red by mercy, I recollect that Delsarte,
after a great success, was once complimented by the singer P., whose
popularity far exceeded that of the "lyric Talma."

"And yet you have given me lessons," said Delsarte, emphasizing the word
_yet_. Well! in such circumstances Delsarte showed neither the pride nor
the malicious spirit which might be imputed to him; his mind seized a
contrast which amused him, and his face interpreted it, but his voice
remained soft and friendly; for, in spite of his biting wit and cutting
phrases, his feelings were easily touched and his heart was truly rich
in sympathy.

Delsarte sang a great deal during his lessons; and perhaps he gained,
from the point of view of the voice, by confining himself to fragments;
seizing the opportune moment, and his voice not having had time to be
tired, he could give, for a relatively long space, the clear, ringing
tones necessary for brilliant pieces. Then his vocalization--which has
only a mechanical value with most singers--became sobs, satanic
laughter, delirium, and terror.

Then, too, thanks to proximity, the most delicate tones could be heard
to the extreme limits of the _smorzando_, still preserving that slightly
veiled timbre unique in its charm, the mysterious interpreter of
infinite sweetness and unspeakable tenderness.

One might perhaps have made a complete analysis of Delsarte from hearing
him sing some dramatic song, but let him give Eleazar's air from "The
Jewess:"

"Rachel, when the Lord,"

or that of Joseph:

"Paternal fields, Hebron, sweet vale,--"

let the artist give this in a quiet style, as putting a mute upon his
voice, and the observer forgot his part; he followed the entrancing
melody as far as it would lead him into the realms of the ineffable
whence he returned with the fascination of memory and the sorrow of
exile.

Let no one cry that this is hyperbole! One of the most remarkable
accompanists in Paris, an attache of the Opera Comique, M. Bazile, was
once so overcome by emotion in accompanying Delsarte that for some
seconds the piano failed to do its duty.

I might recount numberless proofs of admiration equal to mine. One
evening, at a lecture, the lesson turned upon a song from "William
Tell:"

"Be motionless, and to the ground
Incline a suppliant knee."

For stage effect, Delsarte called in one of his children, about eight or
nine years old.

The subject is well known: William has been condemned