deserves the consideration due to her sex?" Making all due allowance for her wildness and her wilfulness, Beatrice cannot be fairly said ever to forget her sex-though she may indeed urge its privileges a little beyond the common law of propriety-taking" ample room and verge enough." The daughter of Antonio was a privileged person-not on account of mere eccentricity-no rightful claim to license of speechbut on account of her surpassing talents,-nay, her genius. They had long been friends too-that is-enemies; and Benedick having no doubt encouraged in his fair foe her inimitable and matchless powers of wit and humour, it would have been inexcusable-nay, ungentlemanly, in him to snub her too sharply, when she somewhat overshot the mark; yet she seldom fails to hit the target even at rovers. We question if he was entitled to cry, "down helm," even when the frigate " tight and bold," having shot a-head to windward, put about and came down before the wind, as if meaning to run him on board, and sink him in deep water. He did wiser to strike his flag and lower his top-gallant. Steevens says, that in the " conduct of the fable, there is an imperfection similar to that which Dr Johnson has pointed out in the Merry Wives of Windsor. The second contrivance is less ingenious than the first; or, to speak more plainly, the same incident is become stale by repetition. I wish some other method had been contrived to entrap Beatrice than that very one which had before been necessarily practised on Benedick." A foolish wish. The success of the same contrivance, with both parties, is infinitely amusing, and as natural as can be; their characters are in much similar, their real sentiments towards each other equally so, and their affected scorn of wedlock; and nothing could have satisfied the schemers short of seeing the one after the other fall into the same trap. The second contrivance is not less ingenious than the first; and as for the same incident becoming stale by repetition, Mr Steevens might as well have said that a kiss becomes stale by repetition, though you have Beatrice, when she says," little as she taken but two-a pretty long inter Is Mrs Jameson not too severe on the sympathy and interest on his, which, by reversing the usual order of things, seems to excite us against the grain, if may use such an expression. In all their encounters, she constantly gets the better of him, and the gentleman's wits go off halting, if he is not himself fairly hors de combat. It is clear she cannot tolerate his neglect, and he can as little tolerate her scorn. Nothing that Benedick addresses to Beatrice personally, can equal the malicious force of some of her assaults upon him; he is either restrained by a natural feeling of gallantry, little as she deserves the consideration due to her sex-for a female satirist ever places herself beyond the pale of such forbearance or he is subdued by her superior volubility." 'Tis natural, perhaps, that we should more admire the lady-our fair critic the gentleman. If some of our playful observations, made a few paragraphs back, have in them some grains of philosophy, our admiration may not be undue. Any woman might love such a cavalier as Benedick-not every cavalier might dare to love such a lady as Beatrice. But he who did dare, would dare nobly; and if able to wear as well as win her, could not fail to reap a rich reward. True, as his graceful encomiast says, "Benedick revenges himself in her absence," and she well understands" this ludicrous extravagance and exaggeration of his pent-up wrath," when thus he pours it forth; it" betrays at once how deep is his mortification, and how unreal his enmity." Perhaps the cavalier's revenge in her absence is disproportioned-if not to her sins-to the sometimes almost cowed spirit with which he vainly attempts to repel the power even of her victorious presence; and a gentleman "whose wits have gone halting off," and who looks as if he had "not a word to throw to a dog," with no good grace claps his wings and crows, as soon as he has got into safe hiding, waxing red about the comb to a deep degree of crimson, more becoming to a game-cock that offers battle to a rival, than to one who has fairly turned tail to a hen. val of some minutes betweenfrom the same rosy lips. The second is by much the sweeter. 