^t; 
 
 ill
 
 e<-Tt 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 HYPPOLITE CLAIRONi 
 
 THE CELEBRATED FRENCH ACTRESS : 
 
 WITH 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 
 UPON- 
 
 THE DRAMATIC ART: 
 
 WRITTEN BY HERSELF. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH,; 
 IN TV/0 VOLUMES. 
 
 \ OL. L 
 
 I-^IVlf D rOR O. C. AVD T- ROBINSON, P ATERNOSTERR,0 Wf 
 
 Ejr S. Himilion, Fileon-Cnurt, Ftctt-Sctecb 
 
 ISOO,
 
 /ff'^ 
 
 >*D 
 
 a 
 
 V 
 
 n 
 
 A
 
 m 
 
 PREFACE. -^^P ^-^^ f\2.t: 
 
 ^ / 9-0 
 
 1 HE memoirs of celebrated artists, as 
 well as those of eminent poets and il- 
 lustrious philpsophers, are equally in- 
 teresting to those who admife their 
 genius, as to those who design to ^read 
 their footsteps. One feels ^ curiosity 
 to learn by what incidents they were 
 guided in their choice of profession, and 
 by what studies and means tjiey reached 
 that high degree of perfecti^^ which 
 procures for them the suffrages of their 
 own age, and the remembrance of pos- 
 terity. Their reflections on the art pr ' 
 the sciences which they profess are 
 precepts which their followers Cplkct, 
 a ^ 
 
 (*%,- 4^ \^ 4^ ^ J fs^ Ai^
 
 IV PREFACE." 
 
 and by which they are frequently en- 
 abled to shorten the thorny path which' 
 leads to celebrity. 
 
 The work of HyppoliteClairon com- 
 bines in itself all those advanta2:es. This 
 celebrated actress is -yet alive j she re- 
 sides at Paris ; and it is at nearly her 
 eightieth year that she appears to have 
 recovered, for the purpose of writing 
 her memoirs, that strength of colouring, 
 and justness of expression, which di- 
 stinguished her style when in the bloom 
 of youth, 
 
 Hyppolite Clairon was born in ob- 
 scurity. Her early education was, 
 therefore, neglected, and at ten years 
 old she scarcely could read. Her ta-
 
 PREFACE. , y 
 
 knt for the stage, however, was al- 
 ready manifest. From, her windows 
 she was accustomed to see mademoi- 
 selle Dangeville receive her lessons in 
 dancing, and she learned to imitate. 
 The applauses which were lavished on 
 these, her first attempts at imitations, 
 heated her youthful imagination ; and 
 for the future she dreamt of nothing 
 but of securing the praise she had 
 gained. Shortly afterwards she was 
 brought to the theatre, where the en- 
 tertainments of the evening were Le 
 Compte D' Essex and Lcs Folies Amour - 
 euses. Next day she was able to re- 
 peat above a hundred lines of the tra- 
 gedy, and two-thirds of the after-piece ; 
 she could even imitate the tones an4 
 gestures of the performers. Her mo- 
 a 3
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 ther designed her for a working bu- 
 siness 'y but the sprightly daughter 
 could not endure the labour of the 
 hands. One day, when the mother 
 was inflicting on her the punishment 
 of her idleness, she cried out, ** Well, 
 you had better kill me at once ; for if 
 not, nothing shall prevent me from 
 being a player !" 
 
 It soon became necessary to deter- 
 mine ; and Hyppolite appeared at the 
 Italian theatre before she was quite 
 twelve years old. Some time after- 
 wards she ViTas engaged in the Rouen 
 company -, she was applauded by the 
 audience, and astonished her employers. 
 It was here she acquired the habits of 
 the theatre. After having appeared
 
 PREFACE. ViU 
 
 successively at different theatres, she 
 at last presented herself at the Comedie 
 Francais. She insisted on playing first- 
 rate characters, and tp make her first 
 appearance in that of Fhedre, The 
 managers laughed at her presumption 5 
 but she was resolved, and succeeded. 
 After having performed for twenty 
 years at this theatre, with great sue-' 
 cess, she went into Germany, and took 
 up her residence in the neighbourhood 
 of the Margrave of Anspach, who ap^ 
 peared to entertain for her, if not love, 
 at least a very lively friendship. But to 
 use her own expression, " there is no 
 court so little as not to have its Nar- 
 cissus :" she was persecuted here, and 
 returned to her country, 
 a 4
 
 Vm - PREFACE. 
 
 Hyppolite Clairon terminates this re- 
 cital by a critique on the theatre, in its 
 present state, which appears to carry 
 severity to a degree that borders on in- 
 , justice. It is interesting, nevertheless, 
 to relate the judgment of a performer 
 so celebrated -, for, notwithstanding the 
 spirit of prejudice by which it appears 
 to have been dictated, it yet seems to 
 inculcate truths which it is for the 
 interest of the art should be kept in 
 mind, as well by the public as by the 
 performers. 
 
 Thous^h mademoiselle Clairon has 
 her memory impressed with the pror 
 ductions of the best French poets, she 
 yet resorts to the theatre, to feel that
 
 PREFACE.' ix 
 
 additional interest which the beauties 
 of action never fail to add to the. beau- 
 ties of composition. " But, alas !" 
 says she, " what do I meet in these re- 
 presentations but the vulgarity of the 
 lowest classes of life ; 
 
 *' No principle of art 
 
 No idea of the dignity of the character j 
 
 " every one plays after his own fashion, 
 and forgets that the performer should 
 accommodate himself to those with 
 whom he plays ; that it is his duty to 
 exert some effort, to make some sacri- 
 fice to the ensemble of tiie piece, and to 
 secure effect, I observe no unity of 
 tones, no dignity of action. I have seen 
 heroes throw themselves flat on their 
 belly, and sometimes walk on their
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 knees. I have seen indecency of dress 
 carried jso far, that the actress appeared 
 under the single covering of a flesh-co- 
 loured taffety, and exactly fitted to the 
 skin from head to foot. I have been 
 stunned with ranting, and disgusted 
 with buffoonery ; and, to complete all, 
 the pit has cried out Bravo I 
 
 '* It is not for me to decide, whether 
 the public and the performers of the 
 present day are wrong, or whether the 
 public and the performers of my day 
 are right ; but I may be permitted to 
 say, that there is not the least trait of 
 resemblance between the two." 
 
 It is a proverb, * that old people boast
 
 PREFACE. Xi 
 
 of tne past, at the expense of the pre- 
 sent ; perhaps madame Clairon, spite 
 of the strength of mind which she pos- 
 sesses, has yielded to this weakness. It 
 is certain, that the French tragic stage . 
 has alvyays wanted that effect, resulting 
 from the coincidence of efforts in the 
 performers, with the want of which 
 she reproaches the present stage j but 
 had she seen her e/e've Rancourt play 
 Agrippine or Cleopatre, Clitemnestre 
 or Medea j if she had seen the affecting 
 Degarcius shed tears in Zaire ; if she 
 had* been present when Talma, not 
 merely represented, but became Nero or 
 Charles IX. Egistheus or Macbeth, it 
 were impossible that she could have 
 said the French performers displayed
 
 Xli PREFACE. 
 
 no principle of the art, no idea of tiie 
 dignity of character. It may be grant- 
 ed, indeed, that in France, as well as 
 elsewhere, the tragic scene is occupied 
 by persons, the great majority of whom 
 are of moderate talents j and that the 
 men of ability, occupied in political 
 pursuits, are not enough attentive to 
 the arts ; but is it to be believed, that 
 in former days the theatrical perform- 
 ers of France were perfect? The critics 
 of those times assure us that they were 
 not. At all times, and every where, 
 mediocrity is the character of the mul- 
 titude ; and great talents are among the 
 most rare productions of nature. 
 
 A candid man will be equally distant
 
 PREFACE. Xiii 
 
 .from a blind respect for what is ancient, 
 and from an unjust prejudice against 
 what is modern. Nothing, no doubt, 
 is more useful to the arts than an imita- 
 tion of great models ; but there must 
 always be reserved to genius the privi- 
 lege of quitting the point at which 
 others have stopped, and advancing 
 still nearer to the goal. Madame 
 Clairon herself has given an example 
 of this J she tells us that she herself 
 was the inventor of a new style of play- 
 ing ; and that, after having tried it at 
 Bourdeaux with success, she came to 
 Paris, determined to introduce and 
 establish it there, or to quit the stage. 
 She succeeded : she dared to play Ro- 
 dogune in a manner different from 
 mademoiselle Gaussin. That charm-
 
 XIV PREFACE, 
 
 ing actress, so celebrated by Voltaire, 
 gave to this part a grace and simplicity 
 . which were quite inconsistent with the 
 character of the princess. Madame 
 Clairon had the courage to represent 
 the character in its natural colours, and 
 to open a new path. She accomplish- 
 ed her purpose. Nevertheless, after 
 the play, she overheard the celebrated 
 Duclos say, in a high and authoritative 
 tone, ** that she ought not to play ten- 
 der characters after madame Gaussin." 
 " Surprised," says madame Clairon, 
 ** at a decision so crude, fearing the 
 impression which it might make on 
 those who heard him, and overcome 
 by a feeling of anger, I immediately 
 approached him, and said, * What ! 
 Rodogune a tender character, Mon-
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 sleur ! a Parthian, a fury, who de- 
 mands from her lovers the heads of 
 their mother and queen this a tender 
 character! A pretty judgment, truly!' 
 Terrified myself at what I had done, 
 tears overcame me, and I fled, amidst 
 unbounded plaudits." 
 
 Madame Clairon proves, by these 
 anecdotes, that it is sometimes right to 
 reject received opinions, if one would 
 improve on an art. 
 
 The Memoirs of this celebrated ac- 
 tress are filled with interesting anec- 
 dotes, in which sometimes characters 
 very celebrated in the reign of Lewis^ 
 XV. make their appearance ; particu- 
 larly marshal Richlieu, who does not 
 play here a very honourable part. We
 
 Xvi PREFACE. 
 
 here see her, indignant at the excom-^ 
 munication of the players, employ all 
 her influence to have this ridiculous 
 ^ anathema removed ; and that, if she 
 failed in the enterprise, it was only by 
 the folly of a courtier, who, before his 
 master, became almost an ideot, and 
 trembled like an infant. 
 
 Is it possible to avoid laughter, 
 when we are told, that by one of 
 those singularities which seem to be 
 presages, she was baptised on one 
 of the days of the carnival, by a cu- 
 rate disguised as an harlequin ? But one 
 reads with more surprise the follow- 
 ing story : A young man, who was 
 passionately fond of her, but could not 
 procure a return of his passion, died, 
 threatening to haunt her during the
 
 PREFACE. XVll 
 
 remainder of her life ; and, in fact, 
 she is frequently purfued by plaintive 
 cries, which every body hears -, by 
 flashes like those of a musket-shot, 
 which, however, are harmless, but 
 which every by-stander can see ; by 
 noises like the clapping of hands ; and, 
 in fine, by aerial mufic. A great num- 
 ber of persons have been w^itnesses of 
 these singular phenomena ; but the 
 cause or author of them has never been 
 discovered. 
 
 One would be tempted to believe 
 that madame Clairon had been deceived 
 by an illusion in her advanced age, but 
 that the recital of these strange facts is 
 contained in a letter written by her 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 XViil PREFACE. 
 
 long before she arrived at an age when 
 we are apt to be thus imposed on. 
 Besides, she cites facts and persons, 
 and appears to be in no degree supef-^ 
 stitious. Were these appearances then 
 produced by some tricks of natural 
 philosophy, performed by the friends 
 of the deceased, to torment her ? Of 
 this we are left in doubt. 
 
 In this collection we perceive the 
 same pen which traced these anecdotes 
 with so much lightness and grace ex- 
 press strongly the most profound sen- 
 timents. We here find madame Clairon 
 giving to a female friend counsels which 
 every young woman should have conti- 
 nually before her eyes. We find also 
 a letter written with a great degree of
 
 PREFACE. XIX 
 
 do^uencfe to the Margrive of Anspach, 
 fo dissuade him from abdicating his 
 power; and she has interspersed her 
 work with precepts of practical morali- 
 ty, which would do honour to our 
 greatest philosophers. 
 
 Tn conclusion, she offers some reflec- 
 tions on theatrical declamation. We 
 have poetics, essays on music, on paint- 
 ing, and on all the arts. On the co- 
 mic art, as it may be called, which is 
 certainly the most difficult, we have 
 only tradition. Like those historic facts, 
 which, in their descent from age to age, 
 at length assume a tinge of fable, the 
 traditions of the theatre, confided to the 
 unfaithful memory of individuals, have 
 become unnatural and untrue as they 
 b2
 
 XX PREFACE. 
 
 ]>ecame old. The character which in 
 the days qf Moliere was a living cha- 
 racter known in society, is at this day 
 only a burlesque caricature, because, 
 in each generation through which it 
 has descended, it has received an addi- 
 tion. We ought then to preserve with 
 gratitude the observations offered by 
 those who have been distinguished on 
 the stage. It is necessary to fix this 
 great art by written tradition and fixed 
 precepts. Baron was the first actor of 
 his time. Fifty years after him Le Kain 
 appeared; and some contemporaries pre- 
 tend that he has not yet had a successor. 
 Whence comes this ? Because there are 
 no fixed principles 5 because the dis- 
 coveries and observations made by great 
 performers perish with them; and their
 
 PREFACE. XXI 
 
 successors, obliged to commence the 
 study of their art by their own obser- 
 vations, throw it back to its origin. 
 
 Who better qualified than madame 
 Clairon to fix these principles ? After 
 twenty years of brilliant success, one 
 has a right to give advice as a les- 
 son. She was one of the most illus- 
 trious actresses of her time : and I shall 
 conclude by citing an anecdote inserted 
 in the Encyclopedia by one of her con- 
 tem.poraries, and which proves to what 
 a high degree of perfection she had 
 carried her art : 
 
 *' Madame ClairoH, who plays the 
 *' character of Ariane with so much 
 ** spirit and truth, received one even- 
 b :)
 
 XXll PREFACE. 
 
 *' ing those warm plaudits which she 
 *' so well merited. In that scene where 
 *' Ariane inquires, with her confidante, 
 " who can be her rival, at this verse 
 
 ** Is it Megiste, Egle, who renders him faithless ? 
 
 ** the actress saw a man who, with 
 ** te^rs in his eyes, leaned towards 
 " her, and cried out in a smothered 
 
 *< voice ' No ! No ! it is Phedre ! ' - 
 
 " This w^as the voice of nature ap^ 
 *^ plauding the perfection of art."
 
 TO THE 
 
 EDITOR OF THE PUBLICISTE'', 
 
 Issy, near Paris, 25tli Thermidor. 
 CITIZEN, 
 
 1 READ in your journal of the 25th 
 instant, an article which announces an 
 edition of my Memoirs, published in 
 Germany, and in the German language. 
 I did entrust the manuscript of my 
 Reflections upon the Dramatic Art, 
 and my own Memoirs, to a foreigner, 
 and a man of letters, whom I greatly 
 love and esteem. The intimate know- 
 ledge I possess of his principles and 
 
 * This letter was printed in this journal on the 
 28th Thermidor, 6th year. 
 
 b 4.
 
 xxlv 
 
 morality induces me to reject the idea 
 of his having deceived me by such a 
 publication. If I wsls to name my 
 friend, all who are acquainted with 
 him would do him the same justice. 
 The edition cannot but, be a surrepti- 
 tious one. 
 
 My intention was, that this work 
 should not have appeared till ten years 
 after my death ; but this accident, and 
 the fear of being thought deficient in 
 gratitude to the public and my coun- 
 try, have determined me to publish it. 
 I declare then, that the only edition 
 I can avow is, the one printed in 
 French, under my own inspection, and 
 which shall be published as soon as 
 possible.
 
 XXV 
 
 I conjure you, citizen, to rest assured 
 I shall ever retain a grateful remem- 
 brance of the very handsome manner 
 in which your correspondent has been 
 pleased to speak of me. 
 
 (Signed) 
 
 CLAIRON,
 
 TO THE 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memoies of Hj-ppolite Clairofi' .......... 1 
 
 Reflections upon the Dramatic Art- * , 3^ 
 
 Enunciation ; or, the Management of the Voice 3lf 
 
 Strength 40 
 
 On the Necessity of referring every thing to Art 4f 
 
 Memory 5^ 
 
 Exterior Ql 
 
 Tyrants 6Q 
 
 Kings Gj 
 
 Principal Male Characters- > ib. 
 
 On Young Men performing Principal Characters 6^ 
 
 Confidants 71 
 
 Division of Women's Characters ^4: 
 
 Mothers 70 
 
 Vehement and impassioned Characters 7^ 
 
 Tender Characters Si 
 
 Confidantes 82 
 
 Dress 83 
 
 On the Danger of Traditions 86 
 
 On the Use of White Paint 88
 
 xxvlil INDEX. 
 
 PACJE 
 
 Talents necessary to be acquired for the Stage : 
 
 Dancing and Drawing P7 
 
 Music gg 
 
 Languages, Geography, and Belles Lettres 100 
 
 General Reflections ..- 113 
 
 Portrait of Mademoiselle Dumesnil 133 
 
 Character of Monime 147 
 
 Hermione 152 
 
 Theatrical Schools 158 
 
 Orosmane ' 1 72 
 
 Study of Pauline in Polieucte 173 
 
 Observations on the Character of Roxane in 
 
 Bajazet 1 80 
 
 On the Tragedies of Manlius and Venice Sauvee 1 87 
 
 On Cornelie, in the Death of Pompey 18<) 
 
 Phedre 19O 
 
 Blanche, in Blanche and Guiscard igS 
 
 On M. de la Touche, and his Tragedy of Iphi- 
 
 genie in Tauris 207 
 
 The Two Electras 221
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 HYPPOLITE CLAIRON. 
 
 Jn the year 1743, my youth, and the 
 success with which I had appeared 
 at the opera and the French theatre, 
 procured me a considerable number of 
 admirers, among whom were several 
 worthy and sensible characters. M. de 
 S., son of a merchant of Brittany, about 
 thirty years of age, and possessing an 
 handsome figure, with a cultivated un- 
 derstanding, was one of those who had 
 made the deepest impression on me. 
 His manners evinced the education of 
 a gendeman, and of one ufed to the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 
 best company. His reserve and ti- 
 midity, which scarce allowed him to 
 explain himself, even by his looks, 
 made me distinguish him from among 
 all my lovers. After I had been some 
 time the object of his attentions, ^ 
 permitted his visits at my house, and 
 left him no room to doubt of the 
 friendship with which he had in- 
 spired me. Perceiving I ^\^s of an 
 easy and tender disposition, he was 
 patient, trusting time would produce 
 in my breast a stronger sentiment than 
 that of friendship. * Who can tell?' 
 * Who can say what may happen ?' Such 
 were his frequent remarks -, but by an- 
 swering with candour to all the ques- 
 tions which my reason or my curiosity 
 dictated, he entirely ruined his cause.
 
 3 
 
 Ashamed of being the son of a citi- 
 zen, he had disposed of his effeds, in 
 order to expend the produce at Pa- 
 ris, under a more elevated title. That 
 displeased me. To blush for himself 
 seemed to me to justify the disdain 
 of others. His humour was glooiiiy 
 and melancholy. * He was too well ac- 
 quainted with men,' he would say, ' not 
 to despise and shun them.' His plan was 
 to live only for me, and that I should 
 live for hitti alone ; that displeased me 
 still more, as you may well imagine. 
 I might have been content to have 
 been restrained by a flowery wreath, 
 but I could not brook being confined 
 by a chain. I from that moment saw 
 the necessity of destroying the flatter- 
 ing hope which nourished his attach-
 
 4. 
 
 ment, and of disallowing his frequent \U 
 sits. This determination, which I per- 
 sisted in, produced a serious indispo- 
 sition, during which I rendered him 
 every possible care: but my constant 
 refusal to indulge the passion he en- 
 tertained for me made the wound still 
 deeper ; and, unfortunately, his brother- 
 in-law, to whom he had given a power 
 of attorney to receive the property he 
 was entitled to from the sale of his 
 effedts, left him in such extreme want 
 of money that he was compelled to 
 accept such loans as I could accom- 
 modate him with. This circumstance 
 was a deep mortification to him. You 
 will perceive, my dear Henry, the im- 
 portance of keeping this secret in your 
 bosom. I respect his memory, and
 
 would riot abandon it to the insulting 
 pity of mankind. Preserve the same 
 religious silence which I have now for 
 the first time violated, but have only 
 done out of my profound esteem for 
 you. 
 
 At length he recovered his property, 
 but never his health. I considered his 
 absence from me would be to his ad- 
 vantage, and therefore constantly re- 
 fused both his letters and his visits. 
 
 Two years and a half passed between 
 our first acquaintance and his death. 
 He entreated me to assuage by my pre- 
 sence the last moments of his life. My 
 engagements prevented me complying 
 with his request. He died in the pre- 
 
 B3
 
 (5 
 
 senoe of his domestics, and an old lady^ 
 whom he had alone for some titne suf- 
 fered to attend him. He then lodged' 
 upon the Rampart, near la Chausse 
 d'Antin, which had just begun to be 
 built. I resided in la Rue de Bussy,), 
 near la Rue de Seine, and Abbey of 
 St. Germain. My mother, and several 
 of my friends, generally supped with 
 me. My visitors wrere, an intendant of 
 the Privy Purfe, whose friendship was 
 of infinite service tome; the good Pi- 
 pelet, whom you formerly knew and 
 admired; and Roseley, one of my com- 
 panions at the theatre, a young man 
 of respectable birth and talents. The 
 suppers of this period, though the 
 company was small, were much more 
 entertaining than the most expenfive
 
 i 
 
 f^tes have been for these forty years 
 past. It was at one of those suppers, 
 and when I had been singing an air 
 with which my friends expressed them- 
 selves extremely delighted, that, just as 
 the clock struck eleven, our ears were 
 struck with the most piercing cry I had 
 ever heard ; its long continuance and 
 piteous sound astonished every one. I 
 fainted away, and was near a quarter of 
 an hour insensible. 
 
