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
Is thicker than a cuckold's horn) or heard?

(For to a vision so apparent, rumor
Cannot be mute) or thought (for cogitation
Resides not within man that does not think)
My wife is slippery? if thou wilt confess,
Or else be impudently negative,

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 insisting 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?
Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh? (a note infallible
Of breaking honesty !) horsing foot on foot?
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?
Hours, minutes? the noon, midnight? and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs; theirs only,
That would, unseen, be wicked? is this nothing?
Why then the world, and all that's in 't, is nothing,
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia's nothing,
My wife is nothing."

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 classica!

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
The mirth o' the feast: or I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father's: for I cannot be

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
POLIXENES, and CAMILLO, disguised.

FLORIZEL. See, your guests approach:

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let's be red with mirth.

SHEPHERD. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv'd, upon
This day, she was both pantler, butler, cook;

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
With labor; and the thing she took to quench it
She would to each one sip.

As if you were a feasted one,
The hostess of the meeting.

You are retir'd,
and not

Pray you, bid

These unknown friends to us welcome; for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes; and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o' the feast.
Come on,

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!
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming, and savor, all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you both,
And welcome to our shearing!

POLIXENES. Shepherdess

(A fair one are you), well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.

PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,
Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not

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

A gentler scyon to the wildest stock;

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,