Steward not discovering who
it is, finds himself offended at this liberty, and rises from his seat. Colin and Louise alone
are undisturbed, for they have not forgotten his promise of protection. 

Frontin appears in his livery, with a napkin under his arm, and takes his usual place behind
his master. Astonishment seizes on all! All rise but the Marquis , who is infinitely amused
at the scene. Each thinks proper to continue standing before his master, which redoubles his
laughter. Frontin throws himself on his knees before his master, confesses his folly, and
implores pardon for what he has done. 

The kindness of the Marquis disposes him to overlook every thing, while amusing himself with
the adventure, and enjoying the good humour of his people. All do obeisance before their lord,
and express their dislike of Frontin . But the Steward is his irreconcilable enemy, having
allied his family to a servant. 

The Marquis tries to calm him, and unites Louise to her lover, consoling the disappointed Mathurin
with a well filled purse. 

The village rejoice at the presence of the real lord, who graciously receives the marks of their


Achilles , married to Deidamia, under the name of Pyrrha, a supposed female attendant on Deidamia

Deidamia , daughter of Lycomedes, and wife of Achilles . 

Ulysses , Ambassador from the Greeks . 

Lycomedes , King of Scyros . 

High Priest . 

Arcas , confidential attendant on Lycomedes . 

Princes of the Court of Lycomedes; Princesses attending Deidamia; Officers attached to Ulysses;
Priests; Priests of Bacchus; Troops of Bacchantes; Satyrs, Fauns, Shepherds and Shepherdesses;
Soldiers of Lycomedes; Soldiers of Ulysses; People of Scyros . 

The Scene is laid in Scyros . ACT I. 

Scene I. A view of the country near the sea, which is discovered in the distance. Towards the
centre of the scene appears the temple of Bacchus. On the right stands a wood consecrated to
that God. The scene is obscurely lighted, to represent the break of day . 

On the rising of the curtain, the temple of Bacchus is observed surrounded by groups of Bacchantes,
who are assembled before the dawn to prepare a feast. The Bacchanalian priests enter from the
temple, and command the Bacchantes to dispose every thing for the ceremony, and to arrange
the processions: the latter retire to execute these orders. The priests withdraw into the
wood, to invoke the assistance of the Gods. The stage has become gradually and fully lighted

Scene II.- Achilles and Deidamia now appear; joy is depicted on their faces, and they express
mutual delight at meeting each other. Unobserved by any intruder at this secret rendezvous,
they exchange marks of affection; and then betake themselves to the pleasures of the dance
( pas de deux ), during which they describe the sentiments of love. They are interrupted by the
instruments of the Bacchantes, who are approaching; they suspend their amusement in surprise.
Deidamia counsels Achilles to withdraw instantly, and to disguise himself to prevent discovery.
Deidamia retiring entreats Achilles to be prudent, lest suspicion should arise; he obeys,
and they depart on the left, to avoid encountering the Bacchantes. 

Scene III.-The music plays some few minutes prior to the entrance of the Bacchantes, after
which they appear brandishing their Thyrses, and attended by Fauns, striking on cymbals,
and Satyrs playing the syrinx, shepherds and shepherdesses. They surround the fane of the
God they are celebrating. At the same time the priests re-appear and ascend into the temple;
they invoke their deity and sacrifice to him. Achilles and Deidamia enter, each disguised
as a Bacchante; and join the company in the games. [From time to time these bacchanalia are interrupted
by pas seuls and pas de deux executed by the leaders of the groups of bacchanals, Fauns, Satyrs,
shepherds and shepherdesses.] At the end of the Divertissement , the warlike sound of trumpets
is heard echoing along the shores. 

Struck with fear, every one seeks to discover from whence it proceeds; they hasten towards
the sea. Deidamia trembles, and Achilles is surprised; they direct their attention to the
shore; vessels suddenly appear filled with warriors, while the sounds of the instruments
increase, and the bacchanalian troop, seized With dread, fly into the woods. 

Scene IV.- Achilles detains Deidamia , assuring her of safety by his own example; but the timid
lady draws him away with her, entreating him not to expose himself to the hazard of a discovery.
The brilliant appearance of the warriors awakens the military ardour in the breast of Achilles
. He beholds with delight a sight till now unknown to him. In the mean time the vessels disappear
on the right to disembark. His wife endeavours to detain him; but the attraction of arms, and
the desire to become acquainted with the strangers, overcome every other consideration,
and render him deaf to the prayers of the distressed Deidamia . 

Scene V.- Ulysses , followed by his officers, now advances in sight, while Achilles and his
wife appear amazed. Ulysses salutes them. Achilles being recovered, demands who he is, and
for what purpose he is come? urging a reply with threats. In vain does Deidamia strive to restrain
his rashness. Ulysses , surprised to behold so much effrontery in a woman, already begins to
suspect that it is Achilles , the object of his pretended embassy; but concealing his suspicion,
he answers to the satisfaction of both, who now, but too late, perceive their imprudence. Achilles
wishes to apologize, but Ulysses informs them he came not to interrupt their tranquil enjoyments,
and presents them with an olive, as the symbol of peace; adding, that he would be introduced
to the King. Deidamia answers, she will procure him an interview, and that Lycomedes will receive
him graciously. She then takes leave, and is retiring, when Achilles again attempts to address
Ulysses , but is prevented by his wife, who commands him to follow. In fear of being discovered,
he submits to her wishes. The eye of Ulysses is in the mean time incessantly upon them. 

Scene VI.-The crafty ambassador does not for an instant lose sight of Achilles , of whose renown
he has already been informed, and whom, he flatters himself, he has here detected. This fortunate
commencement, inspires him with hope; and he thanks the Gods, supposing that he will have the
honour of delivering up to the Greeks the man they so ardently desire. He acquaints his attendants
with the discovery; they are astonished. Ulysses ( aside ) forms a stratagem which seems to
fill him with confidence; he commands his suite to follow, and they take the way to the palace
of Lycomedes . They withdraw on the right, the side at which Deidamia and Achilles had retired.

Scene VII.- A magnificent interior view of the Palace of Lycomedes; on the right a throne with
seats . 

Lycomedes enters, preceded by guards and accompanied by his suite; he conducts Deidamia by
the hand, Achilles following at a respectful distance. The King orders preparation to be made
for receiving the Greek Ambassador. Lycomedes is attended to his throne; he takes his seat,
and places Deidamia at his side, the princes and princesses of his court surrounding them.
Achilles contrives to place himself near to Deidamia . 

A prince enters to announce the arrival of an ambassador who desires an audience. The King commands
him robe presented; the prince makes obeisance and retires; while the intelligence excites
general curiosity. Ulysses now appears, followed by military attendants, he salutes the
monarch respectfully, who grants him a gracious reception. Ulysses , on the part of his allies,
the Greeks, demands the assistance of Lycomedes ' troops and vessels to furnish out an expedition
against the Trojans. Lycomedes agrees to his demands, informing him that he may ever rely in
his friendship. Achilles pays a most marked attention to the proposals of Ulysses : he feels
himself highly excited; an ambition of glory is awakened within him; scarcely can he restrain
his feelings; he blushes at his effeminate apparel, and is on the point of tearing them off,
but the affection he bears his dear Deidamia , on whom his eyes are continually fixed, restrains
and calms his internal heat. During the discourse, the vigilant Ulysses has attentively observed
him; he smiles triumphantly; the disguise of the hero is no longer unknown to him. He now hastens
to terminate the negociation. 

The King, descending from his throne, convinces all who surround him of the union that should
subsist between them and the Greeks; and particularly between himself and the hero who merits
both their esteem and admiration. 

Lycomedes invites Ulysses to remain with him; he consents with pleasure. The King commands
to retire, and, giving one hand to Ulysses and the other to Deidamia , he withdraws. The latter
princess expresses great agitation; she darts a look at Achilles , who appears lost in reflection
upon his condition; he recovers, starts, and follows. The princes and princesses are near
the King; and guards close the procession. ACT II. 

Scene I.- Sumptuous apartments in the Palace of Lycomedes. In the back ground are perceived
the royal gardens. Statues representing Gods and Heroes adorn the sides of the apartments,
and embellish the gardens also . 

Princes and princesses of the court, together with the suite of Deidamia , enter dancing ( on
the left side ). Pleasure animates their steps; they precede the King's entrance into this
retreat of pleasure. After a general Dance, Lycomedes appears, and they environ him. In one
hand he leads Deidamia , with the other he conducts Ulysses; a part of his train attends him.
The guards retire to a distance. Achilles follows Deidamia with his eyes, which are now fixed
on her, and now on Ulysses . Lycomedes commands all to celebrate the arrival of his illustrious
friend, who appears sensibly alive to the noble conduct of the King, and acknowledges the homage
paid to him by a respectful obeisance. Every one now hastens to fulfil the orders of the King.
Both Deidamia and Ulysses watch respectively every motion of Achilles , who appears wrapt
in meditation. 

Lycomedes commands the dance to commence, wishing all to partake in its pleasures. Seated
between Ulysses 23 and Deidamia , he presides at the entertaiment. ( Divertissement by the
whole Corps de Ballet .) A prince and two princesses dance a pas de trois . The women attending
Deidamia dance a measure to the sound of lyres . They then invite the spouse of Achilles to join
them. Ulysses , seconding the request, entreats her to condescend to delight them. Deidamia
consents and rises. Achilles presents her with a harp, she accepts it with a secret pleasure;
she then executes a pas seul , with peculiar grace and science. Every one applauds, and she receives
the praise with modesty. In dancing, she has essayed, however, more particularly to fix the
attention of Achilles . 

Ulysses now rises, returns thanks for the gracious reception Lycomedes has granted him, and
prays him to receive the offerings of friendship which he is about to present; they are produced
before the King, who is pleased to accept them. Vases, rich stuffs, &c. are exhibited before
the court; on beholding them the admiration becomes universal, during which Ulysses narrowly
watches Achilles . A complete suit of armour forms part of the presents, upon this the son of
Thetis rivets his attention; he wishes to contemplate it nearer; he examines it, while his
eyes sparkle with joy. Deidamia perceives it, hastens to him, and fearing for his imprudence,
by looks and gestures allures him from the snare. The crafty Ulysses , satisfied at the success
of his penetration, already sees the happy termination of his enterprise. While these offerings
occupy the entire attention of the court, Deidamia being in fear, and Achilles in agitation,
they are disturbed by the clash of arms. Surprise pervades the court, their attention is diverted.
A prince, attached to Lycomedes , enters, and announces that the soldiers of Ulysses are engaged
in an obstinate combat with those of the King; and that the presence of the latter is necessary
to restore peace. Ulysses secretly enjoys the success of his stratagem. Every one appears,
to feel deeply the event. Lycomedes commands his soldiers to follow him; they arrange themselves
in array of battle, and march off to meet the rebels, with the King at their head. The princes
and officers withdraw on the left, following the King. 

Deidamia , accompanied by her women, makes a sign to Achilles to follow, when hastening away;
he heads not, and allows the timid Deidamia to fly. Ulysses feigns to follow the King, but remains
behind, to profit by an opportunity of a private interview with Achilles . 

Scene II.-A deep silence prevails. The son of Thetis remains immoveable; recovered from his
stupor, he reflects upon his fate. He ruminates on what he has heard and seen; his spirits returning,
the love of arms gradually inspires him, and takes possession of his breast. At length he seems
determined to depart, but hesitates. He approaches the armour and contemplates it with a lively
pleasure; he then casts a look on his own apparel and blushes to behold himself so disguised.
Unable longer to restrain his feelings, he tears off his female attire with rage and indignation.
The impetuous hero then seizes the shield with one hand, while with the other he grasps the sword,
and prepares to depart. During this Ulysses observes Achilles at a distance; he expresses
joy on beholding the success of his designs-his commission has prospered; he is in possession
of Achilles , it is enough; he therefore advances to meet him, and prevents his departure; he
embraces the hero with delight, and congratulates Achilles on the happy change. He now turns
the attention of Achilles to the contemplation of the glory that awaits him, and which will
exalt him to the rank of the most renowned heroes. While representing these results, Ulysses
points to the statues of those heroes *23 who have distinguished themselves by their deeds
and their virtues, expressing at the same time contempt for those who have debased themselves.
The heart of Achilles burns at the words of Ulysses , who having thus become acquainted with
his character, persuades him now to hasten, away. Achilles hesitates; tender recollections
arise; love presents to him the image of his affectionate consort; her faithful attachment
is about to be rewarded by his own ingratitude; these thoughts cause him to be undecided. Ulysses
, unwilling to lose so favourable an opportunity, treats these emotions with contempt, and
exhorts him to go forth, and eradicate those debasing recollections which must wound the heart
of a soldier; he even commands a compliance. Achilles , feeling the ascendancy that Ulysses
has over him, is decided on the pursuit of glory, and, forgetting the past, he triumphs over
himself and departs. Ulysses accompanies him, satisfied with the conquest he has made. ACT

Scene .- A tent is discovered on the right. The sea of Scyros appears covered with vessels. To
the left stand the statues of Mars and Venus . 

At the rising of the curtain, Achilles , completely armed, appears standing in a pensive attitude,
meditating on his fate; Ulysses is at some distance, from him, and observes him. Both are in
the tent. The soldiers of Ulysses are at the end of the stage, reposing in various positions.
Achilles seems affected at the loss of his Deidamia , the thought of whom greatly agitates him.
Ulysses , remarking this emotion, approaches to tranquillize him and to cheer his gloom. He
endeavours to sustain his fortitude by representing the honour and glory that await him. Achilles
, recovering, resigns himself wholly to the pursuant of arms, and is entirely directed by Ulysses
. The latter makes a sign to his warriors, and they commence an Armed Dance. Achilles , unprepared
for suchan exhibition, is agreeably surprised. Ulysses extols his soldiers, and Achilles
is transported. At the close of the measure the warriors prostrate themselves before the statue
of Mars. Ulysses draws the attention of the hero to these tutelar deities, and both do homage
before the statues, Ulysses , to prevent loss of time, orders to depart immediately. The soldiers
prepare to march, and he tells Achilles he must now quit this abode of effeminacy, and fly to
the field of Mars; he obeys. As they are departing, a noise is heard and Deidamia enters; Ulysses
. hastens to draw away Achilles , who would stay, so great an effect has the unexpected arrival
of Deidamia upon him. 

Scene II.- Deidamia , her face bathed in tears, expresses unrestrained grief, and deplores
her situation; she arrests the progress of her husband, who is leaving her for ever. She then
breaks out into reproaches, and evinces the strength of her attachment. She upbraids him with
his cruel ingratitude, violated oaths, and deceitful conduct, and then endeavours to recall
the first sentiments of their affection. Achilles is silent; he is anxious to rejoin Ulysses
, who appears something disconcerted at the scene. Deidamia , perceiving her husband deaf
to her entrearies, renews her supplications, and again reminds him of the oaths of fidelity
they had sworn to each other before the Gods, oaths that should unite them for ever; she taxes
him with her injuries, and employs prayers to dissuade him from departing. Ulysses , by contrary
counsels, sustains and fixes the resolution of the hero; yet he fears the susceptibility of
his heart. Achilles is mute and turns from Deidamia; the beauteous princess clinging still
to her husband, at length moves him; he hesitates between love and glory. Deidamia , perceiving
him irresolute and still entertaining hopes, throws herself at his feet; the sight of this
abasement recalls his affection, he is on the point of yielding; when Ulysses , constant to
his purpose, essays to draw him away. Deidamia , unable longer to struggle with her misfortunes,
and weak with exertion, falls into a swoon before him. Achilles , breaking from Ulysses , hastens
to assist her, and employs every means for restoration; his heart, subdued by love and pity,
is wholly occupied with Deidamia . The latter gradually recovers, and finding herself in the
arms of her husband, her joy is extreme. Ulysses , on witnessing this affecting scene, appears
something moved, yet is he impatient to be gone, and even to abandon Achilles; but the latter
detains him, entreating his indulgence for the object to whom he owes so much; he implores a
short respite; Ulysses consents, finding it impossible to counteract the present emotions.
A noise is heard . At this moment Lycomedes enters, followed by his guards and attendants; information
of what is passing has caused his presence. 

Scene III. They are struck motionless at the unexpected appearance of the monarch, who seems
astonished. Recovered from his surprise, he perceives the whole intrigue; he bursts out into
the heat of passion, and loads them with reproaches, showing them their ungrateful conduct
in abusing his credulity. 

His daughter and Achilles fall at his feet; but he attends not to their entreaties; their tears
and Supplications are incapable of appeasing his just resentment; he feels deeply the injury
offered him. Deidamia still employs tears and prayers to calm her incensed father, and perseveres
in her endeavours to prove her innocence and her hapless fate; Lycomedes , still remembering
the wrongs done to him, repulses, with grief and indignation, his affectionate child; Achilles
joining himself to the princess, they prostrate themselves before him, and assist in the entreaty.
At length Ulysses discovers to the King that it is Achilles , the son of Thetis the Goddess, who
is united to his daughter by the ties of. Hymen; and that the Gods now demand the services of that
hero against the Trojans. 

At this intelligence the monarch is both calmed and surprised; he turns; and raises Achilles
and Deidamia; and, submitting to the will of the Gods, he pardons them; he embraces them, and
congratulates himself on such an alliance. This discovery fills the couple with delight i
and all partake in their joy. 

To celebrate the happy day, the King commands all to return thanks to the Gods, and to enliven
the rejoicing by dances and games. The priests enter and prepare an altar for sacrifice; they
invoke the Gods, and implore their protection. All surround the altar to partake in the rites.
The High Priest begins the sacrifice, beseeching the favour of the Gods; he prays them to decide
the lot of Achilles by some supernatural sign. All, bending before the altar, await the supernatural
signs in solemn silence. 

The growling of thunder is heard, attesting the will of the Gods. Every one now prostrates himself;
Achilles submits with pleasure; but Deidamia cannot restrain her sorrow. Lycomedes endeavours
to console her; he commands the celebration to begin, seating himself by his children and Ulysses
. [ Divertissement, Corps de Ballet, pas de deux, pas de quatre, and Finale ]. The Divertissement
is performed by the princes, princesses, and the whole assembled court. 

At the end of the Ballet, Ulysses advances and informs the King of the approaching departure;
for which preparations are now made; the soldiers stand ready to march. Achilles takes leave
of Lycomedes , and of his wife, whose grief is still visible; he consoles her with hopes of a happy
return when the foe shall be vanquished. Ulysses , attended by his soldiers, bids adieu to Lycomedes,
acknowledging his kindness. Ulysses and Achilles , now ascending their vessels, glide from
the shores of Scyros amidst the acclamations of the people. A general grouping , while Ulysses
, placed by the side of Achilles on the deck, triumphs in success, and departs. MOKANNA * . AN

Mokanna , a false Prophet . 

Zelica . 

Azim , her lover . 

Kaled , father of Zelica, and principal officer of Mokanna . 

Haroun and Mesrou , officers of Mokanna . 

Women of Mokanna's Harem; Soldiers of Mokanna's Army; Soldiers of the Caliph's Army . 

The scene is laid in Persia, in the year 163 of the Hegira (785 of our AEra ), and during the reign
of Caliph Mahai . ACT I. 

The stage represents a sumptuous vestibule. Pillars of porphyry support an arched roof of
Moriscan architecture. A throne is placed at the upper end, near which soldiers of the Harem
are discovered . 

Mokanna , in the midst of his followers, receives their homage, oaths of allegiance and blind
obedience. He prides himself on the ascendancy he has acquired over the minds of the people,
who are become fanatical from the success of the impostor, now become secure of complete triumph
in his designs of ambition, cruelty and love. 

Every one, allured by his flattering promises of happiness and another life free from pain,
allows himself to be overcome by the prospect of this deception, and adores him as a God. 

Mokanna imagines himself, more than he finds himself, master of the lives of his subjects,
and endued with sufficient power to oblige them to advance his sanguinary designs. The most
unbridled passion burns within him; amongst all the women in his possession, the unfortunate
Zelica , whom he intends to seduce, is preferred. He shows his preference of her, and endeavours
to conciliate her by hopes of future happiness. The young maiden allows herself to be deceived
by his imposing falsehoods. All prostrate themselves at the feet of the barbarous impostor,
who pretends to grant them eternal protection. 

Haroun enters to announce the arrival of Azim , a young and valiant warrior, who is about to join
the standard of the heaven-appointed Prophet. He is returning victorious from a military
expedition. Attracted by the extraordinary actions of the great Mokanna , he devotes himself
to his worship, and burns with impatience to assist in advancing a belief in the happiness promised
by the man who vaunts himself inspired. The appearance of Azim produces emotions of general
joy. He is attended by some followers. They prostrate themselves at the feet of the Prophet,
and take an oath to sacrifice their lives in his service. Mokanna inflames their ardour, by
promising to place them amongst the number of the elect in heaven. 

Azim has now discovered his love, the beautiful Zelica , who can scarcely conceal her joy at
the unexpected arrival of her dear Azim , whom she thought dead. The lovers evince great joy.
Mokanna boasts his power, and encourages his followers to propagate the new faith, and threatens
death as the punishment of rebels. He promises to conduct his army in person, and thus to secure
victory to his adherents; and peace will be but the beginning of their happiness. The enthusiasts
agree to every thing. The banners of the soldiers, floating in the air, display play these words:
" Freedom to the World ." They swear upon their swords to deliver nations. Warlike music sounds
forth the battle hymn; and the glory of the Prophet is celebrated by martial dances. ACT II.

The stage represents a vast subterranean vault, from which livid flames are continually seen
darting, supposed to be caused by putrefaction. Mokanna, bearing a light, is seen to enter
this receptacle of the dead, by a secret staircase . 

He ruminates upon his horrible designs, and the smile of a villain seems to announce success.
He now waits with impatience the object of his desires, for he is soon to become the possessor
of the charming Zelica; he displays a barbarous joy. He wishes beauty to contribute to the success
of his arms, and to augment by its attractions the number of his followers; and he instigates
them to cruelty by promises of laurels of victory. Zelica appears, accompanied by Haroun .
They are come in obedience to the commands of the Prophet; they bow before him. 

Mokanna motions to Haroun , who retires. Zelica is astonished to find herself in so gloomy an
abode; she waits to know the Prophet's pleasure. Mokanna tells her that the time is arrived
in which the decrees of heaven must be accomplished; that it is her whom heaven has chosen to
be a partner in the disposal of the fates of mankind. Surprise of Zelica! Mokanna endeavours
to convince her of the purity of his sentiments, his noble disinterestedness, and his wish
to see her the object of divine favour; he therefore expects her to show feelings of gratitude
for his kindness; but the young maid is in the greatest agitation. What she has just heard, and
her affection for Azim , throw her into great distress. Mokanna represents to her a happy futurity,
and promises her a share in his throne, if she will consent to become the dispenser of human happiness
to mortals. He now proceeds to declare his passion to her. Astonishment of Zelica . The seducer
shows marks of his affection, and conjures her to hasten his happiness, by submitting to the
divine will. 

Zelica can scarcely believe what she hears. No longer does she find him the man who could subjugate
the mind of the people. Her faith wavers, and she fears the dreadful consequences; the remembrance
of the faithful Azim , too, draws tears from her eyes. The impostor, Mokanna , fearing his prey
may escape him, and that his deceptions should be discovered, endeavours to impose upon the
young Zelica . He threatens her with the wrath of heaven and the most terrible punishments;
Zelica shudders, but fanaticism still enthrals her. Mokanna perceives that his intentions
succeed, and he entreats her to become his for ever. Zelica , driven to despair, at length confesses
that her heart is pledged to Azim . The furious rage of Mokanna upon this: and the maiden reads
her own fate, and that of Azim also, in the countenance of Mokanna . She throws herself at his
feet and implores for mercy. Mokanna is inexorable, and even seems ready to attempt her life,
but interested thoughts restrain him, and he promises to let Azim live; but informs Zelica
that she must become his, and commands her to forget all upon the earth, and to take an oath that
she will be united to him. The distress of Zelica . Mokanna drags her to a tomb, and forces her
to swear by the infernal powers, and by the shades of the dead, to dedicate her life to his service.
Zelica , scarcely supporting herself, makes a sign of consent. Upon this, flames dart from
the tombs, and a tremendous report resounds through the vault. Zelica , unable longer to endure
the emotions produced by the scene, falls into a swoon. Mokanna , triumphing in his wickedness,
smiles with a malignant satisfaction, and even boasts his success, ACT III 

The stage displays a magnificent saloon, which looks into a delightful garden, illumined
by the moon . 

Azim appears; he seeks Zelica; be burns with impatience to find her, and to prove to her his affection.
Deprived of the pleasure of her embraces, he has for some time experienced the most cruel torments.

Melodious music breaks on the silence of night, while Houris enter dancing to their instruments.
Zelica follows, but melancholy and sorrow prevent her from partaking in the joy of her companions,
who are celebrating the glory of the Prophet by their games and dances. They congratulate Azim
on his attachment to the banners of Mokanna , and they conjure him to deserve the happiness promised
to him. Azim has already discovered his love, but is prevented from approaching her to declare
his tenderness. Zelica , now esteemed the favoured of the Prophet, makes a sign to her companions,
who retire. 

The two lovers now fly into each other's arms. Transports of affection ensue; but they are soon
interrupted by the distressing recollections of Zelica . Azim , in surprise, demands the cause
of this emotion. Zelica hesitates; he presses her, she replies by tears: Azim , greatly agitated,
conjures her to tell him all. Zelica represents to him the dreadful character of Mokanna , and
his impostures; and at length reveals the cruel oath he has drawn from her by promising to spare
the life of her lover. Rage, instead of grief, now possesses the bosom of Azim; he swears to release
her from his hated bonds, and to deliver the earth from such a monster. Nothing can appease the
anger of Azim; he is ready to attempt any thing. Zelica succeeds in calming his rage, persuading
him that great prudence is necessary, without which they are both lost. 

Kaled enters in haste; he seeks for Mokanna to inform him of the approach of the Caliph at the
head of his army, coming to engage the followers of the new sect. Azim and Zelica hasten to embrace
him. Kaled bestows a blessing on their union. He discovers their painful anxiety, and desires
to be informed of the cause of it, Azim explains to him the infamous character and horrible designs
of Mokanna . Amazement of Kaled! Recovering, he throws himself into the arms of his children,
and communicates to them with what horror Mokanna's character inspires him. They now appear
greatly embarrassed, The time presses, and Azim engages his love and her father to seek safety
by flight, and immediate]y to secure means of complete and speedy revenge. 

Mokanna has appeared, he observes them and discovers their design. At the moment they are going
to escape, he arrests their progress, gets possession of Zelica , and, by a menacing gesture,
recalls to her mind the oath she had taken. Zelica trembles, totters, and is on the point of swooning.
Kaled and Azim draw their poniards and rush upon the infamous seducer. But he, anticipating
them, calls his guards, and commands them to be secured. Kaled and Azim vainly endeavour to
defend themselves, they are made prisoners; while Mokanna , menacing them with the most cruel
revenge, drags off Zelica . 

The approach of the Caliph's army is announced. Sudden terror of Mokanna . Appearance of hope
on the part of Azim and his followers. Mokanna , vaunting his own strength, gives orders to prepare
for the combat. ACT IV. 

A vestibule in Mokanna's residence. The ramparts of the City are seen in the distance. Night.

An engagement between Mokanna's soldiers and those of the Caliph. The latter are victorious,
and pursue the conquered. Kaled, Azim , and Zelica appear, having escaped the vigilance of
their guards. They are animated by revenge, and, the better to obtain it, they join the army
of the Caliph. Zelica enjoys the protection of her lover, but she cannot yet forget the villain
who seduced her; she is, however, animated by the hopes of success. Kaled discovers a way that
leads to the Mussulman army, and all hasten to follow him. 

Mokanna enters, attended by his warriors; his thoughts are employed on his situation; he foresees
the end of his reign approaching with certain death. He still essays, by his looks and promises
of futurity, to impose upon those men whom he has seduced He shows them the end of their labours,
and the immortal glory that must ultimately crown them; He causes them to take an oath to destroy
the Caliph, and to venture their lives in the holy cause. All obey. News is brought of the escape
of Zelica . The furious rage of Mokanna! He swears their destruction, brandishes his scymitar,
puts himself at the head of his warriors, and advances to battle. 

Azim enters, followed by his brave soldiers, seeking every where his enemy, to destroy him.
He descries Mokanna's standard floating in the air, and flies to it. Mokanna re-enters in despair.
Hope has forsaken him; he prepares for death. A ferocious smile expresses the joy he feels in
beholding himself the destroyer of his species. His reign is at an end, but he has been the assassin
of mankind. This abominable thought seems to give him pleasure to the last. The happiness,
however, of Zelica and Azim torments him, and he is furious at not having prevented it, and it
even inspires him with a sort of remorse. The conquering army approaches; part of the ramparts
are beaten down, and several edifices become a prey to the flames. Mokanna then procures a flambeau,
and fires one side of the palace. He falls near the ruins, and breathes out his soul in horrible
blasphemies. Kaled and Zelica enter in time to behold the last moments of the impostor; and
the victorious armies, headed by Azim and the Caliph, now arrive at the scene. 

Each returns thanks to heaven at the happy event which delivers the people from a barbarous
tyrant. Kaled unites Zelica to her lover, and peace bestows untroubled joy. A General Picture

Circumstances of an unfortunate and disagreeable nature at court obliged Teniers to assume
a disguise, and to retire into a village. Having continued for some time in this retreat, chance
conducted the Archduke Leopold and his Duchess to his place of concealment; and having recognized
the great artist, they wished to atone for the injustice, that had been shown him, and accordingly
recalled him to the court, and again honoured him with their protection and friendship. Upon
this last mentioned event the plot of this Ballet is founded. CHARACTERS. 

Teniers (under the assumed name of Dominic), a painter . 

Archduke Leopold , Governor of the Low Countries . 

The Archduchess . 

Fritz , an innkeeper . 

Dame Fritz , his wife . 

Carlo , a young villager . 

Anna , daughter of Fritz, in love with Carlo . 

Tunder , a daubing sign-painter . 

The Drossart , a kind of beadle . 

Peasantry; Officers of Leopold; Huntsmen in the suit of the Princess . 

During the first act, the scene lays at a village near Lackin; during the. second in the gardens
of Lackin, a summer residence of Leopold . ACT I. 