19 We laugh at Benedick "advancing from the arbour," gulled by what he has there overheard, into the conviction that Beatrice is dying for him; but at Beatrice, who ran "like a lapwing close by the ground, to hear the conference" that deceived her with a corresponding belief, coming out of the "pleached bower," with her face on fire, (" what fire is in my ears!") we do not laugh;—we condole-we congratulate-we love her -for that fire flashes from a generous and ardent heart. Why laugh we at Benedick? Chiefly for these few words, "they seem to pity the poor lady." He sees her in his mind's-eye, "tearing the letter into thousand half-pence;" he hears her in his mind's ear, "railing at herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her." He is distressed beyond measure to picture the love-humbled Beatrice, as "down on her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her breast, tears her hair, prays, curses, Oh, sweet Benedick, give me patience!' Vain as we once were of our personal charms-to say nothing of our mental-(the rare union used to be irresistible) not, in our most cock-ahoop exultation, in the unconscious ness of our transcendent powers of cold-blooded feminicide, could we have given implicit credence to such a stark-staring incredibility (we do not say impossibility) as is involved in the narrative which by Benedick, in one wide gulp of faith, was swallowed like gospel. It is amusing but for that we do not laugh at him -to hear him admitting, that the world must be peopled." Clear it is that he will be as good as his word, when he says, “I will be horribly in love with her." Yet the "chance of having some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on him, because he has railed so long against marriage," gives him a pinch-a twinge. But he gets rid of the uneasy sensation by reminding himself, "that when he said he would die a bachelor, he did not think he should live till he was married." Beatrice forgets, in her passion of fire and tears, that she had ever railed at marriage. She burns and "C melts to think how she used to rail at Benedick. She feels neither pity nor pride, on overhearing her cousin say, "Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire, Consume away, in sighs waste inwardly; It were a better death than die with mocks." "The sense of wounded vanity even," says Mrs Jameson very finely, "is lost in better feelings, and she is infinitely more struck by what is said in praise of Benedick, and the histhan by the dispraise of herself. tory of his supposed love for her, The immediate success of the trick is a most natural consequence of the self-assurance and magnanimity of her character; she is so accustomed to assert dominion over the spirits of others, that she cannot suspect the self." She dedicates her life to conpossibility of a plot laid against herjugal duty-that is, love. Nor is there the slightest doubt that she will make one of the best wives in the world. Never will Beatrice sit with her arms folded, and her feet on the fender, half asleep before the fire, nodding her head like a mawsey, and ever and anon threatening to break out into a snore. Never will Beatrice sit broad awake, her elbow resting on a table misnamed of "work," her vacant eyes fixed, heaven knows not why, on yours, and her mouth into a yawn, first with a compressed that once you thought small, opening whine, like that of a puppy-dog shut fairly to bark, lest on being let out up accidentally in a closet, and afraid he be whipped to death, and finally into a dismal and interminable sound, like for a curtain-lecture. Nay-her "Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?" And she answers sadly, "Yea! and I will weep a while longer." Then is mutually betrayed the secret of their love, and Benedick and Beatrice-nothing lothare betrothed. voice will often be "gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman," as on flaky feet she comes stealthily behind her husband reading in his easy-chair, (for he goes no more to the wars,) and lays on his shoulder her hand of light, or, as she drops a kiss on his cheek, insinuates into his ear a wicked whisper. Then what a mother! She will whip the little Spartans nowhere but up stairs in the Attic nursery-and on no account or excuse whatever will permit a single squall. Benedick shall not know that there is such a thing in the house as a child, yet are there half-a-dozen, and the two last were twins. For nature in wedlock goes by the law of contraries. Your shy, your silent, inexpressive She, as sure as a gun, turns into a termagant; and Ranting Moll, the madcap, grows "still and patient as the brooding. dove ere yet her golden couplets are disclosed." So will it be with Beatrice. For hear her vows. "Contempt, farewell! and maiden market-place!' pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee; Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand; dost love, my kindness shall incite If thee To bind our love up in a holy band: "A change comes o'er the spirit of her dream" ere yet she be so much as a Virgin-Bride. The mutual confession, or declaration-call it what you will-of their love, is characteristic in its sprightliness, but it is calm, and the smiles of Beatrice beam through her tears. In her own happiness she has been weeping for Hero. Her cousin has been wickedly lied