It was like a badly patched coat which shows the old cloth in one place and the new in another.
Afterwards I saw _Armide_ treated in another way.
Did you ever happen to cherish the memory of a delightful and picturesque city, where everything made a harmonious whole, where the beautiful walks were arched over by old trees--and later come back to it to find it embellished, the trees cut down, the walks replaced by enormous buildings which dwarfed into insignificance the ancient marvels which gave the city its charm?
This was the case with me when I saw _Armide_ again in a city which I shall not name.

The opera had been judged superannuated and had been "improved." A young composer had written a new score in which he inserted here and there such bits of Gluck as he thought worthy of being preserved.

A costly and magnificently imbecile luxuriousness set off the whole piece.

I may be pardoned the cruel adjective when I say that in the scene of Hate, so deeply inspired, and which takes place in a sort of cave, they relegated the chorus to the wings to make a place for dragons, fantastic birds beating their wings, and other deviltries.
This, of course, deprived the chorus of all its power and distinction.
But the best was at the end of the second act.

The forest with its trees, grass and rocks entirely disappeared in the flies taking Renaud and Armide with it and the spectator was left, for some unknown reason, looking at a background surrounded by mountains.