There is little doubt that Laporte, real manager of the Opera House—though Lumley, his agent and solicitor, appeared in all business arrangements—used every means to make her visit a financial success. He introduced, for the first time in England, the Parisian claque, and endeavoured to conciliate the press, and obtain favourable critical notices for the tragedian who was to make his fortune. But Rachel needed no artificial aid. She became the idol of the town. The Opera House was crowded to excess. Fashion flew into the wildest raptures. The enthusiasm of Paris in 1838 was equalled and even surpassed. She was hailed with fanatical admiration. She became the rage.
It is now nearly half a century since Rachel first appeared among us. She died ere the young men of this generation were born, yet the echo of her words and the memory of her influence have been transmitted to them as a living presence by those who saw her. Philosophers, poets, critics, novelists, are unanimous. She was transcendent—a revelation! and this in spite of all she had to conquer and overcome, both in the company who supported her, and in the absolute want of sympathy felt by Englishmen for the French classic poets, with their recurrence of spoken rhymes and stiff monotony. "Comme c'est Grec," said La Harpe of Andromaque. We say, "Comme c'est Français." Orestes and Pyrrhus, Herrmone and Andromaque, are but fine gentlemen and ladies of the time of Louis XIV. Rachel, however, was of no nationality, of no age, neither Greek nor French, classical nor modern. Her genius was for all time; she unerringly interpreted human nature in its grandest and truest forms. She took the stately Alexandrines, and made them the
