which disdains all crooked and indirect means, which would not stoop for an instant to dissemblance, and is mingled with a noble confidence in her love and in her lover. In this spirit is her answer to Camillo, who says, courtier-like,

Besides, you know

Prosperity's the very bond of love;

Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together,
Affliction alters.

To which she replies,

One of these is true;

I think, affliction may subdue the cheek,
But not take in the mind.

In that elegant scene where she receives the guests at the sheep-shearing, and distributes the flowers, there is in the full flow of the poetry a most beautiful and striking touch of individual character: but here it is impossible to mutilate the dialogue.

Reverend sirs,

For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming and savor all the winter long-

Grace and remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing!

POLIXENES.

Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

PERDITA.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streaked gilliflowers,
Which some call nature's bastards-of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them.

POLIXENES.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

PERDITA.

For I have heard it said,

There is an art, which in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.

POLIXENES.

Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean; so o'er that art
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry,

A gentle scion to the wildest stock;

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather; but
The art itself is nature.

PERDITA.
So it is.

POLIXENES.

Then make your garden rich in gilliflowers

And do not call them bastards.

PERDITA.

I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them-
No more than were I painted, I would wish

This youth should say 'twere well.

It has been well remarked of this passage, that Perdita does not attempt to answer the reasoning of Polixenes: she gives up the argument, but, woman-like, retains her own opinion, or rather, her sense of right, unshaken by his sophistry. She goes on in a strain of poetry, which comes over the soul like music and fragrance mingled: we seem to inhale the blended odors of a thousand flowers,

till the sense faints with their sweetness and she concludes with a touch of passionate sentiment, which melts into the very heart:

O Proserpina!

For the flowers now that frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's wagon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty-violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack
To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend
To strew him o'er and o'er.

FLORIZEL.

What! like a corse!

Perdita.

No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ;
Not like a corse; or if,-not to be buried,
But quick and in mine arms!

This love of truth, this conscientiousness, which forms so distinct a feature in the character of Perdita, and mingles with its picturesque delicacy a certain firmness and dignity, is maintained consistently to the last. When the two lovers fly together from Bohemia, and take refuge in the court of Leontes, the real father of Perdita, Florizel presents himself before the king with a feigned tale, in which he has been artfully instructed by the old counsellor Camillo. During this scene, Perdita does not utter a word. In the strait in which they are placed, she cannot deny the story which Florizel relates; she will not confirm it. Her silence, in spite of all the compliments and

greetings of Leontes, has a peculiar and characteristic grace; and at the conclusion of the scene, when they are betrayed, the truth bursts from her as if instinctively, and she exclaims with emotion,

The heavens set spies upon us--will not have

Our contract celebrated.

After this scene, Perdita says very little. The description of her grief, while listening to the relation of her mother's death-"One of the prettiest touches of all was when at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came by it, how attentiveness wounded her daughter: till, from one sign of color to another, she did, with an Alas! I would fain say, shed tears !”— her deportment as she stands gazing on the statue of Hermione, fixed in wonder, admiration and sorrow, as if she too were marble

royal piece!

There's magic in thy majesty, which has
From thy admiring daughter ta'en the spirits,
Standing like stone beside thee!

are touches of character conveyed indirectly, and which serve to give a more finished effect to this beautiful picture. As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces through her rustic disguise, so the exquisite refinement of Viola triumphs over her masculine attire. Viola is, perhaps, in a degree less elevated and ideal than Perdita, but with a touch of sentiment more profound and heart-stirring; she is "deep-learned in the lore of love," at least theoretically, and speaks as masterly on the subject as Perdita, does of flowers.

DUKE.

How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA.

It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron'd.

And again,

If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life—
In your denial I would find no sense,

I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.

Why, what would you do?

VIOLA.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons* of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

OLIVIA.

You might do much.

The situation and the character of Viola have been censured for the want of consistency and probability; it is therefore worth while to examine how far this criticism is true. As for her situation in the drama, (of which she is properly the heroine,) it is shortly this. She is shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria: she is alone and without protection in a strange country. She wishes to enter into the service of the Countess Olivia; but she is assured that this is impossible; "for the lady having recently lost an only and beloved brother, has abjured the sight of men, has

* i. e. canzons, songs.