his tomb. Eschylus also, in the epitaph he wrote for himself, forgot his hundred tragedies, but he had fought at Marathon, and this he recalled proudly; and it is conceivable that he should claim this glory in preference to the other. But the tomb of Shakspere makes no similar claim: it begs that it be left alone, and this is not for the sake of "Hamlet" or of "Lear" or of so many masterpieces, but for Jesus' sake.

Molière never retired; scarcely even did he take a vacation: he worked while ill and he worked when dying; and he died almost on the stage. One of the reasons for this differencenot enough noticed, I think — is that Molière was a much better actor than Shakspere.

Shakspere the actor has left no trace. It is vaguely known that he played the old Adam in "As You Like It," and the Ghost in "Hamlet." But it was not he but Burbage who "created" his great parts. Becoming an actor by accident, it seems probable that he was such without passion, and that he ceased to play as soon as possible.

This was not the case with Molière. There is no doubt that his vocation as an actor was his master-passion. He did not leave the paternal roof for the purpose of writing plays but for the purpose of acting them. And we know that these were not comedies—the Ilustrious Theater had in stock at first nothing but tragedies. When he wrote "L'Étourdi," his first work, Molière had been an actor for nine years, and for fifteen when he wrote the "Précieuses Ridicules." Never could his great success as an author tempt him to leave the boards. He not only continued to act in his own plays, but he acted in the plays of others and did not consider this as lost time. He acted, as we have said, although coughing and spitting blood; and to Boileau, who advised him to leave the stage, he replied, "It is for my honor that I remain"-so much did he love his profession, which was killing him. But then he excelled in it. His contemporaries are unanimous on this point. He was extraordinary" Better actor even than author," one of them goes so far as to say. We can imagine what joy it must have been to see him in his great parts-Sganarelle, Orgon, Alceste, Harpagon.

He had come to this degree of excellence only by dint of hard work, as his appearance was not pleasing and his voice difficult to manage. It was his voice, above all, that gave him trouble; but, notwithstanding the hiccough that remained, he made it so rich in varied inflections that it seemed as though he had many. He was particular about the articulation: it is to him that we owe the right way of pronouncing certain words; for example, the infinitives

VOL. XXXVIII.-108.

in er. He left nothing to chance, and insisted that an actor should have counted all his steps and decided upon every glance before he stepped upon the stage. We have in the "Impromptu" a theatrical criticism of his that we can compare to the theatrical criticism of Shakspere in "Hamlet." At bottom they agree: they have the same passion for nature, the same aversion from emphasis—but Molière had the advantage in that he practiced what he preached.

It will be objected that he was not good in tragic characters. That is possible; it is so human to err! But perhaps we have been too quick to believe his enemies on this point. The manner of acting tragedy in those days was very different from his theories. He may have disconcerted the public by abstaining from. bombastic delivery and by bringing down the heroes to a more natural level. Notice, however, that he played Corneille up to the very last. It seems likely that if the pit had disapproved of him so strongly in these parts, he would not have been so insistent; then it would have affected the receipts—and Molière was a manager. Finally, it was he who trained Baron; and Baron in tragedy, as in comedy, was incomparable. This passion of Molière's for his profession as actor was eminently advantageous. It increased his power of observation. The gaze he fixed on man was in some sort a double mirror; he studied first to know, and afterwards so as to reproduce. What might have escaped him had he only written the play came to him when he acted it. Then-forgive me the metaphor — the ink became blood. Therefore it is, I think, because Molière was a greater actor than Shakspere that he was a more sure and more complete observer, although in a narrower sphere.

And to this quality of actor, which was accompanied in both by the gift of stage-management, they each owed the dramatic force that to-day animates their works. We feel that these were not written coldly in the silence of the closet, but thrown alive upon the stage. And it is this too-I think the remark is SainteBeuve's-that explains the indifference of Shakspere and Molière to the printing of their works. They did not recognize these on paper. "Tartuffe" and "Hamlet" existed for them only before the footlights. It was only there that they felt their plays bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh.

