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, Delsarte has imparted all the minutiae of his science.  To this gentleman was assigned the honor of opening the seance by a brief exposition of the system, and of closing it by reciting in French a brilliant tragic monologue, the effect of which, in spite of the absence of appropriate costume and scenic illusion, electrified the audience.  In this scene, “Les Terreurs de Thoas,” those rapidly changing expressions of the features, those statuesque attitudes melting into each other, which we all remember in Rachel, indicated a common origin.  It needed not the added eloquence of words and the sombre music of the voice to tell the tragic story of the victim of the Eumenides.  After listening to the recitation, I was not surprised to learn that the young student was to appear, under the auspices of his teacher, at the Theatre Francais, during the approaching winter,—­an honor never before conceded to any foreigner.  The large American colony in Paris was looking forward to this debut with a natural pride, and Delsarte with the calm assurance of his favorite’s triumph.  Alas! we all reckoned without taking King William, the Crown Prince, the Fed Prince, von Moltke, and von Bismarck into our account.  We never fancied, on that bright July morning, that Krupp of Essen’s cannon and the needle-gun were soon to give laws to Paris.  But inter arma silent artes as well as leges.  Nearer and deadlier tragedies than those of Corneille and Racine were soon to be enacted; and the poor players were summoned to perform their parts upon no mimic stage.  However, “what though the field be lost? all is not lost.”  The venue, to borrow a legal phrase, has been changed, but the cause has not been abandoned.  Our young countryman has returned to his native land, bringing with him the fruits of his long studies, to appeal to an American audience, and it is quite possible that his teacher may be induced to transfer his school of art to the United States.