correct.

It was formerly supposed that this charming comedy was written by Shakspere late in life. But there was found in the British Museum, in 1828. a little manuscript diary of a student of the Middle Temple, extending from 1601 to 1603, which leaves no doubt that the play was publicly acted at the Candlemas feast of the Middle Temple in 1602; and it belongs, therefore, to the first year of the seventeenth century, or the last of the sixteenth; for it is not found in the list of Meres, in 1598.

It is scarcely necessary to enter into any analysis of the plot of this delightful comedy, or attempt any dis. section of its characters, for the purpose of opening to the reader new sources of enjoyment. It is impossible, we think, for one of ordinary sensibility to read through the first act without yielding himself up to the genial temper in which the entire play is written. "The sunshine of the breast" spreads its rich purple light over the whole champain, and penetrates into every thicket and every dingle. From the first line to the last--from the Duke's

"That strain again ;—it had a dying fall," to the Clown's

"With hey, ho, the wind and the rain," there is not a thought, nor a situation, that is not calculated to call forth pleasurable feelings. The love-melancholy of the Duke is a luxurious abandonment to one pervading impression-not a fierce and hopeless contest with one o'ermastering passion. It delights to lie "canopied with bowers," to listen to "old and antique" songs, which dally with its " innocence,"-to be "full of shapes," and "high fantastical." The love of Viola is the sweetest and tenderest emotion that ever informed the heart of the purest and most graceful of beings with a spirit almost divine. Perhaps in the whole range of Shakspere's poetry there is nothing which comes more unbidden into the mind, and always in connexion with some image of the ethereal beauty of the utterer, than Viola's "She never told her love." The love of Olivia, wilful as it is, is not in the slightest degree repulsive. With the old stories before him, nothing

the female character could have redeemed Olivia from approaching to the anti-feminine. But as it is, we pity her, and we rejoice with her. These are what may be called the serious characters, because they are the vehicles for what we emphatically call the poetry of the play. But the comic characters are to us equally poetical-that is, they appear to us not mere copies of the representatives of temporary or individual follier, but embodyings of the universal comic, as true and as fresh to-day as they were two centuries and a half ago. Malvolio is to our minds as poetical as Don Quixote; and we are by no means sure that Shakspere meant the poor cross-gartered steward only to be laughed at, any more than Cervantes did the knight of the rueful countenance. He meant us to pity him, as Olivia and the Duke pitied him; for, in truth, the delusion by which Malvolio was wrecked, only passed out of the romantic into the comic through the manifestation of the vanity of the character in reference to his situation. But if we laugh at Malvolio we are not to laugh ill-naturedly, for the poet has conducted all the mischief against him in a spirit in which there is no real malice at the bottom of the fun. Sir Toby is a most genuine character,— one given to strong potations and boisterous merriment ; but with a humour about him perfectly irresistible. His abandon to the instant opportunity of laughing at and with others is something so thoroughly English, that we are not surprised the poet gave him an English name. And like all genuine humorists Sir Toby must have his butt. What a trio is presented in that glorious scene of the second act, where the two Knights and the Clown "make the welkin dance;"-the humorist, the fool, and the philosopher;—for Sir Andrew is the fool, and the Clown is the philosopher! We hold the Clown's epilogue song to be the most philosophical Clown's song upon record; and a treatise might be written upon its wisdom. It is the history of a life. from the condition of "a little tiny boy," through "man's estate," to decaying age-" when I came unto my bed;" and the conclusion is, that what is true of the individual is true of the species, and what was of yesterday was of generations long passed away-for

"A great while ago the world begun." Steevens says this "nonsensical ditty" is utterly unconnected with the subject of the comedy. We think he is mistaken.

ORSINO, Duke of Illyria.

Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 4. Act II. sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1.
SEBASTIAN, a young gentleman, brother to Viola.
Appears, Act II. sc. 1.

Act III. sc. 3. Act IV. sc. 1; sc. 3.
Act V. sc. 1.

ANTONIO, a sea-captain, friend to Sebastian.
Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 3; sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1.
A Sea-Captain, friend to Viola.
Appears, Act I. sc. 2.