It has been possible, after much erudition, to establish the chronological sequence of the works of Shakspere; and through this study has been evolved the history of his thought. It is at first a period of experiment; Shakspere begins, he feels the need of living, he is the Jack-at-all-trades at the Globe; he makes

over old pieces and writes new ones in imitation of Plautus or the Italians: no originality as yet, and, oddly enough, no dramatic genius; he was, above all, the poet of "Venus and Adonis," in whom it was difficult to foresee the writer of "Hamlet." But the time of groping ceased: he wrote "Richard III.," and in that he discovered character; he wrote "Romeo and Juliet," and in that he discovered drama. Still the second part of his career is almost entirely devoted to comedy. If he attempts drama, it is through the national history; which gives him the chance of creating Falstaff, perhaps his best rounded comic type. This was the time when he began his fortune and his glory. He is full of hope and gaiety; he takes delight in those adorable compositions "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "The Merchant of Venice," "Much Ado about Nothing." Fancy is his queen, and if Melancholy seizes him, it is to draw him to that marvelous forest of Arden, where so many songs are sung that the wickedest become good and the things that seem the most difficult to arrange end there -as you like it.

To this period of youth succeeds the prime of life. Shakspere is rich and seems happy; but his thoughts are more somber. He doubts, he despairs, "Man pleases him not," and if he forgives Woman it is to make her fall under the injustice of destiny. From 1601 to 1607 were written these dramas: "Julius Cæsar," "Hamlet," ,""Measure for Measure," "Othello," "Lear," "Macbeth," "Antony and Cleopatra," "Timon of Athens" - masterpieces, all of them, and all disconsolate; it is the triumph of evil; the more Hamlet thinks the more he is discouraged; and it finishes with the anathema of Timon giving society at large over to destruction.

But now what happens? Because he has so often shown Man as the miserable plaything of heredity and chance, Shakspere takes pity on him; and pity engenders serenity. Then the last period opens, the period of "A Winter's Tale," of "Cymbeline," of "The Tempest," of the fragments of "Pericles." Always life and its troubles; but a dream mingles strangely with action, and it is Providence that settles the end. The drama loses in concentration; but, on the other hand, the poetry becomes wonderful: it attains to the ineffable in "The Tempest," the most divine poem ever dreamed by man.

Is it now possible to discover in the work of Molière, as in that of his rival, a history of his private thought? And does the chronological sequence of his comedies reveal to us something of his views on man and of the secret leanings of his genius?

I think so; but only on one condition: the

date of "Tartuffe " must be that of its composition, and not that of its first representation, as is generally taken. Then we find in the work of Molière, as in that of Shakspere, four distinct periods.

The period of groping, first: Molière is likewise the Jack-at-all-trades of his company; he acts in tragedy, tinkers old plays with the help of Madeleine Béjart, and writes farces, most of them imitated from the Italian, many of them derived from our old stock of fabliaux. Then, as success came, he attempts better things-writes "L'Étourdi" and the "Lover's Quarrel." We have there only his gaiety unfailing and full of go; his observation betrays itself only in comic touches, and does not rise as high as character-drawing; but what an admirable choice of words-lively, alert, and full of savor! And he not only finds words but scenes, such as the delicious quarrel in the "Dépit."

At last he is in Paris; and as though he became conscious of his genius upon touching his native soil, he throws "Les Précieuses" at the society of the day. No imitation of the ancients this time, no more Italian comedy; he paints the times, but he paints only its absurdities.

It is a great step forward. No matter. The work is brave and alive; it begins the second period; but strange to relate, although the "Précieuses" was a success, Molière did not follow it up; he returned to bolder farce with "Sganarelle," to tragi-comedy with "Don Garcia de Navarre"; and it is from the ancients, from Terence, that he borrows the "School for Husbands." But these still were but gropings: the last was at all events a real work, and Molière became more confident. A lucky chance brings him to the notice of the king, for whom he acts" Les Fâcheux," a sparkling improvisation; and then he is in favor, sure of himself, sure of the princes; and he writes the "School for Wives."

It is the first of the great masterpieces, it is the beginning of the third period; Molière has discovered himself. He has the vocabulary, he has the daring and the invention; he creates; Arnolphe, Agnes, are immortal. But there is still more, and this it is that to my mind characterizes this third manner: the "School for Wives" is a social comedy. I beg pardon for the word, which is modern, but I could replace it only by a long periphrase. What I mean is that the "School for Wives" shows society itself; Arnolphe has his own ideas on these eternally serious points, woman's education and marriage, and he calls religion to the aid of his ideas.

