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EVERAL of the conjectural chronologists of the plays of Shakspere assign a very late date to the first appearance of the "TWELFTH NIGHT;" considering it, indeed, to have been the last-written of all his wondrous dramas: and, certainly, of his many marvellous works, there is not one upon which the seal of that consummate perfection for which even the most exalted genius must stand indebted to all-maturing Time, is more lovelily and vividly set. But the truth is, little is positively known as to the actual order in which the plays of Shakspere were either written or acted and of his numerous commentators, the figural labours have been equally futile and superfluous with the great bulk of their verbal ingenuities.

The story of the serious portions of this fine play, "the right happy and copious industry" (as his contemporary Webster somewhat sneeringly phrases it) of its great author may have derived from one of Belleforest's "HISTOIRES TRAGIQUES," or from its Italian original, the thirty-sixth novel of the second part of the "TALES OF BANDELLO;" a novelist in whose rich mine all the dramatists of the age of Elizabeth wrought deeply for the materials of their incessant gorgeous poetic coinage; from one of the "EGLOGS" of Barnaby Googe, whose poems were published in 1563; or from the "HISTORY OF APOLLONIUS AND SILLA," which was printed in 1583, in a miscellany entitled, "RICH, HIS FAREWELL TO MILITARY PROFESSION." It was, however, the mere form of which Shakspere availed himself: the subtle spirit of the work is his, and his alone: and the exquisitely comic characters of the drama that prince-royal of joyous topers, Sir Toby Belch, a joker worthy to have been the intimate of Sir John Falstaff: the foolish, prodigal, conceited, quarrelsome, cowardly, super-silly fortune-hunter, Sir Andrew Aguecheek (a distant cousin, we have always thought, of Master Abraham Slender), who "harms his wit" by his "great eating of beef;" who has "an excellent head of hair,” that "hangs like flax on a distaff;" who, in dancing, has "the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria;" and who "delights in masks and revels sometimes altogether:" the exuberantly witty Clown, Festo the Jester, "a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in," and whose veriest freedoms are, therefore, rendered permissive, and even sacred, to the lady Olivia; he, the pathetic vocalist, who "takes pleasure in singing:" Malvolio, the fantastic, ill-natured, self-admiring, and sadly but deservedly betricked steward: and the vivacious little Maria, "the youngest wren of nine," the "nettle of India:”these admirable creations are Shakspere's, soul, body, and all!

As we abandon ourselves to the poetry of this play, the sweetest spirit of love floats balmily over the heart and imagination,

-"Like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour."

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The sense is saturated with it. We are canopied with bowers," under the fragrant beauty of which our love-thoughts "lie rich" beyond richness. By the "rich golden shaft" of the heavenliest of human passions, are killed "the flock of all affections else that live in us;" and in its sole and omnipotent power we are chained, entranced, spell-bound:

"It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned!"

and one which, in the mysterious distance, we hear calling to us alluringly for ever.

T. W.

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SCENE I.-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 south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.-Enough; no more;
'Tis 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,

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Enter VALENTINE.

Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till 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 this debt of love but to a brother, pay

How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her! when liver, brain and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and filled
(Her sweet perfections) with one self king!—
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

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Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her

In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.

Vio. O, that I served that lady:
And might not be delivered 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 pray thee, 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 Toby. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus ? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

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

Sir Toby. 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.

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

Sir Toby. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
Mar. Ay, he.

Sir Toby. He's as tall a man as any 's in Illyria.
Mar. What's that to the purpose?
Sir Toby. Why, he has three thousand ducats

a-year.

Mar. Ay; but he 'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool and a prodigal.

Sir Toby. Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and speaks three or four languages. word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

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.

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