to keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President
Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever
met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a
_concierge_ in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he
was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real
singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has
a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he
teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice.
We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music-
room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no
other incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's
method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces
depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such
as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions
in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in
question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to
your voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of
the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals
(he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and,
to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle