ture is apparent. To understand and appreciate its
effective truth and nature, we should place Perdita beside some of the
nymphs of Arcadia, or the Chloris' and Sylvias of the Italian pastorals,
who, however graceful in themselves, when opposed to Perdita, seem to
melt away into mere poetical abstractions;--as, in Spenser, the fair but
fictitious Florimel, which the subtle enchantress had moulded out of
snow, "vermeil tinctured," and informed with an airy spirit, that knew
"all wiles of woman's wits," fades and dissolves away, when placed next
to the real Florimel, in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.

Perdita does not appear till the fourth act, and the whole of the
character is developed in the course of a single scene, (the third,)
with a completeness of effect which leaves nothing to be
required--nothing to be supplied. She is first introduced in the
dialogue between herself and Florizel, where she compares her own lowly
state to his princely rank, and expresses her fears of the issue of
their unequal attachment. With all her timidity and her sense of the
distance which separates her from her lover, she breathes not a single
word which could lead us to impugn either her delicacy or her dignity.

FLORIZEL.

These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life--no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April's front; this your sheep-shearing
Is as the meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on't.

PERDITA.

Sir, my gracious lord,
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me;
O pardon that I name them: your high self,
The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured
With a swain's bearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank'd up:--but that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired; sworn, I think
To show myself a glass.

The impression of her perfect beauty and airy elegance of demeanor is
conveyed in two exquisite passages:--

What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms,
Pray so, and for the ordering your affairs
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own
No o