as to his characters from acts, and not from descriptions :Jaques, the ostensibly melancholy man, and who is always talking about himself, has no trials to perplex him, and is unstricken by adversity. The Duke, who has most cause to complain of all the characters in the play, is not only the least querulous, but he is uniformly the most hopeful and cheerful. With all his moral professions, Jaques is either not a sincere man to himself, (and consequently is not true to others,) or he is really a man without affection or attachment. It may be retorted that he follows the fortunes of the banished Duke. He does so; but it is evident that he takes that course to please his own humour, and from an affectation of singularity -also, to carry out the character he has assumed, of a cynic philosopher; and, at all events, he prefers that course to a steadiness of friendship, since he deserts the Duke when he is restored to his patrimony. But, after all, let us part upon pleasant terms with "Monsieur Melancholy," if it be only for his gentle reflections upon the wounded deer; and for his perfect portraiture of the "Seven Ages of Man," (Act ii., Sc. 7.)

In the character of Orlando, Shakespeare has depicted the very perfection of gentleness in manliness-modesty in manhood. He is an exemplar of the power of gentleness, and the gentleness of power. His inadequate training and breeding-the result of his despotic brother's tyrannous restraint and miserly allowance-induces a withdrawing, a self-mistrust, that is only counterbalanced by his inherent nobleness and high spirit. Orlando is by nature generous, warm, eager, without one spark of conceit or presumption. He is by conformation robust, athletic-a model of manly vigour-and yet, as old Chaucer hath it, "Meek of his port as is a maid." The dramatist has markedly and vividly kept before us this point of Orlando's personal strength as a counterbalance to the extreme mildness of his disposition. He perpetually reminds us of his might of frame, his might and command of limb, and his bodily force, in order that his tenderness of heart and modesty of deportment may in no wise show like effeminacy, or an undue softness, but in their full advantage and truth of manly gentleness.

His consciousness of a too homely and unworthy nature is well set off by his spirited remonstrance to his ungenerous and unjust elder brother; his signal encounter with Charles, the wrestler, and complete overthrow of the "strong man," enhance the pathos of his self-resigned speech, uttered immediately before he enters upon his athletic trial; and his firm yet courteous reply to Duke Frederick, and his self-possessed bearing to the courtier, Le Beau, heighten by contrast the diffidence and touching emotion of his address to the two princesses-or rather of his reception of the words which they address to him.

Afterwards, too, when we find him comforting, sustaining, and cheering the good old Adam, with words well-nigh womanly in their affectionate kindness, the poet takes distinct care all the time to maintain in us the recollection of the young fellow's massive proportions, by making him bear the aged serving-man in his arms, and carry him to where he may have food and shelter.

The most manifest display of Orlando's combined qualities of personal force and courage with moral suavity is in the scene where he rushes with drawn sword to the greenwood table of the banished Duke, to demand food for his faithful old servitor; and where, upon being received with that mild inquiry

"What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness;"

he at once resumes the bearing natural to him; and after explaining his urgent need, concludes with,

"Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword;" a perfect illustration of manly diffidence. But the triumph of Orlando's generous nature-at once capable of revenging itself by force of arms, yet incapable of revenge by force of gentle-heartedness-shines forth in his slaying the lioness that would have killed his sleeping brother: that brother who had dealt so unjustly by his orphaned youth; and, indeed, who had treacherously sought his life. Orlando uses his strength of body, instructed by his strength of bland spirit, to protect, not to injure his enemies. He destroys their enmity instead of themselves; converting it into gratitude and love by the high tone of his magnanimity. He disarms by dint of forbearance, in lieu of by dint of blows and opposition; and such forbearance comes with double effect from a man whose thews and sinews insure victory. The conquest is irresistible and complete which is achieved by gentleness, when power might have enforced submission.

