ighboring milk-woman, whom he held,
he said, "in great esteem and friendship."

I return to his teaching. His lectures were given in Rue Lamartine and
Rue de la Pepiniere. There was always--aside from the school--an
audience made up of certain never failing followers and of a floating
population. The birds of passage sometimes came with a very distinct
intention to criticise; but if they did not readily understand the
learned deductions, they went away fascinated by what the professor had
shown them of his brilliant changes into every type of the repertory
which he held up as a model. Enthusiasm soon triumphed over prejudice.
Envy, alone, persisted in hostility.

These meetings were genuine artistic feasts. They were held at night, at
the same hour as the theatres, and no play was preferable to them in the
eyes of the truly initiated. They were a transcendent manifestation of
all that is most elevated, which art can produce.

Here is an extract from a newspaper, which I find among the notes sent
me:

"I heard him repeat, one evening, 'Iphigenia's Dream,' at the request of
his audience. All were held trembling, breathless by that worn and yet
sovereign voice. We were amazed to find ourselves yielding to such a
spell; there was no splendor and no theatric illusion. _Iphigenia_ was a
teacher in a black frock coat; the orchestra was a piano striking, here
and there, an unexpected modulation; this was all the illusion--and the
hall was silent, every heart throbbed, tears flowed from every eye. And
then, when the tale was told, cries of enthusiasm arose, as if
_Iphigenia_, in person, had told us her terrors."

These lines are signed "Laurentius." I am very glad to come across them
just as I am giving vent to my own feelings. I also find that Adolphe
Gueroult, in his paper, the "Press," calls Delsarte _the matchless
artist_, and recognizes _a law_ in his aesthetic discoveries. I shall
have occasion to set down, as opportunity offers, a string of
testimonies no less flattering and no less sincere; but I hasten to
produce these specimens, lest the suspicion of infatuation follow me.

How was it that amidst such warm plaudits, Delsarte failed to win that
popularity which, after all, is the supreme sanction? It must be
acknowledged that he took no great pains to gain the place which was his
due. If he loved glory like the true artist that he was, "he never tired
himself in its pursuit." Perhaps he had an instinctive feeling