a conscious caricature of himself. He is represented as a liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, and yet we are not offended but delighted with him; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himself. He openly assumes all these characters to show the humorous part of them. The unrestrained indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither malice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage; and we no more object to the character of Falstaff in a moral point of view, than we should think of bringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the life, before one of the police-offices. We only consider the number of pleasant lights in which he puts certain foibles (the more pleasant as they are opposed to the received rules and necessary restraints of society), and do not trouble ourselves about the consequences resulting from them, for no mischievous consequences do result. Sir John is old as well as fat, which gives a melancholy retrospective tinge to the character, and by the disparity between his inclinations and his capacity for enjoyment, makes it still more ludicrous and fantastical.

The secret of Falstaff's wit is for the most part a masterly presence of mind, an absolute self-possession, which nothing can disturb. His repartees are involuntary suggestions of his self-love; instinctive evasions of everything that threatens to interrupt the career of his triumphant jollity and self-complacency. His very size floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea of rich conceits; and he turns round on the pivot of his convenience, with every occasion and at a moment's warning. His natural repugnance to every unpleasant thought or circumstance, of itself makes light of objections, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers in his own justification. His indifference to truth puts no check upon his invention; and the more improbable and unexpected his contrivances are, the more happily does he seem to be delivered of them, the anticipation of their effect acting as a stimulus

to the gaiety of his fancy. The success of one adventurous sally gives him spirits to undertake another: he deals always in round numbers, and his exaggerations and excuses are "open, palpable, monstrous, as the father that begets them."

Hazlitt.

THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER.

Mr. Lovel and the Boy.

Mr. Lovel was one morning riding by himself, when, dismounting to gather a plant in the hedge, his horse got loose, and galloped away before him. He followed, calling the horse by name, which stopped, but on his approach set off again. At length a little boy in a neighbouring field, seeing the affair, ran across where the road made a turn, and getting before the horse, took him by the bridle, and held him till his owner came up. Mr. Lovel looked at the boy, and admired his ruddy, cheerful countenance.

"Thank you, my good lad," said he, "you have caught my horse very cleverly. What shall I give you for your trouble?" putting his hand into his pocket.

"I want nothing, sir," said the boy.

Mr. L. Don't you? so much the better for you. Few men can say as much. But, pray, what were you doing in the field?

B. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that are feeding on the turnips.

Mr. L. And do you like this employment?

B.

Yes, very well, this fine weather.

Mr. L. But had you not rather play?

B. This is not hard work; it is almost as good

as play.

Mr. L. Who set you to work?

B. My daddy, sir.

Mr. L. Where does he live?

B.

Just by, among the trees there.

B.

I shall be eight at Michaelmas.

Mr. L. How long have you been out in this field? Ever since six in the morning.

B.

Mr. L. And are you not hungry?

B. Yes; I shall go to my dinner soon.

Mr. L. If you had sixpence now, what would you do with it?

B. I don't know. I never had so much in my life. Mr. L. Have you no playthings?

B.

Playthings! what are those?

Mr. L. Such as balls, ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses.

B. No, sir; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in the cold weather, and we set traps for birds; and then I have a pair of stilts to walk through the dirt with; and I had a hoop, but it is broken.

Mr. L. And do you want nothing else?

B. No, I have hardly time for those; for I always ride the horses to field, and bring up the cows, and run to the town for errands; and that is as good as play, you know.

Mr. L.

Well, but you could buy apples or gingerbread at the town, I suppose, if you had money?

B. Oh! I can get apples at home; and as for gingerbread, I don't mind it much, for my mother gives me a pie now and then, and that is as good.

Mr. L. Would not you like a knife to cut sticks? B. I have one-here it is-brother Tom gave

it me.

Mr. L. Your shoes are full of holes-don't you want a better pair?

B. I have a better pair for Sundays.

Mr. L. But these let in water.

B. Oh, I don't care for that.

Mr. L.

Your hat is all torn, too.

B. I have a better at home; but I had as lief have none at all, for it hurts my head.

Mr. L. What do you do when it rains?

B. If it rains very hard, I get under the hedge till it is over.

Mr. L. What do you do when you are hungry before it is time to go home?

B. I sometimes eat a raw turnip.

Mr. L. But if there are none?

B. Then I do as well as I can; I work on, and never think of it.

Mr. L. Are you not dry sometimes this hot weather? B. Yes, but there is water enough.

Mr. L. Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philosopher!

B. Sir?

Mr. L. I say, you are a philosopher, but I am sure you do not know what that means.

B. No, sir-no harm-I hope?

Mr. L. No, no! (Laughing.) Well, my boy, you seem to want nothing at all, so I shall not give you money to make you want anything. But were you ever at school?

B. No, sir; but daddy says I shall go after harvest. Mr. L. You will want books then?

B. Yes, the boys have all a spelling book and a New Testament.

Mr. L. Well, then, I will give you them. Tell your daddy so, and that it is because I thought you a very good little boy. So now go to your sheep again. B. I will, sir. Thank you.

Mr. L. Good-bye, Peter.

B. Good-bye, sir.

Aikin.

MACHIAVELLI AND MONTESQUIEU.

Nothing is more remarkable in the political treatises of Machiavelli than the fairness of mind which they indicate. It appears where the author is in the wrong,

almost as strongly as where he is in the right. He never advances a false opinion because it is new or splendid, because he can clothe it in a happy phrase, or defend it by an ingenious sophism. His errors are at once explained by a reference to the circumstances in which he was placed. They evidently were not sought out; they lay in his way, and could scarcely be avoided. Such mistakes must necessarily be committed by early speculators in every science.

In this respect it is amusing to compare The Prince and the Discourses with the Spirit of Laws. Montesquieu enjoys, perhaps, a wider celebrity than any political writer of modern Europe. Something he doubtless owes to his merit but much more to his fortune. He had the good luck of a Valentine. He caught the eye of the French nation, at the moment when it was waking from the long sleep of political and religious bigotry; and, in consequence, he became a favourite. The English, at that time, considered a Frenchman who talked about constitutional checks and fundamental laws as a prodigy not less astonishing than the learned pig or the musical infant. Specious but shallow, studious of effect, indifferent to truth, eager to build a system, but careless of collecting those materials out of which alone a sound and durable system can be built, the lively President constructed theories as rapidly and as slightly as card-houses, no sooner projected than completed, no sooner blown away than forgotten. Machiavelli errs only because his experience, acquired in a very peculiar state of society, could not always enable him to calculate the effect of institutions differing from those of which he had observed the operation. Montesquieu errs, because he has a fine thing to say, and is resolved to say it. If the phænomena which lie before him will not suit his purpose, all history must be ransacked. If nothing established by authentic testimony can be racked or chipped to suit his Procrustean hypothesis, he puts up with some monstrous fable about Siam, or Bantam, or Japan, told by writers compared with whom Lucian and Gulliver