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IN Viola and Perdita the distinguishing traits are the same-sentiment and elegance: thus we associate them together, though nothing can be more distinct to the fancy than the Doric grace of Perdita, compared to the romantic sweetness of Viola. They are created out of the same materials, and are equal to each other in the tenderness, delicacy, and poetical beauty of the conception. They are

she had ventured all, nearly overpowers her,

and she says beautifully

The blushes on my cheeks thus whisper me,

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We blush that thou shouldst choose; but be refused,

Let the white death sit on that cheek for ever,

We'll ne'er come there again!"

In her soliloquy after she has been forsaken by Bertram, the beauty lies in the intense feeling, the force and simplicity of the expressions. There is little imagery, and what little there is, is bold as beautiful, and springs out of the energy of the sentiment, and the pathos of the situation.

has been reading his cruel letter.

Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.

Tis bitter!

Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France,

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? And is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

She

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-piercing air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected: better 'twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar'd

With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once.

No, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all: I will be gone.

Though I cannot go the length of those who have defended Bertram on almost every point, still I think the censure which Johnson has passed on the character is much too severe. Bertram is certainly not a pattern hero of romance, but full of faults such as we meet with every day in men of his age and class. He is a bold, ardent, self-willed youth, just dismissed into the world from domestic indulgence, with an excess of

aristocratic and military pride, but not without some sense of true honour and generosity. I have lately read a defence of Bertram's character, written with much elegance and plausibibility. "The young Count," says this critic, "comes before us possessed of a good heart, and of no mean capacity, but with a haughtiness which threatens to dull the kinder passions, and to cloud the intellect. This is the inevitable consequence of an illustrious education. The glare of his birthright has dazzled his young faculties. Perhaps the first words he could distinguish were from the important nurse, giving elaborate directions about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could walk, a crowd of submissive vassals doffed their caps, and hailed his first appearance on his legs. His spelling book had the arms of the family emblazoned on the cover. He had been accustomed to hear himself called the great, the mighty son of Roussillon, ever since he was a helpless child. A succession of complacent tutors would by no means destroy the illusion; and it is from their hands that Shakspeare receives him

In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush

To see you so attired; sworn, I think,
To show myself a glass.

The impression of her perfect beauty and airy elegance of demeanour, is conveyed in two exqui

site passages:

What you do

Still betters what is done.

I'd have you do it ever.

When you speak, sweet,
When you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms,

Pray so, and for the ordering your affairs

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I take thy hand; this hand

As soft as dove's down, and as white as it;

Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,

That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.

The artless manner in which her innate nobility of soul shines forth through her pastoral disguise, is thus brought before us at once:

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