Chapter XII: Act V: This, of course, is the knifing act

Seated is Shylock before an hour-glass, and trying to count the grains of sand as they glide through.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

You remember that in that original play Antonio's ships are lost merely. Bah! we manage better in this matter: the ships come home, but they are empty,--emptied by the pirates; though why those Adriaticians did not confiscate the ships is even beyond the Greek Chorus, who says, "They were very polite."

At last all the sand is at rest.

Crack,--as punctual as a postman comes Andronic; and as the Venetians are revolting against the flesh business, about which they seem to know every particular, Andronic brings a guard of the just Doge's soldiers to keep the populace quiet while the business goes on;--all of which behavior on the merchant's part my friend the Chorus pronounces to be stupid and suicidal.

Then comes such a scene!--Andronic calling for Ginevra, and the Jew calling for his own.

Breast bared.

Then thus the Jew:--

"Feeble strength of my old body, be centred in this eye and this arm! Thou, my son, receive this sacrifice, and tremble with joy in thy unknown tomb!"

Knife raised.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

And I _do_ hope you have not forgotten that Honorius went away to fight the Adriatic pirates.

For, if you have forgotten that fact, you will not comprehend Honorius's rushing in at this moment from the Adriatic pirates.

Yes,--but why did he go amongst them?

The big secret, in fact. If Honorius had not gone, why, I suppose Shylock would have had his pound of man.

As it is, Honorius and his paper--which latter has also come from the pirates--do the business.

Why, the whole thing turns on the paper. How lucky it was Honorius went amongst the pirates!

Honorius has vanquished the chief of the pirates,--who was named Arnheim,--and that disreputable widower, just before his last breath, gave Honorius the said paper,--though why, it is not clear. And--and this paper shows that ANDRONIC IS THAT SON STOLEN AWAY FROM SARAH, DECEASED, AND SHYLOCK,--THAT SON, NOT ONLY THE IMAGE OF ABEL, BUT OF MOSES, TOO.

Great thunderbolts!

Then, very naturally, (in a play,) in come all the characters, and follows, I am constrained to say, a very well-conceived scene,--'tis another appeal to filial love. The Jew would own his son, but he remembers that it would injure the son, and so he keeps silent. I declare, there is something eminently beautiful in the idea of making the Jew yield his wealth up to Andronic, and saying he will wander from Venice,--his staff his only wealth. And when, as he stoops to kiss his son's hand, Ginevra (who of course has come on with the rest) makes a gesture as though she feared treachery, the few words put into the Jew's mouth are full of pathos and poetry.

And so down comes the curtain,--the piece meeting with the full approval of Chorus, who applauded till I thought he would snap his hands off at the wrists.

"A very moral play," said a stout gentleman behind me,--who had done little else all night but break into the fiercest of apples and pears,--"a very moral play,"--meaning thereby, probably, that it was very moral that a Jew's child should remain a Christian.

Now there were some good points in that play; but, oh, thou M. Ferdinand Dugué, thou,--why didst thou challenge comparison with a man who wrote for all theatres for all times?

* * * * *

THE POET'S SINGING.

In heat and in cold, in sunshine and rain,
Bewailing its loss and boasting its gain,
Blessing its pleasure and cursing its pain,
The hurrying world goes up and down:
Every avenue and street
Of city and town
Are veins that throb with the restless beat
Of the eager multitude's trampling feet.
Men wrangle together to get and hold
A sceptre of power or a crock of gold;
Blaspheming God's name with the breath He gave,
And plotting revenge on the brink of the grave!
And Fashion's followers, flitting after,
O'ertake and pass the funeral train,
Thoughtlessly scattering jests and laughter,
Like sharp, quick showers of hail and rain,
To beat on the hearts that are bleeding with pain!
And many who stare at the close-shut hearse
Envy the dead within,--or, worse,
Turn away with a keener zest
To grapple and revel and sin with the rest!
While far apart in a bower of green,
Unheeded, unseen,
A warbling bird on the topmost bough
Merrily pipes to the Poet below,
Asking an answer as gay, I trow!
But he hears the surging waves without,--
The heartless jeer, and the wild, wild shout:
The ceaseless clamor, the cruel strife
Make the Poet weary of life;
And tears of pity and tears of pain
Ebb and flow in every strain,
As he soothes his heart with singing.

The tide of humanity rolleth on;
And 'mid faces miserly, haggard, and wan,
Between the hypocrite's and the knave's,
The hapless idiot's and the slave's,
Sweet children smile in their nurses' arms,
And clap their hands in innocent glee;
While, unrebuked by the heavenly charms
That beam in the eyes of infancy,
Oaths still blacken the lips of men,
And startle the ears of womanhood!
On either hand
The churches stand,
Forgotten by those who yesterday
Went thronging thither to praise and pray,
And take of the Holy Body and Blood!
Their week-day creed is the law of Might;
Self is their idol, and Gain their right:
Though, now and then,
God sees some faithful disciples still
Breasting the current to do His will.
The little bird on the topmost bough
Merrily pipes to the Poet below,
Asking an answer as gay, I trow!
But he hears the surging waves without,--
The atheist's scoff and the infidel's doubt,
The Pharisee's cant and the sweet saint's prayer,
And the piercing cry for rest from care;
And tears of pity and tears of pain
Ebb and flow in every strain,
As he praises God with singing.

A JOURNEY IN SICILY.