s very great attractions, I think she may
(by the cold impartiality of science) be classified as a secondary, a
less inspired, and (to use the great word of the day) a more "brutal"
Sarah Bernhardt. (Mlle. Croizette's "brutality" is her great card.) As
for Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, she is simply, at present, in Paris, one of
the great figures of the day. It is hard to imagine a more brilliant
embodiment of feminine success. It is hard to imagine a young woman
leading a more complete and multifold existence. The intellectual
fermentation of a productive, creative (and most ambitious) artist, the
splendors of a princess, the glories of a celebrity, and various other
matters besides--these are a sufficiently interesting combination. But
as an artist, as I have said, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt would almost
deserve a chapter for herself.

HENRY JAMES, JR.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY.

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE BRIDGE.

There was one walk of which Minola Grey was especially fond, and which
she loved to enjoy alone. It led by a particular track through Regent's
Park, avoiding for the most part the frequented paths, and bringing her
at one time to the summit of a little mound or knoll, from which she
could look across broad fields where sheep were grazing, and through
clumps of trees and over hedges, and from which, by a happy
peculiarity, all sight of the beaten and dusty avenues of the park was
shut out. The view from this little eminence was perhaps most beautiful
on a moist and misty day. There the soft, loving, artistic breath of
the rain-charged clouds breathed tenderly on the landscape, and effaced
any of the harsher, or meaner, or in any way more prosaic details.
There the gazer only saw a noble expanse of delicious green grass and
darker hedgerows, and trees of dun and gray, and softly-mottled
moss-grown trunks, and here and there a bed of flowers, and all under a
silver-gray atmosphere that almost seemed to dissolve while the eye
rested on it. When Minola had looked long enough on the scene opening
below the mound, she then usually pursued her course by devious ways
until she reached one of the bridges of the canal, and there she made
another halting place. The scene from the canal-bridge, unlike that
from the mound, looked best on a bright, breezy day, of quick changing
lights and shadows. There the brown water of the canal sparkled and
gladdened in the sun, and Minola, leaning over the little bri