[April, "Cel. Didst thou hear, without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon these trees?

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder, before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree: I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros. Is it a man?

"Touch. Truly, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach."

As

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: Change you colour?"

But Rosalind, how likes she to be a shepherd-boy? Poor Rosalind ! she is not allowed even for a single day to forget her sex. The very trees suspect and persecute herher doublet and hose are beginning to sit easy-but as the wind comes by, she shrinks to miss the rustle of her petticoats.

The very trees bear love-ditties like blossoms, and all in praise of Rosalind:

She does, but will not understand; and playfully "dallies with the innocence of love," till Celia pronounces the name whose sweet syllables have all the while been heard whispering within her bosom. "It is young Orlando." "He is furnished like a hunter," quoth Celia ;-and the fair fawn breathes-(a pretty pun)—

"O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart."

Orlando stands before her in the woods, and Rosalind in a moment forgets that she is a wanderer and an outcast. Her spirit is again borne up into the air of joy as upon wings. Its native buoyancy, a while depressed, expands anew; and her wit plays round him," like harmless lightning on a summer's night." The theme is love! and she rallies him on his pas

"There is a man that haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him."

In that joyful mood she dreams the idea of being woo'd by him in her disguise; and who but “sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child," could so delicately, so ingeniously, so naturally, have carried on such courtship? Orlando slides into it-and we with him-as pleasantly as into imaginative masqueradethe enacting of a lover's part at some

"Ros. I profess curing love by coun

sel.

Orl. Did you ever cure any so? Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo

me: At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then fors wear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic: And thus I cured him."

Who could resist this? Not Orlando; for, though love-stricken, he is full of the power of life; his pas sion is a joy; his fear is but slight shadow, his hope strong sunshine; and he has just escaped from dishonouring thraldom into a wild and adventurous liberty in the forest, where by the Duke he has been taken into favour as Sir Rowland's son. There is a mysterious spell breathed over his whole being from that silver speech. Near the happy close of the play, the Duke says to him

"I do remember in this shepherd-boy Some lively touches of my daughter's favour."

And Orlando then answers

66

My Lord, the first time that I ever saw him, Methought he was a brother to your daughter."

66

That sweet thought had passed across his mind, at their first meeting, although he did not tell the shepherd-boy;" and it inclines him, in a moment, when Rosalind says "I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cot, and woo me," to answer, "Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is." And is not this shepherd-boy, with "lively touches of my daughter's favour," a thousand times better than a dead picture? It is a living full-length picture even of Rosalind in a fancy-dress; and 'tis easy as delightful to imagine it the very original's own self-the "slender Rosalind"-the "heavenly Rosalind" 'tis "Love's young dream!"

Pray what took Rosalind to the Forest of Arden? She was banish

ed; but went she not there to look for her father? We think she surely did; but she seems to care little about the good elderly gentleman. She seldom strays far from the "Tuft of Olives"-"here on the skirts of the forest like a fringe upon a petticoat." There she abides, "like the coney that you see dwell where it is kindled." Sweet wretch! She is

sometimes rather out of spirits.

"Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to consider, that tears do not become

a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep? Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

Ros. His very hair is of the dissem bling colour!

Cel. Something browner than Judas's."

He it seems is the deceiver-not she she, who is one entire deceit. “Nay certainly, there is no truth in him." Wicked hypocrite! she knows he is all truth-all passion. Their hearts and souls are one-and soon will they be one flesh. But only hear how she speaks of her own father!

"Ros. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ?"

Ungrateful, undutiful, impious Rosalind, to prefer talking of a lover of a week's standing, to a father of some "This is too bad." eighteen years! Yet in spite of it all, Rosalind is a dearest favourite of the lady who knows "honour and virtue" well. Nor can we well deny that after all she deserves this beautiful eulogium,—

"Every thing about Rosalind breathes of youth's sweet prime. She is fresh as the morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, and light as the breeze that plays among them. Her wit bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refreshing all around. Her volubility is like the bird's song; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet and affectionate impulses. She has as much tenderness as mirth, and in her most petulant raillery there is a touch of softness-' By this hand it will not hurt a fly!' As her

vivacity never lessens our impression of her sensibility, so she wears her masculine attire without the slightest impugnment of her delicacy. Shakspeare did not make the modesty of his women depend on their dress. Rosalind has in truth 'no doublet and hose in her dispo sition.' How her heart seems to throb and flutter under her page's vest! What depth of love in her passion for Orlando! whether disguised beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking forth with a fond impatience, or half betrayed in that beautiful scene where she faints at the sight of the 'kerchief stained with his blood! Here her recovery of her self-possession-her fears lest she should have revealed her sex-her presence of mind, and quick-witted

excuse

'I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited,'

and the characteristic playfulness which seems to return so naturally with her recovered senses,-are all as amusing as consistent. Then how beautifully is the dialogue managed between herself and Orlando! how saucy page, without throwing off her feminine sweetness! How her wit flutters free as air over every subject! With what a careless grace, yet with what exquisite propriety!

well she assumes the airs of a

cheated out of the deep delight of fond imagination, and he sends it to her shadow. He is indeed " of imagination all compact."

The impression left on our hearts and minds by the character of Rosalind, as it shines forth so natural, so sincere and truthful, through the disguise that emboldens her to put forth a power of innocent enchantment which had she been in her sex's habit, her sex's native modesty-"maidenly shame-facedness"-would have partly restrained, " in dim suffusion veiled,"-" a mixture of playfulness, sensibility, and what the French call naïveté, is," says Mrs Jameson, with her usual fine tact, "like a delicious strain of music. There is a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to express that delight, which is enchanting. Yet when we call to mind particular and peculiar passages, we find that they which renders it difficult to separate have a relative beauty and propriety, them from the context, without injuring the effect. She says some of the most charming things in the world, and some of the most humorous; but we apply them as phrases rather than as maxims, and remember them rather for their pointed felicity of expression, and fanciful application, than for their general truth and depth of meaning." Yet is the stream of her thoughtit is a stream, not a lake, for 'tis ever in motion and in murmur-often much deeper than it seems to belike a translucent water-gleam, that you think you can easily ford; but when you try, you are surprised to find you must have recourse to swimming through the "liquid lapse," scarcely distinguishable even then, but by a grateful coolness, from the air of heaven.

