and this, to an understanding
so clear, so strong, so just as Helena's, is not felt as an unpardonable
insult. The mere pride of rank and birth is a prejudice of which she
cannot comprehend the force, because her mind towers so immeasurably
above it; and, compared to the infinite love which swells within her own
bosom, it sinks into nothing. She cannot conceive that he, to whom she
has devoted her heart and truth, her soul, her life, her service, must
not one day love her in return; and once her own beyond the reach of
fate, that her cares, her caresses, her unwearied patient tenderness,
will not at last "win her lord to look upon her"--

... For time will bring on summer,
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp.

It is this fond faith which, hoping all things, enables her to endure
all things:--which hallows and dignifies the surrender of her woman's
pride, making it a sacrifice on which virtue and love throw a mingled
incense.

The scene in which the Countess extorts from Helen the confession of her
love, must, as an illustration, be given here. It is perhaps, the finest
in the whole play, and brings out all the striking points of Helen's
character, to which I have already alluded. We must not fail to remark,
that though the acknowledgment is wrung from her with an agony which
seems to convulse her whole being, yet when once she has given it solemn
utterance, she recovers her presence of mind, and asserts her native
dignity. In her justification of her feelings and her conduct, there is
neither sophistry, nor self-deception, nor presumption, but a noble
simplicity, combined with the most impassioned earnestness; while the
language naturally rises in its eloquent beauty, as the tide of feeling,
now first let loose from the bursting heart, comes pouring forth in
words. The whole scene is wonderfully beautiful.

HELENA.

What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS.

You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.

HELENA.

Mine honorable mistress.

COUNTESS

Nay, a mother;
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: what's in mother,
That you start at it? I say, I am your mother:
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and ch