The centre of a village; on the right is an inn; on the left the cottage of Tunder, against which
are affixed boards, representing grotesque and caricature paintings, as signs of his profession.
A hill appears in the distance . 

Teniers is discovered occupied in painting the figure of a man completely armed; beneath which
is inscribed: " To the Great Leopold ." The artist seems to reflect upon the peculiarity of his
condition; living Under an assumed name, and obliged to paint sign-boards in a village. 

The hostess of the inn and her daughter enter, and appear to be engaged in preparing for a wedding.
During what follows, Fritz , the landlord, is discovered spying into the conduct of his wife,
of whom he is jealous. Teniers advances to meet her; she inquires whether the work upon which
he is engaged is finished? He replies, 24* nearly. The mother and her daughter then admire the
painting, and compliment the artist. Fritz enters, apparently in ill humour; and, casting
a jealous look upon his wife, he informs his daughter that he intends Tunder shall be her husband.
Anna , instantly embracing her father, implores him not to be the cause of her wretchedness
by marrying her to him she hates, and while her heart is wholly devoted to Carlo. Fritz becomes
angry, and refuses her request; while his wife obstinately contradicts all her husband advances;
Teniers endeavours to appease this strife, and to console the unfortunate Anna; whose whole
reliance is upon the opposition of her mother. 

Tunder now enters, carrying a picture under his arm; he salutes the company, and throws a tender
look at Anna . Observing Teniers , he gives him the compliments of the day with a contemptuous
grin. He is civilly received by Fritz alone, who desires to see his performance; Brush obeys,
and courts the admiration of all while exhibiting his daub; but it is ridiculed, except by himself
and Fritz , who treat the work of Teniers with contempt. Tunder , however, wishing for a more
decisive proof of excellence, draws an immense magnifier from his pocket, and after having
examined each performance, finally gives the preference to his own. The admiring landlord
being of the same opinion, immediately presents his daughter to him as his future wife; at the
same time Anna and her mother discover by their looks a resolution to defeat this project. Upon
this the merry Carlo enters, and interrupts the discourse; he salutes all present, giving
his rival a rude push as he passes; the latter, however, does not notice it. Carlo announces
further orders concerning the approaching nuptials, and Frits , with his wife, re-enter the
house to make preparation. Tunder , angry at this awkward circumstance, and disappointed
at being unable to conclude the match, enters his cottage greatly chagrined. 

Carlo and Anna , notwithstanding the vanity of Tunder , place the sign painted by Teniers over
the door of the inn. Anna relates what has passed, and proposes means to effect their union.
The two lovers then exchange proofs of affection, which inspire the delightful movements
of the dance. They are suddenly interrupted by a noise of hunters; Anna enters the inn, and Carlo
retires on the opposite side. 

The Archduke Leopold enters, habited as a hunter!; having separated from the train, he has
discovered this agreeable retreat to repose and refresh himself. The hostess, entering from
the inn, soon perceives him, and taking him for an officer of the Duke's, asks him if he wishes
for any refreshment; Leopold answering in the affirmative, Dame Fritz calls her daughter,
and desires her to attend to their guest. The latter pays a particular attention to the peculiar
gentility of Anna's person; and demands the name of the inn; the girl replies by pointing to
the sign; the Duke is instantly struck with the subject of the picture and the beauty of its execution;
he expresses feelings of gratitude at the zeal of his tenantry in thus honouring his effigy.
The music to be employed in the celebration of the approaching wedding is now heard, and Leopold
is invited to form one of the party. Carlo enters at the head of a gay troop Of villagers; Fritz
enters from the house, and Teniers and Tunder appear. Carlo draws the attention of his companions
to the newly painted sign, while Leopold secretly enjoys the effect produced by his own portrait.
Loyalty to Leopold , and praise to the painter, become the general theme. Teniers discovers
Leopold , but conceals his knowledge, Tunder is tormented by jealousy. The feast is prepared;
the bride and bridegroom take their seats, and dancing begins; Leopold , meanwhile, seems
highly to enjoy the scene. Tunder , after having been with some difficulty prevailed upon,
dances in an awkward and grotesque style; he then requires others to exhibit their: abilities
in this way, and, taking a fiddle, mounts a tub; wishing to mark the time with a scientific precision,
he stamps with such force, that the top of the tub breaks, and he tumbles heels over head into
it; while the whole assembly bursts out into a universal shout of laughter. General Picture

The Archduchess arrives, attended by her: suit, and the whole assembly prepare themselves
to meet and welcome her; she causes inquiries to be made concerning the Duke, her husband i the
answer is, that no person belonging to the court has been except the officer whom they point
out to her highness; upon this Leopold is immediately recognized by all present, and the whole
company do homage before him, in great astonishment. The Duke embraces his wife, who is equally
surprised, and both express their sentiments of condescension and gratitude at the respect
paid to them by their subjects. The Duchess having remarked the painting on the sign signifies
her wish to know the artist who executed so fine a likeness, and Teniers cannot longer keep concealed,
being soon discovered by his royal patroness; he immediately throws himself at her feet; the
Duchess raises and presents him to Leopold as the artist whose departure she had continually
regretted. The Duke reproaches him with his retreat from court, and demands what he can do for
him. Teniers , with an air of modesty, only desires that his highness would make some provision
for the enamoured couple, Anna and Carlo , having found in the family of the former an agreeable
asylum, and the most hospitable treatment. Leopold grants his request, and being charmed
with the artist's generosity, he desires him to return to court. Fritz and his wife, perceiving
this advantageous and unexpected change, express their gratitude both to Teniers and the
Duke. Every one appears delighted excepting Tunder , who has lost his lass; but how can he oppose
a prince? Certain of the company undertake to represent to him that there is nothing unreasonable
in Anna's choice, and at length prevail upon him to join the general gaiety. The Archduke , in
order the more completely to celebrate this extraordinary event, commands his tenantry to
follow him to his residence, upon which a suitable procession is formed. ACT. II 

Scene .- The gardens adjoining the chateau of Leopold; the chateau appearing in the distance

Peasants enter and prepare a seat of state decorated with flowers. The Drossart enters with
a solemn air, and is observed perusing the oration he is about to pronounce. The peasants show
him their work, with which he appears entirely satisfied. The approach of the procession is
heard, and the Drossart hastens to meet it. Leopold and the Archeduchess , accompanied by Teniers
and a long train of servants, officers and tenantry, enter and take their seats. The Drossart
prepares with an important air to deliver his harangue; but as he is on the point of commencing,
the Duke signifies by a sign that he will dispense with this part of the ceremony, and orders
the marriage to be forthwith performed; after which the villagers celebrate the union of Anna
and Carlo by joyous and varied measures, and the Ballet terminates with a Flemish dance. THRASIMEDES

Thrasimedes , a Grecian Prince, disguised as a shepherd . 

Theophania , beloved by Thrasimedes . 

Alcander , father of Theophania, Governor of Eleusis and master of the Temple of Ceres . 

Narses , confidential friend of Thrasimedes . 

Shepherds, Nymphs, Priests of the Temple, and Greek Soldiers . 

The scene passes at Eleusis . ACT I. 

An extensive prospect; in the distance mountains are seen, the sides of which are adorned by
copses of trees and winding rivulets. On One of the declivities there is a little enclosure
of myrtles and laurels, decorated with garlands, ears of corn, and instruments of husbandry;
from the midst of these rises the statue of Ceres, she holds in her hand two lighted torches,
and is seated in a chariot drawn by serpents . 

Scene I- Thrasimedes and Narses are perceived upon the mountains disguised as shepherds;
the former is hastening to meet his love, and he expresses his delight at again beholding the
spot upon which they are accustomed to meet daily. He intrusts Narses with his love secret,
on understanding which, the latter appears surprised; Thrasimedes continues, that, being
deeply enamoured of the Governor's daughter, he wishes to pursue his intentions habited as
a shepherd, and so to owe his conquest rather to personal qualifications than to those of rank;
Narses approves the project, and offers his faithful services in assisting his prince; while
the latter solemnly protests his fidelity to Theophania . He recommends to Narses a conduct
of the utmost caution, and desires him to be ever prepared to execute his commands; the former
promises to obey, and retires. Thrasimedes evinces all the anxiety of an expecting lover.

Scene II.-A slight noise is beard, seeming to indicate the approach of Theophania; Thrasimedes
hastens to discover whence it proceeds; the maid appears, and flies to the arms of her beloved.
By turns they express to each other the feelings of their hearts; and before the image of the
chaste Ceres they vow eternal constancy, and invoke her protection. They call the Goddess
to witness the purity of their love, and entreat her, to preside at their union, They now betake
themselves to the delights of the dance, in which every attitude does but the more clearly develope
their sentimentS. The arrival of the companions of Theophania interrupts their pleasure:,
and they take a hasty leave of each other, promising soon to revisit that spot? Thrasimedes
seeks his friend Narses , and Theophania hastens to meet her companions, who are coming to prepare
a ceremony which is to take place in this part. 

Scene III -A troop of: nymphs appear bearing branches of myrtle in their hands, and crowned
with chaplets of wheat-ears. They enter dancing, led on by Theophania . 

The procession to Ceres advances in sight; priests and shepherds axe uniformly crowned, with
corn, each carrying a myrtle branch. These are followed by Alcander accompanied by his officers
of government. The procession being fully arrived it halts, and all do obeisance to the Governor,
awaiting his commands. While this is passing, Thrasimedes and Narses intermingle with the
shepherds unperceived, and take part in the solemnities. Alcander invokes the Goddess and
the whole assembly implore her to be propitious and to preside at the feast about to be celebrated
by Theophania ,as mistress of the religious ceremonies. The Governor now causes his daughter
to approach him; she advances agitated at finding herself in a situation which excludes every
sentiment of love. Being aware of her own feeling, she fears her father may perceive the cause;
but the latter attributes them to a mixture of modesty and awe; he embraces and encourages her;
she bends before fore him, and he places a coronet of flowers on her head. 

Theophania expresses her gratitude while the whole company applaud the choice of Alcander
, and regard the nymph as worthy of presiding over the worshippers of Ceres, both from her rank
and chastity. Curling clouds of smoke now arise from the incense lighted up by the priests.

Thrasimedes is discovered in a torment of anxiety, he perceives insurmountable obstacles
to their union; Theophania , by her gestures, evinces a mutual concern; they exchange significant
looks, but dare proceed no further; all hope, however, has not forsaken them, and they are supported
by love. Narses encourages them, and by certain signs counsels them to dissimulate. Alcander
, his daughter, and the priests, take their seats near the myrtle bower and preside at the feast.
Universal homage is done to the Goddess of the golden grain, and prayers are put up for the welfare
of Theophania; a Divertissement; after which Alcander commands to depart, and retires, accompanied
by his daughter. The nymphs and shepherds, carrying their garlands and wheat-ear coronets,
their myrtle branches and torches, playing also on cymbals, flutes, and other instruments,
follow their Queen and Governor in dancing measures. 

Thrasimedes and his friend remain and appear plunged in gloomy meditation. Having recovered
themselves they seem engaged in forwarding their enterprise; Narses expresses to his prince
certain hopes, with which he is inspired, and advises Thrasimedes to withdraw to avoid suspicion,
while he himself will endeavour to advance his interests. ACT II. 

Scene I.- Narses and Thrasimedes enter in haste and agitation; the latter appears a prey to
anguish; his friend essays to calm him, but cannot succeed. Theophania has signified to him
that her new office will effectually prevent their:union. Thrasimedes , however, returns
to meet his love once more, perhaps, for the last time, a thought that deeply wounds his heart.
Narses tries to console him by a ray of hope which seems to gleam through the apparent gloom;
he then retires. 

Scene II.- Thrasimedes seems assailed by various and conflicting thoughts; dreading what
may happen, he prostrates himself before the statue of Ceres, supplicating the Goddess to
pardon the passion of two who cannot cease to love. 

Scene III.- Theophania enters, and witnesses the emotions of her lover; she rushes into his
arms, expressing the excess of her affection, and tears soon bedew the faces of the hapless
pair; Theophania informs Thrasimedes that the Gods are averse to their union, and that they
must now separate for ever; at these words the youth appears overpowered; having in some measure
recovered, he reproaches Theophania with insensibility while delivering such cruel conditions;
he appears sunk into an abyss of woe. The affectionate girl, deeply wounded by such expressions,
assures him of her unalterable love, till, unable to support herself under such a conflict
of emotion, she falls into the arms of Thrasimedes , who presses her fervently to his breast;
he tries to reanimate her, conjuring her to satisfy his desires by sharing with him his unhappy
fate; Theophania becomes deeply agitated, while anticipating the dangers to which they are
exposed; her lover, however, sees nothing but happiness in the possession of his adored. Theophania
is affrighted at the idea of forsaking her country, her gods, and her father, The impetuous
youth, however, entreats her to accompany him; she rejects such a proposal; he essays to force
her away; she still refuses, and seeks protection at the feet of the Statue of Ceres. Transported
by his passion, Thrasimedes tries to drag her even from the altar. At this instant, Alcander
and his attendants, drawn to the spot by the necessity of attending to Sacred duties, enter,
and behold the temerity of the youth. The astonishment is indescribable. 

Scene IV.- Alcander remains motionless at this spectacle; Theophania is nearly sinking,
and Thrasimedes appears oppressed with woe. All the attendants remain also in a stupor of surprise
and dread; while the whole assembly expect to see the vengeance of the Goddess visibly displayed.
The rage of Alcander now becomes ungovernable; he calls down the wrath of the Gods upon the guilty
pair. The latter throw themselves at his feet, but he repulses them, cursing his daughter,
and condemning Thrasimedes to death; to the horror of:all present. Every one endeavours to
conciliate the pardon:of Alcander , but he remains inexorable. Despair takes entire possession
of Theophania , she is horror-struck at the fate of her lover, and, rushing into his arms, demands
to be made a partner in his punishment. Alcander continues to rage with inextinguishable wrath;
he orders the lovers to be divided, and to be conducted to separate confinement. Narses , attracted
by the unusual commotion, enters, and can scarcely credit his eyes. Perceiving the danger
of his prince, he is on the point of discovering the real rank of the latter, when Thrasimedes
by a sign intimates that such a. proceeding Would be useless, and would expose both to the Governor's
anger. Narses , however, pledges himself to bring his royal friend aid, whatever may be the
event of his fate; he further motions, him to confide in his zeal, retires unnoticed, and flies
to effect the deliverance or his prince. The latter and Theophania are conducted away in opposite
directions, exchanging, as they are going, mutual expressions of the utmost grief. Alcander
, deeply concerned at what has just passed, retires, accompanied by his officers. ACT III.

A wild and desert country near Eleusis. The trees on each side the scene stretching their umbrageous
branches, intermingle and form a leafy vault. In the centre appears an image of Ceres, before
whom an altar of incense is burning. This gloomy abode is the place destined for the punishment
of criminals . 

Scene I-A funeral march is heard; priests enter advancing slowly; they surround the statue
of Ceres, whom they seem to supplicate, as they bend in worship before her. Shepherds appear
conducting Thrasimedes; they are followed by a troop of nymphs, and Alcander walks in the rear.
The procession being fully arrived, the shepherds place themselves on one side, the nymphs
on the other. Nothing appears to move Thrasimedes but the idea of an eternal separation from
her he loves; this alone breaks his heart, and suffuses his eyes with tears. Alcander , standing
near the altar of Ceres, addresses that deity, and indicates, as her victim, the man who has
dared to profane her worship. A universal emotion of terror follows his imprecation. Alcander
then makes a sign to Thrasimedes to approach; desiring him to address his last prayer; the young
prince prostrates himself, and prepares to receive the cup of death. The poisoned chalice
is borne to the Governor, who presents it to Thrasimedes; at the moment that the latter is about
to take it a noise is heard. 

Scene II.- Theophania rushes in, presenting a figure in the utmost disorder; she flies to her
lover, snatches from him the fatal cup, and falls down at the feet of her father, the whole company
appearing astonished at the action ! The Gods, however, seem deaf to her entreaties; Alcander
remains fixed in his resolution, and Thrasimedes must perish. She then flies into the arms
of her lover, protesting that no power shall drag her hence; while despair and tenderness are
depicted in the countenance of the young prince. Alcander , trembling with rage, commands
the guilty pair to be forced asunder, which, after some struggle, is effected; Theophania
swoons and falls into the arms of the attendant nymphs, while Thrasimedes prepares to submit
to his fate. Scarcely has he again taken the cup into his hand, when universal attention is attracted
by the approaching clash of arms; a cohort of warriors enters, and the astonished assembly
fly for refuge towards the statue of Ceres, while the progress of the execution is again interrupted.

Scene III.-The brave and faithful Narses , in complete armour, rushes in to save his royal friend,
who cannot conceal his joy at such an unexpected deliverance. The warriors beholding with
indignation the wretched state to which their prince is reduced, instantly fall upon both
the judges and executioners of such a law; whose fate would have been certain, but for the interposition
of the noble Thrasimedes , who, by signs, commands them to await his orders, expressing at the
same time his gratitude, and embracing Narses as his deliverer. Theophania , having recovered,
witnesses the generosity of her lover; she hopes for future happiness, and grief gives place
to pleasure. Thrasimedes wishes to bury all in oblivion, and to signalize the event by a general
pardon; he then fully discovers his rank, at which the surprise is universal. He advances towards
Alcander , who has not yet recovered from his astonishment, and informs him that love had united
him to Theophania before the latter had been dedicated to the altar of Ceres, declaring also
that the purity of his intentions ought to procure for him the concurrence of the Governor.
Theophania joins her entreaties to those of the prince, and conjures Alcander to crown their
wishes. Alcander , moved by the generous conduct of Thrasimedes , and having considered his
exalted rank, bestows the hand of his daughter upon her beloved prince, and the happiness of
both is expressed by their attitudes. Alcander then desires that prayers be addressed to the
Gods, in order that their favour and protection may be secured. All immediately surround the
altar of Ceres, and implore the consent of that Goddess to the marriage of Theophania . The company
now depart from this gloomy place, and, by the order of Alcander , proceed to celebrate the union

The scene changes and represents a magnificent square of Eleusis, destined for the exhibition
of public ceremonies . 25 

Nymphs and shepherds in troops enter dancing; they raise thrones for the Prince and Governor.
Alcander, Theophania, Thrasimedes , and Narses enter sumptuously attired. The soldiers
of Thrasimedes close the procession. Joy reigns universally, and finally, dances celebrate
the happy union of Thrasimedes and Theophania . VIVALDI. A GRAND BALLET, IN TWO PARTS. ARGUMENT.

Vivaldi and Orsano , Venetian noblemen, having conceived an inordinate passion for Rosamond
, daughter of the Doge avow their affection for her. Orsano having been rejected, and perceiving
the preference given to his rival, resolves to rid himself of Vivaldi , unmindful of every consequence
that might ensue. He accuses him, as well as his father, of treacherous designs against the
state; and on the false evidence brought against them, the two innocent noblemen were condemned
unheard. The mother of Rosamond , affected by the situation in which her daughter and her affianced
husband are placed, consents to a private celebration of their nuptials. Vivaldi and his family
quit Venice, and retire to Sicily till the decree of death issued against them shall be revoked.
Vivaldi's father having through grief terminated his mortal career, his son, leaving the
asylum which sheltered him from his persecutor, goes (under the name of Fernando ) to offer
his services to the King of Spain. Vivaldi having, by his martial achievements and noble sentiments,
acquired the favour of Charles V., that monarch conferrs on him the most honourable distinctions
in the army. Honoured by the confidence of his sovereign, he unbosoms himself to him and reveals
to him his real name, and informs him of his ardent desire to avenge his father. The King approves
of his designs and promises to serve him. The republic of Venice standing at this period in need
of a captain, whose superior talents should stand forth as a bulwark against her enemies, the
Emperor profits of the opportunity, and offers the Senate the services of Vivaldi to command
the troops of the republic. The lover of Rosamond , still retaining his fictitious name, having
signalized himself by his exploits 25* returns to Venice after several years absence, and
is loaded with honours by the Senate. He endeavours by his conduct to vindicate his innocence.
Chance enables him to discover a conspiracy which, by his courage, his sentiments, and ingenuity
he succeeds in suppressing. The ambitious Orsano , the author of the conspiracy, is betrayed
by his accomplices. Venice is saved, her generous deliverer recognized, and the Senate, regretting
its past injustice bears witness to the nobleness of soul that Vivaldi has displayed, and finally
the nuptials of the lovers are openly solemnized. CHARACTERS. 

Vivaldi , a noble Venetian . 

A. Gritti , the Doge . 

Rosamond , the Doge's daughter and wife of Vivaldi . 

Alfieri , a Senator, friend of Vivaldi . 

Orsano , a Senator, chief of the conspirators . 

Anselmo , another chief of the conspirators . 

A Spanish Officer . 

Abelino , a Bandit, carrying on his depredations in the vicinity of Florence . 

Senators; Conspirators; Venetian noblemen; Venetian ladies; Venetian soldiers; Spanish
soldiers; Masks; Gondoliers; Moors; Abelino's comrades . 

The scene takes place at Veniee, about the middle of the Sixth century . PART THE FIRST. ACT I.

The theatre represents, the entrance of the Ducal Palace. Every thing is prepared for the reception,
of the Spanish General, and to celebrate his triumph by a public festival; the edifice is magnificently
adorned . 

The Doge, seated on a throne, is surrounded by Rosamond, Alfieri, Orsano , and Anselmo , as well
as by senators and concealed conspirators. The Venetian army is drawn up on both sides of the
scene. The people give loose to gaiety. In the harbour, which is at the baek of the stage, are
discovered vessels of every kind covering the sea, and the standards of the republic are seen
waving in the air; a number of gondolas add, by their diversified appearance, to the brilliancy
of the spectacle. A discharge of artillery gives a signal that the vessel in which Fernando
is sailing approaches; music accompanies its arrival; several Venetian noblemen receive
the Spanish general, and present him to the senate. The hero is accompanied by his officers
and a part of his soldiers. 

Vivaldi , under the name of Fernando , sent by the King of Spain to the help of the republic, is
presented with the most lively marks of acknowledgment. 

He returns after the conquest of the enemies of Venice, and the joy that is diffused through
all ranks of persons is to him the most flattering tokers of respect, and he anticipates future
felicity. He has already perceived his adored wife, but endeavours to suppress, the agitation
which the sight of her occasions in his breast. Orsano alone beholds the new comer with regret,
he fears lest he should prove an obstacle to his designs. His companions participate in his

Vivaldi offers his services to the state, and devotes himself unreservedly, by an oath, to
its welfare. The Doge, in the name of the senate, thanks him, and Vivaldi (as Fernando ) is already
regarded, on account of his talents, his virtues and his courage, as the support of Venice.
Happiness begins to dawn anew in his bosom. The Doge seats him at his own side; Vivaldi darts
from time to time secret glances at his beloved Rosamond , whose grief no object can allay. 

The feast begins, national dances are performed by the Venetians, the Spaniards, and the Moors.
The Divertissement terminates by a general finale, in which the variety of the steps and attitudes
peculiar to each nation in the joyful moments of the dance is portrayed. 

The Doge, his daughter, Vivaldi , all the senators, &c. then retire in procession, and the people
accompany them in measured march. ACT II. 

Armoury in the Arsenal . 

Spanish warriors, dispersed over the stage, are awaiting the orders of their general. Vivaldi
appears, he is apparently engaged in his plans and in the employment that he holds. He orders
one of his officers to intimate to Alfieri that he wishes to converse with him. He desires ardently
to vindicate his innocence, to avenge himself on his enemies, and to be renuired to his beloved
wife. He invokes the aid of heaven, and puts entire confidence in its aid. 

Alfieri arrives, he perceives Vivaldi whilst he is earnestly engages in prayer, and agitated
by the most tender emotions with which Rosamond inspires him. He feels confused, at being:
surprised, afraid of having committed an imprudent action, but his agitated feelings are
soon calmed by discovering, in the supposed intruder, his ancient friend; Alfieri not to perceive
his uneasiness; Vivaldi runs to meet him and is about to embrace him, at which Alfieri appears
surprised; Vivaldi , confused, asks him if he has forgotten him? Alfieri replies that he is
addressing the General Fernando , but is undeceived by Vivaldi , who entreats him to examine
his features, with which request Alfieri complies, but is unable satisfactorily to trace
the lineaments of his friend, Vivaldi takes his hand, clasps it within his, throws off his disguise,
and discovers in himself the son of the unfortunate family to which he had testified the most
devoted attachment; they both burst into tears and throw themselves into each other's arms.
After this ebullition of feeling, Alfieri testifies his fears for the safety of his young friend,
since a reward is offered for his apprehension. Vivaldi tells him, that he hopes by his disguise,
his exploits, and entire conduct, to procure the annulment of the unjust decree by which he,
as well as his unhappy father, have been proscribed. Alfieri admires his nobleness of soul
as well as his courage; but the fear lest his friend may, by his proceedings, be discovered,
strikes the soul of Alfieri with dismay. Vivaldi bids him take courage, and enjoins him to profound
secrecy; Alfieri offers him his services. Vivaldi interrogates him respecting Rosamond
, the Object of his attachment; requests to know whether she mourns his absence; he is informed
that she is a prey to the most poignant sorrow, and that her affections remain unaltered. This
consoles Vivaldi; he gives his friend a letter, beseeching him to deliver it to Rosamond with
the utmost secrecy (the purport of the epistle is to inform her that he has returned to Venice);
after embracing Vivaldi, Alfieri retires. 

An officer enters to announce that Vivaldi's guards have arrested a stranger, whose appearance
and intentions have appeared suspicious to them, and that they have found on him a letter and
a ring, which the officer delivers into Vivaldi's hands; he discovers, on perusing the letter,
that it is Orsano's hand-writing, and that it discloses the proceedings of a conspiracy against
the state; the ring is intended to extricate the bearer from every difficulty. 

An opportunity now presents itself to Vivaldi to declare his sentiments and to perform a noble
action; he orders the stranger who has been arrested to be conducted to him, and that no mention
is to be made of what passes in this interview with him; Abelino , escorted by guards, enters;
his terrific aspect and singular dress fill Vivaldi with surprise. He interrogates him as
to himself, Abelino hesitates to reply, but on Vivaldi's threatening him with death, he, terrified,
consents to satisfy Vivaldi's inquiries on condition of his life being spared. To this Vivaldi
, prompted by personal interest, agrees; Abelino acknowledges that he is a bandit, that he
is come to Venice, on Orsano's invitation, to assassinate the Doge and the principal persons
of the state. The soul of Vivaldi is moved with indignation; he pauses a moment, smiles at an
idea which arises in his mind, and which he resolves to put into execution; Vivaldi orders Abelino
and his associates to be conducted to a place of safety, till he shall determine on their dismissal.

Vivaldi determines to assume the disguise of Osano's assistant, and to personate his character.
He reperuses the letter, and promises to effect the deliverance of his country by the destruction
of its enemies. He directs his officer to take away. Abelino's arms and clothes. gives him some
papers, and hastens joyfully to execute his plan. 

Scene .- Pavilion in the garden of the Palace . 

Rosamond appears pensive; her desire of solitude has, made her seek this retired spot; the
exile Of her beloved husband is the source of her uneasiness; she draws from her pocket the portrait
of Vivaldi , devours it with kisses. and swears eternal fidelity to its original. 

Alfieri enters; Rosamond expresses the pleasure that she feels at the sight of the confidant
of her troubles, and her only consolation; Alfieri informs her that she may, probably, in a
short time embrace Vivaldi . She is overcome with amazement, but cannot believe that such joyful
intelligence bears the stamp of truth; Alfieri presents her husband's letter. She asks her
friend where Vivaldi is to be found, and when she shall be allowed to see him; Alfieri requests
her to be patient and cautious, since Vivaldi's safety depends on secrecy; Rosamond consents;
after fresh injunctions, Alfieri retires. Rosamond , animated by the future happiness, is
only afraid that the dangers to which her husband is exposed may frustrate her expectations;
but her terrors vanish on reading the letter again, and she retires under the impression that
she shall soon embrace the object of her affections. ACT III. 

A handsome artificial grotto is seen at the end of a garden; the entrance to it is by a grove of
trees; a secret door is observed on the right hand . 

Orsano arrives, he appears plunged in a deep reverie; a thousand different thoughts seem to
agitate his mind. His design to destroy the Doge and senate, to avenge himself for the refusal
of Rosamond , and to place himself at the head of the state, engross his whole thoughts. His mind
is a prey to conflicting emotions, lie cannot, however, forget his passion. The features of
the haughty fair are too deeply imprinted on his heart, and love still asserts its power. But
suddenly the remembrance of his hated rival rises in his imagination, and his passion yields
to the ideas of gloomy vengeance by which he is agitated. He swears to avenge the slights which
he has received by the death of their authors. He has already disposed of Vivaldi , as he imagines.
He now feels a mixture of disappointment and anxiety at not yet seeing his companions arrive.
He begins to suspect some treachery, but his suspicions give way to joy on seeing Anselmo appear
with the other conspirators. He rushes to embrace them. Several of them go to the avenues of
the grotto to avoid surprise. Anselmo tells him that every thing is in readiness for action
;that their forces are augmented, and that the populace, aided by the care of Orsano , is now
murmuring against the Doge. Orsano exults in his success. All the conspirators swear to destroy
the chief men of the state, and to overthrow the republic itself, as also to assassinate the
Spanish general, whose power and valour fill their minds with alarm. 

