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Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them— but not for love.

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat,

Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her longest speeches are not her best: nor is her taunting address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as it is, equal to Phebe's own description of her. The latter, indeed, is more in earnest.'

Celia is more quiet and retired; but she rather yields to Rosalind, than is eclipsed by her. She is as full of sweetness, kindness, and intelligence, quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though she makes less display of wit. She is described as less fair and less gifted; yet the attempt to excite in her mind a jealousy of her lovelier friend, by placing them in comparison

Thou art a fool; she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,
When she is gone→

fails to awaken in the generous heart of Celia any other feeling than an increased tenderness and sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shakspeare has given some of the most striking and animated parts of the dialogue; for instance when Rosalind playfully talks of "falling in love in sport," Celia replies with that excellent piece of advice,

* Rousseau could describe such a character as Rosalind, but failed to represent it consistently. "Nest-ce pas de ton cœur que vienpent les graces de ton enjouement? Tes railleries sont des signes d'inte ret plus touchants que les compliments d'un autre. Tu caresses quand tu folatres. Tu ris, mais ton rire penetre l'ame; tu ris, mais tu fais pleurer de tendresse, et je te vois presque toujours serieuse avec les indifferentes."Heloise.

"Love no man farther in sport than with safety of a pure blush thou may'st in honor come off again." When Rosalind exclaims-"O how full of briars is this working-day world!" Celia replies as truly as beautifully "they are but burrs, if we walk not in the trodden path our very petticoats will catch them." And further on is that exquisite description of the friendship between her and Rosalind:

If she be a traitor,

Why so am I; we have still slept together,
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we were coupled and inseparable.

The feeling of interest and admiration thus excited for Celia at the first, follows her through the whole play. We listen to her as to one who has made herself worthy of our love; and her silence expresses more than eloquence.

Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette; she is a piece of pastoral poetry; while Audrey is only rustic. A very amusing effect is produced by the contrast between the frank and free bearing of the two princesses in disguise, and the scornful airs of the real shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe, and in the dialouge between her and Sylvius, Shakspeare has anticipated all the beauties of the Italian pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We find two among the most poetical passages of the play, appropriated to Phebe; the taunting speech to Sylvius, and the description of Rosalind in her page's costume ;— which last is finer than the portrait of Bathyllus in Ana

creon.

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O LOVE! thou teacher-O Grief! thou tamer-and Time, thou healer of human hearts !-bring hither all your deep and serious revelations !-And ye too, rich fancies of unbruised, unbowed youth-ye visions of long perished hopes-shadows of unborn joys-gay colorings of the dawn of existence! whatever memory hath treasured up of bright and beautiful in nature and in art; all soft and delicate images-all lovely forms-divinest voices and entrancing melodies-gleams of sunnier skies and fairer

climes Italian moon-lights, and airs that "breathe of the sweet South"-now, if it be possible, revive to my imagination-live once more to my heart! Come, thronging around me, all inspirations that wait on passion, on power, on beauty;-give me to tread, not bold, and yet unblamed, within the inmost sanctuary of Shakspeare's genius, in Juliet's moon-light bower, and Miranda's enchanted isle!

It is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch upon the character of Juliet. Such beautiful things have been said of her-only to be exceeded in beauty by the subject that inspired them!—it is impossible to say any thing better; but it is possible to say something more. Such in fact is the simplicity, the truth, and the loveliness of Juliet's character, that we are not at first aware of its complexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it an intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an entireness, a completeness of effect, which we feel as a whole; and to attempt to analyze the impression thus conveyed at once to the soul and sense, is as if while hanging over a half blown rose, and revelling in its intoxicating perfume, we should pull it asunder, leaflet by leaflet, the better to display its bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise should we disclose the wonders of its formation, or do justice to the skill of the divine hand that has thus fashioned it in its beauty?

Love, as a passion, forms the groundwork of the drama. Now, admitting the axiom of Rochefoucauld, that there is but one love, though a thousand different copies, yet the true sentiment itself has as many different aspects as the human soul of which it forms a part. It is not only modified by the individual character and temperament; but it is under the influence of climate and circumstance. The love that is calm in one moment, shall show itself vehement and tumultuous in another. The love that is

wild and passionate in the south, is deep and contemplative in the north: as the Spanish or Roman girl perhaps poisons a rival, or stabs herself for the sake of a living lover, and the German or Russian girl pines into the grave for love of the false, the absent, or the dead. Love is ardent or deep, bold or timid, jealous or confiding, impatient or humble, hopeful or desponding-and yet there are not many loves, but one love.

All Shakspeare's women, being essentially women, either love, or have loved, or are capable of loving; but Juliet is love itself. The passion is her state of being, and out of it she has no existence. It is the soul within her soul; the pulse within her heart; the life blood along her veins, blending with every atom of her frame. The love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia—so airy-delicate and fearless in Miranda-so sweetly confiding in Perdita-so playfully fond in Rosalind-so constant in Imogen-so devoted in Desdemona-so fervent in Helen-so tender in Viola, is each and all of these in Juliet. All these remind us of her; but she reminds us of nothing but her own sweet self: or if she does, it is of the Gismunda, or the Lisetta, or the Fiammetta of Boccaccio, to whom she is allied, not in the character or circumstances, but in the truly Italian spirit, the glowing national complexion of the portrait.*

* Lord Byron remarked of the Italian women, (and he could speak avec connaisance de fait,) that they are the only women in the world capable of impressions, at once very sudden and very durable; which he adds, is to be found in no other nation. Mr. Moore observes afterwards, how completely an Italian woman, either from nature or her social position, is led to invert the usual course of frailty among ourselves, and, weak in resisting the first impulses of passion, to reserve the whole strength of her character for a display of constancy ard devotedness afterwards.---Both these traits of national character are exemplified in Juliet.-Moore's Life of Byron, vol. ii. p. 303. 338. 4to edit.

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