y and locality. We fancy her a contemporary of the
Raffaelles and the Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants and
Magnificos,--the Rialto, and the long canals,--rise up before us when we
think of her. But Rosalind is surrounded with the purely ideal and
imaginative; the reality is in the characters and in the sentiments, not
in the circumstances or situation. Portia is dignified, splendid, and
romantic; Rosalind is playful, pastoral, and picturesque: both are in
the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic and the other lyric.

Every thing about Rosalind breathes of "youth and youth's sweet prime."
She is fresh as the morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, and
light as the breeze that plays among them. She is as witty, as voluble,
as sprightly as Beatrice; but in a style altogether distinct. In both,
the wit is equally unconscious; but in Beatrice it plays about us like
the lightning, dazzling but also alarming; while the wit of Rosalind
bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refreshing all around.
Her volubility is like the bird's song; it is the outpouring of a heart
filled to overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet and
affectionate impulses. She has as much tenderness as mirth, and in her
most petulant raillery there is a touch of softness--"By this hand, it
will not hurt a fly!" As her vivacity never lessens our impression of
her sensibility, so she wears her masculine attire without the slightest
impugnment of her delicacy. Shakspeare did not make the modesty of his
women depend on their dress, as we shall see further when we come to
Viola and Imogen. Rosalind has in truth "no doublet and hose in her
disposition." How her heart seems to throb and flutter under her page's
vest! What depth of love in her passion for Orlando! whether disguised
beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking forth with a fond impatience,
or half betrayed in that beautiful scene where she faints at the sight
of his 'kerchief stained with his blood! Here her recovery of her
self-possession--her fears lest she should have revealed her sex--her
presence of mind, and quick-witted excuse--

I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.

and the characteristic playfulness which seems to return so naturally
with her recovered senses,--are all as amusing as consistent. Then how
beautifully is the dialogue managed between herself and Orlando! how
well she assumes the airs of a saucy page, without t