Here, to the reader's great regret, terminates the Autobiography, with the philosopher's arrival in England. We cannot run through the subsequent events of his life, during and subsequent to the memorable struggle for the independence of America, in which he i played so conspicuous a part. But having before us ¦a volume of his letters, we are tempted to make a few quotations, to complete an idea of his character. Franklin so thoroughly detested war, in a moral and economical point of view, that he bitterly deplored the long and sanguinary dispute between England and his native country. At last it terminated, and in a letter of congratulation to a friend he thus writes:"I hope it will be lasting, and that mankind will at length, as they call themselves reasonable creatures, | have reason and sense enough to settle their differences without cutting throats; for in my opinion, there never was a good war, or a bad peace." In a letter to Dr. Priestley, he thus writes, in a tone of satirical bit terness: "In what light we are viewed by superior beings, may be gathered from a piece of late West India news, which possibly has not yet reached you. A young angel of distinction being sent down to this world on some business, for the first time, had an old courier-spirit assigned him as a guide; they arrived over the seas of Martinico, in the middle of the long day of obstinate fight between the fleets of Rodney and De Grasse. When through the clouds of smoke he saw the fire of the guns, the decks covered with mangled limbs, and bodies dead or dying; the ships sinking, burning, or blown into the air; and the quantity of pain, misery, and destruction the crews yet alive were thus with so much eagerness dealing round to one another; he turned angrily to his guide, and said, You blundering blockhead, you are ignorant of your business; you undertook to conduct me to the earth, and you have brought me into hell! No, sir, says the guide, I have made no mistake; this is really the earth, and these are men. Devils never treat one another in this cruel manner; they have more sense, and more of what men (vainly) call humanity. "But to be serious, my dear old friend, I love you as much as ever, and I love all the honest souls that meet at the London Coffee-house. I only wonder how it happened that they and my other friends in England came to be such good creatures in the midst of so perverse a generation. I long to see them and you once more; and I labour for peace with more earnestness, that I may again be happy in your sweet society."" I. 107-109. when the ebb was spent, to cast anchor, and wait for the next. The heat of the sun on the vessel was excessive, the company strangers to me, and not very agrecable. Near the river side I saw what I took to be a pleasant green meadow, in the middle of which was a large shady tree, where it struck my fancy I could sit and read (having a book in my pocket), and pass the time agreeably till the tide turned. I therefore prevailed with the captain to put me ashore. Being landed, I found the greatest part of my meadow was really a marsh, in crossing which, to come at my tree, I was up to my knees in mire; and I had not placed myself under its shade five minutes before the musquitoes in swarms found me out, attacked my legs, hands, and face, and made my reading and my rest impossible; so that I returned to the beach, and called for the boat to come and take me on board again, where I was obliged to bear the heat I had strove to quit, and also the laugh of the company. Similar cases in the affairs of life have since frequently fallen under my observation." I. 53, 54. There are several letters in this book to Mr. Strahan, the king's printer, with whom Franklin appears to have lived upon a footing of most intimate friendship. The style of these letters is quite jocosc and playful; and the humour is frequently borrowed from the circumstance which begun their acquaintance, their common profession. Take the following specimen, which we give only for the curiosity of the thing; and as an instance of this great man, in his old age, (for he was eighty,) delighting to unbend in a strain of professional drollery with his ancient brother in trade. He is speaking of the evils which he is fond of deducing in our constitution from the number of profitable places under Government : "Those places, to speak in our old style, brother type, may be good for the CHAPEL, but they are bad for the master, as they create constant quarrels that hinder the business. For example, here are two months that your government has been employed in getting its form to press; which is not yet fit to work on, every page of it being squabbled, and the whole ready to fall into pye. The founts, too, must be very scanty, or strangely out of sorts, since your compositors cannot find either upper or lower-case letters sufficient to set the word ADMINISTRATION, but are forced to be continually turning for them. However, to return to common (though perhaps too saucy) language, don't despair; you have still one resource left, and that not a bad one, since it may re-unite the empire. We have some remains of affection for you, and shall always be ready to receive and take care of you in case of distress. So if you have