out his defects he places him side by side, in admiring appraisement, with Newton and-perhaps ironically-with Frederick II. Now in Voltaire's opinion, Newton was "the sublime man! All men of genius resemble one another in some particular respect. Molière and Shakespeare, for instance - two misanthropes whose disappointed love takes the form of bitter irony. The Jacques of "As You Like It," it has been well said, is an Alceste of the Renaissance. But he himself has a brother-an elder brother in respect to anger and hatred-Timon of Athens. Misanthropy incorporate never gave utterance to such eloquent curses as Timon hurled against mankind. Never did incensed prophet rain down upon social corruption more scathing invectives. "Be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men; His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains: Here Alceste is far surpassed. The two geniuses, moreover, depict themselves in their respective works. Molière studies a man; Shakespeare humanity. Alceste is a misanthrope; Timon is misanthropy itself. Shakespeare's torrents of rage may be easily accounted for by the fact that he lived at a time when men bore with difficulty "the burden and heat of the day." The pains suffered during heavy and sinister hours are reflected in the lamentations of his personages. The gloomy story of his age underlies his work. He wrote, so to speak, as one wading through blood; and he suffered, though not of his personal ills, for fortune had come to him with maturity of years. The poet might have allowed himself to lead a happy life; but could he? The man of imagination was also a man of conscience. It did not suffice him, as Taine will have it, to obey the genius that inspired him with terrible drama or sparkling comedy, manifesting the ghost of Banquo, or the chariot of Queen Mab. He insisted upon raising his voice in protest on behalf of the weak and oppressed, and in crying out aloud for justice. The historian of English literature, as unjust to Shakespeare as he was to Sterne, either did not or would not see that Shakes peare was a humanitarian. The poet's eminent commentator turned a deaf ear to the appeals he addressed to the future; heartrending ejaculations, which resounded like consolatory anachronisms in Elizabeth's time, when the headman's ax was constantly imbrued in English blood. Was Shakespeare a democrat? I am inclined to think so. In "King Lear," for instance, there are outbreaks which shed sudden light upon his inmost thoughts. The king, destitute and straying about the country in the rain with his fool and one. faithful follower, takes refuge in an empty hovel. His thoughts turn towards the poor wretches whom he had erstwhile treated as beggars, and whom, in his misery, he recognizes as his breth ren. "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, Lear-that is Shakespeare-thus recommends self-sacrifice and preaches pity, inspired not only by heaven's decree, but with a profound love of justice. At other times Shakespeare, with cruel irony, shows us the dust of Alexander stopping a beer barrel. He goes still further, e. g.: "King - Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius? "Hamlet-At supper . . not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. . . Your fat king, and your lean beggar, is but variable service; two dishes but to one table; that's the end . . . A man may fish with the worm that has eat of a king; and eat of the fish that hath eat of that worm. King What dost thou mean by this? "Hamlet-Nothing, but to show you how a king may go a prog ress through the guts of a beggar." Louis XIV. would have been extremely surprised had Molière taken the liberty of putting such realism as this into words. Mo lière, however, did not indulge in these infernal pleasantries. He was more reasonable and less formidable than Shakespeare, while every whit as human. His Tartuffe, to my mind, is a greater hypocrite than Iago, whose contrivances are somewhat clumsy. Again, I might compare, for instance, Harpagon with Shylock; or, rather, the women created by the genius of the supreme English and French dramatists. In the latter case I should venture to say that if Shakespeare's women- the offspring of dreams and magic spells are made to be worshiped, Molière's women, delicious in their simplicity, reasonableness, and grace, are made to be espoused. But why compare, and why prefer? Let us admire and love. A few months ago, in the presence of its author, M. Jean Aicard, I was conducting a rehearsal of the last translation of Shakespeare produced in France - that of "Othello." While the eternally thrilling drama was being acted on the stage - while Desdemona, surrounded by captains, soldiers, and Cypriotes, was awaiting her tempest-tossed consort, another storm seemed to be brewing between two great nations made to esteem and love one another, and to strive in common throughout the world in the cause of progress and liberty. In a word, Fashoda just then cast its shadow over our Shakespearean rehearsals, and the latest translator of "Othello," admiring like myself the great poet of sempiternal passion and pain, said to me: "Is it not amazing that- far above the contingent rivalries of politics and the futile questions which arise between peoples meant by nature to think, feel, and act in union-the poet's genius should soar like the sun above the clouds? It is in vain that newspapers, eagerly read to-day, torn up and forgotten tomorrow, essay to inflame anger and foment dissension. The poet is at his post, intent upon making all nations listen to the imperishable words, 'Concord and Peace.'» And in fact while disquietude darkened the horizon, Shakespeare, everlasting Shakespeare, was drawing towards each other the publics of France and England by the agency of one of his master works. The dead man, entombed centuries ago, was mobilizing troops who were the soldiers of Art, and who- from MounetSully down to the humblest " super » of the Venetian senatetook arms to fight for his glory. I admired that histrionic legion, stirred to action by the posthumous will of genius, those men of to-day, moved by passions of the sixteenth-century man, those artists of another race interpreting, resuscitating, revivifying the work of a profoundly English genius which belongs to all nations; and I said to myself: "Nothing is finer, nobler, and greater than dramatic art." Just as heaven is the same for all men, art is the same for all nations. Genius is the great reservoir of hu man peace. From a lecture delivered at the Lyceum WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK (1810-1841) ILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, poet and essayist, was born in Otisco, New York, March 5th, 1810. He was by profession a journalist, and the most important work of his professional life was done as editor of the Philadelphia Gazette. As an essayist he contributed numerous papers to the Knickerbocker Magazine and other periodicals. His "Remains" in prose and verse were collected and published after his death, which occurred June 12th, 1841, at Philadelphia. His most notable poem, "The Spirit of Life," is written in the style and spirit of Pope. THE ON LYING AS A FINE ART HERE can be no doubt of the fact that Lemuel Gulliver has, in modern days, enjoyed too exclusive a reputation as a fictionist. Munchausen has laurels which, though partly deserved, are somewhat too exuberant for his deserts. Congreve showed his knowledge of liars, when he made one of his dramatic characters say to another: : "Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, Thou Liar of the first magnitude!" Pinto was great in his way, but he was a poor romancer compared with Sir John Mandeville. The elastic credulity of that gentleman could take in a mountain of mendacity. Marvels, that were such to others, were trifles to him; and with respect to the stories he heard in his travels, however gross they were, his great belief had stomach for them all. We design to rake up a few of his wonders, and, by comparing them with those of Pinto, prove conclusively that the latter is immeasurably distanced, as also are Rabelais, Munchausen, Gulliver, and indeed the whole olden tribe of pencilers by the wayside. We will begin with the Portuguese. His travels were of one and twenty years' duration. They were made in the kingdoms of Ethiopia, China, Tartary, Cauchin |