commanding; her eyes are small but expressive; and there is a simple majesty in her look, walk, and manner, which art alone could never give. Her great triumphs have been in parts in which hatred, contempt, or irony forms a principal feature. Thus, nothing can be finer than her Camille in "Les Horaces." While she spoke, every eye was fixed upon her, in order that not a sound, not a gesture might be lost; her voice, though at times subdued almost to a whisper, came distinct to every ear, so deep, so unbroken was the silence; until at last, when, overcome by her own energy, and concentrating all her strength into one final effort, she, as it were, hissed out the "Moi seule en être cause, et mourir de plaisir!" the whole house burst into one simultaneous roar of applause, and re-echoed long and loudly as well behind as before the curtain. When tenderness or grief unmixed with the sterner passions are required, Rachel is comparatively ineffective; even Virginie, one of her finest creations, though a consummate piece of acting, has not that influence on the spectator which is produced by her performance of Camille or Hermione. But whatever be the character sustained by her, she is always great, always admirable.

It is now clearly established that Rachel did not quit the religion of her family for that of Catholicism. Even royal influence was attempted in vain, of which a curious instance is quoted in the Figaro. After the death of Louis Philippe, the Prince de Joinville designed a drawing, which was sent to Paris to be lithographed. Rachel hearing of it, wrote to General Rumigny for a copy, and the Queen Amélie sent her word: "Mademoiselle Rachel will be presented with my son's drawing when she is converted to Catholicism." But Rachel always had a friendly feeling towards the family of the King of the French; for did not Louis Philippe present her with a thousand francs? and the rarity of the gift greatly enhanced its value. It appears, too, that Rachel had intended a conversion, but her desire remained unaccomplished. During the latter years of her life she devoted considerable attention and thought to the subject of religion. She read Bossuet and Fénélon with deep interest and sustained attention. It is to be presumed, therefore, that if she did not embrace Catholicism, it was because she did not find in it better claims to belief than the religion in which she had been brought up.

When

"One word," writes M. Jules Janin, "may serve to explain Mademoiselle Rachel entirely, and it is the remark of a dying hero. the Maréchal de Saxe succumbed, exhausted by glory and overcome by passions, surrounded by so many pleasures, and yet wearied of so many pleasures, he said to his physician, who was weeping, Monsieur de Senac, do not lament: I have enjoyed a glorious dream--a dream beyond the infinite!" "

151

QUEEN STORK.

BY HENRY SPICER, ESQ.

MANY curious things happened in the four years I passed at old Styles's (said Master Balfour, thoughtfully); but perhaps the rummest go of all, was that business of the girl with the yellow-black eyes! Yes, Miss Houlton, you'll open your blue ones a good deal wider yet. What do you think of a whole school-seventy-three fellows-nine day-pupils, and two G. P. B.'s

"What are G. P. B.'s?"

Gentlemen-Parlour-Boarders.

We gave them the name just to

take down their conceit. What do you think of all these being left to the entire control of a girl of nineteen-managed by her single hand? And a precious tight one it proved. You just wait.

Styles, as I told you, was often ill, and quite incapable at these times of taking any part, however trifling, in the management of the school. It was some-what do you call it?-cerebral affection, originally induced by over-study at college; and it recurred, at intervals, throughout his life. Nothing but complete repose availed him during the continuance of these attacks, which sometimes lasted only for a day or two, when again he was as well as ever. This state of things was, of course, well known to the fellows' governors and friends; but such was Styles's reputation as a scholar, and maker of scholars, that it did no damage to the school, which was always chock-full, and chaps waiting to get in.

When Styles was laid up, business was hustled on, somehow, in a muddled way, by two resident under-masters, a daily French one, and Queen Mob.

Queen Mob was an elderly relation of Styles's, who looked after the house matters, counted the linen, did the bills, and a lot of other things Styles would not condescend to; told tales of the boys, and always sported a mob-cap-whence her name. She was a stern old lady, with an intense hatred and distrust of all schoolboys, dealing with them as with a race of young lunatics, every one of whose actions and words was a natural subject of suspicion, and to be received with rebuke and control. She had-apart from this weakness-lots of sense, but no grammar to speak of; had early in life discarded the h as an absurd encumbrance, and always, after grace, directed the servant to take off the "kivers." She had come, originally, on a visit for three days, and had, at the time I speak of, stopped seventeen years longer.

