labouring for utterance, and almost strangled in the

birth. For instance :

"Have you not 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, rumour

Cannot be mute); or thought, (for cogitation
Resides not in that 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), then say
My wife's a hobby-horse; deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to

Before her troth-plight: say it, and justify it."

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; nor nothing have these nothings,
If this be 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 misfortunes. 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 afterpiece of the Wedding-day. Nothing could go off

with more éclat, 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 Kemble 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
The mirth o' the feast or I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father's; for I cannot be

Mine own, nor anything to any, if

I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
Though 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, with Polixenes and Camillo disguised, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others.

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' fire

With labour; and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip: you are retir'd,
As if you were a feasted one, and not
The hostess of the meeting: 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.

It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' the day: you're welcome, sir!
[To Camillo.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming, and savour, 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 gilliflowers,

Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden 's barren; and I care not

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
With great creating nature.

Polixenes. 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
A gentler scion 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 gilliflowers,

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, savory, marjoram ;

The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun;
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, think, they are given

To men of middle age: you are very welcome.

Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing.

Perdita. Out, alas!

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.-Now, my fairest

friend,