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 worshipped, 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 tempesttossed 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 to-morrow, 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 Mounet-Sully down to the humblest "super" of the Venetian senate, took 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, vivifying 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 human peace. And I glorified Shakespeare in my native land with the same pride that I experience here in paying homage, in the name of the great Frenchman, Molière, to the great Englishman, and to grand Old England.

It is my earnest wish that next year, at the Universal Exhibition which is to show the world the wonders of human industry, England will furnish us with ample opportunity for admiring the incomparable products of her manual labor and the superb creations of her genius; that the English men of letters whom we know, translate, and reverence, will join with us in applauding the two dramatists who link France and England together, Shakespeare and Molière; and that we may inaugurate for all time to come the fraternal era of free interchange, as far as dramatic and literary masterpieces are concerned.

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS

("MARK TWAIN")

THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

[Lecture (in part) by Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain "), humorist (born in Florida, Missouri, November 30, 1835; −), delivered in the Academy of Music, New York City, about 1877. The manuscript was not preserved, and this fragment is reprinted from a newspaper report made at the time. "Hawaii," as it was popularly called, was one of Mr. Clemens' early lectures, and, repeated in many parts of the country, it added materially to his fame as an American humorist of high degree.]

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:-There doesn't appear to be anybody here to introduce me, and so we shall have to let that go by default. But I am the person who is to deliver the lecture, and I shall try to get along just the same as if I had been formally introduced. I suppose I ought to apologize for the weather [the night was very stormy], but I can't hold myself altogether responsible for it, so I will let it go as it is.

The only apology which I can offer for appearing before you to talk about the Sandwich Islands is the fact that the recent political changes there have rendered it rather necessary for us to post ourselves concerning that country; to know a little something about the people; what we have, forgotten, to gather up again; and as I have spent several months in the Islands, several years ago, I feel competent to shed any amount of light upon the matter. [Laughter.]

These islands are situated 2,100 miles southwest from San Francisco, California, out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Why they were put away out there, so far away

from any place and in such an out-of-the-way locality, is a thing which no one can explain. [Laughter.] But it's no matter. They are twelve in number, and their entire area isn't greater than that of Rhode Island and Connecticut combined. They are all of volcanic origin and volcanic construction. There is nothing there but lava and pumice stone-except sand and coral. There isn't a spoonful of legitimate. dirt in the entire group. Eighty or ninety years ago they had a native population of full 400,000 souls, and they were comfortable, prosperous, and happy. But then the white people came, and brought trade, and commerce, and education, and complicated diseases, and civilization, and other calamities, and as a consequence the poor natives began to die off with wonderful rapidity, so that forty or fifty years ago the 400,000 had become reduced to 200,000. Then the white people doubled the educational facilities, and this doubled the death rate. The nation is doomed. It will be extinct within fifty years, without a doubt. Some people in this house may live to hear of the death of the last of the "Kanakas.' In color the natives are a rich dark brown. The tropical sun and their easy-going ways have made them rather indolent. They are not a vicious, but a very gentle, kind-hearted, harmless race. In the rural districts the women wear a single long loose gown. But the men don't. [Laughter.] [Laughter.] The men wear, well, as a general thing, they wear-a smile, or a pair of spectacles, or any little thing like that. [Laughter.] But they are not proud. They don't seem to care for display. [Laughter.]

In the old times the King was the owner of all the lands, and supreme head of Church and State. His voice was superior to all law. If a common man passed by the King's house without prostrating himself, or came near the King with his head wet, or even allowed his shadow to fall upon the King's person, that man had to die. There was no hope for him. The King exercised absolute authority over the lives and property of his subjects. He could place a "taboo" (we get that word from the Hawaiian) upon land, or article, or person, and it was death for any man to walk on the ground or touch the article or speak to the person so "tabooed." And this