Other visitors, for shorter periods, not unfrequently appeared at Styles's. He was, we heard, a capital host; and the G. P. B.'s, who were sometimes honoured with invitations to the nine o'clock suppers, came away highly pleased with their entertainment.

Styles always gave his visitors the choice of dining in the school or the study, and we generally found, especially when they happened to be of the more curious sex, that they preferred the former, in which case they sat at the top of the table, with Styles, Queen Mob, and the senior master, and had all sorts of jolly little things, that made our boiled

mutton, and rice-pudding with a dab of salt butter upon it, look rather queer. Our banquets were of Queen Mob's invention (anything was good enough for a schoolboy!), and Styles never interposed in any domestic details, being, to do him justice, utterly indifferent as to what was provided for himself.

It's my belief some of us would have been starved in Queen Mob's time, if it hadn't been for " Will's basket.'

Will was a superannuated servitor of the establishment, who was permitted to retain-in private life-the privilege of purchasing stale cakes and mouldyish fruit-pies at a shop in the town, and retailing them in the school, at the cost to the buyer of two hundred and fifty per cent., and a stomach-ache.

Now, let me see. I think it was in the third or fourth half of my stay at the school, that there arrived a very mysterious visitor—a lady. She came, intending to pass a considerable time; that we knew, for she brought with her a whole lot of boxes, a large case of books, a harp, and a Newfoundland dog, which faithful and ferocious animal informed us, through the medium of his collar, that his mistress was Mary Percival.

66 Mary Percival!" Delicious name! She must be young and beautiful. We saw her clogs. They were about the length of one's middle finger! Out of these articles alone we conjured up a glorious ideal. About two-and-twenty (boys' loves are always advanced in years), with small, chiselled features, like a Grecian goddess, waves of silken hair, and so forth. It was a singular circumstance (as some one afterwards remarked) that we could arrive at no definite understanding with regard to her eyes. Everybody was positive, would have staked his existence, as to what they were not. They were neither black, blue, hazel, pink, green, nor grey; not large, nor small, nor long, nor round, nor anything that imagination could devise. We settled every other feature. The eyes beat us. What then were they? Had she eyes? Of course. There were her books, and her harp, to prove it. We had to leave the point unsettled.

Lots were solemnly drawn, in order to decide who should be in love with Mary Percival, and the two longest happening (as Mickey Creagh, who held them, announced) to be of the same length, this lucky circumstance became the parent of one of the prettiest fights of the half, the result being that the unconscious damsel fell to the lot of Boss Twigge, the son of a London alderman, a big hulking fellow of the upper school, who immediately cut the initials "M. P." inside the lid of his desk, and became hopelessly enslaved.

Eagerly was the next dinner-hour anticipated, for not a doubt visited the mind of anybody that the mysterious beauty would show. We were disappointed. Styles and Queen Mob appeared as usual; not so Mary Percival. She never did come; and but for having noticed the arrival of her luggage, and occasionally seeing a minute portion of dinner, such as you might offer to a pining dicky-bird, sent carefully up, before anybody else was helped, we mightn't have known that she was in the

house.

Soon, however, strange, sometimes contradictory, rumours crept into circulation, having reference alike to the person, character, and general habits of the beautiful recluse. Nobody had actually set eyes upon

her.

It was thought that Queen Mob, and a stolid maid from Northumberland, who could speak nothing but her natural burr, and was forbidden to discourse in that, were the only parties admitted to her presence.

The barriers opposed to our curiosity had the accustomed effect of quickening the same, and already the matter became tinged with the delightful hue of romance. Mary Percival was forthwith promoted to the position of an enchanted princess, held in thrall by a wicked old fairy (Queen Mob), who was aunt to a weak, but well-meaning monarch (Styles), who, engaged in occult studies, had, with inconceivable stupidity for so gifted a man, left the affairs of his house and kingdom entirely to the control of the aged and malevolent relative in question. Plots were laid for the emancipation of the distressed princess, and we even went the length of taunting Boss Twigge for not attempting something on behalf of his lady. Boss, however, peremptorily declined.

