Let us add that the application of passional trueness depends upon a thousand conditions of rhythm and harmony, to analyze which would lead us much too far.  The artist must make use of it according to his aptitudes and his tendencies, for he must preserve his individuality.  He must learn by observation and the study of his own faculties to apply theoretical rules founded upon natural laws.

Practical trueness, while it allows us to depart from legitimate trueness, has strong analogies with the tempo rubato.  The tempo rubato, which Delsarte employed in a remarkable and striking way in dramatic passages, actually permits the musician, in certain cases and in the desired proportion, to change the value of the notes while respecting the principle of time, which is invariable.  But the application of these rules is subject to the emotional intensity; it is, therefore, impossible to determine theoretically and absolutely its various bearings.

Delsarte.

[From the Atlantic Monthly for May, 1871, by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.]

By Francis A. Durivage.

It 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  The superb Cent Gardes, the brilliant lancers, the savage Turcos, and the dashing Spahis had been replaced by the coarsely clad troops of the line.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.