They, however, hesitate to strike; their instrument, Abelino , is wanted to assist these nefarious
villains, This obstacle is a thunder,stroke to them, and they remain silent for some time,
when suddenly a knock is heard at the secret door. They are filled with dismay and astonishment.
A second knock is heard. Orsano orders them all to be silent, and goes himself to the door, Three
knocks, one after the other, are now distinguished. All recognize the signal of Abelino , who,
on Orsano's opening the door, appears, to thesatisfaction of all the conspirators. Abelino
demands to speak with their chief. Orsano is pointed out to him. The bandit refers to the ring
and the letter as testimonials of their engagement with him. The conspirators are satisfied.
Orsano bids Abelino prepare to do his duty, and deserve the reward allotted him. The Doge and
chief Magistrates are to be the first victims. The pretended Abelino wishes to know all the
conspirators personally, that no mistake may arise, for he sees but a part of them. Orsano gives
him the list of them. Vivaldi feels a secret joy. When the distrustful Anselmo shows Orsano
his imprudence, he acknowledges his fault, and, under a false pretext, takes back the paper
which he has given Vivaldi . Vivaldi pretends to be unmoved at this proceding. Orsano tells
him that he must, above all, insure the death of Rosamond , as she is one of the principal obstacles
to their design. Vivaldi shudders with horror. He, however, feigns to be unmoved by it, and
coolly argues that the death of a woman will be a useless circumstance in so great a conspiracy.
Orsano is enraged at his irresolution; and Anselmo takes the deed on himself. Vivaldi wishes
to retract, but Anselmo , desiring to please his chief, opposes him, and adds, that Abelino
, not knowing the person of Rosamond , may commit some error. Orsano tells all the conspirators
to be in readiness when he shall deem it a proper time to give the signal. All swear on their swords
to be faithful. At this moment a conspirator, placed in one of the avenues, gives the rest notice
that Rosamond is directing her steps this way. Orsano orders all the conspirators to withdraw,
and Abelino to go out the same way by which he entered. Anselmo is placing himself in ambuscade,
when Vivaldi wishes to turn him from his purpose by pointing out the danger of his situation,
but Anselmo affirms that there is no danger to be apprehended. Vivaldi is obliged to submit,
and withdraws, stung with grief and regret for having given Anselmo such an opportunity. 

Rosamond enters pensive, takes the letter of Vivaldi from her bosom, reads it, imagines that
she sees him before her, addresses him, embraces him, and cannot refrain from giving vent to
her passionate feelings. She then goes to a seat in an arbour, and muses on future events. Anselmo
comes from his concealment, and, after having cautiously examined that all is safe, goes behind
Rosamond , and is preparing to stab her, when Vivaldi , who has concealed himself behind the
door, rushes out, arrests his arm, plunges the dagger into his heart, and conveys him behind
some trees. Rosamond , at the noise which this occasions, turns and perceives Vivaldi; struck
with terror, she is preparing to fly. Her husband begs her to be silent, and shows her the body
of Anselmo . He tells her to quit this spot; to say nothing of what has happened, and that he watches
continually over her preservation. Rosamond hurries to the palace, leaving her letter behind.
Vivaldi withdraws by the secret door of a subterranean cavern, which conducts also to the palace.

The Doge's apartment . 

Orsano enters, joy sparkles in his eyes, he holds a letter in his hand, which appears by its contents
to add to the success of the enterprize. It is the letter of Vivaldi which he has found. He hopes
to make the treasonous designs of Vivaldi more apparent. 

The Doge enters thoughtful; Orsano accosts him, gives him the letter, and tells him that it
will inform him who is the underminer of the state. The Doge is surprised; Orsano retires, expecting
the result of this step. The Doge reads the letter, by which he learns the return of Vivaldi ,
as also his amorous transports and expectations of future success. 

The Doge concludes from these things that Vivaldi is the chief of the conspiracy forming against
the state. He is enraged at his passion for his daughter. He sends for her. She enters; he orders
her to disclose to him the designs of her lover. She perceives the agitation of her father, and
is alarmed for what may be the cause of it. He shows her Vivaldi's letter, at which she is confused,
He asks her who delivered it to her? She hesitates to answer. He asks if Vivaldi is in Venice?
She replies in the affirmative, and that she has not seen him. Her father upbraids her with her
fondness for an exile, a traitor. She weeps. He is enraged at her unworthy attachment. She replies
with firmness to his reproaches, that her husband is no traitor, that he is traduced, and that
she never would have united herself with one capable of such actions. The Doge is filled with
astonishment on learning that his daughter is married. He is informed that his deceased wife
had Vivaldi secretly united to his daughter. He is enraged. Rosamond invokes the spirit of
her mother, and informs her father that Orsano is the author of the condemnation of her husband,
and that Vivaldi's innocence will soon appear. The Doge orders her to renounce her attachment.
She refuses. He threatens Vivaldi's destruction. She begs him to revoke his decision, but
he refuses, becomes enraged, and execrates his daughter, who falls into a swoon. The Doge sends
for the Spanish general-he appears, and sees his wife on the ground, he runs to her, raises her,
and places her on a chair. The Doge tells him that he must perform a great service for the state,
by bringing the culprit Vivaldi to justice; that he is returned to Venice, and is preparing
to subvert the government, tie shows him the letter. Vivaldi ( Fernando ) promises obedience.
Rosamond recovers her senses, and shudders with horror. The Doge exacts an oath from Fernando.
Rosamond attempts to oppose this. Fernando swears coolly to give up the culprit. Rosamond
testifies her abhorrence. The Doge is satisfied, and retires, repulsing Rosamond , who endeavours
to address him. Fernando prepares to depart, he is brought back by Rosamond. This action fills
Fernando with dismay, lest he should be discovered. Rosamond informs him that to be the accessary
to the destruction of an unfortunate accused person is unworthy a hero. Fernando tries to avoid
the gaze of his wife. He says that he must serve the state, and that Vivaldi has betrayed it. Rosamond
replies that his assertion is false, and wishes destruction to the accusers of her husband,.
He pretends to laugh at her anger. She wrings her hands with vexation, reflecting on her own
inability to avenge herself. Fernando advises her to forget Vivaldi , as he is the cause of her
trouble, but she Vows never to cease loving him. She then, recovering from her emotions, begs
Fernando not to Obey the orders of the Doge, by acceding to the death of an innocent person; but
rather to ennoble himself by a glorious action. She throws herself at his knees; her tears,
her entreaties, her grief, are too much for the resolution of Vivaldi . He discovers himself.
She is struck motionless with amazement. She runs to him, embraces him, and is about to give
vent to her agitated feelings by her voice, but is restrained by the significant order of Vivaldi
, to be silent. Alfieri surprises them. This is a joyful moment for all three. Alfieri tells
them that the feete given in honour of Rosamond's birth is about to commence, and nothing is
wanting but the presence of Rosamond . Vivaldi hastens to execute his projects, from Which
he anticipates a favourable result. He bids her tenderly adieu. An attendant from the Doge
comes to conduct Rosamond to the fete; and all retire. ACT II. 

Delightful gardens of the Doge; grand illumination; every thing is prepared for a magnificent
fete; a canal appears in the distance . 

Gondolas are seen arriving on the canal elegantly decorated and filled with masks of every
kind, who land and execute various dances. The Doge, Rosamond , and train, Alfieri , Senators,
Venetian ladies, Venetian noblemen, &c., arrive to preside over and enjoy the festival. Grand
Divertissement , executed by the noblemen of the court, the masks, gondoliers and moors. During
the feast a man in a domino approaches the Doge with a mysterious air, and informs him that some
one, unobserved, demands a private interview with him. He then disappears in the crowd. The
Doge, after the dancing has continued for a short time longer, makes signs for all to retire.
Every one withdraws, and he remains alone. He ruminates on the recent occurrence, and considers
whether it may not be some advice for the good of the state. He is wrapped in deep meditation.
Orsano appears in the distance, disguised as a Spanish soldier, accompanied by one of his guards.
Both watch whether any one is observing them. The masked stranger presents himself to the Doge,
who asks him what he has to communicate to him. He gives him a paper and disappears. The Doge opens
the paper and reads the names of Fernando and Vivaldi impeached as the chief conspirators.
Every thing seems to justify this accusation. Terror renders him motionless. When he recovers
himself he sees that every thing confirms this intimation. He is preparing to give his orders;
when on a sudden, as he is going out, the agent of Orsano darts upon him, and is about to assassinate
him, but Orsano rushes forward, and, turning the blow aside, pretends to save his life. He then
begs him to mark the Spanish dress of the assassin, who retreats with precipitation. The Doge
thanks Orsano , and shows him the letter which he has just received; Orsano , exulting, enters
into the Doge's sentiments, that Vivaldi is the chief conspirator against the state. The Doge
sends for Fernando . His absence, as he is employed in executing his plans, confirms the suspicions
of the Doge. He gives his orders to Orsano . Some noblemen and conspirators enter. The Doge summons
them to the grand council called upon the occasion. of the present danger. ACT III. 

Grand Council Hall; a throne on the left of the spectators . 

Orsano arrives, he meditates on the decisive moment to effect his projects. The Doge and Alfieri
appear. Alfieri informs the Doge that Fernando wishes to vindicate himself from the charge
brought against him. Orsano opposes it. At length, after some debate, in which the disposition
of Orsano is plain]y manifested, as well as that of Alfieri , the Doge agrees to hear Fernando
in open senate. 

Vivaldi enters. Just as he is about to commence his defence Rosamond enters. A movement of general
surprise 26 prince is excited. Rosamond undertakes Vivaldi's defence, proves his innocence,
shows the injustice of his judges, and declares that she is the wife of the exiled unfortunate.

The whole court is seized with amazement, The situation of Vivaldi and Alfieri now becomes
critical. The Doge and Orsano are enraged, Vivaldi displays a noble pride against his accusers.
Rosamond has recourse to entreaties. Orsano storms, and the Doge causes Vivaldi to be arrested,
Vivaldi and Rosamond bid each other adieu. Vivaldi is hurried away by the guards, but as he is
departing a ray of hope beams across his soul, which rekindles his courage. Rosamond wishes
to follow him, hut her father orders her to be conducted to another spot. She refuses to quit
the hall, and desires to be heard by the senate. During this scene Alfieri departs unperceived,
and prepares to put in execution his project for saving the life of his friend. The Doge and Orsano
try to persuade Rosamond to quit the spot, but she declares her determination to remain till
death, or till she has procured the pardon of her husband. 

The door of the hall is opened, the senators, among whom are some conspirators, enter in gradation,
and place themselves on their respective seats. Orsano , at the head of the conspirators, occupies
all the right hand side of the stage. The Doge places himself on the throne. Rosamond stands
in the midst, with a firm countenance and a tranquil air. Two senators are at a table below the
throne of the Doge. 

The Doge informs the senate that Vivaldi , under the name of General Fernando is at Venice, that
he has discovered the secrets of the state, and that he is even chief of the conspiracy with which
they are threatened. He adds, that the culprit is arrested, and that he is waiting the decision
of the council. Orsano and several other senators condemn him o death. Rosamond affirms that
there is another criminal to punish, which is herself, who is the accomplice of her husband.
General surprise! She contradicts her statement of the cause of Vivaldi's return, and owns
her share in all his projects, and that she entertains the same sentiments. Her father endeavours
to excuse her to the senators, An officer runs in and informs the senate that Vivaldi has just
been forcibly rescued by a senator. Rosamond throws herself on her knees and expresses her
joy, A general murmur is excited through the assembly to know the chief of the faction. Alfieri
appears. Another movement of surprise is excited. The friend of Vivaldi justifies himself
by stating the virtues of the latter, the injustice of his arrest, and his wish to avoid committing
a crime in the senate. Rosamond returns him her acknowledgments;. The Doge threatens Alfieri
with his anger, orders him to be seized; and obliges them both to retire. A loud noise is now heard,
and Vivaldi , in the dress of Abelino , and followed, by soldiers dressed as bandits appears.
He revives the courage of his wife and friend. All testify their surprise, each in his own particular
manner. Several senators on the side of the Doge go to oppose Vivaldi , who takes possession
of his pistols, and threatens death to the first who moves. He declares his intention to bestow
a new chief on the republic, and throws a glance at Orsano , who supports this resolve. The Doge
is amazed and alarmed. Vivaldi names the conspirators, to the indignation of the Doge. The
senators on the side of Orsano proclaim him Doge, a choice to which those who favour the cause
of the Doge refuse 26* to accede. Orsano draws his dagger, the rest of the conspirators follow
his example, and dart forward against the Doge, who presents his body to receive their blows
with the greatest courage. Alfieri and Rosamond protect him by throwing themselves before
him. Vivaldi stops the proceedings of the conspirators by placing himself between them, Group.
Vivaldi having made the Doge feel his situation, retires to his soldiers, applauds the conduct
of the conspirators, which he declares to be worthy of reward. He turns to his men and gives,
them a seeming sign to seize the Doge, but all on a sudden, changing his design and attitude,
he points to the conspirators with a majestic, air, throws off his cap, his cloak, and beard,
and appears as Vivaldi , in the dress which he was supposed to wear before his exile. A feeling
of general surprise is. excited. Group . The conspirators, being seized and disarmed by the
soldiers of, Vivaldi , are in the greatest consternation. The Doge and the rest of the senate
testify the utmost astonishment. Rosamond embraces her husband. Vivaldi is calm, and seems
to derive the most heartfelt satisfaction from the action which he has just performed. Rosamond
recapitulates the virtuous actions of Vivaldi to the senate. A general satisfaction is expressed
by all parties. Vivaldi promises Orsano his life if he will establish the innocence of his father;
but on his darting a contemptuous look on him, as well as Rosamond , he orders him to be conducted
to execution; and Orsano and the conspirators are led out. The Doge and the senators are lavish
in their professions of gratitude to Vivaldi , and appear to be stung with deep regret for their
past injustice. Vivaldi begs that all may be buried in profound oblivion, and requests that
Rosamond may be indissolubly united to him, and that he may be deemed the friend of the republic.
He extends his hand to Alfieri in. token of gratitude. The Doge holds out his arms to him as a signal
of embrace; Vivaldi rushes into them, then turning to Rosamond , he presses her to his bosom.
All the senators rising participate in their joy, and form around them a General Group . NOCTURNAL

Alvarez . 

Rosalba and Antonina , daughters of Alvarez . 

Don Pedro , in love with Rosalba . 

Ignatio , in love with Antonina . 

Mariquette , lady's maid to Alvarez' daughters . 

Pascal , the gardener, loves Mariquette . 

Francisco . 

Don Florez , master of the Bolero. Villagers . 

The scene is laid at a village in Spain . ACT I. 

Scene .I- An apartment in Alvarez' house . 

Francisco and Mariquette are discovered preparing for the departure of D. Alvarez; Francisco
makes several attempts to engage the attention of Mariquette whose affection he endeavours
to conciliate; the latter ridicules his silly pretentions, and rejects his advances. The
feelings of Francisco seem hurt, and he complains of such cruel treatment; and having finished
his work, he hastens to his master. 

Scene II.- Antonina enters; she comes to tell Mariquette a secret, provided she will keep it
so, and at the same time assist her in certain projects; Mariquette pledges her word and honour
to serve Antonina to the utmost. The latter then informs Mariquette , that her father being
about to leave home upon some important business, she intends to take the advantage of his absence,
in order to procure an interview with her lover and to arrange their marriage. Mariquette approves
of the plot, and promises every assistance in her power. Antonina blushes and delivers a letter
to the maid, addressed to Ignatio , directing him to be in the garden at dusk. Mariquette smiles
at her young mistress, and readily undertakes the commission; the latter charging her to say
nothing to Rosalba , her sister. 

Scene III.- Rosalba appears, and soon evinces a wish to be alone; not knowing how, otherwise,
to get rid of Antonina , she informs her that Alvarez , her father, desires to speak with her in
private; Antonina retires, and as she is going casts a significant glance at Mariquette , reminding
the latter of her promise. 

Scene IV.- Rosalba , after a short reflection, determines mines to meet her lover that evening
in the garden, during the absence of her father. She then gives Mariquette a note addressed
to Don Pedro , appointing the hour; Mariquette appears surprised, but instantly recovering,
she promises to procure the meeting. The maid seems to admire the double rendezvous, and appears
prepared to play a merry part in the affair. Rosalba withdraws. 

Scene V.- Pascal , having watched for an opportunity to speak to his Mariquette , appears at
the door, and finding her alone, he advances towards her; gestures of mutual regard are immediately
exchanged. The wily maid informs him, that as their master is leaving home for a time, no restraint
Will then be placed upon their courtship. Pascal hears this with delight; and Mariquette directs
him to be in the garden at evening, but desires him to withdraw immediately, lest he should be

Scene VI.- Alvarez enters, accompanied by his two daughters; they seem discoursing upon the
approaching departure, Alvarez intimating that he shall speedily return. Francisco enters
and announces the Boleromaster. 

Scene VII.- Don Florez enters with his guittar; and Alvarez gives leave to his daughters to
take their lessons, intimating a wish to be present during the performance. Florez then gives
Rosalba and Antonina instructions in the national dances, executing a Bolero alternately
with each; and terminating the lesson with a pas de trois. Francisco now enters and informs
his master that every thing is ready for departure; on hearing this, certain signs of satisfaction
are visible on the countenances of the two young ladies. The dancing-master withdraws, and
Don Alvarez , taking leave of his daughters, follows Francisco. Rosalba and Antonina , by turns,
remind Mariquette of the commission with which she is charged, and retire. ACT II. 

A view of the front of Don Alvarez' house, beyond Which appears an arbour on the right and another
on the left; in the centre stands a tree; the whole representing a handsome garden, surrounded
by a high Wall, in which appears a gate . 

Scene I-The gate is gently unclosed, and Pascal enters, looking cautiously about; he comes
by appointment; his adored, however, does not appear, and he waits with anxiety. A slight noise
is heard; fearing to be discovered Pascal conceals himself behind the tree. 

Scene II.- Mariquette leaves the house, and hastens to the garden gate, expecting Ignatio.
Pascal observes her, and prepares to play off a trick upon her; she appears anxious at the delay
of Antonina's lover; upon remarking this Pascal supposes his mistress is inconstant, and
soon betrays signs of jealousy. He waits, however, to witness the sequel, and climbing the
tree, puts himself entirely out of a probability of being observed. 

Scene III- Ignatio enters, and seems in some fear; but Mariquette , hastening to meet him, encourages
him and brings him forward, expressing her joy at his arrival; Ignatio recovers himself, and
acknowledges the civilities of Mariquette , at which Pascal , in the tree, is observed to be
greatly agitated. The maid now flies to inform her mistress, and to conduct her to this extraordinary
interview, while the enamoured youth exhibits all the signs of joy and gratitude. Pascal now
perceives the real state of the intrigue, becomes cool, and laughs at his error. 

Scene IV.- Mariquette and Antonina appear, upon which the enamoured pair express their delight
at meeting each other, and the merry maid congratulates both. 

Time growing short, however, for other business, Mariquette reminds them that, to avoid being
discovered, they had better conceal themselves; upon this Antonina directs her lover to secrete
himself in the arbour on the left, telling him she will return shortly. Mariquette having thus
interrupted their discourse, hastens away to prepare for the arrival of Don Pedro , which she
is to keep secret also. Pascal appears to enjoy this unusual scene, and seems impatient to play
his part in it. 

Scene V.- Don Pedro arrives. Pascal is once more in surprise; Mariquette is again on the spot,
and runs to meet Don Pedro; she informs him that he may expect soon to see his Rosalba; the youth
promises to reward her handsomely, and conjures her not to keep him in suspense, for that he
dies with impatience to behold his beloved. 

Scene VI.- Pedro exhibits all the transports of warm affection; he takes a small portrait of
Rosalba from his bosom and presses it to his lips, then drawing his sword, swears an eternal
fidelity, and threatens with death him who should dare to offend her. Ignatio , wishing to know
the cause of Antonina's delay, gently uncloses the door of the arbour in which he is waiting,
and Soon perceives the infuriated lover; struck with fear at his menacing gestures, he immediately
draws back and closes the door. 

Scene . VII.- Rosalba enters and flies into the arms of her lover, who receives her on his knees,
while gestures and looks of the most ardent and romantic passion are exchanged. 

Scene VIII.- Mariquette appears and interrupts these expressions of love, by informing Rosalba
that she must return into the house to prevent discovery; the amorous pair lament the shortness
of the interview; hut Mariquette , promises them soon each other again. She then tells Don Pedro
that he must,conceal himSelf in the arbour to the left. Night approaching; the stage becomes
more obscure . 

Scene IX.-A slight noise is heard from the father part of, the stage; it draws the attention
of Don Pedro; he searches to know whence it proceeded, and fearing to be observed, he hastens
to the arbour, but finds the door closed; after having made several useless efforts to enter,
he turns to the. one opposite, and immediately shuts himself. Pascal , seated in his leafy concealment,]
laughs at the adventure; he now descends the tree,and seems waiting with great impatience
for his mistress. Ignatio , supposing the coast to be clear, again gently uncloses the door
of his bower, and looks about narrowly for Antonina; he seems prepared to go and seek her, while
Pascal once more climbs his tree, Pedro , supposing he hears his mistress, opens the door of
his retreat; he perceives Ignatio , and mistakes him for a rival; while the latter, struck with
a sort of panic, dares not stir, and Pedro immediately desires to know his name and business;
hut the unfortunate Ignatio has lost the power of speech, and prepares for flight; Pedro becomes
impatient, and begins to make use of threats, at which Ignatio takes to his heels; Pedro draws
his sword and follow, while Ignatio , unable to proceed further, takes refuge:in the arbour
where Pedro had been hidden, and shuts the door. in the face of the latter; Pedro trembles with
wrath, but recollecting the cowardice of his antagonist, he despises, him and becomes cool.
Obliged in turn to hide himself, he enters the arbour in which Ignatio was concealed. 

Scene X.- Antonina enters, and seems agitated by fear; she. holds a taper in her hand,, and hastens:
to give liberty to her lover; she approaches the arbour, calls, and knocks at the door; Don Pedro
appears, when the affrighted girl, seeing a stranger, flies away, lets fall the taper, and
rings the house-bell with all her strength. 

Scene XI.- Rosalba and Mariquette enter at the noise, the latter searches on all sides with
her candle, to discover the cause of this disturbance, length informs the young ladies
she has seen a thief concealed in the garden. Rosalba guesses the real state of the adventure,
and attributes the fright of Antonina to her own imagination; in short, each finding herself
not in a situation that will bear explanation, takes no further notice of the affair, and they
are about to retire, when the noise of people approaching attracts their attention. They become
afftrighted, and having listened a short time, soon distinguish the voices of Don Alvarez
and Francisco; they are astonished at their unexpected return. The enamoured youths appear
half discovered in their respective retreats, and seem greatly displeased with this new disappointment.
Rosalba, Antonina , and their maid hasten into the house. 

Scene . XII.- Alvarez and his servant enter; they appear greatly disordered, their features
exhibiting marks of terror; their first care seems to be to secure the door; they then falter
and fall upon a bank in the garden. Having somewhat recovered, they examine every part to discover
if there are any traces of the thieves by whom they fancy they have been attacked. It is fear that
has induced them to return without completing the journey. They dare not knock at the house,
dreading lest the noise might again attract the robbers, and therefore prepare to await the
opportunity of entering unheard. They evince great terror, and start at every noise. Pascal
is observed scarcely able to contain himself, and turning from time to time in his nest, a slight
noise follows, at which the valiant master and his man are horror-struck, staring at each other,
yet endeavouring to take courage; not daring, however, to cast a glance about them, though
a deep silence now prevails. Pedro and Ignatio , believing that now at length all is quiet, advance
slowly from their concealment; they, however, soon perceive that the father of their mistresses
has not left his position. At this moment Francisco discovers Ignatio , he cannot credit his
eyes, and his terror becomes redoubled; he informs his master, who dares not behold the object,
that creates the alarm, and turning away his eyes, he fixes them involuntarily upon the arbour
from whence Don Pedro , sword in hand, is just issuing to make his escape; Alvarez is nearly sinking
with dread, while both the lovers are hastening away together. Pascal , having placed himself
upon a branch too weak to bear him, it breaks and he falls near Alvarez , with a tremendous crash;
this completes the scene of confusion, and master and man fall one upon the other. The trio of
lovers, taking advantage of this tumult, get clearly away, without fear of being called to
account, and they are finally seen scaling the garden wall. 

Scene XIII.-The two young ladies and their maid, alarmed at the noise, arrive at the scene with
candles in their hands; upon seeing Alvarez and Francisco , they pretend the greatest astonishment;
the latter is stretched on the ground in an ecstacy of dread. They, however, exert themselves
to restore Alvarez , who still fancies he is surrounded by robbers. The two daughters now express
their fears for Pedro and Ignatio . A knock is heard at the garden gate, and soon after Don Pedro
and Don Ignatio appear at the head of a troop villagers. They may be supposed to have been brought
to assist at the extraordinary events passing at the house of Alvarez; and having been informed
of the particulars, they pretend that it is themselves who have put to flight the robbers, and
so saved the life and property of Alvarez . The stratagem succeeds, and Alvarez expresses sentiments
of the liveliest gratitude, and the cunning villagers receive universal thanks. Alvarez
, recovering from his state of alarm, recognizes, in Pedro and Ignatio , the sons of two old friends,
which augments his joy, and he is at a loss how to reward their important services in his defence;
they inform him that he has only to bestow on them the hands of his two daughters, for whom they
avow the warmest affection. Alvarez appears somewhat disconcerted at their demand, and seems
meditating on his reply, and while he hesitates, every one gathering round him, beseech him
to return a favourable answer. He then asks his daughters if they will consent; they reply,
that it is no more than their duty to Submit to his will in uniting themselves to those who have
been his liberators. Upon this, Alvarez presents Rosalba to Pedro , and Antonina to Ignatio;
ordering, at the same time, that the ceremony should take place immediately. The joy of the
lovers is now complete. Pascal then advances, leading Mariguette; he asks of Alvarez permission
to form a third couple, by marrying that very efficient personage; Alvarez readily gives his
consent. A Divertissement follows, in which characteristic dances express the unusual gaiety
prevailing at a triple union. ZARA. A ROMANTIC BALLET, IN FIVE ACTS. CHARACTERS. 

Alphonso VIII, King of Castile and Leon . 

Ermangere , his Queen . 

Zara , a beautiful Moorish woman . 

Fernando Garcias Dr. Castro , the venerable tutor of Alphonso . 

Morico , a Moor, the friend and confident of Zebra . 

Alvarez Fanes , Chancellor of Castile . 

Nobles; Officers of State, and ladies of the Court; people of Toledo; Knights and Castilian
soldiers; Moors of both sexes; Balliaderes; Spanish and Moorish young men and maidens . 

Scene ,- Toledo, in the time of Godefroi de Boulogne . ACT I. 

The theatre represents a hall in the ancient castle of Fanes, at some distance from the centre
of the town . 

Fanes introduces Ermangere , and his old friend Garcias; he shows them their new abode, and
promises them his most devoted services. The Queen and Garcias express their gratitude and
perfect reliance on his care. Fanes quits them, in order to advance his friendly projects,
and to endeavour to bring back Alphonso , who has abandoned his bride for a Moorish concubine,
to a sense of duty and the path of honour and propriety. 

Ermanere gazes at, and thinks of, the distant palace of which she was once the life and ornament;
where she shone as a Queen, the happy, beloved bride of her still adored Alphonso . He has now
deserted her for a lowborn Moorish damsel; driven her from his presence, and compelled her
to retire to Oveja. Overpowered by these agonizing reflections, she gives way to the most violent
grief; Garcias endeavours to console her with a prospect of future happiness; Ermangere expresses
how deeply sensible she feels at his attachment and solicitude, and that she hopes, before
long, to recompense him for the kindness he displays towards her, and his devotion to her service.
This ancient friend and servant of the Queen, who, like his mistress, has been compelled to
quit the court, is resolved to share in her destiny, and swears to sacrifice every, thing for
her welfare. Ermangere sheds tears of mingled tenderness and sorrow. 

Fanes arrives; he informs them that the people, long oppresses pressed by the despotism of
the detested Moorish concubine of Alphonso , who has contrived to take the sovereign power
into her own hands, begin to murmur, and are on the brink of breaking out into open tumult; that
they are desirous of expelling Zara and her attendant Moors from the palace of Alphonso's ancestors,
and of reinstating Ermangere in her proper place-the throne of the Two Spains. 

Ermangere and her two faithful friends augur the most happy results from this welcome event,
which seems to further their plans, and to hasten the execution of them. Fanes conducts the
Queen into one of the rooms contiguous to the hall, returns, and goes out, accompanied by Garcias
, to ripen the enterprise which they have undertaken. 

The scene changes to a magnificent apartment in the King's Palace . 

Zara , splendidly attired, is seated near a table; She appears occupied with the affairs of
the state; a number of courtiers and nobles are around her; among whom are also many Moors. Morico
is in immediate attendance on her person, to receive her commands. Zara gives papers and documents
to the principal officers of state, enjoining them to attend to their contents with scrupulous
exactitude. They receive them with the most profound respect, and severally depart. 

The ambitious Moorish woman hands a decree to Morico , which contains ordinances in favour
of her own people; and commands that they may be carried into effect without delay. Morico makes
a sign of strict obedience, and retires. 

The sound of horns now announces the return of 27 Alphonso from the chase; Zara prepares to receive

The King, accompanies by young Moors of both sexes, appears. He throws himself into the arms
of the fascinating Zara , and expresses the raptures he feels at once mope clawing her to his
bosom. Zara receives him in the most tender and bewitching manner. Alphonso appears to be at
the summit of felicity. Zara , proud of her, conquest, enjoys the triumphs of her charms, she
commands her suite to follow them to a delicious retreat, which she has prepared for the reception
of the King. They retire, followed by the Moons, &c. ACT II. 

Splendid gardens of the Royal Palace . 

Several young Moors, in the most brilliant oriental habits, appear and make preparations
for a magnificent festival. 

Alphonso and his mistress enter, preceded by a troop of Balliaderes , who make the air resound
with their instruments, and scatter flowers in the path. Nobles and ladies of the court follow;
numerous Moors are mingled in the group. 

Alphonso seats himself to partake of the banquet, with Zara by his side; they are served with
the most delicious refreshments, and exquisite wines. Morico is their Ganymede . The air is
enriched with perfumes, and the loves of Alphonso and his mistress; are celebrated by voluptuous
music and dances. Zara and the infatuated lover express their mutual passion, and luxury and
joy reign all around. 

A sudden noise from without interrupts the fete. General surprise! "Who," imperatively demands
Zara , "can have penetrated into this retreat?"- Garcias boldly presents himself to her astonished
view. Zara recovers sufficiently from her surprise to interrogate Morico as to the appearance
of the banished Castilian in the gardens of the palace. Morico appears almost petrified, and
is unable to make any reply. The presence of his old and faithful subject afflicts the King and
overwhelms him with confusion. His venerable tutor solicits pardon for his boldness, and
attributes this breach of obedience to devotion for his sovereign's fame and, happiness.
Zara can scarcely contain herself-she burns to revenge this ominous intrusion of her detested
enemy. The noble Castilian, inspired with the love of his country and its King, and braving
the dangers which evidently menace him, forcibly depicts to Alphonso his fallen, inglorious
situation-the neglect of his Royal duties-his injustice to a virtuous and suffering wife-and
the misery of his once beloved and loving subjects. The freedom of his language irritates the
impetuous young monarch. Alphonso expresses his anger, and, enjoins silence on the part of
Garcias. Zara , foreseeing the perils with which gate threatens her, peremitorily orders
Garcias to retire; the old noble looks upon her with disdain. Alphonso , enraged at this insult
to his mistress, commands that Garcias be instantly seized. Zara and Morico urge him on to a
signal and immediate retribution for the offence. 

