the sports of the town. We have in our over-grown cities to meet a totally new set of conditions. Till egress by railway is rendered easier we must provide for recreation within our parish boundaries. The parks are not enough; they are never used for games, and no man or woman past extreme youth can be seen in them indulging in anything but a sober walk. Diana and her maidens would not have dared to hunt in Kensington Gardens ;-seeing that they hunted on foot, and wore, not riding skirts but buskins. We need amusing Gymnasia for children,* for girls and boys, and for the young women who are working at colleges, classes, and museums. Let these be arranged under whatever rules a refined sense of modern decorum may suggest. Let the ladies have their separate swimming schools, where they can be taught by women, as they are in France, and where they may learn to emulate the Empress Eugénie in the art of natation. May some good fairy induce our people to alter their absurd fashions, and cause them to arrange those assemblies in which the two sexes unite for recreation in the afternoon and evening,-not as at present in the middle of the night. May it even be possible to see, as in Germany, a joyous and well-behaved company waltzing like teetotums with the windows wide open at four o'clock in the afternoon! The ladies cannot wear rouge in the daytime, but they will have less need of it;-the gentlemen will build fewer cotton-mills, but they will also dig fewer graves.

We know how chimerical all this sounds;-that it would involve great economical as well as great moral changes in this industrious Protestant nation. Yet equal changes have been gradually brought about, through the convictions of a people. For the last three hundred years we have been busy setting our house in order; cannot we now find time and opportunity for a house-warming? In sober seriousness, if we do not amend our ways, and learn to be both merry and wise, we may indeed inaugurate great sanitary reforms, destroy the virulence of epidemics, and lengthen the lives of the masses in very appreciable degree,—but we shall continue to see our foremost battalion perish in the pride of its progress, our most ardent workers in the field of intellect fall in the flower of their youth.

*As at the Triat, situated in the Avenue Montaigne, Champs Elysées, Paris, and frequented by ladies and girl-schools.

† We have hopes that more than one of the great swimming baths in London will shortly be set aside for the use of ladies one day in the week.

XIX.-RACHEL.

MADEMOISELLE RACHEL FELIX was born on the 24th of March, 1820, of poor Jewish parents. To gain a precarious livelihood, she and her young sister used to sing in the streets and cafés of Paris, Rachel accompanying herself to a little cracked guitar. The wonderful expression she gave her songs, the fire of her black eyes, and the animation of her countenance attracted the attention of the celebrated Choron, who received the "wandering minstrel " into his musical class.-Soon however her tragic talents developed themselves, and she relinquished the boards of the Opera, to become the dramatic pupil of Monsieur St. Aulaire. Under his instructions she remained four years, during which he laboured to inspire her with a taste for classical tragedy, though her own inclinations were decidedly in favour of comedy. After some private representations, wherein she gained great applause, she was received at the Gymnase on the 24th of April, 1837. Her success however was scarcely decided until the following year, when she appeared at the Théâtre Français, in the part of Camille, in Les Horaces;' since then she, this delicate and fragile creature, held the undisputed sceptre at this theatrewhenever her name appeared on the bills the house was crowded to overflowing. What emotions throbbed in the spectator's heart, at the appearance, the walk, the gesture, the voice of this actress, who, weak, slender, seeming, off the boards, as though she had hardly power to breathe or speak, became powerful, ardent, inspired from the moment she stepped on the stage !-Rachel is remembered by all as the divinest inspiration of the ideal. "I would have given," says Maurice Albert, at 18, "I would have given twenty years of my life only to have touched Rachel's glove; and when later, in my artist's career, I met her, spoke to her, dined with her, offered my arm to conduct her to her carriage, I felt the happiness, passion, and enthusiasm, which must have made the priests of Minerva tremble when they approached the statue of the goddess. I was one of the last, two years ago, to bid her adieu, and to endeavour vainly to dissuade her from the fatal American tour which has torn her from us. She is dead-this woman, this artist, this genius, this divinity. There are three Empresses, and ten Queens in Europe-there was one Rachel, and now there is none!"

