nothing left but affectation on one side, and incredulity on the other.-Much as we like Shakspeare's comedies, we cannot agree with Dr Johnson that they are better than his tragedies; nor do we like them half so well. If his inclination to comedy

sometimes led him to

trifle with the seriousness

of tragedy, the poetical and impassioned passages are the best parts of his comedies. The great and secret charm of TWELFTH NIGHT is the character of Viola. Much as we think of catches and cakes and ale, there is something that we like better. We have a friendship for Sir Toby; we patronise Sir Andrew; we have an understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise with his gravity, his smiles, his cross garters, his yellow stockings, and imprisonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this-it is Viola's confession of her love.

"Duke. And what's her history?

Viola. A blank, my lord; she never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought:
And with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat, like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove

Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too ;-and yet I know not."

Shakspeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.

"Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour."

What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it." They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned." How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert shore! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian, whom she supposes to have already deceived her in a promise of marriage.

"Blame not this haste of mine if you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace."

We have already said something of Shakspeare's

songs. One of the most beautiful of them occurs in this play with a preface of his own to it.

"Duke. O fellow, come; the song we had last night :Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain :

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it ;

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strewn ;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there."

Who after this will say that Shakspeare's genius was only fitted for comedy? Yet after reading other parts of this play, and particularly the garden-scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only

prove that our own taste in such matters is more saturnine than mercurial.

"Enter Maria.

Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain :-How now, my nettle of India?

Maria. Get ye all three into the box tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there [throws down a letter]; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

Enter Malvolio.

[Exit.

Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?

Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue!

Fabian. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! Sir Andrew. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:Sir Toby. Peace, I say.

Malvolio. To be Count Malvolio ;

Sir Toby. Ah, rogue!

Sir Andrew. Pistol him, pistol him.

Sir Toby. Peace, peace!

Malvolio. There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir Andrew. Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fabian. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.

Malvolio. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my chair of state,

Sir Toby. O, for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!

S

Malvolio. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping :—

Sir Toby. Fire and brimstone!

Fabian. O peace, peace!

Malvolio. And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,-telling them, I know my place, as I would they should do theirs,-to ask for my kinsman Toby.

Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles!

Fabian. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.

Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me:

Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?

Fabian. Though our silence be drawn from us with cares, yet peace.

Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control :

Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow of the lips then?

Malvolio. Saying-Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech ;— Sir Toby. What, what?

Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Sir Toby. Out, scab!

Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. Malvolio. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight.

Sir Andrew. That's me, I warrant you.

Malvolio. One Sir Andrew—

Sir Andrew. I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
Malvolio. What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter."

The letter and his comments on it are equally good, If poor Malvolio's treatment afterwards is a little