against by a villain, and that lie has been weakly believed by her lover Claudio, who has shamed and flung her from him, in presence of all the people, at the very altar. In that miserable hour, when all believe the fainting girl guilty, and insults are showered upon her in her swoon, Beatrice alone believes her innocent, exclaiming, "O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!" Then it is, when at last these two have left the church, that Benedick says gently, Mrs Jameson says "in the marriage-scene where she has beheld her gentle-spirited cousin, whom she loves the more for the very quali ties which are most unlike her own, slandered, deserted, and devoted to public shame, her indignation, and the eagnerness with which she hungers and thirsts after revenge, are, like the rest of her character, open, ardent, impetuous, but not deep or implacable. When she bursts into that outrageous speech— villain that bath slandered, scorned, disIs he not approved in the height a honoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man ! What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour-O God, that I were a man! I would cat his heart in the and when she commands her lover, the altar! Beatrice's own Cousin told in her hearing, by Claudio, in a church, that she is "More intemperate in her blood Sweetest Hero, she who was once so "lovely in his eyes," by her own father called "smirched and mired with infamy!" Why, Hero had "this twelvemonth been her bedfellow," and Beatrice knew she was chaste as herself-as they lay bosom to bosom. Her pride of sex, as well as her sisterly love, was up in arms at the base 66 and brutal barbarity; she felt herself insulted, her own maidenhood subjected to suspicion, since soot might thus be scattered on the unsunned snow of a virgin's virtue. And who was Claudio? She had heard his praises from the messenger ere she had seen his face. "He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion; he hath, indeed, bettered expectation than you must expect me to tell you how." And this paragon led her Hero into the church to break her heart, and "mire her name with infamy!" "Oh, God! that I were a man! I could eat his heart in the market-place," is a proper prayer and a just sentiment. We repeat-it is not outrageous." Did he not deserve to have his heart eaten in the market-place? And if Beatrice could have changed her sex, and into a man's indignant heart carried too the outraged feelings of a woman's, the man of the Corinthian, or rather Composite order, of whom the world would then have had assurance, would have hungered and thirsted after Claudio's beart, and eaten it in the market-place, which we presume is only a figurative style of speaking, and means stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed it, piercing it through, and through, and through, till the blood bolted from breast and back, and Claudio fell down a clod on the pavement-stone of sacrifice. In Beatrice commanding Benedick to "kill Claudio," we cannot bring ourselves to think that there can be any consciousness of exaggeration in the mind of any auditor, and least of all in that of such a high-minded lady as she who has happened to say so, or that the effect is particularly comic. Doubt there can be none, that it was a duty incumbent on Benedick, not only as a gentleman and a soldier, but as a Christian, to challenge Claudio to single, and unless that cruelest of calumniators (however deluded) licked the dust and drenched it in tears, to mortal combat. Was not Benedick the lover, the betrothed of Beatrice, and was not Claudio the betrothed and the worse than murderer of her dearest and nearest (female) friend? She knew Hero's innocence, and so must Benedick; for dared he to VOL. XXXIII. NO, CCVI. doubt the word of his Beatrice as to the honour bright, the stainless purity of her whose head had so long lain beside hers on the same pillow? If he did, then was he not worthy to lay on the down his rough chin close to the smoothest that ever hid or disclosed a dimple in balmy sleep. We cannot help feeling painful surprise that "Signior Montanto" had not put his finger to his lip with an eye-look that Claudio could not misinterpret, before that redoubted warrior left the church. "Here again," says Mrs Jameson, "the dominion rests with Beatrice, and she appears in a less amiable light than her lover. Benedick surrenders his whole heart to her and to his new passion. The revulsion of feeling even causes it to overflow in an excess of fondness; but with Beatrice temper has still the mastery. The affection of Benedick induces him to challenge his intimate friend for her sake; but the affection of Beatrice does not prevent her from risking the life of her lover." It is not temper that has the mastery with Beatrice. She was a