they all seem to be in the air at once. There never was such a jaunty and irrepressible quipster. Yet when Viola says to him, "I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing," his reply, "Not so, sir, I do care for something," betrays the serious temper which lies under all his fooling to furnish the appositeness of his remarks:—
"For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit."
Viola, who says this, might adapt a text of Paul, and apply it to Shakspeare's people,—"For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise."
Of all Shakspeare's clowns, he is the best endowed with a many-sided mirth, as indeed he should be to pass lightly through the mingled romance and roystering of the play and favor all its moods. The sentiment of the Duke is as inebriated as the revelling which Malvolio rebukes. Olivia's protracted grief for her brother is carefully cosseted by her, as if on purpose to give the Clown an opportunity.
Clo. Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Oliv. Good fool, for my brother's death.
Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
Oliv. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.—Take away the fool, gentlemen.
All the characters, noble and common, have some
weakness which he intuitively rallies. The charm of the
comedy lies in these unsubstantial moods of the chief
personages which consort with the more substantial