Molière is there on delicate ground, but it is by his own wish; and it is very valiantly

that he takes part against Arnolphe's theories and turns them into ridicule. This causes a tempest; the bigots discover an enemy. Molière is censured, cast forth, vilified. He does not care. Ever since the "Critique of the School for Wives" one feels that he will not recede. In that play he attacks the marquises, and more than one anecdote shows that this needed courage. But what is this skirmish compared with the battle of "Tartuffe"! Here evidently is comedy as it was dreamed of by the master in full possession of his strength; it turns towards satire of society; it makes itself a power, and shows on the stage the secrets of social organization. What will he respect, this Molière? He touches the Church! And it is in the name of nature that he scoffs at the theories of the mystics. But what happens? This time he is beaten. "Tartuffe" is forbidden. Well! Molière does not give in. Such is then his ardor for the fray that, after having attacked false piety, he combats what next is most dangerous-false science. He begins his war on the physicians. But this is a mere episode: he meditates a revenge; he creates "Don Juan." This is his most extraordinary work; we are stupefied by what he has dared to say in the scene with the Poor Man, and in that with Don Louis, and in the whole of the fifth act. After the Church, it is autocracy which he shakes. He was never so free, or, as they said in those days, so libertine.

Unfortunately others perhaps will say fortunately" Don Juan" was not enough of a success, and the piece met much dangerous hostility in high quarters; at the same time the flood of insults increases. Molière ill, perhaps discouraged, and feeling, doubtless, that he could not go farther on this road, that the people of his century would not follow him there- Molière reasons with himself. A contest arises within him: Molière, the indignant, protests, wants to combat, and would let loose "the vigorous hatreds"; Molière, the philosopher, puts reason first, which wishes that we be wise with sobriety, and which counsels man, being incorrigible, to accept fate without cursing him, and to observe him as one observes the "evil apes" and with "mad wolves."

This profound mental debate gave birth to "The Misanthrope," another masterpiece, that belongs to third manner by Alceste and to the last by Philinte. For it is Philinte who gets the best of it. Certainly Molière does not renounce the correction of men, but he gives up calling to judgment the powers of society. With more sharpness than ever he studies character, but individual character, not the social character. He avoids the soldier, he leaves the speculator to Le Sage; while the judge will await Beaumarthaes.

He no longer fights-he contemplates. Even after "Tartuffe "was authorized he persisted in not giving a companion piece to "Tartuffe." He will come back to Plautus-" Amphitryon," the "Miser"; he will come back to Italian comedy - the "Tricks of Scapin"; he will come back to the satire of the provincials—" Pourceaugnac," "Georges Dandin"; and in each of these returns he will create masterpieces, for he is absolute master of his art, and not for one instant does his genius pale. But he never returns to "Don Juan." Twice he approaches the forbidden ground; but the "Would-be Gentleman" is not the whole of the burgher class; and if you would see how much the new Molière differs from the old, compare the youth, the fierceness, the set purpose of the "School for Wives" with the serene maturity, impartial and profound, of the "Learned Ladies."

We must say at once that Molière's selfdenial cost his vivacity nothing; this dazzles us to the last moment, and it is with one of his gayest farces that he ends. It is true that this farce is, upon reflection, one of his strongest comedies. He is, I repeat, in this last period absolute master of his art; I would add that he is much more careful of form; to such an extent that not having time to give to his verses that degree of perfection which he desired, he wrote no more except in prose. From the "Physician in Spite of Himself" to the "Imaginary Invalid" there are ten plays in prose, three in verse, in with which must be counted "Psyche," although "Psyche," it is well known, was principally by Corneille. But the other two are the most finished works of Molière in point of style. We may regret sometimes Rabelaisian freedom of the earlier manner, the large and oily brush marks of “Tartuffe "; but we must render homage to the adorable workmanship of " Amphitryon" as well as to the judicial and sustained grandeur of style of the "Learned Ladies."

After all, if he from preference used prose, it was not that he might be negligent, for now he cadences it and fills it with blank verse, and now, as in the "Would-be Gentleman," he gives it such a variety of shading that the author disappears, leaving only his characters. to be heard, each one speaking his own language, like that good Madame Jourdain, according to the frankness of their nature.

