MADEMOISELLE RACHEL.

COLLEY CIBBER is the best theatrical critic we know, but if he had been asked to describe Rachel, we should fancy him falling into one of his old regrets. 'Could how Rachel spoke be as easily known as what she spoke, then might you see the muse of Racine in her triumph, with all her beauties in their best array, rising into real life and charming her beholders. But, alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of description, how shall I show you Rachel?"

The best attempt we have been able to make, is printed on the opposite page. Truth to say, a good portrait, such as one may bind up with one's copy of Racine, is the only tolerable criticism after all. So, gentle reader, there is Rachel for you: and to flatter your national likings, if you have any, she is in the dress of Mary Stuart, though the woes of Mary Stuart are not in Racine.

Quiet, earnest, intense, with a look of passion that has its spring in tenderness, that is just the expression she should wear. It pervaded all her performances, because in all of them she was the Woman. There it was, as you see it, when she said for this unhappy Mary that she was ready to go to death, for that all which could bind her to the earth had passed away; and as she said it, there came with its choking denial to her heart a sense of the still living capacity for joy or grief about to be quenched for ever. She wore that look, when, in Camille, she recalled the transient and deceitful dream wherein everything had spoken of her lover, and whispered happy issue to her love. It spread its mournful radiance over her face, when, for the wronged and deserted Hermione, she told the betrayer that she had loved him in his inconstancy, and with what something surpassing love would she have rewarded his fidelity.

Je t'aimais inconstant; qu'aurais-je fait fidèle !

Exquisitely perfect, let us say, was that performance of Hermione. Sometimes, it will not be heretical to whisper, her genius nodded or even slept: never here. The Roxane would not suffer her to do justice to her finest qualities: in the Emilie (for she was wilful) she refused herself that justice: in the Marie Stuart she was unequal: in Camille, always great undoubtedly, she had yet a very limited range: but in Hermione, she achieved a triumph of high and finished art, which will never fade from the recollections of those who witnessed it. It occurs to us, as we write, that it was in this very Hermione the famous Mademoiselle de Champmelé won the heart of Racine himself, who, after the performance, flung himself at her feet in a transport of gratitude, which soon merged into love. Luckless Rachel, that Champmelé should have been beforehand with her. How the poet would have shaken out love and gratitude upon her, from every curl of his full-bottomed peruke!

You have heard, no doubt, good reader-if you have not seen this accomplished Frenchwoman-that she is a scold, a fury, a womanly Kean, in a constant fret of passion. Do not believe it. Her forte is tenderness: she is much greater in the gentle grasp with which she embraces the whole intention of a part, than in the force with which she gives distinct hits: she is more at home in those emotions we call domestic, than in those which walk away from home on very lofty stilts. How the false notion obtained currency, we do not know. The French critics are men of lively imaginations, and it was perhaps natural that the feeling of that start of surprise with which Rachel broke upon them, should seek to ally itself to the occasionally sudden and terrible, the flighty and impetuous, rather than to the various tenderness and quiet truth which gave the actress her lasting victory.

What Rachel was before she was the first actress of France, probably the reader knows. She sold oranges on the Boulevards. Her name was Rachel Felix-an augury of fortune. An early hankering for the stage took her to the GYMNASE in 1837, where she played bad parts badly enough. Not without a gleam of something beyond, however: for Sanson the actor happened to see her there, and thought it worth while to take her into teaching. He cured her of a false accent (she was a Swiss Jewess), and brought her out at the FRANCAIS in 1838, upon a salary of four thousand francs. She took the audience by storm, and her four thousand went up to a hundred and fifty thousand. Long may she flourish, to deserve and to enjoy them.

K

FRIGHTS!-No. II.

We now propose to turn to other illustrations of fright familiar to every family, and susceptible of description. Let us take a night-scene, con

jured up by a sudden alarm of

THIEVES!

'Tis midnight, and "the very houses seem asleep," out-houses and all. The "quiet family" has attained its utmost pitch of quietness. All sleep soundly, where no sound is heard. A breathless hush pervades the domicile. On a sudden, there is a smart crash, a rattling sound, below. This sleeper starts up in bed; that, darts farther under the clothes. "What's that?" is the inward question of everybody. The thought of thieves occurs to each in turn ; one is certain that the area-door has been forced open; another is sure that the back-parlour sash has been raised. They lie still, with panting hearts, and listen. Again there is a noise; it is like creaking footsteps on the stairs, or the opening of drawers; then all is silent again, and then the noise is renewed.

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At last one little quaking Miss ventures half-stifled to whisper, "Sarah, are you awake?" And Sarah faintly answers, Yes, did you hear that?" and both bury themselves in the bed, and dare not breathe. And then they hear a door open softly, and they utter a low cry of terror; and then in another minute the door of their own room opens, and with a loud scream they start up-only to see their dear good mama with a candle in her hand; but she is pale and frightened, and desires to know if they had made the noise-but they had not; only they distinctly heard somebody getting in at the back-door, or the parlour-window. Then papa commands the whole assembled family "not to be frightened," and shakes dreadfully-with cold-as he looks at his blunderbuss, and avows his determination to proceed down-stairs. And then there is a "hush!" and a general listening. Yes, there is a noise still, and to the stairs he advances; while his better-half lights his way and holds his garments tight to check his desperate enthusiasm ; and the eldest daughter hardly ventures beyond the chamber-door, but with astonishing boldness and exemplary daring springs a rattle; and the others hold on each by each, taking fresh fright from one another's fears. What an amount of suffering, dread, terror-is in the bosom of the little quiet family, as down to the scene of danger they creep with tortoise-pace! And what is all this anxiety, this trepidation, this sickness of the heart, for! What has occasioned so terrific a commotion! Perhaps the tongs have fallen down, and the clatter has filled their ears with all sorts of imaginary noises! Perhaps the cat is clawing at a string tied to the latch of the pantry-door; or perhaps the stupid little kitten, having got her tail into the catch of the last new patent mouse-trap, has dragged that excellent invention off the dresser, and is whisking round at intervals in a wearying and vain endeavour to extricate her unprehensile appendage! "Dear me! well I declare how I have been frightening myself!" cries every member of the shivering family; and the very next night, should the very same noises again be heard, the whole frightened family would start, turn pale, quake, wonder, pant, scream, and spring rattles, exactly as before. Where Fear has once taken possession, Experience does not always make folks wise.