Delsarte System of Oratory

Trueness in Singing.

Notes of a Lecture by Delsarte, Taken by His Pupil A. Giraudet, of The National Academy of Music, Paris.

By a most reasonable deduction derived from his admirable principles, Delsarte reckoned three modes or degrees of correct singing:

1. Absolute trueness;
2. Temperate trueness;
3. Passional trueness.

Absolute trueness is that adopted by theorists, who divide the gamut into five notes and two semi-notes; the note into nine commas, or shades of tone; the chromatic semi-tone into five, and the diatonic semi-tone into four.

Thus from C to C# they count five shades of tone; whereas from C to Db they count but four. Likewise, from D to Db they count five shades of tone, and from D to C# but four.

The difference of a comma between the D flat and the C sharp, seemingly a very slight difference, is, nevertheless, most important in singing, as we shall see later on. But performers, to simplify our musical system, have divided this comma into two, making synonymous notes of D flat and C sharp; that is to say, notes having the same sound. The note is, therefore, practically divided into two semitones of four commas and a half. This is what is known as moderation or temperate trueness.

Temperate trueness is defective from many points of view. This is the universal opinion, but we are forced to accept this method by the absolute impossibility of any improvement, especially with the key-board instruments now in vogue; and it must be accepted until some new invention shall revolutionize the piano by modulating its tones, a transformation which would give that instrument not only the musical design, but also the color and warmth which it now lacks.

Let us pass to passional trueness, leaving science to enter the domain of art. "Passional trueness," said Delsarte, "consists in giving each semitone three, four, five, six, or even seven commas, according to its tendency." As we see, the precept is daring, and an inattentive scholar would only have to forget the last words of the definition to make people say that the great master of lyric art taught his pupils to sing false.

Every rule has its reason and its consequences. St. Augustine, who knew the Beautiful, of which art is only the expression, and who could explain it well, has given us a brief but admirable definition of music: "Music is a succession of sounds each calling forth the other." Simple yet profound words! The sounds call each other forth, desire and mutually attract each other, and in every age this attraction has been so clearly evident, that the seventh note in the scale, when it meets the others each of which has its particular name relating to its particular function, tonic, dominant, etc., is simply called the sensitive note, from its tendency to pass into the atonic.

Passional trueness is based upon this tendency of the notes to pass into those which succeed them, and upon this reciprocal attraction of sounds. Thus, notes, which have a tendency toward the acute or shrill, may be raised two commas or more above temperate trueness. Notes which have a tendency toward the grave may be lowered in the same proportion. (Example, taken from "The Prophet," by Meyerbeer.)

Here, the B may be but two commas distant from the C; and in the second example given, the A flat may also be but two commas removed from the G, and this change far from producing a disagreeable effect upon the ear, will make a most striking impression and the accent will be far more dramatic than before. Try the reverse, that is, divide the interval B sharp-C into seven commas on the semitones A flat-G; it will be unendurable. Whence we may deduce the fact that to sing false is to sing above or below a note in the inverse direction to its attraction.

Delsarte, in his definition, speaks only of the semitone, and we ourselves give examples of that sort of attraction only; but it does not follow that the other intervals are not equally subject to the same law. Their attraction may not be shown by the same effects.

The master added, in speaking of trueness in singing: "The triad is the breathing-place of the tonality; the notes composing it should be absolutely true. They are the singer's invariable and necessary law. They characterize repose. Their office is that of attraction, and they can only be attracted mutually, with the exception of the tonic, which is the centre of attraction not only for various notes, but for the phrase and the entire composition."

Delsarte was very severe in regard to those who sang false; but to sing true was not, to his thinking, a good quality. He said, on this point, that no one would compliment an architect because he had built a house in accordance with geometrical rules. Whence he concluded that trueness is the least of good qualities, and the lack of it the greatest of vices, and he added in regard to style: "The most important quality is expression, and a lack of expression is the least of vices."

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--François 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 æsthetic culture were gathered around their teacher, perhaps for the last time.

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 séance 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 Théâtre Français, during the approaching winter,--an honor never before conceded to any foreigner. The large American colony in Paris was looking forward to this début 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.

Although at this séance Delsarte appeared disposed to efface himself in favor of his brilliant representative, he kindly consented to speak a few words (and what a charming French lesson was his causerie!) and to present a specimen of his pantomimic powers. The latter exhibition was really surprising. He depicted the various passions and emotions of the human soul, by means of expression and gesture only, without uttering a single syllable; moving the spectators to tears, exciting them to enthusiasm, or thrilling them with terror at his will; in a word, completely magnetizing them. Not a discord in his diatonic scale. You were forced to admit that every gesture, every movement of a facial muscle, had a true purpose, a raison d'être. It was a triumphant demonstration.