 The intendant was amorous and jea- 
 lous. When I revived, he faid to me 
 with some degree of spleep, " that the 
 signals of my rendezvous were some- 
 what too noisy," I answered, ** that I 
 was mistrefs of myself, and at liberty to 
 receive at all hours whoever I thought 
 B 4-
 
 8 
 
 proper, therefore signals were altoge- 
 ther useless; and" added I, " that which 
 you call one is of tod dreadful a nature 
 to announce the soft moments dedi- 
 cated to love." My paleness, the tre- 
 mor which still remained upon me, 
 the tears which flowed in spite of my 
 efforts, and my intreaties that my com- 
 pany would remain with me a part of 
 the night, convinced them I was igno- 
 rant of the cause which had produced 
 the noise. We reasoned as to what it 
 could have been the effect of, and de- 
 termined to set people to watch in the 
 street, in order to afcertain it, in case it 
 fhould be repeated. 
 
 Every one in the house, my friends, 
 my neighbours, the police even, have
 
 9 
 heard the same sort of cry repeated 
 under my windows at the same hour, 
 and appearing to proceed from the air. 
 There was no doubt of its being in- 
 tended for my hearing in particular; 
 for though I rarely supped in town, yet 
 when I did, the cry was never heard ; 
 but often, when I was conversing with 
 my mother and my servants upon the 
 subjedt, it would burst forth in the 
 midst of us. Upon one evening, the 
 president de B., at whose house I had 
 supped, condu<fted me to my own 
 house. As he was wishing me good 
 night, at my door, the cry alarmed us. 
 He, as well as nearly all Paris, can 
 vouch for the truth of this history. 
 The president was so terrified, that he
 
 10 
 
 was conduced to his carriage more 
 dead than ahve. 
 
 Another time I asked my friend 
 Roseley to accompany me to la Rue 
 St. Honore, to biiy some articles of 
 dress, and pay a visit to mademoiselle 
 de St. P., who lodged near St. Den- 
 nis's gate. The only subjedt of our 
 conversation v^as the spirit, as he 
 called it. This young man, though 
 he ridiculed my adventure, was struck 
 with the singularity of it. He pressed 
 me to invoke the phantom, and pro- 
 mised to give full belief to it if it 
 answered me. Whether it was owing 
 to my weakness or daring boldness, I 
 know not, but T did as he had re-
 
 11 
 
 quired of me. The same cry was 
 uttered three different times, with a 
 degree of rapidity and fhrillness ter- 
 rible beyond expression. When we 
 arrived at our friend's house, we were 
 obHged to have assistance to get out 
 of the coach, where we were found 
 sitting in a state of terror and insensi- 
 bihty. 
 
 After this scene I remained some 
 months without hearing any thing of 
 it : I thought I was quit of it for ever, 
 but I deceived myself. 
 
 All the theatrical exhibitions had 
 been ordered to Versailles, on account 
 of the marriage of the dauphin. We 
 were to repair there in three days; and
 
 12 
 
 tlaere were some of the ad:resses for 
 whom lodgings had not been secured. 
 Among others, madame Granvalle had 
 none. She remained with me, ex- 
 pecting in vain that one would be pro- 
 cured for her. At three in the morn- 
 ing I offered to share my chamber 
 with her 3 it had two beds, one for my- 
 self, and another for my servant.: she 
 accepted my offer, and I gave her the 
 least of the two, and got into my own. 
 While my servant was undressing her- 
 self to lay by the side of me, I said 
 to her, " We are now almost at the end 
 of the world, and, besides, the wea- 
 ther is unusually tempestuous the cry 
 would be rather embarrassed to find 
 us out here." It was at that instant ut- 
 tered. Madame Granvalle thought all
 
 1.1 
 
 the demons of hell were in the room. 
 She ran in her chemise from the top to 
 the bottom of the house, and suffered no 
 one to sleep during the remainder of 
 the night. This however was the last 
 time I was troubled with the noife. 
 
 Seven or eight days after, while I 
 was enjoying myself in my ufual fo- 
 ciety, the clock struck eleven, and im- 
 mediately the firing of a gun was heard 
 against one of my windows. We were 
 all sensible of it, we saw the fire, and 
 heard the shot ; but upon examining, 
 the window had received no kind of 
 damage. We concluded that some 
 person had a design upon my life ; and 
 that having failed, it was necessary to 
 guard againfb a similar attempt in fu-
 
 u 
 
 tare. The intendant went directly to 
 the house of M. de Marville, the lieu- 
 tenant of police, who was his friend. 
 He came, attended by proper officers, 
 and examined the house opposite mine, 
 but without discovering any ground 
 for suspicion. The following day the 
 street was narrowly watched the offi- 
 cers of police had their eyes upon every 
 house, but, notwithstanding all their 
 attention, at the same hour for three 
 whole months, the same discharge was 
 always heard against the same frame of 
 glass, though no one could ever dis- 
 cover from whence it proceeded. This 
 fad: is attested by all the registers of 
 police. 
 
 I became so accustomed to this new
 
 trick of the spirit, as I supposed, that 
 had before haunted me, that I no longer 
 attended to it : and one evening, at the 
 hour of eleven, when it vi^as extremely 
 warm, I opened the window, and tlie 
 intendant and myself leant over the 
 balcony. The instant the clock struck 
 eleven the gun was discharged as usual, 
 and we both fell upon the floor appa- 
 rently lifeless. When we came to our- 
 selves, and found we were not hurt, and 
 acknowledged to each other that at the 
 moment the gun was fired we had each 
 of us received a violent slap on the 
 face, we could scarce refrain laughing 
 at the circumstance. The next day 
 nothing particular happened ; but the 
 day after! was invited by mademoiselle 
 Dumesnil to an entertainment she gave.
 
 16 
 
 1 entered a coach at eleven o'clock 
 with my waiting- woman. ^ The moon 
 flione bright, and we proceeded along 
 the Boulevards or Suburbs, which 
 were then just beginning to be built 
 upon. We were examining those 
 houses which had been lately erected, 
 when my waiting-maid said, " Is it not 
 here M. de S. died ?" " From the in- 
 formation he gave me, that should be 
 the place," said I, pointing with my 
 finger to a house which was before us. 
 The explosion of a gun was imme- 
 diately heard the coachman urged his 
 horses, conceiving himself attacked by 
 robbers, and arrived at the place of 
 rendezvous scarce sensible. For my 
 part, I was impressed with a degree of 
 terror which it was long before I got
 
 the better of. This was the last time 
 I was terrified by the firing of the 
 gun. 
 
 It was however succeeded by a noise 
 like the clapping of hands. The par- 
 tiality of the public had so long ac- 
 customed me to this interruption, that 
 I for some time paid no attention to 
 it. My friends remarked it, and told 
 me they constantly heard it at eleven 
 o'clock, close to my door : they could 
 distinguish no one, and were convinced 
 what they heard must have been the 
 result of some supernatural cause. 
 
 As the noise had nothing terrible in 
 it, I did not observe what length of 
 time it continued. It was followed by 
 
 VOL. I, c
 
 melodious sounds, which I paid as little 
 attention to. It seemed that a celestial 
 voice sung the most tender and pa- 
 thetic airs : the music commenced at 
 the corner of the street, and concluded 
 at the door of my house. Like all 
 the preceding sounds which had been 
 heard, it baffled all discovery as to the 
 cause. 'About the end of two years I 
 was ceased to be disturbed altogether. 
 
 The house I inhabited was ex- 
 tremely noisy, on account of its prox- 
 imity to the market, and the number 
 of people who lived in that quarter. 
 J required retirem.ent for my studies, as 
 well as on account of my health, which 
 was much impaired. I was rather in 
 easy circumstances, and wished for a
 
 19 - 
 tetter situation. I was told of a small 
 house in la Rue des Marais, which let 
 for 200 livres, where Racine was said 
 to have lived forty years with his fa- 
 mily. I was informed it was there 
 he had comoosed his immortal works, 
 and that there he had died ; that after- 
 wards it had been occupied by the ten- 
 der Lecouvreur, who had ornamented 
 and ended his days in it. The walls 
 of the house, said I, will be alone 
 sufficient to make me feel the sublimity 
 of the author, and acquire the talents 
 necessary for an actress \ it is in this 
 sanctuary I will live and die. I took 
 it, and put a bill upon the apartments 
 I had before occupied. Among the 
 number who applied for them were 
 several persons attracted solely by cu- 
 
 c 21
 
 ^0 , 
 riosity. The public had never seen 
 me out of the theatre : they wished to 
 behold me divested of a crown, and i^ y.^^ 
 supported by the characters of Cor- 
 neille, Racine, and Voltaire, reduced 
 to the simple rank of a Bourgeoise. 
 I ilattered myself the alteration would 
 not appear to my prejudice, as I still 
 , retained the same sentiments and ha- 
 bits ; but you know I am rather fhort, 
 and that I was supposed by those \Vho 
 had never seen me off the stage to be 
 six feet high. At home I appeared in 
 my natural form : I never had recourse 
 to art except at the theatre. I was 
 fearful that when surveyed off the stage 
 the public would diminiih twice as 
 much from my stature as it had been 
 accustomed to add to it. I was sea-
 
 21 
 sible that those who avoided Imposing 
 on the world had nothing to fear 
 from its censure. Happily my nation 
 was not much given to reflection -, and 
 \ had the satisfaction of finding that 
 the public still continued to preserve 
 the same opinion with regard to my 
 figure. 
 
 What a digression ! you will say : 
 Your history Is already too long; abridge 
 it if you please, but do not add to it. 
 I agree you are right, but you have re- 
 quired this history from me ; therefore, 
 as I am ignorant what you wish to be 
 informed of, I have thought it my duty 
 flot to omit any circumstance. I can- 
 not trace a single word of it without 
 recalling you to my imagination. Is 
 C3
 
 22 
 
 it my fault, if, notwithstanding the 
 years I have passed, and the misfor- 
 tunes I have suffered, I still preserve 
 the illusions of a soul characterised by 
 sensibility ? It is for you I write ; I 
 imagine I am fpeaking to you, that you 
 are listening to my history, filled as it 
 is with tiresome repetitions, with that 
 sweetcomplacency which renders you 
 so dear to your friends and valuable to 
 society. Alas! it is with the deepest 
 regret I tear myself from the agreeable 
 chimera. 
 
 But to resume my subject : 
 
 I was informed that an elderly lady 
 wished to see my apartments, and that 
 she was waiting there for me. It has 
 ever been my principle to express the
 
 23 
 
 greatest deference to age. I attended 
 her. An emotion which I was not 
 mistress of made me survey her from 
 head to foot. This emotion increased 
 when I perceived she experienced the 
 same feelings. I was only able to re- 
 quest her to take a seat : fhe accepted 
 my offer. We continued some time 
 silent 3 but our eyes left no room to 
 doubt the extreme desire we had to 
 address each other. She knew who I 
 was, but I knew her not : fhe felt that 
 the task was imposed on her to break 
 silence. The following was the con- 
 versation that took place between us : 
 
 ** It is, madam, a long time since I 
 have been impressed with the most 
 anxious desire to become acquainted 
 c 4
 
 24 ' 
 with you. As I never frequent the the* 
 atre, and am unknown to those whom 
 you honour with your friendship, I 
 was apprehensive, if 1 addressed you 
 by letter, I might subject myself to a 
 denial in consequence of my motives 
 being misunderstood. The bill placed 
 upon your apartments has procured me 
 the happiness I wished for : pardon me 
 when I confess it is not that which has 
 brought rtne here, I am not rich enough 
 to take them ; nevertheless, I entreat 
 you to let me see them. The place 
 you have inhabited cannot but excite 
 an interest. Your talents have a de- 
 gree of celebrity which leaves no room 
 to doubt the superior endowments of 
 your mind. I perceive that 1 have not 
 been deceived as to your figure 5 I
 
 25 
 
 desire to know if the description I 
 have received of your dweUing is as 
 faithful : and I trust you will allow me 
 to pursue my unhappy friend through 
 all the scenes of his hope and despair." 
 
 " It appears to me, madam, that the 
 agitation in which you behold me, and 
 which every word you utter augments, 
 makes it a duty I owe myself to in- 
 quire who you are, of whom you are 
 speaking, and what your business is 
 with me ? My character will hot allow 
 me to be made the sport or the victim 
 of any one ! Speak, orlfliallleaveyou." 
 
 ** I was, madam, the best friend of 
 M. de S., and the only person he 
 suffered to be with him during the
 
 26 
 last moments of his life. We have 
 both reckoned the days and hours 
 while speaking of you : sometimes 
 making you an angel, sometimes a 
 devil; I, continually persuading him 
 to forget you, he, constantly profess- 
 ing he should adore you to the grave. 
 Your eyes bathed in tears, allow me to 
 ask you. Why you have rendered him so 
 miserable ? and how, possessing a ten- 
 der and sympathising soul, you could 
 refuse him the consolation of seeing 
 you, and of speaking to you for once 
 only before he died ?" 
 
 " We cannot command our hearts. 
 M. de S. was possessed of merit, 
 and many estimable qualities; but 
 bis gloomy, thoughtful, and despotic
 
 27 
 disposition, made me equally dread his 
 society, his friendship, and his love. 
 To have made him happy, I must have 
 renounced the pleasures of society, and 
 even the exercise of my profession. 
 I was poor and proud : I vv^ished (and I 
 hope I shall always possess the same 
 disposition) not to depend upon any 
 one but myself. The friendship with 
 which he inspired me made me at- 
 tempt every means to induce him 
 to adopt sentiments more tranquil 
 and equitable. As I could not eifect 
 this, and was persuaded that his de- 
 rangement was less to be attributed to 
 the excess of his passion than to the 
 violence of his character, I formed 
 and kept the firm resolution of sepa- 
 rating myself entirely from him. I
 
 ^8 
 refused to see him in his last moments, 
 because the sight of him would have 
 rent my heart ; and I should have ap- 
 peared too cruel had I refused him 
 what he asked, and must have been 
 wretched had I granted it him. These, 
 madam, are the motives of my con- 
 duct : I dare flatter myself no one will 
 blame me." 
 
 " To condemn you would be unjust. 
 It is only to our God, our parents, and 
 our benefactors, we are bound to sa- 
 crifice ourselves. On this last point, 
 I am sensible, it was not from you 
 gratitude was due ; but his situation and 
 his passion overcame him, and your 
 last refusal hastened his latter mo- 
 ments. He counted every minute till
 
 half past ten, when his servant in- 
 formed him you positively w^ould not 
 come to him. After a moment's silence, 
 he took my hand in a paroxysm of de- 
 spair, which terrified me, and ex- 
 claimed * Cruel woman ! but she shall 
 gain nothing, I will pursue her as much 
 after my death as I have done during my 
 life /' I endeavoured to calm him, but 
 he was no more." 
 
 I think, my friend, I need not tell you 
 the effect these last words had upon 
 me. I thought all the powers of hea- 
 ven and earth had united to torment 
 my wretched life : but, at length, time 
 and mature reason have restored calm- 
 ^ness to my mind. *' If," said I, " there 
 is no Superior Being who directs this^
 
 30 
 
 world, it is impossible that one who 
 is dead can be brought back to life. 
 If there is a God and all nature attests 
 there is one-^the attribute of his divi- 
 nity is justice and goodness : he will 
 never send into this abode of misery 
 and sorrow those whom he has deign- 
 ed to release from it. What am I, 
 that I should suppose he concerns 
 himself with so humble an indivi- 
 dual ? How can I suppose that, gn my 
 account, he would derange the order 
 of nature to manifest his anger or his 
 goodness, or to point out to me the 
 means of avoiding misery or guilt? 
 Such cares may be worthy the Sove- 
 reign of the World, when the whole 
 human race are the objects of them r 
 but an individual is, perhaps, less in his
 
 eyes than a grain of sand is in our^. 
 Let us adore him, let us merit his 
 mercies ; but attempt not to scrutinise 
 his ways ! 
 
 By this mode of reasoning, and by 
 various reflections which occurred to 
 my mind, I attributed the extraordi- 
 nary circumstances which had hap- 
 pened to me entirely to chance. I 
 know not but they w^ere the effect of 
 chance ; but I cannot deny that what is 
 so called, has the greatest influence on 
 what passes in the world. 
 
 Now rest awhile : my history and 
 reflections are finished ; make what you 
 can of them. If it is your intention 
 that what I have written should pass
 
 36 
 
 out - of your own hands, I entreat ydU 
 to suppress the initial letter of the 
 name, and the entire name of the pro- 
 vince. 
 
 I send you my original, that you 
 may judge, by a labour so far above my 
 strength, how inviolable and tender is 
 the attachment I retain for you. 
 
 Adieu I
 
 S3 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 THE DRAMATIC ART 
 
 XT is the wish of many that I should 
 write my sentiments relative to an art 
 which I have long professed. It is 
 supposed that the reflections I have 
 made, in order to render myself sup- 
 portable in the eyes of the public, 
 may be of some use to those who are 
 destined to pursue the same career. 
 Perhaps the public, or, at least, the ad- 
 mirers of theatrical representations, 
 will contemplate with some degree of 
 pleasure the road I have followed, in 
 order to acquire their favour. But re- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 54- 
 
 ilection and writing are two such dif- 
 ferent things ; it appears so extraor- 
 dinary to me to comprehend any thing 
 without the aid of physiognomy, ges- 
 ture, and speech -, I am so diffident of 
 myself; that I tremble as much in 
 taking up the pen as I once did in ap- 
 pearing before the public. Friendship 
 imposes the task upon me, and my 
 compliant disposition cannot resist. 
 Without any regular plan, perhaps 
 without any system, but certainly with- 
 out vanity, I am about to trace what I 
 deem necessary to the attainment of 
 this art, an art much more difficult 
 than it is generally supposed to be.
 
 S3 
 
 ENUNCIATION; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MANAGEMENT OF THE VOICE. 
 
 As it must be the chief object of the 
 actress to be heard distinctly in all parts 
 of the theatre, it is therefore an indispen- 
 sable requisite that she should be pos- 
 sessed of a strong and sonorous voice. 
 
 In order that she may be enabled to 
 give the necessary shade to the picture 
 she means to represent, her voice must 
 be clear, harmonious, flexible, and sus- 
 ceptible of every possible intonation. 
 
 A voice which is deficient in point 
 of compass or expression can never 
 be adequate to characters where the 
 D 2
 
 36 
 
 stronger passions are displayed, fuch 
 as Phedre, Orosn^ane, &c. 
 
 A lisping, or inarticulate mode of 
 pronunciation, false tones, harsh sounds, 
 or a provincial accent, are obstacles 
 which are insurmountable iii an actress 
 who attempts vehemence, grandeur, 
 justness, or sensibility of expression^ 
 
 The verses of Racine and Voltaire 
 are the most truly poetical and har- 
 monious our language can boast : yet, 
 let the same verses be recited by one 
 who has an easy and clear delivery, and 
 another who has a defective pronuncia- 
 tion, and you will perceive that she who 
 possesses the clear delivery will divest 
 them of no pait of their beauty.- Mis-
 
 S7 
 
 tress of the faculty of managing her iii^ 
 tonations, of extending or repressing her 
 sounds as the sense may require, sus- 
 ceptible of every species of modulation, 
 she expresses each verse in all its native 
 charms and dignity; whilie the other, 
 whose organs are defective, is obliged 
 to speak slow, in order to be under- 
 stood; or if she speaks fast, to give 
 utterance to inarticulate sounds. The 
 precision, the harmony, theelegance, the 
 strength, the force, of the language and 
 sentiment, all are destroyed. 
 
 If we call to our mind all the actors 
 and actresses who have appeared upon 
 the stage, we shall find that the defect 
 of which I am speaking is incompatible 
 with great talents. A fine figure, or 
 D 3
 
 38 
 *he charms of youth and beauty, will 
 sometimes induce the public to over- 
 look defects in those who possess such 
 attractions: but beauty and youth pass 
 away. The hopes which may have been 
 formed of those who have natural de- 
 fects, which always increase with age, 
 are seldom realised. I will mention 
 madame Granvalle ; this charming co- 
 median, distinguished for her grace- 
 fulness, spirit, and vivacity, aided by 
 what is called theatrical decency^ has 
 quitted the stage, where she will never 
 be equalled in the .character of genteel 
 comedy, to which her talents were 
 confined. Though not yet fifty years 
 of age, she has been compelled to re- 
 tire, in consequence of that disgust 
 with which her lisping manner of speech
 
 39 
 inspired the public, whose idol she had 
 before been. Youth and beauty are 
 charms highly esteemed in the world j but 
 something more is required on the stage. 
 
 I agree, however, that there may 
 be exceptions. A single imperfection 
 may, in no respect, destroy that union 
 of gaiety, spirit, talent, and ease, with 
 which some are gifted, particularly in 
 comedy : the habit of stammering, 
 which Poisson had, perhaps, added to his 
 comic abilities, even in his youth. But, 
 in general, to be perfectly understood 
 is the first obligation of a comedian ; 
 and those v^ho have impediments in 
 their pronunciation should neither have 
 the ambition, nor be suffered to tread 
 the boards of a theatre. 
 D 4
 
 40 
 
 STRENGTH. 
 
 A GOOD constitution is a material 
 point: there is no profession more 
 fatiguing. Irritable nerves, weak lungs, 
 or delicate constitutions, cannot long 
 sustain the weight of tragic charac- 
 ters. 
 
