These noblemen were delighted with the suggestion, and on the night of the first of March, 1597, Burbage, with his whole tribe of theatrical "rounders," appeared in the grand banquet room of Southampton, and, under the guidance of Shakspere, rendered for the first time "Julius Caesar."

Jo Taylor took the part of Caesar, Dick Burbage acted Brutus, Condell represented Cassius and Shakspere played Marcus Antonius, while the other characters were distributed among the "stock" as their various talents justified.

Calphurnia, wife to Caesar, and Portia, wife to Brutus, were represented respectively by Hemmings and Arnim.

The play opens with a street scene in Rome filled with working, rabble citizens who have turned out to give Caesar a great triumph on his return from successful war.

Flavius and Marullus, tribunes, enter and rebuke the people for greeting Caesar.

Flavius twits the turncoat rabble in this style:

"O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome; And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made a universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?"

Brutus and Cassius witness the triumphal march of Caesar with jealous, vengeful and dagger hearts, and Cassius, the old, desperate soldier, first hints at blood conspiracy.

Brutus asks:

"What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in eye and death in the other, And I will look on both indifferently."

Fine talk! Brutus is not the only political murderer that talks of "honor" through the centuries, a cloak for devils in human shape to work a personal purpose and not "the general good."

Cassius delivers this eloquent indictment against Caesar, the grandest of its kind in all history:

"Well, Honor is the subject of my story— I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not to be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I, myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you. We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, 'Dar'st thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me, into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?' Upon the word, Accoutered as I was, I plunged in And bade him follow; so, indeed, he did. The torrent roared and we did buffet it With lusty sinews; throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive at the point proposed, Caesar cried, 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!' I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulders The old Anchisas bear, so, from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar; and this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever, when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake; 'tis true, this god did shake, His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre; I did hear him groan; Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books; Alas! it cried, 'Give me some drink, Titinius,' As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone! Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar; what should be in that Caesar? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. Now in the name of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great?"

Unanimous applause followed this cunning conspiracy speech, and Jonson, Lodge and Drayton gave loud exclamations of approval.

Caesar, with his staff, returning from the games in his honor, sees Cassius and remarks to Antonius:

"Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men and such as sleep of nights; Yonder Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much; such men are dangerous; And are never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves!"

Casca, one of the senatorial conspirators, tells Cassius that Caesar is to be crowned king, and he replies thus, contemplating suicide:

"I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius; Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat; Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself; That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure!"

Brutus, contemplating assassination, says in soliloquy:

"To speak the truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections swayed More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend!"

This ingratitude of the great to the people is often recompensed by defeat and death.

After the senatorial conspirators decided that Caesar should die, Cassius insisted wisely that Marcus Antonius should not outlive the great Julius, and said:

"Let Antony and Caesar fall together!"

But Brutus would not consent to the death of Antony, believing that he was not dangerous to their future, yet insisting that "Caesar must bleed for it."

"Let's kill him bodily, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide them!"

And yet this is the sweet-scented assassin who prates of "honor," and is sometimes known as "the noblest Roman of them all!"

Portia, the wife of Brutus, felt a strange alarm at his recent conduct, and Calphurnia, the wife of Caesar, implored him not to attend the session of the senate, reminding him of the soothsayer's warning—"Beware the ides of March."

Yet, Caesar threw off all fear and suspicion and said:

"What can be avoided, Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth, for these predictions Are to the world in general, not to Caesar! Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once!"

The hour of assassination has arrived, and Caesar, seated in the chair of state, says:

"What is now amiss That Caesar and his senate must redress?"

Senator Metellus, one of the chief conspirators, throws himself at the feet of Caesar and implores pardon for his traitor brother.

Caesar says:

"Be not fond, To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood, That will be thawed from the true quality, With that which meeteth fools; I mean, sweet words, Low, crooked courtesies, and base, spaniel fawning; Thy brother by decree is banished; If thou dost bend, and pray and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar doth not wrong; nor without cause Will he be satisfied! But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament!"

