that sudden illumination, which she throws around her; she grows ten inches taller on the stage; she raises her head and extends her chest; her eye brightens; she treads like a sovereign; her voice vibrates instinct with the passion that agitates her. Nothing grander can be conceived than this Camille. To my dying day I will hear that voice and see those tears. She is a priestess, a pythoness, this child of seventeen. The imprecation is the first revelation of Rachel's power. The storm raging in this grief-stricken breast is terrific. We tremble before it as before something superhuman—godlike.
This eloquent and enthusiastic article hardly produced the result that Rachel's friends had hoped for. The heat was still great; the fashionable Parisian world was absent, and, in consequence, the theatres deserted by the cultured and refined portion of society. The Jews crowded to see their young countrywoman act, and applauded to the echo; Véron and his clique mustered strong; but the occupants of the boxes and stalls were not there, and those it was whom Janin was determined to rouse.
It would be impossible for us to form any idea of the influence exercised by Janin at the time of which we write. Paris now-a-days teems with dramatic critics. If one is not favourable the next will be, and sooner or later the actor or actress possessing merit is sure to be heard; but in 1838 Janin held the sceptre of absolute power. By his brilliant, incisive, and generally correct analysis of what had taken place in the theatrical world during the week, he had gained the ear of the public, and his opinion was received with unquestioning docility.
By the end of September the audience to whom he wished to speak began to return. On the 23rd of that month Rachel acted the part of Hermione in Racine's play of Andromaque. On the next day she awoke to find herself famous. An article appeared in the Débats still more eulogistic in its description of her
