I remember that a young girl gave rise to one of these striking imitations.  Delsarte put such an irresistible comedy into it, that the audience was seized with an uncontrolable fit of mirth.  The master’s mimicry had far more to do with this than the poor girl’s awkwardness.  But she did not understand this.  Her heart sank at this harsh merriment and tears rushed to her eyes.

“What is the matter,” asked Delsarte; “why are you so disturbed?  Among the persons whose laughter you hear, I do not think there is one who sings as well as you do!  I exaggerated your mistake to make you aware of it; but you did your work in a way that was very satisfactory to all but your teacher.”

Speaking of this irony tempered 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:”