"he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not ate paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:

And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be

Which we of taste and feeling are-for those parts which do fructify in us more than he."

Observe the "taste and feeling" of the grammar and the versification of these lines!

Similar to the self-satisfied delight of the schoolmaster in Latin is the use by certain characters of an inflated, theatrical mode of speaking. Such is the extraordinary dialect in which Pistol, one of Falstaff's minions, always talks; and there is even more swagger in the language of mine host of the Garter Inn in The Merry Wives of Windsor. He does not make use of language, but is carried away by it; it flows from him. like a torrent.

In this, Shakspeare was caricaturing the theatrical dialect of his day, which was artificial and inflated, full of sound and fury, blood and thunder. Indeed, one of the conspicuous sources of amusement in these Comedies is the ridicule cast on the manners and customs of the stage. Shakspeare frequently introduces a play within a play-that is to say, a portion of his

own play consists of the performance of another play, which is not supposed to be of his composition, but is written in the conventional stage-dialect of the day. Shakspeare was seeking to introduce nature and good sense; and he takes this way of exposing the crudities of other dramatists.

Still more amusing is his exposure of the persons who at that time took upon themselves the art of acting. They were the most illiterate mechanics-the tailor, the weaver, the joiner, the bellows-mender-but such was their self-conceit that they were ready to perform anything on a moment's notice.

The prince of these stage-quacks is Bottom, the weaver, in A Midsummer-Night's Dream: he is the very genius of stupidity, the very incarnation of selfconceit. The play which he and his fellow-mechanics propose to perform is Pyramus and Thisbe; and he chooses for himself the leading rôle. "What is Pyramus?" he asks, "a lover, or a tyrant?" and, when he is told, "a lover," he exclaims, "That will ask some tears in the true performance of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms." Yet he is not satisfied with this part; he wishes that Pyramus were not a lover, but a tyrant: "My chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.

The raging rocks

And shivering shocks

Shall break the locks

Of prison-gates;

And Phibbus' car

Shall shine from far

And make and mar

The foolish Fates.

This was lofty!-Now name the rest of the players. -This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein;-a lover is more condoling."

When the other players are named for their parts, he is not satisfied: he thinks he could do every part better himself. Thus he will do Thisbe as well as Pyramus:

"An I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too; I'll speak, in a monstrous little voice'Thisne, Thisne'-Ah Pyramus, my lover dear, Thy Thisbe dear and lady dear."

Someone else is named for the Lion's part; but Bottom cries: "Let me play the lion too. I will roar that it will do anyone's heart good to hear me". Someone objects that this might frighten the ladies; whereupon he says: "I will roar you as gently as it were any sucking dove, I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale".

Thus the first source of Shakspeare's comedy may be said to be Words-words used by those who can make them into playthings and words mastering others and making them ridiculous. For language is a strange thing: it is like a steed, which, when it has its master on its back, can be made to show the prettiest paces, but is able to unship the unskilful rider, who tries to mount, and send him sprawling in the mire. Language is the poet's own instrument: and Shakspeare knew all its possibilities.

Another source of his comedy-and a still more copious one-is Love. This, indeed, is the subject of which all these plays are full. It appears in an endless variety of forms; and over everyone of them there shimmers the iridescence of mirth.

Shakspeare's very first comedy-Love's Labour's Lost -has for its hero Ferdinand, King of Navarre, who, along with his three lords-Biron, Longaville and Dumain-has vowed to devote three years to books and study and never during this period to look upon a woman's face. All the arrangements are made, the precincts of the palace being strictly garrisoned against the access of the other sex, when it is remembered that the Princess of France is coming on business of state, which will brook no delay. A temporary suspension of the rules, therefore, becomes inevitable; and

the Princess, accompanied by her three attendantsRosaline, Maria and Katharine-pitches her tent on a flowery meadow outside the gates. The sequel may be easily guessed. The four ascetic students fall desperately in love; each of them tries to hide it from the rest; but they all find each other out in the most amusing way; and four marriages are imminent at the close; though the ladies prescribe a year of delay, that their forsworn lovers may do penance for their broken vows.

This fable will strike some readers as familiar, even if they have not read Love's Labour's Lost. It was borrowed by Tennyson as the plot of The Princess; and this circumstance will afford any young student who may wish to test his critical abilities the opportunity of comparing two great poets.

Shakspeare's treatment is full of spirit and “go” from beginning to end. It is especially rema remarkable for one very strong character-Biron, one of the King's companions. He is full of sardonic mirth, shrewd criticism of life, and self-mockery; he reminds one not a little of one of Thackeray's finest charactersPendennis's friend, George Warrington—and, indeed, one would surmise that in him we have a good deal of Shakspeare himself. He divines from the first the hollowness of the resolution of the Prince and his companions; he is the first to confess to himself that he has been pierced by the shaft of love; in fact, he