not sense and virtue enough to govern yourselves, e'en dissolve your present old crazy constitution, and send members to Congress. In another letter to Priestley, he gives this striking illustration of the trite argument for contentment :"All human situations have their inconveniences. We feel those that we find in the present; and we You will say my advice 'smells of Madeira. neither feel nor see those that exist in another. Hence You are right. This foolish letter is mere chit-chat we make frequent and troublesome changes without between ourselves, over the second bottle. If, therefore, amendment, and often for the worse. In my youth I you show it to any body (except our indulgent friends was passenger in a little sloop descending the River | Dagge and Lady Strachan) I will positively solless Delaware. There being no wind, we were obliged, you. Yours ever most affectionately." I. 144. great philosopher's answer to all those who, holding certain sceptical or infidel opinions with great sincerity, believe it to be a duty which they owe to truth, that they should advance them into public notice, and endeavour to unsettle the faith of the people. It is to be observed, however, that he founds his reasonings upon expediency alone. "I have read your manuscript with some attention. By the argument it contains against a particular Providence, though you allow a general Providence, you strike at the foundations of all religion. For without the belief of a Providence that takes cognisance of, guards and guides, and may favour particular persons, there is no motive to worship a Deity, to fear its displeasure, or to pray for its protection. I will not enter into any discussion of your principles, though you seem to desire it. At present I shall only give you my opinion, that though your reasonings are subtle, and may prevail with some readers, you will not succeed so as to change the general sentiments of mankind on that subject; and the consequence of printing this piece will be, a great deal of odium drawn upon yourself, mischief to you, and no benefit to others. He that spits against the wind, spits in his own face. But were you to succeed, do you imagine any good would be done by it? You yourself may find it easy to live a virtuous life without the assistance afforded by religion; you having a clear perception of the advantages of virtue and the disadvantages of vice, and possessing a strength of resolution sufficient to enable you to resist common temptations. But think how great a portion of mankind consists of weak and ignorant men and women, and of inexperienced inconsiderate youth of both sexes, who have need of the motives of religion to "For my own part, when I am employed in serving others, I do not look upon myself as conferring favours, but as paying debts. In my travels, and since my settlement, I have received much kindness from men, to whom I shall never have any opportunity of making the least direct return; and numberless mercies from God, who is infinitely above being benefited by our services. These kindnesses from men I can therefore only return on their fellow-men, and I can only show my gratitude for these mercies from God, by a readiness to help his other children, and my brethren. For I do not think that thanks and compliments, though repeated weekly, can dis-restrain them from vice, to support their virtue, and charge our real obligations to each other, and much less those to our Creator. You will see in this my notion of good works, that I am far from expecting to merit heaven by them. By heaven we understand a state of happiness, infinite in degree, and eternal in duration: I can do nothing to deserve such rewards. He that, for giving a draught of water to a thirsty person, should expect to be paid with a good plantation, would be modest in his demands, compared with those who think they deserve heaven for the little good they do on earth. Even the mixed imperfect pleasures we enjoy in this world are rather from God's goodness than our merit: how much more such happiness of heaven! For my part, I have not the vanity to think I deserve it, the folly to expect it, nor the ambition to desire it; but content myself in submitting to the will and disposal of that God who made me, who has hitherto preserved and blessed me, and in whose fatherly goodness I may well confide, that he will never make me miserable; and that even the afflictions I may at any time suffer shall tend to my benefit." The other letter is to one who had asked his opinion of an irreligious work which he proposed to publish, and sent to Franklin in MS. We recommend the retain them in the practice of it till it becomes habitual, which is the great point for its security. And perhaps you are indebted to her originally, that is, to your religious education, for the habits of virtue upon which you now justly value yourself. You might easily display your excellent talents of reasoning upon a less hazardous subject, and thereby obtain a rank with our most distinguished authors. For among us it is not necessary as among the Hottentots, that a youth, to be raised into the company of men, should prove his manhood by beating his mother. I would advise you, therefore, not to attempt unchaining the tiger, but to