The life of this great master and teacher, hereafter to be known as the founder of the Science of Dramatic Art, crowded with strange vicissitudes and romantic episodes, forms a record full of interest.

François Delsarte was born at Solesmes, Department of the North, France, in 1811. His father was a physician, and his mother a woman of rare abilities, who taught herself to speak and write several languages.

Shortly after the battle of Waterloo a detachment of the allied troops was passing through Solesmes, in the midst of a dead and sullen silence, when the commandant's quick ear caught the sound of a childish voice crying, "Vive l'Em-pe-weur! Vive Na-po-lé-on!" Every one smiled at the juvenile speaker's audacity, except the stern officer whose name has, unfortunately, escaped the infamous celebrity it deserved. By his orders, a platoon of soldiers sought out the child's home and burned it to the ground; and thus little François Delsarte became the innocent cause of the ruin of his family.

The atrocities committed during the White Terror, of which this incident is an example, though passed over by history, are not forgotten by the survivors of that cruel period. The leaders in the second terror could not plead the ignorance of Robespierre's followers in excuse of their excesses, for they were nobles, magistrates, priests and officers of rank.

Delsarte's early years were passed in the midst of cruel privations and domestic troubles, for even love forsook a home blighted by poverty. His father, naturally proud and imperious, irritated by straitened circumstances, out of which there seemed no issue, crushed by the weight of obligations to others, lost heart and hope, became morose, sceptical and bitter, and treated his wife and family with such harshness and injustice, that Delsarte's mother was finally compelled to abandon her husband. She fled with her two boys to Paris, hoping there to make her talents available. All her efforts, however, were fruitless, and she found herself on the verge of starvation.

One evening, as she sat with her two boys in her wretched room, tortured by their questions after their father, she could not suppress her tears. François, the eldest, then nine years of age, tried to console her. He told her that he was almost a man, able to earn his food and to take care of her and his little brother. She listened to his prattle with a sad smile, kissed him and embraced him.

During all of the sleepless night which followed, François was revolving his hidden projects of independence, and at gray dawn, confiding his purpose only to his brother, and bidding him tell his mother, when she awoke, that he would soon be back with money to buy bread for them, the child stole forth to seek his fortune in the great dreary world of Paris.

He wandered about all day, and at night, hungry and weary, entered a jeweler's shop in the Palais Royal, kept by an old woman, to whom he appealed for employment--vainly at first. Finally, however, she consented to engage him as a drudge and errand boy, allowed him to sleep in an armoire over the door, and gave him four pounds of bread a week in lieu of wages. Four pounds of bread a week! The allowance appeared munificent, and he accepted the offer with gratitude. A brief experience dispelled his illusions. He was always weary and always hungry. After a few weeks' trial, he left his first benefactress and secured some kind of employment at five sous a day, out of which he contrived to save two. In two weeks he had saved nearly a franc and a half for his dear mother. One day, while executing a commission for his employer, he found his little brother alone in the street crying bitterly.

"How is dear mamma?" was his first question.

"Dead, and carried away by ugly men."

The winter of 1821 was unusually severe for Paris. One night Delsarte and his brother fell asleep in each other's arms in the wretched loft they occupied; but when the former opened his eyes to the morning's light he was holding a corpse to his heart. The little boy had perished of cold and starvation. Almost mad with terror and grief, the survivor rushed into the streets to summon the neighbors.

The next day a little hatless boy, in rags and nearly barefooted, followed two men bearing a small pine coffin which they deposited in the fosse commune of Pére la Chaise.

After seeing the grave covered, Delsarte left the cemetery and wandered wearily through the snow, now utterly alone in the world, across the plain of St. Denis. Overcome by cold, hunger, and grief, he sank to the ground, and then, before he lost consciousness, a strain of music, real or imaginary, met his ear and charmed him to a forgetfulness of misery, bereavement, all the evils that environed him. It was the first awakening of his artist soul, and to this day Delsarte believes that it was no earthly music that he heard.

Rousing himself from a sort of stupor into which he had fallen, he saw a chiffonnier bending over him. The man had for a moment mistaken the prostrate form for a bundle of rags; but taking pity on the half-frozen lad, he placed him in his basket and carried him to his miserable home. And so the future artist commenced his professional career as a Parisian rag-picker.

