In parts this effect is productive of too much pain.

I saw Rachel one night with her brother and sister.

The sister imitated her so closely that you could not help seeing she had a manner, and an imitable manner.

Her brother was in the play her lover,--a wretched automaton, and presenting the most unhappy family likeness to herself.

Since then I have hardly cared to go and see her.
We could wish with geniuses, as with the Phoenix, to see only one of the family at a time.
In the pathetic or sentimental drama Paris boasts another young actress, nearly as distinguished in that walk as Rachel in hers.
This is Rose Cheny, whom we saw in her ninety-eighth personation of Clarissa Harlowe, and afterward in Genevieve and the _Protege sans le Savoir_,--a little piece written expressly for her by Scribe.
The "Miss Clarisse" of the French drama is a feeble and partial reproduction of the heroine of Richardson; indeed, the original in all its force of intellect and character would have been too much for the charming Rose Cheny, but to the purity and lovely tenderness of Clarissa she does full justice.