 I have found, in the course of my 
 time, a number of young authors and 
 fine ladies who have thought that no- 
 thing was more easy than to perform 
 Mahomet, Merope, &c. ; that the au- 
 thor had done all that was necessary; 
 ; that to learn the parts, and to leave the 
 rest to Nature, was all the adtor had to 
 do. Nature! how many use this word
 
 41 
 
 without knowing its meaning.^ The 
 difference of sex, of age, of situation, 
 of time, of countries, of manners, and 
 of customs, demand different modes of 
 expression. What infinite pains and 
 study must it not require to make an 
 actor forget his own character ; to iden- 
 tify himself with every personage he 
 represents; to acquire the faculty of 
 representing love, hatred, ambition, and 
 every passion of which human nature 
 is susceptible, every shade, every gra- 
 dation by which those sentiments are 
 depictured with their full extent of co- 
 louring and expression. 
 
 There are no arts or professions but 
 have certain defined principles. Are 
 there then none required to direct the
 
 42 
 tragedian? Is it only in the history of 
 mankind he must obtain his informa- 
 tion ? Reading of itself would be no- 
 thing J he must meditate upon, and ren- 
 der himself familiar with, what he reads, 
 even to its minutest details ; he must 
 adapt to every character the genius of 
 the nation to which it belongs ; he must 
 reflect without intermission ; repeat an 
 hundred and an hundred times the 
 same thing, in order to surmount the 
 difficulties he meets with at every step. 
 It is not enough to study the character: 
 he must study the history of it, in or- 
 der to develop the intention of the au- 
 thor, feel the beauties of his composi- 
 tion, and adapt his character to the ge- 
 neral scope of the work : he must scru- 
 tinise the hearts of all connected with
 
 43 
 
 the scene, attend to the relations they 
 bear towards each other; and, finally, 
 he must be able to comprehend why 
 what he hears, and what he sees, is so 
 represented or expressed. Such are the 
 private labours which an actor has to 
 liilfil. 
 
 I am fur from thinking that others 
 may not infinitely exceed me. Those 
 who possess a greater degree of energy, 
 or enjoy a more perfect state of health, 
 than falls to my lot, may discover 
 sources of improvement which have 
 escaped me : but for the little abilities 
 I possess, I am indebted to the adoption 
 of that course of study which I have 
 traced. I was by nature strong and 
 persevering: labour was a pleasure to
 
 44 
 Bie ; and it is only by having braved 
 misery and death that I have com- 
 pleted the twenty years requisite to 
 constitute an actor. In addition to 
 what I have said, the most arduous 
 task is to be enumerated -, it is, the in- 
 dispensable necessity of having one's 
 mind continually impressed with events 
 the most dreadful and ter>tfele^ and with 
 images of the most horrid nature. The 
 actor who does not identify himself with 
 the character he represents is like a 
 scholar who repeats his lesson -, but he 
 who does so identify himself with the 
 personage, he is pourtraying whose 
 tears seem the effect of Nature, who ab- 
 sorbs the idea of his own existence in 
 the miseries of an assumed character ; 
 such a person must be wretched : and
 
 45 
 
 I maintain that it requires a degree of 
 strength, almost beyond what human- 
 nature is endowed with, to perform the 
 characters of tragedy well for more than 
 ten years. 
 
 To these labours must be added 
 the study of different talents, and of 
 different acquirements, of which I ihall 
 speak hereafter. To this must be added 
 the fatigue of traversing the country at 
 stated seasons, the trouble of rehearsals, 
 ' the necessity of a general course of read- 
 ing, the attention required with regard 
 to dress, the care due to domestic affairs, 
 and, lastly, the fatigue of representations. 
 After this enumeration, it is unnecessary 
 to infer how indispensable it is to possess 
 a healthy and strong constitution.
 
 46 
 
 In recalling to mind my plan of study^ 
 I hope I shall be pardoned for observing, 
 that I have often smiled at the folly of 
 those who have upbraided me for having 
 recourse to art. Alas ! v^^hat should I 
 have been without it ? Could I have per- 
 sonated Roxane, Amenaide, or Viriate ? 
 Should I be consistent if I was to apply 
 my own feelings and habits to such cha- 
 racters? Doubtless not. How am I en- 
 abled to substitute the ideas, sentiments, 
 and feelings, which should distinguish 
 those characters, in lieu of my own ? 
 It is by art alone it can be done : for if 
 ever I have seemed to personate them in 
 a manner purely natural, it is because my 
 studies, joined to some happy gifts which 
 I may have derived from nature, have 
 conducted me to the perfection of art.
 
 47 
 
 EXAMPLE, 
 
 ON THE NECESSITY Oif REFERRING EVEKY 
 THING TO ART. 
 
 The same actress commonly under- 
 takes the very opposite characters of 
 Ariane and Dido. These two perso- 
 nages have to manifest the same love, 
 the same fear, and the same despair. 
 If the actress, who is to represent 
 them, should take Nature merely for 
 her guide, is it to be supposed that 
 the same expression of the different 
 passions which is required in one of 
 those characters would be proper in 
 the other? Dido is a widow and abso- 
 lute queen -, her experience, and habits 
 of commanding, allow her to assume 
 an haughty look, an imperious tone of
 
 48 
 voice, and a degree of dignity in her 
 reproaches. Ariane, on the contrary, 
 is a fugitive and suppliant princess ; she 
 ought to assume a downcast look v^hen 
 she is assuring her lover of her affec- 
 tion^ hef^ reproaches should be made 
 in mild and timid accents -, the mo- 
 'desty of her character should restrain 
 the violence of her despair; and it is 
 only when she is convinced of the per- 
 fidy of her sister she should entirely 
 abandon herself to the emotions of grief. 
 To personate these different characters, 
 the actress must arrange her physiognomy 
 and her deportment ; she must assume 
 gestures, mild or violent, disdainful or 
 timid, as the different characters may 
 require them. Let me ask, can all this 
 be done without the assistance of art ?
 
 49 
 It is more difficult to find good actors 
 than good actresses. Those who are 
 destined to the stage are, for the most 
 part, born of obscure and indigent pa- 
 rents. The impossibility of receiving 
 a liberal education, or of obtaining the 
 advantage of masters and books, the so- 
 ciety in w^hich those in indifferent cir- 
 cumstances are forced to live, prevent 
 the exertion of those talents which, in 
 a different situation, would have mani- 
 fested themselves. 
 
 Women have greater advantages. 
 There is very little difference in the 
 education of females, except with re- 
 gard to those of the highest rank. A 
 reasonable portion of ability, a good 
 figure, and a fair reputation, generally 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 
 
 are sufficient to procure them the pro- 
 tection of their own sex, and. are sure 
 to command the homage of the other. 
 Men of liberality and gallantry encou- 
 rage them ; they are more readily ad- 
 mitted into the society of men of letters, 
 and what is called good company ; they 
 have better opportunities of hearing, 
 seeing, and comparing ; their ideas are 
 enlarged, their reason is improved, their 
 understanding increased; and when sense 
 and beauty unite in them, their address, 
 their sensibility, their vivacity, and an 
 innate sentiment which makes them 
 think they may pretend to any thing, 
 give them the power of appearing 
 wherever their inclinations lead them. 
 
 Observe the diiFerence between those
 
 51 
 
 women who are originally destined to 
 the seraglio of the Grand Seignor, com- 
 pared with what they are when the pre- 
 ference of their master withdraws them 
 from the rank of slaves. Racine has 
 described them in the character of 
 Roxane : and every woman, who is 
 conscious of her genius as an actress, 
 ought to make herself perfect in that 
 character. 
 
 Since the theatre has existed, we can 
 only reckon three actors capable of per- 
 forming the very frrst-rate characters. 
 
 These are Baron, Dufrene, and Le 
 Kain. Baron had the advantage of be- 
 ing the pupil of Moliere. He was a 
 man of great ability, had a command- 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 ing figure, and passed his life amidst 
 persons of the first rank in France. 
 
 Like other actors, he declaimed, and 
 recited verses in his youth j but, in or- 
 der to exalt himself to a level with, and 
 to emulate those persons of superior 
 rank with whom he was admitted as a 
 companion, he familiarised himself to 
 the simple and true grandeur; he dis- 
 played their manners in the characters 
 he represented 3 and it is to him we are 
 indebted for the first lessons of that art 
 which is always so difficult to attain. 
 
 
 . Dufrene was more dazzling than pro- 
 found. He was noble, but never vehe- 
 ment; full of warmth, but without or- 
 der, without principles, without any of
 
 53 
 those great features which characterise 
 genius. He was indebted for his suc- 
 cess to the superior beauty of his person, 
 and the excellence of his delivery.- 
 He is, however, a proof that the pub- 
 lic in his time did not require from an 
 actor so much as they do at present. 
 
 . Le Kain was bred an artisan. His 
 figure was displeasing and aukward, his 
 stature was low, his voice discordant, 
 and his constitution weak j yet, with all 
 these disadvantages, he launched from 
 the workshop to the theatre ; and, with- 
 out any other guide than genius, with- 
 out any assistance but art, he attained 
 the reputation of the greatest actor, and 
 the most interesting and dignified of 
 men, I am not speaking either of his 
 E 3
 
 54 
 
 first essays, or his latter exertions : in 
 the former he doubted, attempted, and 
 was often disappointed ; a circumstance 
 that could not fail to happen. In the 
 latter his strength did not second his in- 
 tentions. For want of physical faculties 
 he was often tedious and declamatory ;. 
 but in, the meridian of his faculties he 
 approached nearest of any to perfection, 
 
 I must, however, acknowledge, with- 
 out partiality, that he did not give the 
 sentiments of every author with equal 
 force. 
 
 He could not do justice to Corneille. 
 The characters of Racine were too sim- 
 ple for him. He pourtrayed the cliarac- 
 ters of neither of them well, except ia
 
 55 
 
 some scenes which allowed his genius ; 
 those striking bursts of passions, without 
 which he never appeared to advantage. 
 
 His perfection was only complete in 
 the tragedies of Voltaire. Like the 
 author, he constantly appeared noble, 
 true, sensible, profound, vehement, or 
 sublime. The talents of Le Kain were 
 of that class, that you overlooked the 
 disadvantages of his person. 
 
 His studies had been directed to 
 
 their proper object ; he was acquainted 
 
 with a variety of languages, he read 
 
 much, and formed an accurate judg.- 
 
 ment of what he read ; but without 
 
 recourse to art he could never have 
 
 made an actor. 
 
 E 4
 
 S6 
 
 Allow me now to revert to tliose 
 principles from which I have in some 
 measure digressed. All men arc not 
 endowed with a creative genius. I will 
 endeavour to direct those who are in- 
 adequate to the pursuit of an original 
 system of their own, and for that purr 
 pose will resume my examination. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 It is only by constantly varying 
 dramatic representations, that the the- 
 atre can have attractions for the public ; 
 it is therefore necessary to have a 
 change of performances ready ', conse-r 
 quently, the memory of the performers 
 is a circumstance of the chiefest im- 
 portance.
 
 57 
 He would be aii impolitic manager 
 who should engage an a6tor who had 
 not convinced him he was possessed of 
 what is indispensably necessary to the 
 profession, a ready and correct me- 
 mory. 
 
 The actor who has a tardy and 
 sluggish memory cannot but be inade- 
 quate to the study of verse -, his atten^ 
 tion is so much engaged in retaining 
 the words, that he has no time for re- 
 ilection : it is impossible for him to 
 study the meaning of his author; his 
 ideas are restrained ; he can adopt no 
 principle on which to comprehend the 
 character he studies; he is unable to 
 form comparisons, he cannot do jus-
 
 5S 
 tice to his author; but, on the con- 
 trary, is sure to derogate from the dig- 
 nity of the personage he represents. 
 
 One may, without study, possess a na- 
 tural abihty, and by that alone some- 
 times be enabled to give a just effect 
 to an author's sentiments. There are 
 many characters where such natural 
 ability is all that is requisite. 
 
 Brittanicus, Iphigenie, Hyppolite, Pal- 
 myre, are of this description, provided 
 the person who represents them joins 
 to such a natural talent the advantages 
 of youth, an harmonious voice, and a 
 graceful person. These kind of cha- 
 racters are within the reach of medio-
 
 S9 
 crity of talents j those of Agrlppinc, 
 Achille, Phcdre, and Maliomet, re- 
 quire higher abilities. 
 
 The persons appointed to perform 
 these characters have as much to study, 
 to play them well, as the authors had to 
 describe them. 
 
 Without a quick, sure, and retentive 
 memory, it is impossible for an actor 
 to unite such profound studies with his 
 daily labours. Genius alone would be 
 insuiiicient : indeed, I doubt much, whe- 
 ther a person can possess much genius 
 or ability without a great memory ? 
 
 Without genius or ability one may 
 yet learn any thing with facility : but if
 
 60 
 to those qualities are joined good sense, 
 docility, a flexible voice, and a noble 
 and elegant figure, we may rely with 
 confidence upon them. 
 
 In order to maintain the illusion of 
 'the scene, every personage of the dra- 
 ma ought to take as much care to keep 
 within the limtts of the character he 
 performs as the public are anxious to 
 exceed it in their imaginations. When 
 an actor has considered his powers with 
 respect to the three points I have 
 enumerated ; namely, pronunciation, 
 strength, and memory ; he may then be 
 able to form some judgment as to what 
 he can undertake with hopes of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 \
 
 61 
 
 EXTERIOR. 
 
 The English manners admit on the 
 stage what in this country would be 
 considered as highly disgusting. Ri- 
 chard the Third is represented with all 
 the defects he derived from nature. As 
 it is easier to deform than improve, it 
 therefore requires less efforts to assume 
 a vulgar than a dignified air ; but as he, 
 who in the same character avails him- 
 self of both, has more resources than 
 he who confines himself to one, I am 
 apt to think the dramatic art is less dif- 
 ficult at London than at Paris. The 
 French critics only admit of elegant 
 and noble figures in tragedy; they would 
 laugh to see the personage, who was to 
 excite their terror or pity, appear with
 
 ^2 
 
 an humped back, or distorted limbs. 
 Every one is sensible, that the greatest 
 monarch may be as ill made, as auk- 
 ward, and have as vulgar an air as the 
 lowest peasant in his kingdom ; that 
 bodily infirmities, physical defects, and 
 low habits, seem to equalise him with 
 the rest of mankind; but, neverthe- 
 less, the respect which his rank im- 
 presses, the sentiment of fear or love 
 v/hich he inspires, and the pageantiy 
 with which he is surrounded, ahvays 
 impart to him a commanding aspect. 
 
 Tragedy presents the most faithful 
 picture of the policy, the crimes, the 
 virtues, and the miseries of the masters 
 of the world. All the personages who 
 represent it are noble, ail their actions
 
 63 
 
 important, all their consequences seri- 
 ous ; but, after all, it is but a represen- 
 tation } we are all sensible of it ; and, 
 without the concurrence of every possi- 
 ble illusion, the public would only see 
 and hear the actor, and would lose the 
 pleasure of being deceived. 
 
 Achilles is announced, or any other 
 hero who has just vanquished singly an 
 host of formidable foes ; or a prince pos- 
 sessed of such charms and attractions, 
 that the greatest princess would, with- 
 out regret, sacrifice her throne, and even 
 her life, to him. His representative ap- 
 pears on the stage, and turns out to be 
 a diminutive puny man, of a disgusting 
 figure, without strength, without voice. 
 What then becomes of the illusion r 1
 
 6^ 
 
 do not conceive there can be any : yet 
 I have seen the caricature I have just 
 described assume any part that was of- 
 fered him, and receive the most un- 
 bounded applause*. 
 
 1 you, w^o are destined to this 
 thorny career, avoid such an example. 
 The error of the public is momentary ; 
 in general its judgment is severe, en- 
 lightened, and capable of discerning ta- 
 lents. The censure of the pit can pre- 
 vent any actor's outstepping the modesty 
 of Nature. However some may be 
 mean or impudent enough to cabal for 
 the purpose of obtaining partial ap- 
 plause, they are certain the public will, 
 in the end, form a proper estimate of 
 * Le Sieur U .
 
 65 
 
 them ; and men of taste and discrimi- 
 nation must detect their feults. Actors, 
 when left to rise or fall by their own 
 merits, will more seriously attend to 
 their duties: they will feel the neces- 
 sity of meriting those plaudits which 
 they cannot purchase, and-^^hich form 
 the only consolation 'of their profession. 
 Endeavour to possess what is necessary 
 to please tlie public taste ; never appear 
 upon the theatre without having re- 
 ceived from nature those gifts which 
 such a profession demands, or, at least, 
 without having the means and the in- 
 clination of attaining, by art and study, 
 an equivalent in lieu of what nature 
 has denied you. 
 
 This is my advice to ajl who wish 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 
 to perform, the characters of tragedy 
 with credit to themselves. 
 
 TYRANTS. 
 In casting the character of a tyrant, 
 I would recommend him to be person- 
 ated by a man who is tall, thin, and 
 hollow-eyed, dark thick eye-brows, and 
 a^gloomy countenance, one who never 
 speaks' or makes the slightest motion 
 without an air of mystery, and who, al- 
 together, has the appearance of a man 
 absorbed in thought and devoured by 
 remorse. 
 
 It appears to me, that an actor of this 
 description will have little more to do 
 
 JL 
 
 tlian Co learn his part i three fourths of 
 his studies will have been finished be- 
 forehand.
 
 67 
 
 KINGS. 
 
 1 would recommend, for the""charac- 
 ter of a king, a man of a majestic de- 
 portment and venerable appearance, 
 with a commanding tone of voice, ex- 
 pressive of severity and mildness, and a 
 
 noble and stately gate ; in short, an 
 
 
 
 appearance at once manifesting the dig- 
 nity of a sovereign, the experience of 
 a sage, and the serenity of a philo- 
 sopher. 
 
 PRINCIPAL iMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 Those who perform the principal, male 
 
 charaders should be above the middle 
 
 size, and neither corpulent nor lean : a 
 
 corpulent man appears vulgar on the 
 
 stage, and a lean one insignificant. He 
 F 2
 
 68 
 
 should be well made, and have no 
 apparent defect ; he should combine 
 an appearance of strength with ele- 
 gance. 
 
 If he is handsome, so much the bet- 
 ter, provided his beauty is masculine : 
 delicate features would be a defect. 
 
 These characters demand the greatest 
 expression, and the utmost command of 
 countenance. The actor must be able, 
 by his features, to express every mo- 
 tion of the soul. The countenance 
 which remains immoveable proves that 
 the actor has no feeling : if his fea- 
 tures are too much in motion, it shows 
 ignorance : Nature must be the guide 
 in this respect. The countenance is only
 
 69 
 expressive on the stage, when the fea- 
 tures are large, the eyes full, the eye- 
 brows marked, the mouth rather pro- 
 jecting, and the hair brown. Small 
 features lose all their effect at a very 
 little distance ; a small eye may be 
 arch and lively, but never can be com- 
 manding j a mouth that falls inwards 
 can never express grief ; and fair hair 
 is unbecoming on the stage. 
 
 ON YOUNG MEN 
 
 PERFORMING PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Young men may be allowed to at- 
 tempt principal characters, merely to 
 try their strength, without having pre- 
 pared themselves by that previous 
 study I have recommended ; yet there 
 are some characters, such as the Cid,
 
 70 
 Don Pedro in Ines, and Seyde in Ma- 
 homet, which cannot be performed 
 but by persons of great talents. The 
 pubUc, however, excuses faults in young 
 men who are commencing the pro- 
 fession of actors. It is sensible the 
 difficulties they have to encounter are 
 only to be conquered by long and la- 
 borious study. By this indulgence it 
 encourages them; but, unfortunately, 
 if they meet with a little success, they 
 flatter themselves they are equal to 
 every character, and thus their vanity 
 ruins them. The fable of the frog 
 is the history of many young actors 
 whom I have known. I would advise 
 that no one should offer himself a can- 
 didate for public favour, till he has ac- 
 quired the means necessary to enable
 
 71 
 him to attempt any character what- 
 ever within the scope of his genius. 
 
 CONFIDANTS. 
 
 The managers of theatres, and even 
 the actors themselves, imagine, that 
 any person is competent to perform the 
 characters of confidants. I am far from 
 being of that opinion : these charac- 
 ters require an attentive and accurate 
 judgment. They are often the repre- 
 sentatives of governors, princes, mi- 
 nisters, generals, embassadors, captains, 
 or favourites ; they are the depositories 
 of all secrets of state ; they are en- 
 trusted with the most important com- 
 mands. Is it possible that young ac- 
 tors, or those without dignity, conse- 
 quence, or, as is often the case, pro- 
 F 4
 
 72 
 
 foundly ignorant, can support such cha- 
 racters ? 
 
 These characters, often too much 
 neglected by authors, demand actors 
 whose talents are cultivated, and whose 
 judgments are matured, otherwise 
 they excite the laughter of the au- 
 dience by their manner of reciting the 
 verses of those poets, whose style is 
 peculiar or obsolete. To give verse 
 its due effect, requires a voice suscep- 
 tible of every intonation, and a coun- 
 tenance of the most expressive nature : 
 there should, therefore, be a scrupulous 
 attention paid to those who are destined 
 to perform the particular characters I am 
 speaking of. Ignorance and folly should 
 be equally banished from the theatre.
 
 73 
 
 I remember, at one time, when I 
 was extremely ill, and was engaged to 
 perform Ariane, I was apprehensive 
 the fatigue of the character would be 
 too much for me to support, I there- 
 fore bad a chair placed upon the stage, 
 in case I should find it necessary. In 
 effect, my strength failed me in the 
 middle of the fifth act, while I was 
 expressing my despair at the flight of 
 Phedre and Theseus. I fell backwards 
 in the chair, almost in a state of insen- 
 sibility. The judgment and sagacity 
 of mademoiselle Brilland, who per- 
 formed my confidante, suggested to her 
 mind how to fill up the scene by a 
 stage artifice of the most interesting 
 nature. She fell at my feet, took hold
 
 74 
 
 of one of my hands, which she bathed 
 with tears ; her words, scarce articu- 
 late, were interrupted by sighs, and 
 she thus gave me time to recover my- 
 self. Her looks, her motions, pene- 
 trated my very soul ; I fell in her arms ; 
 and the public, deeply affected, re- 
 warded her presence of mind by the 
 loudest applause. 
 