While wandering about the great city in the interest of his employer, his only solace was to listen to the songs of itinerant vocalists and the occasional music of a military band. Music became his passion. From some of the gamins he learned the seven notes of the scale, and, to preserve the melodies that delighted him, he invented a system of musical notation. On a certain holiday, when he was twelve years old, while listening to the delightful music in the garden of the Tuileries, the little chiffonnier busied himself with drawing figures in the dust. An old man of eccentric appearance, noticing his earnest diligence, accosted him.

"What are you doing there, boy?" he asked.

Terrified at first, but reassured by the kind manner of the stranger, Delsarte replied: "Writing down the music, sir."

"Do you mean to say those marks have any significance? That you can read them?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Let me hear you."

Encouraged by the interest manifested in him, the lad sang in a sweet and pure but sad voice the strains just played by the military band. The old man was amazed.

"Who taught you this process?"

"Nobody, sir; found it out myself."

Bambini--for it was the then distinguished, but now almost forgotten, professor--offered to take the boy home with him; and he who had entered the garden of the Tuileries a rag-picker, left it a recognized musician. In the dust of Paris were first written the elements of a system destined to regenerate art. Bambini taught his protégé all he knew, but the pupil soon surpassed the master and became his instructor in turn; for if the one had talent, the other possessed genius.

Bambini predicted the future of Delsarte. One day when they were walking arm-in-arm in the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, the former said: "Do you see all those people in carriages, with their fine liveries and magnificent clothes? Well, the day will come when they will only be too happy to listen to you, proud of your presence in their salons, envying your fame as a great artist."

Bambini's death left Delsarte poor and friendless. At fourteen, however, he managed to get admitted into the Conservatoire, where, though he labored hard, he met with harsh treatment and discouragement. The professors disliked him for his reflective nature and persistent questionings which brought to light the superficiality of their acquirements; his fellow-pupils, for his exclusive devotion to study and his reserve, the result of diffidence rather than of hauteur. His professors were dictators, who, while differing from each other as teachers, were yet united in frowning upon any attempt on the part of their pupil to emancipate himself from the thraldom of conventionalism and routine. Genius was a heresy for which they had no mercy.

Thrown upon his own resources, he soon developed, by careful observation of nature and a constant study of cause and effect, a system and a style radically differing from those of the professors and their servile imitators.

One day, after having sung in his own style at one of the public exhibitions--applauded, however, only by a single auditor,--he was walking sadly and slowly in the court-yard of the Conservatoire, when a lady and a gentleman approached him.

"Courage, my friend," said the lady. "Your singing has given me the highest pleasure. You will be a great artist."

So spake Marie Malibran, the queen of song.

"My friend," said her companion, "It was I who applauded you just now. In my opinion, you are a singer hors de ligne. When my children are ready to learn music, you, above all others, shall be their professor."

These were the words of Adolphe Nourrit. The praises of Malibran and Nourrit gave Delsarte courage, revived his hopes, and decided him to follow implicitly the promptings of his genius. His extreme poverty compelled him at last to apply to the Conservatoire for a diploma which would enable him to secure a situation at one of the lyric theatres. It was refused.

The autumn of 1829 found him a shabby, almost ragged applicant for employment at the stage-door of the Opéra Comique. Repeated rebuffs failed to baffle his desperate pertinacity.

One day the director, hearing of the annoyance to which his subordinates were subjected by Delsarte, determined to abate the nuisance by one of those cruel coups-de-main of which Frenchmen are pre-eminently capable. The next night, during the performance, when Delsarte called, he was, to his surprise and delight, shown into the great man's presence.

"Well, sir, what do you want?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, I came to seek a place at your theatre."

"There is but one vacant, and you don't seem capable of filling that. I want only a call-boy."

"Sir, I am prepared to fill the position of a premier sujet among your singers."

"Imbécile!"

"Monsieur, if my clothes are poor, my art is genuine."

"Well, sir, if you will sing for me, I will hear you shortly."

He left Delsarte alone, overjoyed at having secured the manager's ear. In a few moments a surly fellow told him he was wanted below, and he soon found himself with the manager upon the stage behind the green curtain.

"You are to sing here," said the director. "There is your piano. In one moment the curtain will be rung up. I am tired of your importunities. I give you one chance to show the stuff you're made of. If you discard this opportunity, the next time you show your face at my door you shall be arrested and imprisoned as a vagrant."