burn this piece before it is seen by any other person; whereby you will save yourself a great deal of mortification from the enemies it may raise against you, and perhaps a good deal of regret and repentance. If men are so wicked with religion, what would they be if without it? I intend this letter itself as a proof of my friendship, and therefore add no professions to it; but subscribe simply yours." I. 279-281. But we have gone to the utmost length of our tether, and must abruptly come to a conclusion. Though no Christian, Franklin was probably one of the best natural men that ever lived, the very incar nation of practical benevolence and worldly wisdom. Yet, to quote the expressive words of Leigh Hunt, "he is but at the head of those who think that man lives by bread alone. He was no more a fit representative of what human nature largely requires, than negative represents positive. He was, I allow, one of the cardinal great men of his time. He was Prudence." ON SHAKSPEARE'S INDIVIDUALITY IN HIS CHARACTERS. SHAKSPEARE'S LOVERS-(continued). BY MARY COWDEN CLARKE. THE character of Orlando, in As YOU LIKE IT, is, perhaps, the most perfect examplar of manly gentleness and modesty that was ever drawn. He is so gentle-hearted, that the poet has endued him with a person of stalwart proportions, and a frame of great muscular strength, that no particle of effeminacy may mingle with the gentleness that distinguishes him. He has given him, too, a spirit as high and noble as it is modest, the perfection of true gentleness. We no sooner learn that he is a neglected youth, blushing under a sense of his unworthy training, than we find him boldly remonstrating with his elder brother on the defective education to which he is doomed. We no sooner hear him speak with shame of his rustic breeding, than we see him step forth manfully to make his claim to treatment better befitting his birth. The action with which his words are accompanied is well contrived, also, to convey the idea of his personal strength and firmness. When Oliver advances upon him, exclaiming, What, boy!" Orlando's " Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this;" and his subsequent "Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat, till this other hand had pulled out thy tongue for saying so;" gives us a complete picture of the powerful grasp in which he holds his elder, and compels him to listen to his appeal. And how truly in character is the appeal he makes. "Oli. Let me go, I say. "Orl. I will not, til I please: you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good 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." It is that "spirit of his father" burning within him, which teaches him to disdain such unseemly breeding, to throw it off, and to seek a mode of life more worthy his parentage and the name he bears. He has before alluded to this, in his own modest manner, where he says to the faithful old retainer, Adam :—“ 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." This self-diffidence,-the result of neglected education,-blended with consciousness of high claims and higher powers, constitutes precisely the sort of character who would behave as Orlando subsequently does. Shakspeare, with one of his favourite touches of art, puts into the mouth of Orlando's tyrannous brother, a testimony in confirmation of his good qualities. "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." And then how subtly the poet goes on to strengthen our impression of the personal vigour and courage of Orlando, with each fresh instance of his gentleness of nature. See how ingeniously he lets us know beforehand the fatal prowess of Charles, the duke's wrestler, in that story which Le Beau, the courtier, tells of the old man and his three sons, broken-ribbed, bleeding, and overthrown, by the very man with whom Orlando is about to "try the strength of his youth." How well Celia's words picture him:-"Alas, he is too young yet he looks successfully." In his replies to the two ladies, when they endeavour to dissuade him from venturing in so unequal-seeming a match, we still see the modest Orlando; concluding with that beautiful speech, profoundly touching in its youthful self-abnegation: "I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing.. But let your fair eyes, and gentle wishes, go with me to my trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me: the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty." its sweet spirit of resignation, he wrestles with the Immediately after this speech,—almost womanly in strong man, throws him, and leaves him bereft of breath and motion on the earth; evincing, at the same time, how little he himself is affected by the contest, by answering the duke's exclamation of "No more, no more;" with "Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet well breathed.” Consistently the dramatist proceeds. When the Duke Frederick abruptly leaves the spot, in anger at learning Orlando's name and descent, the young man, true to his high nature, exclaims :— "I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, His youngest son;--and would not change that calling, To be adopted heir to Frederick." But, next moment, when the ladies approach him, when they address him with