For the same reason a protest should be made against the singing of the "Marseillaise" by the far-famed actress, Mademoiselle Rachel, at the first theatre of France, and more especially since this terrific exhibition is given also upon the occasions when the theatre is gratuitously opened to the public. The terrible vigour of this actress in the delineation of the worst and fiercest passions of the human breast--anger, rage, scorn, malice--is well known to the world. The singing of the "Marseillaise" has excited a tumult of enthusiasm. At a time when all the theatres in Paris languished, and pined away to the bare benches, and even died--some of them from inanition, poor things!--the Théâtre Français was nightly crammed to its throat in the very upper galleries, to gaze upon this strange spectacle. Before witnessing this feat of Mademoiselle Rachel, it was natural to suppose that she would assume the part of an inspired Joan of Arc, leading on a people to combat and victory. Bitter was the disappointment of those who indulged this poetic fancy. Her gestures, while singing the patriotic hymn, are energetic, if not grand, her attitudes fine, her _poses plastiques_ picture-like; but what is the whole character of her delivery--what the expression she bestows? Those of hatred, malice, revenge, bloodthirstiness. She calls "to arms" as Satan may have summoned the accursed angels. She is not for a moment the inspired guardian angel of a suffering country, heaven-sent to avenge its wrongs: she is the demon of darkness scattering destruction and death from the sheer love of death and destruction. Her flatterers have called her "a Muse"--then she must needs be the Muse of Vengeance! the Muse of Malice! the Muse of Blood! She sinks her voice to sing the words, "_Amour sacré de la patrie_;" but with what a spirit of concentrated bitterness does she pronounce them! There is not a breath of love in the least inflexion of her voice: every tone breathes "hate--hate--hate," with all the bitterness of hatred. What a look of fury, malice, scorn, and reckless revenge possesses her face during her whole delivery! One would suppose that she must have some private wrongs of her own to avenge upon society, or upon the denounced aristocracy of society, so spontaneous appears the flood of blood-mixed bile that flows from her lips. A shudder pervades your whole frame, your hair stands on end; and willingly would you turn away your head with horror and disgust, did she not fascinate you by the power of her energy, and cast an evil spell upon you by the charm of the sculptured beauty of her forcible attitudes. Ay! would a sculptor study a true model of a demon of revenge, he could not study a better one than Mademoiselle Rachel, as she delivers the Marseillaise. But it is this very fascination that is dangerous. Hundreds of spectators, who applaud with frenzy, leave the theatre instinctively connecting in their minds the Marseillaise with all the