The indignation excited in Delsarte by this cruel trick instantly gave way before the reflection that success was a matter of life and death with him, and that perhaps his last chance lay within his grasp. He forgot his rags; every nerve became iron; and when the curtain was rung up, a beggar with the bearing of a prince advanced to the foot-lights, was received with derisive laughter by some, with glances of surprise and indignation by others, and, with a sad and patient smile on his countenance, gracefully saluted the brilliant audience. The courtliness of his manner disarmed hostility; but when he sat down to the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, and sang a few bars, the exquisite voice found its way to every heart. With every moment his voice became more powerful. Each gradation of emotion was rendered with an ease, an art, an expression, that made every heartstring vibrate. Then he suddenly stopped, bowed, and retired. The house rang with bravos. The dress-circle forgot its reticence and joined in the tumult of applause. He was recalled. This time he sang a grand lyric composition with the full volume of his voice, aided in effect by those imperial gestures of which he had already discovered the secret. The audience were electrified. They declared that Talma was resuscitated. But when he was a second time recalled, his tragic mood had melted; there were "tears in his voice" as well as on his cheeks.

After the fall of the curtain the director grasped his hand, loaded him with compliments, and offered him an engagement for a year at a salary of ten thousand francs. He went home to occupy his wretched attic for the last time, and falling on his knees poured forth his soul in prayer.

The next day Delsarte, neatly dressed, paid a visit to the directors of the Conservatoire.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you would not give me a recommendation as a chorister; the public have accorded me this." And he displayed his commission as Comédien du Roi.

Delsarte remained upon the lyric stage until 1834, when the failure of his voice, which had been strained at the Conservatoire, compelled him to retire. He continued, however, the study of music, and his productions, particularly a "Dies Irae," placed him in the front rank of composers. At this period of his life, meditation and study resulted in a firm religious faith, which never wavered afterward.

He now applied himself to the task of establishing a scientific basis for lyric and dramatic art, and after years of patient labor perfected a system on which probably his fame will ultimately rest. His cours for instruction in the principles of art was first opened in 1839. From the outset he was appreciated by the highly cultivated few, nor was it long before the circle extended and the new master won a European reputation. Some of his pupils were destined for a professional career; but many, men and women of rank and fortune, sought to learn from him the means of rendering their brilliant salons yet more attractive. Members of most of the reigning families of Europe were numbered among his pupils, and his apartments in Paris were filled, when I saw them, with pictures, photographs, and other souvenirs of esteem and friendship, from the highest dignitaries of Europe. When he consented, on one occasion, to appear at a soirée at the Tuileries, Louis Philippe received him at the foot of the grand staircase, as if he had been his peer, and bestowed on him during the evening the same attentions he would have accorded to a fellow-sovereign. The citizen king recognized the royalty of art. And it may be noted that Delsarte would not have appeared on this occasion, except on the condition that no remuneration should be offered to him for the exercise of his talents.

Malibran, whose kind word in the courtyard of the Conservatoire had revived Delsarte's fainting hopes, attended his early course of lectures. I have already mentioned Rachel and Macready as his pupils. I now recall the names of Sontag, of the gifted Madeleine Brohan, of Carvalho, Barbot, Pasca (who owed everything to Delsarte), and Pajol. He was the instructor in pulpit oratory of Père Lacordaire, Père Hyacinthe, and the present abbé of Nôtre Dame.

Notwithstanding the labor exacted by his great specialty, he has done much good work in various other directions. Among his mechanical inventions are a sonotype, a tuning instrument by means of which any one can tune a piano accurately, an improved level, theodolite and sextant, a scale for measuring the differences in the solidity of fluids, etc.

Of the conscientiousness with which he works, it may be mentioned that he devoted five years to the study of anatomy and physiology, to obtain a perfect knowledge of all the muscles, their uses and capabilities,--a knowledge of which he has utilized with remarkable success.

