poor speculatist, with a serious, metaphysical, pensive face, addressed him, "But really, sir, when we see a very sensible dog, we don't know what to think of him," Johnson, rolling with joy at the thought which beamed in his eye, turned quickly round and replied, "True, sir; and when we see a very foolish fellow, we don't know what to think of him." He then rose up, strode to the fire, and stood for some time laughing and exulting."

On these points, we might enlarge, it may be, more to our amusement than advantage. The passages which we have produced from Shakspere have a tendency to inculcate pity and benevolence to the brutes. We can afford to throw aside speculation, should such be the happy result.

THE SEVEN AGES.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT.'

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;

And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,

Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd; a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

GRATITUDE.

As exhibited by the faithful old Adam, to his young master, Orlando.

Adam

FROM 6 AS YOU LIKE IT.'

I have five hundred crowns,
THE thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,

Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:

Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you! Let me be your servant;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood;
Nor ever with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orl. O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And, having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry;
But come thy ways, we'll go along tegether,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

Adam.

Master, go on; and I will follow thee,

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty:
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But, at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.

Perhaps it may be presumed that some of our readers will condemn Orlando's acceptance of the good old man's offer. Others again, will not, under the circumstances, blame the young Orlando. Whether we acquit or condemn, we must remember that the poet is not in every instance supposed to describe perfect characters. We think, however, that the following speech which Shakspere puts into the mouth of Timon of Athens is not altogether inapplicable here:

"O, you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne'er have need of them? They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne'er have use for them: and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort 'tis to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another's fortunes!"

When Timon utters this speech, he is little aware how soon his fortunes will droop, and that those pro

fessed friends, in his extremity, will forsake him. But thus it happens. The noble Athenian, who, when asked for assistance by the servant of the imprisoned Ventidius, 'pays his debt, and frees him,' declaring at the same time that he is not of that feather, to shake off his friend' when need requires, and who says further that

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
But to support him after;

this same wealthy and liberal lord who will not accept any thing in return for his favours, alleging

"There's none

Can truly say he gives, if he receives,'

discovers that the riches of his friends are not his own, becomes homeless, bereft of reason, and subject to poverty and insult, while those, his former false friends, are living in ease and luxury, in part the result of his own beneficence. Our great poet very aptly describes the miserable shifts of ingratitude, where speaking of these wretches to whom an unsuccesful attempt for assistance on behalf of Lord Timon, had been made, he says:

They answer, in a joint and corporate voice,
That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot
Do what they would; are sorry—you are honourable—
But yet they could have wish'd-they knew not—but
Something hath been amiss-a noble nature

May catch a wrench-would all were well-'tis pity—