t was not until last summer, and then under peculiarly impressive
circumstances, that I saw, for the first time, a remarkable man whose
name is indissolubly associated with French art--Francois Delsarte, of
Paris. My curiosity had been deeply excited by what I had heard of him.
I was told that, after long years of patient toil and profound thought,
his genius had discovered and developed a scientific basis for
histrionic art, that he had substituted law for empiricism in the domain
of the most potential of the fine arts; and when the names of Rachel and
Macready were quoted in his list of pupils, I was eager to behold the
master and to learn something of the system which has yielded such
fruits to the modern stage.

The kindness of a friend procured me the rare privilege of admission to
the last session of Delsarte's course, which closed in July. It was on
one of those weary summer days when the hush of expectation, following
the fierce excitement caused by the declaration of war, had eclipsed the
gayety of Paris.

The notes of the Marseillaise had ceased to stir the blood like the
sound of a trumpet. The glare and glitter of French chivalry, which had
masked the feebleness of the Imperial military system, had vanished. The
superb Cent Gardes, the brilliant lancers, the savage Turcos, and the
dashing Spahis had been replaced by the coarsely clad troops of the
line. It was "grim-visaged war" and not its pageantry that we beheld;
heavy guns rumbling slowly across the Place de la Concorde; dark masses
of men moving like shadows on their funeral march to the perilous edge
of battle. It was a relief to exchange these sad scenes for that quiet
interior of the Boulevard de Courcelles, where a little group of persons
devoted to aesthetic culture were gathered around their teacher, perhaps
for the last time.

The personal appearance of Delsarte is impressive. Years have not
deprived his massive form of its vigor, nor dimmed the fire of his eye.
His head is cast in a Roman mould; indeed, the fine medallion likeness
executed by his daughter might well pass for an antique in the eyes of a
stranger. In his personal bearing there is nothing of that
self-assertion, that posing, which is a common defect of his
distinguished countrymen.

The pupils whom I met were ladies, with the single exception of a young
American, Mr. James S. MacKaye, to whom, as his favorite disciple and
one designated to succeed him in his profession, Delsart