As to the freedom of some of her

expressions (and of Beatrice,) let it be remembered, says the gentle lady, who sees all feminities in their true light," that this was not the fault of Shakspeare or the women, but generally of the age. Portia, Beatrice, and Rosalind, and the rest, lived in times when more importance was attached to things than words; now we think more of words than of things; and happy are we in these late days of super-refinement, if we are to be saved by our verbal morality." It would puzzle the best of

· For innocence hath a privilege in her, To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes.''

Exquisite criticism! Orlando, in all these assignations, enjoys but the shadow, so it seems to him, of his Rosalind, but Rosalind feeds her innocent passion on the substance of her Orlando. Her scheme answers its purpose to a miracle. Creative in her happiness of pleasant fancies that never flag, the representative of Rosalind, before her lover's senses, becomes more and more encircled with the lights and shadows, the music and the fragrance, of the charm that hangs and breathes around" another and the same;" and he never wearies of such discourse. So faithfully has he pledged his troth to that "gay deceiver," that he does not forget the supposed shepherd-boy, even when wounded by the lioness. As to the real Rosalind, he would have assuredly sent the handkerchief stained with his blood, so his love will not be

"the chariest maids" of these days, "the nicest' of them all," to personate a shepherd - boy personating an enamoured full-grown man his lady-love in all her moods-even in "a more coming-on disposition"with the tenth part of the spirit, and twentieth part of the delicacy of Rosalind. A blush when no blush should be an awkward knee-inturning when nobody was thinking about knees-a shrinking away from the male-touch when it should have been met with a gentle tremor-a face-averting from the cheek-kiss of friendship mildly imitative of love, as if a beard might blast the blossoms, these, and many other congenial errors-guilty mistakings of innocent meanings-foolish fears without any danger-and "apprehensions coming in clouds," when all should be serene as the blue sky -would betray the damsel, during the first act; so in pity of her failure in the part of Rosalind, we let fall the curtain, and call on the orchestra to strike up the "Auld Wife of Ochtertyre," or of "Auchtermuchty."

Love, we said, is the spirit of the Romance. Old Corin comes upon Rosalind and Celia when conversing about Orlando, and says,—

the contrast between the port and bearing of the two princesses in disguise, and the scornful airs of the real shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe, and in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shakspeare has anticipated all the beauties of the Italian pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We find two of 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 Anacreon."

The lad Rosalind is irresistible; and how he enjoys the punishment he saucily inflicts on the imperious Acorngatherer fallen head-over-ears in love!

"Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work ;-Od's my little life!

I think, she means to tangle my eyes too: No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after

it;

'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of

cream,

That can entame my spirits to your wor ship.

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man, Than she a woman: 'Tis such fools as you,

That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;

'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper, Than any of her lineaments can shew her. But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,

And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love;

Sell when you can; you are not for all For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

markets;

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his

offer;

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd;-fare you well.

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;

I had rather hear you chide, than this

man woo.

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger; if it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

Phe. For no ill will I bear you.
Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love
with me.'

"9

Poor Phebe! we begin to pity her -and for the same reason-almost as much as we do poor Sylvius! Not more humbled is she by the "sweet youth," whom "she prays to chide a year together," than is her swain by her when she employs him as a gobetween, telling him not "To look for farther recompense, Than thine own gladness that thou art employed."

What could Rosalind ask of Phebe that she would not do? We blush as we pause for your reply. And heard you ever tell of so lowly a swain as Sylvius, who says,

"So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I should think it a most plenteous crop,

To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps."

And then he listens, unreproachfully, to his savage mistress, while passionately and poetically she paints to the life the imagined man for whom she dies. 'Tis a pretty passage as any in "As You Like it;" it shews how by "the flame," may even the commonest -the meanest spirit be inspired, and we almost admire the more than voluble, the eloquent wood-lass, whom her stars have destined, after no very grievous disappointment in her ewe-love, in good time to be Mrs Sylvius of " The Tuft of Olives."

Celia, too, the affectionate, faithful friend, who sympathizing with her sister's love, thought not that such a misfortune was ever to befall herself Celia, too, has taken the forest fever, her pulse is up to a hundred at the lowest, and she should go to her bed. She has caught the infection from a man, who, by his own account, only a few hours before was "a wretched ragged man, overgrown with hair.”

grant? and will you persevere to enjoy

her?

"Orl. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her? and loving, woo? and wooing, she should

Orl. It is my arm.

Ros. I thought, thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon, when he showed me your handkerchief?

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. Ros. Oh, I know where you are:Nay, 'tis true; there was never any thing so sudden, but the fight of two rams, and Cæsar's thrasonical brag of-I came, saw, and overcame. For your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy: and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage; they are in the very wrath of love, and they will together; clubs cannot part them."

Dr Samuel Johnson saith, "of this play the fable is wild and pleasing. I know not how the ladies will approve the facility with which both Rosalind and Celia give away their hearts. To Celia much may be forgiven for the heroism of her friendship." The ladies, we are sure, have forgiven Rosalind. What say they to Celia? They look down-blush -shake head-smile-and say, "Celia knew Oliver was Orlando's brother, and in her friendship for Rosalind, she felt how delightful it would be for them two to be sisters-in-law