B.'s Memoirs of Rachel are avowedly hostile, and therefore to a certain extent valueless as a trustworthy biography. All other information respecting the tragedian can only be culled from the columns or the newspapers of the day, and one or two contemporary pamphlets. We fall back on her letters, therefore, as the true key to this extraordinary woman's character. Written in moments snatched from the arduous duties of her profession, or in the rare periods of rest she allowed herself from the fatigues of her unceasing wanderings to and fro, they show no signs of premeditation or pedantry. She wrote, as we imagine she talked, easily and wittily. How deeply pathetic and sad they become, however, towards the end, when touching on her own suffering, her disappointed illusions, or her fears and hopes for the children she loved so well!
We have tried to extract the poetry and romance there is to be found in this life, rejecting what is base and unworthy. There is something that ever kindles enthusiasm in energy or devotion to an object outside the area of our petty cares and thoughts. And surely there is enough poetry in the mournful history of this genius and passion burning up the body they animated, as a flame burns up a candle; enough romance in the perseverance and constancy of the little Jewish girl who, uneducated, unbefriended, unbeautiful, made the world thrill with her name, solely by the might of her inspiration and eloquence.
