son in the piece; and if he is intense and inveterate in the pursuit of his purpose, he shows the utmost elasticity, vigor, and presence of mind, in the means of attaining it. But so rooted was our habitual impression of the part from seeing it caricatured in the representation, that it was only from a careful perusal of the play itself that we saw our error. The stage is not in general the best place to study our author's characters in. It is too often filled with traditional common-place conceptions of the part, handed down from sire to son, and suited to the taste of the great vulgar and the small.—“'Tis an unweeded garden : things rank and gross do merely gender in it!" If a man of genius comes once in an age to clear away the rubbish, to make it fruitful and wholesome, they cry, ""Tis a bad school: it may be like nature, it may be like Shakspeare, but it is not‘like us.' Admirable critics! THE WINTER'S TALE. WE wonder that Mr. Pope should have entertained doubts of the genuineness of this play. He was, we suppose, shocked (as a certain critic suggests) at the Chorus, Time, leaping over sixteen years with his crutch between the third and fourth act, and at Antigonus's landing with the infant Perdita on the sea-coast of Bohemia. These slips or blemishes, however, do not prove it not to be Shakspeare's; for he was as likely to fall into them as anybody; but we do not know anybody but himself who could produce the beauties. The stuff of which the tragic passion is composed, the romantic sweetness, the comic humor, are evidently his. Even the crabbed and tortuous style of the speeches of Leontes, reasoning on his own jealousy, beset with doubts and fears, and entangled more and more in the thorny labyrinth, bears every mark of Shakspeare's peculiar manner of conveying the painful struggle of different thoughts and feelings, laboring for utterance, and almost strangled in the birth. For instance: "Ha' not you seen, Camillo ? (But that's past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass (For to a vision so apparent, rumor To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought." Here Leontes is confounded with his passion, and does not know which way to turn himself, to give words to the anguish, rage, and apprehension, which tug at his breast. It is only as he is worked up into a clearer conviction of his wrongs by insist ing on the grounds of his unjust suspicions to Camillo, who irritates him by his opposition, that he bursts out into the following vehement strain of bitter indignation: yet even here his passion staggers, and is as it were oppressed with its own intensity. "Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? The character of Hermione is as much distinguished by its saint-like resignation and patient forbearance, as that of Paulina is by her zealous and spirited remonstrances against the injustice done to the queen, and by her devoted attachment to her mis. fortunes. Hermione's restoration to her husband and her child, after her long separation from them, is as affecting in itself as it is striking in the representation. Camillo, and the old shepherd and his son, are subordinate but not uninteresting instruments in the development of the plot, and though last, not least, comes Autolycus, a very pleasant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best feather in the cap of all knavery) he escapes with impunity in the end. THE WINTER'S TALE is one of the best-acting of our author's plays. We remember seeing it with great pleasure many years ago. It was on the night that King took leave of the stage, when he and Mrs. Jordan played together in the after-piece of the Wedding-day. Nothing could go off with more eclat, with more spirit, and grandeur of effect. Mrs. Siddons played Hermione, and in the last scene acted the painted statue to the life -with true monumental dignity and noble passion; Mr. Kem. ble in Leontes worked himself up into a very fine classical phrensy; and Bannister, as Autolycus, roared as loud for pity as a sturdy beggar could do who felt none of the pain he counterfeited, and was sound of wind and limb. We shall never see these parts so acted again; or if we did, it would be in vain. Actors grow old, or no longer surprise us by their novelty. But true poetry, like nature, is always young; and we still read the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we welcome the return of spring, with the same feelings as ever "FLORIZEL. Thou dearest Perdita, With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee darken not Mine own or anything to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant. Tho' destiny say, no. Be merry, gentle; Strangle such thoughts as these, with anything That you behold the while. Your guests are coming : Lift up your countenance; as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptial, which We two have sworn shall come. PERDITA. O lady fortune, Stand you auspicious! Enter Shepherd, Clown, MOPSA, DORCAS, Servants; with SHEPHERD. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv'd, upon Both dame and servant: welcom'd all, serv'd all: Would sing her song, and dance her turn: now here At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle: On his shoulder, and his: her face o' the fire And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, As your good flock shall prosper. PERDITA. Sir, welcome! [TO POLIXENES and CAMILLO. It is my father's will I should take on me The hostess-ship o' the day: you're welcome, sir! POLIXENES. Shepherdess (A fair one are you), well you fit our ages With flowers of winter. PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient, Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season To get slips of them. POLIXENES. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them? PERDITA. For I have heard it said There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares POLIXEN ES. Say, there be : Yet nature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather: but The art itself is nature. PERDITA. So it is. POLIXENES. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers, And do not call them bastards, PERDITA. I'll not put The dibble in earth, to set one slip of them; No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say, 'twere well; and only therefore Desire to breed by me.-Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram ; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, |