Garcias remains unmoved; his venerable appearance and bold deportment impress universal
respect for his person His age, his rank, his virtues, the services he has rendered the King,
as well as the personal attachment he feels towards him, endow the old castilian with 27* the
privilege of speaking freely, of drawing a picture of the blighted glory of his sovereign-of
his Queen languishing in enforced retirement, apart from the lord of her heart-and of the fast-coming
ruin of his whole kingdom. 

Alphonso is moved; he seems to waver. Zara perceiving this, and fearful of danger, meditates
a scheme to Save herself from falling from her "high and palmy state." 

Garcias , encouraged by the emotion which Alphonso betrays, conjures him to abandon a woman
who has dishonoured and disgraced him by plunging him into the lowest, abyss of disgraceful
voluptuousness and luxurious pleasures. Alphonso is dreadfully agitated; the veil is half
removed from his "mind's eye;" but-he still loves-he still adores, and is still the slave of
his triumphant mistress. 

Morico attempts to encourage him; but is quelled into motionless silence by a single glance
from the eye of Garcias , who now informs the King, as a last resource, that the people have revolted,
and will only be appeased by the death of Zara! -This intelligence falls like a thunderbolt
on the lovers' hearts! Garcias adds, that, with the aid of a few chosen and influential friends,
he has hitherto succeeded in curbing the popular tumult; but that, if Alphonso is desirous
of insuring his own safety, he must again become a hero and a king, and remove Zara and her Moors
from his society and his presence. He points to a troop of armed Citizens, who have already forced
admittance to the palace and are tumultuously rushing onward. By a single mandatory gesture
he checks their further approach. 

The amazed Alphonso knows not how to act; he is agitated, undecided, and indignant. The Moors
betray their fears. Zara perceiving herself powerless, at this moment, ponders on plans of
present safety and future vengeance; her wily imagination suggests to her a mode of rescuing
herself from the wrath of the people, by feigning resignation to her fate, and abandoning her:state
and hopes for the welfare of the King and the satisfaction of his subjects. She implores the
people's clemency, and submits to a voluntary exile. 

Alphonso , after having for some time struggled with himself, promises to dismiss Zara and
her Moors, and to give himself wholly up to the Wishes of his subjects. Garcias is supremely
blest. Alphonso looks toward Zara; his eyes express, at once, the agony he feels in tearing
himself from her bosom, and his solicitude to obtain her pardon for the course he has adopted.
She conjures him to cast her from his memory, and hereafter to think only of burying their loves
in oblivion in the minds of his people, by noble and magnanimous actions. The resignation and
courage of Zara touch the monarch's heart. By her countenance and gestures, she expresses
all that a passionately-adoring woman feels, who sacrifices herself to the happiness of her
]over. She retires, consoling herself, for her present disgrace, with the hope that her glory
will not be long obscured. Morico accompanies her, followed by the Moors and several guards.
Alphonso endeavours to conquer his feelings, and to conceal, from those who behold him, the
grief that this unexpected separation has created in his heart. 

Garcias makes a sign, and his noble Castilian friends appear, with Fanes at the head. They express
their wishes to Alphonso . Garcias acquaints them that their monarch is willing to satisfy
their desires. A general expression of loyalty and exultation! All throw themselves on their
knees before Alphonso , who, affected by this interesting sight, swears to sacrifice every
thing to satisfy his faithful subjects. He retires, accompanied by Garcias , amid the blessings
of his people, who rejoice at his return to the path of honour, and look with confidence for happy
days to come. ACT III. 

The King's presence chamber . 

Alphonso , in his royal robes, enters, followed by his court. He seats himself on the throne,
and all around wait for his commands. He prepares to seize the occasion of having an interview
with Ermangere , when Morico appears and solicits permission to communicate to the monarch
a secret of importance. Garcias exhibits some suspicions as to the proceedings of the perfidious
follower of Zara . The image of the Moorish woman is too powerful in the King's heart to prevent
him from listening to Morico's communication; he consents to hear what the Moor has to say,
and dismisses his courtiers and attendants. 

Morico now acquaints him that Zara supplicates permission to see him before her departure,
as the last favour she shall ever ask him. Alphonso hesitates, wavers, and would fain refuse,
but cannot. He yields; his passion so blinding him that he does not foresee the probable result
of so dangerous an interview. Morico is overjoyed at his success, and flies to his mistress,
whom, in a few moments, he brings back with him. 

Zara , negligently attired and with her hair in disorder, appears; she advances slowly towards
the King. Her countenance and manner evince the most bitter affliction. Alphonso receives
her without moving from his place, and affects an indifference which he does not feel. The wily
Zara is not deceived by his assumed looks of cold dignity, although she feigns to believe that
they are real. Tears stream down her cheeks she confesses that she is guilty, but to Love alone
is her crime to be imputed, and she implores him to pardon her. She expresses her remorse at having
brought her King into difficulties, and her sorrow and despair at being abandoned by him. 

Alphonso becomes agitated; he would fain draw a veil over the past; their final separation
is the first step imposed on him by duty towards rendering his people happy; the public welfare
imperatively demands the sacrifice of their mutual passion. Zara complains to heaven of the
rigour of her fate; she expresses what grief the loss of her lover's heart occasions her; she
is rejected and almost banished by him who so lately raised her to the honours of a diadem. She
assails him with the most tender reproaches, reminds him of his love and his vows of constancy.
Alphonso , with difficulty, bears up against her touching expressions, and tears escape from
his eye-lids. His emotion does not pass unperceived by Zara and Morico , who now see that their
triumph is almost certain. They mutually assail him-the one by expressing the most violent
grief, and the other by her tears and her prayers. Thus the defeat of Alphonso's virtuous resolution
is hastened. Zara threatens to put herself to death; he shudders at the thought; she seizes
a poniard; he wrests it from her, and, unable longer to resist the impulse of his heart, he says
that he still loves her. Zara , unobserved by the King, expresses her joy at the prospect of once
again commanding as a Queen; she throws herself at Alphonso's feet, and covers his hand with
kisses. He endeavours to avoid her caresses; but he, nevertheless, feels all his former affection
for her returning, and is on the brink of becoming a victim to the magic influence of her charms.
Zara grows more energetic and passionate in her appeal; she reproaches him with his cruelty,
which is about to drive her to despair and death. She affects to retire, but the King stops her
for a moment by an affectionate gesture. She appears resolved to die, and Will not listen to
his entreaties to live; she makes an other motion to rush out, when the King hastens towards
her, and almost on his knees conjures her not to fly from him. Joy returns to the bosom of Zara
at this sight, and Morico expresses his rapture at the smiling prospect of a re-union between
Alphonso and his mistress. The fascinated King at length expresses his determination that
Zara shall be united to and reign with him! He gives orders to Morico , who hurries to execute
them. Zara expresses the excess of her happiness, and vows to live and, if necessary, to die
for her King. Alphonso informs her that his friends have calmed the irritated people, and they
have now nothing to fear from popular clamour. He places the ambitious Zara on the throne, and
shares it with her. 

Morico , at the head of a troop of his friends and a few courtiers, appears, and all render homage
to Zara . The re-union of the lovers is celebrated by a splendid fate, in the progress of which,
Zara orders Morico to keep a strict watch upon their enemies, and to take all necessary precautions
for her future safety. She instructs him also to compel Fanes to quit the court, and to secure
the person of their greatest foe, the venerable Garcias . Morico testifies his satisfaction
at the idea of revenging himself, and departs unperceived. 

At the conclusion of the Divertissement, Alphonso and Zara retire, followed by their suite.

The theatre represents an armoury in the castle Fanes . 

Ermangere , is discovered seated near a table, and appears to be pondering on her destiny. Fanes
enters hastily, and his agitation is a new source of alarm to the unfortunate wife of Alphonso
. She interrogates, and earnestly presses him to answer her questions. He at length acquaints
her that the King has again taken the Moorish woman to his arms; that he has placed her on the throne,
and once more become her vassal-the slave of her caprice. He adds, that he himself is banished,
and that Garcias is groaning in fetters; that the people, however, enraged at this sudden revolution
in the King's sentiments, have again risen; and, led by several high-spirited Castilians,
have determined on putting an end to the odious tyranny of the Moorish concubine. 

This last intelligence inspires Ermangere with hope, and her depressed spirits become a little
elevated; Fanes now acquaints her that her valiant friends will soon appear at his castle,
in order to make the necessary arrangements for marching against those enemies which the state
fosters in its bosom-the Moorish followers and friends of Zara . 

Arms of different descriptions are brought in and arranged in fasceaux; soon after the discontented
troop and their noble leaders arrive. Some of them are disguised as peasants, others as pilgrims,
and the remainder, in order more effectually to deceive their enemies, have assumed the costume
of the Moors. They all seem anxious for the fray. Fanes presents their chiefs to Ermangere;
they show her every possible token of respect, loyalty, and devotion, and pledge themselves
to shed their blood, if necessary, for her and their country. 

Ermangere exhibits the most lively gratitude for their devotion to her cause, and blesses
the banner which is to lead them against her enemies. The signal of departure from the tocsin
is heard, and the whole troop disappears, while Ermangere , confidently reposing on the justice
of heaven, retires, attended: by her faithful Fanes . ACT V. 

The theatre represents a magnificent pavilion; a garden is seen through the back entrance,
adorned with statues, fountains, grottoes, &c . 

Alphonso is discovered by the side of Zara , who is delicately touching a lyre, and seems to be
describing her passion for the King. Intoxicated with the charms of this seducing syren, the
monarch expresses his love and the happiness he feels in her society. Zara smiles complacently
upon her royal Slave. A troop of Balliaderes , by their exquisite dances, contribute to the
voluptuousness of the scene. 

A distant noise of arms is heard, accompanied with cries of alarm from all sides, which fill
the breasts of those in attendance with such terror that each thinks only of insuring his own
personal safety. Alphonso and Zara dread some serious calamity. Morico rushes in, in evident
dismay, to announce the revolt of the people and the army. All the citizens have taken up arms.
The chief Castilians have assumed absolute authority, routed the Moors, and imperatively
demand the appearance of Alphonso and the death of Zara . Consternation and despair of the two

Time presses, and compels them to adopt some resolution without delay. Alphonso seizes a sword,
and seems to hope that his presence will be sufficient to calm the tumult. Zara foresees that
her rain is certain-terror seizes upon her soul-hope abandons her heart. Alphonso is dreadfully
troubled to behold her in this state, but every moment is precious; he presses her with transport
to his bosom, and flies to stem the torrent of rebellion, and to save the object of his love. Morico
also departs, to assemble the Moors again, and, with them and the other dependants of Zara ,
to oppose the revolted Spaniards. Zara , after imploring the succour of those who surround
her, hastens, accompanied by her suite, to a place of shelter from the popular rage. 

The scene changes to one of the courts of the Palace; the city is seen in the distance . 

Several Moors, pursued by Castilians, cross the scene; a general combat between the people
and the partisans of Zara ensues, in which the latter are defeated and driven off; the theatre
is left for a moment unoccupied, until the noise of the unequal conflict between the pursued
and the pursuing dies away. 

Zara enters alone; her whole appearance is indicative of terror and despair. She hastily traverses
the scene without knowing where to direct her steps.: Her very dependants have now abandoned
her; she is deserted "by those her former bounty fed;" she has become the object of general execration,
and all accuse her of the evils they have endured. The utter solitude and horrid silence which
reign around are more dreadful to her than the noise of arms, the shouts of the victor and the
cries of the vanquished. She dreads the fury of the Castilians, and Works herself to the brink
of madness at the idea of falling by their hands, without revenge. She calls upon heaven for
immediate death; and exclaims against fate, for having raised her from a lowly state to the
summit of glory, only to precipitate her in an instant to the abyss of woe and wretchedness.
In her fury she becomes odious to herself. The shouts of approaching citizens and a confused
noise of arms announces to her that her last hour is arrived. She awaits the coming of her enemies
with an intrepidity which is the consequence of despair. A small number of Castilians who are
in search of Zara appear; they seize her, and, raising their swords, are about to put an end to
her hated existence; but suddenly withholding their arms, they seem reluctant to stain their
swords with the blood of a woman, even though guilty as Zara . Fanes arrives; he approves of their
forbearance, and orders Zara to be seized and led to her fate. Zara for a moment eludes her enemies,
snatches a poniard from the hand of one of them, stabs herself to the heart, and is borne off expiring.

Morico , with a number of Moors who have been made prisoners, follow Fanes in expectation of
having their fates decided. They are condemned to banishment, and guards lead them off after
the body of Zara has been removed. 

Alphonso appears, accompanied by his friends, the chiefs of the army and people; he leads Ermangere
forward, and the Castilian knights do homage to the Queen. The people crowd in, and testify
their joy at this happy reunion. Alphonso throws himself at the feet of Ermangere; he expresses
his repentance, and the excess of his grief at having given himself up to a fatal passion which
must soon have brought down ruin on his head. Tears of tenderness flow from the eyes Of Ermangere;
she forgets the past in the present scene of happiness. Alphonso vows the most constant attachment
to her, and promises his people to devote his life to their welfare. Garcias , the victim of Zara
, is brought in fettered. His appearance produces a general movement of indignation; Alphonso
presses him to his bosom, and testifies the gratitude he feels to his old friend for his devotion
to the Queen. General acclamations: joy reigns in every heart, and the curtain falls upon a
brilliant and interesting Tableau . CYRUS. AN ENCYCLICAL OR HISTORICAL BALLET. REMARKS.

Among the ancients those poems were called cyclical or encyclical which contained the general
history of a man or a country. Wishing to make an attempt to preserve this species of composition
in the Ballet, we have given the following argument. It will, accordingly, be seen, that we
do not pretend to relate the entire history of the life of Cyrus in a single representation,
but only the principal and most remarkable passages, and in such a manner as not to be subjected
to observe strictly the laws of unity. In the mean time, such a natural succession may be preserved
in describing the events of many years, that any appearance of interval will be imperceptible.
Our Ballets of Alphrodita, Vivaldi , and Dudley may be regarded as compositions of this class.
In the following specimen it has not been thought necessary to embody the idea any farther than
the argument. CHARACTERS. 

Cyrus , son of Cambyses, King of Persia, assuming the name of Artamenes . 

Cyaxares , King of Cappadocia and Galatia . 

Mandane , daughter of Cyaxares . 

Aribes , confidant of Cyrus . 

Marticia , Mandane's waiting-maid . 

The King of Pontus and Bythinia . 

The Son of Nitocris , Queen of Assyria . 

Philodaspes , a Prince . 

Magi . 

The, scene lies, at Synope . EPITOME. 

Cyrus is obliged to quit the court of Cambyses to avoid the cruelty of his grandfather, Astyages
. The latter has been warned by an oracle that the above prince will become the most powerful
monarch on earth. Cyrus , travelling in disguise, arrives at the court of his uncle, Cyaxares
, with the daughter of whom, Mandane , he becomes enamoured. Cyaxares is about to undertake
a war, and, in order to render his arms victorious, he proclaims a sacrifice to the God Mars,
and upon the day of the ceremony, Cyrus tenders his services. The offer is accepted, and the
young prince is appointed to a military command. Cyrus displays the most exalted valour, saves
the King's life, and is loaded with honours and gratitude. Mandane pays particular attention
to her father's preserver, and Cyrus is in expectation of the happiest result. The King now
desires to know who he is, but the prince entreats to be excused a declaration of his birth. A
rival prince, named Philodaspes , appears, and challenges Cyrus to single combat. Cyrus vanquishes
his antagonist, but nobly refuses to take his life. Mandane beholds the young hero with such
visible marks of delight, that the latter makes a confession of his passion, and is most favourably
received. Cyrus having departed to serve in the wars of Cyaxares , a report is soon spread that
he has met with his death, and Mandane is plunged into the deepest despair. At the very instant
that funeral rites are about to be performed in honour of Cyrus , he returns, and mourning is
changed into joy. Shortly after this, the young prince discovers a plot of Philodaspes to carry
off Mandane . He rescues that princess, and is again rewarded and honoured. He at length discovers
his real rank to Mandane , and unrestrained proofs of affection are exchanged. Cyaxares , understanding
the connexion that subsists between his daughter and Cyrus , becomes highly incensed at her,
and commands Cyrus to be arrested. The chiefs of the army immediately beg for the life of the
young hero, but in vain, he is condemned to suffer death. Upon this, Aribes declares the name
and birth of Cyrus . The latter then displays the greatness of his soul in pardoning his enemies.
Finally, the marriage of Cyrus and Mandane is celebrated without interruption, and due homage
is paid to the exalted character of the Persian prince. Having defeated the enemies of Cyarares
, he is regarded as his liberator; and being afterwards put in possession of a universal monarchy,
the predictions of the oracle are completely fulfilled. THE SORCERESS AND THE TROUBADOUR.

Aldegonde , a wicked Sorceress . 

Alidor , a young Troubadour . 

Silvia , a young Shepherdess . 

Eufrosine , a benignant Fairy . 

Aridel , a Spirit attending on Eufrosine . 

Shepherds and Shepherdesses; Hunters and Huntresses; a Villager; Sylphs attending Eufrosine;
Demons under the command of Aldegonde . ACT I. 

A wild uncultivated scene; on the right appears a cavern, forming the entrance to the subterranean
domains of Aldegonde. Near the portal stands a tripod ornamented with magic devices . 

Scene I-As the curtain rises Aldegonde is discovered surrounded by her court; in her hand she
bears a mystic rod, and seems lately to have completed an act of enchantment; upon the tripod
burns a magic flame. Before the enchantress, Silvia and a troop from the surrounding country
are bending in adoration; they appear to pay her the most servile homage; while Aldegonde boasts
the ascendancy she has obtained over their minds. Satisfied with this proof of her power, she
retires below to pursue her mystic and malignant occupations. 

Scene II- Silvia , a reigning queen of the rustic troop, leads off the dance to the sound of village
minstrelsy. Flowery coronets are next suspended from the branches, and the young swains and
shepherdesses exercise themselves in darting lances at them. Silvia alone gains the prize,
and her conquest is publicly proclaimed. She is then placed at the head of the trooping nymphs
holding the prize, a laurel crown. A trophy of reversed coronets is borne before her. She is
then crowned, while the whole company, grouping around her, pay homage to their rural queen.
Various dances are executed in her honour; after which the assembly disperses. 

Scene III.- Alidor enters; he has seen Silvia , the nymph for whom he burns, but he has been unable
to Alidor resolves still to follow the footsteps of the unfeeling Silvia; it may chance that
he will succeed in procuring a short interview. Thus decided, he departs. 

Scene IV.- Eufrosine , accompanied by her benignant spirit, Aridel , appears; she is borne
in a chariot drawn by eagles; they alight, and Aridel shows her mistress the abode of her rival,
where she practises her malignant enchantments, and holds dominion over the minds of men,
satisfying her most wicked and inordinate desires. Eufrosine rejoices at this discovery;
she will now be enabled to punish her enemy, and rescue the enslaved people of these parts. Her
attendant urges her to take revenge, and offers her most devoted services. Both appear meditating
on the means to be employed to secure success to their designs. 

Scene V.- Alidor returns; Eufrosine and her attendant go aside. The enamoured youth has not
succeeded, and Silvia , the insensible Silvia , avoids his company. Dejected and despairing,
Alidor sinks upon a swelling bank, and remains absorbed in thought. The benignant Eufrosine
already knows his pain. Alidor recovers, but abandons himself to fate, and conjures the immortal
powers to put an end to his sufferings. Eufrosine has already formed her project, and is determined
to bring about the union of the young Troubadour and Silvia , at the same time resolving to punish
Aldegonde , by inspiring her with a hopeless passion for Alidor . The attending Fairy applauds
the plan, and both proceed immediately to put it in execution. Disguising themselves as shepherdesses,
they approach Alidor , and offer to relieve his 28* grief. The youth, supposing them to be some
of Silvia's companions, asks of her welfare; he then wishes to know their opinion, and expresses
the force of his affection for the cruel damsel. The two young shepherdesses, sympathizing
in his pain, beg of him to place his hopes in Aldegonde . They even advise him to seek out that Sorceress,
whose dominion is as great as it is powerful. Alidor revives at this intelligence, he returns
thanks to the kind,hearted shepherdesses, and resolves to seek the aid of the sorceress. The
two pretended shepherdesses, foreseeing a happy result to their designs, withdraw. Eufrosine's
attendant, on retiring, places a dart near the entrance to the dwelling of Aldegonde , and then
hastens away to entice Silvia to the spot. 

Scene VI.- Alidor reflects upon the course he is about to pursue, and seems delighted by his
illusory hopes. He prepares to enter the subterranean way, but his progress is suddenly arrested
by the noise of footsteps, and a moment after he perceives Silvia approaching, and is charmed
at this opportunity of addressing her. 

Scene VII.- Silvia enters hastily and in disorder; she has just escaped the pursuit of a young
villager, who endeavours to get possession of the nymph, and to carry her off. The latter arrives
and seizes his prey; Silvia struggles in his grasp, and is nearly exhausted, when Alidor , springing
upon the rustic, rescues Silvia from the ravisher and puts him to flight; while Silvia swoons
upon the green bank. 

Scene VIII.- Alidor now seems to have obtained his most ardent wishes; fate at last grants him
the means of addressing her he adores. He advances towards her, but as yet she has not regained
her senses; he supports her in his arms, yet trembles for the result, expecting a repulse when
reason again resumes her sway-he speaks- the nymph recognizes the voice and attempts to fly-the
enamoured Troubadour endeavours to stop her-she screams, and escapes towards the subterranean
entry-the Troubadour again arrests her flight. At this instant, perceiving the mystic dart,
she seizes it and attacks Alidor . During this scene Eufrosine and her attendant have arrived
at a distance, and witness the effects of their deep laid scheme. Alidor defends himself against
every attack, and, influenced by the gestures of the Fairy, he turns the dart against Silvia
, and she is wounded. A devouring fire instantly seizes upon the nymph, and seems to flame along
her veins; its power becomes irresistible, she falters, sinks, and swoons away. Alidor , suspecting
that he has unintentionally wounded his love, flies to her assistance, and then hastens away
in search of remedies. 

Scene IX.- Eufrosine with her attendant, Aridel , advance; they get possession of Silvia and
vanish away into the air. 

Scene X.- Alidor re-enters hastily, bringing medicinal plants, but he finds not Silvia; he
searches in every part, but Silvia is no where to be seen; he calls her name, but echo alone replies.
Grief again takes possession of his breast, and the only hope remaining, is to implore the help
of the Sorceress. He retires, and in his absence Silvia is conveyed upon a Cloud between Eufrosine
and her spirit to the palace of Aldegonde . ACT II. 

A representation of the place where Aldegonde holds her court. On the right appears a colonnade
leading to the palace. Every circumstance is calculated to inspire sentiments of enchanting
pleasure. In the foreground a fountain sends forth its glittering waters, and at a distance
is discovered a gentle stream meandering along . 

Scene I.- Eufrosine and her attending spirit, Aridel , together with Silvia , descend from
the skies, reclining upon a golden cloud. Silvia continues in the same insensibility into
which she had been cast, until recalled by the Fairy. Opening her eyes, her heart also at the
same instant opens to the impression of love. "How," she inquires, "have I been conveyed to
the palace of Aldegonde , and why does my heart beat for Alidor ?" This two-fold miracle she cannot
comprehend. She next recognizes the two pretended shepherdesses, and their presence tranquillizes
her fears-but where is Alidor what is become of him? Perhaps, dejected and forlorn, he thinks
no more of scornful Silvia -he has, perhaps, transported his love to some more favouring fair.
Eufrosine , drawing near, bids her be calm, for that ere long she shall again behold the tender
Troubadour, but while remaining at the court of Aldegonde , she must not unveil her sentiments
of love for Alidor . Silvia meditates on what all this may mean. Harmonious sounds are heard;
they announce the approach of Alidor; but Eufrosine and Aridel draw Silvia away, and hide her
in a distant wood. 

Scene II.-The court of Aldegonde advance, and prepare to meet the unnexpected stranger, Alidor;
he enters and entreats to he presented to the magic queen to ask protection and solicit aid.

Scene III- Aldegonde herself appears, and beholding the beauteous youth, demands to speak
with him in private. The court retire, leaving their queen alone with Alidor . 

Scene IV.- Alidor now relates how deeply he is enamoured of Silvia, how much he has endured for
her sake, while she rejects his suit, and shuns his Very presence, He entreats Aldegonde to
soften, by her power the heart of the cruel nymph, and rescue him from sufferings worse than
death. While the youthful petitioner addresses Aldegonde , a soft emotion steals into her
breast-she loves-she burns, and Alidor inspires the flame; but he redoubles his entreaties
for Silvia . Jealousy now begins to pain the Enchantress; but she dissimulates, telling Alidor
she will employ her power to serve him, yet secretly swears to destroy her rival, Silvia . She
wishes to divert the thoughts of Alidor from his beloved; she, therefore, commands a banquet
to be instantly prepared, attended by amusing sports, purposing thus to inspire an idea of
her person and her power. 

Scene V.-The subjects of Aldegonde assemble, amongst them are intermingled Eufrosine, Aridel
and Silvia . They have seen and heard all in their retreat. Aldegonde , taking Alidor by the hand,
entreats him to partake the joys of the feast. Three damsels present, to him the prizes about
to be contended for-first a golden apple for the fleetest runner; a bow for the best archer;
and a coronet for her who excels in the dance. A youthful troop immediately advance, and begin
to dispute the prizes. Silvia gains the first; upon which Eufrosine and Aridel present her
to Alidor , who thinking still upon the object of his love, seems to take but little interest
in the scene; but who shall paint his expression of surprise when he suddenly beholds that object
! He is about to throw himself at her feet; but Eufrosine , by a look full of expression and intelligence,
intimates to him, that to make such a discovery before the Enchantress would be imminently
dangerous for both; in the mean time, Aridel , advancing towards Aldegonde , contrives to divert
her attention. She presents to her a quiver, containing poisoned arrows, which, as by accident,
she drops upon the Sorceress, who is struck by the descending darts. Group. Alidor hands over
to Silvia the golden apple and the latter rejoins her companions. Silvia soon wins the remaining
prizes, which she receives in the same manner. All this time Alidor does not dream of the happy
change that has taken place in the breast of Silvia . The two disguised fairies now invite Alidor
and Aldegonde to partake in the sports. A noble dance begins, and during the formation of a certain
group, Alidor understands that his love is requited; while, by the grace and agility of his
motions, he, himself, charms every beholder. 

Scene VI.-The chase now succeeds to the pleasures of dancing; each person is presented with
a lance by hunters, while Aldegonde orders and appropriates a costume for Alidor . The whole
company now hastens away to the sound of the horn; Aldegonde seems confident of success in her
design; while the two lovers take this opportunity of whispering each other aside. ACT III.

The scenery represents a deep and gloomy forest; at some distance a rugged road is discovered
crossing the wood . 

Scene I.-The chase; the sound of horns is heard mingled with the barking of hounds and the neighing
of horses. Hunters and huntresses are divided over the scene in various groups. 

Scene II.- Aldegonde makes choice of the opportunity afforded by the chase to make the declaration
of her passion to Alidor . The umbrageous retreats in the forest, and the dispersion of the hunters,
are circumstances extremely favourable to her intentions. The mistress of the magic art is
now seeking Alidor on every side; he at length enters amidst a troop of hunters, and she immediately
draws him aside, while the troop hastens away. The discourse soon becomes painful to Alidor;
suddenly the sound of a horn announces that some inhabitant of the wood has been aroused from
his lair. 

Scene III.- Silvia passes by, conducting a group of her companions; she appears in the heat
of pursuit, and prepared to lanch her dart at the flying stag. Alidor instantly perceives his
beloved maid, and rushes out after her, leaving the Sorceress immoveable with astonishment.

Scene IV.- Aldegonde knows not what to conclude from the rude and abrupt departure of Alidor;
she questions herself, but remains unsatisfied, and plunged in obscurity. In a few minutes,
however, she beholds Alidor returning, accompanied by his Silvia . 

Scene V.- Alidor has informed Silvia of the ungovernable passion with which the Sorceress
burns for him. The gentle pair, dreading the effects of her infuriated jealousy, determine
to save themselves by flight, and conjure heaven to assist and protect them. As they are about
to escape, Aldegonde presents herself, and prevents their progress. Struck with terror,
they fall at her feet. She raises them, and assures them of her friendship, and, embracing Silvia
gently, blames them for their intended flight. She informs them that the love she had expressed
for Alidor , while alone in the wood, was merely a friendly stratagem to prove the truth of their
affection; in short, she offers to unite them in her palace. Deceived by the allurements of
the Enchantress, blinded by love, and deluded by hope, Alidor and Silvia surrender themselves
to the direction of their most implacable enemy, 

Scene VI.- Aldegonde waves her wand, and the hunters and huntresses, as by instinct, immediately
begin to arrive. Impatient of delay, and fearing the escape of her prey, the Sorceress commands
that the unhappy pair be conducted in state to her palace, where the hymeneal ceremony is to
be performed with suitable pomp. A slow march is played, when all withdraw but Aldegonde . 

Scene VII.-The Sorceress finding herself alone, gives vent to all the jealous ire with which
the is filled. At length, to soothe and satisfy her rage, she has recourse to the aid of her art.
Invocation . Raising her wand, it changes to the shape of a circle; she then indicates with it
the four points of the horizon, and striking the earth, the rod resumes its former shape. A thick
cloud now wraps the skies in gloom; lightnings flame along the air, and the savages of the forest
send forth horrible howlings; the ground appears in motion with earthquake-it opens, a black
vapour ascends, and the demons of darkness arise. They remain motionless before her who has
summoned them, awaiting her commands. 

