PEN AND INK PORTRAIT OF HE N R I E T T E S O N T A G, BY MARIE AYCARD.

TWO centuries ago, under the dominion of a great king, when intellect and wit were the daily pastimes—at that brilliant period when gallantry was a habit and politeness a duty—there was a charming fashion; which was to reproduce in writing, the description of the character, person, and talents of those who had any claim to celebrity. This fashion of pen-and-ink portraits, consecrated by La Rochefoucauld, who sketched his own—by Madame Lafayette, who sketched that of her illustrious friend—has disappeared with the great names, the great sayings, and the great doings of those days, when toil and money-getting were not the only objects of life.

Occupied, however, Madam, like all other people, as I am, I shall find time to trace, with a rapid and truthful pen, those eminent qualities which all admire in you. Endowed with beauty which attracts, grace which fascinates, you also possess esprit and native refinement, without which every other quality loses its charm. You have a marvellous talent—how shall I describe this! How can we explain by what natural refinement, by what intellectual labor, you have made it at once so grand and so touching! That ineffable voice, which goes directly to the heart, and dwells for ever in the memory of those who hear it—those ever-changing shades of expression—those bold and brilliant embellishments created by good taste, softened by grace, and made inimitable by art—you possess all. Oh, music of the spheres, of which we dream but never hear!—you alone have revealed it, for you alone possess that touching language, at once radiant and heart-thrilling, yet penetrating, like all real beauty, like that divine essence whence you emanate. When you appear on the scene, which you instantly transform into a brilliant saloon, one would think he had been admitted by special favor to one of those courtly representations given to indulge the caprice of some great princess desirous of obtaining those numerous wreaths you know so well how to wear.

How much admiration have you not excited in the different parts you have filled, with equal inspiration and science! How have eyes and ears both been charmed at the "Daughter of the Regiment"—a creation understood and interpreted by yourself alone!—where, in spite of yourself, the harmony of your gestures, the grace of your movements, give to the whole character a mysterious poetry, which infects the very air around you! With what inimitable art you represent that inimitable Rosina, at once so innocent and so cunning, committing with such reckless grace those little sins which make youth so happy, and revealing at the same time the woman who attracts us by the qualities we love and the faults we adore. Ah, whether you express either joy or sorrow, you charm equally—like those privileged natures, you can feel everything, because you can understand everything. You are merciful and charitable—misfortune has never applied to you in vain—never has the cry of the sufferer been listened to by you without reply. Succoring the one, consoling the other, you give to misfortune at once your heart and your gold. Benevolent, obliging, and generous, all those who come to you are received with a gracious modesty which spares them many pangs. You have so much memory for what is required of you—you forget so soon what you give—you appear so happy to oblige—that you seem to be indebted to those whom you serve. Artist and accomplished woman, you possess the two endowments so rare in this world—immense talent and unlimited appreciation. Heaven has given you two nobilities—that of ancestry and that of the soul.

I have nothing more to say—except that I am seeking in vain for an expression to portray so admirable a character. This is your portrait, Madam—and I leave the world to determine whether it is correct.