This proves yet once again the extent to which Delsarte possessed that charming simplicity so well suited to all distinction.

In the dissertations upon religious subjects incessantly renewed about Delsarte, it was sometimes declared that “great sinners were surer of salvation than the most perfect unbelievers in the world.”

A young man, who doubtless felt himself to be in the first category, once said to the master: 

“My friend, the good God has been too kind to me!  I disobey him, I offend against his laws....  I repent, and he accepts my prayer!  I relapse into sin—­and he forgives me!  Decidedly, the good God is a very poltroon!”

This seems to exceed the unrestrained ease and confidence usual toward an earthly father; but we must not forget that the inflection modifies the meaning of a phrase, and that poltroon may mean adorable.

This penitent, now famous, carried his provocation of the inexhaustible goodness very far.  At one time in his life he tried to blow out his brains!  By a mere chance—­he probably said, by a miracle,—­the wound was not mortal; but he always retained the accusing scar.  I never knew whether this unpleasant adventure preceded or followed Mr. L.’s conversion, or whether it was coincident with one of the relapses of which that repentant sinner accused himself.

Another very religious friend was no less fragile in the observance of his firm vow.  Becoming a widower, he swore eternal fidelity to the “departed angel.”  Soon after, he was seen with another wife on his arm!

“And your angel?” whispered a sceptic in his ear.

“Oh, my friend!” was the reply, “this one is an archangel.”

Another figure haunted Delsarte and afforded yet another proof of his tolerance.  The Italian, C——­, shared neither his political ideas nor his religious beliefs; he was one of those refugees whom the defeats of the Carbonari have cast upon our soil, and whose necessities France—­does our neighbor remember this?—­for years supplied, as if they were her own children.  However, she could offer them but a precarious living.

Signer C., to give some charm to his wretched existence, desired to add to his scanty budget a strong dose of hope and intellectual enjoyment:  hope in—­what came later—­the independence and unity of Italy.  By way of diversion, this stranger gratified himself by indulging in a whim; he had dreams of a panacea, a plant whose complex virtues should combat all the evils which fall to the lot of poor humanity; but this marvel must be sought in America.  And how was he to get there, when he could barely scrape together the necessary five cents to ride in an omnibus!  The Isabellas of our day do not build ships for every new Columbus who desires to endow the world with some wonderful treasure trove!  And yet this man was not mad; he was one of those who prove how many insane ideas a brain may cherish, without being entitled to a cell in Bedlam or Charenton.