Scene VIII- Aldegonde informs them that she has called them up to execute her schemes of revenge,
which have become lawful from the provocation she has received. The infernal spirits devote
themselves to her services with horrible imprecations; the Sorceress is satisfied. She then,
with her bodkin, traces upon a tablet the figure of Silvia , and binds a riband round the picture.
Having done this, she is presented with a vase of gold, into which she throws the portrait; the
demons, who are ranged in a circle around her, now advance one by one, and cast into the vase the
juice of certain poisonous herbs. Aldegonde then takes the head of a serpent, and pressing
it between her hands, the venom flows in amongst the other charms; at this moment the moon appears;
the silvery face of the queen of night is stained with fain fish crimson, as if affected by the
charm. The Sorceress seizes a torch from one of the demons; she shakes the sparks from it into
the vase, and a universal tremor, observable in all the surrounding objects, follows, and
announces that the charm has succeeded. Aldegonde , by the power of her art, instantly transports
herself and the infernal spirits to her palace; they depart in a fiery cloud, and hasten to execute
their dire and revengeful designs. ACT IV. 

The scenery is the same as that of the second act . 

Scene I.- Aldegonde and her spirits appear in the air; they alight, and the gloomy twilight
is illumined by their torches. Aldegonde places herself upon the tripod, and repeats her commands
of revenge. Seated upon the mystic throne, the demons convey her to the fountain, into which
she pours the contents of the vase amidst the most terrible imprecations. She makes a sign,
and the spirits of darkness descend into the earth; nature resumes her wonted aspect, and all
becomes tranquil. 

Scene II.-The sound of the horn announces the approach of the hunter troop that are conducting
Silvia and Alidor to the palace of the Enchantress, who, having whispered a secret command
to one of her attendants, retires. 

Scene III.- Silvia and Alidor , entering with their attendants, are invited to repose themselves;
fruits are presented to them; a female slave, according to the orders she has received, offers
them a cup of water from the charmed fountain; but scarcely has Silvia carried the cup to her
lips, when a cloud of flame descends and envelops her, and the next moment she becomes a hideous
monster. Every one immediately avoids her and escape for their lives, while she herself seems
unconscious of this horrible change. 

Scene IV.- Silvia perceives Alidor , who has returned to seek for her, dreading lest she may
have been devoured by the beast. All-ignorant of her disgusting Silvia hastens to throw herself
into his arms, but Alidor seizes his hunter's javelin and aims a blow at her. 

Scene V.- Aldegonde enters, and, arresting his arm, asks him if he would thus. barbarously
destroy his beautiful mistress ? At this exclamation Alidor appears horrorstruck. The detestable
Sorceress, now smiling, presents Silvia with a glass. The nymph, amazed at the metamorphose,
abhors herself and flies towards the fountain, into which she is about to cast herself, when
she is prevented by the demons, but she has again beheld her fearful form. 

Scene VI.-At length, by the assistance of Eufrosine and Aridel , who are observed hovering
in the air, she escapes the grasp of her enemies, and plunges into the stream. Alidor is about
to follow her, but he also is prevented by the malignant demons; aided, however, by the good
Fairy, he eludes their hold, and flies to join his mistress in the flood. Aldegonde now perceives
that a superior power defeats her intentions. Beholding the object of her love fled, and the
victim of her vengeance escaped, she trembles with the fury of her wrath. Aridel now advances
towards her, and threatens her with punishment; she rushes upon this seeming shepherdess,
who easily eludes her attack, leaving her vest in the hands of the Sorceress, and smiling at
her impotent anger. Aldegonde instantly recognizes the spirit of her powerful rival, and,
raging with disappointment, she foresees the inevitable consequences, and submits. 

The scene changes, and represents a magnificent interior view of the palace of Eufrosine ,
the benignant Fairy; she is seated on her throne and surrounded by sylphs. Near the Fairy appears
Alidor holding Silvia , who has regained her natural form, and exhibits all the beauty and vigour
of youth. Aldegonde , unable to endure the sight of the triumph of her rivals, makes a sign with
her wand, when the earth yawns into a hideous gulf, and, surrounded by her demons, she precipitates
herself into the regions of darkness, there to dwell for ever. Eufrosine , exulting in the just
punishment of the cruel Aldegonde , unites the gentle Silvia to the constant Alidor, and prophecies
their future uninterrupted happiness. 

General rejoicings, sports and Divertissement . DUDLEY * . A GRAND HISTORIC BALLET, IN FIVE

The troubles and wars caused by the dissention between the houses of York and Lancaster, are
rendered celebrated by the accounts given of them in English History. 

These two families aspired with equal ardour to the crown, for which they disputed with unexampled
fury, frequently drenching that country with blood which they should have protected . Henry
VI, of the house of Lancaster, at length attained to the crown, and his rival was obliged to submit.
During his reign the Yorkists, though they had missed their aim, yet they had not lost their
intrepidity; they still entertained a hope of revenge, and flattered themselves they should
be one day able to place upon the throne young Edward , son of the Duke of York, on whom Dudley,
Earl of Warwick , a man renowned in these wars, bestowed the most careful attention. In the mean
time, Henry VI continued to reign, but the weakness of his character rendered him ever insecure;
Margaret of Anjou , his consort, perceived it, and, uniting talent with courage, she frequently
preserved him from ruin. Yet, notwithstanding the efforts of this illustrious Queen, the
valour, policy, and conduit of Dudley rapidly advanced the interest of the Yorkists. They
at length dethroned the reigning prince; and Henry , his Queen, and their son became the prisoners
of Edward , who now ascended the throne. (Immediately after this epoch, the action of the following
piece begins.) No sooner had Edward , with the aid of Warwick , effected his purpose, than the
Earl departed for France, to conclude a treaty with the French King, Louis XI, and to obtain
the hand of his sister * for Edward , who had consented to the match. This marriage was designed
to establish firmly the English throne, and to procure a lasting and advantageous peace. Daring
the absence of Dudley , Edward became enamoured of the Lady Elizabeth , who was beloved by the
Earl, and so warm was the King's passion that he promised to espouse her immediately. Thus love
incited him to commit an act of ingratitude against his greatest benefactor. Upon the point
of the celebration of this marriage, the Earl arrived, bearing declarations of peace, with
a promise from the French King of bestowing his sister on Edward . The latter having otherwise
engaged himself, rejected the proposal, and Dudley felt the injury deeply: He perceived himself
scorned by the King and despised by the people, both of France and England. Heinstantly searched
for the cause of this sudden change in the King's conduct, and chance, aided by friends, instructed
him in the whole proceeding. Upon this information the fury of the Earl became boundless, and
he determined on means of the most terrible revenge. Edward , however, caused him to be arrested
and thrown into prison; but the strength of his party, and the influence he had over the people,
together with the advantage now taken by Margaret to recover the throne, effected the deliverance
of Dudley , and exposed the false prince. Every circumstance seemed now to tend to the ruin of
Edward; but the generous and exalted soul of Warwick, unwilling to take advantage of the weakness
and ill-success of Edward's cause, induced him to rescue his prince from the hands of his enemies,
and to confound their designs, thus adding another trait of generosity to immortalize his
name. By his valour the Lancasterian party again sinks, and the former state of affairs is restored;
while the people quietly submit to the heroic chief they admire. Edward is abashed by this act
of magnanimity; he confesses the injustice his ungovernable passion urged him to commit.
He now resigns himself to the direction of Warwick , who evinces a grateful joy at the change.
Dudley becomes triumphant at court, with the people, and with his intended wife He only requires,
as the reward of all his services, public respect for himself, and universal submission to
Edwards's lawful sway. CHARACTERS. 

Dudley, Earl of Warwick . 

Edward of York , King of England, Son of the Duke of York, and descended from Edward III. 

Margaret of Anjou * 

Daughter of Rene d'Anjou, King of Naples. wife of Henry VI, who is descended from the house of
Lancaster . 

Elizabeth , widow of Sir John Grey, in love with Dudley . 

Sir William Sommers , a friend of Dudley . 

The Duke of Suffolk , a confidential friend of the King . 

Nevil , an Officer attached to Margaret . 

Court of the King, Princes, Princesses, &c.; Officers; Soldiers; People; Guards; Sailors;
Scotch Chiefs; attendants on Margaret; Chiefs of the Queen's party; attendants on Elizabeth

The scene is laid in London, about the year , 1465. ACT I. 

An apartment of Elizabeth's in the royal Palace . 

Scene I.- Edward is discovered on his knees before Elizabeth , he is expressing to the beautiful
young widow the passion she has inspired; subdued by the power of her attractions, he swears
an eternal fidelity. Elizabeth blushes and appears embarrassed. The King conjures her to
give a favourable reply to his wishes. At the ardent expressions of Edward, Elizabeth becomes
still wore disturbed. The image of the beloved chief is present to her mind; and feeling, her
heart devoted to him, her situation is rendered distressing. Edward renews his solicitations,
while the Lady Elizabeth dares not avow her real sentiments, and evinces evident confusion;
the King, interpreting this fear and agitation as marks of her affection, flatters himself
that he is about to obtain the accomplishment of his desires; but the lady implores the Prince
to forbear awhile, to allow her time to reflect on such proposals. Edward's transporting passion
will not admit of delay; Elizabeth rejects his solicitations. Jealous suspicions now inspire
him; he would know her most secret feelings. The manner in which the Earl of Warwick has conducted
himself induces him to suspect a mutual flame; he acquaints Elizabeth with his surmises; but
she dissimulates, and endeavours to remove his fears by assuring him, that Dudley has inspired
her with no other sentiment than that of admiration for his deeds; Edward consequently perceives
no further obstacle to the accomplishment of his will; Elizabeth , by her own confession, is
free, and Elizabeth is reduced to a situation of peculiar distress. 

Scene II.- Edward gives a signal, when Suffolk appears, and the latter is immediately commanded
to make preparations for the nuptial ceremony; while a kind of consent is drawn from Elizabeth
. The latter, unable longer to resist the power of her feelings, appears on the point swooning,
when an officer, entering hastily, announces the arrival of Dudley; the King is struck motionless
by this news; but Elizabeth gradually revives, and becomes animated by hope. Edward instantly
countermands his orders, and prepares for an interview with Warwick; he takes leave of the
object of his affection, promising a speedy union. He retires, gazing on her to the last with
an air of disappointed affection. The mistress of Warwick now laments her unhappy fate, but
places all her hope in the protection of the hero she adores. 

Scene III.- The Port of London with the Quay . 

The Thames is covered with vessels, whose streamers are floating in the air. The Earl appears
upon one of the most splendid of these; while strains of military music celebrate the arrival
of the English warrior. The people hasten in crowds to welcome him; warlike chiefs, his companions,
surround the hero, but he alone is the object of universal attention and applause: The King,
attended by his court and followed by part of his army, arrives, and advances even to the water
side, to receive the Earl, to whom this reception is a kind of triumph, and he appears fully to
enjoy his glorious 29* pre-eminence. Each is anxious to show marks of devotion, and all receive
a grateful acknowledgment of their zeal. Edward , however, salutes Warwick with coldness,
which, notwithstanding the surrounding multitude, does not pass unnoticed by the Earl. Dudley
bears peace to England, accompanied by terms of the approaching marriage with the sister of
Louis. Universal expressions of joy follow the declaration. Edward alone appears inwardly
agitated, and does not partake in the public sentiments. Dudley now prepares to address him;
but the King, fearing he might be called on to perjure himself, avoids an explanation, and defers
the audience to some future opportunity; but in the meantime, commands the day to be celebrated
by a public rejoicing. General fete and Divertissement . ACT II. 

The stage represents sumptuous apartments in the royal Palace . 

Scene I.- Dudley enters, accompanied by his favourite, Sommers; the former expresses to his
friend the joy he felt at the reception his countrymen honoured him with; Sommers shares in
the satisfaction of the Earl, congratulating him on the glory and renown he has acquired. The
latter now inquires for Elizabeth , and expresses the joy he shall feel at again beholding that
lady; desiring Sommers to hasten and prepare her for the interview. Sommers is going, but Dudley
recalls him, to communicate the observations he has made upon the deportment of the King, who
had received him so coolly, and had even appeared so disconcerted at his presence, as to be almost
regardless of the honours bestowed upon himself. Sommers , however, being entirely unacquainted
with the peculiar, circumstances in which Edward is placed, cannot divine the motives for
such a conduct; but appeases Warwick , by representing that outward appearances cannot always
be depended on; and that they ought not for an instant to disturb the mind of that man who has nothing
to reproach himself with. The Earl repeats his message, and Sommers departs. 

Scene II.- Edward enters, followed by his guards; Warwick hastens to meet him, proving his
attachment and respect; but the monarch, unwilling to betray his real sentiments, affects
a quiet indifference. The Earl now reminds him of the object of his embassy, and counsels him
to prepare for his union with the French Princess, who will shortly arrive, for that such an
alliance would be the seal of peace between the two nations. Edward acknowledges the care of
Dudley , but gives him to understand that he cannot accept the hand of the French Princess; Warwick
is astonished ! He demands what has caused so sudden a change; but the King is unwilling to explain,
yet appears determined to continue in his resolution. Dudley reminds him of the oath he has
taken; but Edward replies, that he is prepared to defend his conduct before Louis; that his
heart is already disposed of, and that even on that very day he is to be united to the object of
his affection. The Earl expresses a wish to be made acquainted with the person on whom his choice
is fixed; Edward replies, that a short time will discover every circumstance. The Earl, however,
represents to him the error and danger of such conduct, and even reproaches him with weakness;
Edward upon this appears greatly agitated; while the Earl entreats him to have some regard
for his own honour, for the advice of his ancient friend, and to avoid staining his character.
Edward appears deeply affected; he informs Warwick that he has not yet disgraced his high rank,
but that he must be allowed to entertain those sentiments of esteem and love which the best of
women has inspired, and even requests the assistance of Warwick in the affair; but the latter
does not yet clearly conceive what are the intentions of the young monarch. He accordingly
entreats for an explanation, but Edward is too deeply agitated to return an answer; and finding
himself unable longer to support the presence of his injured friend, he promises to make him
acquainted with his designs, and withdraws. 

Scene III.- Warwick remains in the greatest astonishment; the remarks he had made upon the
monarch's behaviour at his arrival were founded on truth. Is it possible that Edward can so
have belied himself? And what must be the allurements of the fair one who could so have prevailed
upon his resolution! The unhappy and unexpected change causes in the Earl the deepest concern,
and he falls into a reverie of meditation. 

Scene IV.- Margaret enters, she appears occupied in forming designs of revenge; she exhibits
a melancholy air, grief has cast a gloom over her features, yet they have lost nothing of their
natural loftiness. She remarks the abstracted air of the Earl; the latter at length seems resolved
to seek satisfactory information respecting the situation of the King. As he is about to depart,
he is prevented by Margaret; Warwick appears greatly surprised. She then acquaints him that,
since his arrival, she has learned the happy news of a peace being established between France
and England, and that, therefore, she hopes again, with her husband and son, soon to enjoy liberty.
Dudley replies, that all as yet remains in uncertainty, awaiting the determination of Edward
with regard to his marriage. Upon this, Margaret replies, that if such are time conditions,
the peace can never take place, since Edward's affections are fixed on another. Warwick appears
astonished at how Margaret can have arrived at such information, and presses her to unveil
this mystery. Margaret seizes this opportunity to sow discord, and immediately tells him
that Elizabeth is to be united to Edward . Warwick is struck motionless with astonishment at
this intelligence ! Having recovered, he cannot yet persuade himself that what he has heard
is possible; he cannot believe Edward capable of so base an action. Margaret replies, that
time will discover the truth. Dudley , however, accuses Margaret of having invented the whole
through hatred. The latter, wounded at such an imputation, expresses a hope that in a very short
time she will be revenged, and even threatens the Earl with the consequences of her wrath, and

Scene V.- Dudley , deeply affected with what he has just heard, sinks into a chair, and, resting
his head on his hand, meditates on the perfidy of Edward and recent unexpected events. 

Scene VI.- Sommers enters, evincing in his features some gloomy event; he fears to address
Warwick; but the latter guesses the cause of his grief, unable himself to conceal his inward
feelings. His friend at length assures him that Elizabeth is about to become the bride of Edward;
Warwick , upon this, gives full liberty to his wounded and indignant feelings, Sommers endeavours
to calm the incensed Earl, but in vain. Warwick will listen to nothing but the dictates Of his
own wrath, and, amidst the transports of anger, threatens the ravisher of his lady with terrible
revenge. In vain does Sommers try by prayers and entreaties to soften and appease the anger
of the Infuriated nobleman; he swears mat ms former friend shall now become his most inveterate
enemy; and Sommers seems: to tremble for the: consequences. 

Scene VII.- Elizabeth enters, and beholds the anger of her lover; her face is immediately suffused
with tears. Warwick perceiving her, flies towards her, describing, by the most lively expressions,
his love, his unhappiness, the perfidy of Edward , and his own wrath. Mutual marks of unalterable
affection are then exchanged, and each takes an oath of eternal fidelity. Dudley swears that
no power shall force Elizabeth from his protection; and that the traitor who would totally
destroy his happiness, shall not escape the effects of his fury. Elizabeth shudders at these
declarations of revenge. Sommers endeavours to console the unfortunate lady, and essays
to deter his noble friend from executing his sanguinary intentions. Elizabeth also employs
all her influence to calm his anger; she represents what will be the terrible consequences
for both, if he persists. Warwick replies with a look of contempt and a smile of disdain, and
remains unmoved in his resolution. Elizabeth appears in the deepest distress. Dudley , perceiving
her situation, begs her not to afflict herself on his account, to console herself and allow
him to act freely. Elizabeth , however, redoubles her entreaties, and conjures the hero to
yield to her prayers for his own safety. She would persuade him to another interview with Edward
, who, recollecting himself, might nobly return to a sense of honour, restore him to his rights,
and ever treat that hero with respect to whom he owes all. Warwick still resists, but the gentle
lady, throwing herself at his feet, obtains of him a promise to pardon for the present the unwarrantable
conduct of Edward , and he even consents to see him, but will,not give up his intention of some
future revenge. Hope reanimates the breasts of Elizabeth and Sommers , and each takes leave
of Dudley . ACT III. 

A court-yard belonging to that part of the Palace allotted to Margaret of Anjou. 

Scene I-In this place, at some distance from the court, appears Margaret; she is accompanied
by Nevil , her confident, together with the principal generals and officers of her party, both
English and Scots. In these she places her entire confidence. Margaret acquaints them with
the discord existing between Edward and Warwick; and consequently intimates the war likely
to take place, of which it will become their duty to take advantage, in order that she may recover
her throne and triumph over her oppressors. The intrepid Queen then selects certain persons
to spy upon the movements of both King and people. She herself undertakes, by policy; to gain
over Warwick to her interests, being determined to get possession of the great talent of that
warrior. Her partisans applaud her courage and address. Margaret commands them to be armed
and ready to take advantage of the first tumult that may arise; her valiant followers swear
to be faithful and ever prepared. Joy again gleams on the countenance of Margaret , and she appears
confident of success. Her followers retire to forward the designs, and insure the triumph
of the heroine. 

Scene II.- A sumptuous apartment in the Palace . Edward appears absorbed in meditation; his
unfortunate passion and general conduct inspire him with dread for the future. The affront
he has put upon his illustrious friend, and the anger of the latter, present to him the most fearful

Scene III.- Suffolk enters, and announces the approach of Dudley , who advances hastily. Edward
is confused at the sudden and unexpected appearance of the Earl; he endeavours to conceal his
agitation, but Warwick instantly perceives it, and trembles with rage; scarcely can he restrain
his fury at the sight of one who has so deeply injured him. He informs the King of his dissatisfaction
at the reception given him, and his conduct since. Edward seems desirous to make him sensible
of his rank and power; but the Earl, regardless of these, recounts the services he had done him,
the battles he had fought, and the enemies he had vanquished in supporting his cause, and tells
him, in short, that he owes the very throne to his valour and unalterable attachment. On the
other hand, he represents to him the effects of his contempt and his ingratitude; he tells him
that his honour is lost, through the misplaced passion for a woman who had belonged to himself.
Edward , offended at the freedom and reproaches of Warwick , commands him to abstain, and to
pay a due respect to his authority; informing him also, that if he persists, he shall find that
punishment is in his power. The King continues, that he has not forgotten the services done
for him, and that the high offices and employments of Warwick are a sufficient reward. As to
Elizabeth , he declares that he finds it impossible not to love her; that in this case he knows
no other law than the dictates of his heart, and that he thinks himself fully Dudley informs
him that there is an oath of fidelity between him and Elizabeth , and that no power shall tear
her from him; adding, that it would be better for Edward to take his life than commit this act
of injustice against him, Edward , feeling himself insulted, threatens to punish Dudley for
his outrageous conduct, and commands him to obey; the Earl appears somewhat surprised at the
bold and haughty tone assumed by the King, yet he trembles with internal anger, and makes a certain
gesture, which seems to indicate contempt on the royal power. Edward , unable to support this
last insult, calls for his guards, and commands them to take the Earl into custody, threatening
an exemplary punishment for the outrages he has committed. 

The Earl, beholding himself thus ignominiously treated, becomes furious; with one terrible
look he keeps off the guards who are about to disarm him; he then advances towards Edward , and
reproaches him with increased energy for thus rewarding all his services, and, throwing down
his sword at Edward's feet, conjures him rather to sacrifice him upon the spot. As the guards
are about to drag off Warwick - 

Scene IV.- Elizabeth appears, and beholds the last action of Warwick's; she seems overpowered
by grief and astonishment. She kneels at the feet of Edward , and entreats him to sacrifice her
alone, since her love for Warwick is the cause of the present misfortune. Edward is deeply wounded
at this avowal of Elizabeth; jealousy takes possession of his breast, and he is deaf to her prayers.
Warwick desires her to forbear entreating a monarch whose barbarous mind is incapable of any
thing noble. Edward commands Dudley to be instantly imprisoned. The Earl departs in custody,
yet though a prisoner, still menaces Edward with revenge. The distress of Elizabeth is now
extreme. Tears and prayers find no attention from Edward , who reproaches her with having concealed
her real sentiments. She again supplicates, and is again disregarded. Edward appears by turns
tormented with the remembrance of the insults he has endured by jealousy and by love, and is
on the point of devoting Dudley to destruction in his rage, but some remaining sense of gratitude
restrains him, and he curbs his fury. 

Elizabeth intercedes for the offender, and begs the King to do an action worthy of his rank;
but he declares that his resolution is unchangeable. 

Scene V.- Suffolk enters, and informs the King that his orders are strictly obeyed with regard
to Warwick , but that the people murmur at his arrest; that the hero is greatly beloved in London,
and that Edward may have just cause shortly to fear the consequences of this measure. He appears
surprised at this news, but after a moment's reflection, he resumes all the haughtiness peculiar
to his station, and, like an absolute prince, tells his confident that it will be a very easy
matter to tame and keep down the people. He commands him to make preparations for quelling the
tumult, and, approaching Suffolk , whispers him, and seems to communicate a secret of importance.
The Duke shows a ready submission to the wishes of the King, and departs. Edward now accuses
Elizabeth of all that has happened, and reproaches her with indifference, at the same time
allowing some marks of affection to escape him; he then retires, threatening all who shall
dare to oppose his authority. 

Scene VI.- The situation of Elizabeth still appears deplorable; hope itself has abandoned
her. Her attendants having entered, employ every means of consoling her, but in vain, her grief
refuses alleviation. Warwick being mentioned, and the necessity, of aiding that hero, love
soon reanimates her breast; she regains her fortitude, and hastens away to contribute in her
power for the preservation of the intrepid Earl. ACT IV. 

An apartment appropriated to Margaret. Night . 

Margaget of Anjou is discovered in complete armour; she is seated near a table, and reading
a letter with the deepest attention, after which she displays marks of entire satisfaction
in what she has read. She is surrounded by Nevil , her attendants, the leaders of her party, and
some Scottish warriors, all of whom appear to await her orders. The heroine rises; her partisans
advance towards her, and she communicates the contents of the letter, as follows:-That Edward
and Warwick are become declared enemies; that the latter is arrested, while the people complain
loudly of the King's conduct, and are ready to rebel-This information is received with marks
of satisfaction and joy; every one appearing prepared to profit of an event entirely calculated
to advance the interests of Margaret , who incites them to lose no time in their endeavour to
effect the fall of Edward; all declare their zeal and readiness to serve her, and take an oath
of allegiance. She then gives commands that all her followers assemble, and hold themselves
prepared for the intended attack; proposing that an attempt be made to liberate Warwick , who
will become the principal support of their party; declaring also, that, with the addition
of so much talent and valour, success must be certain. This counsel is received with universal
approbation. Dudley is the instrument with which they propose to satisfy their ambition and
revenge, and to re-establish Margaret upon the throne of England. This measure seems to fill
every breast with hope and courage; so great, indeed, is their confidence in it, that already
do they fancy the attempt is completed. In the mean time, the warrior-queen recommends the
deepest circumspection, joined to an indefatigable activity, promising suitable rewards
to all, and then departs at the head of one party, while Nevil conducts the other. 

Scene II-A prison . is discovered; he laments his captivity, and meditates upon the vicissitudes
of fortune-he, who a few hours ago was the foremost man in England, is now plunged into a loathsome
dungeon, like the vilest of criminals! Notwithstanding his heroism, he feels deeply the pangs
of disappointed love and royal perfidy, and appears lost in meditation on his wretched fate.

Scene III.- Elizabeth , followed by her suite, enters this gloomy abode; she presents herself
before her beloved Dudley; mutual endearments are instantly exchanged, and the latter finds
a momentary relief from his sufferings. He expresses to Elizabeth the surprise he feels at
her unexpected visit. She then informs him that she is come from Edward , to entreat him to calm.
his anger, return to his allegiance, and endeavour to regain the royal favour. Scarcely has
she delivered her commission, when Warwick , in the most decisive manner, refuses to listen
to such conditions; he admits himself somewhat in the wrong, but treats such a degrading submission
with a haughty contempt. His mind broods rather on the means of revenge. Elizabeth employs
the force of affection to dissuade him from his purpose, but he is immovable. Elizabeth implores,
him to consider her unhappy situation. Warwick is affected at her distress, and promises soon
to rescue her from the abyss of grief into which she is plunged: She, however, reproaches him
with being the cause of the present revolt, and of the sanguinary combats that are about to deluge
the country with blood; but this representation does but increase the desire he feels to sacrifice
his enemy. Elizabeth appears to dread the evil consequences; but Dudley recalls to her mind
the guilty conduct of the King, his unprincipled designs, his own insults and ignominious
chains; the unhappy lady supplicates him on her knees, and bathes his hand with tears, but the
Earl is immoveable. Elizabeth then reproaches him bitterly, with the barbarity of his behaviour,
and threatens to terminate her own woes by a speedy death. This determination appears deeply
to affect Warwick , and he tries to recall the affection of Elizabeth being prepared to make
any sacrifice to regain her love. Elizabeth unable to resist the united power of grief and tenderness,
falls into the, arms of Dudley . 

Scene IV.-An officer, followed by a company of soldiers, enters and announces to Elizabeth
, that the King Commands her to leave this place, and to attend him immediately. The Earl desires
to enjoy the company of Elizabeth a few minutes longer, but the officer repeats his order, and
demands obedience. Elizabeth prepares to depart, conjuring Warwick , by a timely submission,
to preserve his country from destruction, and herself from additional woe. She then bids him
adieu, and retires. 

Scene V.- Warwick appears dejected; he accuses heaven, of injustice, then implores death
to put a period to his degrading punishment. Sinking upon a seat, he meditates on the wretchedness
of his fate. He is aroused from his abstraction by a certain noise, like the clash of arms; a momentary
terror seizes Warwick for the first time; the noise approaches, he suspects assassins, and
prepares himself to meet the mortal blow. 

Scene VI.-Warriors bearing torches enter; Dudley is astonished; Sommers advances at the
head of his men, and informs Dudley that he is the bearer of liberty, and then presents him with
a suit of armour; the Earl, in an ecstacy of joy, seizes first the sword, and then arms himself
from head to foot; he embraces his faithful friend, and returns thanks for his zeal in serving
him. All his wonted valour and intrepidity appear now to have returned, and he burns for combat.
Sommers informs him that the people have revolted against Edward , and that the latter is already
a prisoner in his own palace; and that Margaret , the warrior-queen, at the head of her party,
is making gigantic strides towards the throne. The pleasure and surprise of Warwick upon this
are unbounded; Sommers counsels that not a moment may be lost, and commands all to depart instantly.
As they are on the point of leaving the prison, Warwick suddenly stops; every one appears astonished,
while the Earl seems reflecting on some new thought that has seized him. The warriors gaze on
each other, as if inquiring what has caused this extraordinary pause. Warwick has conceived
a new project, that of a seasonable visit the King, and he decides on pursuing this measure.
He exhibits marks of self-satisfaction at this new plan of conduct, and requires of his chiefs
an oath of fidelity in pursuing his measures; they readily consent. "Well then," says Warwick
, "let us act like heroes; and to wage war against a defenceless King, confined ass prisoner,
is an action unworthy of heroism. Let us vanquish our enemies by a noble generosity. Let us deliver
Edward , but oppose Margaret and her partisans, and thus your character and mine will be placed
in a proper light." Having communicated his sentiments to all those who surround him, this
exalted trait meets with universal approbation, Honour and virtue seem to have found a support
in every breast, while Dudley , impatient to add new lustre to his fame, gives the signal of departure,
and marches out sword in hand at the head of his warriors. ACT V. 

Scene .- A public square in London. The Thames appears in the distance; on one side part of the
Royal Palace is discovered . 

A Combat takes place between Edward's soldiers, the people, and Margaret's party. The latter,
accompanied by Nevil , takes part against the King, and makes great efforts to get possession
of the palace. Warwick appears at the head of his warriors; Margaret expresses the greatest
joy; her valour appears to increase, and she seems now confident of victory; but she is deceived,
the sentiments of the Earl are entirely changed, and instead of reinforcing the heroic Queen,
he commands his troops and the people to fly to the relief of their King, and to oppose his enemies.
Margaret stands for a moment motionless and astonished at this change; she beholds her hopes
again cast down, yet she instantly regains her fortitude, and fights with redoubled fury.
Dudley , however, soon puts her party to flight, and then hastens to the palace. 30 Sommers continues
still on the field, and succeeds in routing and taking prisoners that part of Margaret's followers
composed of Scottish recruits. Edward and Warwick now appear together, and their public embrace
gives general information that an act of oblivion has passed. In a few minutes a cessation of
arms takes place; general joy is diffused around, and Warwick becomes an object of universal
admiration. Elizabeth arrives, attended by her suite; when Edward , yielding up all claim
to that lady, takes her by the hand and presents her to Warwick . The gallant prince still appears
at a loss how adequately to reward the noble actions of the Earl; but the latter declares that
the friendship and confidence of his King are a sufficient reward for all past services; Edward
exhibits marks of a complete satisfaction. Warwick engages the army and people to be faithful
and obedient to their sovereign, and prays for the happiness and prosperity of his country.

