ity,
than by merely seeing a succession of lively steps, and
cabriols, however well executed; which, in point of merit, bear
no more proportion to that of a well-composed dance, than a
tiresome repetition of vignettes, of head-pieces and
tail-pieces, would do to the gravings of historical pieces after
a Raphael, a Michael Angelo, or a Correggio.

As hitherto the composer of the dances of action, have not been
able to recover that height of perfection to which the antient
pantomimes carried their art; the most that any composers could
do, I mean with success, (for there have been some attempts
made, that, for want of a proper plan and execution, failed,)
was to furnish certain dances, in the nature of _poemetti_ or
small dramatic poems, which, where the subject of action has
been clearly and intelligibly executed, have ever been received
with the most encouraging applause by the public.

And here the ingenious author to whom I am so much obliged in
this chapter, furnishes me with rules of composition for the
dances of action, which can hardly be too much recommended.

All theatrical compositions ought to have three essential parts.

By a lively dialogue, in a piece made to be spoken, or by an
incident dextrously introduced in one made for a dance in
action, the spectator is to be prepared for the subject that is
to be represented, and to have some acquaintance of the
character, quality, and manners of the persons of the drama:
this is what is called _the exposition_.

The circumstances, the obstacles which arise out of the
ground-work of the subject, embroil it, and retard its march
without stopping it. A sort of embarrasment forms itself out of
the actions of the characters, which perplexes the curiosity of
the spectators, from whose even guess-work, the manner how all
is to be ultimately unravelled is to be kept as great a secret
as possible: and this embarrasment is what is called _the plot_.

From this embarrasment, one sees successively break forth
lights, the more unexpected, the better. They unfold the action,
and conduct it by insensible degrees to an ingenious conclusion:
this is what is called _the unravelment_.

If any of these three parts is defective, the theatrical merit
is imperfect. If they are all three in due proportion, the
action is complete, and the charm of the representation is
infallible.

As the theatrical dance then is a representation, it must be
formed of these three essentially c