ness of the wayward youth, to cloak her affection for him, or appealing to the repentant Oliver for the goodness of her counterfeit, when fear and love o'ercome her gentle heart, and spite of her manly garb, she faints,-whatever she does, she is equally pretty and engaging, and we are equally charmed. All her ways are winning and insinuating, and we listen to her very heretical dissertations on love and constancy, and her unmerciful quizzing of both sexes, with something, which, if it be not acquiescence, is very near akin to it, inasmuch as it tempts us to exclaim with the captivated Phoebe, who, however silly in other respects, at least displayed good taste in falling desperately in love with Rosalind

Sweet youth, I pray thee chide a year together;

I had rather hear you chide than any man woo.

In intellect, Rosalind very much resembles Portia, albeit her talent may be better expressed by the term, clever,— she is not nearly so deep a thinker, and her conversation, though it is often more showy and brilliant, has not the same solidity, it is clearly inspiration of the moment, the effervescence of her nature. Her wit is often almost as sparkling as that of Beatrice, and what it lacks in splendour is to our mind fully compensated by its more genial character-like all else she does it is sunny and chastened by the sweetness of her spirit.

Like a true good woman she was in love, and the conduct of her love cause, and the object of it, are alike characteristic of her disposition. People are too apt to consider the choice of a lover merely an affair of chance, one of those lotteries into which we rush blindfold, and must abide by whatever lot the Fates are pleased to decree, whether it be a prize or a blank. But this is degrading love, and certainly making the holy boon a curse, rather than a blessing. We view the matter otherwise, and ever regard the loved one, to a certain degree, as a mirror of the loving. And thus did Shakspere depict them-instance Romeo. Is he not the reflex of Juliet, with only such difference as was necessary to frame one, to whom the gentler and more timid maiden might turn as the support of her confiding and guileless spirit? And again there is Ferdinand and Miranda, with many others, whom it is needless to cite, as they must of themselves occur to the mind. And in the same manner is Orlando reflective of Rosalind. He is just such an one as she would be likely to love, and he is such a frank, generous, open-hearted youth,

that we think him very nearly worthy of her, which is saying a great deal, considering the estimation in which we hold her, and we can therefore applaud his poetical description of her stature, "just as high as my heart," to the very echo.

And then the affection between her and Celia is very charming; Celia evidently regards her as a sister but there is also intermingled a kind of veneration, which is ever felt towards a superior mind, even where the utmost love and familiarity exists.

Rosalind has a feeling heart, and is keenly sensible of kindness and affection, although she has one of those happy tempers, whose own brightness often lumines the darkness of grief with rays that mirror hope. She was not of those who pine and mope in corners, brooding over every petty sorrow, till their weakened minds magnify each trifle from a molehill to a mountain; nay, more, she was one of the few exceptions to that law of nature, which makes us ever desirous of appearing interesting under imaginary sufferings, which does very well until we have a touch of the reality to teach us the nature of the thing we mimic. She has none of this affectation. We will introduce you to her in one of her pensive moods, and let her own words speak for her. Celia bids her "be merry," but Rosalind replies

Dear Celia, I shew more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

And this is a melancholy which we like, it only bespeaks her own goodness of heart, and is very foreign from that mere romantic feeling before alluded to. Celia, with that enthusiasm which is the peculiar and the beautiful characteristic of youth, and whose fading only too soon marks the decline of the pure and ardent spirit, 'neath the contaminations of the world, comforts her and deplores the banishment of her uncle, and the usurpation which has deprived him of his honors, and her friend of her succession, and vows the restoration of that inheritance at her father's death-" for," she exclaims, "what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection, therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry." Rosalind touched by her kindness, returns,

From henceforth, I will, coz, and devise sports; let me see,—what think you of falling in love ?

Ah Rose! Rose ! thou didst not know how soon thou wert to fall in love "in good earnest"-but it is ever the way-Cupid likes not to have his art sported with, and we often play with his arrows till we scratch our own fingers.

