In these first struggles with knowledge—­we cannot call it science yet,—­instead of bowing to the method of some master, Delsarte made a method for himself.  Had it any resemblance to that which—­with the progress of time,—­his genius revealed to him?  I cannot say, and probably the thought never occurred to him.  However it may be, Delsarte said that he learned a great deal by this autonomic process:  in fact, one who is restrained by nothing, who satisfies a passion instead of accomplishing a mere act of obedience, may enlarge his horizon and dig to whatever depth he sees fit.  In this case, study is called research; if, by this method, one loses the benefit of the experience of others, he becomes more quick at discovery.  Is not the puzzle which we work out for ourselves more readily remembered than the ideas which are merely learned by heart?

A wise man, a disciple of Socrates—­who has been greatly ridiculed, but by whose lessons the science of pedagogy has greatly profited,—­Jacotot, gave similar advice to teachers:  “Put your questions, but let the scholar think and work out his answers instead of putting them into his mouth.”

The talent of young Francois once established, he left the inhospitable house where he had been so misunderstood, and was taken into the family of an old musician, “Father Bambini,” as Delsarte loved to call him.

Here, finding it in the order of facts, I must repeat almost literally a page from the little work quoted before.

Father Bambini was one of those old-fashioned masters, who treat their art with love and veneration.  He gave concerts at which he was at once performer and audience, judge and client.  Delsarte was sometimes present.  He saw the good man take up a Gluck score as one handles a sacred book; he surprised him pressing it to his heart, or to his head, as if to win a blessing from the great soul which poured itself forth in these immortal compositions.

Here we most assuredly have the foundation of the unlimited admiration which our great artist felt for the author of “Alcestis” and of “Iphigenia.”  Everyone knows that it was Delsarte who drew Gluck from the oblivion in which he had languished since the beginning of the century.  Delsarte alone could have revived him, his assured and majestic talent being amply capable of correctly interpreting those colossal works.  Delsarte is the equivalent of Gluck, and, if we may say so, the incarnation of his thought.  When the artist sang a part in those lyric tragedies of which Gretry says:  “They are the very expression of truth,” it seemed as if the illustrious chevalier lived again in him to win better comprehension than ever before and to be avenged at last for all the injustice and bad taste from which he had suffered.