dire necessity, she does not deign to consider what the Mrs. Grundy of that time would say. She dons her mannish dress, and wears the lawyer's gown, without stopping to question the propriety of such a step. She assumes all those "Woman's Rights," to which some of the sex lay claim, without any preliminary speechifying, and without the least abatement of all those feminine charms which unregenerate man most loves in woman. When one considers the fearlessness and promptitude of action which Portia displays, one cannot help thinking that, if her father's absurd legacy of the caskets had resulted in the choice of an uncongenial husband, Portia would not have found it difficult to set aside the parental injunction in spirit, if not in the letter. At anyrate we may safely prophesy that an unacceptable husband would not have had it all his own way.

The next most important character to Shylock and Portia is Antonio; a character evidently suggested, as I have already said, by the Ansaldo of the old novel. Nothing can exceed his unselfishness, his loyalty and friendship, his gentle patience in suffering, his beautiful equanimity in calamity. Misfortune after misfortune wrings from him no hasty expression; and the imminence of a most horrible death cannot shake his courage with the slightest breath of fear. Even against Shylock, the "faithless Jew," whose usury he was never tired of denouncing, whose national pride he never scrupled to wound, and whose person even he was so ungenerous as to insult, -against the man whom he had taken some pains to make his bitter foe,-even against him, when he finds himself in his power, he does not seem to feel any anger or malice. Nothing could illustrate more forcibly the intolerance which is ever the danger of a dominant faith,—more especially when that faith rests upon the consciousness that it is accompanied by the very best of works, than the character of Antonio, as Shakespeare has drawn him. To every one else he is the model of a true gentleman and a perfect Christian; but to Shylock he is rude, 252

contemptuous, morally cruel, and sometimes, one is tempted to say, even mean. Shakespeare might have put into the mouth of Shylock the most high-flown sentiments of chivalrous generosity; he might have multiplied in him such acts of almost reckless selfsacrifice as those attributed to Gerontus in The Three Ladies of London (see above); but he would not have so cunningly won over the sympathies of the audience to the side of Shylock, in spite of his abominable avarice and relentless cruelty, as he does by making his persecutor a character whom everyone must respect and whom most men would love. In addition to this he contrasts the physical temperance and moral dignity of Shylock with the thoughtless prodigality of Bassanio, and the petty taunting wit of Gratiano. The latter character seems to have some reminiscence of Mercutio in it, and a little foreshadowing of Benedick. He is a laughing philosopher; a thorough worldling, without the robust cynicism of Mercutio, or the half-affected misogyny of Benedick. He is a slight but clever piece of characterization; a capital foil, no less to the serious benevolence of Antonio, than to the dignified malice of Shylock. Bassanio has not so much individuality as we should expect in the man whom such a woman as Portia chose for her husband. Perhaps she chose by the eye rather than by the mind. But still there is a frankness about Bassanio, a warm-hearted loyalty towards his friend, which make one feel that at heart he was a good fellow. The character, dramatically speaking, is dwarfed by the side of Portia and Shylock: but, as a means of displaying the art of graceful love-making, an art which seems almost to have perished on our stage, it is a part well worth the study of those who aspire to the position of jeune premier.

The minor characters of The Merchant of Venice all show an advance in the art of characterization; they all help to give to the play that attractiveness in the eyes of an audience which, let us hope, it will long continue to possess.

SCENE I. Venice. A street.

16

The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the
wind;

Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;5

And every object that might make me fear 20 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad.

Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs, To kiss her burial. [Should I go to church, And see the holy edifice of stone,

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And not bethink me straight of dangerous) rocks,

4 Still, constantly.

5 Roads, anchorages.

6 Andrew, the name of the ship.

7 Vailing, lowering.

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom1 trusted,
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year:
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
Salar. Why, then you are in love.
Ant.
In love! Fie, fie!
Salar. Not in love neither? Then let's say
you're sad,

Because you are not merry: and 't were as easy

For you to laugh, and leap, and say you're merry,

'Cause you're not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

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And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,9
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion1
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;"
As who 12 should say, "I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"
O my Antonio, I do know of these,

Gra. Thanks, i̇' faith; for silence is only commendable

In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that any thing now?

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is the

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From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is, to come fairly9 off from the great debts,
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gag'd.10 To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
T' unburden all my plots and purposes
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me
know it;

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour,11 be assur'd
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,

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I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight 12
The selfsame way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth; adventuring both,
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,13
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost: but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self 14 way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or15 to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
Ant. You know me well; and herein spend
but time

17

151

16

To wind about my love with circumstance; 1
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong
In making question of my uttermost,17
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do,
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And I am prest 18 unto it: therefore, speak.

Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left; 19 161
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues: sometime 20 from her eyes

11 Within the eye of honour, i.e. within the scope of what is honourable.

12 Of the selfsame flight, i.e. of the same range.

13 This childhood proof, i.e. this childish experiment, or, perhaps, illustration.

17 Of my uttermost, i e. of my willingness to aid you to the utmost. 18 Prest, ready.

19 Richly left, i.e. that has inherited a large fortune. 20 Sometime, formerly.

And many Jasons come in quest of her.
O my Antonio, had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me such thrift,"
That I should questionless be fortunate!

Ant. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money, nor commodity3
To raise a present sum: therefore, go forth;
Try what my credit can in Venice do:
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake.

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follow mine own teaching. [The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple.] But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband:O me, the word "choose!" I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.-Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none ?8

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Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men, at their death, have good inspirations: therefore, the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead,-whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you,-will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

Por. I pray thee, over-name them; 10 and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.

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Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. Por. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe him himself. [I am much afraid my lady his mother played false with a smith.]

Ner. Then is there the County Palatine. 49 Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should say, "An you will not have me, choose:" he hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a Death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these:-God defend me from these two!

Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

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