words of courtesy and kindness, when Celia commends his prowess, and Rosalind bestows a token of remembrance, he has no words in answer; he stands confused, embarrassed, | the play with regard to his mistress, it is certainly the silent : case. He is always at a disadvantage with her,—as a lover; she knowing who he is, he not recognising her "Can I not say, I thank you? my better parts Are all thrown down: and that which here stands up, in her boy-disguise. He never acts the lover; for the Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block." This is all wonderfully artistic. It no less pictures the diffident youth, trained in retirement, and conscious of inadequate breeding, than it serves to intimate the potent influence which has scized and vanquished him: "What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference. O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown; Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thec." In the very midst of his kindly cheering of old Adam, on their journey, while he is soothing him with almost feminine tenderness, and proving his gentleness of heart by the most affectionate care, we find the poet reminding us of his manly strength of limb and muscle, by making Orlando raise the old man in his arms, and carry him to a place of rest, while he goes to seek food. Shakspeare has marked this pointedly; for he has made Orlando say, in the course of that. exquisite speech, almost unmatched for its cheerful sweetness, and kindly, sprightly comfort,-but which we abstain from quoting:-" Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter ;" and afterwards, the duke says:-"Welcome; set down your venerable burden." In making one so passing gentle as Orlando a hero and a lover, the poet has well kept the image of the man before our eyes in his tall proportions, and his athletic strength. He is gentle-hearted, but highspirited; he is modest, but firm and manly; his is the gentleness of bravery and magnanimity. Orlando is an embodiment of the power-the all-prevailing might of gentleness. In the scene where he rushes in with his drawn sword, demanding food for his faithful old servitor, Adam, the whole dialogue goes to illustrate this. The courtesy of the forester-duke, who assures him that "Gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness;" and Orlando's fine speech beginning, "Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;" and ending with, "Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword;" equally prove the influence of gentleness; that entreaty is better than exaction; that suing commands where extortion might fail. With like purpose, the poet has made Orlando's personal courage and power appear in rescuing his brother from the snake and the lioness; while in the same deed, he has shown his magnanimity and forgiving gentleness of disposition. It may almost be said of Orlando, that we do not see him rightly as a lover. And yet, so skiifully is the character itself drawn, that this is scarcely felt. But from the position in which Orlando is placed throughout spectator sees him but in two short interviews with Rosalind in her own character; in the first of which, he is tongue-tied by the spell of his new passion; and in the second of which, he merely echoes the welcoming speech of her father. And yet, who does not feel that Orlando is one among the truest of Shakspeare's lovers? It is truc, he hangs verses on the trees in his mistress's praise, instead of seeking herself; it is true, he does not know her face for her own, when he looks upon it. Yet, for all this, who does not think of Orlando as a genuine lover-as even one of the most genuine among lovers? We know it from his own character, not from his professions to his mistress. We know it from his own sincerity, his honest-heartedness, his gentle, yet manly nature. One straightforward word of his brings conviction, where fifty protestings of a man whom we know to be less simply true in character would fail. We know him to be carnest in every word and deed; therefore we find a world of meaning in his reply to Jacques, who says to him,— "The worst fault you have, is to be in love. "Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue." And this same glory in his passion is again revealed by his answer to the banter of his disguised mistress, who undertakes to cure him of his love. "I would not be cured, youth." He would not be without the secret ineffable pleasure that his love is to him; it is the ore delight in his hitherto joyless, aimless, disappointed existence. He cherishes it as the source of all happiness he has known-of all happiness to come; his whole heart is given up to it with a deep and entire sincerity, that we know belongs to such natures as his. There is an exquisite touch occurs here; showing the apparent inconsistencies of a lover, which mostly spring from some unconscious, though deep-seated, emotion, more allied to constancy than the acted inconsistency seems to imply. He at first answers that he will not be cured; but upon the youth's urging:- 'I would cure you, if you I would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me;" he replies, "Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is." We may fancy his looking her