Universal applause follows these events. Margaret , having been taken, is now led in a prisoner;
the haughty Queen appears to load the whole multitude with execrations, exposing and accusing
Warwick in the most marked terms for his former treasonous conduct. The Earl disdams to reply,
and the King commands her to be conducted out of his presence. No sooner does Margaret hear this,
than, snatching a poniard from her girdle, she rushes upon Warwick to stab him; but the guards,
perceiving her intention, seize her arm and preserve the hero's life. This last act of Margaret's
inspires every one with horror, and the King commands her to instant-punishment. Warwick
, however, implores pardon for the guilty Queen, and counsels to send her back into France;
Edward does not attempt to reject this advice, and the guards prepare to conduct her away; she
retires, loading her rival with imprecations, notwithstanding his generosity. 

Edward signifies his wish that all animosity should now be forgotten and every gloomy recollection
effaced, and that feast and friendly revelry be introduced to celebrate the triumph of the
great Earl of Warwick . Himself unites Elizabeth to the hero, and appears to enjoy happiness
in becoming the cause of theirs. Dudley expresses his deep gratitude and entire satisfaction,
while the whole multitude salute Edward with a Shout Of applause; the young monarch gracefully
acknowledges these marks of affection, and the curtain descends on a General Group . ALCIDES,

The ancient Philosophers reigned that the young Alcides , having attained the age of manhood
and of reason, found himself doubtfully and dangerously situated where two roads met and took
each an opposite course. He was at once invited by Virtue and Pleasure to proceed in those two
ways. After having hesitated a short time, the hero decided on taking the road pointed out by
Virtue.-Xen. Mem ., 1. 2, c. 1. Upon this ingenious fiction the present Ballet is founded. The
same subject has been treated as an Opera, by Metastasio, entitled Alcide al Bivio . Maurin
the performer has made a French Opera of this Allegory, set to music by M. Biasis, Sen. CHARACTERS.

Alcides . 

Phronime , Alcides' Mentorial Governor, representing the Judgment . 

Edonide , the Goddess of Pleasure . 

Aretis , the Goddess of Virtue . 

Nymphs, Genii, and Cupids, attending Edonide; Heroes, Heroines, and Genii, following Aretis;
Monsters and Spectres . 

The scene passes in the country about Thebes . ACT I. 

Scene .- Ancient and gloomy forest; in which may be distinguished two roads; the first on the
right is planted with roses and other odoriferous shrubs and leads to the abode of Pleasure.
The other, running a parallel course on the left presents a wild appearance, being overrun
with thorns and briars, interspersed with rocks and fints, and conducts to the dwelling of
Virtue . 

Scene I.- Alcides and Phronime appear; the former, being surprised at finding himself in such
a situation, inquires the meaning of his governor, Phronime; the latter replies, that it is
by order of the Gods, and to Alcides being excited by these expressions, he burns to enter this
unknown desert; Phronime extols this ardour and promptitude; the former, notwithstanding,
desires to know the nature of the hazardous trial to which he is about to be exposed. Phronime
then points out the two roads, affirming that by the will of Fate and the Gods, every mortal must
make the momentous choice of one of these two ways;-one Which is easy and agreeable, leading
to Pleasure without a hope of return; while the other, which is dangerous and difficult, conducting
to the abode of Virtue. He then describes the charming but deceitful appearances of the first,
whose end is misery; afterwards the danger and difficulty attending a passage through the
second, which are however rewarded by glory and happiness. The sanguine youth, inflamed by
this discourse, advances, under the guidance Of his wise governor, to undertake this attempt;
the old man informs him that the choice depends upon himself alone, but that he will still watch
over his actions; that honour or disgrace is the unalterable consequence of this event, and
that, therefore, it is obvious which to Choose. Alcides promises to do honour to himself, and
to select the way to Virtue; upon this Phronime withdraws. 

Scene II.- Alcides , now finding himself alone, begins to mistrust himself; his fortitude
appears sinking at the absence of his Mentor. He meditates, on his singular situation, then
examines the two portentous paths of this desert. He appears delighted with the lovely and
flattering prospect of that leading to Pleasure; the approach seems easy; every thing is calculated
to excite agreeable sensations. The beauty and variety of the flowers, whose perfume is wafted
through the air upon the wings of zephyrs; the gentle whispering of the umbrageous foliage;
the murmuring of crystal rivulets, and the warblings of the birds, all tend to perplex him in
making the proper selection, notwithstanding the young hero recalls to his mind the advice
he has received, and summons all his resolution to repel those deceitful delights, He now approaches
the path of Virtue; it presents a view rugged, rude, and bare. The sight of this frightful wilderness,
apparently deserted by nature, raises in the breast of Alcides a desire of proving his valour
by braving its danger; his inward sensations direct him to this road, as his proper choice;
but before he attempts to enter, he addresses himself to the immortal powers, imploring their
counsel and protection, and that they would put an end to that anxious uncertainty by which
he is tormented. He again takes a view of the way upon which he is about to proceed; he approaches,
but is withheld by a secret dread; he once more summons his valour to aid him, and prepares for
the trial. On the instant he is about to enter, he is struck by the sounds of melodious music;
he stops to listen; when- 

Scene III. Edonide , the Goddess of Pleasure, appears; she is accompanied by troops of those
who are devoted to her service. Alcides is motionless with astonishment and admiration at
the grace and beauty of this power. He is, however, soon on the point of hastening away; but is
allured to stay awhile, by the surprise that Edonide exhibits at his flight. Can he, she inquires,
be so insensible as to prefer yonder horrible wilderness to that abode of delights to which
she would invite him? Alcides demands to know what are her designs, showing at the same time,
by the severity of his countenance, that he is prepared to listen to nothing contrary to honour.
She informs him that her palace is in the grove, which he may perceive in the distance, and that
she bestows happiness on whomsoever is pleased to follow her. She adds, that every one confesses
the power of her charms, and that, therefore, he ought to surrender his heart to her, obey her
laws, and live in her dominions. Alcides appears fascinated as if by a delightful vision; the
allurement overpowers him; but he asks for a further and more explicit account. Edonide replies,
that she is the Goddess of Pleasure, the consolation of the unfortunate, and the joy of mankind.
She offers to share with him the wealth of which she is possessed, reproaches his delay, and
presses him to follow her immediately into the leafy recesses of the woods. The youth refusing,
she complains of his ingratitude; he at length seems moved by the winning graces of the Goddess;
her promises have charmed him, and he is reduced to doubt and indecision; still reason forbids
him to yield. Edonide is offended at his resistance, and astonished at his temerity. She declares
to him that reason and virtue destroy every agreeable sentiment, deprive life of every pleasure;
that they present nothing but labour and pain, and are enemies to nature. "In me," continues
she, "you will find the chief good is placed." She then earnestly entreats him to enter her dwelling
of delight. Alcides is sensible of the offered enjoyment, but fears he is falling for ever into
a snare. Edonide assures him of safety, and prepares to conduct him into her enchanting abode.
Alcides , determined to avoid inglorious repose, withdraws himself from her; arms and fame
are the objects of his desire, and he turns to the path of Virtue. Edonide pretends to warn him
from a terrible fate which will there attend him. Alcides persists, representing that happiness
will reward undaunted resolution. Edonide continues to press him to follow her, and in order
to prevail, and at length in bringing him to submit to her empire, she makes a sign to her followers,
and they immediately appear. 

The scene changes, and represents the palace of the Goddess of Pleasure. Through a colonnade,
at a distance, a beautiful grove is discovered. In the centre is seen a throne constructed with
flowers, upon which Edonide placing herself causes Alcides to sit by her side . 

The youth, astonished at all he beholds, complies with the request of Edonide , and gives himself
up to her powerful illusions, while nymphs, genii, and little loves, try, by sports and dances,
to seduce him from all thought of Virtue. He expresses the delight he feels at the calm repose
of the scene, disturbed only by the gaiety of amiable amusements. Ebonide , with her companions,
counsel him to leave every thing for such enjoyment, representing the danger and folly of pursuing
glory, by which human life is deprived of every pleasure. To these persuasions Alcides yields
a willing ear. He is surrounded by nymphs, and crowned with flowers; while Edonide promises
to make him the dearest of her companions; Alcides expresses his gratitude, and gives himself
up entirely to her direction. The troops of Pleasure envelop the youth in wreaths of flowers,
and conduct him to a bower, to which they are directed by Edonide , who follows, triumphing in
her conquest. ACT II. 

Scene I.- The stage represents the first scene of the first act . 

Phronime enters from the path of pleasure, conducting Alcides , whom he reproaches for having
allowed himself to be enticed into so much danger, and expresses his concern at seeing his advice
so soon forgotten, Alcides attempts to describe those delights which he found himself incapable
of avoiding; but Phronime , seeing that he is disposed to give himself up to pleasure, and to
suffer his fortitude to languish will not listen to his discourse; the young man conjures him
not to suppose that he is entirely lost to a sense of his duty, but to believe that, overpowered
by his feelings, he had strayed from the right path. He professes his love and esteem for his
prudent guide, whose counsel would conduct him to glory, and inquires what he shall do. Phronime
replies, he must strive against his inclinations, curb his passions, and so become master
of himself; that he must shun the dangerous path that leads to unlawful pleasures, and render
himself immortal by a noble course of labours. Phronime now makes a sign to him to enter the way
that conducts to Virtue, and, representing the danger of hesitation and delay, retires. 

Scene II.- Alcides blushes at the rebuke of Phronime , rouses himself from the state of weakness
into which he had fallen, regains his courage, and determines to enter the way of Virtue. At
this moment Edonide enters with her train, and arrests his progress. 

Scene III.- Alcides repulses and avoids her, but the power clings to him, and essays to force
him to his doom; he strives to disengage himself, turning his head away from her importunities.
She tells him not to confide in Phronime , who, jealous of her acknowledged power, would persuade
him from her side, and expose him to danger which he vainly tries to conceal. She only seeks to
lead him back to those bowers where true happiness resides; but he still refuses to follow.
She then upbraids him with the folly of disdaining the delights she offers, to pursue a fatal
road. Alcides knowing the dreadful consequences of such pleasures, informs her that he seeks
for honour alone, by which he is inspired. The power repeats her flattering promises, and tries
again to allure him to her bright abode; but he again resists, resuming his own fortitude and
recalling the good counsel of Phronime to oppose the charms of Edonide, whose power over his
soul is not yet entirely overcome; and notwithstanding her tender remonstrances, he breaks
from her. Warlike music is suddenly heard, as if proceeding from the dwelling of Virtue; Alcides
listens in astonishment, and feels himself animated by the sound. Edonide recognizes the
approach of her enemy, Aretis. She prepares to retire, and endeavours to draw the hero with
her, but he bids her stay, declaring himself her protector. 

Scene . IV.- Aretis appears; Alcides is struck with the majesty of her movement and the grandeur
of her deportment; the power of Virtue addressing herself to him exposes the deceitfulness
of the chimera he is about to follow, and the offences he has already committed against herself.
She explains the perfidious illusions of her rival, whose offered kindness is unworthy of
his notice, and describes the certain destruction to which she would draw him, upon receding
from the way of virtue and honour. 

Alcides is deeply affected by this severe but elevated language; he is sensible of its truth,
and becomes inspired by the penetrating aspect of Aretis . Edonide , fearing to lose her victim,
dares again to persuade him away. Aretis motions him from the power of Pleasure, who complains
of his unkind resistance, and entreats him to avoid the severities and dangers of Virtue, who
now represents to him the certain benefits she can bestow upon him, if he continues in her way.
Edonide , regarding her rival with contempt, turns to Alcides , displaying all her winning
charms, and, pointing to her blissful bowers, entreats him to follow her. The hero knows not
on what to resolve; his heart is divided between the powerful rivals, and he remains a prey to

Aretis informs him that she it is who guides and inspires heroic souls in the pursuit of honour
and glory; that by her instructions man rises superior to misfortune, and finds true felicity
is placed in wisdom; that she teaches him to despise sloth and encounter pains and perils, and
in the end to immortalize himself by valiant deeds, while truth, humanity, honour and renown,
will adorn his latter days. Edonide replies, that these are but flattering promises. "Come
Alcides ," continues the Goddess of Virtue, "immediately to my palace, where true enjoyment
awaits your arrival." Alcides seems anxious to accompany her, and she again encourages him
firmly to pursue his choice. Edonide , defeated and offended, retires, menacing the hero with
revenge. Alcides beholds her departure with regret, and even essays to summon her back. 

Scene V.- Aretis continues to caution the hero against the alluring flatteries of the power
of Pleasure, counselling him to preserve his mind free from the thraldom of her charms. She
endeavours to induce him to contemplate the benefits resulting from attaching himself to
her principles. Upon a sign being made by the Goddess of Virtue, the scene changes; a palace
appears, the architecture of which is both noble and majestic. All the worshippers and followers
of Virtue are here displayed, each following appropriate avocation. Heroes are exercising
themselves in the ancient games r combats with sword and shield, warlike evolutions, wrestling,
Pyrrhic dances, and every species of athletic sports are going on. 

Scene VI.-All hasten to do homage to the Goddess, and congratulate each other on living beneath
her happy sway. The power expresses to Alcides the noble manner in which her votaries pass their
days, whence arise generous sentiment and undaunted valour. The spectacle fills the young
hero with delight, and he burns to prove his prowess among them and to live so gloriously; he
is hastening to mix with the busy groups, but Aretis prevents him; the youth conjures her to
permit him to join himself to the warrior bands. She replies, they are but visionary shadows,
fabricated to inspire the breast with enterprise, fortitude, and valour. Alcides; turning
to the power, implores her counsel and protection. She replies, that all depends upon his own
exertion, and then vanishes away. The palace, with all the noble company of combatants, disappear,
and the scene changes to the first of the first act, representing the two roads. 

Scene VII.- Alcides seems as if awakening from a dream; all that he has seen and heard causes
the greatest agitation within him; he grieves for the loss of Aretis , and fears that the whole
is no more than illusion. Thus deserted, he invokes the aid of his dear Phronime , promising
to yield himself up entirely into his hands, and to follow his prudent advice, which would lead
him to glory and happiness. The hero then hastens away to throw himself at the feet of his beloved
Mentor. ACT III. 

Scene I.- The same as the last . 

Alcides is discovered; he appears in doubt and distress; he now fears to show himself to Phronime,
having yet done nothing for his glory, nothing to accomplish that for which he Was destined;
he is oppressed by such recolections as these. At length, taking courage, he resolves upon
a noble course of action, and prepares himself for honourable achievements. 

The path of Pleasure again appears before him, but he is no longer affected by its deceitful
charms; he despises the guilty repose that prevails there, and is now, at last, resolved to
enter the way of Virtue. At this moment harmonious sounds are heard; the hasty march of Alcides
is awhile arrested, and he listens with eagerness and delight. 

Scene II.-The followers of Pleasure, and the votaries of Virtue enter ill two groups, each
advancing from their peculiar domain. Those of Virtue, proceeding on their own side, bear
warlike instruments: a helmet, a sword, a shield, and a crown of laurel. Those on the side of
Pleasure carry a coronet of roses, garlands, perfumes, and rich habiliments. Alcides expresses
great astonishment at this exhibition. On one hand he beholds the perfidious troop of Pleasure;
on the other, the favoured worshippers of Virtue. The whole pageant produces in him agreeable
yet conflicting sensations. Having examined gifts borne by the train of Pleasure with indifference,
he approaches those presented by the troop of Virtue; he beholds them with delight, and breaks
out into a transport of joy at the sight of the shining armour; he immediately takes possession
of them, places the helmet on his head, grasps the shield, and seizes the sword, while his countenance
betrays marks of impatience to signalize himself in the field. He returns thanks to the Gods,
and implores a continuation of their protection. He appears confident and resolved; no longer
labouring under doubt and perplexity. 

Scene III.-The train of Virtue now retire; Alcides wishes to follow them, when the troop of
Pleasure instantly take the place of the others, and, presenting an obstruction to the path
of Virtue by seductive blandishments and persuasive flatteries, try to prevent the hero from
entering; they envelop him in the entwinings of their wreaths, and display measures and attitudes
of the most voluptuous description. Every artifice is put in practice to divert Alcides from
his purpose; he essays to break from them, menacing and despising their effeminate snares.
The subjects of Edonide redouble their endeavours daring even to imprison him in their wreathed
bands, and so attempt to draw him to their retreats, smiling at his threats, Alcides , enraged
at being thus ensnared, and fully resolved to enter the way of Virtue, hews himself a passage
with his sword; he then disperses and puts them to flight, and they again seek their own abode.

Scene IV.-Monsters, fairies, and demons, armed with torches and serpents, appear, and take
possession of the entrance to the path of Virtue, presenting a complete barrier to the progress
of Alcides . These horrible spectres essay, by their menacing gesture, to deter the hero from
proceeding; they indicate to him that destruction awaits his entrance into the road of Virtue.
Alcides now perceives that this is all the work of the perfidious Edonide; not at all dismayed
by this spectacle, but, on the contrary, resolved on conquest, he prepares to combat his opponents.
After a desperate struggle, during which his life appears frequently in danger, Alcides rushes
at once into the path of Virtue, and the monsters instantly disperse. 

The scene now changes to the glorious palace of Aretis , in which are seen statues of the most
renowned heroes, together with allegorical representations of the arts and sciences . 

Scene V.- Alcides is placed between Aretis and Phronime , and surrounded by heroes, heroines,
and the genii of Virtue. He evinces feelings of triumph and delight, addressing expressions
of the warmest gratitude to his prudent friend, and to the power of Virtue. 

The valour and victory of Alcides is proclaimed and celebrated, while Phronime , advancing
to the hero, presents him with a laurel crown. Aretis joins in the general expressions of felicitation,
and promises Alcides a continuation of those enjoyments which are earned by undaunted daunted
perseverance in the path of Virtue. Alcides replies with expressions of reverence and gratitude.
Success has crowned his efforts, and his name is numbered with the great and renowned. Noble
dances and heroic sports immediately ensue, and the happy event is concluded by universal
congratulations on the triumph of Virtue. PART THE SIXTH. 31 PART THE SIXTH PRIVATE DANCING.

"Que vos graces soient naturelles; Ne les contrefaites jamais: Des que l'on veut courir apres,
On commence a s'eloigner d'elles." Demoustier . 

Several persons have employed themselves in writing systems for teaching Private Dancing,
but their works contain the universal fault of every performance that has appeared upon the
subject of dancing in general, namely, a want of principles, positively and clearly stated
such works are read, but almost nothing can be learned from them. 

In giving theoretical laws for the formation of any art, and presenting means to bring that
art to perfection, not only ought the laws to be clear, but the means should be practised. Never
can we demonstrate so plainly to others, as when we ourselves have seen and experienced that
upon which we discourse. In the mean time, we dare flatter ourselves that our treatise will
not be found to 31* deserve those severe criticisms which we, from a regard to the interest of
the rising generation, have been obliged to pass upon other performances of the same nature.
As in the second part of this work, so also in this, we have been particularly careful, in the
lessons to pupils, upon the grace of their position, and the elegance of contour in their attitudes
while dancing; attainments in our art which are both delightful and essential, but, at the
same time, extremely difficult to acquire. To arrive at this desirable object, we shall more
clearly explain ourselves by the aid of engraved figures, representing every position of
which this species of dancing is capable. In designing these figures, we have been careful
to adhere to the dictates of taste and art. Any dancer may be capable of executing a chasse, a
pas de bourree, a contre-tems , &c.; but that genteel air, those graceful manners, and that
picturesque action, which are expected from those who have learned the art of dancing, are
not to be acquired from all dancing-masters, many of whom are usually unwilling, or unable,
so profoundly to study their art, as to produce on their pupils this important effect. 

Although the system of private dancing does not require, of those who practise it, either extraordinary
abilities or an intense application, in order to arrive at perfection there must, however,
be inherent in them certain physical qualifications, and some capacity, to insure success.
Without these, a person would appear awkward and ridiculous in dancing; and it is far preferable
to be a passive spectator than a clumsy performer. It may be observed also, that while a knowledge
of dancing adds to the attractions of a figure, naturally symmetrical and agile, it serves
but to render still more conspicuous, those who are incurably ill-shaped, unconquerably
heavy, or insensible to any graceful motion. 

The admirers of dancing will have conceived, it is hoped, a just notion of the art from the preceding
parts of this work. They will, at the same time, have had an opportunity of observing, clearly
pourtrayed, all the materials of which it is composed. Now, as the private dancing derives
its origin from the theatrical dancing, there are many particulars in it which may be serviceable
to the Amateur, as well as the Professors of the Art; such as, for instance, the common mode of
carrying oneself- the gait-some of the practical movements-some of the postures-a certain
number of the steps and footings , and, in short, the gracefulness, the lightness, the liveliness,
the elegance , which are qualifications almost indispensable to every genteel person. 

Having already, in the First Part of my work, explained the utility and advantages to be derived
from it, even by those who do not practise this attractive art, excepting simply for their amusement,
or as a kind of finish to an accomplished education, I shall now, more particularly, treat of
the mechanical part, and theory of that species of dancing which is practised in polite society,
and studied by well-bred and fashionable persons. 

As soon as the dancing-master shall have ascertained the natural qualifications and abilities
of the learner, it will be his business to begin by showing him the five positions, in each of
which he must make him bend, and then raise himself upon the point of the toe. He will then teach
him to make petits battemens tendus upon the instep, and, also, even petits rond-de-jambes
a terre, inwards and outwards. The learner must, at first, practise with holding, and then
afterwards without, in order to acquire the proper balance. (See plate XI, fig. 5.) 

The master ought to place the body and arms of the learner in a right position, so as to render
all the attitudes commanding and graceful. (See plate I, fig. 3, and plate XI, fig. 2.) The art
of stepping with grace, of making a bow, of introducing oneself, and of carrying oneself in
company, are essential points, and such as ought to be rendered as natural as possible to the

To execute the bow properly, the following rules must be observed:-When walking, stop in such
a manner that the weight of the body may rest upon that leg which is advanced. Then, moving the
one behind, cause it to assume the fourth hinder position , the third , and the second. Having
arrived at the latter, shift the stress of the body upon the leg forming it, and bring the other
leg round into the first position , the heels being placed against each other, and the toes turned
outwardly. (See plate XV, fig. 4.) After having bent the knees properly, incline the body according
as it is represented in the same figure. Let your arms fall easily and naturally, and let your
head assume an unaffected inclination; for every movement must be executed with an easy air.
Having made the salute, slowly raise your body to its usual perpendicular attitude, regain
your customary deportment, disengage the leg which had been placed in the first position behind,
changing it into the fourth behind, and shift the weight of the body upon that leg. Whether you
intend to renew the salute, or to continue your walk, always finish upon the advanced leg. Usually,
and in society where it is not absolutely necessary to observe a strict etiquette , the salute
is generally executed in the third position , but the feet must be always turned outwardly.
(See plate XV, fig. 3.) 

Ladies, when performing their courtesy, must proceed in the same manner as gentlemen, excepting
that they should incline, after the foot has assumed the first position , order to stop on the
fourth position behind, when the knees must bend, and the head and body incline, to complete
the courtesy, (See plate XV, fig. 2,) 

The method of presenting the hand while dancing is represented in plate XVI, figs. I and 2. The
remaining positions and attitudes of ladies and gentlemen in Quadrilles will appear plainly
from plate XVI, fig. 3, and plate XV, fig. 1 and 3. 

After these introductory studies and exercises, which constitute the ground-work of dancing,
and which lead the way to the perfection of every thing that is connected with it, the master
ought next to give his pupil an insight into the knowledge of steps, the observance of time,
Quadrilles, or Country-dances, Waltzing, and every other description of dancing which is
in request in good society. 

Let the master be very cautious how he suffers the pupil to proceed to the study of the above named
dances, until after he has practised for some time upon the inceptive principles; for his good
or bad success entirely depends upon the first lessons, and upon his assiduity in the rudimental
task. Care must be continually taken to draw a line of distinction between private dancing
and theatrical dancing. It would be improper to introduce certain scientific steps and elevated
capering into a ball-room, where every circumstance shows, that movements of this description
would be out of their place, and, consequently, would produce an improper effect. 

Private dancing requires steps terre-a-terre , and the most simply natural postures possible.
The ladies, in particular, ought to dance with a sort of amiable circumspection and a becoming
grace, which, indeed, add to their charms, and heighten their attractions. Gentlemen ought
always be attentive to their partners; and they Should all of them move in unison in every step
and attitude. They ought also to be careful in paying attention to the air of the music, and in
showing that they feel all the harmony and expression of it. For a more detailed account of which,
refer to what is said respecting the Music for Dancing, in the Second Part of the work, entitled
the Theory of Theatrical Dancing . 

The learner must preserve his arms placed in the position which we term demi-bras . (See plate
XI, fig. 2.) Their contra-positions should be those described in plate I, fig. 3. For the position
of the wrists and fingers, see plate I, fig. 1. For the position of the chest, head, and limbs,
refer to plates I, III, and IV. 

With respect to the collocation of the joints, and the inflexions of the body, it will be necessary
for the learner to subject himself to the same practice as the theatrical dancer, in order that
his dancing may produce a pleasing effect. 

I shall here observe, that even amateurs, both in the preparation during the performance,
and at the conclusion of their steps and enchainemens , ought always to stand in the fifth position
, and not in the third , as the generality of teachers of private dancing pretend; for the more
the feet are crossed, the more precipitate the footing is, and the more showy the dancing: it
is a natural consequence, and it cannot be obtained, except by accustoming the learners not
to cross their feet but in the third position . Besides, this method assists the dancers in turning,
and enables them to acquire that pleasing quality, turning, with facility. He who has not his
feet well turned out, loses all the beauty of his steps. As to the movements of the body, they
are nearly the same as those practised by stage dancers, with this difference only, that they
should not be carried to that grandeur and elevation, should have less impulse, and be modified,
and adapted to the circles of Private Dancing. The legs ought to be raised from the ground but
very little above the method of the second position; however, gentlemen may raise them something
higher: the peculiar style of their dancing being more powerful and unrestrained, will admit
of more elevated steps. It is not necessary that the arms and bust should be kept in violent motion,
they may rather remain in a graceful repose. Let the head be held erect, and the chin in a very
slight degree elevated; gracefully incline the head to the motion of the body and arms. Let
your countenance be expressive of cheerfulness and gaiety, and let an agreeable smile ever
play about your mouth. Keep your shoulders down, bring your chest forward, let your waist be
compressed, and sustain yourself firmly upon your loins. Let your bosom project a little,
for this confers gracefulness on the dancer's attitude. Let the shoulders move with elegance
and naturally. Let your elbows be curved, never squared, your fingers so grouped together
as to correspond with the contour of the arms. (See plate I, fig. 2.) Ladies must hold their dresses
with the tips of their fingers; their arms must be placed similar to the gentlemen's. The arms
serve for an ornament to the body, and they ought to follow its movements with easy elegance.
Let your body recline, as it were, upon the hips, and let the latter expand themselves, in order
to facilitate the motions of the legs. Turn out your knees, and strive to give them pliancy,
and to curve them well. By this means they will aid all the movements of the time and the steps.
Let your feet be always turned out, and let your insteps acquire a degree of suppleness, and
at the same time of strength, a circumstance which will give you a facility in curving the feet,
in rising upon the toes, and in shifting the legs. The toes ought to be kept firm to the ground,
and they should assist in giving effect to the steps, and in marking the time. In short, let each
succeeding step be well connected with the other, and let all be executed with an easy elegance,
and a steady grace. QUADRILLES. STEPS. 

Changement de jambe, assemble, jete, sissone, Bas de bourree, echappe, glissade, terms de
cuisse, coupe dessus, coupe dessous, entrechat a quatre, a cinq, brise, sissone battue, entrechat
a quatre sur une jambe . FIGURES. 

1. Chasse en avant et en arriere . 2. Chasse de cote, or Chasse croise, or chasse-dechasse . 3.
Traverser, demi-contretems . 4. Balance . 5. Tour de deux mains . 6. Dos-a-dos . 7. Chaine Anglaise
. 8. Chaine des dames . 9. Demi-queue du chat . 10. Chasse huit . 11. Chasse sur les cotes . 12. En
avant quatre . 13. Solo . 14. Le grand rond . 15. Le moulinet . 16. Balance huit . THE MOST GENERALLY

1.-The chaine Anglaise is performed by two gentlemen men and two ladies, opposite; they advance
to change places, and, in passing each other, they present the right hand; each gentleman,
after giving his right hand to his partner, who faces him, leaving her hand, he turns behind
her, then gives his left to that of his partner, who is taking the place of the other lady; and
all are again placed beside each other; each leaving hands, upon resuming their places. This
figure, which is but the demi-chaine , or half chaine Anglaise , when repeated immediately
on each resuming their places, is then called the chaine entiere , or, whole chaine Anglaise
, as here performed: it requires the time of eight bars. BALANCE. 

2.-Each gentleman turning and facing his partner, they set during four bars. UN TOUR DE DEUX

3.-Immediately after having set, each couple take both hands, and turn round at their places;
in regaining which, they leave go hands: this is performed in four bars. LA CHAINE DES DAMES.

4.-The two opposite ladies change places, and in passing give the right hand; afterwards,
they give the left hand to the two gentlemen who are remaining in their places. Each gentleman,
immediately upon his partner's moving off to perform the chaine , must go off to the right, at
the same time presenting his left hand to the lady, who is entering the place of her partner;
he must then turn upon his left to regain his place, where, having arrived, he leaves the hand
of his partner. This figure, which is done during the time of four bars, is repeated also, to
form the whole chaine Anglaise , which then requires eight bars, before each lady resumes her

5.-Each person of two couple presents the left hand, and goes off obliquely to the right, in
order to change places; on arriving at each other's place, they leave go hands: this requires
four bars. 

6.-To regain their places, the two gentlemen and their partners perform the demi-chaine Anglaise
.-(See No. 1.) The remaining couple do the same. THE FIGURE CALLED L' ETE. 