It is charming to note the process of love in her breastthe gentle words she breathes to dissuade Orlando from the wrestling, until she learns that he is the son of Sir Rowland de Bois, her father's friend, and her heart seizes on it as an excuse for loving him-then the gift of the chain, and her reluctance to depart, her mistaking the voice of her heart for that of Orlando.

He calls us back.

My pride fell with my fortunes:
I'll ask him what he would:-Did you call, sir ?—
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

Dear Rosalind, thou art ta'en in the toils! we need not go on to the next scene to discover it. We need not listen to thy answer to the question of Celia respecting thy silence and meditations,

But is all this for your father?

Ros.-No, some of it is for my father's child.

Nor to thy pretty sententious exclamation, worthy of Cupid himself did he ever put on the bands,

O how full of briars is this working day world!

We know that love laughs at reasons, but we think he would almost laugh at thee, sweet, did he hear the account for thy loving the son by,

But alas! this world is very full of briars, which, though they be "but burs thrown on us in holiday foolery," are not so easily shaken off as we would fain believe in our happier moments-and whilst the cloud of love, which is a very sunny one, and only veils harsh and unsightly outlines, and shews the beautiful in brighter colors, is resting on her heart, her uncle, who richly merits the title of tyrant, enters in a passion, and banishes her from his court, on pain of death. Her answer is beautiful in the simple earnestness with which she pleads her innocence of any fault, even in thought, to deserve such treatment, but to the insolent retort of the petty

usurper,

Thou art thy father's daughter, there 's enough. JAN. 1848.-NO. 1., VOL. IX.

She replies with a dignity and modesty which are admirable,

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banished him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous.

But he lets the secret out; jealousy, that scourge of little minds, has been at work, for he cries,

Her smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Ah me! how selfish we are; but for the life of us can we feel sorry at this banishment, which takes her from the painted pomp of courts to the life of the greenwood, and "the shade of melancholy boughs," with which she is inextricably connected in our mind.

How shrewd are her reflections on the resolution of adopting the male attire, to disguise and protect them in their wanderings!

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,

A boar-spear in my hand, and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other manish cowards have,

That do outforce it with their semblances.

There is one very great charm about Shakspere's women, and it is, that they are ever women, whether they be habited in their own proper robes, or in "doublet and hose "-they do not change their natures with their garments—indeed, if they did, we would feel anything but pleasure at the mention of such a change for Rosalind, but as it is, we find her in the forest of Arden, exclaiming between a sigh and a smile,

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 shew itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

She exclaims very gaily against the false gallop of verses, and the "tedious homily of love" with which she was berhymed, until she hears from the sportive Celia that they are written by one "who has a chain which she once wore, about

his neck," whereupon she blushes, and becomes very inquisitive, and begs,

I pr'y thee, who ?-nay, but who is it ?-nay, I pray most petitioning vehemence, tell me who it is.

And at length, wearied of her laughing delays,

thee now,

with

Good, my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch more delay, is a South-sea-off discovery. Ipr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace.

When she learns it is Orlando, "that tripped up the wrestler's heels and her heart, both in an instant," her perplexity at the idea of being seen by him in doublet and hose, and her anxiety to hear an account of her lover, is exquisitely delineated. And, though the propositions of a lover, and (Heaven forgive us) of a female one, are difficult to resolve, as it is to count atomies, who would not love them, and ever wish to hear them after so sweet an apology as Rosalind's

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Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak? There is much truth and wit in her description of the paces of time; and well does she support the character of the "saucy lacquey," which she assumes to mask her identity, and "play the knave" with Orlando. It is a good beginning to tell him "There is no true lover in the forest;" but who, save a woman, could have replied to the question of her lover.

Where dwell you,"pretty youth?

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here, in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Is it not just the answer of a maiden, and only of a maiden, displaying all the pretty taste and conceit of a feminine imagination!

But ah! she is a sad little reprobate, to give the malicious tirade against her own sex, which immediately follows:

I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

OR.-Can you remember any of the principal evils?

Ros.-There were none principal; they were all like one another, as halfpence are: every one fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault come to match it.

And then, how she cries out against "the man who haunts