He discards
sentiments, ideas, characters, dialogue, probability, intellectual
delicacy, everything which raises man above wood or stone. He would be
the very first writer of the age, if the world would agree to suppress
everything like heart and soul. He is never more at ease than when he
has to report a piece whose literary beauties are its splendid scenery
and costumes. He will dismiss the subject, the plot, the characters, and
the details in five lines; while fifteen columns will not suffice for
all the wonders of the decorations. If you ask him to send you to some
person most familiar with contemporary dramatic art, instead of sending
you to Alexandre Dumas, the elder or the younger, to Ponsard, or to
Augier, he will send you to the celebrated scene-painters, to Ciceri or
Sechan or Cambon. As for Monsieur Jules Janin, of whom I am very fond,
he is--You have sometimes been to concerts where virtuosos play
variations on the sextuor of "Lucie," or the trio of "William Tell," or
the duet of "Les Huguenots"? You listen attentively, and do at first
detect a phrase here and a phrase there which vaguely recall the work of
Donizetti, or of Rossini, or of Meyerbeer; but in an instant the
virtuoso himself forgets all about them.
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