Paris has gone mad over the actress Sarah Bernhardt. A
festival has been held in her honour, and a'banquet given her attended by all that is distinguished in art or literature in France, and at which M. Sardou, while glorifying her powers as tragedian, glorified also her "exquisite goodness as a woman." A poem by' Oatalle Mendes was recited in her honour, a special " Hymne I Sarah" was composed, and at an afternoon performance the actress was almost literally worshipped, seated on a throne of flowers. Delegations from the schools of law and medicine were present in the boxes, and a regular appeal is made to the Government to grant the " divine Sarah " the grand cordon of the Legion of Honour. The celebration is France all over. There is the quick and enthusiastic recognition of genius, but the genies which excites the enthusiasm is only histrionic, and can in the nature of things benefit only an audience and not the nation. The passion for the theatre is not blameable, but it cannot be said to be ennobling. Acting is the only art which has not even the attribute of permanence, but dies with the performer.
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