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the year 1842, Rachel went, for the first time, to Belgium. Her stay there only lasted a month—from the 22nd of July to the 29th of August. It was then that the pale, insignificant school-girl from the Rue d'Isabey looked at her, with eager hazel eyes, seeking to read the riddle of her life, and listened to her with a heart throbbing to every heart-throb of the actress; for did not the star of genius shine on her brow also? and, diverse as were their lives, and far apart as lay the paths they each of them trod, had not the same "efflux of sacred essence" descended on them both from above? "Vashti was not good, I was told, and I have said she did not look good," writes demurely the daughter of the Yorkshire clergyman; and yet, in spite of this judgment, how instinct with comprehension and appreciation is every line of the following description, one of the most eloquent Charlotte Brontë ever wrote:—

He mentioned a name that thrilled me—a name that in those days could thrill Europe. It is hushed now; its once restless echoes are all still; she who bore it went years ago to her rest; night and oblivion long since closed above her; but then her day—a day of genius—stood at its full height, light, and power. The theatre was