I will not enter upon the comparisons that these historical portraits of the minds of the two masters might suggest. I would insist on but one point. It does not appear that, at any moment of his career, Shakspere thought it possible to reform society by the stage. Neither in his fantastic, optimistic comedy nor in the merciless, pitiless drama of the somber period,

nor in the providential drama of the last period, did he appear to occupy himself with correcting men of their vices. He makes works of art-that is all. If there be in them a lesson, it is, in a way, unmeant by him, and as there might be one in the spectacle of human affairs. Molière, on the contrary, has taken seriously his duty as a comic author. He has, just like old Corneille, frankly wished to put into practice Aristotle's principle of purging mankind of its faults. He has accepted comedy as a social power. And, even after he was forced to renounce "Tartuffe," he renounced neither correcting nor instructing; and almost all his plays, if not all, have an aim and a moral. This difference is accounted for, I think, by another, which is to a certain extent primary: Molière was a Latin, Shakspere was not. Shakspere very probably received a much better education than Ben Jonson leads us to believe. He loved and read the ancients much; many Latinisms have been found in his style. In his youth he imitated the "Menæchmi" of Plautus; and in his maturity he took from Plutarch not only the plots of dramas, but phrases, even whole discourses, to which he gave only the rhythm of verse, but which are absolutely opposed in tone to his poetry. Notwithstanding all this he remains free, original, and modern. It is with deliberation that he rejects the classic rules promulgated and put in use by the Ben Jonsons.

What connection is there between the spirit of antiquity and that of "Venus and Adonis," his sensual poem, all sparkling with concetti of the Italian type? Has he not gone as far as to parody the "Iliad" in "Troilus and Cressida"? Finally, in his great Roman drama, are they real Romans that he shows us? The place, the costume, the speech, and the soil-all are contemporary with Shakspere. Romans, no; but men surely! And that is enough. And as for the people, whom he loved to paint,-though not to flatter, it is the populace that he has known and mingled with, the mob and not the plebeians, to such an extent that one might say that "Coriolanus was one of the most English of Shakspere's plays.

In short, the spirit of the Renaissance breathed upon Shakspere, but did not transform him. Shakspere was in his country, the definite and supreme end of the Middle Ages. In France, on the contrary, the Middle Ages did not end. In the sixteenth century the Latin spirit seized the people once more, and instead of finding, with Shakspere, their inspiration in the miracle-plays, in the Gesta, in the Round Table, in the fabliaux, our authors turned back to Rome. Thus did Molière. It was not that he despised our immense repertory of farces and moralities; he was too fond of Rabelais for

that, and he borrowed from the fabliaux for his little pieces, now almost all lost; but for his great comedies it is Plautus, it is Terence, who are his models and his inspiration. He imitated them, one may say, up to his last hour. To this he was predisposed not only by race, but by education; we know what vigorous training he had received, and that one of his pastimes- if he ever had any pastimes—was translating Lucretius in verse.

It is the alliance of the Latin and the French genius that has given to our comedy its character and its superiority. The Frenchman has inherited from the Celt, at the same time with the love of combat and the love of speechmaking, an admirable promptness in seizing the ridiculous and in imitating it. He has found in his Latin heritage the taste for generalizations, the sentiment of measure, and the cult of reason. French comedy has been born of all these. It is gay on its Celtic side, and on its Latin side realistic and practical. In its most dizzy flights you would never see it, like the comedy of Shakspere, beat its wings and fly into pure fantasy and the dream of a midsummer's night; it would not leave the earth, it would observe, it would keep one shred of truth, it would wish to be of use, to serve, to prove something.

Castigat ridendo mores. It has a mission; later, we might call it a function. I have said that it is a power, and Beaumarchais is there to show it. It has not been lost. What is Augier? What is Dumas? They are reformers! What is Labiche? A moralist! Sterne has said and shows in his way that the French people is the most serious of peoples; for he who loved so much to laugh does not care to laugh for nothing. He wishes that something should stay in the mind after even the lightest of vaudevilles, and that after having laughed one should think. Musset went further: he wished us to weep. That is too much. And I ask myself if there be not a grain of exaggeration in our contempt for the useless laugh. To laugh is good in itself. What is left after a laugh? the philosophers ask. Ah! what remains of a beautiful day after it has passed? And yet happiness is made up of beautiful days. But, to be definite, it is this taste for truth, this respect for reason, even this pretension of lifting up human nature, that makes the force of our comedy, and this is why it would be unjust to compare the comedies of Shakspere with those of Molière.

Shakspere's comedies are mostly youthful works. We find in them humors rather than characters, and no comedy of situation. They are imaginings, often charming; equivoques; disguises; forest surprises, as in "As You Like It," where every one becomes good; islands,