This mode of treating the matter, though it amused, did not satisfy us; and some of the more practical individuals among us resolved to trace out the mystery. Charley Lysons, of the lower school-who was rather a pet of Queen Mob's-took courage to question that lady on the subject of the strange inmate, but encountered such a rebuff as effectually stopped any further investigations in that quarter.

Better success attended a combined assault upon the fidelity of a small kitchen-maid, with whom we sometimes exchanged gestures of passionate attachment, as she passed to and fro across an area commanded by the playground. From her we learnt by degrees that Mary Percival was a reality, a living creature, a woman, lady-and a young one. One by one, the mysterious attributes with which we had invested her were, by Hester Moggs, quietly stripped away. Her beauty, however, remained. Fact, or fiction, could not injure that. Hester Moggs's utmost eloquence could not vulgarise the little perfect mouth, the even, glistening teeth, the dimpled chin.

"But the eyes, Hester-how about the eyes ?" Hester assumed a look of horror, and sniffed.'

"Now, don't be silly, child"-the speaker was twelve, and Hester fiveand-twenty-" tell us about the eyes-the eyes! Oh, Hester, don't darling Hester-here's a ribb"

Hang the girl! she was always hearing missis!

go,

So, gradually, the secret narrowed itself to one feature. About this there could be no longer any question—

There was something odd about Mary Percival's eyes!

This conclusion arrived at, curiosity rose to fever pitch. We put in practice every possible means to gratify it, taking infinitely more pains than you would believe possible, if you have never observed how a mystery grows by discussion into something grand and marvellous. We cultivated the G. P. B.'s, who were, or pretended to be, as ignorant as ourselves—we made deputations to Styles, asking for impossible holidayswe watched the window of the mysterious princess, visible from one side of the playground, every day for hours, relieving guard like sentinels, and reporting such faint indications of a living occupancy as had been observed during the expiring watch. These, to be sure, were meagre enough. There were, however, two little rose-trees, in pots, placed upon the window-sill. The "princess" (as we got to call her) tended these

herself; and, on more than one occasion, a hand so small, so white, so graceful, as almost to drive the more susceptible of her admirers frantic, glistened out from behind the window-curtains, plucked a decayed leaf, or clipped a flower, and shot back like a frightened dove.

At last, after five weeks' expectation and conjecture, our impatience was partially rewarded.

One beautiful evening in the middle of August, it happened that the whole school went out for a walk. Even the G. P. B.'s honoured the procession, walking, however, a little aloof as became them-from the jacketed throng, their long-tailed coats and high-heeled Bluchers (constructed to look like Wellingtons) forming objects of overt ridicule and secret envy to those who followed.

One lucky chap was left at home. Me. I had got into a row for pitching into Bartle Goldsmidt-an impudent young Hebrew, who shot a pellet into my eye in school. The smart threw me off my guard, and bang went my Gradus at Bartle's head! Styles didn't much mind fighting at proper times, but he objected to it in school hours, as interfering with study, so we were both caned, Bartle was sent to bed, and I was detained from the evening walk, and consoled myself with the "Castle of Otranto."

There were some tamarisk-bushes at the end of the playground, just enough to make a comfortable arbour for any fellow who didn't mind crouching on the ground at their roots; and under one of these I was lying, reading, when the odd thing happened that I'm going to tell you. I had just got to

"Alas! thou mistakest,' said Matilda, sighing; 'I am Manfred's daughter; but no dangers await me.'

"Amazement!' said Theodore; but last night, I blessed myself for yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me now."

"Still thou art in an error,' said the princess; but this is no time for explanation. Fly, virtuous youth.'

Suddenly, the distant voice of Styles interrupted the passionate dialogue. My heart stood still. The "Castle of Otranto" was a proscribed work. Silence, however, succeeded, and I eagerly resumed:

"A deep and hollow groan startled the princess and Theodore.

"Confusion! we are overheard!' said the princess.

They listened, but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up vapours; and the princess carried Theodore❞— (how, I thought, could he permit it?)" to her father's armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.

"Avoid the town,' said the princess.

"Theodore flung himself at her feet, and, seizing her lily hand, which with struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get himself knighted!"

I had just reached this amazing climax, when again the voice of Styles came upon the breeze. Carefully putting aside the sprays of my tamarisk, I peeped through. What do you think I saw ?

Styles and Mary Percival!