It is now time to give some idea of his system, which can be done most satisfactorily, perhaps, through the medium of an article which appeared in the Gazette Musicale, from the authoritative pen of A. Guéroult. After having analyzed the maestro's theory of vocal art, he says:

"The study of gesture and its agents has been subjected by M. Delsarte to an analysis no less profound. Thus he recognizes in the human body three principal agents of expression, the head, the torso and the limbs, which perform each a distinct part in the economy of a character. Gesture, sometimes expressive, sometimes excentric, and sometimes compressive, assumes in each case special forms, which have been classified and described by M. Delsarte with a care and perspicuity which make his labors on this subject entirely new, and for which I know no equivalent anywhere. Permit me to explain more fully the utility of this study, to cite an application, for examples are always more eloquent than generalities. In the play of the physiognomy every portion of the face performs a separate part. Thus, for instance, it is not useless to know what function nature has assigned to the eye, the nose, the mouth, in the expression of certain emotions of the soul. True passion, which never errs, has no need of recurring to such studies; but they are indispensable to the feigned passion of the actor. How useful would it not be to the actor who wishes to represent madness or wrath, to know that the eye never expresses the sentiment experienced, but simply indicates the object of this sentiment! Cover the lower part of your face with your hand, and impart to your look all the energy of which it is susceptible, still it will be impossible for the most sagacious observer to discover whether your look expresses anger or attention. On the other hand, uncover the lower part of the face, and if the nostrils are dilated, if the contracted lips are drawn up, there is no doubt that anger is written on your countenance. An observation which confirms the purely indicative part performed by the eye is, that among raving madmen the lower part of the face is violently contracted, while the vague and uncertain look shows clearly that their fury has no object. It is easy to conceive what a wonderful interest the actor, painter, or sculptor must find in the study of the human body thus analysed from head to foot in its innumerable ways of expression. Hence, the eloquent secrets of pantomime, those imperceptible movements of great actors which produce such powerful impressions, are decomposed and subjected to laws whose evidence and simplicity are a twofold source of admiration.

"Finally, in what concerns articulate language M. Delsarte has assumed a yet more novel task. We all know the power of certain inflections; we know that a phrase which accented in a certain way is null, accented in another way produces irresistible effects upon the stage. It is the property of great artists to discover this preëminent accentuation; but never, to my knowledge, did anyone think of referring these happy inspirations of genius to positive laws. Yet, whence comes it that a certain inflection, a certain word placed in relief, affects us? How shall we explain this emotion, if not by a certain relation existing between the laws of our organization, the laws of general grammar, and those of musical inflection? There is always, in a phrase loudly enunciated, one word which sustains the passionate accent. But how shall we detach and recognize it in the midst of the phrase? How distribute the forces of accentuation on all the words of which it is composed? How classify and arrange them in relation to that sympathetic inflection, without which the most energetic thought halts at our intelligence without reaching our heart? M. Delsarte has had recourse to the same method which guided him in the study of gesture. He did not study declamation on the stage, but in real life, where unpremeditated inflections spring directly from feeling; then, fortified by innumerable observations, he rearranged grammar and rhetoric from this special point of view, and has obtained results as simple in their principles as they are fertile in their application.

"If I wished to classify the nature and value of M. Delsarte's labors in relation to what has been spoken or written up to this time on the art of singing or acting, I should say that the numerous precepts which have been formulated on dramatic art have had hardly any object other than the manner in which each character ought to be conceived. Ingenious and multiplied observations have been employed to bring forth the delicacies of the part and its unpcrceived features. The intellectual strength of the actor or vocalist has been directed to the author's conception. He has been told to be pathetic here, menacing there; here to assume a slight tinge of irony transpiercing apparent politeness, or, again, to make his gesture a seeming contradiction of his words. Such an analysis of the poet's work is certainly imperative, but how far from adequate! And what an immense distance there is from the intelligence which comprehends to the gesture which translates, from the song which moves to the inflection which interprets! It is with the new purpose which M. Delsarte has embraced that, without neglecting an understanding of the author, he says to the actor: 'This is what you must express. Now, how will you do it? What will you do with your arms, with your head, with your voice? Do you know the laws of your organization? Do you know how to go to work to be pathetic, dignified, comic, or familiar, to represent the clemency of Augustus or the drunkenness of a coachman?' In a word, he teaches the vocalist or actor the laws of this language, of this eloquence which nature places in our eyes, in our gestures, in the suppressed or expansive tones of our voice, in the accent of speech. He teaches the actor, or, to speak more properly, the man, to know himself, to manage artistically that inimitable instrument which is man himself, all of whose parts contribute to a harmonious unity. Hence, aware of the gravity of such an assertion, I do not hesitate to proclaim here that I believe M. Delsarte's work will remain among the fundamental bases; I believe that his labors are destined to give a solid foundation to theatric art, to elevate and to ennoble it; I believe that there is no actor, no singer, however eminent, who cannot derive from the acquirements and luminous studies of M. Delsarte, positive germs of development and progress. I believe that whoever makes the external interpretation of the sentiments of the human soul his business and profession, whether painter, sculptor, orator, or actor, that all men of taste who support them will applaud this attempt to create the science of expressive man; a science from which antiquity seems to have lifted the veil, and what appears willing to revive in our days, in the hands of a man worthy by his patient and conscientious efforts to discover some of its most precious secrets."

