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before Shakespeare's fortieth year. Neither Jaques nor the exiled Duke seem to me to breathe that spirit, so accurately described by Mr. Hallam, which indicates the suppressed passion, the wounded feeling of one whose scorn of the world, and loathing of the evils of man's nature, were prompted by the sense of personal injury or past sorrows. The moralized melancholy of As YOU LIKE IT is more calmly and didactically poetic; and though it be melancholy, it is of that not unpleasing sadness with which a placid experience may contemplate the passing follies of the world, and has no tinge of the bitter loathing and disgust of one who himself groaned under the load of "a weary life." The difference between the Poet's tone of moral contemplation here and in the preceding dramas, and that which he breathes in HAMLET and LEAR, as well as in the language which that difference prompted, is as wide as that between the two great Greek dramatists, and not a little resembling it. In this comedy, in the MERCHANT OF VENICE, etc., the scholar will often be reminded of the moral beauties and sweetness of the contemplative Euripides; while it is in his later works that Shakespeare may be recognized as the rival and parallel of Eschylus.

But on whatever side of this remarkable epoch in the Poet's intellectual and moral life this comedy is to be arranged, it is conceded by all to be one of his most delightful and popular works—at least to the reader-for it is said by the chroniclers of the acted drama that its success on the stage has always depended on the personal ability of Rosalind to give effect to the lively wit and the woodland poetry. Equally original in its poetical character with the MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM and the TEMPEST, it differs from both in this—that they are founded on the fanciful mingling of the supernatural with the natural, while here all is human and natural, and yet throughout it is idealized truth. The time and place, and manners are thrown out of the definite into the undefined time and region, where and when the heroes and ladies of chivalric poetry were wont to "fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden world." Charles Lamb used to call LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST the "Comedy of Leisure," because its personages not only "led purely ornamental lives" but were well content to do so, and, having nothing to do, did it agreeably. He might have given the title in a higher sense to As You LIKE IT, where the pervading feeling is that of a refined and tasteful, yet simple and unaffected throwing off the stiff “lendings” of artificial society; and this is done by those who had worn those trappings with ease and grace. The humour too is toned down to suit the general impression, being odd, fanciful, gay, and whimsical, without much connection with the more substantial absurdities of the real "work-day world." As You LIKE IT is less magnificent than the MERCHANT Oof VENICE, which had not long preceded it, and less exhilarating than the TWELFTH NIGHT, which soon followed it; and yet it keeps up and leaves a more uniformly pleasurable impression than either.

SOURCE OF THE PLOT.

In retaining the name of Rosalind for his most captivating character, Shakespeare has frankly, though by implication, confessed his obligation to the novel or tale of "Rosalynde," by his ingenious contemporary, Thomas Lodge. Lodge was a character in his way, conspicuous even in that day of odd individuality. He claims, in his "Rosalynde," to be a "scholar and a soldier;" he had been educated at Oxford, appears to have been in the army, and besides made several voyages and expeditions by sea. He afterwards appears to have belonged to the MiddleTemple, as in some way connected with the law, or a student of it. He was besides an actor, and a dramatic author, and finally added the honours of a medical doctorate at Avignon to all the rest. Shakespeare used his materials very freely as to incident, but raised the whole into a higher mood of feeling and fancy, and connected it with pleasantry, besides adding to Lodge's personages Jaques with Touchstone and his bride. Lodge's style is pedantic and over-ornate, and yet sometimes coarse; but he had a prolific and gorgeous fancy, and his story is worthy of the honours it received from his great contemporary. Lodge, however, was not nearly as original in the construction of his novel as Shakespeare was in that of his drama; for it is evidently borrowed, or rather paraphrased, with large additions, from "The Coke's Tale of Gamelyn"—an old English poem, of the age of Chaucer, formerly ascribed to him, as one of his "Canterbury Tales," and was printed as such in one of the editions of his works. It is, however, conceded not to be his, but the work of some unknown poet, of the age of Edward III. I think it not improbable that the research into the older literature of the continent, which has lately been awakened in France, may carry back the origin of this story still further; for "Gamelyn" has not a little the air of a translation, or imitation, of some older Norman or Provençal romance.

As the Old-English "Sir Gamelyn" was preserved only in manuscript, in Shakespeare's time, (not being printed until a century afterwards,) it is not probable that he had any knowledge of it; though there are two or three circumstances and expressions in which he comes nearer to the old poem then to his contemporary's novel. "Rosalynde" has been lately reprinted, in Collier's "Shakespeare's Library."

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SCENE I.-An Orchard, near OLIVER's House.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will, but poor a thousand crowns; and, as thou say'st, charged my brother on his blessing to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are

fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems to take from me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.

Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.

Enter OLIVER.

Oli. Now, sir! what make you here?
Orl. Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing.
Oli. What mar you then, sir?

Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.

Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?

Oli. Know you where you are, sir?

Orl. O! sir, very well: here, in your orchard. Oli. Know you before whom, sir?

Orl. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I know, you are my eldest brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me.

The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me, as you, albeit, I confess, your coming before me is

nearer to his reverence.

Oli. What, boy!

Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

Orl. I am no villain: I am the youngest son of sir Rowland de Bois: he was my father, and he is thrice a villain, that says, such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat, till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou hast railed on thyself.

Adam. [Coming forward.] Sweet masters, be patient for your father's remembrance, be at accord.

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education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore, allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament: with that I will go buy my fortunes.

Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will. I pray you, leave me.

Orl. I will no further offend you, than becomes me for my good.

Oli. Get you with him, you old dog.

Adam. Is old dog my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service.-God be with my old master! he would not have spoke such a word. [Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM. Oli. Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Hola, Dennis!

Enter DENNIS.

Den. Calls your worship?

Oli. Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?

Den. So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.

Oli. Call him in.--[Exit DENNIS.]-Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Enter CHARLES.

Cha. Good morrow to your worship.

Oli. Good monsieur Charles, what's the new news at the new court?

Cha. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke, and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke; therefore, he gives them good leave to wander.

Oli. Can you tell, if Rosalind, the duke's daughter, be banished with her father?

Cha. O! no; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. Oli. Where will the old duke live?

Cha. They say, he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say, many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke?

Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand, that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young, and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must for my own honour if he come in: therefore, out of my love to you I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which, thou shalt find, I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother: therefore, use thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger: and thou wert best look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee (and almost with tears I speak it) there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.

Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow, I'll give him his payment: if ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more; and so, God keep your worship! [Exit.

Oli. Farewell, good Charles.-Now will I stir this gamester. I hope, I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he: yet he's gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains, but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go about. [Exit.

SCENE II.-A Lawn before the DUKE's Palace.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of, and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

Cel. Herein, I see, thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine: so would'st thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered, as mine is to thee.

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours.

Cel. You know, my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir: for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection by mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.

Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see; what think you of falling in love?

Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou may'st in honour come off again.

Ros. What shall be our sport then?

Cel. Let us sit, and mock the good housewife, Fortune, from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

Ros. I would, we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

Cel. 'Tis true, for those that she makes fair, she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest, she makes very ill-favouredly.

Ros. Nay, now thou goest from fortune's office to nature's fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature.

Enter TOUCHSTONE.

Cel. No: when nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by fortune fall into the fire?—Though nature hath given us wit to flout at fortune, hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

Ros. Indeed, there is fortune too hard for nature, when fortune makes nature's natural the cutter off of nature's wit.

Cel. Peradventure, this is not fortune's work neither, but nature's; who, perceiving our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent

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