Mademoiselle Rachel died on Sunday, January 3rd, 1858, at the village of Cannet. The following day her remains were embalmed, and placed in a double coffin of lead and walnut-tree wood. The funeral was attended by many of the living celebrities of the day, and was marked by all the solemnities of the Jewish persuasion. The burial-ground appropriated for this religion is situated at the

extremity of the well-known cemetery of "Père la Chaise," and it is here the great tragedian lies at rest.

Mademoiselle Rachel's reputation for economy almost amounted to the accusation of avarice, yet she could be generous and liberal to those whom she loved or wished to serve and encourage, as the following anecdote will show. Mademoiselle Rachel's affection for her sister Rebecca was extreme. Her beauty and winning manners charmed her, as much as she prized her budding talents.-Rebecca had been received on the list of the Théâtre Français, in consequence of her success as "Catarina Bragadini," in Victor Hugo's drama of " Angelo," in which Rachel took the part of "Tisbé,” formerly rendered immortal by Mademoiselle Mars. One evening, when the two sisters had been performing together, and as, after having been enthusiastically recalled, they returned to the greenroom, Rachel said to her sister: " My dear child, you have played divinely-I wish to reward you; let us go and sup at your house." 66 At my house!" exclaimed the young actress, still agitated by the events of the evening, "You mean at our parents'!" "No, no," replied Rachel, "I said at your house: are you frightened by what I say ?—well, here, take your key,”—and Tisbé gave a key to Catarina. They set off, Rebecca not knowing what to think. The carriage of Rachel set the two sisters down at a pretty house in the Rue Mogador, close to the splendid hotel inhabited by the great tragedian herself, in the Rue Trudon. Rebecca thought she was dreaming, or 'playing some part in a fantastic comedy. They ascended two stories. 66 Come, open the door," said Rachel, "here we are!". Rebecca was on the point of complying, but already the door was opened, and a worthy and benevolent-looking duenna appeared, candle in hand.-"What! Margaret!" cried the young actress, stupified and delighted at meeting an old friend of her childhood. "Yes, she is yours," replied her sister; "let us come in." Rebecca surprised, touched, wonder-struck, crossed a beautiful ante-chamber decorated with exquisite taste, and entered the dining-room, where a delicate supper was ready laid-then she followed her sister into a handsome-drawing room, elegantly furnished-everywhere was she exclaiming with delight. Then her good fairy introduced her to a bed-room provided with every comfort; and close by, a dressingroom stored with all things needful. Everything down to the kitchen, where the partridges were turning on the spit, provoked cries of joy and surprise from the lovely and grateful girl. Nothing was wanting. The wardrobe, with its cheval glasses, was full of linen for herself, and the sideboard of linen for the table, all marked in her name. There was wood in the garret, wine in the cellar, and the rent paid for a year to come--"So let us have our supper," said Rachel, "and you must do honour to your own." Alas! the poor young actress did not enjoy her home long. She is gone to her last long dwelling place-and her sister has now rejoined her.

A young author, very poor, and yet already of some celebrity in virtue of his poetical successes, had just finished a comedy in three acts, written in verse. He read it to the committee of the Théâtre Français; it was accepted on condition of certain alterations; these he made according to his own idea, spoke of them to Mlle. Rachel, and begged her to be present at the second reading: she consented. The piece was rejected by seven black balls to four white: the poet was in despair. Mlle. Rachel took him aside, “Did you write that manuscript yourself?" "Throughout! and with what hope!" "Well, bring it to my house in a couple of hours, we will talk it over." In two hours the disappointed author was by her side. "I know," said Rachel, "an Englishman, a great amateur of autographs, of unpublished manuscripts, will you give him yours for 1000 francs ?" (407.) The poet thought he was in a dream; he could find no words to convey his consent, his joy. Mlle. Rachel gave him the note, and requested him to dine with her: a week later the MS. was bound, and placed in her own library.

