thick and husky in certain of its tones; but it was always audible, articulate, and telling, whether sunk to a whisper or raised clamorously. Her declamation was superb, if, as critics reported, there had been decline in this matter during those later years of her life to which my own acquaintance with Rachel's acting is confined. I saw her first at the Français in 1849, and I was present at her last performance at the St. James's Theatre in 1853, having in the interval witnessed her assumption of certain of her most admired characters. And it may be true, too, that, still resembling Kean, she was more and more disposed, as the years passed, to make "points;" to slur over the less important scenes, and reserve herself for a grand outburst or a vehement climax, sacrificing thus many of the subtler graces, refinements, and graduations of elocution for which she had once been famous. To English ears, it was hardly an offence that she broke up the sing-song of the rhymed tirades of the old plays and gave them a more natural sound, regardless of the traditional methods of speech of Clairon, Le Kain, and other of the great French players of the past. Less success than had been looked for attended Rachel's invasion of the repertory of Mdlle. Mars, an actress so idolised by the Parisians that her sixty years and great portliness of form were not thought hindrances to her personation of the youthful heroines of modern comedy and drama. But Rachel's fittest occupation, and her greatest triumphs, were found in the classical poetic plays. She, perhaps, intellectualised too much the creations of Hugo, Dumas, and Scribe; gave them excess of majesty. Her histrionic style was too exalted and ideal for the conventional characters of the drama of her own time: it was even said of her that she could not speak its prose properly or tolerably. She disliked the hair-powder necessary to Adrienne Lecouvreur and Gabrielle de Belle-Isle, although her beauty, for all its severity, did not lose picturesqueness in the costumes of the time of Louis XV. As Gabrielle she was more girlish and gentle, pathetic and tender, than was her wont, while the signal fervour of her speech addressed to Richelieu, beginning "Vous mentez, Monsieur le Duc," stirred the audience to the most excited applause.

Rachel was seen upon the stage for the last time at Charleston, on the 17th December, 1856. She played Adrienne Lecouvreur. She had been tempted to America by the prospect of extravagant profits. It had been dinned into her ears that Jenny Lind, by thirty-eight performances in America, had realised 1,700,000 francs. Why might not she, Rachel, receive as much? And then, she was eager to quit Paris. There had been strange worship there of Madame Ristori,

even in the rejected part of Medea! But already Rachel's health was in a deplorable state. Her constitution, never very strong, had suffered severely from the cruel fatigues, the incessant exertions, she had undergone. It may be, too, that the deprivations and sufferings of her childhood now made themselves felt as over-due claims that could be no longer denied or deferred. She forced herself to play, in fulfilment of her engagement, but she was languid, weak, emaciated; she coughed incessantly, her strength was gone; she was dying slowly but certainly of phthisis. And she appeared before an audience that applauded her, it is true, but cared nothing for Racine and Corneille, knew little of the French language, and were urgent that she should sing the "Marseillaise" as she had sung it in 1848! It was forgotten, or it was not known in America, that the actress had long since renounced revolutionary sentiments to espouse the cause of the Second Empire. She performed all her more important characters, however, at New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. Nor was the undertaking commercially disappointing, if it did not wholly satisfy expectation. She returned to France possessed of nearly 300,000 francs as her share of the profits of her forty-two performances in the United States; but she returned to die. The winter of 1856 she passed at Cairo. She returned to France in the spring of 1857, but her physicians forbade her to remain long in Paris. In September she moved again to the South, finding her last retreat in the villa Sardou, at Cannet, a little village in the environs of Cannes. She lingered to the 3rd of January 1858. The Théâtre Français closed its doors when news arrived of her death, and again on the day of her funeral. The body was embalmed and brought to Paris for interment in the cemetery of Père la Chaise, the obsequies being performed in accordance with the Jewish rites. The most eminent of the authors and actors of France were present, and funeral orations were delivered by MM. Jules Janin, Bataille, and Auguste Maquet. Victor Hugo was in exile, or, as Janin announced, the author of "Angelo" would not have withheld the tribute of his eulogy upon the sad occasion. By her professional exertions Rachel was said to have amassed a sum of £100,000 sterling.

Dr. Véron, who, with French frankness, wrote of the actress in her lifetime, doubted whether he had secured for her the more of censure or of esteem. But he urged that her early life should be taken into account: "Il faut se rappeler d'où elle est partie, où elle est arrivée, pour lui tenir compte du long chemin semé de ronces et d'épines, plein de périls et d'abîmes, que dans son enfance et sa première jeunesse elle eut à parcourir presque sans guides, sans le nécessaire

et sans appui. A côté de quelques mauvais sentiments qu'elle réprime, restes impurs d'une vie errante à travers d'épaisses broussailles et de pernicieux marais, on trouve en elle de nobles instincts, le sentiment des grandes et belles choses, une passion ardente pour les plaisirs de l'esprit, une intelligence supérieure, une aimable philosophie, et toutes les séductions d'une élégance et d'une distinction naturelles."

