re has now been playing without a voice.

No stage reputation in the century he lives in has equaled this actor's.
Talma and Rachel, if as great as he, were not so complete, so versatile.
This sketch has mentioned but a few of his many marvelous creations,
each so rich in individuality, each so marked and so distinct from the
other, and each in its turn so original and novel. In his proud face,
his fiery eyes, his trembling lip, there seems still energy enough for a
hundred ordinary actors of merit; and yet he gives to any part he essays
the minute attention to details, the unwearying patience, which would in
themselves almost win success for an incarnation of commonplace.

WIRT SIKES.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The Conservatoire de Musique et de Declamation lyrique is a
municipal and governmental institution in the French capital, founded
for the gratuitous instruction of youth of both sexes in singing, music
and declamation. It accommodates six hundred pupils, and has a library
of eight thousand volumes.

[B] A cant name among the French for the claque.

THE SONG-WIND.

I stand in a climate of spring,
Overblown by a wind from the South,
With joy unspeakable thrilled,
Ineffable song in my mouth;
For the wind is a breeze of delight,
And its blowing is rhythmic and fleet;
It comes from the heart of the South.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!

It comes like the breath of a dream
Blown through the still regions of sleep;
It comes from the islands of love,
Lying midmost the tropical deep;
It has the fresh smell of sea-grass,
It is woven of coolness and heat,
Fruit-flavored and burdened with spice.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!

It stirs the high tops of the trees,
With greenness and fragrance o'erfraught,
Through which the swift sun-glories glance
Like flashes of wonderful thought;
It touches the rose till it burns
Like love in a heart made complete;
It kisses the world into flower.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!

A breath of all ages it is,
From Teos, and Lesbos, and Ind;
Through the years, like a shuttle of gold,
Runs the wonder of song on the wind--
The wonder of flute and of lyre,
A music made mellow and meet
For Sappho, the princess of song.
Oh, the South wind, the song-wind is sweet!

O Sappho