Her generosity and her avarice, like herself, were full of contrasts and whims. She was fond of play, and when alone with her family always had a game either at cards or loto; if she lost twenty sous she would be furious, leave the table, exclaim against everybody! Directly after, one of her brothers would ask her for 2000 francs (807.), which he declared he needed, and she would give it at once! This has been told us by an eye-witness, amazed at such childish avarice and lavish prodigality. Rachel had a great dislike to lending, particularly when there was not much probability of the loan being repaid. It was thus she replied to an acquaintance, who sent to borrow money of her.

"MY DEAR SIR,

"If I sent you these 500 frs. (207.), I might perhaps be obliged to ask for them when you might be at a loss to return them. If you will permit me to send you 100 frs. (47.), I am, on the contrary, very sure that I shall never be in want of them, which will allow you to act as you please. Here they are, and understand me.

"Best compliments,

"RACHEL."

One day Rachel had several high personages to dine with her—the Duke of San Teodoro, of Naples, who died in so melancholy a manner three years ago, the Prince de Walderer, several marquises and academicians, M. Scribe, M. Auber, the Duke de Noailles, Messrs. Emile Augier, Ponsard (the author of the tragedy of 'Lucrèce,' &c.), and some Russian nobles. She drove to the door of one of her friends, and begged him to accompany her. "I want you to help me choose my dessert," said she. This friend, who was one of the guests, consented willingly. They stopped at Chevet's.*

* A well-known establishment in the Palais Royal, where every luxury in and out of season is attainable.

“I wish for the finest and rarest fruit you have." She was shown all the impossibilities of the season, and made her choice. "Would you not like a pineapple for the centre, madame ?" said Chevet. "How do you sell your pineapple ?" "Seventy francs." It was in 1849, and pines from the Antillas were scarce. "It is too dear! but... could you not. . . let me hire it?" Chevet laughed, and, for the honour of his pineapple, consented.

The dinner was superb, for Rachel did things in a grand and princely fashion. Still there was a little corner which smacked of her origin, of her religion, whose economical predilections had not been eradicated by the education of her childhood. At the dessert rose triumphant the pineapple, much admired as an exotic rarity: the wines were exquisite, the toasts were brilliant, in honour of the divinity of the feast. The friend, seated by the side of the Duke of San Teodoro, said to him, "And the pine?" "True-does no one mean to cut it ?" "Try to get it passed round here: we'll see to that." The Duke rose, and, armed with a pointed knife, stretched out his arm, leant over the table, and carried off the delicate prize on the point of the instrument!

Mlle. Rachel saw the action, and was struck as though a tragic dagger had been plunged into her heart. She uttered a cry, and glanced, like a heroine dying at the fifth act, on the Duke. "Has Mlle. Rachel a pineapple instead of a heart?" said Ponsard. Nothing that evening could restore her to good temper. It could not be avarice, the dinner cost 1200 francs (487.); it was rather the effect of nervousness; but this was not understood, and not a drawing-room in Paris but knew the history of the hired pineapple!

Mlle. Rachel hardly ever travelled without one's reading somewhere that she was about to be married. In England, the report was spread of her marriage with Mr. Lumley, the director of the Opera. Certainly, Mr. Lumley had given several parties in her honour, at his country house, near London, but he never offered her his hand, save as a partner in the dance. Another time, on her second journey to London, it was young Lord Edward S.; on the third, it was a young French diplomatist, the Count J. Count," said she to him, one evening in St. James's Theatre, where she was playing in 'Horace,' "do I know what is said that you have offered me your hand?" "I offer you both, madam, every evening, to applaud you!" "That's right; one alone, was not enough."

66

you

Mlle. Rachel seemed to seek for emotion and excitement as well off the boards as on, and in the following anecdote appears to have satisfied this craving in rather a characteristic manner. One evening one of her most intimate friends was at her house. It was getting late, and she bid him adieu: during the preceding hour she had appeared nervously impatient and excited. "What is the matter with her?" said her friend to himself. She hurried him; he departed. But he departed distrustful, and, instead of going home, remained waiting

VOL. I.

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