o profane,
he kept out of sight; but so soon as the word _God_ was pronounced or a
religious thought was mingled with a romance, or operatic aria, the
servant of the altar appeared boldly, rejoiced at these brief harvests
which allowed him to enjoy the whole picture.

To give a correct idea of one of these evenings, I will copy an account
which I have just written under the heading of "Recent Memories."

By half-past eight, almost all the guests have assembled. A stir is
heard in the next room. "He is coming ... it is he!" is whispered on
every hand. The master enters, followed by his pupils. Almost at the
same instant a young woman glides up to the piano. She is to accompany
the singers; she enters furtively, timidly, as if she were not the
mistress of the house. She is beautiful, but she does not wish this to
be noticed; she has much talent, but she disguises it by her calm and
severe style of playing, which does not prevent critical ears from
noting her exactitude and precision, combined with that rare spirit of
abnegation which is the accompanist's supreme virtue.

Delsarte takes his place by the piano; his attentive gaze traverses the
assembly; he exchanges a smile, a friendly gesture with certain of the
audience who are always much envied. At this moment he is grave,
serious, and as it were, penetrated by his responsibility to an audience
who hang devoutly on his lips.

The professor begins by developing some point in his system; he gives
the law of pose or of gesture; the reasons for accent, rhythm or some
other detail connected with the synthesis which he has evolved. He
questions his scholars.

The first notes of the piano serve to mark the change to practical
instruction. The pupils sing in turn. The master listens with the
concentrated attention peculiar to him; the expression of his face
explains the nature of the remarks he is about to make, even before he
utters them. He points out mistakes, he illustrates them.

Little by little, however, his dramatic genius is aroused. Achilles
seems to seize his weapons or Agamemnon his sceptre. The scholar is
pushed aside, Delsarte takes his place.

Then the artist is seen to the utmost advantage. There, dressed in the
vast, shapeless coat which drapes itself about him as he gesticulates,
his neck free from the cravat which puts modern Europeans in the
pillory, and allowing himself greater space than at his concerts--there,
and there alone, is Delsarte wholly h