in the face as she speaks, and that " some lively touches" he finds there of his Rosalind's "favour" influence him in yielding to the young forester's playful proposal. Besides, mark that he says "by the faith of my love," feeling sure of its abiding any test unshaken, uneradicated, uncured—as he would have it remain. And in how charming a manner are we let to sec that his love not only maintains its integrity, but increases and strengthens-as of course his mistress, with love's own cunning, intends that it should, when she artfully feeds his passion, while affecting to cure it, in contriving to retain him with her. How it grows from the enamoured fancy which contents itself 66 with the image of his beautiful mistress,-which | remembrance of our own childhood haunts; and be it derives comfort from the wearing of her gift about his remembered, that in the very moment of his restoration neck,—which finds relief in breathing her name to to his dukedom at the end of the play, this right tasteful himself, "But heavenly Rosalind!"--which bids him gentleman exclaims,—clinging still to the life that has draw mysterious pleasure from his association with the yielded him such delight,— supposed forest-born boy, and to humour his proposal of calling him Rosalind, "taking some joy" in it, "because he would be talking of her;" until at length it assumes the force and impatience of genuine passion. How true to the egoism of a lover-such egoism being a natural and essential element of genuine love,-is his exclamation, upon promising to obtain the duke's presence at Oliver's marriage. The approaching fulfilment of his brother's happiness, awakes him to a full sense of the requirements of his own passion. "Orl. They shall be married to-morrow; and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy, in having what he wishes for. Ros. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind? "Orl. I can live no longer by thinking.” The concentrated force of those few simple words is perfectly characteristic. There is all Orlando's gentleness of word and manner, with all his force of feeling; all his modesty of expression, with all his manly ardour. Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, feelings; more virtuous resolves. It leaves to Touch- The character of Silvius is in exquisite keeping with the pastoral romance and poetic beauty of this delicious play. He is first introduced to us, as to Rosalind and Celia, on their entrance upon the enchanted ground of Arden. We see him, as they do, fling himself upon the turf, in the languor and abandonment of his passion, beside the old shepherd, pouring forth his love-sick plaints. We see him break away abruptly; we hear of him when he is gone, as "That young swain that you saw here but erewhile in the all-engrossing care of his passion. Silvius is a If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, From all we learn of his character, we feel that he The impression we have of the sincerity of Orlando's love is heightened by the qualities which constitute that of the other lovers in the play. There is more or less of extravagance in the love of all the rest. Oliver's is sudden; Silvius's desperate; Touchstone's whimsical. Oliver's affection offers no reason for its abrupt existence. "Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden conscnting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy each other: it shall be to your good; for my father's house, and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's, will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd." In this paper we have, happily, nought to do with Rosalind, in her sprightly way, rates him over and the character of Oliver excepting as a lover. Till he becomes one, he is tyrannous and treacherous; prac-him "love hath made thee a tame snake;" but Silvius over for his constancy to one so scornful; and tells tising against the very life of his younger brother. Afterwards, he is in all things changed. It is as if the magnanimity of his brother's rescue began the touching of his heart, and prepared it for the gentle influence of a first love-a love at first sight; this, in its softening and refining monition, advances his cure, and his coming into the sweet atmosphere of Arden and its simple happiness completes his reform. It is a fine tribute to the purity of a pastoral and out-door existence, the way in which this forest life subdues all things to its quality. It wins them all at once. The wandering princess, Celia, on her first arrival says:—" I like this place, and willingly could waste my time in it." The duke's eloquent panegyric on its sylvan charms, beginning, "Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile," is as familiar to us all as the time comes; but he does not. is too desperately in love to be moved by banter, or repulsed by his mistress's scorn and cruelty; nothing would have Phebe, "though to have her and death can shake his allegiance, or destroy his passion. He were both one thing." be; his passion is, in its strength and devotion, what "It is to be all made of sighs and tears; All made of passion, and all made of wishes; All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, Silvius is true to the very letter of his profession of |