VALENTINE, a gentleman attending on the Duke.
Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 4.

CURIO, a gentleman attending on the Duke.
Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 4. Act II. sc. 4.

SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle to Olivia. Appears, Act I. sc. 3; sc. 5. Act II. sc. 3; sc. 5. Act III. sc.1; sc. 2; sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 1; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. Appears, Act I. se. 3. Act II. sc. 3; sc. 5. Act III. sc. 1; sc. 2; sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1.

SCENE L-An Apartment in the Duke's Palace.

Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.

Duke. If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again,-it had a dying fall:
O, it came o er my ear like the sweet sound a
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough;
T is not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soe'er,

But falls into abatement and low price,

no more;

Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high-fantastical.

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord?

* Like the sweet sound. To those who are familiar with the well known text,

"O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,"

the restoration of the word sound, which is the reading of all the early editions, will at first appear strange and startling. Bat Shakspere has nowhere made the south an odour-breathing wind; his other representations are directly contrary. In 'As You Like It,' Rosalind says,

"You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?" la 'Romeo ani Juliet' we have the "dew-dropping south;" in Cymbeline, "The south-fog rot him.'

Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, til seven years heat,"
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,

And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this, to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting, in her sad remembrance.

Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her! when liver, brain, and heart,
Those sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections,) with one self king!-
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.

A Heat-heated.

[Exeunt

SCENE II.-The Sea-coast.

Enter VIOLA, Captain, and Sailors.

Vio. What country, friends, is this?
Cap.

Vio. And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd:-What think you, sailors?
Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.
Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be.
Cap. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself

(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast, that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see.

Vio.

For saying so, there 's gold: Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born, Not three hours' travel from this very place.

O, that I serv'd that lady: And might not be deliver'd to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow What my estate is.

Cap.

That were hard to compass,
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him,
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see Vio. I thank thee: Lead me on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III-A Room in Olivia's House.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.

Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take the

Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted. Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir To. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

I

Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you brought in one night here, to be her

Mar. He hath, indeed, almost natural: for besides that he's a fool, he 's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 't is thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him. Who are they?

Mar. They that add, moreover, he 's drunk nightly in your company.

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench? Castilianovulgo; for here comes sir Andrew Ague-face.

Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, sir Toby Belch!

Sir To. Sweet sir Andrew!

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew

Mar. And you too, sir.

Sir To. Accost, sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What 's that?

Sir To. My niece's chambermaid.

Sir And. Good mistress Accost, I desire better ac quaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, sir.

Sir And. Good mistress Mary Accost,

Sir To. You mistake, knight; accost is, front her,

board her, woo her, assail her.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir To. An thou let part so, sir Andrew, 'would thou mightst never draw sword again.

Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.

a Tall-stout, bold.

Viol-de-gamboys-a kind of violoncello.

c Board her-address her.

Sir And. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? Mar. A dry jest, sir.

Sir And. Are you full of them?

Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand I am barren. [Ex. MAR. Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?

Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down: Methinks sometimes I have Do more wit than a christian, or an ordinary man has : but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question.

Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight?

Sir And. What is pourquoy? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts!

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of

hair.

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou see'st it will not curl by nature.

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does 't not? Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.

Sir And. Faith, I'll home to-morrow, sir Toby; your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she 'll none of me: the count himself, here hard by, woos her.

Sir To. She'll none o' the count; she 'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in 't,

man.

Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not comare with an old man.

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't.

Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg it was formed under the star of a galliard.

Sir And. Ay, 't is strong, and it does indifferent well in a damask-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels ?

Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not bora under Taurus?

Sir And. Taurus? that 's sides and heart.

Sir To. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha!-excellent! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-A Room in the Duke's Palace

Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire. Val. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence. that you call in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? Val. No, believe me.

Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.
Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho?

Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here.
Duke. Stand you awhile aloof.-Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her ;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.

Vio.

Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.

Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord: What then!
Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love;
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio. I think not so, my lord.
Duke.

Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair :-Some four, or five, attend him; All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company :-Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine.

Vio.

I'll do my best