, perhaps,) keep fresh
the wreaths of _immortelles_ above their marble effigies.

In the Theatre Francais, I saw Rachel, the actress. She appeared in the
character of "Virginia," in a tragedy of that name, by the poet Latour.
Her appearance as she came upon the stage alone, convinced me she would
not belie her renown. She is rather small in stature, with dark,
piercing eyes and rich black hair; her lips are full, but delicately
formed, and her features have a marked yet flexible outline, which
conveys the minutest shades of expression. Her voice is clear, deep and
thrilling, and like sonic grand strain of music, there is power and
meaning in its slightest modulations. Her gestures embody the very
spirit of the character; she has so perfectly attained that rare harmony
of thought, sound and action, or rather, that unity of feeling which
renders them harmonious, that her acting seems the unstudied,
irrepressible impulse of her soul. With the first sentence she uttered,
I forgot Rachel. I only saw the innocent Roman girl; I awaited in
suspense and with a powerful sympathy, the developement of the oft-told
tragedy. My blood grew warm with indignation when the words of Appius
roused her to anger, and I could scarcely keep back my tears, when, with
a voice broken by sobs, she bade farewell to the protecting gods of her
father's hearth.

Among the bewildering variety of ancient ornaments and implements in the
Egyptian Gallery of the Louvre, I saw an object of startling interest. A
fragment of the Iliad, written nearly three thousand years ago! One may
even dare to conjecture that the torn and half-mouldered slip of
papyrus, upon which he gazes, may have been taken down from the lips of
the immortal Chiun. The eyes look on those faded characters, and across
the great gulf of Time, the soul leaps into the Past, brought into
shadowy nearness by a mirage of the mind. There, as in the desert,
images start up, vivid, yet of a vague and dreamy beauty. We see the
olive groves of Greece--white-robed youths and maidens sit in the shade
of swaying boughs--and one of them reads aloud, in words that sound like
the clashing of shields, the deeds of Achilles.

As we step out the western portal of the Tuileries, a beautiful scene
greets us. We look on the palace garden, fragrant with flowers and
classic with bronze copies of ancient sculpture. Beyond this, broad
gravel walks divide the flower-bordered lawns and ranks of marble
demigods and