A wif? A! Seinte Marie, benedicite!
How might a man have any adversite
That hath a wif? certes I cannot seye.

The blisse the which that is betwix hem tweye
Ther may no tonge telle or hertě thinke.

If he be poure, she helpeth him to swinke;
She kepeth his goods, and wasteth never a del;
All that hire husbond doth, hire liketh wel:
She saith not ones, Nay, whan he saith, Ye.
Do this, saith he; Al redy, sire, saith she.
O blissful ordre, o wedlok precious!
Thou art so mery and eke so vertuous,
And so commended and apprověd eke,
That every man that holt him worth a leke,
Upon his bare knees ought, all his lif,
Thanken his God that him hath sent a wif,
Or elles pray to God him for to send
A wife to last unto his lives end;
For than his lif is set in sikerness,
He may not be deceived, as I gesse,
So that he werche after his wives rede;
Than may he boldly berěn up his hede,
They ben so trewe, and therwithal so wise;
For which, if thou wilt werchen as the wise,
Do alway so as women wol thee rede.

A wife? Why, bless my soul, how can a man have any adversity that has a wife? Answer me that. Tongue cannot tell, nor heart think, of the felicity there is between a man and his wife. If he is poor, she helps him to work. She takes care of his money for him, and never wastes anything. She never says "yes," when he says no." "Do this," says he. "Directly," says she.

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O blessed institution! O precious wedlock! thou art so joyous, and at the same time so virtuous, and so recommended to us all, and so approved by us all, that every man who is worth a farthing should go down on his bare knees, every day of his existence, and thank Heaven for having sent him a wife; or if he hasn't got one, he ought to pray for one, and beg that she may last him to his life's end; for his life, in that case, is set in security. Nothing can deceive him.

He has only to act by his wife's advice, and he may hold up his head with the best. A wife is so true,-so wise. Oh! ever while you live, take your wife's advice, if you would be thought a wise man.

GALLANTRY OF TRANSLATION.

In the fable of the Cock and the Fox, the Cock, who has been alarmed by a dream, and consulting about it with his wife Dame Partlet, quotes a Latin sentence which tells us, that "woman is man's confusion," but he contrives at once to retain the satire, and make the lady feel grateful for it, by the following exquisite

version :

But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all this.
Madàmě Pertelot, so have I blis,

Of o thing God hath sent me largě grace:
For whan I see the beautee of your face,

Ye ben so scarlet red about your eyen,
It maketh all my dredě for to dien;
For, al so sicker as IN PRINCIPIO,
MULIER EST HOMINIS CONFUSIO.

Madame, the sentence of this Latine is,

Woman is mannĕs joye and manněs blis.1

1" Woman is mannes joy and mannes blis."-Or as the same words would have been written at a later day :

Woman is man his joy and man his bliss.

The Latin quotation is from the writings of a Dominican friar, Vincent de Beauvais. Sir Walter Scott was much taken with this wicked jest of Chanticleer's. "The Cock's polite version," says he, "is very ludicrous." (Edition of Drydon, vol. xi., p. 340.) Dryden's translation of the passage is very inferior to the original :

Madame Partlet,

But let us speak of mirth, and put an end to all this. as I hope to be saved, Heaven has shown me special favor in one respect; for when I behold the beauty of your face, you are so scarlet red about the eyes, it is impossible for me to dread anything.

There is an old and a true saying, the same now as it was in the beginning of the world, and that is, Mulier est hominis confusio. Madam, the meaning of this Latin is,-Woman is man's joy and man's bliss.

The conventional phrase "sovereign bliss," is nothing compared with the grave repetition and enforcement of the insult in Chaucer :

Woman is mannes joy and mannes blis.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE FAIRIES.

In oldě dayes of the King Artòur,

Of which that Bretons speken gret honour,
All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie;
The Elf quene with hire joly compagnie
Danced ful oft in many a greně mede;
This was the old opinion, as I rede;
I speke of many hundred yeres ago,
But now can no man sce non elves me;
For now the grete charitee and prayĕres
Of limitoures and other holy freres,

That serchen every land and every streme,
As thikke as motes in the sonne beme,
Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,
Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,
Thropes and bernes, shepěněs and dairies,
This maketh that ther ben no Faeries:
For ther as wont to walken was an elf,
Ther walketh now the limitour himself
In undermeles and in morwěninges,
And sayth his matines and his holy thinges
As he goth in his limitatioun.

Women may now go safely up and down;

In the old days of King Arthur, which the Bretons hold in such high estimation, this land was all full of fairies. The Elf-Queen, with her merry attendants, was always dancing about the green meads. Such at least was the opinion a long time ago,-many hundred years. Nowadays we see them no longer; for the charity and piety of the begging friars, and others of their holy brethren, who make search everywhere by land and water, as thick as the motes in the sun-beams, blessing our halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, boroughs, towers, castles, villages, barns, dairies, and sheep-folds, have caused the fairies to vanish; for where the fairy used to be, there is now the friar himself. You are sure to meet him before breakfast and dinner, saying his matins and holy things, and going about with his wallet. Women may now go up and down in

In every bush, and under every tree,

Ther is non other Incubus but he.1

safety; for though they may see things in the bushes and under the trees, it's only the friar. There is no other incubus but he.

"Ther is non other incubus but he."-The incubus was the successor of the ancient Faun; and, though a mischievous spirit, was supposed to be sometimes in love. Hence a twofold satire in the allusion.

SHAKSPEARE.

[See the volume entitled "Imagination and Fancy," page 106.]

SHAKSPEARE had as great a comic genius as tragic; and everybody would think so, were it possible for comedy to impress the mind as tragedy does. It is true, the times he lived in, as Hazlitt has remarked, were not so foppish and ridiculous as those of our prose comic dramatists, and therefore he had not so much to laugh at: and it is observed by the same critic, with equal truth, that his genius was of too large and magnanimous a description to delight in satire. But who doubts that had Shakspeare lived in those inferior times, the author of the character of Mercutio could have written that of Dorimant? of Benedick and Beatrice, the dialogues of Congreve? or of Twelfth Night and the Taming of the Shrew, the most uproarious farce? I certainly cannot think with Dr. Johnson, that he wrote comedy better than tragedy; that "his tragedy seems to be skill, and his comedy instinct." I could as soon believe that the instinct of Nature was confined to laughter, and that her tears were shed upon principles of criticism. Such may have been the Doctor's recipe for writing tragedy; but Irene is not King Lear. Laughter and tears are alike born with us, and so was the power of exciting them with Shakspeare; because it pleased Nature to make him a complete human being.

Shakspeare had wit and humor in perfection; and like every possessor of powers so happy, he rioted in their enjoyment. Molière was not fonder of running down a joke: Rabelais could not give loose to a more "admirable fooling." His mirth is commensurate with his melancholy: it is founded on the same knowledge and feeling, and it furnished him with a set-off to their op