those who live perpetually in the turmoil of public life. We find how dear his sylvan haunts have become to him; how happy have been the hours spent among them with his friends; how entirely their calm has penetrated his soul, and made part of his existence, by the unwillingness with which he prepares to quit these scenes at the end of the play, when his dukedom is restored to him. He receives the news with his own philosophic composure; and, by a word or two that he lets fall, it may be shrewdly suspected that he only intends returning to repossess himself of his birthright, in order to secure it for his daughter Rosalind, and her future husband, Orlando; and then that he will quietly leave the young people at court, and steal back with a few of his faithful friends to close their days in retirement on the spot where they have been so contentedly happy. Mayhap, as the years creep on, and age-aches warn him not to disregard the "seasons' difference," he will exchange the table under the greenwood tree for one beneath the oaken roof. But be sure that his house will be close upon the forest glades, and on his table will smoke a haunch of the red deer for old lang syne.

When we design to change our course of the moralising in this most perfect of Arcadian plays, we will accompany the "melancholy Jaques"-albeit not an especial favourite with us, for he is somewhat tinged with the affectation of melancholy and philosophy. Besides, we recognise no more affinity with "melancholy" than did Shakespeare himself, who never misses an opportunity of girding at your pompous and affectedly pensive character, and of proclaiming the superior qualifications of cheerfulness and good-humour. Instances of this might be multiplied; while I know of none that encourage melancholy, or even gravity, as being in itself, and for itself, a test of wisdom. "Laugh if you are wise," says one of his characters. "Frame your mind," says Kit Sly's

page, "to mirth and merriment; which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life." "Let me play the fool," says Gratiano; “with_mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come." chirping rogue, Autolycus, sings:

"A merry heart goes all the day;

Your sad tires in a mile-a."

That

And, in the mouth of Falstaff, he urges it as a vice in the cold blooded-nature of Prince John of Lancaster, that "a man cannot make him laugh.”"

Jaques, nevertheless, is a great character in his way, and good too; as, indeed, says the Duke, "there is good" (more or less) "in everything." His chuckling account of the court fool, whom he stumbles upon in one of his rambles through the forest, is choicely good, and is as famous; both as giving a capital sketch of the man described, and as affording a characteristic picture of the mind of him who is describing. Jaques finds the fool-jester's conventional affectations irresistibly comic, while he betrays his own individual affectations even in the act of laughing at the other's.

Jaques is the model of a man addicted to self-contemplation; he always appears to be before his own mental lookingglass. He has inherited or acquired the tact to discern the worthlessness of artificial society, but he has not carried that tact into the wisdom of turning his philosophy the sunny side outwards. He, forsooth, would undertake to reform the world, having seen no more of the world than is comprised within the precincts of a court. Jaques says some of the finest things in the play; but, lest he should become an authority with the world, (and here again we note Shakespeare's watchfulness in inculcating a bland and cheerful philosophy,) by one stroke we are let into the secret of his character, that it is, or at least has heretofore been not altogether the exemplar to place before a reforming society.

Strong conclusions are to be drawn as to the amplitude and benignity of Shakespeare's moral code, from the slightest and most casual hints and incidents. His most home-striking injunctions are conveyed by actions, rather than by saws and theories. When Jaques, in his sudden admiration of the fool, after he had met him in the forest, and, with the fantasticalness of a self-worshipper, will undertake the office of reformergeneral, he proposes that the Duke invest him with the insignia of the order. He says:

"Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

"Fie on thee (answers the Duke), I can tell what thou would'st do.

Faq. What, for a counter, would I do but good? "Duke. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin ; For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all th' embossed sores, and headed evils,
Which thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Would'st thou disgorge into the general world."

From this rebuke, it appears clear that Shakespeare had in view the overweening mouth-moralist; for, with all the reflections and sarcasms he has put into the mouth of this selfasserting philosopher, and which have the air of being gleanings from the harvests of other men rather than the result of his own growth, it is to be remarked that he never brings him point to point in contest of wit with any of the other characters of the play, but he is foiled; they, being natural people, outwit the artificial one. He first tries his hand with Orlando, and upon a tender point—his mistress and his love-making; and the bout between them is as good as a match at singlestick:

Faq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

"Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank you too for your society.

Faq. God be with you, let us meet as little as we can.

"Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers.

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Faq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing loveverses in their barks.

"Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

"Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

Faq. You are full of pretty answers: have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?

"Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions."

[This answer of Orlando's refers to grave points of morality, which it was the custom to impersonate, by painting them on cloth.]

"Faq. You have a nimble wit: I think it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery."

Now, note the answer of the man who had just reason to "rail at misery," having been fortune's foot-ball from his infancy. How beautifully the moral of a cheerful endurance comes out against the affectation and petulance of a querulous selfishness! Orlando's reply is the very offspring of a modest self-knowledge and experience. How few can trace their ill

fortunes to any other source than ignorance or indiscretion. With a beautiful candour he replies:

"I will chide no breather in the world but myself; against whom I know most faults.

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Faq. The worst fault you have is to be in love.

"Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

you.

Faq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found

"Orl. He is drowned in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him.

Faq. There shall I see mine own figure.

"Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Faq. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior 'Love!'

“Orl. I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur 'Melancholy!'"

The fact is they all smoke him for being a solemn pretender to a quality not natural to him. When he desires to make the acquaintance of Rosalind, her objecting reply is, 'They say you are a melancholy fellow." And he takes but little by his answer when he says, "Why, 'tis good to be sad, and say nothing;" for she retorts, "Why, then, 'tis good to be a post."

Another instance (to my mind at least) that Shakespeare intended Jaques for a grave coxcomb, appears with some strength in that short parley between him and Amiens, after the sprightly song, "Under the greenwood tree." Observe the pomposity and patronising air with which the philosopher condescends to encourage the ballad-singer :

"More, more, I prithee, more.

"Am. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques."

Amiens is hoaxing him. What is there in a merry roundelay to make a man melancholy? Jaques, however, is so en