 A common rate actress would have 
 thrown the wiiole stage into confusion, 
 and the piece would not have 6een 
 finished. 
 
 DIVISION OF WOMEN'S CHARACTERS. 
 
 All female characters in tragedy re- 
 quire, without exception, actresses of
 
 75 
 
 a noble and dignified deportment. They 
 consist of queens, princesses, or ladies 
 of the highest rank. I shall divide 
 them into four classes. 
 
 Such as represent mothers, -such as 
 represent vehement and impassioned 
 characters, such as represent tender 
 characters, and such as represent con- 
 fidantes. 
 
 It is rare that the same actress possesses 
 powder and talent sufficient to personate 
 all these different characters : besides, 
 we sometimes find three of them united 
 in the same piece. It is therefore in- 
 dispensable that there should be three 
 actresses equally eminent in each of 
 them.
 
 76 
 
 MOTHERS 
 I would recommend that those who 
 perform the characters of mothers, who 
 have children grown up, such as Cleo- 
 patre, Agrippine, or Semiramis, should 
 not be too young. 
 
 It appears impossible that women 
 under twenty years of age should be 
 actuated by any other sentiments than 
 those of the duties of their sex, the 
 impressions of nature, and the emotions 
 of love. 
 
 The study of the human heart, and 
 the different passions connected with it, 
 demand a mature reason, a judgment 
 formed upon experience, reflection, and 
 example.
 
 77 
 These can only be acquired by time ; 
 but the public require no more from 
 young beginners, than that they should 
 justify hopes of their future celebrity. 
 Persons who have arrived at years of 
 experience would scarce be induced to 
 offer themselves candidates for public 
 favour on the stage. Prejudice and des- 
 potism render the situation of an actor 
 almost insupportable. It is youth and 
 inexperience alone that justifies such a 
 choice. But still I would have no ac- 
 tress personate the character of a mother 
 before five and twenty. It would be 
 better to defer it till their beauty was 
 rather on the decline. It is necessary 
 also they should be above the middle 
 size. Women of low stature have sel- 
 dom a dignified appcsrance. Those
 
 78 
 who are, too tall are generally deficient 
 in grace; besides, the customs of the 
 theatre do not allow of too great a con- 
 trast in the figures of male and female 
 characters, 
 
 VEHEMENT AND IMPASSIONED CHARACTERS. 
 
 Those which I distinguish under this 
 title are the characters of Emilie, Elec- 
 tre, and Hermione. To give them their 
 due effect requires a grandeur and 
 haughtiness of deportment, an expres- 
 sive countenance, and a commanding 
 voice. Every motion should announce 
 courage and boldness ; but care must 
 be taken not to confound an air of bold- 
 ness with that of assurance and auda- 
 city. The former arises from an elevation 
 of the soul J the latter is generally the
 
 eftect of Its degradation. The noble- 
 ness of mind, the purity of manners, 
 and the modesty of the sex, should never 
 be lost sight of. They should be al- 
 ways discernible, however disguised by 
 love, despair, or vengeance. 
 
 It is said that Nature has but one 
 voice. I admit it, provided due atten- 
 tion is paid to the rank, the manners, 
 and the situation of the character by 
 which our feelings are attempted to be 
 excited. 
 
 Every situation in life has Its different 
 modifications ; the tradesman possesses 
 not the consequence of the merchant 
 who employs him ; the merchant has 
 not the same degree of confidence when
 
 80 
 addressing a nobleman; the nobleman 
 approaches those who command him 
 with an air of subordination ; and all, 
 without exception, bow respectfully 
 before their general superior. 
 
 The theatre is only a representation 
 of what passes in real life. The pu- 
 rity of language employed in tragedy, 
 the importance of the events, the dig- 
 nity of the personages, sufficiently prove 
 that nothing is left to the arbitrary 
 judgment of the actor ; that an air cf 
 vulgarity or triteness of expression can 
 never be allowed; that popular and li- 
 centious manners are never to be re- 
 sorted to as models ; and that it is im- 
 possible to unite, on the same canvas, a 
 Raphael and a Calot.
 
 81 
 TENDER CHARACTERS. 
 Tender characters require a coun- 
 tenance characteristic of mildness, a 
 soft and expressive tone of voice, a* 
 great degree of sensibility, a timid and 
 delicate demeanour, a modesty of man- 
 ners, a dignified deportment, and an 
 elegant figure; but not tall, at least not 
 above the middle size. Women vv^hose 
 figures are small and delicate appear 
 younger on the stage than others : and 
 for these characters, those w^ho possess 
 the appearance of youth are more likely 
 to move and excite our interest. 
 
 The principal part of these charac- 
 ters represent young girls without ex- 
 perience, timid and fearful of avowing 
 that love they feel themselves, or have 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 
 inspired in others. I advise the actress 
 who performs auch characters never to 
 lose sight of that air of purity and can- 
 dour v^^hich her age and situation re- 
 quire. In describing the tender im- 
 pressions of love, she must carefully 
 avoid whatever may give rise to ideas 
 of voluptuousness. The voice, the 
 manners, or the looks of a coquette, or 
 woman of intrigue, can never be re- 
 conciled with innocence. Tragedy 
 ought to be tlie school of pure man- 
 ners, as it is of great actions. 
 
 CONFIDANTES. 
 
 I recommend for the character of a 
 confidante, a woman of an age calcu- 
 lated to inspire confidence, of a coun- 
 tenance expressive of wisdom and ex- 
 perience, a person attentive to the scene
 
 83 
 
 that IS going forward, and apparently 
 interested in it. She should have no 
 pretensions to obtrude herself in a con- 
 spicuous point of view, except on such 
 an occasion as I have just before cited. 
 
 DRESS. 
 
 It is my advice to actresses in ge- 
 neral, to pay the most scrupulous at- 
 tention to dress. Dress adds consi- 
 derably to the illusion of the spec- 
 tators ; and, when it is appropriate, it 
 gives a degree of confidence to the 
 actor. ^That it should be exactly so 
 is scarce practicable : -*- to adopt the 
 dress of past ages, in every respect, 
 would be indecent and ridiculous. The 
 dresses of antiquity display too much 
 of the figure : they are properly appli- 
 G 2
 
 84 
 
 cable only to statues and paintings 5; 
 but in supplying this defect, we ought 
 to preserve^ in some measure, the style 
 of them, and show our desire to imi- 
 tate, as far as possible, the luxury or 
 simplicit}' of the times we are describ- 
 ing. Fillets, fiowers, pearls, veils, and 
 stones of diiFerent colours^ were the 
 only ornaments with which women 
 were acquainted before the establish- 
 ment of the commerce of the Indies,, 
 and the conquest of the New World. 
 
 I particularly advise tragic actresses 
 to avoid the fashions of the day. The 
 head-dress worn by the French at the 
 moment I am writing, the extravagant 
 mode of wearing the hair, imparts an 
 appearance of disproportion to the h'^
 
 85 
 
 gure, spoils the countenance, conceals 
 the motions of the neck, and presents 
 an air of stiffhess and formality incon- 
 sistent with that ease and freedom re- 
 quired upon the 5tage. The best and only 
 mode proper to be followed, is to adopt, 
 ^s near as you, can, that of the .costume of 
 the character you are performing. 
 
 An actress, in arranging her di-ess, 
 should particularly attend to the situa- 
 tion of the person she represents. 
 Age, austerity, and grief, ill accord 
 with the decorations of youth, gaiety, 
 and happiness. Hermione adorned with 
 flowerets would appear ridiculous : the 
 violence of her character, and the sor- 
 row that consumes her, reject the idea 
 pf her devoting much time to the toir< 
 G 3'
 
 86 
 
 lette. She may have a magnificent 
 habit ; but it ought to have an appear- 
 ance of negligence, and show that her 
 mind is not occupied about dress. The 
 first appearance of an actresa ought to 
 prepare the public for the character she 
 is about to pourtray. 
 
 ON THE DANGER OF TRADITIONS. 
 Ignorance and fancy produce so many 
 contradictions on the stage, that it is 
 impossible I should be able to refer 
 to all of them : but there is one which 
 I cannot pass over in silence, it is that 
 of seeing Cornelie appear clad in black. 
 
 The sailing of the ship, in which she 
 escaped but a few moments before the 
 assassination of her spouse, and her ar-*
 
 87 
 Tival at Alexandria, could not possibly 
 have allowed her sufficient time to pro- 
 vide herself with widaw's weeds; and, 
 most assuredly, the Roman ladies had 
 not the precaution to carry them among 
 the rest of their wardrobe. The ce- 
 lebrated Lecouvreur, when he painted 
 Cornelie in such a dress, proved that 
 he took the idea from the theatre. 
 Such an authority as he is ouglit to be 
 certainly paid some deference to ; but, 
 notwithstanding the great reputation he 
 has acquired, I dare flatter myself that, 
 when he committed this striking error, 
 he must have been actuated by some rea^ 
 son which I am ignorant of, and that he 
 was sensible of the impropriety of it. 
 I have seen Electre played in a rose- co- 
 loured dress, elegantly set off with black 
 
 4
 
 83 
 
 and white. I have, therefore, concluded, 
 that tradition is not a proper criterion to 
 follow; and that, before we adopt it, we 
 ought strictly to examine into its pro- 
 priety. 
 
 UPON THE USE OF WHITE PAINT. 
 The use of white paint is now almost 
 general upon the stage. This borrowed 
 charm, of which no one is the dupe, 
 and which all agree in condemning, 
 spoils and discolours the complexion, 
 weakens and dims the eye-sight, absorbs 
 the whole countenance, conceals the 
 expressive motion of the muscles, and 
 produces a kind of contradiction be- 
 tween what we hear and what we see. 
 
 I had rather we should have recourse 
 to the custom of using masks, like those
 
 89 
 
 of the ancients. There would be at 
 least this advantage, that the time thrown 
 away in painting the face might be em- 
 ployed in improving the delivery. 
 
 Is it possible that an actress, whose 
 countenance is enamelled with paint, 
 and, consequently, incapable of any mo- 
 tion, can give expression to the passions 
 of rage, terror, despair, love, or anger ? 
 
 Every motion of the soul is expressed 
 through the medium of the countenance: 
 the extension. of the muscles, the swel- 
 ling of the veins, the blush upon the 
 face, all evince those inward emotions, 
 without which great talents cannot dis- 
 play themselves. There is no character 
 in which the expression of the counte-
 
 90 
 
 nance is not of the utmost importance. 
 To feel a character, and to show by the 
 motion of the countenance that the soul 
 is agitated by what it feels, is a talent 
 of equal consequence in an actress with 
 any she can possess. 
 
 It is by the countenance alone you can 
 distinguish between irony and jest. 
 
 A voice, more or less raised or de- 
 pressed, or more or less tremulous, is 
 insufficient to express such or such a 
 sentiment of terror, or such or such a 
 sentiment of fear. The countenance 
 alone is enabled to mark its degrees. 
 
 As it is my own plan of study which 
 I am endeavouring to inculcate, I think
 
 9t 
 it necessary in this place to state what 
 happened to myself in the character of 
 Monimie. 
 
 In studying this character, I found, in 
 the fourth act, 
 
 Les dieux qui m' inspiraient, et qui j'ai mal suivis, 
 M'ont fait taire trots fois par de fecrets avis. 
 
 That is. 
 
 The gods ivho inspired me, hut ivhose admonitions I 
 neglected.) thrice secretly warned me to he silent. 
 
 In the preceding act, however, where 
 Mithridate makes her acknowledge her 
 secret, I could only discover two m- 
 stances in which she hesitated to be- 
 tray it. 
 
 I consulted all the editions of Racine 
 they all had it trois foh the actresses,
 
 who performed the character, all said 
 trohfois ; from every inquiry I could 
 make, I assured myself that mademoir 
 selle Lecouvreur said trols. Although 
 deux would not have been so harmoni- 
 ous, yet the measure of the verse would 
 still have been perfect. I, however, 
 presumed that Racine had his reasons for 
 preferring the one to the other. I could 
 discover po tradition to direct me ; it 
 did not become me to alter the text of 
 so great a man; and I could not submit 
 to say what appeared to me to have been 
 an error. I therefore endeavoured, by 
 the expression of my countenance, to 
 supply the want of the third hesitation j 
 and when Mithridate says. 
 
 Servez avec son frere, 
 
 Et vendez aux Romains le sang de votre pere,
 
 93 
 
 1 advanced, and, by the motion of my 
 features, appeared as if I was just going 
 
 to tell what I knew At that instant 
 
 I seemed to be overcome by an impres- 
 sion of terror, which prevented my giv- 
 ing utterance to my thoughts. 
 
 The public, who had never seen any 
 one attempt this before, gave me full 
 credit for it; and, by their applause, 
 sanctioned its propriety. 
 
 But if my countenance had been en- 
 amelled with white paint, I could not 
 have sufficiently commanded my fea- 
 tures, I should have lost the pleasure 
 of being applauded, and the glory of 
 having discovered the meaning of Ra- 
 cine.
 
 94 
 
 1 am not against giving every assistance 
 to Nature: I have often myself bor- 
 rowed assistance. Generally labouring 
 under an ill state of health, yet, unre- 
 mitting in my labours, the paleness of 
 death was often upon my countenance ^ 
 I had remarked in others, that nothing 
 was so injurious to the expression of 
 the features as having pale lips or pale 
 ears. ' A little art gave them the ap- 
 pearance of florid health : I darkened 
 the colour of my eyebrows, as the cha- 
 racter I was to perform required ; I 
 did the same thing to my hair, with 
 different coloured powders ; but far 
 from concealing, in thedeast degree, 
 those features which give animation 
 and expression to the whole counte- 
 nance. I have ever made the ana-
 
 r 
 
 tomy of the head my particular study, 
 in order that I might thereby be ena^ 
 bled to dispose it in positions most 
 calculated to display it to advantage*. 
 
 A white skin is doubtless agreeable : 
 it communicates a charm to the whole 
 figure ; it imparts an air of greater 
 sprightliness and animation the blue 
 veins it discovers are always considered 
 as beauties. 
 
 But that whiteness which is acquired 
 by paint covers the countenance with 
 a thick enamel, which conceals and de- 
 stroys every feature. The pores are 
 
 * Those who have an inclination for such a stu- 
 dy would do well to read the description of the hu- 
 man figure, in BufFon's Natural History, vol, iv, 
 p. 278. oft. edition.
 
 filled with the pernicious ingredient 
 of which the paint is composed ', and 
 the fear the person who wears it is 
 constantly under, of deranging it by 
 too much action, compels her to keep 
 her face always in one posture : be- 
 sides, I know no kind of coquetry- 
 more troublesome, humiliating, or use* 
 less. Whoever has recourse to it is 
 always afraid of being surprised before 
 her face is made up : she caonot refer 
 to herself any compliment that may be 
 paid her : and I again repeat, that it is 
 a custom of which no one is the dupd.
 
 97 
 
 TALENTS' 
 
 Kecessary to be acquired for the stage. 
 
 DANCING AND DRAWING. 
 
 I N order to be able to tread the stage 
 with ease and grace, to give facility to 
 the motions of the body, dignity to the 
 whole appearance, and to prevent the 
 acquirement of habits repugnant to na- 
 ture, it is indispensably necessary that 
 those who dedicate themselves to a the- 
 atrical profession should pay the utmost 
 attention to the art of dancinp- : they 
 must carefully avoid contracting the 
 air and manners of a dancing-master ; 
 but, in every other respect, a know- 
 ledge of the art is requisite. 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 5* 
 
 It were to be wished that every actor 
 should be more or less initiated in the 
 art of drawing: they would thereby 
 become more susceptible of the good 
 effect of preserving proper distances ;. 
 they would more easily discover the 
 point of perspective, which is so im- 
 portant on the stage, both with respect 
 to their figure and their dress. In pan- 
 tomimic representations,, or pieces cal* 
 Gulated for show, the performers who 
 are to set off the pjincipal personages 
 are placed more advantageously, and 
 are better adapted to fill up the picture- 
 with its proper shade or effect. -Such, 
 actors as are unacquainted with this 
 art, I advise to study the works of the 
 most eminent painters and sculptors.
 
 G9 
 
 MUSIC. 
 Without pretending to acquire a 
 fundamental knowledge of the science 
 of music, it is, nevertheless, necessary 
 for an actor to study its elements, in 
 order to be enabled to form a proper 
 judgment as to the extent of his voice, 
 to render every intonation easy and fa- 
 miliar, to avoid discordance, to regu- 
 late his sounds, to preserve and vary 
 them at pleasure, and to impart to every 
 accent, w^hether vehement or plaintive, 
 that degree of modulation which is ne- 
 cessary. 
 
 Without this study, it is almost im- 
 possible to play Corneille to advantage. 
 He is either so sublime, or so fami- 
 liar, that, unless the actor is perfectly 
 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 sure of his intonations, he runs the risk 
 of appearing bombastical or trivial. 
 
 LANGUAGE, GEOGRAPHY, and BELLES 
 LETTRES. 
 
 The study of language is of more 
 importance to an actor than any other. 
 The theatre ought to be the school for 
 foreigners, and of that part of the pub- 
 lic who have neither time, nor the 
 means of procuring proper masters, to 
 learn the language of the country iu 
 its most perfect purity. 
 
 It is almost incredible, that persons 
 who are selected to represent the chef 
 d'ceuvres of the most eminent writers 
 of the nation should be unacquainted 
 with thediiference between a long and
 
 101 
 
 a short syllable, or the distinction be- 
 tween the singular number and the 
 plural ; that they should confound the 
 genders of nouns ; that they should 
 scarce know the masculine from the 
 feminine ; and that provincial accents 
 should destroy the grandeur and purity 
 of our language. Such, however, is 
 the case with reference to the greater 
 part of our actors. He who is unac- 
 quainted with the extent and value of 
 words can never comprehend the mean- 
 ing of things : if he should stumble 
 upon it, it is only by chance; and I am 
 at a loss to conceive how the public 
 can tolerate those who appear before 
 them with such defects, or who betray 
 such unpardonable ignorance. 
 H 3
 
 102 
 
 It is impossible to read history, with 
 any advantage or improvement, with- 
 out a knowledge of geography. The 
 right of judging of the merits of such 
 authors as write for the theatre im- 
 poses upon an actor the necessity of 
 acquiring every species of knowledge 
 which may enable him to judge with 
 accuracy, and to determine, by a single 
 perusal, the merits of a work which 
 the author has been a year composing. 
 An intimate acquaintance with stage- 
 effect and the rules of the theatre, an 
 accurate ear, a good taste, a sound, 
 discriminating, and attentive judgment, 
 are not all that is required : it is ne- 
 cessary to be acquainted with mytho- 
 logy, history, geography, and language ; 
 he must be acquainted with every de-
 
 -scTiption of poetry, and the writings 
 <of every dramatic author, ancient and 
 modern- He will then be enabled to 
 judge whether an author has made 
 the most of his subject; he will per- 
 ceive how much has been drawn 
 from the times, places, and charac- 
 ters of which he has written ; in 
 short, whether the author has shown 
 a creative fancy, is a servile imitator, 
 or a plagiarist. The approbation of 
 the critic is no ways flattering, nor 
 Jiis censure any disgrace, unless he is 
 known to possess those qualities ne- 
 cessary to enable him to form his judg- 
 ment with accuracy. It is not enough 
 to approve or reject a work ; the man 
 who does either, ought to show him- 
 self capable of judging. About two 
 H -1
 
 104 
 
 years before my retirement from the 
 theatre, there was a league among cer- 
 tain authors to pay no attention what- 
 ever to the judgment of actors. This 
 attempt to invaUdate the opinions of a 
 class of men, without whom the au- 
 thors could be of no use, was as un- 
 just as the pretence for it was false and 
 groundless. 
 
 Unless a superior power destroys the 
 right of the actors, it is impossible that 
 any of them should ever consent to such 
 an injustice and degradation. Corneille, 
 Voltaire, and Racine, demanded no other 
 tribunal : their works, however, un- 
 like those of the present day, did not 
 require the illusions of the theatre, or 
 the talents of the actors. It has been
 
 lOJ 
 
 said by authors, that the actors robbed 
 them of the reward due to their exer- 
 tions : the trifling recompence they re- 
 ceived was, they said, a proof of it. I 
 can state, in reply to this observation, 
 without the least fear of contradiction, 
 that, with respect to the two and twenty 
 years I have been upon the theatre, it is 
 unfounded in truth. 
 
 The accounts prove, by the receipts and 
 payments, that not only have the actors 
 refrained from appropriating to them- 
 selves vv^hat was due to authors; but that, 
 on the contrary, where they have them- 
 selves been unsuccessful, they have di- 
 minished their own salaries to augment 
 the author's gains, and have not, unfre- 
 qucntly; bestowed their gratuitous assist-
 
 ancc in favour of several of them. The 
 same accounts prove that Cinne, Iphige- 
 nie, and Mahomet, never produced their 
 authors, so much as Venice Preserved, 
 Zelmire, the Earl of Warw^ick,. the 
 Widow^ of Malabar, or even Varro. 
 It is unfortunately the case, in every 
 state, that, where ignorance is most to 
 be found, there also is the greatest por- 
 tion of self-conceit. 
 
