on the ground
that any young girl of the lower classes possessing extraordinary
beauty and ordinary intelligence can readily, from the bent of her
national characteristics, be trained into an actress. But while the
high-comedy theatres and those of the melodrama flourish, there can
be no doubt but that the highest type of acting finds no chance for
development in France. The actor who possesses one spark of genius
soon escapes from the galling fetters of classicism and tradition, and
takes refuge in comedy or in melodrama. Thus did Frederic Lemaitre
in his prime, and thus, too, in later days, did the accomplished and
brilliant Lafontaine.

From these causes, or from others of a kindred nature, the French
tragic stage has within our generation possessed no actor of
commanding genius. One actress indeed adorned it for a few brief
years--the great Rachel. But she, strange and unnatural production
of unnatural art, was a phenomenon, and one not likely to be soon
reproduced. The art of the Comedie Francaise is to-day inimitable.
Like Thalberg's playing, it is the very apotheosis of the mechanical.
There talent is trained and cut and trimmed into one set fashion, till
the very magnitude of the work becomes imposing, as the gardens of
Le Notre in their grand extent almost console the spectator for the
absence of virgin forests and of free-gushing streams. But could the
forest be brought side by side with the parterre, could Niagara pour
its emerald floods or Trenton its amber cascades side by side with the
Fountain of Latona or the Great Basin of Neptune, Nature, terrible
in her grandeur, would rule supreme. Such has been the comparison
afforded by the appearance of Ernesto Rossi on the Parisian stage.
It was Shakespeare and genius coming into direct competition with
perfectly-trained talent and with Racine.

Early last October a modest announcement was made that Signor Rossi
would give two performances at the Salle Ventadour, one of them to
be for the benefit of the sufferers by the Southern inundations.
_Othello_ was the play selected for both occasions. The first night
arrived. The unlucky opera-house, shorn of its ancient popularity, was
not half filled. Public curiosity was not specially aroused. Nobody
cared particularly to see an Italian actor perform in a translation of
a play by an English dramatist. Of the scanty audience present,
fully one-half were Italians, and the rest were mostly English, lured
thither by th