1.-A gentleman and opposite lady advance and retire backwards, or en avant deux , during four

2.-The same lady and gentleman cross and change places, passing from the right to the right,
during four bars. 

3.-The gentleman and lady go off each on the right 

4.The gentleman and lady re-crossing, regain their places, during the time of four bars. 

5.-The gentleman then sets to his partner, and his partner to him. (See the Pantalon, No. 2.)

6.-Each couple makes the tour de main , as at No. 3 of the Pantalon, the remaining six doing the

In this figure called l'Ete , after having performed the en avant deux, and gone off right and
left, there is no more setting at the end. Custom alone has introduced the setting, which is
intended only for that couple who have danced the figure among the rest; they then begin setting
at the same time that the ladies of one couple, and the gentlemen of the other, commence crossing
to regain their places, finishing equally at the same time, during four bars, after which follows
the tour de main . THE FIGURE CALLED LA POULE. 

1.-The opposite lady and gentleman cross and give the right hand, during four bars. 

2. The same couple cross again, presenting then the left hand, which they continue to hold across
the dance, remaining at the side during four bars. 

3.-The gentleman and lady still holding the left hand, now present each other the right, and
set four in a-line, during four bars. 

4.-The demi-queue du chat (see the Pantalon.) 

5.-The opposite gentleman and lady advance and retire backwards, daring four bars. 

6.-The same gentleman and lady then perform the dos-a-dos , turning round each other until
they arrive at the place from which they set out: this requires four bars. 

7.-Four advance and retire, similar to the en avant deux . 

8.-The same four dance the demi-chaine Anglaise , to regain their places. (See the Pantalon).
The remaining couple do the same. THE FIGURE CALLED TRENIS. 

1. A gentleman and his partner present hands, then advance and retire twice, leaving hands
at the second time; the lady going off, places herself to the left of the gentleman opposite,
returns or retires backward: this requires eight bars. 

2.-A gentleman crosses between two ladies, being then in a line, and crossing at the same time
right before them, they change with each other at the extremity, to make a repetition of the
crossing, together with the gentleman, and thus all three regain their places: this requires
the space of eight bars. 

3.-Set four. (See Pantalon.) 

4.-Two gentlemen with their partners perform the tour de main . (See Pantalon.) The remaining
couples do the same. THE FIGURE CALLED PASTOURELLE. 

1.-A gentleman and his partner present hands and advance twice; as in the Trenis; the lady then
goes and places herself on the left of the opposite gentleman; which requires eight bars. 

2.-The opposite gentleman, who is then between two ladies, gives a hand to each of them, and
all three advance twice and retire, during eight bars. 

3. The remaining gentleman, who is left alone, then advances in his turn twice also, during
eight bars. 

4. The same gentleman with the one opposite, and 

5.-The same four do the half or demi-chaine Anglaise , to regain their places. (See Pantalon.)
The remaining couple do the same. THE FINALE. 

1.-The two opposite gentlemen, each with his partner, perform a chasse-croise; the gentleman
dances a chasse while passing to the right, behind the lady; who at the same time performs a chasse
on the left, while passing before him; afterwards they do the demi-balance , or, half-setting,
in the space of four bars. 

2.-The same two gentlemen and their partners perform the chasse croise back again; the gentleman
on the left while repassing behind his lady; and the lady on the right while repassing before
the gentleman; when regaining their places, they perform the demi-balance , or, half-setting;
during four bars. 

3.- En avant deux , or, opposite gentleman and lady. (See figure of l'Ete.) 

4.-The same couple cross. 

5.-They then go off to the right and left. 

6.-The gentleman and lady re-cross to their places. 

7.-The two opposite gentlemen set to their partners. (See Pantalon). 

8.-They then execute the tour de main . 

9.-The two ladies execute the chaine . 

10.-The demi-queue du chat . (See the above figure.) 

11.-The half , or demi-chaine Anglaise . The remaining six do the same; and to conclude, the
whole eight dance the chasse, similar to the chasse-croise of four. (See preceding). REMARKS

The ladies frequently, in this figure, substituted the moulinet for the chaine des dames;
presenting their right hand, they went round in the middle of the dance during four bars; then
relinquishing the right hand, they gave the left, and performed the moulinet back again. The
ladies then, without disengaging the left, gave each the right hand to her partner, and all
set during four bars. Each gentleman and his partner then executed the tour de main , while re-entering
their places. 

The tems figure was formerly executed on the right, or at the side, when each gentleman and lady
present went off, to place themselves before the couple who were on the right, in order to do
the half-setting, or, demi-balance; they then formed what is called the open chasse until
they appeared in two lines, each gentleman finding himself then opposite his partner; the
whole eight then advanced and retired, each gentleman met his partner and performed the tour
de main , until arrived at his place. This figure is no longer practised, in consequence of the
confusion which dancers experience, who now perform Quadrilles or Contre-dances with numbers

1.-A gentleman with his partner present right hands, at the same time the gentleman gives his
left to the lady who dances on his left, and the two ladies present each her hand to the other behind
the gentleman at the waist, all three then advance, and retire twice during eight bars. 32 

2.-The gentleman retires behind, stooping to pass under the ladies' arms, who are holding
hands; the gentleman then, immediately rising, causes the two ladies to pass and turn under
each of his arms, at the same time giving a Salute, while the two ladies courtesy upon the point
d'orgue , or at the pause, during four bars. 

3.-A gentleman and two ladies dance hands three round and back again, returning to the same
position from which they began: this requires four bars. 

It is against the principles of dancing when persons perform this figure With two gentlemen
and one lady. For since it is derived from the allemand of three, there should be two ladies and
one gentleman; first, because it is more elegant, and secondly, because in executing the passe
, (going under arms) ladies, who are generally not so tall as gentlemen, find it difficult to
lift their arms to a sufficient height. THE WALTZ 

This dance which, as we have already said, came to us from Switzerland, has been modified and
embellished by passes and groupings, in order to introduce variety to is monotomy. The waltzes
which we term La Russe and La Sauteuse are derived from it. It is composed of two steps, each of
three boats to a bar, which also contains three terms, according to musical principles, Each
of these two steps performs the demi-tour , or half-turn of the waltz, which lasts during One
bar; the two steps united form; therefore, the whole waltz, executed in two. bars, These steps
differ one from the other, yes so as to fit one into the other, if it may be so expressed during
their performance, and in such a manner as to prevent the feet of one from touching and endangering
those of the other; thus while the gentleman performs one step, the lady dances the other, so
that both, are executed with uninterrupted exactness, as will be clearly demonstrated. 

In order to perform one of these waltz steps, place your feet in the third position, the right
foot forward, then advancing the right foot in the natural way, not turning it out, to place
it in the fourth position (first time), then immediately bring forward the left foot, turning
the toe inward, and placing it crossways before the other foot, to form the fourth position,
that foot being raised immediately and the body is, at the same time, turned half-round; in
placing the foot for the fourth position (second 32* time), that foot which you have raised,
while placing the last mentioned, must then be placed before the other in the third position,
and outwardly, resuming its ordinary posture, and to perform the third bar. The step being
thus executed while turning half round, will bring the face where the back was. 

In order to execute the second step, and to perform at the same time the other half-turn, demi-tour
, which completes the waltz, turn out the side of your left foot, the toe being inward, and moving
the body round at the same time, place it in the second position (first beat), put the right foot
behind the left, always continuing to turn the body (second beat), then bring the left foot
before you, turning the toe inwards, the body turning also, to come half-round, at the moment
you are placing the left foot in the second position, to execute the third beat of the second
step, and the second half-turn, which completes the waltz. 

By this example, it may be seen that a waltz is composed of two steps, each of which contains three
tems , or beats, making six for both, and for the entire figure of the waltz, which is performed
during two bars; also, that when either of the two persons waltzing advances the right foot
to begin the first step described above, the opposite person draws back the left foot at the
same time to begin the other step, allowing his partner an opportunity of advancing her foot,
both performing then the demi-tour; when one repeats the step the other has just executed in
the second demi-tour , to complete the waltz. When the position for waltzing is taken, in order
that the step may be properly commenced, and that both persons may be in unison, the lady being
on the right of the gentleman, he must go off on the left foot, turning himself before his partner,
as if that had been his first position; and with respect to the second step described before,
it is always performed by that person who has his back towards the side on which the waltz begins,
as the person who faces that side always executes the first step. 

To waltz properly, all the beats, or tems , should be clearly marked, being attentive not to
turn upon les pointes , or toes, in the same beats, such a system not being convenient for the
turning of two persons at once; every turn in a waltz should be clearly and fully performed.
so that on finishing, the waltzers should come always opposite to the same side as they were
on setting out; without which, the course of the waltzes cannot be followed, and the waltzer
would, in consequence, fall upon those who are coming behind him, or who are in the middle of
the room, which is very frequently the case. 

Care should be taken not to make use of those vicious attitudes, the second of which is ever more
indecent than the first, and which, indeed, have their origin in loose society. 

The gentleman should hold the lady by the right hand, and above the waist, or by both hands, if
waltzing be difficult to her; or otherwise, it would be better for the gentleman to support
the right hand of the lady by his left. The arms should be kept in a rounded position, which is
the most graceful, preserving them without motion; and in this position one person should
keep as far from the other as the arms will permit, so that neither may be incommoded. A NEW SET

In composing the following Quadrilles we have departed from the usual course, by introducing
more variety into their figures, and by endeavouring, in the disposition of those figures
to convey an idea corresponding to their titles, so that the latter may not appear either arbitrary

1st fig.-A lady and gentleman chasse sur les cotes . Demi-balance with the opposite lady and

2d.- Tour de deux mains and return to your places. The same to be done by the remaining six. 

3d.-Lady solo during eight bars. 

4th.-The same lady crosses with the opposite gentleman, ten back again and balance , presenting
hands right and left, then the tour de deux mains . 

5th.-The grand rond . LA FOLATRE. 

1st fig.- Demi-chaine Anglaise . 

2d.- Balance 

3d.- Demi-chaine Anglaise . 

4th.- Balance . 

5th.-Four gentlemen en avant . 

6th.-Four ladies en avant . 

7th.-The whole eight chasse-croise . 

8th.- Chaine des dames . 

9th.- Chasse quatre on your own side; balance; tour de deux mains . 

10th.-Then the two couple back again, chasse en avant quatre , and return to their places, repeating
the chasse . 

11th.- Balance all; tour de deux mains, and the same for the remaining six. LE CALIFE. 

1st fig.-Gentleman en avant and en ariere 

2d.-Opposite lady en avant and en arriere . 

3d.-Same figure for the three remaining ladies. They must finish the chasse with en avant ,
opposite the gentleman, then return to their places. 

4th.-The same gentleman and the three ladies en avant, tour de deux mains , and return to their

5th.-The gentleman balance with his lady, then both tour de main . 

6th.-The gentleman chasse upon his own side, balance and tour de main with his lady; then repeat
the same figure with the three remaining ladies. 

7th.-The same gentleman balance with his lady, then gives both hands for the grand rond . Remaining
six do the same. LES BACCHANTES. 

1st.-The whole eight chasse, balance , and return to their places. 

2d.- Ladies and gentlemen hands across and grand rond . 

3rd.-Four en avant . 

4th.- Chaine Anglaise . 

5th.- Balance . 

6th.-Tour de deux mains . 

7th.-Four ladies by turns dance solo , four bars each. 

8th.-The same figure for the gentlemen. 

9th.- The whole eight chasse enavant and en arriere . 

10th.- The whole eight chasse croise . LA TRIOMPHANTE. 

1st fig.- Chaine Anglaise for four. 

2d.- The same for the other four. 

3d.-Three gentlemen by turns en avant deux , demi-balance and tour de main . But the lady dances
the tour de main during two bars only, she then leaves the gentleman, and, advancing into the
middle of the dance, executes four bars more, and then returns to her place. 

4th.-The latter and her partner balance , and tour de deux mains . 

5th.-She then leaves the gentleman, advances into the middle of the dance, and executes a solo
during eight bars. 

6th.-All the gentlemen en avant take hands and enclose the lady, then set and go round her; she
then liberates herself, and all return to their places. The same for the remaining couples.

1st fig.-Gentleman solo; grand rond . 

2d.-Same gentleman solo during eight bars. 

3d.- En avant deux with the opposite lady, then dos-a-dos . 

4th.-The gentleman the same figure with the other three ladies. 

5th.- Chasse-croise all. 

6th.-The same gentleman en avant and en arriere with the two ladies on his own side; they set
and return to their places. 

7th.- Tour de deux mains for all. LA COQUETTE. 

1st fig.- Chasse en avant for all. 

2d.- Demi-balance . 

3d.- Tour de deux mains , and return to your places. 

4th.-Lady solo . Chasse on your own side; lady and gentleman demi-balance; tour de deux mains
with the gentleman. The lady then repeats the figure with the two other couple, and returns
to her place. 

5th.-The same lady solo during eight bars. 

6th.-She presents both her hands to her partner, and they perform the grand rond , the balance
, and the tour de main . 

7th.- Chasse , repeated by the remaining couples. LA JALOUSE. 

1st fig.-A gentleman and lady en avant and en arriere . 

2d.-The same for the remaining couples. 

3d.-Two opposite gentlemen and ladies, en avant . 

4th.-They moulinet . 

5th.-The same two ladies en avant and demi-balance; tour de deux mains , and return to their

6th.-A gentleman chasse on his own side, and balance with his lady. He then performs the tour
de deux mains; but his lady having rejoined him by a chasse en avant , which she completes when
he has finished his figure, presents both her hands to her partner, and takes him from the other
lady. Both then return to their places. 

7th.-The same gentleman repeats the same figure with the other three ladies. 

8th.-The latter gentleman's partner then uniting herself to him, she takes hands and performs
the grand rond; they then regain their places, set, and execute the tour de main . 

9th.- Chaine Anglaise . 

10th.-The same for the other four. 

11th.-The whole party moulinet . LA VIRGINIE. 

1st fig.- Balance the entire party. 

2d.- Tour de main . 

3d.-Cavalier solo double . 

4th.-Lady solo double . 

5th.- Demi-queue du chat . 

6th.- Grand rond after having presented hands. 

7th.-The whole party en avant and en arriere . 

8th.- Chasse de chasse all. EXPLANATION OF PLATES XV AND XVI. PLATE XV. 

Fig. 1. Attitudes and positions of ladies and gentlemen in country dancing or quadrilles.

2. The courtesy. 

3. Other positions of ladies and gentlemen in quadrilles. 

4. The bow. PLATE XVI. 

Fig. 1. Group, with the method of holding the hands while dancing. 

2. Another group. 

3. Other positions in quadrille dancing. CONCLUSION 

In the following remarks, among other things, the relation subsisting between Dancing and
the Fine Arts is further considered . 

"Les Arts sont freres et vivaux." 

La Harpe . 

The Ballet-master, like the prism, should unite in himself self those rays of light which a
general knowledge of the fine arts spreads over the mind, and his productions will then be tinged
with those beautiful hues, which such a knowledge must ever impart; embellishing them with
an interesting and unfading charm. In poetry, painting, sculpture, and music, he will discover
a treasure of materials; great art, taste, and fancy, however, are necessary to employ such
advantages successfully. 

Pantomime may assume any shape, and imitate every passion; it is a mighty Protean power, which
may be compared to the extraordinary genius of the great Shakspeare. The exalted style of dancing
should present us with the attitudes and contours of Correggio, Albano, and Guido; every movement,
every step should convey a sentiment. 

In the productions of the fine arts, we expect to see the beauties, not the defects, of their
great model-Nature, imitated. The more fervid and active the fancy is, the more likely is she
to carry us beyond the limits prescribed by reason; hence arise the defects observable in the
performances of men endowed with great genius. Reason should be the inseparable companion
of the imagination. The desire of producing something new or uncommon frequently begets extravagance
and improbability; and it is this desire that allures artists from the imitation of what is
fine in nature, and which has brought on a decline in the fine arts. Good taste is thus injured,
and requires some time to recover itself. Even men of genius, fearing to pass for servile imitators,
and confiding too much in their own powers, often forget the models of perfection, and produce
things monstrous and absurd, which the public applaud because they are novel. Other artists
of less talent, following the footsteps of their mistaken predecessors, out-do them in absurdity;
such is the pernicious consequence of a bad precedent; and thus fantastic follies gradually
increase, until every thing is distorted, and he who produces the greatest and most surprising
deformity, is rewarded with that palm which is due to true merit alone: hence taste is destroyed,
and truth, beauty, and sublimity are excluded from Works of art. 

In order to produce any thing excellent, that is to say, a work in which art and genius united
have done their best, the instructions of great masters must be strictly observed: study their
principles with the mind of a philosopher; judge for yourself, but do not lose sight of truth
and beauty-" decor, splendor boni; " and strive to merit the praise of men of true taste and sound
judgment. In this manner works are produced capable of enduring the hand of time. 

We are indebted to the age of the Medici for the opera, of all the species of the drama, this approaches
the nearest to the ancient Greek tragedy. It possesses, indeed, all the theatrical splendour
of the latter, with the additional advantage of uniting poetry and music more uniformly and
closely. The celebrated Quinault modelled himself upon the Italians, and was the first who
advanced the opera towards perfection; he produced regular and interesting works, and made
them peculiarly susceptible of being united to music. La Motte, Fontenelle, Roy, Bernard,
Marmontel, Du Roullet, Guillard, &c., imitated him, and enriched the lyric drama with their
delightful productions. In Italy it was somewhat later that the opera arrived at excellence.
Apostole Zeno, a man of extensive learning, and a respectable poet, first began this glorious
undertaking; and Metastasio, whose genius was far superior to that of Zeno, following his
example, almost attained perfection. Several men of talent, such as Pariati, Calsabigi,
Pallavicini, Coltellini, and some others, after the two great men above mentioned, produced
some very valuable works, but they were very few in number. This circumstance, together with
the mediocrity of their successors, caused the decline of that art, which soon after revived
in France under more happy auspices. 

According to the definition of a celebrated writer, French opera is epic poetry, dramatized
and adorned with theatrical decorations. What the epic poet presents to the imagination only,
the lyric poet in France undertakes to exhibit to the eyes; and the same thing must be effected
by the Ballet-master in compositions of the elevated and heroic class. As the marvellous made
visible is the very soul of French opera, so is it the essence of the mythological, fairy, and
allegorical Ballet. 

The Italians give the preference to subjects purely historical, consequently the Ballet-master
can model himself upon the Italian lyric tragedy only, when he would treat on natural events.
Those qualities which characterize pure tragedy and comedy are expected to be exactly preserved
in the grand and the comic opera: these are the two principal species of which the rest are all
more or less composed. Upon these the Ballet is modelled. Serious subjects must be stately
and exalted, susceptible of magnificent scenery, and requiring the united powers of painting,
machinery and costume. A series of interesting incidents, and pathetic situations must be
displayed; we must be struck and astonished by a train of varied and picturesque passion. Of
all theatrical productions, the grand opera and the Ballet take the most complete possession
of our senses; and be it remarked, that if the poet is expected to supply the musician with forcible
contrasts, upon which music, avoiding monotony, may display its power and effect, the Ballet-master,
also, should so arrange and dispose of his scenes and dramatic action, that the performance
in the pantomimic department may always be striking, and expressive; delighting the sight
by its grace, and interesting the mind by its energy. 

Comic opera draws its origin from the Farsa of the Italians; it first appeared at the ancient
theatre of Naples. In France, Le Sage was the founder of it; he caused a great number of amusing
pieces of this character to be represented, and the regularity prevailing in them, procured
him a complete success; he was most ably supported by Fuselier and d'Orneval. In Italy these
were imitated by Lorenzi, Nelli, and Casti. The comic opera, or opera buffa , requires a gay
and amusing style, lively dialogue, laughable situations, spirited action, and vivid characters.
The progress of the comic opera, and of the Ballet of the same species, must be more rapid than
that of a spoken comedy. Music and pantomime cease to please when they are wanting in quick dramatic
action. The composers of Naples excel in comic music: Cimarosa is a perfect model. 

Characters should be as clearly depicted and distinguished as one species of composition
is from another. Some performers frequently speak and act the parts of kings, private individuals,
and rustics, whose manners are so widely different from each other, in the same style and tone.
But they should pay the closest attention to that interesting variety which, in nature, always
distinguishes one rank from another. It may be difficult exactly to copy these peculiarities,
but they are truth itself, and it is the first duty of actors to represent nature with fidelity;
this, among the ancients, constituted their principal merit. The poet and the musician speak
to the soul through the ear; the dancer and mime, like the sculptor and painter, do the same,
through the eye, by charming, it with grace and perfection of attitude, expression, and the
other beauties of which the arts they profess are susceptible. 

There is a dose relation subsisting between all the fine arts; there is a similarity of character
between the Iliad and the Hercules Farnese; between the works of Virgil and Raphael; David
and Canova; Corneille and Michael Angelo; Carracci, Guido and Tasso; Delille and Dominichino;
between those of Tintoretto and Lopez de Vega; Handel and Klopstock; Valentin and Cerbillon;
Walter Scott and Paul Veronese; Guercino and Moore; Byron and Salvator Rosa; between some
of the compositions of Mozart and the Dying Gladiator. Haydn may be termed the Phidias of music,
and Boccherini its Correggio. 33 

In comic and pastoral compositions, I have many times remarked affectation in the place of
naivete, and gaudy decoration instead of pure simplicity. Of compositions which are thus
offensive to good taste, we may say what Cazotte said of Fontenelle: "The shepherd's pipe is
bedecked with lace, and his sheep stray about adorned with collars of rose-coloured riband
* ." Authors of every description, when copying nature, frequently attempt to improve, or
actually injure, her features, according to their own manner of looking at her, or to attain
some particular object which they have in view; thus, as it has been well remarked, Corneille
represents his heroes such as they should have been; Racine, such as they really are; Crebillon,
such as they should not have been; and Voltaire, such as they would have wished to be. The productions,
however, of these great men are models, which, together with those of England, Italy, and Germany,
we should study in such a manner as to enable us to select with taste, so as to ameliorate the art
we profess. 

Shakspeare , in the representation of characters, is a great master; he gives us nature as he
found her-simple or mixed, base or sublime, odious or charming. Here he thunders like Homer;
there he paints like Moliere; sometimes he is a Caravaggio, sometimes a Tiziano; here we are
lifted to the skies by his marc powers; there he bears us to the deepest abyss of woe by the same
art. The prodigious fecundity of this extraordinary poet supplies a treasure for selection;
in this particular, he is, in fact, without an equal. 

It is true that Eschylus composed ninety-seven pieces; Sophocles one hundred and twenty,
and Euripides seventy-five; but the plan, characters and execution of one of the good plays
of Shakspeare appear to me, to have required more labour than three entire tragedies of ancient

Music being an imitative art, she should never lose her propriety: nature is her guide, and
sentiment her judges Music, without expression, and in which we cannot in a moment recognize
character, cannot be esteemed good. Of what use is it for a musician to display his ability in
certain mathematical calculations and harmonic combinations, if his music wants melody
and expression?-The drama offers the finest field for the composer of music. It presents opportunities
of producing the most astonishing effects of which the art is capable. It is in the opera that
the enchanting powers of music are felt most perfectly. Here it is that music should paint every
circumstance; that those sensations produced in us by its sweet sounds should be perfectly
analogous to the objects before our eyes, which are thus imitated by the musical art. And in
order that such imitations be perfect, and produce a true effect, the poet and the musician
should understand each other completely; so that what was formed in the imagination of one,
may, by the art of the other, be exactly rendered to us in melody. They are dependant one upon
the other, and the same feeling should guide both. When the poetry is weak and inexpressive,
the accompanying music also must be wanting in meaning and energy. It is very difficult to obtain
this most desirable union of talent; consequently, when the 33* composer is yoked with a mediocre
poet, to avoid the disgrace that awaits the latter, he endeavours to shine unaided by that which
alone should inspire him. The musician cannot be blamed for not reducing himself to the level
of a wretched rhymer; but he would have merited praise, had he avoided a connexion, the united
productions of which must ever remain imperfect and unequal. How frequently may this remark
be heard, "The music is good, but the words are indifferent." Music should be " married to immortal
verse; " but unhappy are the consequences for both, when the match is unequal: the merit of the
worthy party is thrown into the shade by the vulgarity of the other. When verse, intrincically
good, is united to music almost faultless, then must they become "a blessed pair." If the musician
ought to be cautious in his choice of poetry, the Ballet-master should act in the same manner,
if he would avoid a fall. The musician must continually subject his talent to express the sense
of the words or action for which he is composing; they will always impart an interesting character
to his productions. There should be between him and the poet a kind of amicable contest, as to
who shall best delineate Feeling, sentiment and passion; and the happy result will be a production
purely dramatic, instead of a concert composition. When the Ballet composer gives his instructions
to the musician, the latter must consider him as his poet, and proceed accordingly, in the works
of the great original Italian masters may be found models of what is truly beautiful: to prove
this, study Jomelli, Sarti, Buranello, Sacchini, Guglielmi, Piccini, Paesiello, and Cimarosa;
they have ever preserved the appropriate distinction between the comic and the elevated styles;
they have strictly observed the rank, characters, and names of the persons whom they have caused
to act and sing; they delineate the dramatic action, and convey an idea of the locality of the
scene. Such productions as these do honour to the art, and have procured for their authors deserved
celebrity. Music has its Sophocles, its Euripides, its Maenanders, and its Molieres. The
style of the above-named composers is so pure, sweet, and expressive, that though a considerable
length of time should elapse without having heard their works performed, their airs are recollected
with ease and delight; so difficult is it to efface the impression they have once made: than
this, no greater proof of musical excellence can be given. If the pictures of Correggio, Tiziano,
Raphael, and Dominichino had been executed to interest the eye only, would these masters have
been considered almost as divinities in their art? The man of genius ever addresses himself
to the heart; and to attain this end, he copies and adores nature-she is his tutelar deity-she
cannot deceive him, and even her apparent wanderings are admirable. 

Madame de Stael, speaking of Italian music, says, upon the subject of the comic operas of Cimarosa
and his contemporaries, "La gaite meme que la musique bouffe salt si bien exciter, n' est point
une gaite vulgaire qui ne disc rien a l'imagination. Au fond de la joie qu' elle donne, il y a des
sensations poetiques, une reverie agreable, que les plaisanteries parlees ne sauraient
inspirer * ." This music is the language of elegant nature, in her gayest humour. That comic
spirit which prevails throughout the best Italian operas of this class is the same as that which
is to be found in Moliere and Goldoni; not that which prevails in the very indifferent productions
of the herd of scribblers, who are ambitious of adorning their pieces with all sorts of low and
wearisome jokes, peculiarly adapted to the audience of a fair. The true value of music may be
judged of from the sensations with which it inspires persons of good sense and delicate feeling.
Such alone have a right to give an opinion upon the art. 

The music of the grand ballet , like that of the grand opera , should be energetic, majestic,
and exalted; its style must be sustained throughout, and well adapted to express the meaning
of the subject. Here is no need of noise or false colouring; it is only necessary to express the
passions with that strength and simplicity in which they naturally appear. We might suppose
that the same soul inhabited the bodies of Virgil, Raphael, and Pergolese; for the samestyle
of genius prevails through the AEneid, the Transfiguration, and the Stabat. Perhaps the art
of music never produced a more perfect piece than the last named chef-d'oeuvre . Let the professors
of the other arts endeavour to imitate Pergolese, whose compositions are simple, regular,
elegant, exalted, and sublime, This great master has succeeded in every species of composition,
and given to each its appropriate character and expression. He adored the beauties of nature,
and his Copies of them are inimitable. 

On no occasion can an able musician display so fully the imitative powers of his art as in the
composition of an overture. Then it is that melody and harmony present to him a treasure of sounds,
which he may turn to the greatest advantage. The sounds of which musical expression is composed
may be compared to the pallet of a painter which presents a store of bright colours, from the
disposition of which, the genius of the artist is to be estimated. Overtures are well adapted
for the dance, which is best sustained by instrumental music. An overture to an opera or a Ballet
is most essential; it should be an introduction; it should be sketched the principal subjects
of the piece for which it is composed; and when it is ably executed, it may even serve as a sort
of programme to the audience, putting them into that state of mind best calculated to feel and
understand the succeeding representation. "An overture," says F. A. Blasis, "should be the
subject of an extensive musical picture, composed, by gradation or transitions, of the principal
incidents that form the picture, and which ought to emanate from the action of the poem." One
of the best overtures which I have heard, and which perhaps gives the most perfect idea of what
is requisite to this species of composition, is that of the Jeune Henri , by Mehul. This admirable
piece is characterized by the exactest truth of expression, the most brilliant effect, and
the truest local description. From the first bar to the last note, the composer is occupied
in giving a masterly sketch Of the approaching opera. In describing the Chase, nothing is omitted,
from the moment the hunters assemble and set out, to that in which they seize their prey; nothing
can be clearer or more energetic than the manner in which every thing is expressed. When I am
listening to the music of Mehul, I can fancy I am beholding the pictures of Giulio Romano; the
style is learned and correct; the colouring somewhat gloomy, but full of energy. His manner
is noble and majestic, and better adapted to express subjects of a severe character than those
of a light and elegant nature. 

I have seen a Ballet, founded upon his overture to the Jeune Henri , and which produced an excellent
effect. It served as a programme to the Ballet-master; he followed it strictly, and the success
attending his production proved that he perfectly understood the language of harmony. From
this we may perceive that the arts mutually assist each other. The same subject that has served
the composer of an opera, and the Ballet-master, may, also, be adopted by the painter. 

The overture of the Delire of Berton supplied a certain pantomimic actor with the idea of a very
beautiful monologue, the subject of which he expressed by gestures arising from sensations
inspired by the music alone. Hence it may be seen, the greater our share of sensibility and undertanding,
the more easily do we seize those analogous relations subsisting between certain objects.
Frequently the performance of the admirable overture of La Gazza Ladra sets the feet of the
dancer in motion, and inspires the gestures of the mime. Haydn's cantata of Ariana has served
as interpreter to one of the most striking pantomimic scenes ever exhibited at any theatre.
Gretry's overture of Elisca , a composition that will be ever new, suggested to me the idea of
a grand movement of warriors and amazons. In my Ballet of Pygmalion , certain airs of Mozart
supplied me with thoughts suitable to that work. The opera of Camille , by D'Aleyrac, so far
superior to that by Paer upon the same subject, presents us with passages of an energy and brilliance
well adapted to pantomimic expression. The works of Boyeldieu and N. Isouard contain music
very applicable to the Ballet. But Cherubini, Catel, and Le Sueur, being totally void of imagination,
are quite useless to the dancer. The musician of Pesaro offers us a rich mine, but it requires
some judgment to work it. The airs ought to be better disposed than they have been by the composer,
who (i l not set about his work like a philosopher as well as a musician. 