 I shall not intersperse, with the crude 
 remarks I have attempted upon the dra- 
 matic art, any serious discussion relative 
 to the Gallic church, or the arbitrary 
 power under which more than ten thou- 
 sand French actors and actresses at pre- 
 sent labour. I undertook the profession 
 at an age when one scarce is acquainted
 
 107 
 with oneself. I have fulfilled the task 
 allotted to me as well as I was able, 
 without ever blushing at a profession 
 which certainly has nothing in it de- 
 grading. The moment of my liberty 
 appeared the sweetest I ever enjoyed in 
 the course of my life. Restored to my 
 rights as a citizen, I am content to de- 
 plore the lot of those who are still slaves. 
 I keep myself quiet; and, while I turn 
 the pages of Epictetus, console myself 
 for all the misfortunes of nature and 
 fate. But I cannot conceive how au- 
 thors, who are obliged to court the fa- 
 vours of actors, who live among them, 
 share their labours and their salaries, 
 should join the popular cry, in order 
 to insult those by whom they cxi^t.
 
 108 
 whom they know, and whom they 
 ought to esteem. 
 
 Such a mode of conduct is the more 
 extraordinary and reprehensible, as we 
 daily perceive the light of reason sur- 
 mounting prejudice. The profession of 
 an actor is not attended with so many 
 obstacles as it formerly was. 
 
 Moliere, to whom all Europe raised 
 altars, w^as not deemed worthy to be- 
 long to the academy ; yet, in our time, 
 we read in its annals the simple name 
 of Dubelley. The equality in point of 
 situation, and the incalculable difference 
 with respect to the merits of these two 
 nien, are the strongest proofs that can
 
 be adduced of the revolution which has* 
 taken place in the public mind. 
 
 I admit that those authors who write 
 for the theatre have often good reason 
 to be dissatisfied with their judges. It is 
 no less unjust to refuse actors of every 
 description the right of judging, than 
 it is to admit of their judgment indis- 
 criminately. There are many whose 
 abilities reach no higher than just to say, 
 " I have feen the fun,'' without having 
 the least idea of the system by which 
 that glorious luminary is guided. 
 
 Without regard to ancient custom, 
 the privilege of sex or situation, or the 
 protection of power, which allow the 
 most ignorant to have a voice as pre.-
 
 110 
 
 ponderating a^ the most enlightened, I 
 would advise that a council of ten or 
 twelve actors should be appointed, 
 whose taste, judgment, and experience, 
 should be universally known and ad- 
 mitted, to whom I would have the 
 power devolve of determining the me- 
 rits or demerits of every theatrical work. 
 The production of every author should 
 be read in their presence; and they 
 should have the power of giving their 
 advice, making such corrections as they 
 might think proper, or give their rea- 
 sons for rejecting it altogether. 
 
 Anonymous criticisms, with regard to 
 theatrical works, ought to be banished 
 from the public eye. He who has any 
 iir^ just, and candid remarks to make>
 
 Ill 
 
 ought to make them openly. What- 
 ever may be an author's vanity, he ought 
 not to expect that the public should sa- 
 crifice its judgment and opinion to please 
 or ^tter it. It is not the author who 
 is to judge vi^hether his work deserves 
 to interest the public, and increase the 
 funds of the theatre ; yet no author 
 has any reason to complain of severity. 
 The best part of the pieces which have 
 been, brought out within these fifteen: 
 years past sufficiently prove the scarcit}^ 
 of good authors, and the extreme indul- 
 gence of the public. 
 
 The simple and unqualified rejection 
 or acceptation of an author's production 
 leave no room for the exercise of his 
 vanity : the former disgusts his feelings,.
 
 112! 
 
 and he is seldom sensible of the latter. 
 When the public at large are to pro- 
 nounce, the possibility of discussion is 
 precluded ; but, in the limited council 
 I have recommended, discussion will be 
 an indispensable duty. By stating their 
 reasons, they will impart hope and con- 
 solation to the author whose work they 
 shall reject, and double the pleasure of 
 him whose work they shall approve. 
 
 Such a theatrical council cannot be 
 better described than by these verses of 
 madame Pernelle : 
 
 On n'y rcspecte rien ; chacun y parle haut, 
 Et e'et justement la oour du roi Petaut.
 
 lis 
 
 GENERAL REFLECTIONS. 
 
 W iTH a very few exceptions, I have 
 performed every tragedy which has been 
 produced during the period I have been 
 upon the stage. 
 
 As far as my abilities would allow, I 
 have endeavoured to make myself per- 
 fectly acquainted with every character. 
 I flatter myself I have acquired a per- 
 fect knowledge of the nature and spirit 
 of them, and have enabled myself to 
 pourtray them with their due effect. I 
 may certainly be allowed to believe, after 
 the encouragement I have experienced 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 from the public, that it will not dissap- 
 prove of any actress who adopts the 
 same line of study I have done, or pur- 
 sues the instructions I lay down for her 
 improvement. I cannot, however, pre- 
 scribe rules for every particular character. 
 The weakness which age has brought 
 upon mc, and the long continuation of 
 my infirmities, do not allow me the 
 means or leisure to attempt so arduous 
 an undertaking. Besides, we often feel 
 what we cannot express. An elevated 
 and noble soul is inspired by sentiments 
 of grandeur, refinement, delicacy, and 
 sensibility, which are not to be de- 
 scribed by language ; they can only be 
 delineated by a look, a gesture, the mo- 
 dulation of the countenance : these in- 
 expressible movements of the soul may
 
 115 
 
 be painted to the imagination, but can- 
 OOt be expressed by words. I am, 
 therefore, fearful of entering into mi- 
 nute details, which would be fatiguing 
 to the reader, useless to those who pos- 
 sess genius, and dangerous to those with- 
 out it. General observations, with a few 
 particular remarks upon those charactecs 
 which require peculiar study, shall be 
 the only objects o my reflections. 
 
 I have already mentioned the four 
 gifts of nature which are indispensable 
 in an actor or actress enunciatioiv 
 strength, memory, and exterior or fi-- 
 gure. From what I have said, the ne- 
 cessity of a regular system of study, aa 
 accurate judgment, and, if possible, a 
 good natural genius, must be evident. 
 I 2
 
 116 
 
 The two former are adequate to the 
 acquirement of the beaten track of 
 characters ; thelatter is requisite to 
 enable the actor to undertake new 
 ones. 
 
 ' I have spoken of the talents of 
 ^dancing and music j have stated that it 
 is necessary to add to them a knowledge 
 of history, mythology, belles lettres, 
 language, and geography : but without 
 pretending that those who have not 
 ^one through a regular course of study 
 'should be acquainted with all I have 
 enumerated, alas ! I but too well am 
 convinced of the impossibility of it, 
 I wi41 only remark what it is absolutely 
 necessary to become, and what particu- 
 lar studies cannot be dispensed with.
 
 H7 
 
 j^j^JA^ithout a guide, or the advice of any. 
 one to point out to me how to direct 
 my studies to advantage, I have often 
 lavished my time and constitution - in 
 useless and unprofitable pursuits. It 
 should, however, never be forgotten, 
 that whoever wishes to attain celebrity 
 in the dramatic art has not a single day to 
 lose. I have numbered all mine by my 
 labours, from twelve years of age to forty- 
 two j and I am sensible, that even when 
 I quitted the theatre, I had a multitude 
 .of faults to correct. What study does 
 it not require, in order to be able to 
 distinguish the difference between 
 irony and disdain, between disdain and 
 contempt, between warmth and pas- 
 sion, between impatience and rage, be- 
 tween, timidity and fear, and between 
 I 3
 
 IIS 
 
 flif ^iif terror? What Impei-eeptfble 
 diades 6ff expression are to be resorted 
 t6, to distin^ish between love, nature, 
 dnd humanity? What efforts are re- 
 (Juisite to paint the various gradations 
 of rage, of terror, and of pity ? What 
 justness of feeling and expression of 
 voice arc necessary to reason in a man- 
 gier at once simple and natural, without 
 being cold and familiar ? This last is 
 the most difficult of all : to be natu- 
 ral, jn^, and noble, is the greatest pos^ 
 gible proof of talent. My studies were 
 calculated to enable me to arrive at 
 the greatest possible perfection of the 
 dramatic art 5 but the obstacles I have 
 met with in my Way, and the injustice 
 which I experienced, forced me to 
 abandon my career. I have only been
 
 119 
 able to gather a few flowers ', but thfe 
 palm remains for whoever is bold 
 enough to seize it. The only consola^- 
 tion that remains to me is, that I am 
 enabled to point out the path by which 
 it may be acquired. 
 
 The tragic actor should habituate 
 himself off the stage to the tone and 
 manner required at the theatre. No- 
 thing is of so much importance as 
 habit. 
 
 If I were to assume the manners of 
 a Bourgeoise, during twenty hours of 
 the day, I should still appear the same 
 even when performing Agrippine, not- 
 withstanding all my efforts to the con- 
 trary. The tones and gestures of low 
 i4
 
 120 
 life would continually escape me. My 
 -soul, bowed down by habits of submis- 
 sion and subordination, would be un- 
 equal to the expression of those senti- 
 .ments of grandeur which distinguish 
 the characters I represent. Without 
 losing sight of the station 1 fill in pri- 
 vate life, I have ever made it my duty 
 Xo maintain a degree of dignity and 
 consequence consistent with the cha- 
 racters I filled in public. 1 am aware 
 that this conduct on my part has ex- 
 posed me to ridicule among my col- 
 leagues of the theatre, and among those 
 who are too apt to form opinions with- 
 out consideration. They allege that I 
 have constantly the air of the Queen of 
 Carthage. They think they distress 
 me by such an observation : on the con-
 
 121 
 
 trary, they do me' the highest honour; 
 they prove that I have succeeded in my 
 endeavours. I have acquired thereby a 
 greater degree of confidence ; and am 
 sensible that the labour which I have 
 imposed upon myself, in public and in 
 private, has enabled me to dispense 
 with that continual agitation of mind 
 by which I was, formerly, so extremely 
 harrassed on the stage. 
 
 When any character is made the sub- 
 ject of criticism, and the person who cri- 
 ticises it, states the reasons upon which 
 his judgment is founded, he is entitled 
 to our acknowledgments and attention. 
 Happy the actress who has merit suffi- 
 cient to deserve such notice, and who 
 possesses not the foolish pride and va-
 
 nity to neglect it ! But it may be said, 
 an actor is no-ways amenable to the 
 public, except during the course of the 
 representation; and, when it is over, 
 that he then becomes himself part of 
 the public. 
 
 Shall those who pursue a profession 
 which requires education, a knowledge 
 of the world, profound acquirements, 
 elevation of soul, genius, and every 
 gift of nature, be the objects of conti- 
 nual humiliation ? Shall they in no re- 
 spect be on an equality with the rest of 
 the public? Shall they be compelled 
 to make an humble sacrifice of supe- 
 riority to every one ? The demand is 
 unreasonable.
 
 123 
 
 The disgrace which is attefnpted to 
 
 be attached to the profession of the 
 
 st^gc i$ a reflection upon the whole 
 nation that suffers it. 
 
 What ! shall the monarch who com- 
 mands me to appear before him, the 
 public who come to hear and applaud 
 me, the author who submits his pro- 
 duction to me, all have their rights and 
 privileges, and yet I possess none? -I 
 am obedient to the authority which is 
 placed above me ; I add new beauties 
 to the characters entrusted to me ; I en- 
 able the public to pass their hours 
 agreeably; and I anl rewarded by its 
 contempt. It is difficult to find a name 
 fr such inconsistency.
 
 124 
 
 Are theatrical representations dan- 
 gerous in their tendency ? If they are, 
 suppress them suffer them not to be 
 so generally resorted to. If they are 
 advantageous, let those who are em- 
 ployed in them enjoy that esteem which 
 their talents and their conduct merit. 
 
 Wherein does the dishonour of such 
 a profession consist ? The declaration 
 of Lewis XIII. proves that a gentle- 
 man may assume it without degrada- 
 tion. The pieces we represent are sub- 
 ject to previous examination -, we re- 
 ceive them from the hands of the per- 
 son appointed to inspect them, and he 
 is responsible for them. The statutes 
 relating to the profession of the stage,
 
 125 
 
 whicK have been promulgated by bur 
 Icings, and confirmed by parliament, 
 may be held out as a terror to us. They 
 annul the parental authority, they elude 
 the rights of matrimony, and declare 
 children out of their minority at an 
 age when restraint is most necessary. 
 Revoke them! they are no less repug- 
 nant to nature than to custom and rea- 
 son ; and he who would resort to them 
 would be unworthy of consideration or 
 pity. I have never heard of, or knew, 
 any one, who appealed to such disgrace- 
 ful statutes. 
 
 It is pretended that the manners are 
 more dissolute on the stage than else- 
 where It may be true that the stage 
 
 allows of too great a freedom of man-
 
 19,6 
 
 ners ; but it is true also, that slander 
 has exaggerated the evil.-^ Whatever 
 -may be the manners of the stage, let 
 those who complain of them look to 
 themselves, examine around them, and 
 observe what is passing among their 
 neighbours, and in their own houses ; 
 and, by observing the unrestrained dis- 
 orders in their own families, learn to 
 speak with less severity of others. First 
 destroy the barriers which deny actors 
 to approach the altars compel them 
 not to a life of celibacy suffer them 
 to form alliances, without the risk 
 of the object of their choice being dis- 
 inherited ; and then, if they give room 
 for scandal, punish them, despise them: 
 I give my consent to it.
 
 127 
 
 It is said that the money paid at the 
 door for admittance is dishonourable 
 to those who receive it. People say, 
 " Ibefe aBors are paid for what they 
 ** do / pay them 1 am entitled to be 
 ** entertained for my money " Such are- 
 the phrases which have often excited 
 my pity at the insolent brutes who ut- 
 tered 'them. But is there a person so 
 ignorant as not to know that no one 
 wiU do any thing without being paid ? 
 Is there a profession or employment 
 without a salary, fees, or profit? I can- 
 not support myself, obtain cloaths for 
 my person, or a house to reside in, 
 without giving my money in exchange. 
 If I want any thing, I must pay for 
 it : if I have a law-suit, I must fee 
 the advocate and attorney : if I want
 
 I2S 
 
 a physician, I must pay him. I have 
 taken children to be baptised, and 
 have paid the minister for performing 
 the ceremony. I have lost my nearest 
 relations, and have paid for the spi- 
 ritual assistance they received, as well 
 as for their interment. If I wish to 
 hear mass, I pay ten, fifteen, or twenty 
 sous, according to the church I go to. 
 j[n short, every one knows the answer 
 which Rousseau made to an Ambas- 
 sador, who observed to him, that, 
 ** What displeased him, 'with regard to 
 ** bocks, was, that they were compofed 
 " for the sake of maknig money b; them.'* 
 " Why,"' he replied, " does your 
 " Excellency deal in cyphers ? 
 
 Money is the idol of all who breathe ;
 
 129 
 
 no one can deny this truth. Danger, 
 falsehood, baseness, prostitution, guilt, 
 all are resorted to in order to obtain it -, 
 and yet lam blamed for receiving, by 
 a voluntary retribution, an equivalent 
 for my expenses, and a fair remunera- 
 tion for those labours, which are no 
 less innocent than they are painful. 
 What is the consequence of such in- 
 justice? To intimidate persons of ta- 
 lent, and deprive the stage of their 
 assistance. 
 
 A free agent, arrived at the age of 
 reflection, would justly dread the al- 
 m^ t insupportable fatigue of such a 
 piofsssion, the insufficiency of the sa- 
 lary, the continual dependence on the 
 
 VOL. I, K
 
 ISO 
 
 arbitrary p'ower of superiors, and th& 
 disgrace of national prejudice: but when 
 deceived by youth and inexperience, 
 any one has been induced to make 
 choice of it, I know, by myself, to 
 what a degree that disgust, which it 
 may afterwards inspire, is detrimental 
 to study, and to what a state of despair 
 it has often reduced me. I have reck- 
 oned with horror the ten last years of 
 my slavery : and, to the latest hour of 
 my life, I fhall bless even the injustice, 
 the madness, and folly of that public, 
 which has at length furnished me with 
 the means of retiring. 
 
 The times of ignorance and hypo- 
 crisy are passed r If talents are re-
 
 131 
 quired on the stage, they must ht ob- 
 tained by recompensing them with a 
 liberal remuneration. 
 
 An engagement at the theatre should 
 not be the price of seduction or de- 
 bauchery. Mere children, protected by 
 persons in power, should not be ad- 
 mitted ; the public alone ought to be 
 the judge of talents, and the performers 
 ought to be the judges of the pieces to 
 be represented. Every thing would 
 then go right ; and, without it, all must 
 be destroyed. But whether the situa- 
 tion of actors is ameliorated, or whe- 
 ther it is left as it is, still, if they de- 
 sire to arrive at the perfection of their 
 talent, they must attend to the system 
 of study I have prescribed. Those 
 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 who deem it absurd in an actor to be 
 necessarily and constantly occupied with 
 those studies which the dignity and 
 majesty of tragedy require, will be 
 sure to appear,, in common life, with 
 an air. of submiffion and inferiority. 
 
 It is by departing from the principles 
 1 have laid down, that mademoiselle;. 
 Dusmenil lost herself in the public esti- 
 mation. The cause of the degrada- 
 tion of her talent was never generally 
 known : I shall, therefore, I trust, be 
 pardoned for describing the conversa- 
 tion I have had with that actress re- 
 specting the remarkable change in her 
 manners, and for stating my own senti- 
 ments upon the subject.
 
 t33 
 
 PORTRAIT 
 
 or 
 MADEMOISELLE DUMESNIL. 
 
 Mademoiselle Dumesnil was neither 
 handsome, nor possessed of a good fi- 
 gure. Her physiognomy, her size, her 
 appearance altogether, though without 
 any natural defect, seemed character- 
 istic of the manner of a Bourgeoise, 
 without grace or elegance, and often on 
 a level with those of the very lowest 
 classes of the people. However, her neck 
 was finely formed, and her eyes were 
 expressive and commanding ; and, when 
 she pleased, were capable of inspiring 
 sentiments of awe and respect. 
 
 Her voice, deficient in flexibility, was 
 incapable of aflfecting the feelings ; but
 
 134. 
 
 it was strong, sonorous, and, in every 
 respect, adequate to the most violent 
 bursts of passion. 
 
 Her pronunciation was pure : she 
 had no impediment as to the volubiUty 
 of her utterance. 
 
 Her action W2is often too violent for 
 a w^oman ; it had neither ease nor deli- 
 cacy; but she was extremely sparing in 
 its use. 
 
 Distinguished for her style of playing 
 tender and pathetic characters, nothing 
 could be more gratifying than her per- 
 sonification of the distress and despair 
 of a mother. That expression of na- 
 ture, which she displayed in such a cha-
 
 135 
 
 Tacter, rendered her acting as near the 
 sublime as can be conceived. The pas- 
 sions of love, ambition, or pride, vv^ere 
 but faintly represented by her ; but, as 
 she was young, jealous of fivalship, and 
 desirous of the reputation of a ii-rst-rate 
 actress, great hopes were entertained of 
 her emulation and future experience in 
 her profession. Such was mademoi- 
 selle Dumesnil when I first appeared 
 upon the stage^ 
 
 The system of study to which I had 
 devoted myself, from the first moment 
 of my appearance as an actress, by mak^ 
 ing me sensible of my own defects in a 
 few years, taught me to discern those of 
 others. I perceived that the object of 
 jTiademoiselle Dumesnil was rather to 
 K 4
 
 136 
 
 captivate a multitude, than please con- 
 noisseurs.' A ranting manner, singular 
 t^'ansitions, a mode of utterance ,mor$ 
 suited to comedy than tragedy, and a" 
 vulgar action, superseded those grand 
 ^nd impressive beauties of which she 
 had before given such eminent proofs. 
 
 The ignorant exclaimed Bravo! Na-- 
 iurel I, who admired great talents, 
 even in a rival, could not avoid regret- 
 ting the change I perceived ; and I took 
 the liberty of inquiring the cause. 
 
 " You was pursuing with such cer- 
 tainty the road of celebrity," said I, 
 " that I cannot conceive how you have 
 deviated from it. Sure of the esteem of 
 the ^public, as well as of your own ap-
 
 137 
 
 probation, what can you propose to 
 yourself, by such excentricities ? Does 
 the laugh you now excite appear more 
 flattering to you than the admiration 
 you formerly. experienced?, does it be- 
 come you to confound Semiramis with 
 the wife of Sganarelle ? What can you 
 mean by those forced tones at the end 
 of every couplet ? To what object are 
 you sacrificing your understanding, your 
 reason, and your talents ? . Whatever 
 may be the advantages you expect to 
 derive from your new system, I assure 
 you it afflicts me ; and my frankness, 
 upon the occasion, is a p^pof of it." 
 
 " I have listened to you," said she, 
 ** and I return you my thanks -, your 
 anxiety on my account appears disinter-
 
 138 
 
 csted, and I shall answer you without 
 reserve. 
 
 '** You are aiming at a degree of per- 
 fection, at which you will never arrive j 
 and which, if you should attain, no one 
 would be sensible of. The number of 
 persons, of real sound judgment, in a 
 mixed assembly (should there even be 
 any), may be about one or two^ the re- 
 mainder judge without examination, de- 
 pending upon the opinions of others, or 
 the reputation of the actress. Volubi- 
 lity, bursts of passion, and whatever is 
 singular and uncommon, strike them 5 
 they are hurried away, and applaud 
 with rapture j let one person exclaim 
 Bravo! and the rest repeat it imme- 
 iliately.
 
