temperament starring about the globe, without the control of the company to which he belongs, would drift into ineffable charlatanism. Poor M. Claretie has much ado to keep him in order. What would happen if he had a stage of his own to rant and roar upon? A lesser Sarah Bernhardt, without her inexpressible charm and her undoubted genius, which in soft interludes help us to bear with the shrieking, hysteric, high moments. It would be a mistake to regard the Français as a kind of happy family, living in perfect amity and peace. The roar of domestic war sometimes penetrates without, and all Paris was excited lately by M. Le Bargy's noisy menace of resignation. Le Bargy, on his own boards, in his own atmosphere, surrounded by his own company, has made his mark as a well-cravatted, fashionable young lover; but what will Le Bargy do elsewhere, in a theatre where, with his prestige, and coming from such a house, he will be expected to fill the stage? I doubt if there is the stuff of the star in him, and upon the Boulevards there are many actors as good as and better even than he. This is the triumph of the Français,—that by means of inexorable tradition and training, without individuality or genius, actors acting harmoniously, guided by a common standard, may attain an eminence in their profession achieved in no other land. And though the chances of fortune and popularity are much
