For what has just been spoken of is, in fact, science, which in its most comprehensive sense only means knowledge, and in its ordinary sense means knowledge reduced to a system; that is, arranged in a regular order, so as to be conveniently taught, easily remembered, and readily applied.

The practical uses of any science or branch of knowledge are undoubtedly of the highest importance; and there is hardly any man who may not gain some positive advantage in his worldly wealth and comforts by increasing his stock of information. But there is also a pleasure in seeing the uses to which knowledge may be applied, wholly independent of the share we ourselves may have in those practical benefits. It is pleasing to examine the nature of a new instrument, or the habits of an unknown animal, without considering whether or not they may ever be of any use to ourselves or to any body. It is another gratification to extend our inquiries, and find that the instrument or animal is useful to man, even although we have no chance ourselves of ever benefiting by the information: as, to find that the natives of some distant country employ the animal in travelling :-nay, though we have no desire of benefiting by the knowledge; as for example, to find that the instrument is useful in performing some dangerous surgical operation. The mere gratification of curiosity, the knowing more today than we knew yesterday, the understanding clearly what before seemed obscure and puzzling, the contemplation of general truths, and the comparing together of different things, is an agreeable occupation of the mind; and beside the present enjoyment, elevates the faculties above low pursuits, purifies and refines the passions, and helps our reason to assuage their violence.-BROUGHAM.

SCENE-DUKE, AMIENS, AND OTHER LORDS.

Duke. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Ami. I would not change it: happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,Being native burghers of this desert city,Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.

1st Lord.

Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day, my Lord of Amiens, and myself, Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

Duke.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralise this spectacle?

1st Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping in the needless stream; "Poor deer," quoth he, "thou makʼst a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which had too much:" Then, being alone,

Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends:
""Tis right," quoth he; "this misery doth part
The flux of company:" Anon a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

And never stays to greet him: "Ay," quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

66

'Tis just the fashion: Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life; swearing, that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up,
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

Duke. And did you leave him in this contemplation? 2nd Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke.

Show me the place.

Enter JAQUES.

1st Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. Jaq. A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool;—a miserable world!—

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

"Good morrow, fool," quoth I: "No, sir," quoth he,
"Call me not fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune:"
And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:
Thus may we see," quoth he,

“how the world wags:

"Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;
And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.

Enter ORLANDO.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

Duke. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:
I thought that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment: But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days;
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;
If ever sat at any good man's feast;
If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke. True is it that we have seen better days:
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,-
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,-
I will not touch a bit.

Duke.

Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orl. I thank ye; and be blessed for your good comfort!

Duke. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.

Jaq.

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,

[Exit.

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 woful 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 lin'd,
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.

-SHAKSPEARE.

THE END.

EDINBURGH: JOHNSTONE AND HUNTER, PRINTERS, HIGH STREET.