 139 
 '* Your deep and learned researches 
 escape the multitude ; the public are 
 unaffected by them ; and men of judg- 
 ment, whose passions are, in general, 
 repressed by age, wisdom, and expe- 
 rience, conceal their satisfaction with- 
 out daring to manifest it. An audience, 
 pn leaving the theatre, mixes with the 
 rest of the public, and imparts its en- 
 thusiasm. Whence come you ? What 
 was the play ? Who were the per- 
 formers ? Mesdemoiselles Dumesnil 
 and Clairon the former was applauded 
 to the ikies, the latter appeared cold 
 and formal. It is thus our reputa- 
 tions, as actresses, are formed : and, 
 depend upon it, if you continue the 
 same course you have hitherto pursued,
 
 14^0 
 
 I shall be exalted to heaven, and you 
 will be left grovelling on earth." 
 
 ** I am far," answered I, ** from 
 having attained the object I propose, 
 but I already begin to perceive it : the 
 path is long and arduous, but I do not 
 venture a step without the aid of study 
 and reason. Who constantly searches 
 after truth, must sooner or later arrive 
 at it ; while those who pursue a daz- 
 zling illusion are sure to be misled. 
 The public is not so ignorant as you 
 would have it believed : you seem to 
 forget how often it forms an accurate 
 judgment upon the works submitted 
 to its decision. The finest thoughts, 
 and most delicate sentiments, imme-
 
 141 
 
 dialely make an impression upon its 
 feelings : even the galleries, which one 
 would naturally suppose were composed 
 of that part of the public least difficult 
 to be pleased, will admit of no fault 
 in violation, either in point of histor}% 
 language, or the manners and consist- 
 ency of the personages of the drama. 
 The more I study these points, the 
 more sanguine are my hopes that my 
 studies will not be thrown away. Yoa 
 see that the public always attends ta 
 me, and often encourages me ; and if 
 you continue to have no other guide 
 dian folly, I flatter myself, that, when 
 we are both weighed together, the 
 balance will be the reverse of that 
 which you have predicted,"
 
 142 
 From that moment I redoubled my 
 researches, and mademoiselle Dumes- 
 nil pursued, unrestrained, the same line 
 of conduct she had adopted. This 
 actress, who might have been one of 
 the first of her time .... My pen falls 
 from my hand. 
 
 Without having recourse to any very 
 minute observation, it is easy to per- 
 ceive that each of the provinces that 
 compose France are materially differ- 
 ent from one another : though they 
 have all the same national interest, and 
 belong to the same empire, yet their 
 prejudices and peculiar characters seem 
 to make each of them a distinct 
 nation.
 
 143 
 
 If we observe the strangers who are 
 to be met with in Paris, it is easy to 
 perceive, in each of them, a charac- 
 teristic feature, a national pecuHarity, 
 which distinguishes them. We may 
 thence form a judgment as to the va- 
 rious shades of difference among the 
 repubUcs which composed the whole 
 Grecian empire, and all of which were 
 jealous of each other But there are 
 only two in which the diiterence ha^ 
 any relation to tragedy these are A- 
 thens and Sparta. 
 
 As I am far from being inclined to 
 transcribe those authors who treat of 
 the subject, I shall content myself with 
 pointing out the oppositions which 
 chiefly characterised those two nation^,-
 
 144 
 
 a subject which is e^itremely important 
 to those who perform the female cha- 
 racters of tragedy. 
 
 Athens was the centre of the fine 
 arts of taste, magnificence, learning, 
 eloquence, philosophy, and urbanity. 
 
 The young girls of distinguished fa- 
 milies never appeared in public, except 
 at festivals or religious ceremonies ; a 
 veil concealed their countenances -, their 
 nearest relations were the only men 
 who dared approach and coriverse with 
 them. Such a system of education 
 naturally produced artless and timid 
 characters. An habit of circumspec- 
 tion and decency ought to be pain red 
 in their looks, tl^eir manners, the yi.dd--
 
 145 
 
 ncss of their voice, the simplicity of 
 their expressions, the modesty of their 
 appearance, and in the native dignity of 
 their actions. 
 
 At Sparta, riches were useless the 
 expenses were in common i the child- 
 ren belonged to the state j the repasts 
 were made in public, without distinc- 
 tion of rank, age, or sex ; luxury was 
 a crime ; and the utmost austerity of 
 manners prevailed*. 
 
 Young girls were habituated to vio- 
 lent exercises ; they entered the lists 
 
 * I know this mode of education commenced 
 ^v'rh the laws of Lycurgus, but it is only at the pe- 
 riod I am speaking of that a distinct character can 
 be affixed to this part of Greece. 
 L
 
 with the men, and contended with 
 them for the prize of activity/ Their 
 dress was calculated to display their 
 naked arms, legs> and even their thighs. 
 
 It must be evident such an educa- 
 tion as this rendered the women robust 
 and courageous, gave them a masculine 
 voice, a bold look, an haughty appear- 
 ance, and a confident assurance. Mo- 
 desty, that interesting and invaluable 
 pledge of our sex, was equally esteemed 
 in the two republics ; but the mode of 
 manifesting it could not be the same. 
 I may be mistaken, but it certainly is 
 from these two sources that I have de- 
 rived the faculty of imparting to the 
 characters of Monime and Hermione 
 those distinguishing features which the
 
 147 
 
 opposite nature of them necessarily de- 
 mand. V---, 
 
 CHARACTER OF MONIME. 
 The part of Monime, from the be- 
 ginning to the end, is a prototype of 
 an Athenian girl, such as I have de- 
 scribed. 
 
 The actress, who, after the senti- 
 ments she expresses in the fourth act, 
 thinks herself at liberty to give way to 
 the least passion, either with respect to 
 her voice, her countenance, or her ac- 
 tion, certainly commits a most egre- 
 gious error. 
 
 To reject the man chosen by her fa- 
 L 2
 
 148 
 
 th*^i:,.iji|Sh:iir.bu8bahd, and-in his pre- 
 sence too, to dare to tell him, '"- 
 
 Ma main ijii mon amour, 
 
 Ne seront point le prix d'un si cruel detour : 
 
 to brave that deaths she expects to 
 receive J are pro:Ofs she is sensible of 
 having outstepped the limits prescribed 
 by modesty. 
 
 My first endeavour, in studying a part, 
 is to give it that distinguishing feature 
 which it requires, and to select some 
 passage which is most striking, and 
 places the character in the most pro- 
 minent point of view. My chief plea- 
 sure is to propose to myself the greatest 
 difficulties. In the present character I 
 discover them in these verses :
 
 Ug 
 
 Noh Seigneur vainemfnt vbus voulez m'etoniier ' i n 
 Je vous connaiSf je fais tout ce que je m'apprete, ^ -. 
 Et je vois quels malbeurs yaiTemhle fur ma tete, 
 M^ais le dessein est pris. Ricn ne peut m'ebranler 
 Jugez en puisqu' ainsi je vous ose parler : 
 Et-m'jemporte au dela de cette modeftie, ; if' V 
 Dent jusqu'a ce moment je n'etais pas-^prtie, &c. >. 
 
 The softness of my voice, and the 
 extreme modesty of my ' appearance, 
 formed a contrast of the most striking 
 nature with the emphatic manner in 
 which I pronounced the words I have 
 underUned, and the firmness depictured 
 on my countenance. 
 
 The resolution of a woman who is 
 acting under the impulse of passion 
 may be doubted j but I think also there 
 are very little expectations to be formed 
 of an actress, who, while she is ma 
 L 3
 
 150 
 
 nifesting a determined resistance, has 
 no appearance of her feelings being in- 
 terested. 
 
 This is one of the most noble, yet 
 tender character?, on the stage j but, I 
 have too well experienced that it is one 
 of the most difficult. 
 
 Without exclamation, passion, the 
 power of voice to fill the whole the- 
 atre, a commanding manner, and a 
 countenance capable of variety of ex- 
 pression, it is impossible to divest this 
 character of that monotonous sameness 
 which it presents at the first blush: 
 by the aid of these, the actress derives 
 the highest advantages; but they should 
 be resorted to, and applied, with due
 
 151 
 
 regard to the consistency of the cha- 
 racter. 
 
 It is only after fifteen years study, as 
 to the means of repressing my voice, 
 my action, and my countenance, that 
 I have been bold enough to assume a 
 character so difficult ; and I acknow- 
 ledge, that to pourtray, from scene to 
 scene, the grief and noble simplicity 
 which distinguish it, required all the 
 exertions of which I was capable, and 
 all the desire to excel by which I was 
 actuated. I, nevertheless, am far from 
 flattering myself that I have arrived at 
 that height of perfection in this cha- 
 racter which is attainable. I have not 
 played it often enough to correct my 
 faults. 
 
 L 4
 
 152 
 
 May some other actress do better 
 than I have done ! But I invite all 
 those who undertake it, to weigh ma- 
 turely- , what they may be allowed to 
 attempt, and to act upon the impres- 
 sion, that Monime is absolutely out 
 of the ordinary routine of characters. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 The character of Hermione is among 
 the number of those we must except 
 from the general rule. 
 
 All the difficulties it presents would 
 be removed, if this personage could be 
 supposed to be thirty years of age. It 
 would be then easy to describe, in all 
 their various turns and gradations, the 
 intrigue, the coquetry, the love, and the
 
 153 
 
 vengeance, of which the character is 
 susceptible : but Hermione is only sup- 
 posed to be about twenty years old. 
 At this age an actress may give a pro- 
 mise of what she will one day become; 
 but I doubt whether it is possible for 
 her to have acquired sufficient powers 
 for such a character as this is. 
 
 The complicated, yet connected 
 ideas, the profound reflections, the 
 judgment which experience alone can 
 give, rarely correspond with the grace, 
 the timidity, the prejudices of educa- 
 tion, the inexperience, the air, and 
 the voice, of a girl of twenty years 
 of age. 
 
 This character is so peculiar in its
 
 154 
 
 nature, that the actress is in danger of 
 either not attaining the perfection slie 
 airtis at, or of exceeding it. It is an 
 impassioned one, yet, in no respect, 
 tender ; it is furious, yet not wicked ; 
 it is noble and haughty, yet conde- 
 scends to employ the arts of seduction 
 and dissimulation with regard to Ores- 
 tes, and the violence of atrocity with 
 respect to Pyrrhus. Her pride and her 
 passion go hand in hand, except in the 
 passage, beginning 
 
 Mais Seigneur s'il le faut si le ciel en colere, 
 
 at the end of the soliloquy in the fifth 
 act, where she only gives vent to the 
 passion of love -, and, from the force of 
 her feelings, her eyes are suffused in 
 
 tears, -
 
 155 
 
 v^Evdry resource which I was enabled 
 to derive from my own talents and my 
 reflections, in order to attain a perfect 
 idea of the beauties of the character, 
 and support its consistency, but the 
 more convinced me how arduous it 
 was. Happy should I be, could I 
 abridge the study of others, by giving 
 an exact, clear, and methodical ac- 
 count of my own ! but I have already 
 said, that there are things which can- 
 not be written ? Without the aid of my 
 intonations and countenance, it is out 
 of my power to give an idea of the 
 shades by which the character and age 
 of Hermione are distinguished. It is 
 the province of genius, study, and 
 judgment, to profit by the weak and
 
 166 
 inadequate instructions I shall lay 
 
 iVJIn the parts where the actress is to 
 describe the love of Hermione, she 
 must carefully avoid that expression of 
 voice, and siraplicity of countenance, 
 which characterise tender souls ; and, 
 in pourtraying the impassioned scene, 
 she must equally avoid that confident 
 and assuming disdain of an experienced 
 woman ; such, for example, as Roxane 
 in Bajazet. In this last character, any 
 thing is allowable within due bounds. 
 The actress must seek within herself 
 whatever may exalt the heroine in a 
 woman of twenty, as well as irnpart 
 that de2:ree of mildness which even a
 
 157 
 heroine of that age ought not to be 
 supposed divested of. .niidi. oi '.icjuiiii 
 tmLoiBz i^nid Horn srh 1j c; rf{. 
 That couplet in the fourth act> 
 which the public, men of letters, and 
 actors, call the couplet of irony , ought 
 not, in my. opinion, to have that appel- 
 lation. Irony demands a lightness of 
 mind, a tranquillity of soul, which, cer- 
 tainly, Hermione does not possess : her 
 pride and her love, equally wounded, 
 aiford only access to a sentiment of 
 rage, which the haughtiness of her cha- 
 racter In vain endeavours to repress, 
 
 A countenance, in which indignity 
 and nobleness of soul are equally painted; 
 a voice stifled in its first attempt at 
 Expression by rage and fury j and pas-
 
 I5S 
 
 sidna which overcome hef , and she li 
 unable to retain, can only produce an 
 image of the most bitter sarcasm. The 
 horror which she herself experiences, 
 in reminding Pyrrhus of the cruelties 
 of which he has been guilty, can never 
 have the semblance of irony* 
 
 Hermione may infuse into her re- 
 proaches all that disdain and contempt 
 which is calculated to render them more 
 insulting; but she neither can, nor 
 ought, to descend to irony. 
 
 THEATRICAL SCHOOLS. ' 
 
 Since my retreat from the theatre, 
 I have continually been hearing of the 
 necessity of having dramatic schools. 
 The public think them practicable, and
 
 likely to be advantageous ; and consi- 
 derable sums have been raised for their 
 establishment. Nothing more clearly 
 proves that the managers of theatrical 
 representations have not the least idea 
 of vi^hat constitutes a great actress. 
 We learn to dance and sing as per- 
 fectly as possible, because these two 
 talents have regular rules and princi- 
 ples, which the most ignorant may un- 
 derstand and practise; but I know of 
 no rules, of no principles, which can 
 teach people every species of know- 
 ledge, every species of acquirement, 
 necessary to produce a great actress ; 
 I know of no rules which can teach us 
 to think and to feel : nature alone can 
 bestow those faculties, which experi- 
 ence, study, and opportunities, after-
 
 166 
 
 yi&ffd^ de^elope. The only schodli^ 
 fi-om which there is a reasonable and 
 probable expectation of advantage, are 
 the provincial theatres* The neces- 
 sity, of obtaining an engagement, the 
 emulation of excelling each other, the 
 dread of public disapprobation, the 
 practice which the memory obtains by 
 a continuance of labour/ the ease and 
 familiarity acquired by a daily appear- 
 ance upon the stage, the facility of 
 thereby acquiring a good ear, and of 
 enlarging one's ideas by seeing entire 
 pieces performed, and' by observing 
 their effect upon the public, will a- 
 chieve more in six months towards the 
 formation of a good actress, than two 
 years instruction in private, whatever 
 may be the talents and ability of the
 
 161 
 
 master. I do not think I am actuated 
 by any very great degree of vanity in 
 comparing myself with the actresses of 
 the present day : they vrill, I trust, 
 pardon me for asserting, that I do not 
 believe them better instructed, superior 
 in ability, or more serviceable on the 
 stage than I was. I have spared no 
 pains in forming the talents of mesde- 
 moiselles Dubois and Rancourt. I ap- 
 peal to all who have seen them my 
 charming scholars have evinced the 
 greatest abilities : but, alas ! notwith- 
 standing all my cares, added to what 
 they received from nature, I have never 
 been able to make any thing more of 
 them than mere imitators of myself. 
 The utmost hopes were formed from 
 their first appearance j but it was bc- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 
 
 cause I was behind the curtain, and the 
 public was captivated by youth and 
 beauty. When I ceased my lessons, their 
 talents vanished. 
 
 It is nature alone that can form splen- 
 did characters in any walk of life. Ob- 
 serve the state of mankind with respect 
 to the arts, siences, and learned acquire- 
 ments ; and from the small number of 
 those who may be said to excel, you 
 will be able to determine how impos- 
 sible it is to command genius, or to im- 
 part it by instruction. 
 
 When a young actress discovers spi- 
 rit, an accurate judgment, sensibility, 
 force, a good voice, memory, and a 
 countenance happily formed for the
 
 163 
 
 characters she is to represent, let her 
 not want the means .to improve them ; 
 provide her with such masters as may be 
 necessary to enable her to develope her 
 ideas j let her not languish in a state 
 which may repress the energy of her 
 mind, and retard her progress ; let her 
 not feel the necessity of resorting to vice 
 to obtain the situation she is emulous 
 of; recommend to her to listen with at- 
 tention to the advice which the public, 
 or others of the same profession with 
 herself, may give, as to her evincing too 
 much or too little warmth of feeling, 
 dignity of action, or grace of deport- 
 ment : let her second the efforts of her 
 friends to forward her improvement. 
 Such, according to my opinion, are the 
 only possible means by which an actress 
 
 M 2
 
 164 
 
 can derive advantage from instructioft* 
 Is it to be supposed that Preville can 
 instruct others to perform Orosmane 
 and Semiramis ? that Mole can create 
 actors fit for all characters ? It is an ab- 
 surdity, at which they themselves must 
 laugh in/ their sleeves. To give them- 
 selves airs of importance, form a se- 
 raglio among the female candidates for 
 theatrical fame, amass money, and be- 
 come the terror of the whole stage, are 
 all these gentlemen pretend to, or can 
 perform. 
 
 I shall be answered, perhaps, that the 
 provincial theatres do not furnish good 
 subjects. I agree that comic opera and 
 the ballet absorb every thing else ; and 
 tiiat, at present, performers in that line
 
 3 65 
 
 are the most essential part of the thea* 
 trical company. The talents required 
 for such situations are in the reach of 
 every one, whatever may be their edu- 
 cations ; and those who have acquired 
 jhem may, at any time, make sure of 
 gaining a Hvehhood j their dresses are 
 furnished by the managers, and their sa- 
 laries are, generally, liberal. 
 
 But the talents for the French thea- 
 tre demand an education of a peculiar 
 nature, and comprehending a variety of 
 branches ; they also imply the posses- 
 sion of many gifts of nature, and that 
 the actress should be of an age compe- 
 tent to understand, feel, and compare 
 what she studies -, the dresses are ex- 
 tremely expensive, and arc entirely pro- 
 M 3
 
 166 
 
 vided by the actress herself; the salary 
 is small at first, and is never increased 
 to what m^y be termed a sufficiency, 
 until after a lapse qf several years, and 
 then, perhaps, not writhout that protec- 
 tion which, in many instances, is not to 
 be obtained without concessions, far 
 from being congenial to the feelings 
 and dispositions of every one. 
 
 Those who make the stage their pro- 
 fession are for the most part in necessi- 
 tous circumstances, and of indigent fa- 
 milies. It is a natural choice for per- 
 sons so situated, inasmuch as it is one 
 which, of all others, presents itself as 
 affording the fairest encouragement for 
 talent, and the surest prospect of imme- 
 diate emolument:.
 
 167 
 
 It was not till after twenty years la- 
 bour that the pension of the king, a- 
 mounting to an hundred pistoles, was 
 granted me ; and I have seen mesdemoi- 
 selles AUard and Guimard, from the 
 first moment of their appearance at the 
 opera, receive pensions of 1200 livres 
 from the king. After twenty-two year^ 
 services, the only recompense I have had, 
 to enable me to retire, is 1000 livres ; 
 and mademoiselle Heinel, at the end of 
 fourteen years, retired with a pension of 
 8000 francs. These ladies had great 
 talents I admit ; but, I dare trust, that 
 many of my comrades on the stage, as 
 well as myself, may justly pretend to 
 an equality with them. These examples 
 are a sufficient reason why there are more 
 good dancers than actresses. 
 M 4
 
 16S 
 
 The theatres des Boulevards have also 
 greatly accelerated the degradation of 
 talents. The number of young girls 
 who are brought forward at this theatre, 
 and at the most tender years, are ruined 
 in their constitutions by exertions be- 
 yond their strength j and (if I may be- 
 lieve what is said), by a degree of 
 misconduct which exhausts them, and 
 brings on a premature old age. The 
 low and obscene pieces represented on 
 theatres of this kind necessarily banish 
 that noble dignity and decency of de- 
 {)ortment which is required at the 
 
 French theatre They merely repre- 
 
 sent*farces -, and the public require from 
 them a different mode of expression, 
 and a different style altogether, to what 
 they expect on the French stage : a
 
 169 
 proof has lately been furnished which 
 is unanswerable. There is a performer 
 belonging to these bastard-kind of dra- 
 matic representations, of the nameof Vo- 
 lange, I am not acquainted with him ; 
 but all Paris agree he possesses the per- 
 fection of talent at the vanVies amu~ 
 s^Jites, He made his debut at the Ita-> 
 lian theatre, where neither the works 
 which are represented, nor the talents 
 of the performers, bear the least com- 
 parison with those of the French the- 
 atre ) yet, even there, this VoIangCy 
 who had been deemed so famous in his 
 line, was infinitely below the very 
 worst of the actors. These spectacles 
 not only fail in improving a performer, 
 but, on the contrary, they vitiate their 
 taste, corrupt their manners, and spoil
 
 170 
 
 those who, perhaps, by the study of the 
 cbef d'cewvres of our theatre would have 
 arrived at celebrity. 
 
 The number of those destined to 
 appear in public is circumscribed, as in 
 every other situation of life ; and the fa^- 
 cility of procuring an engagement at 
 these minor theatres is a resource to 
 those who are deterred by the difficulty 
 of appearing upon a superior stage, and 
 whose talents deserve public support, 
 if only from a principal of national va-. 
 nity. 
 
 It does not become me to condemn 
 the taste of the public for these specta- 
 cles, or to blame the magistrates who 
 tolerate and are daily increasing them.
 
 171 
 in violation of their own duty and the 
 rights of the regular theatres; but I 
 may be allowed to assert, that, as long 
 as they are suffered to remain, no dra- 
 matic school will ever be able to pro- 
 duce that proud and eminent display of 
 talent which was formerly so much 
 admired on the national stage. The 
 French theatre has but four performers 
 worthy of being mentioned*, the Ita- 
 lian has but two-f-. The opera may be 
 said to consist wholly of dancers. How 
 is it so great a falling off" has not sug- 
 gested the means of remedying the 
 evil ? How is it that Molnre, CorJieH'e, 
 Racine, and Voltaire^ have been aban- 
 
 * Pr^ville, Mole, Brisard, Larive. 
 f Clerval, anil Madame Diigarzon. Caillot has 
 lately retired,
 
 172 
 
 doned for the family of Pointusf The 
 surest means of annihilating merit is to 
 protect mediocrity, 
 
 OROSMANE. 
 