Rosalind is one of the most enchanting among jocundspirited heroines. Her first scene shows the womanly sentiment, as well as the womanly vivacity of her character. We see her natural cheerfulness clouded by sympathy for her banished father; revived at the instance of her cousin, the crystal-hearted Celia, who cannot endure to see her cast down. Their opening dialogue well displays the affectionate nature and playful wit of both women; for Celia is hardly inferior to Rosalind in witty accomplishment, though rarely displaying it, in order, with a generous prodigality, that her cousin's may shine forth uninterruptedly. But, perhaps, the two most gifted of Shakespeare's women, with that peculiar power of fancy and instinct called "wit," are Rosalind and Beatrice. But how individually and distinctively has he characterised the wit of the respective heroines! That of Beatrice is sarcastic-that of Rosalind, playful. The one is biting, pointed, keen; the other is sprightly, sportive, sympathetic. The one is like the lightning, sudden, dazzling, startling, and sometimes scathing; the other is like the sunshine, cheerful, beaming full of life, and glow, and warmth, and animation. We are apt to shrink from the wit of Beatrice; we bask in that of Rosalind. The one is fulminated in brilliant coruscations, occasionally heedless whom they wound; the other shines with gentle, genial radiance. It may be that one secret of this difference in character lies in the fact that Beatrice's wit is apt to verge upon the personal and homethrusting in its rapier-like play; whereas Rosalind's is more general, and deals with subjects rather than with people. It is difficult to make choice of a scene, where all are of almost level perfection, in which this enchanting creature shines; but, perhaps, the most sportive is that one where, in her disguise of a forest youth, she pretends to play the part of her lover's mistress, and has been acting the marriage ceremony through with him, before her cousin Celia, (Act iv., sc. 1.)

Of that cousin, I must take leave to descant at will; for she is of inestimable worth. Celia is one of those characters that pass through society in almost unrecognised perfection. They are beloved for their tempers, and respected for their understandings and attainments. They make no display of their qualities; and yet they are an unfailing resource when a friend needs assistance or advice-domestic or mental. It is difficult, upon demand, to indicate any prominent example of their intellectual or social excellences-the impression in their favour is general and unequivocal. And so with the career of Celia in this play: it leaves a bland and gratified impression upon the mind of the reader; with a sense of uncertainty as to what scene we should quote as a specimen of more than quiet excellence. Indeed, it would be difficult to point out a more perfect example of the spirit of lovingkindness than the character of the cousin to Rosalind. She is generous, warm-hearted, unselfish; so enthusiastic in her attachments, that she can see no fault in those she loves; and almost loses sight of herself in the contemplation of their excellences. By deed, as well as by word, she is ever ready to prove the strength of her affection; and when the time comes for making active demonstration in the shape of sacrifice, so unhesitatingly, so unostentatiously is it made-so much is it taken for granted, and so completely as a matter of course, by her that she absolutely strips it of all appearance of sacrifice, letting it seem a fulfilment of her own pleasure no less than theirs. And it is her own pleasure; it is her pleasure to please her friend-to minister to her comfort; it is her happiness to secure the happiness of her cousin. So entirely does she love that cousin, so perfectly has she made her well-being part and parcel of her own, that she can only dwell contented herself so long as she knows Rosalind to enjoy content. If "Rose" will not be "merry," why, then, no more will she; if "Rose" be sad at her father's absence, why, then, she will be sad for company. Or rather, as sadness is not for such loving hearts as hers, or for such blithe natures as Rosalind's, she will e'en teach her to look upon her own father as a parent, vowing that Rose shall be his heiress instead of herself.

By banter, part made up of cheerful images, part of the profoundest tokens of her answering affection couched beneath light-seeming words, she constantly contrives, with her own gentle witchery of loving-kindness, to maintain Rosalind's spirits in their native element of buoyancy and airy mirth. She has such fond and implicit admiration for her cousin's powers of fancy, of eloquence, of playfulness, of imaginative wit and humour, that she would fain have them never dulled, or silenced by anxiety or uneasiness; and she whets her sharpest ingenuity to divert her from pondering on existing vexations, as well as to ward off ills that may