DUTTON COOK.

N

FROM CREMORNE

WESTMINSTER.

ΤΟ

OWHERE does "Eyes and No Eyes" apply better than in this

great city. We miss Mr. Barlow sadly. Dwellers in London, who go staring round Paris, see nothing to stare at in London. Yet there is a vast amount to be seen and inwardly digested; particularly if there be some cicerone to play showman and take the trouble of study and thinking off one's hands. When the country cousin comes on a visit to town-a diligent explorer, with the work cut out for every day—is not the host often entertained and surprised at the accounts, rehearsed with a rustic enthusiasm, of the day's adventures?

This great city is as stored with all kinds of old treasures, old associations, old houses, old buildings, old "bits," as a San Donato museum. Here motley is your only wear. In an hour you may see "no end," i.e. dozens, of curious things. The late Walter Thornbury, or, better still, the remote Peter Cunningham, could have pointed out the strangest objects. But this would be trespassing on antiquarian bounds.

The River from Battersea to Greenwich is ever attractive-a very different river from the one that meanders at Kew and Putney, and sleeps so languidly at Maidenhead and Henley. The town river is full of brightness; the air is fresh and inspiriting; there is bustle, change, and vitality. A Sentimental Journey from, say, Cremorne to Wapping would be highly interesting.

Cremorne! Already the lawful prey of the Walfords and Cunninghams is brought within the range of practical antiquaries. See the erst gay enclosure, the fair gardens, now one of the most rueful wanton wrecks that can be conceived. So it has lain for some years now. It is as though an army of navvies had been turned in— perhaps they had-to level, wreck, and spoil, or, as the gentleman in "The Wolf" sings, to "rifle, rob, and plunder;" then go their way. The ground dug up as with a plough ; a stray shattered vase tumbled down; a bit of the old wall; a bit of the painted scenery jumbled together,

all gives toker. of the piteous ruin-judgment, some men call it-that has overtaken this place of "enjoyment." It has been razed. So pretty a garden did not exist near London, and there was a quaint old fashion somehow preserved, suggesting Ranelagh and Vauxhall. Of a summer's evening, it was pleasant to glide down by steamer, touch at the crazy pier, now passed away, walk by the river's edge to where the old trees rose high, thick, and stately-you expected rooks-through which came the muffled sounds of music and glittering flitting lights. Even the gate was old and stately, and its ironwork good. Within, the blaze of light at the platform; the old-fashioned hotel -nobody, surely, ever boarded or lodged there, or could do it-its low windows all ablaze with lamps; the "boxes" running round for suppers; the not unpicturesque bars; the capital theatres, for there were several dispersed about here and there and everywhere; the sort of procession headed by an illuminated placard announcing the name of the next show. Then would the band strike up a stirring march, the drums clattering, the brass braying, and in military array lead the way, attended by all the rout and crowd who fell in behind, and tramped on cheerfully to renewed enjoyments. The dancing was always an amusing spectacle, from the rude honesty with which it was carried out; not the least amusing portion the dignity of the M.C.'s. The people sitting under the good old trees-the glaring booths— even the fortune-teller sitting retired ;-all this, in a deep grove, made up a curious entertainment never likely to be revived. We cannot go back to these things. The Surrey Gardens went before, as these have gone. Now these elements are gathered into aquariums, great halls, perhaps "hugely to the detriment" of the public. Peace be with the manes of Cremorne !

Turning out of Cheyne Walk, we find ourselves in Cheyne Row, which seems still and old-fashioned as some by-street in a cathedral close. Here are small, sound, old red-brick houses of the Queen Anne period, or so-called Queen Anne period. And here, at No. 24, lives Thomas Carlyle, of whom neighbours and neighbourhood may well feel proud. A compact dwelling, next to the one with a verandah and substantial porch; it has been much restored. Its neighbour on the other side boasts the good old eaves which it has lost—but en revanche it has “jealousies." Within, there is a strange air of old fashion, and the furniture as antique. It is pleasant to find how much the sage is regarded in this appropriate district. The inhabitants, or vestry perhaps, have honoured him. For close by is a rather imposing square-yclept Carlyle Square-a nice and unusual shape of compliment. Anyone will point out his house, and at the photographers' and print shops you can buy photo