When the Ballet-master makes choice of a passage which he may judge suitable to convey his pantomime,
let him not be always governed by the method in which it is made use of, for Very frequently an
air which is planly intended to express serious emotions has been joined to words of a comic
character, and merry music attached to tragedy. I knew an artist who involuntarily produced
a most biting satire on those confounders of style. He took some of the finest parts of a comic
opera, and prefixed them to a serious Ballet; while to a comic Ballet, he attached an infinity
of airs from a tragic opera, by the same author. The choreographer was deservedly applauded
for this display of judgment in adaptation. 

The ancients were particularly careful in preserving the concord between music and dancing;
they required that the most perfect analogy should continually prevail between the two arts.
Rythmical music ruled their attitudes while dancing; and hyper-criticisms directed every
gesture of the pantomime. The style and expression of the music was exactly adapted to the character
of the piece represented. Consequently their good taste was clearly displayed in the most
perfect imitations of nature. The music of dancing should always be spirited, full of cadence,
and susceptible of inspiring motion; that of Pantomime, proceeding more directly from intense
feeling, ought to possess an infinite variety of colouring; its changes of style and expression
should answer exactly to the changes of internal feeling. Such was the nature of the musical
system established amongst the ancient Greeks and Romans. When melody and harmony, preserving
each its proper sphere, become true organs of the feelings of the heart, music must exercise
a dominion over us, at once powerful and delightful. 

The object of the Ballet-master, like that of the painter, should be to give perfect represensations
of nature; he should consider himself as her mirror, and thus reflect the images which she presents
with the greatest truth. The illusion of the scene ought to be so perfect, as to cause what is
merely artificial to appear real, during the time of its representation. Neither a picture
nor a ballet can be deemed excellent, unless the art used in producing it is so far kept down,
that nature only is admired in it; art should do its work unseen; its greatest triumph is to conceal

When the artists of the latter end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century,
in their various compositions, substituted a false and studied affectation for simplicity;
confusion for clearness; mannerism for grace; the monstrous for the grand; the ridiculous
for true sublimity, art lost her attractions, and men of pure taste could no longer imitate
her. These artists spared no pains to render their pictures pleasing, by their vivacity and
the splendour and variety of their colours. For this purpose, they decked their designs with
gold and silver, precious stones, gorgeous drapery, and "luxury's most costly chattels."
They sought to dazzle and astonish the multitude. Persons they looked upon as mere accessary
objects in their compositions. They did not trouble themselves to inquire if they had to represent
Romans or Egyptians, ancients or moderns-whether the same or a different costume ought to
be adopted, or if different, in what the variations consisted-whether the action which they
were about to paint occurred in Constantinople or Paris, in Mexico or Madrid; if nature, manners
and customs were the same in all countries; if they ought to display gods or men, heroes or peasants,
virtue or vice. 

To this ignorant system, we are indebted for Caesars in "the turbans of the Moslems," the heroes
of ancient romance clad in the Spanish costume, and a number of anachronisms and errors of all
kinds. They have depicted matrons, each looking like a Lais; and placed the head of an Adonis
on the brawny shoulders of a Hercules. They have given the attitude of a Virginius at the moment
of sacrificing his daughter, to the wisest of men when receiving the poisoned cup. They have
expressed the calm courage of a martyr by the despair of an ordinary man surrounded by tortures.
As the Ballet-master should copy the beauties of painting, so he ought to avoid its defects;
more particularly those that we have just noticed, which are in such bad taste as to render them

We should know how to select and imitate our models with propriety; especially if they are not
productions of the art which we profess. The Campi, the Gatti, the Procaccini, and almost all
the painters of Lombardy of the last age, and also their imitators in France, seem to have modelled
themselves upon the poetry of Lucan. The manner of this poet, his descriptions, and his images
appear to have contributed to the formation of their talent, and the perfection of the style
which they adopt. They must first have studied the principles of their art in the works of Michael
Angelo and Tintoretto, and the manner of these great artists led them by degrees to the imitation
of the poet we have mentioned, and such other authors as were the most mannered and gigantic
in their compositions. Michael Angelo frequently exaggerates, and those who attempt to follow
his path, without possessing his genius and bold execution, must frequently fail. This has
been the case with several of the painters of whom I have just spoken; they carried the mannerism
of Michael Angelo further than he did himself; they exaggerated his faults without equalling
him in his good qualities. They abandoned themselves to the inspirations of the poet of Cordova;
hence they exhibited outrageous action for energy; bombast for grandeur; the gigantic for
the mighty; the incredible for the sublime; contortions for classical attitudes; confusion
and disparity of objects for genius. Their works are, however, to be admired for bold and fine
touches, good colouring and vigorous design. Like the author of Pharsalia , they have flashes
of genius and points worthy of the most classic artist; they seem to have taken up the brush after
having read the Latin poem, and, like it, their works are not without fire, poetic feeling and
occasional depth; but these good qualities are overbalanced by inequalities and imperfections.
Spontini, it may here be permitted to remark, is the Lucan, if not the Seneca of music. De Momigny
makes the following remarks on him: "The Melpomene of the opera, still in her weeds, for Gluck,
Piccini and Sacchini, had not espoused any of the men of talent to whom she had given a temporary
reception at her court; she thought for an instant; that, in the author of the music sic of La
Vestale , she had found a successor to her three husbands; two airs, the style and expression
of which were beautiful, a duet, and the finale of the second act of that opera, had almost decided
the royal muse on sharing her throne with Spontini: but on examining his partitions, and on
sounding his powers and the fecundity of his germs, she felt the imprudence of such a step, and
once more, but not without regret, she resumed her widow's weeds." 

A few observations on a passage in Montesquieu may be of some utility to the actor, as to the expression
which he ought to throw into certain characters, and to the Ballet-master, on putting them
in such action as may be most suitable to their condition. 

"Michael Angelo," says Montesquieu, "is the master who imparts nobility to all his subjects.
In his celebrated Bacchus , he differs from the Flemish painters, who exhibit a falling figure,
which is, if we may so express it, in the air. This would be unworthy of the majesty of a God; he
paints him firm on his legs; but the gaiety of intoxication, and the delight felt at seeing the
liquor Which he pours into his goblet, are so well expressed, that nothing can be more admirable.
In the Passion , in the gallery of Florence, he has painted the Virgin Mary standing up, and looking
at her crucified son without grief-without pity-without regret-without tears. He supposes
that to her the grand mystery has been imparted, and that she is enabled to support, with grandeur,
that spectacle of death. 

"There is no work of Michael Angelo in which he has not thrown something noble; his roughest
sketches, like the verses which Virgil has left unfinished, are grand. Giulio Romano, in his
Chamber of the Giants , at Mantua, where he has represented Jupiter hurling his thunder at them,
exhibits all the Gods in a state of terror. But Juno is near Jupiter; she indicates to him, with
a calm air, a giant on whom he ought to lanch the thunderbolt; thus he imparts to her an air of grandeur
which none of the other figures possess. Those who are nearest to Jupiter are the most collected,
and this is very natural; in a battle, terror ceases in the bosoms of those who are near the party
that has the advantage." 

This, I should call painting philosophically, rather than nobly. The great writer who makes
the preceding observations, appears to lay more stress on the moral than the physical part
of the works of painters and sculptors. The artist who gives more grace and regularity of features
to a face than it naturally possesses-who improves the elegance of a form-who agreeably softens
all the contours who-throws more harmony and d' ensemble into a groupe-who imparts a greater
charm to an attitude-who renders a motion more graceful-who diminishes the horror of an act,
and avoids representing what is merely low and trivial-such an artist, it appears to me, ought
to be regarded as one who embellishes all that he touches, and endows all his subjects with nobility,
rather than Such a one as the illustrious Montesquieu describes. He will compose and excute
philosophically, and with a perfect knowledge of facts, and the characters of the persons
he is about to represent; he will not begin his work until he has learnt the causes and effects,
the history of the time, and all else that is relative to, or in any way bears upon, the subject
of the picture he is about to paint. He will not give Caesar the body of a Goliath, but rather paint
him with the look and deportment which, in an instant, will show him to be a man of extraordinary
mind, whose occupation is universal command. He will not simply draw a mere old man for a Regulus,
but endeavour to adorn him with an appearance of that gravity and heroic grandeur of soul for
which, in life, he was so remarkable. He will neither give Scipio the air and attitude of a poltroon,
nor exhibit Socrates despairing at the approach of the poisoned cup, nor make a young Vestal
look like a Bacchante. 

Objects may be represented with the greatest possible nobility, and, at the same time, they
may be placed out of their centre, and be altogether contrary to truth and history. It is also
possible to be true and natural, and still to want nobility in a painting: as the greatest example
of this, Rubens may be instanced; numberless other proofs Of the assertion may be found in the
works of the Flemish, Dutch, and German schools. In painting and in sculpture, we are inclined
to understand, that an artist, who is said to work with nobility, is one who embellishes nature,
who makes her more lovely than she is in parts, and who adroitly, and with excellent taste, avoids
tracing all that is common and imperfect in her works. Taking the word in its moral sense, Montesquieu
is right. It is more noble to show courage and firmness in one's last moments than cowardice
and trepidation; but an artist ought to paint only what has been, what is, or what could have
been, especially in an historical subject. The apparent tranquillity of the features of a
stoic in the midst of tortures is doubtless to be admired; but this moral and physical power
must not he given to all; it would be untrue and improper to paint all the characters on the canvas
unmoved by the greatest calamities. 

The examples given by Montesquieu do not seem to me to bear out his assertion. By deceiving himself,
he has probably led others into error. Raphael is the painter who, of all others, throws most
true nobility into his subjects; the expression of his characters also is ever true and beautiful,
and often sublime. 

If the painter, like the poet, wishes to convey a moral lesson or a fact in the garb of allegory,
he may then join truth and fiction, and represent things that are the mere creatures of imagination.
He may be noble in his manner, although the different portions of the picture, taken separately,
would not be approved by philosophy. 

All our gestures are purely automatal, and signify nothing if the face is dumb in expression
instead of animating and vivifying them. An actor who only moves his body and limbs is like a
painter, who, while he carefully finishes the other parts of his picture, totally neglects
the countenance, and thus produces the resemblance of a being deprived of all emotions, or
like a poet who "builds the lofty rhyme" with words of majestic and harmonious sound, symmetrically
placed, but totally devoid of idea. At the first glance the man of taste turns from such productions
with contempt. The musician will meet with the same reception, if he attempt to compensate
for the energetic expression of nature by a superfluity of modulations, a mob of far-fetched
prettinesses, and by that musical trifling ( papillotage ) which disgusts and fatigues. "Di
tanti palpiti" is worth the whole labyrinth of harmonic combinations of Beethoven; a single
air of Paesiello is preferable to all the insignificant rhapsodies of Morlacchi; and the musical
accent with which Madame Pasta sings "Ah! quante lagrime" is of more value than all the false
brilliancy of Pisaroni; one of her eloquent and heart-touching gestures in Desdemona , when
she is about to fall a victim to the Moor's blind jealousy, or in Medea , when going to bathe herself
in the blood of her children, is worth all the multiplied action of Bassi and Belloc in the same
characters. A singer for the stage should be an actor, and not a mere automaton; he should play
his part, and not simply come forward and prove that he is able to execute a difficult air. Without
picturesque expression, the stage loses half of its interest and its charms. 

The mime who wishes to represent the character he undertakes, with credit to himself, ought
to imitate the composer of music, who, previous to sitting down to his piano to produce his airs,
attentively reads the poem which he has to embellish, penetrates into the ideas of its author,
reflects upon the sense of the words, studies the character and situation of the persons represented,
and particularly remarks the Class to which the work belongs, whether serious or comic, pastoral,
heroic or otherwise. The mime should do all this before he plays his part; he should make himself
well acquainted with the subject of the Ballet, the action and the characters, and impress
upon his mind all that the author is desirous of representing. Without this preliminary study,
he cannot reasonably hope for success, and his performance will be blemished by discord of
action, anachronisms, improbabilities, and faults of every possible description. The musician
is the interpreter of the poet, and the mime of the Ballet-master. 

Nevertheless, however talented the mime may be, he can never be truly expressive or interesting,
if the Ballet-master do not give him parts suitable to his powers, and such as will excite in
him that enthusiasm without which every thing, in the fine arts, is weak and languishing. 

At the theatre, nothing should be neglected; every thing should be made to contribute to the
charm of the illusion. Ignorance and foolish indulgence are really detrimental to talent.
Those artists who deem any infringement on old customs derogatory to good taste, and thus,
by following bad examples, give them a current credit, are most reprehensible, They seem to
have a religious respect for those monuments which still exist of a corrupted style; and thus,
through their influence, art is lettered and advances slowly toward perfection. The same
observation is applicable to those actors who, exaggerating expression and costume, render
every subject unnatural. There was a time when, while authors endeavoured to imitate the language,
and to depict the manners and passions of the heroes of Greece and Rome, some of them either tolerated,
or do not seem to have been aware of, the follies of ridiculous actors, who presented to their
spectators an Augustus or Germanicus, an Achilles or an Alexander, in the court-dress of Louis
XIV, or Louis XV. The singers and dancers at the same time represented the Heathen divinities,
and the heroes of chivalry, in the most extravagant dresses. This and the tasteless declamation
of the tragedians were equally applauded; these 34 absurdities were perfectly analogous,
and seem to have upheld one another. Clairon was the first who strove to banish from the stage
this ridiculous mode of costume, by dressing in habits suitable to the characters she played.
Le Kain and Chasse advanced the cause of correct theatrical costume, and Talma brought it to
perfection. Garrick, Kemble, and Mrs. Siddons did for the English what Clairon, Le Kain, Chasse,
and Talma did for the French stage. Maximilian Gardel was the first who danced on the stage without
a mask, and threw off the trammels with which ignorance and prejudice had long enslaved his
art; Dauberval and P. Gardel followed in his steps, and adopted a proper and natural costume.

It has been conceived by a great number of actors that, in representing heroes, and in fact any
characters that had rendered themselves illustrious by their talents, their virtues, or
their exploits, it was necessary to strain the voice, and to gesticulate vehemently, in order
to give a proper idea of the greatness of the persons they represented. They seemed to imagine
that because those persons were above mankind in general, on account of their genius, or their
great deeds, they also ought to go beyond them in their manner of acting and speaking. Many performers
of pantomime hold a similar outrageous opinion; and it is the imperative duty. of the Ballet-master,
if he can, to correct such an error in conception, wherever he discovers it. 

It is impossible that any hero of tradition, or history may, by means of exaggerated action,
be made known to the spectators. The young mime should beware of imitatating those artists
who seem. to have modelled themselves upon that ancient actor who played Agamemnon mounted
upon stilts, in order to impart an idea of the king Of the assembled Kings of Greece; being unable
to depict the grandeur of Agamemnon's character otherwise than by representing him as being
endowed with extraordinary height. 

Kings and heroes are but men; they are subject to the same passions as their fellow mortals;
education and rank only render them a little different from others in their manner of speaking
and acting; nature is the same in them as in us; she may vary, but she never changes. Talma and
the best English tragedians have felt the truth of this assertion. It is not forced and exaggerated
action that is required on the stage, but sufficient energy of gesticulation, to express the
passion of the moment to the distant spectators; it must at the same time be so restrained by
good taste, that those who are near may not take offence at its extravagance. The actor should
possess the qualities of receiving and conveying impressions, There are some performers
who, while they rouse the feelings of those who behold them, are perfectly cold and void of passion
themselves; art enables them to express, by outward signs, what they do not feel, but nevertheless
well understand. There are others, who are in a considerable degree affected by the sentiments
which they wish to express, but they are totally unable to manifest them. For the stage, of course,
the former sort of persons, although objectionable, are to be preferred by far to the latter.

Nature furnishes us with abundant means of interesting an audience. An actor should profoundly
study the human heart, and the various pictures of lite which the different classes of society
present. The art of imitating nature does not consist in merely moving and speaking like such
or such an actor, or in dressing a character like one who is celebrated for his performance of
it; this is copying a copy, the vice of mediocre artists and men of little mind or originality.
We should go to the fountain head 34* of truth, and found ourselves on nature, and not on her imitators,
however excellent they may be; they may improve, but they cannot perfect us. The master may
teach his pupil much, but from nature, when the master has done with him, he will learn more;
and, what is most important, he will acquire sufficient knowledge to correct the errors which
he has been taught by one whom he once thought perfect in his art. There are some masters who do
not scruple to set themselves up as models for their scholars; this is ignorance and folly.
A good master points out what is good and corrects what is faulty, to the best of his power; but
he does not insist On his pupil forming himself entirely on his manner-no individual being
endowed with perfection in every department of the art he professes. Such a constraint would
also tend to strangle in their birth all the emotions of a heart capable of feeling the beauties
of nature, and the effects of a mind possessed of the power of devising means to express them.

Violent and excessive gesticulation is most frequently accompanied by want of sensibility.
It is unnatural, and consequently obnoxious to good taste. A multitude of gestures is not necessary
to express even the deepest passion of which the human heart is susceptible; the eye, aided
by the slightest movement, will often make it as manifest as possible. 

The time has been (and some performers in our own days are guilty of similar absurdities) when
actors, whether the dialogue of the piece required it or not, assumed the most solemn and emphatic
tone; they "split the ears of the groundlings" when saying or relating the most simple and indifferent
things; some of them imposed on the multitude by an inflexible tragic deportment, which was,
in most cases, ridiculous, because out of character; while others, when playing an enraged
hero, howled and shrieked like furies. The greater part of those actors invariably assumed
the look of conspirators; on the first appearance of one of them, a spectator of taste would
be led to believe that. he had to murder three or four people in the course of the piece; whereas,
when the curtain fell, it turned out that he had murdered nobody but the author. The most monotonous
and psalmodic declamation accompanied these mysterious looks. The actresses thought that
when they laid aside the comic sock to assume the Greek or Roman mantle, it was improper to act
naturally. They assumed the most lugubrious aspect, and their deportment and walk were those
of a criminal going toward the scaffold. They spoke in that lamentable tone, the continuation
of which is enough to distress the most insensible being; they studied to give their voice a
convulsive trembling, and to make each verse "drag its slow length along, in the most insufferable
manner; and finally, in order to produce great effects, they called to their aid deep, protracted
or (if we may use the expression with impunity) wire-drawn sighs, tears, groans, sobs, and
shrieks, when there was not the least occasion, or even excuse, for either. The mime should
shun the imitation of these vices; denied, as he is, the use of words, in him they would become,
if possible, more reprehensible and ridiculous than in a mock tragedian. 

Why should we not act like those who are really under the influence of the passion which we are
desirous of representing? Must Zayre , in order to move and affect us, never for an instant drop
the tone of bitter lamentation? Is it necessary for Hermione to stun us unceasingly, in order
to depict the rage which devours her ?-or, to render Achilles more outrageous than he is in the
Iliad, in order to give the spectators a true idea of his impetuous character?-"From the sublime
to the ridiculous there is but a step." 

The theatrical art is an union of all the others-poetry, music, painting, dancing, pantomime,
architecture, &c.; well-informed persons, therefore, only can be good judges of the merits
or demerits of dramatic productions. People in general, however, think otherwise; the facility
afforded of going to a theatre, and there enjoying a perfect liberty of thought and action,
as it were, makes all amen critics. Dramatic works have not the same advantages as other productions
of art. In a theatre, all who pay at the door criticise the piece, and every body pronounces boldly
and definitively on its value. If the same mob of judges were taken to a gallery of paintings
and statues, two thirds, at the least, of them would frankly and modestly avow, that they Were
not connoisseurs enough to decide on what was presented for their opinions. And is it less difficult
to pronounce judgment on the poet, the composer, or the performer, than the sculptor and the
painter? We do not think so. A picture or a statue, expressing but a single action-the simple
movement of a passion, makes an impression on our senses, which lasts as long as the object remains
before our eyes, and gives us time to analyze our ideas, and to pronounce a just opinion upon
it. But it is a different case with the talent of an actor, who, in a single hour, depicts many
passions and different combinations of them; during this brief space, he presents a multitude
of pictures, each of which makes only a fugitive impression upon the mind, impatient all the
time to arrive at the denouement. It is necessary to possess a fine tact, and considerable experience,
to follow this moral painter in his rapid but powerful pictures, each of which disappears before
its successor is exhibited, Mere literary knowledge is not at sufficient qualification for
a man to become a judge of acting. A superior writer on philosophy, morals, or history, may not
have the least idea of the picturesque of those same passions, with whose influence in society
he is well acquainted. To be qualified to judge discreetly of the children of Thespis, it is
necessary to have seen the world, to have examined with attention the physical expression
and modulation of the passions in different physiognomies, and in the different stations
of life, to have studied this expression in the tones of the voice, and to have a natural penchant
For imitation. 

The composer of Ballets, as well as the poet, the muscian, and the painter, ought to consult
the taste of the public for whom he works. All the civilized nations of Europe admire beautiful
imitations of nature, and unanimously reject whatever is grossly at variance with her; nevertheless,
the genius, the characters, and the manners of different nations, give each of them a particular
idea of taste on certain matters. The artist who, without forgetting that "one touch of nature
makes all mankind kin," submits to this difference of natural taste will thereby give an additional
proof of his talent. In fact, if we call to mind the most illustrious men of England, France,
Italy, Germany, Spain, and other countries, we shall find, that although they are admired
for beauties which are not merely national, that they are not, in some instances "of an age,
but for all time," they, nevertheless, have other merits which are not, and indeed cannot be,
sufficiently felt and appreciated by readers of a different age or nation. The most ardent
admirer of Shakspeare in France, even if treating the same subject, would never do so in a similar
manner to the immortal bard of England; an Italian may passionately admire Klopstock, but
he will not take him for a model; the poems of Ossian may be applauded on the banks of the Tagus,
but they will find no imitators among the Portuguese. While we endeavour, so far as we can, to
attain perfection, we should not lose sight of the taste of the people for whom we compose. (An
attempt has been made to carry this idea into effect, in the preceding programmes of different
styles of Ballets.) The man of genius belongs to every nation; happy is he, who, charmed with
the works of the authors of Othello , of Britannicus , of Orlando , of Telemachus , of the Lusiad
, of Faust , of the Hero of La Mancha, &c. &c., may, by availing himself of their example, and profiting
by their exertions in the mine of thought, one day attain a name equal to that of the least of them!

We have already detailed the different dramatic styles and opinions of the most celebrated
critics on each of them, and the ideas which a study of the best authors and practical observation
have suggested to us on the subject. The styles which are pre-eminent over all others are the
classic and the romantic. These offer us a thousand means of succeeding: both have their charms
and their defects. If one may often be accused of tameness, the other is frequently to blame
for running into the opposite fault. Each is supported by such splendid talent, that it is difficult
for the young author or artist to decide which he shall make his model. If one attract by powerful
charms, he is soon after exposed to the seductive beauties displayed by the other, of which
its rival is utterly ignorant. A fine philosophy, a pure taste, and an unprejudiced mind, can
alone endow him with the means of steering an advantageous middle course between them, adopting
the beauties of both, without falling into the faults of either. The artist cannot act thus
without entirely laying aside his national prejudices. He should not only respect the altars
which have been raised to Thalia and Melpomene in his own country, but also reverence those
which have been erected to their honour in other nations,-on the banks of the Thames and the
Seine, beyond the Alps, and wherever else homage is done to the Muses. There are schools of actors
as well as of authors; while we cannot help feeling discontented with the cold follower of the
classic, and the extravagant votary of the romantic style, we applaud with transport those
who are wise enough to be at once classic and imaginative, or romantic without becoming unreasonable.
The actor should not lose his time in the study of those lengthened, and frequently useless,
discussions of such critics as carry their views so far as to lose sight of the principal objects
of criticism; who, when they ought to have been discussing the merit of styles, have disputed
upon authors, and when they should have treated upon authors, have merely babbled about style;
authors have been thus decried on account of the style which they followed, and a species of
composition censured and attacked through writers who adopted it. The author, or the artist,
who pleases and interests the judicious and the feeling, must needs be a follower of nature,
and, therefore, admirable whatever may be the style or school which he has adopted. The grand
aim of the Ballet-master, the mime, and the dancer, should be the embellishment and improvement
of the art; to grace it with all the nobleness, the splendour, and beauty of which it is susceptible;
to render it worthy of the place it occupies among the other fine arts, and to make them all contribute
as much as possible to so laudable-so desirable an object. CONTENTS. 





The Chica 28 30 SPANISH DANCES. 

The Fandango 33 34 ib. 35 ib. ib. ib. ib. ib. ib. 36 39 47 48 PART THE SECOND. 


General Instructions to Pupils ib. CHAP. II. 

Study of the Legs 58 CHAP. III. 

Study of the Body 65 CHAP. IV. 

Study of the Arms 67 CHAP. V. 

Principal Positions, with their Derivatives; Preparations and Terminations; of Steps and
Tems; Poses, Attitudes, Arabesques, Groups, and Attitudes de genre 72 ib. ib. 73 ib. ib. CHAP.

Of Tems, Steps, Enchainement, and of the Entrechat 77 79 ib. ib. 80 81 ib. CHAP. VII. 

Pirouettes.-Of the manner in which a Dancer must prepare for the execution of his Pirouettes;
of the various positions be may take in turning, and of the different ways of stopping and ending
them 82 CHAP. VIII. 

Of the Serious Dancer, the Demi-Caractere, and the Comic Dancer 88 CHAP. IX. 

The Preceptor.-New Method of Instruction 93 97 98 APPENDIX. 

First Exercise.-First Positions 99 100 545 

Ronds-de-Jambes 101 

Of the Tems 102 

Of the Pas ib. 

Of the Lesson ib. 

Gait 103 

Explanation of the first fourteen plates 104 

Notes to Part the Second 107 PART THE THIRD. 


On the origin of those Masked Characters who perform in Italian Comedies 129 

Notes to Part the Third 133 PART THE FOURTH. 


Introduction ib. CHAP. I. 

On the Exposition, or Introduction 142 CHAP. II. 

On the Plot. ( Noeud ) 144 CHAP. III. 

On the Catastrophe, or Denouement 146 CHAP. IV. 

Of the Unities 148 CHAP. V. 

On the Division of Dramatic Pieces 152 CHAP. VI. 

On the subjects proper to be selected and adapted to Ballets, and the method of their composition
154 CHAP. VII. 

On Dramatic Action and Passion 159 CHAP. VIII. 

Terror, rather than horror, is sufficient for any dramatic production. On Imitation 165 CHAP.

On the method of raising and improving a subject 170 CHAP. X. 

On Order 172 173 CHAP. XI. 

On Variety and Contrast 174 CHAP. XII. 

Stage Effect 176 CHAP. XIII. 

On Characters, Soliloquies, and Monologues 179 CHAP. XIV. 

On Dramatic Moral 186 CHAP. XV. 

On the relation subsisting between Music and Dancing 198 CHAP. XVI. 

On Decorations 190 CHAP. XVII. 

On Costume 193 CHAP. XVIII. 

On French Composers and Mimes, or Ballet Performers 198 CHAP. XIX. 

On Italian Composers and Mimes, or Ballet Performers 202 CHAP. XX. 

On the different kinds of Ballets 207 CHAP. XXl. 

On Models, and the method of studying them 218 CHAP. XXII. 

The Composer, or Ballet-Master 231 CHAP. XXIII. 

General Admonitions 237 CHAP. XXIV. 

On Programmes, or written Plots 241 244 PART THE FIFTH. 


Preliminary Remarks ib. 

The Wrath of Achilles, or the Death of Patroclus; a Heroi. Tragical Ballet, in Five Acts 262

Hermann and Lisbeth; a Village Ballet, (Ballet Villageois) in Two Acts 274 

Hyppolitus; a Grand Pantomimical Ballet, in Five Acts 286 

The Festival of Bacchus, or the Loves of Cylienius; an Anacreontic Ballet, in Three Acts 303

Marcus Licinius; an Historical Ballet, in Five Acts 309 

Sidonius and Dorisbe; Chivalresque Ballet, in Five Acts 318 

Aphrodita; a Mythological Ballet, in Five Tableaux 325 

Dibutade, or the Origin of Design; a Histori-Fabulous Ballet, in Two Acts 337 

The False Lord; a Comic Ballet, in Two Acts 344 

Achilles at Scyros; a Heroic Ballet, in Three Acts 352 

Mokanna; an Oriental Ballet, in Four Acts 365 

The Dutch Painter; a Semi-Serious (Demi-Caractere) Ballet, in Two Acts 374 

Thrasimedes and Theophania, or the Feast of Eleusis; a Serious Ballet, in Three Acts 381 

Vivaldi; a Grand Ballet, in Two Parts, of Three Acts each 391 

Nocturnal Adventures; a Comic Ballet, in Two Acts 410 

Zara; a Romantic Ballet, in Five Acts 419 

Cyrus; an Encyclical or Historical Ballet 434 

The Sorceress and the Troubadour; a Fairy Ballet, in Four Acts 437 

Dudley; a Grand Historical Ballet, in Five Acts 451 

Alcides, or the Trial of Youth; an Allegorical Ballet in Three Acts 472 PART THE SIXTH. 


Rules and Instructions ib. 

Quadrilles 495 

Steps ib. 


The Figure called Le Pantalon 496 497 498 499 ib. 500 501 548 

The Figure called Des Graces 501 THE WALTZ. 

Instructions and Observations on the Waltz 503 A NEW SET OF QUADRILLES. 

Original Figures . 

L'Aurore 506 

La Foletre 507 

Le Calife ib. 

Les Bacchantes 508 

Le Petit Maitre 509 

La Coquette ib. 

La Jalouse ib. 

La Virginie 510 

Explanation of Plates XV and XVI 511 CONCLUSION. 

The relation subsisting between Dancing and the Fine Arts further consistered 513 

Plates of the Positions, Poses, Preparations, Terminations Tems, Steps, Attitudes, Arabesques,
Elevations, Statures, Groups, Modifications, Epaulement of Attitudes in Groups, the Courtesy,
the Bow, Attitudes of Contre-dances, Quadrilles and Costumes.