highborn, high-spirited, high-honoured, high-principled, pure, chaste, and affectionate lady, and therefore she said, and could say no less, “kill Claudio." Benedick was bound to challenge Claudio for his own sake, and that of the profession of arms. And what was the life of her lover to Beatrice in comparison with his honour? She, God wot, was no lovesick-girl-but a woman in her golde prime-and had Claudio killed Bo nedick-why, she needed not to have broken her heart, nor would she, though verily we believe she might have worn widow's weeds for a year and a day. But she had no thought of its being within the chances of fortune that her beloved could be vanquished in such a cause. That would have occurred to her, had they gone out; but in her indignant scorn of the insulter, she saw him beaten on his knees, and her own knight's sword at his throat, that had so foully lied. However, "All's Well that Ends Well," and so is "Much Ado about Nothing." So, Beatrice, (good-by, Benedick,) heaven bless thee-farewell. But lo! One more delightful, more 2 N alluring, more fascinating, more enchanting, more captivating than Beatrice! In pure nature and sweet simplicity, more delightful is Rosalind; in courteous coquetry and quaint disguise, more alluring is Rosalind; in feeling playing with fancy, and in fancy by feeling tempered, (ah! shall we call her serpent?) more fascinating is Rosalind; in sinless spells and gracious glamoury, (what a witch!) more enchanting is Rosalind; and when, to "still musick," " Hymen, leading her in woman's cloathes," and singing, enters "Then is there mirth in heaven, Whose heart within her bosom is," feelest thou not, that more captivating is Rosalind-a snow-white lily with a wimple of dew, in bride like joyance flowering in the fo rest! If these our words seem cold, here are beautiful ones of a warmer glow. "To what else shall we compare her, all-enchanting as she is? to the silvery summer clouds, which, even while we gaze on them, shift their hues and forms, dissolving into air and light, and rainbow showers? to the May-morning, flush with opening flowers and roseate dews, and 'charm of earliest birds?' to some wild and beautiful melody, such as some shepherd-boy might pipe to Amarillis in the shade? to a mountain streamlet, now smooth as a mirror in which the skies may glass themselves, and anon leaping and sparkling in the sunshine-or rather to the very sunshine itself? for so her genial spirit touches into life and beauty whatever it shines on!" At first sight, we, like Orlando, fall in love with Rosalind conversing with cousin Celia, on the lawn before the Duke's palace. High-born and high-bred, yet is the talk of the two sweet as might have been heard at the hut-door of a peasant. Rosalind, though naturally the merriest of God's creatures, not excepting any bird, is somewhat sad, as well she may be, thinking on a banished [April, for "never two ladies loved as they father. But Celia now cheers her, do, being even from the cradle bred together." Our gentle coz says, 66 merry," and gladdened by the sound my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be dear Rose," doth, like that lark flut as a lark by sunshine, "sweet Rose, tering from the furrow into the sky, uplift her spirit, and sing or say, "What think you of falling in love?" "Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. Ros. What shall be our sport then? Cel, Let us sit and mock the good housewife, Fortune, from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally, Ros. I would, we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. makes fair, she scarce makes honest; and Cel. 'Tis true; for those, that she those, that she makes honest, she makes very ill-favour'dly. Ros. Nay, now thou goest from fortune's of the world, not in the lineaments of office to nature's; fortune reigns in gifts nature." Our Lady Critic finely breathes"the first introduction of Rosalind is less striking than interesting; we in the court of her usurping uncle; see her a dependent, almost a captive, situation, and the remembrance of her jovial spirits are subdued by her her banished father; her playfulness is under temporary eclipse. 'I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry!' is an adjuration which Rosalind needed not, when once at liberty, and sporting under the greenwood tree.' The sensibility and even pensiveness of her demeanour in the first instance, render her archness ful and more fascinating." and gravity afterwards more grace tion to Rosalind is less striking than Finely said-" our first introducinteresting"-and nothing can be more interesting; not from her mere condition only, but from the glimpses it gives us of the creature's charming young as they are and inexperienced character. Than herself and Celia, in the ways of the world, there are few safer moralists. Innocence is |