eautiful propriety in the
distinction drawn between Rosalind and Viola! The wild sweetness, the
frolic humor which sports free and unblamed amid the shades of Ardennes,
would ill become Viola, whose playfulness is assumed as part of her
disguise as a court-page, and is guarded by the strictest delicacy. She
has not, like Rosalind, a saucy enjoyment in her own incognito; her
disguise does not sit so easily upon her; her heart does not beat freely
under it. As in the old ballad, where "Sweet William" is detected
weeping in secret over her "man's array,"[36] so in Viola, a sweet
consciousness of her feminine nature is for ever breaking through her
masquerade:--

And on her cheek is ready with a blush
Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes
The youthful Phoebus.

She plays her part well, but never forgets nor allows us to forget, that
she is playing a part.

OLIVIA.

Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.

No, my profound heart! and yet by the very fangs of
malice I swear, I am not that I play!

And thus she comments on it:--

Disguise, I see thou art wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much;
How easy is it for the proper false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we.

The feminine cowardice of Viola, which will not allow her even to affect
a courage becoming her attire,--her horror at the idea of drawing a
sword, is very natural and characteristic; and produces a most humorous
effect, even at the very moment it charms and interests us.

Contrasted with the deep, silent, patient love of Viola for the Duke, we
have the lady-like wilfulness of Olivia; and her sudden passion, or
rather fancy, for the disguised page, takes so beautiful a coloring of
poetry and sentiment, that we do not think her forward. Olivia is like a
princess of romance, and has all the privileges of one; she is, like
Portia, high born and high bred, mistress over her servants--but not
like Portia, "queen o'er herself." She has never in her life been
opposed; the first contradiction, therefore, rouses all the woman in
her, and turns a caprice into a headlong passion; yet she apologizes for
herself.

I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honor too unchary out;
There's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks repr