Celia's first impulse is to call upon her by the old familiar name of "Cousin!" The hurry of anxiety for her she so loves causes the old fond word to spring to her lips: the next moment, however, the womanly instinct, the feminine presence of mind, come to her aid, and she redeems the inadvertency by exclaiming "Ganymede!"

It is a glowing instance of Shakespeare's prodigality of loving resources, and his potency, as well as plenitude of means to inspire infinity of liking, that he makes us admire and love Rosalind the more for her vicinity to the sweethearted Celia, and Celia the more for hers to the bewitching Rosalind. We love and esteem each the better for the other's sake. Shakespeare has this in common with Nature-and how many qualities does he not possess in common with her? The love he causes us to feel for his several characters-individually distinct and dissimilar as they may be, or sympathetic and analogous one with the other as they may benever interferes with your love for them all. In teaching us to see the enchanting qualities that embellish a Rosalind, he never lets us lose sight of the tender devotion and unselfish beauty that distinguish a Celia. In making us feel the full value of a gentle, affectionate being like Celia, he never suffers us to overlook the grace and fascination of her cousin. Like the love which Nature puts into our heart-with its own bounteous magic, it fills our soul for one selected object, while it still affords room for loving regard and estimation towards all existing human merit. Nay, the exclusive preference for the one beloved, but expands our capacity for perceiving excellence elsewhere, and for yielding it our admiration and our loving-kindness.

We have another proof of the estimation in which Shakespeare held a cheerful philosophy, in the personal qualities he has given to Touchstone, the clown. Touchstone-the universal favourite-the man of mirth and good-humour; but

who, nevertheless, can tang out a sarcasm with any professor of cynicism. Touchstone is a fellow possessing genuine qualities of attachment and affection. When Rosalind is expelled the court by the usurping Duke, and Celia, in that gentle speech, resolves to share her fortunes, the question is started, whether it were not good to have the Fool for their safeguard; and she says, "He'll go along o'er the wide world with me: leave me alone to woo him." And in this act Touchstone makes a generous sacrifice; for he has been born and bred in the luxury of what the Neapolitans call the "dolce fa niente "-the "delicious do naught: "-he had all his days run about the court and amused himself: he is an over-fed lap-dog, with all the snappishness, and none of the ill-temper. The court-life was to him a second nature; nevertheless, it becomes a second object in his choice when his young mistress is to leave it. And although it may be said that he was ignorant of what he had to encounter in following a woodland life, subject to the shrewd caprice of the elements; yet, when he does encounter them, he bears the change from that he prefers, with all the playfulness and sweet temper of the wiseliest ordered mind. "I care not for my spirits," he says, "if my legs were not weary." And to Celia, who can walk no farther, and begs them to "bear with her:" "For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, [the cross was a coin ;] for I think you have no money in your purse. Now I am in Arden; the more fool I: when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content."

Touchstone has good and gentlemanly feeling: witness his rebuke to the courtier Le Beau, who gives a description of the hurts and wounds of the three young fellows who have been overthrown by Charles the wrestler, and the moan made over them by their poor old father; and which encounter he details with a cruel relish and enjoyment as "sport," and

expressing regret that the ladies have missed seeing it. Touchstone asks: "But what is the 'sport,' Monsieur, that the ladies have lost?"

"Le Beau. Why, that that I speak of.

"Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day! It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies."

Touchstone has also right feeling; for, although his worldlyreaped terrors of matrimony give him a qualm or two, and a momentary thought of availing himself of the hedge-parson's services to wed him, that so slip-knot a marriage might give him a chance of retreating, in case of repenting at leisure; yet his good faith and "right feeling" hold good, and he determines to act honourably by the trusting and doating Audrey.

He has a keen eye for pretension; for he sees through Professor Jaques's pretended immaculacy, and his assumption in moral philosophy. He treats him with a kind of oldglove easiness of familiarity,-a negligent, dressing-gown air of equality, as amusing in effect as it is warranted in fact:

"Good even, good Master What-d'ye call 't:-How do you, sir? You are very well met. I am very glad to see you.Nay; pray be cover'd."

He has the delightful quality (quite that of a sweetnatured person,-one who is at once good-hearted, goodhumoured, and good-minded,) of being able to make himself happy and contented wherever fortune chances to cast him. He is gay and easy at court;-he is good-tempered and at ease in the forest. He makes himself at home anywhere and everywhere; for he carries his own sunshine about with him. Touchstone is not a mere jester-a mere extracter of fun from what occurs around him; and he is not in the least a

buffoon:-there is nothing low or common in his composition. He has excellent sense, and the good feeling to draw truth and beauty, as well as fine humour, out of passing life. How charmingly he and his lady-mistress interchange gay philosophy! She tells him he'll be whipped one of these days for his saucy speeches; and he replies:

"The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

"Celia. By my troth, thou say'st true: for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have, makes a great show."

As a specimen of his good sense,-how fine his answer as to the various degrees of the "lie!"-his celebrated speech :

"O, sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books for good manners. I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; the third, the Reply churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant ; the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circumstance; the seventh, the Lie direct-All these you may avoid, but the lie direct; and you may avoid that too, with an 'If I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel: but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an 'If;' as, 'If you said so, then I said so:' and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your if is the only peace-maker; much virtue in if."

How many portentous quarrels in certain grand assemblies have been polished off with this same oily monosyllable!

It was a happy thought to introduce the court-jester among the shepherds and shepherdesses of a pastoral drama. His pert railleries and waggishness come with the best possible relief to the honey-dew sentimentalities of the writers of loveverses. His quizzing of Rosalind is in the best style of light o' love, and mock romance. "I remember when I was in love," he says, "I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him

take that for coming a-nigh to Jane Smile. We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but, as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly." Rosalind tells him that he has "spoken more wisdom than he was aware of;" and he answers with amusing conceit and mock humility: “Nay, I shall never be aware of my own wit, till I break my shins against it." It was a happy thought to bring the courtfool into this scene; for, although he always has the best of it when he is bandying speeches with the philosopher and the sentimentalists, yet Shakespeare has paid the highest compliment to a life of rural simplicity in the dialogue between him and the shepherd Corin. It is an amusing specimen of cocka-whoop insolence to bear down the poor rustic with the notion that he will be damned, because he has never been at court!—and what a reason to give for his being in a state of perdition!—what a deduction !—what a "sequitur!"—"Why, if thou hast never been at court, thou never saw'st good manners; and if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation-thou 'rt in a parlous state, shepherd!"

Poor Corin's reply to his hoaxing clatter is nevertheless much to the purpose:-"Sir, I am a true labourer; I earn that I eat; get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm: -and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze, and my lambs suck." Many a wordy preachment upon the merits of content are less to the purpose than this simple summary of honest Corin's.

It was good, also, to pay that compliment to rural simplicity, that the court-bred clown should become honestly attracted by a primitive clod of mother-earth; and most true to nature that the country-wench should have her head turned by the wooing of a gentleman, who had been the companion of princes. Audrey is the most perfect specimen of a won