 ^ I have always been astonished that 
 Le Kain, who is ^o superior in the cha- 
 racter of Orosmane, should give cause 
 to expect something more from him in 
 the first couplet of the first act. He 
 expresses himself well ; yet 1 do not 
 find any thing of that amenity and 
 tenderness of passion, so eloquently de- 
 pictured by Zaire. Orosmane, sur- 
 rounded by the different orders of the 
 slaves of his seraglio, and who, in his 
 interview with his mistress, has pre- 
 pared himself with a studied speech, 
 appears to me in the light of an im-
 
 173 
 
 perious master rather than of that ten- 
 der lover one would be led to expect. 
 i have read this couplet over and over 
 again, with the most scrupulous atten-* 
 tion ; I have endeavoured to discover 
 in the verses that sentiment and pas- 
 sion which is supposed to be concealed 
 beneath the declamation of the first 
 thirty-two verses i but I have found 
 only an inconsistency and contradiction 
 between the language and the meaning 
 of the character. It is with a degree 
 of impatience I hear Orosmane talk- 
 ing of business, when, in my opinion, 
 he ought to have been speaking of 
 love. In the course of my researches 
 I discovered a kind of mute scene, 
 which it may not be uninteresting to 
 notice.
 
 Orosmane enters surrounded with all 
 that grandeur and theatrical pageantry 
 which the character requires. I wished 
 to observe in him that departure from 
 his dignity which his youth and sensi- 
 biUty would have justified j that his eyes 
 should have sought those of Zaire, and 
 that he should have recognifed her by 
 the lovely suffusion of her countenance, 
 and the tumultous heavings of her bo- 
 som; that he should immediately have 
 observed the object of whom he is ena- 
 moured; that by the exertion of a no- 
 ble, yet tender sentiment, he should se- 
 lect her from among the train ; that he 
 should approach his mistress, seize her 
 hand, and, with looks of love and an 
 emotion of tenderness, he should press 
 it within his, and, at the same time, in-
 
 175 
 
 Struct her as to the means of rendering 
 him completely happy. This scene, 
 performed with dignity and expression, 
 would give additional effect to the ideas 
 of the author, importance to the cha- 
 racters, and impart a degree of pleasure 
 and satisfaction to every spectator, whose 
 soul was inspired by tenderness and sen- 
 sibility. 
 
 STUDY OF PAULINE in POLIEUCTE. 
 
 Pauline is one of those characters of 
 which there are no models to be found 
 in nature : at least, I have in vain en- 
 deavoured to discover one similar to it 
 in the world, and in history. 
 
 The violent passion of love, and that 
 disgust which often succeeds it, are to
 
 175 
 
 be 4ail7 met with in the common oc- 
 currences of life j but an unfeigned love 
 for two distinct objects existing at the 
 same time, avowed to each of the two 
 men who inspire it, and justified by- 
 respect, esteem, and confidence of both, 
 is a thing unheard of in nature, and ex- 
 tremely difficult to pourtray with just- 
 ness and accuracy to the eyes of the 
 multitude. 
 
 After having profoundly studied this 
 character, and convinced myself that 
 the spectators, aided by the first im- 
 pression of the scene, would readily, 
 and with facility, prepare themselves for 
 that catastrophe which' every line intro- 
 duces, I determined within myself, as 
 ^ as lay. in my power, to unite to such
 
 177 
 advantages as I derived from my own 
 person, the nobleness, the rriilcjness, the 
 firmness, and the freedom of the cha- 
 racter I was to represent. 
 
 I exerted myself to the utmost of my 
 ability, to give to the inflexions of my 
 voice, and the movements of my coun- 
 tenance, that touching and expressive 
 simplicity which characterises a pure 
 and sensible soul. 
 
 Mistress of my physiognomy and ac- 
 cents, this study was no ways difficult ; 
 but by what means was I to avoid a 
 sameness and monotony in expressing 
 these two co-existing passions ? how 
 was I to pourtray their different shades, 
 without altering the simphcity of the 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 characters ? how avoid an appearance of 
 infidelity with regard to one of the ob- 
 jects of my love, and of indelicacy with 
 regard to the other ? It seemed to me 
 impossible to seize the true criterion .- 
 
 The first passion, arising solely from 
 the impressions of the soul, increased 
 by the charm of a real inclination, nou- 
 rished by esteem, fear, and regret, ne- 
 cessarily requires a tint of delicacy and 
 sensibility different from the other. The 
 order of a father, the most absolute re- 
 signation to every virtuous action, even 
 the illusion of the senses, cannot keep 
 pace with her profound sense of what 
 is just, and suitable to her dignity : on 
 the contrary, they oblige her to sacrifice 
 her rights to her duty. The character.
 
 179 
 however, as far as it goes, is certainly 
 one of the most tender, as well as one 
 of the most energetic, ever drawn. I 
 imagined that a different manner of giv- 
 ing vent to my t^ars might produce 
 that nice shade of colouring whicji I 
 sought. Those which I shed for Se- 
 vere seemed to derive their source from 
 the bottom of my soul, and flowed a- 
 bundantly down my face ; while those 
 which I shed for Polieucte appeared 
 to escape from my eyes, sometimes 
 urged by humanity, sometimes by im- 
 patience. , 
 
 The e.Tect which tears flowing from 
 two such different sources must in- 
 dispensably have upon the voice, the 
 motions of the body, and the expres- 
 
 N 2
 
 i80 
 
 siofl of the countenance, may be easily 
 imagined : but/ in order to attain the 
 proper point of perfection, and not to 
 exceed it, an actress must have these 
 four verses continually in her remem- 
 brance : 
 
 Je donnai par devoir a son affection, 
 Tout ce qne I'autre avait par iaclination ; 
 Et quoique le dehors foit/ans Amotion, 
 Le dedans n'est que trouble et que sedition. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 OK THE 
 
 CHARACTER OF ROXANE IN BAJAZET. 
 
 Roxane is one of those w^retched 
 beauties, condemned, by the misery and 
 the humiliating state in which she is 
 placed, to wish for slavery, as the only 
 means of arriving at happiness.
 
 ISl 
 
 Those slaves who are destined to the 
 pleasure of a master, not the choice qf 
 their heart, ai^^d whom their inclina- 
 tions revolt at who are either igno- 
 rant Of regardless of what is due to the 
 feelings of modesty and decency who 
 are watched and confined in the seraglio, 
 by beings whom they cannot contem- 
 plate without horror constantly trem- 
 bling under the most arbitrary despot- 
 ism humbled by remaining too long 
 among the crowd of slaves, or dread- 
 ing the disgust of their master, by 
 which they may be again placed there ; 
 is it possible that, so situated, they can 
 be susceptible of a tender^ free, and 
 unfeigned passion ? can they form an 
 idea of real love ? I think it impossible. 
 N 3
 
 182 
 
 The vanity of triumphing over their 
 rivals ; the ambition of arriving at the 
 supreme height of power ; the neces- 
 sity of intriguing, in order to maintain 
 it ; and of amassing treasure, in order 
 to command support, are the principles 
 by which they are actuated ; the gra- 
 tification of the senses are the only 
 sentiments which influence them, the 
 only passions of v/hich they have the 
 least idea. The woman who is con- 
 strained to live under an eternal des- 
 potism is compelled to contract ha- 
 bits of fear, dissimulation, and even of 
 falsehood ; and whatever depresses and 
 bows down the soul, naturally tends to 
 prepare it for the impressions of fero- 
 ciousness, rather than of tenderness.
 
 183 
 The character of Roxane is precisely 
 upon this model ; she is continually 
 ungrateful, haughty, cruel, and am- 
 bitious. 
 
 When the passion of love has pre- 
 ceded vicious habits, though it is, inca- 
 pable of inspiring sentiments of re- 
 morse or humanity, yet it may, never- 
 theless, exist for some time ; but I do 
 not think love can possibly take root 
 in a heart already vitiated. The in- 
 trigues of the Visier, and the hopes of 
 arriving at that rank which Amurath 
 had refused her, are the only motives 
 which determine her to see Bajazet. 
 
 The sight of a man who is younger, 
 more handsome, and who interests her 
 N 4
 
 184 
 more than her master and benefactor, 
 excites a degree of ferment in her soul 
 which she mistakes for love 3 but all 
 that she does, and all that she says, 
 only prove her actuated by a voluptu- 
 ous and momentary illusion. 
 
 Her vanity wounded, her ambition 
 disappointed, are the only sotwces of 
 her tears. The idea of her grandeur 
 employs all the faculties of her soul. 
 
 - Menace is constantly in her mouth;-^ 
 it is with premeditation she prepares 
 the death of Bajazet ; she proposes to 
 be the actor and witness of the assassi- 
 nation of Atalide, as if it was a just 
 deed ; without the least struggle with 
 herself, without the least remorse, she
 
 185 
 
 abandons her Jpver to the mutes who 
 are at her devotion; it is with the 
 most revolting arrogance she heaves 
 at her feet the niece of the emperor, 
 and dares to say to her. 
 
 Loin de vous separer je pretends aiijourd'hui 
 Par desncEiids 6ternels vous unir avec lui, 
 Vous jouirez bientot de son aimable vue, &c. 
 
 Wigh well these words; consider 
 that Bajazet is at the time no more ; 
 and then judge whether the heart that 
 is atrocious enough to utter them with 
 tranquillity can be susceptible of love. 
 I think she.^prefers Bajazet to Amu- 
 rath ; but an impulse of desire is not 
 a sentiment of love the irritating al- 
 lurements of the senses, and the ten- 
 der inclinations of the soul, are dia- 
 metrically opposite to each other.
 
 186 
 
 Let the actress who performs this cha- 
 racter avoid all expression of' tenderness 
 and delicacy. An air of desire, repress- 
 ed by the most rigorous attention to de- 
 corum, is the only mark of sensibility 
 her eyes ought to express. In those 
 parts where she commands or menaces, 
 her voice should seem lofty and des- 
 potic, as if she was consious she was 
 only surrounded by vile and trembling 
 slaves. In preserving throughout her 
 whole deportment that noble air which 
 the stage requires, and which every 
 one, whatever may be her general ta- 
 lents, may possess, introduce, at times, 
 that kind of masculine dignity of which 
 the world furnishes so many examples. 
 In short, while the actress, during three- 
 fourths of the character, depictures the
 
 187 
 manners of a cruel sovereign, and one 
 born to the throne, let her in the other 
 part be recognised as the insolent slave, 
 abusing that momentary power for 
 which she is only indebted to her 
 beauty. 
 
 UPON THE TRAGEDIES OF >L\XLIUS, 
 
 AND 
 
 VENISE SAUVEE. 
 
 There is no character on the stage in 
 which profound study can be dispensed 
 with. The more resemblance there 
 is between ^uch and such characters, or 
 such and such actions, the greater is 
 the necessity of describing those shades 
 by which they are distinguished. We 
 have for example the same siubject in 
 Manlius and Venise Sauvce ; the names,' 
 the language, the action, the person-
 
 188 
 ages, and the interests of the charac- 
 ters, are the same. Bat in Manlius the 
 scene lies at Rome, in the 371st year 
 from its foundation; and in the other 
 at Venice, in the 161 Sth year of our 
 aera. Discover, by the assistance of 
 history, the manners of the two differ- 
 ent places, and the spirit of the times ; 
 reflect upon the personages, and what 
 more or less dignity of character they 
 possessed -, conform all your ideas to 
 the general opinion of the people of 
 the times : you will then feel that it 
 is impossible to have' the same tone of 
 voJLce, the same deportment, or the 
 same spirit and style of acting, in the 
 one as in the other.
 
 l$9 
 
 UPON CORNELIE, 
 iN THE DEATH OF POMPEY. 
 
 The public opinion has evr deemed 
 the character of Cornelie one of the 
 finest on the stage. Having to perform 
 this character, I studied it with all the 
 attention of which I was capable. No 
 one has ever succeeded me in it. The 
 modulation which I wished to establish, 
 with reference to the historical charac- 
 ter, was not altogether congenial to the 
 theatrical one; in as much as the for- 
 mer appeared to me noble, simple, and 
 expressive ; the latter, masculine, de- 
 clamatory, and cold. I guarded against 
 the idea that the public and Corneille 
 were both wrong. My vanity did not 
 extend to that point ; but, in order to 
 compromise the matter, I determined
 
 190 
 
 to be silent, and never to perform 
 Cornelie. Since my retreat, the Com- 
 mentarks upon Corneille, and the word 
 esprit, in Les Rations Encyclopediques, 
 by Voltaire, have been published. 
 Read them : if I am deceived, the 
 example of so great a man w'A\ console 
 me I 
 
 PHEDRE. 
 
 The character of Phedre is one of 
 the finest on the stage. There is no 
 one that is better written, and, conse- 
 quently, no one more easy to learn and 
 retain. 
 
 It requires no study of a local na- 
 ture, no research into the manners of 
 a particular tifne or place. Phedre is
 
 191 
 a woman who is the slave cf her unre- 
 strained passions ; and such a character 
 is the same in every country. She has 
 betrayed her sister : she is a wife, a 
 mother, and a queen. It is easy to 
 impart to her age and experience that 
 tone of voice and deportment which 
 are just, natural, and requisite. Every 
 one endowed with sensibility, every im- 
 petuous character, may easily find with- 
 in her own breast, or by an attention 
 to what passes daily before her eyes, 
 the means of describing a violent pas- 
 sion. Racine has marked, from act to 
 act, the gradations to be observed in 
 that of Phedre. Follow the author 
 exactly -, endeavour to attain his mean- 
 ing i but avoid pretending to suppress 
 Jt. All that is required of you, when
 
 392 
 
 you have arrived at a perfect know- 
 ledge of your autlior, is a countenance 
 capable of variety, of expression, a com- 
 manding voice, but at the same time 
 calculated to excite emotions of tender- 
 ness. 
 
 Phedre is torn by remorse ; it is 
 a remorse, real and uninterrupted, 
 throughout the whole play. The ac- 
 knowledgment of her passion in the 
 first act, the reasons by which she j us- 
 tiiies it, and her death in the fifth, are 
 proofs of what I assert. Her virtue 
 v/ould, doubtless, have surmounted her 
 passion, if that passion had produced 
 only" the usual errors of the senses, and 
 of the imagination : but the unhappy 
 phedre yields to the power of Venus -,
 
 193 
 
 a superior force hurries her continually 
 on to act and to say what her virtue 
 condemns. Throughout the whole of 
 her character, this struggle should be 
 present to the eyes and imagination of 
 the spectator. I would advise, for the 
 expression of- remorse, a simple dic- 
 tion, noble yet tender accents, a pro-' 
 fusion of tears, a countenance deeply 
 affected; and, for the expression of love, 
 a sort of delirium and insensibility, si- 
 milar to that of a somnambulist, who 
 preserves, in the arms of sleep, the re- 
 membrance of the fire which consumed 
 him when waking. I took this idea 
 from the following verses, 
 
 Dieux ! que ne suis-je assise a I'ombre dcs forcts I 
 Quand pourrai-je 4 travers d'une noble poussi^re 
 Suivre de I'oeil un char fuyant dans la carrit-re ? 
 VOL. I, O
 
 194 
 
 ..... lasensee ! Ou suis-je, et qu*ai-jc dit ? 
 Ou laissai-je egarer mes voeux et rnon esprit ? 
 Je I'ai perdu les dieux m'ont ravi I'usage, &c. 
 
 In the scene, in the second act, with 
 Hyppolite, I would recite the first 
 couplet in a low and trembling voice, 
 and without daring to raise my eyes. 
 At the moment the sound of his voice 
 struck my ear, my whole person should 
 evince that pleasing trepidation, which 
 souls of real sensibility experience, by 
 reflecting on the past. 
 
 The second couplet should be ex- 
 pressed by a different emotion. My 
 words should appear to be interrupted 
 by the violent palpitation of my heart, 
 and not by fear.
 
 195 
 
 In the third, myeyes,enflamed by love, 
 and, at the same time, repressed by virtue, 
 should manifest the conflict in my soul. 
 
 ' In the fourth, this conflict is more 
 violent ; but love triumphs. 
 
 In the fifth it reigns predominant; 
 and I then assume a deportment ex- 
 pressive of dignity and propriety. 
 
 The delirium of the second act is 
 produced by the conflict of contending 
 passions ; that of the fourth act by de- 
 spair and terror. In the first be atten- 
 tive that the whole countenance, the 
 voice, and the action, may be engaging, 
 tender, and caressing. Preserve the ve- 
 hemence of passion for the other, 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 The couplet which terminates this 
 scene has always embarrassed me : none 
 of my attempts have satisfied mc. Whe- 
 ther it is, that sixty cmpassioned verses, 
 which scarce allow time to take breath, 
 are beyond the powers of human nature; 
 whether it is, that, admirable as these 
 verses are, the conflict they describe is, 
 in fact, too long j whether it is beyond 
 my capacity to pourtray such a picture 
 of love and remorse, with that just 
 shade and colouring: which should dis- 
 play those passions in a prominent point 
 of view at the same time ; yet, so the 
 fact is, I have always found insur- 
 mountable difficulties in this passage; 
 and I am obliged to confess that, in 
 speaking and acting it to the very ut- 
 most of my power, I have always been
 
 197 
 far Inferior to the author's ideas, as well 
 as my own. But to 'form conceptions 
 while reading a work, and to express 
 those conceptions by action, are two very 
 different things. 
 
 ' There are various other remarks which 
 might be made upon this cliaracter. I 
 have confused ideas of many important 
 things that might be pointed out ; but 
 I dare not trust to my memory, which 
 has not distinctly preserved the first im- 
 pressions it received. I am no longer 
 adequate to the fatigue of any very pro- 
 found researches, and I am apprehen- 
 sive of betraying myself into errors by 
 entering into details of which I have but 
 an imperfect recollection. 
 
 o 3
 
 193 
 
 BLANCHE, 
 IN BLANCHE AND GUISCARD. 
 
 I know no character which is more 
 agreeable to perform than that of 
 Blanche. It requires no great deal of 
 previous study, either as to time, place, 
 or its appropriate dignity. A passion 
 which has taken its birth in the security 
 of infancy, increased by simplicity of 
 soul, and habitual confidence ; a senti- 
 ment of respect and obedience due to 
 the author of her days ; a mind formed 
 to the purest dictates of nature, render 
 this character so simple and easy, that it 
 is impossible for any actress, who pos- 
 sesses the principles of her profession, 
 and has a tolerable capacity, to fail play- 
 ing it well.
 
 199 
 All the great personages of antiquity 
 impose upon us the duty of forgetting 
 ourselves. It is only by the greatest 
 efforts, by the most profound studies, 
 that we can attain the faculty of depic- 
 turing those different passions, which, 
 all proceeding from the same point, are 
 continually reverting to it, and there- 
 fore require a constant variety in the 
 inflexions of the voice, the expression 
 of the countenance, and the deport- 
 ment of the person. At the same time 
 that it is an indispensable duty to pre- 
 serve, unaltered, the consistency of the 
 character, such, for example, as is re- 
 quired to express the passion, the vir- 
 tue, the jealousy, and the remorse of 
 Phcdre, there are, in particular, four 
 expressions of shame, all of which de- 
 o 4
 
 200 
 
 mand different shades. In the first act, 
 when she entrusts the secret of her 
 love to (Enone : in the second, when 
 she has been too explicit with Hyppo- 
 lite : in the third, when she appears be- 
 fore her husband, and in the presence of 
 the youth who is insensible to.her love, 
 and who disdains her : in the fourth, 
 when she reflects upon the nature of 
 her crime, and expresses the dread she 
 is under, that when her soul leaves this 
 world she v/ill be forced to acknow- 
 ledge it. All these require different 
 tints or shades to express them : the 
 countenance, the speech, must be dif- 
 ferent. The first must describe a virtu- 
 ous woman, who would die rather than 
 fail in her duty, and who yields not, 
 but through the last extremity : the
 
 201 
 
 second should paint her under the do- 
 minion of her passion, and anxious how 
 the object of her love will encourage 
 it : the third needs no other expression 
 than that of embarrassment and re- 
 morse. Though she has said to CEnone, 
 ** Fais ce qui tu voudras^" ** Acl with 
 me as you think proper -j" yet we must 
 not suppose she was sensible of the 
 importance of this consent ; she would 
 no longer be the same character. It 
 must never be lost sight of, that she 
 is virtuous from principle, and only- 
 criminal by the will of the gods. Her 
 shame, in the fourth act, proves it; and 
 that shame ought to express, in the 
 most vehement and empassioned man- 
 ner, her terror, her ^-emorse, and her 
 virtue. Vv'hat a task for an actress !
 