Delsarte has sought neither fame nor wealth. He could easily have secured both by remaining on the stage as an actor, after he had lost his power as a vocalist. He preferred to surrender himself in comparative retirement to the study of science and art, and the instruction of those who sought his aid in mastering the principles of the latter. To the needy this instruction was imparted gratuitously, and more than one successful actress has been raised from penury to fortune by the benevolence of her teacher.

It would be easy to cite many illustrations of the goodness and tenderness of this man. Religious fervor has largely influenced his life and is the key-note of his character; but his faith is not hampered by bigotry. Like all minds of high rank, he holds that science and art are the handmaids of religion.

I have said that this remarkable man did not seek fame; it has come to him unsought. Pages might be filled with voluntary tributes to his genius from the foremost minds of France,--Jules Janin, Théophile Gautier, Mme. Emile de Girardin. Lamartine pronounced him "a sublime orator." Fiorentino, the keen, delicate, and calm critic, spoke of him as "this master, whose feeling is so true, whose style is so elevated, whose passion is so profound, that there is nothing in art so beautiful and so perfect."

If we hazarded an intrusion into the domestic circle of Delsarte, we should find one of those pure and happy family groups, fortunately for France by no means rare even in her capital; one of those French homes the existence of which nearly all Englishmen and many Americans deny. We should find a bond of sympathy and a community of talent uniting father and mother, two fair daughters, and three brave sons. Or, rather, we should have found this happy gathering, for the iron hand of war has broken the charmed ring. The dear old home on the Boulevard de Courcelles is deserted. Father, mother, and daughters were compelled to seek refuge in the North of France, the sons to march against the Prussians. Let us trust that long ere this they have reached home unwounded, and that the grand old maestro has no further ills in store for his declining years.

Delsarte's Method for Tuning Stringed Instruments Without the Aid of The Ear.¹¹

By Hector Berlioz.

Do you hear, you pianists, guitarists, violinists, violoncellists, contra-bassists, harpists, tuners, and you, too, conductors of orchestras--without the aid of the ear! What a vast, incomparable, nay, priceless discovery, especially for the rest of us wretched listeners to pianos out of tune, to violins and 'cellos out of tune, to harps out of tune, to whole orchestras out of tune! Delsarte's invention will now make it your positive duty to cease torturing us, to cease making us sweat with agony, to cease driving us to suicide.

Not only is the ear of no use in tuning instruments, but it is even dangerous to consult it; it must by no possible chance be consulted. What an advantage for those who have no ear! Hitherto, it has been just the opposite, and we forgave you the torments that you inflicted on us. But in future, if your instruments be out of tune, you will have no excuse, and we shall hand you over to public vengeance. Without the aid of the ear, mark you--aid so often useless and deceptive.

Delsarte's discovery holds good only for stringed instruments, but this is much; this is an enormous gain. Hence, it follows that in orchestras directed and tuned without the aid of the ear, there will be no more discords, save between the flutes, hautboys, clarionets, bassoons, horns, cornets, trumpets, trombones, kettle-drums and bass drums. The triangle might, at a pinch, be tuned by the new method; but it is generally acknowledged that this is not necessary, just as with bells, a discord between the triangle and the other instruments is a good thing; it is popular in all lyric theatres.

And the singers, whom you do not mention, someone may ask, will it be possible to make them sing true, to put them in tune? Two or three of them are naturally in tune. Some few, by great care and exactness, may be brought very nearly into tune. But all the others were not, are not, and will not be in tune, either individually, or with each other, or with the instruments, or with the leader of the orchestra, or with the rhythm, or with the harmony, or with the accent, or with the expression, or with the pitch, or with the language, or with anything resembling precision and good sense.

Delsarte has made it especially easy to tune the piano, by means of an instrument that he calls the phonopticon, which it would take too long to describe here. Suffice it to say, that it contains an index-hand that marks the exact instant when two or more strings are in perfect unison. It may be added that the invariable result is so absolutely correct, no matter who may try it or under what conditions, that the most practiced ear could not possibly attain to similar perfection. Acousticians should not fail to examine this invention at once, the use of which cannot be long in becoming universal.