You have heard, no doubt, good reader--if you have not seen this accomplished Frenchwoman--that she is a scold, a fury, a womanly Kean, in a constant fret of passion. Do not believe it. Her forte is tenderness: she is much greater in the gentle grasp with which she embraces the whole intention of a part, than in the force with which she gives distinct hits: she is more at home in those emotions we call domestic, than in those which walk away from home on very lofty stilts. How the false notion obtained currency, we do not know. The French critics are men of lively imaginations, and it was perhaps natural that the feeling of that start of surprise with which Rachel broke upon them, should seek to ally itself to the occasionally sudden and terrible, the flighty and impetuous, rather than to the various tenderness and quiet truth which gave the actress her lasting victory. What Rachel was before she was the first actress of France, probably the reader knows. She sold oranges on the Boulevards. Her name was Rachel Felix--an augury of fortune. An early hankering for the stage took her to the GYMNASE in 1837, where she played bad parts badly enough. Not without a gleam of something beyond, however: for Sanson the actor happened to see her there, and thought it worth while to take her into teaching. He cured her of a false accent (she was a Swiss Jewess), and brought her out at the FRANCAIS in 1838, upon a salary of four thousand francs. She took the audience by storm, and her four thousand went up to a hundred and fifty thousand. Long may she flourish, to deserve and to enjoy them. FRIGHTS!--No. II. We now propose to turn to other illustrations of fright familiar to every family, and susceptible of description. Let us take a night-scene, conjured up by a sudden alarm of THIEVES! 'Tis midnight, and "the very houses seem asleep," out-houses and all. The "quiet family" has attained its utmost pitch of quietness. All sleep soundly, where no sound is heard. A breathless hush pervades the domicile. On a sudden, there is a smart crash, a rattling sound, below. This sleeper starts up in bed; that, darts farther under the clothes. "What's that?" is the inward question of everybody. The thought of thieves occurs to each in turn; one is certain that the area-door has been forced open; another is sure that the back-parlour sash has been raised. They lie still, with panting hearts, and listen. Again there is a noise; it is like creaking footsteps on the stairs, or the opening of drawers; then all is silent again, and then the noise is renewed.