The Sun. — 1846-07-14 (London, England)

FRENCH PLAYS. ST. JAMES'S THEATRE.  La. t night tr, crowd of fashionables—albeit it may seem a contradiction in terms—an enthusiastic crowd of fashionables (for genius can endow even the blase habitues of fashionable life with enthusiasm) assembled at the St. James's Theatre to do homage to the greatest tragedian in the world, Mademoiselle Rachel. She appeared as Camille in Corneille's tragedy of Les Boraces —a character in which we have frequently seen her before, and in which, each time that we have seen her, we have gone to the theatre predetermined to watch her critically, and not to suffer ourselves to be carried away by our feelings, but in every instance the genius of the actress has so carried us away that criticism has become impossible. As easily might we attempt to criticise the sublime scenery of the Alps, or the exquisitely beautiful scenery of our own Cumberland lakes. Nature defies criticism—she is above it ; and Rachel is nature. Beautiful—exquisite—perfec ; Voltaire proposed to write those words at the foot of each page of Rapine, as the only just and true criticism ; and such is the only criticism applicable to the acting of Rachel. Not only is she naturally a most intense and impassioned actress, but Nature has been improved to the highest pitch of perfection by study. She is in the highest sense of the word an artiste, and she works up a character to a complete climax. In Camille, for instance, no sooner does she enter upon the scene than without a word being spoken the spectator feels that she is a doomed victim. How exquisitely beautiful is her love for her family— how intense her love for her affianced husband—how deeply pathetic her melancholy at the thought that Alba and Rome must join in battle, and those she loves must meet as enemies. Then what can excel the ecstasy of per joy when she learns , that those she loves tiny yet be saved, because the champions on each side are to be, chosen to do battle for their respective countries ? Can anything exceed it ? Yes, the depth of her despair, when she knows that her brother and her lover are among the champions. The, catastrophe approaches—two of her brothers are killed; the third has fled, but her lover is safe. Bowed down by grief, she leans on her father. Sorrowful is she for the loss of her brothers, but not altogether despairing. Her lover is safe, and his safety is to her more than brothers or country. Then comes the climax. Her brother's flight is but a stratagem—he has re- , turned and killed her lover.- The tale is told by a, messenger to her father. She turns towards him, intently listens, and when she hears the dreadful truth, she shrieks not, moans not, speaks not ; but, as a bird fascinated by the' glaring eyes of a serpent, a tremulous -Shudder passes through her frame, and she sinks dead T Ay dead,' for although the body revives after a time, and utters horrible imprecations on Rome, it is not animated by the soul of Camille. That gentle gout haqssseti away to 10 rest, emancipated  from its fleshly tabernacle by the announcement of the death of Curiatius. But the body remains ; there are convulsive movements, horribly convulsive movements, of that body, which is re animated by a demon. It is no longer Camille, but Nemesis, that speaks ; and, denouncing vengeance on the lioratii and on Rome, aggravates Horatius to the commission of the murder of his seeming sister, and thus condemns him to an eternity of remorse. Such is the idea which the acting of Mademoiselle Rachel gives us of the concluding scene, and such doubtless was the intention of Corneille. In reading the play, the conclusion has hitherto struck us as an anti-climax. We have always considered that the tragedy should end with the death— for we will call it the death—and not the swoon, of Camille, on hearing that Curiatius has fallen ; but Mdlle. Rachel has vindicated the genius of Corneille, and made the climax perfect. Her Camille is the most sublime histrionic effort the world has ever seen.