 202 
 
 I dare affirm that it is beyond human 
 powers to surmount the difficulties this 
 character presents in every verse. What- 
 ever have been my effi^rts, my medita- 
 tions, my researches, all I can flatter 
 myself v^ith is, that, perhaps , I have a 
 few less faults than others. In playing 
 Blanche, I always thought myself in 
 my own chamber. My physiognomy, 
 my inflexions, united, without art or 
 study, to the sensibility of my soul. 
 By nature tender and generous, I was 
 susceptible of all the fears, the suspi- 
 cions, and disappointments of love. 
 When I played Blanche, I was always 
 myself. It is the only character which 
 never cost me any toilsome study. But 
 if she who performs it does not adhere 
 to the purity of nature, if love is not
 
 203 
 
 the only sentiment of her heart, she 
 will have many difficulties to over- 
 come. Talents which are not beyond 
 mediocrity seek resource in sudden ex- 
 clamations, violence of gesture, and un- 
 usual modes of expression : this must 
 be avoided in giving effect to the softer 
 passions. By recurring to art, we may 
 be able to attain the faculty of pour- 
 traying the more violent passions and 
 sentiments ; but art can never teach an 
 actress how to simplify a character. It 
 is nature alone to whom we must re- 
 sort, in order to paint the delicate 
 shades which distinguish candour and 
 artless innocence, the light tints which 
 pourtray the early sensations of pure 
 and uncorrupted youth, and the strik- 
 ing and noble simplicity which emanate
 
 204. 
 
 from a soiil undebased by the, ruder 
 passions. Art can only depicture what 
 is grand. If you repress the bold ef- 
 forts of its pencil, if you weaken its 
 colouring, you leave merely a repre- 
 sentation of simple and unsophisticated 
 nature. 
 
 M. Saurin, the author of Blanche, 
 Spartacus, Les Mcsurs de Beierley, and 
 many other interesting works, was a 
 man eminent by the wisdom and judg- 
 ment displayed in his writings. His 
 manners were pure, his style pleasing, 
 lively and correct ; and his conduct and 
 probity rendered him dear to his friends, 
 and the admiration of the public. It 
 is with a remembrance, no less delight- 
 ful to ray soul than flattering to my
 
 eo5 
 
 vanity, that I recall the charms of his 
 society, and the friendship with which 
 he honoured me. 
 
 The four principal characters in 
 Blanche were reprCvSented by Le Kain, 
 Mole, Brisard, and myself. The ha- 
 bitual kindness of the public, our ef- 
 forts to merit it, and the interest of the 
 piece itself, left us no room to doubt 
 of success. We particularly depended 
 on the applause and admiration of the 
 female part of the audience. Those 
 pure and tender passions, the result of 
 an education proportioned to female 
 delicacy, strengthened by the duties 
 they owed as wives and mothers, ap- 
 peared to us reasons which rendered our 
 success certain. Our expectations were
 
 206 
 
 deceived the women abandoned us 
 ,the youthful part of the audience fol- 
 lowed their example ; we had only the 
 support of a few men, divested of pre- 
 judice, and wearied of the tumult of 
 tlie world. Notwithstanding the merit 
 of the author, and our own talents, 
 the success of the piece was but in- 
 different. The desire of discovering 
 new lights, which might improve my 
 talents, and my habit of endeavour- 
 ing to find a reason for every thing, 
 induced me to explore the causes of a 
 failure which I was at a loss to account 
 for. The result of my inquiry was,. 
 that real love, affection, and genuine 
 purity of manners, were antiquated 
 chimeras, whose very names were a 
 satire upon our modern manners.
 
 207 
 
 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 UPON M. DE LA TOUCHE, and his Tragedy 
 
 OK IPHIGENIE IN TAURIS. 
 
 M. Guymond de la Touche, author 
 of Iphlgenie in Tauris, was my intimate 
 friend. Never can I think of his loss 
 without the most painful regret : but 
 whatever violence I may do my own 
 feelings, I am impelled to make some 
 .observations upon his tragedy; and, by 
 ^ giving some account of the author, 
 interest those who admire him, and 
 inform those who have criticised his 
 work. 
 
 Born of parents who were distin- 
 guished for their piety, M. de la Touche
 
 208 
 
 entered into the society of the Jesuit* 
 at the age of fourteen. Penetrated with 
 the desire of practising his religion, 
 and of instructing himself in whatever 
 was connected with it, and might enable 
 him to support its doctrines, he deter- 
 mined within himself never to leave the 
 convent, but to lead a solitary life, and 
 devote all his hours to the study of 
 theology and history. After fourteen 
 years application, he confessed that his 
 doubts daily increased. He became 
 disgusted with his situation, and quit- 
 ted it. 
 
 Absorbed by the importance of his 
 reflections, removed far from every ob- 
 ject of temptation, his senses enjoyed 
 the most happy tranquillity. He had
 
 soy 
 
 no idea of the world into which he had 
 entered. Our manners and customs 
 equally astonished and intimidated him; 
 and the embarrassment of his deport- 
 ment in his new situation, his reserve, 
 fe^r, and modesty, to which he had ha- 
 bituated himself, induced those who 
 did not know him to believe that he 
 was a man of moderate talents ^ but his 
 scrupulous probity, his frankness and 
 artless manner?, the simplicity of his 
 expressions, and the profundity of his 
 knowledge, distinguished him in the 
 eyes of those who were acquainted with 
 him, and had obtained his confidence, 
 as one of the most interesting characters. 
 The first moments of his liberty were 
 devoted to the public spectacles ; in 
 praise of which he was continually 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 
 
 hearing every one speak, without an- 
 nexing any determinate idea as to the 
 eiFect of them. He was passionately 
 fond of tragedy. My acting pleased 
 him. He composed his Iphigenie with 
 incredible rapidity. The marchioness 
 de Graffigny, at whose house he lived, 
 brought me first acquainted with the 
 author and his work. The modesty of 
 M. de la Touche, his aversion to enco- 
 mium, and the docility with which he 
 adopted the corrections of others, form- 
 ed a contrast to authors in general, which 
 was perfectly new to me. 
 
 I ofered his play to the performers, 
 who, surprised at finding so many beau- 
 ties in a first composition, received it 
 without making the slightest correction.
 
 211 
 
 However, on the day when we were to 
 represent it for the first time, we disco- 
 vered, in the course of the previous re- 
 hearsal, so many defects in the fifth act, 
 that we desired the author to alter the 
 catastrophe, as well as one or two hun- 
 dred verses, assuring him that we would 
 not separate till we had learnt the whole 
 of the alterations he should make. He 
 was near an hour ; the act was entirely 
 altered by the author, and studied by 
 the performers. The curtain rose at half 
 after five, and the piece was received 
 with the most unbounded applause. 
 Such an effort certainly demanded all 
 the zeal, memory, and capacity of the 
 performers -, but what must have been 
 the merit of that man who could ar- 
 range a plot, and compose two hundred 
 p 2
 
 21g 
 
 Tf!kwWt'r&^ fh die c<>WFse of two li ours, 
 surrounded, at the same time, by twenty 
 persons to whom he was dictating, and 
 possessing no knowledge of the theatre> 
 or of the public who was to judge of his 
 production? My reason instructed me 
 to distrust my own weak judgment, and 
 Sie enthusiasm with which friendship 
 inspired me j but, without determ^ining 
 on what M. dc la Touche would one 
 day pFove, I thought 'myself justified in 
 %^lieving that the study of Corneille, 
 Rabinej and Voltaire, had classed his 
 ideas, formed his style, developed that 
 genius he had derived from nature, and 
 thit he merited to be reckoned the next 
 in order after those three great men. 
 
 * His death, as sudden as it was extra-
 
 218 
 
 ordinary, has deprived us of die 8e6on4 
 tragedy on whi,ch he was employedk 
 He entrusted the sub]ect of it to me j! 
 but, diffident of himself, and desiroua 
 of knowing the extent of his talerltjr 
 ht determined not to communicate his 
 work to any of his friends till it should 
 be entirely finished, and then to submit 
 it to their approbation and criticism j- 
 and, according as they should deter- 
 mine, either to pursue or quit the career 
 he had entered upon. This work, it is 
 supposed, he destroyed > at least, it has 
 never been discovered. Iphigenie is all 
 that remains of his genius. It is a task 
 I have imposed upon myself to guide 
 my companions on the stage, to a tho- 
 rough knowledge of those characters 
 which I have performed. The on I 
 P 3
 
 214 
 am now speaking of presents subjects 
 worthy of remark, from the first to the 
 last verse. To understand the author, 
 and perfectly comprehend the character, 
 it is necessary to read and study the work 
 with attention, from beginning to end. 
 I must observe, that the unity of the 
 play gives it an appearance of mono- 
 tonous insipidity, unless the actress, by 
 the varied expression of her counte- 
 nance, and the appropriate flexibility of 
 her voice, renders it gradually animated 
 and interesting. Form a just estimate 
 of your powers and resources ; manage 
 them with address ; evince capacity in 
 the proper distribution of them, and, 
 without remitting your ardour, make 
 them conduct you to the attainment of 
 that perfection which is your object.
 
 215 
 
 Above all things, vary the tw^o different 
 degrees of sorrow w^hich you have to 
 express. Those vs^hich flow from the 
 long continuance of your misfortunes 
 ought to be expressed in all the vehe- 
 mence and bitterness of woe : those 
 which are a tribute to humanity, ought 
 to be tranquil and unempassioned. 
 
 When the captives are released from 
 their chains, in the second act, advance 
 from the bottom of the theatre till you 
 come even with Pylades, who is nearest 
 you ; then stop and survey him with a 
 noble and compassionate air; but in such 
 a manner as not to seem to reproach his 
 misfortune -, then proceed onward, and 
 observe Orestes. I may be allowed to 
 assert, that you will not be able to con - 
 p 4
 
 template him without being sensi- 
 ble of a certain degree of trouble 
 and surprise. Take time to survey 
 liim ; dp not let your eyes quit him ; 
 but, with a low and agitated voice, 
 pronounce, ^e/s traits et quel mairi' 
 iien I ^k^MWA-. 
 
 In the same scene, when you are in- 
 terrogating Orestes, and Pylades is eager 
 Xq answer for him, observe the latter 
 with an air of superiority, mingled with 
 mildness, and, by a sign at once digni- 
 fied and graceful, desire him to be silent 
 and to retire. 
 
 Let all your questions respecting 
 your family be made with the greatest 
 simplicity.
 
 17 
 
 Let only so much of your joy and 
 grief be observable, as the force of na- 
 ture betrays in spite of your efforts to 
 the contrary. The greater your exer- 
 tions are to conceal your tears, the 
 more impressive should be their effect 
 when they do flow. Those seeming 
 trifles are of the utmost importance. I 
 never allowed myself to neglect a sin- 
 gle action or word that could possibly 
 be serviceable to the scene. An ac- 
 tress cannot, by every word she utters, 
 produce a striking and sensible effect ; 
 hut she ought not to use one word 
 without conveying some sort of im- 
 pression. In the course of the piece, 
 Iphigenie appears as a mild, sensible, 
 and humane character : notwithstand- 
 ing the excess of her misfortunes, she
 
 21S 
 
 does not give way to vehement and 
 empassioned complaints, only in the 
 fifth act, when she says, 
 
 Mais de quel-droit ici me commande ta rage ? 
 
 and in the rest of the scene she must 
 xmite all the haughtiness of high birth, 
 all the authoritative dignity she de- 
 rivs from the knowledge of a sacred 
 mystery, and all that confidence and 
 courage which are ever inspired by 
 virtue. 
 
 I requested that no other than my- 
 self should be allowed to act this cha- 
 racter while I remained at the theatre. 
 The sentiments of friendship, by which 
 I was actuated,, made me apprehensive 
 of the indispensable errors of inexpe- 
 rience. I never played it myself with-
 
 219 
 
 out having recourse to new researches. 
 The desire of being deemed to possess 
 great talents made me more uneasy 
 with regard to this character than any 
 other. Since my retreat, 1 have wit- 
 nessed its performance by two dijfferent 
 actresses. The one was dignified, no- 
 ble, and beautiful, but was far from 
 possessing that degree of sensibility 
 which I required : the other was hand- 
 some, but without any distinguishing 
 characteristic ; she displeased me by 
 the distortions of her features, and still 
 more by the indecency of her action 
 and the low familiarity of her utter- 
 ance ', yet did this actress derive from 
 nature a voice capable of conveying the 
 tenderest impression, and of command- 
 ing the tear of sensibihty.
 
 220 
 
 I was persuaded that none went to 
 a tragedy, but for the purpose of raising 
 their imaginations beyond the ordinary 
 pitch of human nature, and, from the, 
 personages of antiquity, to receive les- . 
 sons of nobleness, decency, courage, 
 and grandeur of soul. How inadequate 
 must be the impression, when an actresis^ 
 riepresents the manners of a simple 
 Grisette before those who expect to be- 
 hold a queen \ If you would prove 
 that you possess talent, elevate yourself 
 to the personage you are representing. 
 By placing the character on a level with 
 yourself, you only show your oWn ig- 
 norance.
 
 2QI 
 
 THETWOELECTRES. 
 I think I shall offend none of those 
 who pursue the same career as my^ 
 self, by supposing that they possess as 
 much ignorance, as many defects, and 
 as great a portion of self-love as I did 
 in my youth. 
 
 The applause I received^ the hopes 
 I gave of future celebrity, the compli- 
 ments addressed to me from ail part?, 
 the adulations of those admirers with 
 which I was surrounded, the exaggera- 
 tion of fools, and the jealousy of mV 
 companions, made me think myself the 
 greatest actress that had ever been seei> 
 on the stage. When I heard the names 
 of mesdemoiselles Lecouvreur and Dc 
 Seine, I expressed the same degree of
 
 222 
 
 disdain which those who have succeeded 
 me have expressed when my name has 
 been mentioned. It will always be so : 
 but sooner or latter an actress must 
 learn to know herself, and to correct 
 her errors : the longer we conceal them, 
 the further we are from truth : and 
 it is only by seeking Truth, by dis- 
 covering her, and by following her 
 footsteps, an actress can acquire ta- 
 lents. As the sole object I have in 
 view is that of showing the principles 
 by which I have, been guided in my 
 theatrical pursuits, I trust I shall be 
 excused for citing myself as an exam- 
 ple of too much vanity. 
 
 Mademoiselle Lecouvreur no longer 
 exists : I, therefore, will not call her
 
 merits in question. Mademoiselle dc 
 Seine, who has retired from the stage 
 these ten years, exactly followed the 
 path in which I had trod j and the ap- 
 plauses she bestowed upon me, in the 
 character of Electre, in which she had 
 been pre-eminent, nearly turned my 
 brain, so much did I feel myself gra- 
 tified by them. 
 
 I moved heaven and earth to gain 
 her acquaintance, and induce her to 
 recite part of the verses to me. A 
 common friend to each of us procured 
 me the satisfaction I desired. 
 
 When she entered my room, I ob-. 
 served a woman evidently in the de- 
 cline of life, and f^r from possessing.
 
 3124 
 
 that dignified and commandingappcar-* 
 ance which I expected. Her dress was 
 slovenly and carelessly put on. The 
 sound of her voice, and the manner in 
 which she spoke, would have made me 
 believe, if I had not seen her, that an 
 inexperienced girl was addressing me. 
 My triumph was complete : her re- 
 fusal to recite before me I construed 
 into an avowal of her own inability, 
 and my superiority. At length, she 
 consented to repeat part of the third 
 act of Electre, and I had arranged in 
 my mind a well-turned compliment, 
 which, however unmerited I supposed 
 it would be on her part, I conceived I 
 could not in good manners dispense 
 with. But the air tof dignity she as- 
 sumed when she rose, and ranged the
 
 225 
 chairs, in order to form a sort of the- 
 atre and scenes, the change I observed 
 in her appearance, the moment she pre- 
 pared to speak, produced a total de- 
 rangement of all my ideas. My va- 
 nity v^'as silent ; I felt tears already in 
 my eyes : but v^hen she did speak, the 
 accents of her despair, the deep ex- 
 pression of grief on her countenance, 
 the noble, and, at the same time, natu- 
 ral appearance of her whole deport- 
 ment, penetrated my soul, enlightened 
 it, and made me sensible how very far 
 I was inferior to her. To punish my 
 impertinent presumption, and to cor- 
 rect it in future, I have made a candid 
 avowal of it. 
 
 Emulation is absolutely necessary to 
 
 VOL. I. Q^
 
 226 
 
 an actress: we should never make any 
 progress without it ; but we should stu- 
 diously guard against the errors of va* 
 nity. 
 
 Let us now speak of the two Electrcs 
 who are at present upon the theatre. 
 
 They are both characters of the same 
 description, their relative situations are 
 the same, and the want of proper instruc- 
 tion can alone account for their being per- 
 formed exactly like each other. When 
 I first learnt that of Crebillon, I scarce 
 had read of Agamemnon, his family, or 
 his misfortunes. History Sophocles 
 were equally unknown to me. I mere- 
 ly discovered a princess afflicted by the 
 death cf her father, and desirous of
 
 227 
 the destruction of his assassins. It ap- 
 peared to me easy to pourtray these sen- 
 timents; they are engraved on every 
 honest heart. She was in love; that 
 was easy to describe. Her choice, in- 
 deed, appeared rather beneath her cha- 
 racter ; however, nothing deterred me, 
 .nothing restrained me, and the public 
 thought I played the character pre- 
 cisely as it had been drawn. But 
 when, after a few years' labour and re- 
 flection, I endeavoured to give the part 
 that national characteristic, and distin- 
 guishing feature, which belonged to it, 
 I found myself wholly at a loss ; I could 
 not reconcile to the character those sen- 
 timents of love and vengeance which 
 were painted by the author. To love 
 the son .of her oppressor, the son of
 
 22S 
 the assassin of Agamemnon -, to aban- 
 don herself to a passion which no he- 
 roism, no hope of vengeance could jus- 
 tify, was irreconcileable to my feel- 
 ings ; and Electre appeared to me a de- 
 based and degraded character, a mixture 
 of gold and dross, which it was be- 
 yond my powers to describe. I re- . 
 nounced it, and for ever quitted it 
 from the moment that the Electre of 
 Voltaire appeared; Wh^t a fine cha- 
 racter is this latter !- If I had been com- 
 pelled never to have performed but one 
 upon the stage, this should have been 
 my choice ; not that I do not render to 
 others that tribute of admiration they 
 deserve,* not that I do not derive infi- 
 nite gratification in performing them ; 
 but my partiality and taste for antiqui-
 
 229 
 
 ty, my desire to incorporate into all my 
 characters the manners of the times and 
 countries, when, and in which they ex- 
 isted, have frequently been a source of 
 extreme difficulty to me; and, not- 
 withstanding all my efforts, there are 
 many characters which I must still 
 leave to my cotemporaries, and to 
 France. I have nothing to dissemble, 
 nothing further to add; the only labour 
 required is, that the actress shall ele- 
 vate her soul and her genius to the cha- 
 racter she is to represent. 
 
 Whoever ye may be, who m^ay un- 
 dertake this character, study it, observe 
 it, comprehend its minutest shades and 
 distinctions. Common -rate abilities
 
 230 
 
 are incapable of attempting it. Sacri- 
 fice your habits and your personal af- 
 fections to it ; forget that ye are hand- 
 some; avoid endeavouring to appear 
 so. Employ at your toilets no more of 
 art than will induce the public to be- 
 lieve what they behold is nature with- 
 out art. Let no elegant drapery or fa- 
 shionable adornment destroy that no- 
 ble and affecting picture of distress and 
 sorrow which ye are to represent. 
 
 Electre is supposed to be more than 
 thirty years old. There are some cha- 
 racters, who, at the age of fifteen, are 
 weighed down by misery and grief. 
 I would have depictured on the coun- 
 tenance of her who performs Electre
 
 23 1 
 
 the traces of long-continued sorrow i 
 "her face should be an indication of the 
 tears that have flowed for a long series 
 of years. 
 
 Do not forget that time drains the 
 sources of grief: tears flowing in 
 abundance imply recent misfortunes. 
 It is therefore necessary to discriminate 
 with respect to the cause of them. 
 Electre ought not to shed tears in the 
 two first acts : all that is to be inferred 
 from her cxpressions.is, that she wishes 
 to shed them ; but the consolation they 
 aflbrd to a mind distressed would calm 
 the impetuosity of her character, and, 
 consequently, would weaken it. In or- 
 der that I might seem as if a tear was
 
 23i2 
 
 ready to start from my eye, I have had 
 recourse to that peculiar tone of voice 
 which is expressive of distress, and, 
 at the same time, that kind of contrac- 
 tion of the stomach vv'hich produced 
 a tremulousness of the nerves and dif- 
 ficulty of respiration, which indicated 
 the agitation of my soul. These me- 
 thods are .as destructive to our health 
 S.5 they are useful to the acquirement 
 of talent. I know, and feel the truth 
 of what I assert; but in whatever situa- 
 tion I may be placed, and however I 
 may value existence, I would sacrifice 
 every thing to glory. 
 
 The scene where the urn is intro- 
 duced requires abundance of tears ; it 
 is a new misfortune, and forms the
 
 235 
 completion of those which preceded it ; 
 it forces every barrier. But let those 
 tears you shed seem as if they came 
 from the bottom of your soulj and, 
 without employing exclamations or ve- 
 hemence, let them appear as much the 
 effect of real grief as possible. In the 
 fourth act, where it is said, 
 
 Mon sort, a vos destins, n'est il pas asservi ? &c. 
 
 appear to be gradually penetrated with 
 that mild and consolotary affliction 
 which a pure and undisguised passion 
 frequently imparts. 
 
 Remember, in particular, that true 
 grandeur has simplicity for its basis; 
 that great characters, great misfor- 
 tunes, and difHcult situations, require a 
 commanding countenance, an expressive 
 
 VOL, I. R
 
 234 
 voice, and a dignified deportment. Act 
 as I have done ; and if you cannot attain 
 perfection, endeavour, as far as lays in 
 your povsrer, to advance towards itj an4 
 prove to the public, if you should fail, 
 that it is not for want of study, atten? 
 tion, and perseverance. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Frinied by S. Hamilton, 
 
 Falcon-Courty Fleet-Street^ Ltinden,
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 305 De Neve Drive - Parlting Lot 17 Box 951388 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library from whicti It was borrowed. 
 
 NOV 1 ZOOi
 
 PN2o38. C':>2^2V: 180") 1 
 
 A A 000 031958 2
 
 :h,:- 
 
 
 
 M 
 
 uni 
 
 'if 
 
 
 AS