and that, therefore, those parts had a reality which the tenderness
had not. But the performance was symmetrical, and, so far as the mere
acting was concerned, the woman was as well rendered as the Queen. The
want of the spectacle was this, and it is, we fully grant, the defect
of all her similar personations: you felt that it was only intellect
feigning heart, though with perfect success. The tenderness and
caprice of the woman, and the pride and dignity of the Queen, are all
there. She would not be the consummate artist she is if she could not
give them. But even through your tears you see that it is art. It is,
indeed, concealed by its own perfection, but it is not lost in the
loveliness of the character it suggests, as might be the case with a
greatly inferior artist. You are half sure, as you own the excellence,
that much of the tender effect arises from your feeling that Rachel,
as she represents a woman so different from herself, regards her role
with sad longing and vague regret. When we say that she is the ideal
Mary, we mean strictly the artistic ideal.

The late Charlotte Bronte, in her novel of _Villette_, has described
Rachel with a splendor of rhetoric that is very unusual with the
author of _Jane Eyre_. But in the style of the description it is very
easy to see the influence of the thing described. It has a picturesque
stateliness, a grave grace and musical pomp, which all belong to the
genius of Rachel. Even the soft gloom of her eyes is in it; a gloom
and a fire which no one could more subtly feel than Miss Bronte. Her
description is the best that we have seen of what is, in its nature,
after all indescribable.

As the fame of an actor or singer is necessarily traditional, and
rapidly perishes, it is not easy to compare one with another when they
are not contemporaries, for you find yourself only comparing vague