d of
a prodigality of living? What good husbandry and economical self-denial in
his pleasures? What a stock of lively recollections? It is curious that
Shakspeare has ridiculed in Justice Shallow, who was "in some authority
under the king," that disposition to unmeaning tautology which is the
regal infirmity of later times, and which, it may be supposed, he acquired
from talking to his cousin Silence, and receiving no answers.

"_Falstaff._ You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.

_Shallow._ Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir
John: marry, good air. Spread Davy, spread Davy. Well said, Davy.

_Falstaff._ This Davy serves you for good uses.

_Shallow._ A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet. By the
mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper. A good varlet. Now sit
down, now sit down. Come, cousin."

The true spirit of humanity, the thorough knowledge of the stuff we are
made of, the practical wisdom with the seeming fooleries in the whole of
the garden-scene at Shallow's country-seat, and just before in the
exquisite dialogue between him and Silence on the death of old Double,
have no parallel anywhere else. In one point of view, they are laughable
in the extreme; in another they are equally affecting, if it is affecting
to shew _what a little thing is human life_, what a poor forked creature
man is!

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakspeare's
comedies. It is full of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too
good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no spleen. It aims at
the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the follies
of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will towards
them. Shakspeare's comic genius resembles the bee rather in its power of
extracting sweets from weeds or poisons, than in leaving a sting behind
it. He gives the most amusing exaggeration of the prevailing foibles of
his characters, but in a way that they themselves, instead of being
offended at, would almost join in to humour; he rather contrives
opportunities for them to shew themselves off in the happiest lights, than
renders them contemptible in the perverse construction of the wit or
malice of others.--There is a certain stage of society in which people
become conscious of their peculiarities and absurdities, affect to
disguise what they are, and set up pr