color, shape, capacity, condition-the conviction only deepens, till it becomes the tritest of doctrines, that this wide banyan-tree of ranks and races has one deep root, one central stream of life, one human heart. In this fact we feel more and more the claim of every man-in the fact that he possesses this capable and mysterious heart. We ask for no other sign. We care not what limitation of intellect, what degradation of morals may be found, what analogies may be detected between something lower than man and him. Here is the only question we ask: Does he love and fear and hope and pray with the common ground-swell of humanity? Show us the poor Indian woman who lays down her child in the woods, and folds the little palms together, kisses the dumb lips that will never prattle more; show us the slave mother, hounded, fang-torn, with revolvers cracking behind her, and the rolling flood before, holding in her lacerated hands her babe close to her breast, with a grasp that only Death can loosen, and in this spectacle there is that which climbs over all castes and bulwarks, enters radiant and perfumed homes, transmutes all distinctions, and strikes straight into humanity, with that "one touch which makes the whole world kin." [Loud applause.]

This, then, is the deepest sentiment of the age, and I thank God it is a commonplace sentiment, for, as such, it inspires and precipitates the noblest work of the age, and is the spring of the grandest events that move in the theatre of our time. No doubt its fruits are often mistaken, fanatical, absurd; but depend upon it, here open richest opportunities for human action, here is an unexhausted field, where man can most readily test the heroism, and faith, and love that is in him. The work of humanity that is the work of modern chivalry. Not a work such as called the old chivalry to battle for the Holy Sepulchre, but yet a work for the help and uplifting of those for whom He who triumphed over the sepulchre died; not taking the shape of that sentiment which "groined cathedral aisles," but yet a work for that which is more truly God's temple, and which His spirit fills.

Let all of us labor in this work, each in his sphere, and according to the measure of his ability. To him who, in this country, stands for God's truth and man's hope, a

long array of kindred spirits-kindred with the chivalry of all the past-rise up and salute: "Good knight! stout lance! Go forth and conquer! Go forth as one of the glorious succession of those who are here achieving a better future for this old earth, ripening as it rolls!" [Prolonged applause.]

JULES ARSENE CLARETIE

SHAKESPEARE AND MOLIÈRE

[Lecture by Jules Arsene Arnaud Claretie, academician, director of the Theatre Francais, since 1885 (born in Limoges, December 3, 1840;

-), delivered at the Lyceum Theatre, London, on July 13, 1899. This lecture, which the London "Times" characterized as "full of grace, acuteness, and charm," was delivered by M. Claretie at the invitation of Sir Henry Irving and Sir Comyns Carr. Sir Charles Dilke returned thanks to M. Claretie; Mr. Forbes Robertson moved a vote of thanks to Sir Henry Irving; and M. Claretie in a few concluding words made a graceful reference to Mr. Robertson's "Hamlet."]

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:-Morning after morning, whenever I betake myself from my dwelling to the theatre of the Comédie Française, I pass by a statue which stands erect at a corner of my boulevard, and by another seated in front of the fountain that adorns the Rue de Richelieu. The first is the statue of Shakespeare on foot and, actorlike, grasping a scroll upon which, it may be assumed, one of his favorite parts has been inscribed; the second is that of Molière, thoughtful and contemplative in aspect and bearing. It seems to me that these two statues have set me the task which I undertook to fulfil when, at the instance of the organizers of this matinée, I consented to address you on the subject of the Great Tragedian and the Great Comedian.

I deem myself honored, ladies and gentlemen, highly honored, by the request preferred to me; but the honor thus conferred upon me is one fraught with strenuous danger, and I should almost regret its acceptance, were I not assured of your proverbial courtesy and your absolute good-will. Unquestionably it may appear somewhat audacious that a French man of letters should discourse

of William Shakespeare to a British audience. Even in speaking of Molière he is perhaps over-bold, for I surmise that, if, as is but natural, you know and understand Shakespeare better than I do, most of you know and understand Molière at least as well as I do. I should, therefore, scarcely venture to address you, did I not reflect that I am not only a lecturer to whom you are good enough to listen, but a guest whom you have kindly welcomed among you, and that in free and generous England the chivalric virtue of hospitality has been a national quality from time immemorial.

I am reassured, moreover, by the presence here of many personalities particularly sympathetic to me, and by the proximity of the delightful friend and truly great artist whose presidency of this meeting to-day will henceforth rank among the most gratifying memories of my life. I confess that I would only too gladly hold my peace, leaving to Sir Henry Irving the task of speaking in my stead about Shakespeare, as he has already spoken with captivating eloquence. By this substitution we should all be gainers, for your admirable tragedian knows how to furnish you with twofold explanations of Shakespeare, that of the commentator, and that of the actor. The latter, indisputably, is the most admirable of all critics. It is the comedian who makes men of the characters in the play-men who live, speak, weep, suffer, and die. Instead of listening to me, with Shakespeare for my theme, you would have done well to lend your ears to Irving, his ablest interpreter. The best lectures on Shakespeare are his leading parts, as rendered by the great artist whose friend I am proud to be; and I cherish the hope that I shall one day hear the admiring acclamations with which he will be greeted on the other side of the channel, should he consent to play Shakespeare in Shakespeare's vernacular on a Parisian stage.

For, in order that Shakespeare should be understood and admired according to his deserts, that is, infinitely, unrestrictedly, as the universe itself may be admired,—it is essential that he be studied in his own tongue. To translate Shakespeare in all his power and grace would require a dramatic genius no less remarkable than his

own.

We Frenchmen possess, too, really superior trans

lations of Shakespeare,-those of Emile Montégut and François Victor Hugo. But, frankly speaking, to render Shakespeare adequately, the French language is lacking in mystery. Moreover, as Alfred de Vigny remarked when he was translating "Othello," a translation can only be to the original what a portrait is to its living subject. The truth is, despite the admirable translations of Shakespeare's plays into German, that music alone can convey to us the especial charm, the poetry, and the terror of Shakespeare. Victor Hugo, who cared nothing for music, and many a poet is no less indifferent than he to the Divine Art,-opined that a Rossini could doubtless effectively set to music a witty and brilliant play like “The Barber of Seville," but that the musical composer, face to face with a psychological drama such as "Hamlet," cannot but recoil, acknowledging his impotence. "I cannot," he added, "conceive Hamlet figuring as Amleto! Amleto would be perfectly ridiculous. Not so ridiculous; for, I say again, music-the divine and universal language which gives speech to the soul-has furnished the best interpretation of your incomparable Shakespeare's poetic predominance.

How should one speak of Shakespeare, of the poet who, as Dumas the elder aptly said, was the greatest of creators, except God? He who, defining Shakespeare as the incarnation of drama, and Molière as the incorporation of comedy, should claim to have put forward a new idea would only be re-treading a beaten track and reediting that which criticism has written throughout past ages; for it may well-nigh be asserted that in that vast world of poetry, caprice, terror, love, and grief which is Shakespeare's achievement there are no unknown nooks, no terra incognita. All in it has been explored, discovered, studied, and few fresh flowers can be gathered nowadays upon that beaten track. Nevertheless, in works of genius, no less than in nature's landscapes, each man sees what his soul bids him behold. A forest path assumes an aspect of mystery or sadness in conformity with the hour at which one strays along it, or with the humor for the time being of the passer-by. The sun may light up the wood's recesses as brightly as he will, if the wanderer be of melancholy mood, all the golden sheen will only bring