The conspirators at this moment crowd around the doomed hero with pretended petitions—and, instanter, Casca stabs Caesar in the neck, while several other murdering senators stab him through the body, and last Marcus Brutus plunges a dagger in the heart of his benefactor and father, when with glaring eyes and dying breath, the noble Caesar exclaims:

"Et tu, Brute?" (And thou, Brutus?)

Thus tumbled down at the base of Pompey's statue the greatest man the world has ever known!

Then the citizens of Rome—royal, rabble and conspirators, were filled with consternation, while Brutus tried to stem the rising flood of indignation.

Mark Antony was allowed to weep and speak over the pulseless clay of his official partner and friend.

Gazing on the cold, bloody form of the amazing Julius, he utters these pathetic phrases:

"O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well— I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank; If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar's death-hour; nor no instrument Of half that worth, as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, while your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die; No place will please me so, no mean of death As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirit of this age!"

Brutus gave orders for a grand funeral, turning the body of the dead lion over to Antony, who might make the funeral oration to the people within such bounds of discretion as the conspirators dictated.

Standing alone, by the dead body of Caesar in the Senate, Antony pours out thus, the overflowing vengeance of his soul:

"O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers; Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy— Which like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue; A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quartered with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds; And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side, come hot from hell, Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, Cry, 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war!"

The wild citizens of Rome clamored for the reason of Caesar's death, and Brutus mounted the rostrum in the Forum and delivered this cunning and bold oration in defense of the conspirators:

"Romans, countrymen and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent that ye may hear; believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses that you may the better judge.

"If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his.

"If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer. Not that I loved Caesar less; but that I loved Rome more!

"Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than Caesar were dead, to live all free men?

"As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him, but as he was ambitious I slew him!

"There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor, and death for his ambition!

"Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended.

"I pause for a reply."

And then the rabble, vacillating, fool citizens said, "None, Brutus, none," and continue to yell, "Live, Brutus, live! live!"

Brutus leaves the Forum and requests the human cattle to remain and hear Antony relate the glories of Caesar!

Finally Antony is persuaded to take the rostrum, and delivers this greatest funeral oration of all the ages:

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do live after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious; If it were so it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man, So are they all, all honorable men); Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill; Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor hath cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff; Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see, that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause until it come back to me. But, yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world, now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O, Masters! If I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will; Let but the commons hear this statement, (Which pardon me, I do not mean to read), And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds; And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. If you have tears prepare to shed them now, You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii; Look! in this place ran Cassius dagger through; See what a rent the envious Casca made; Through this the well beloved Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it; As rushing out of doors to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O ye gods, how Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms Quite vanquished him, then burst his mighty heart; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I and you and all of us fell down Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The impression of pity; these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself marred, as you see, with traitors! Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny; They that have done this deed are honorable; What private griefs they have, alas, I know not That made them do it; they are wise and honorable And will no doubt with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; I am no orator, as Brutus is: But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, That love my friends, and that they know full well, That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech To stir men's blood, I only speak right on; I tell you that, which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me; but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!"

This oration fired the Roman people to mutiny, and Brutus and Cassius with their followers fled from the city and prepared for war with Antony and Octavius, who had suddenly returned to Rome.

The passionate quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in their military camp at Sardis was a natural outcome of conspirators.

Cassius accused Brutus of having wronged him, and Brutus twitted his brother assassin thus:

"Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers!"

Cassius fires back this reply:

"I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or by the gods this speech were else your last!"

The night before the battle of Philippi the spirit of Caesar appeared in the tent of Brutus, who startles from a slumbering trance and exclaims:

"Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes, That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me! Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel or some devil, That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare? Speak to me, what thou art."

The Ghost replies:

"Thy evil spirit, Brutus!

Brutus: Why comest thou?

Ghost: To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Brutus: Well, then I shall see thee again?

Ghost: Ay, at Philippi!"

The armies of Antony and Octavius and Brutus and Cassius meet in crash of battle.

Cassius is hotly pursued by the enemy, and to prevent capture and exhibition at Rome, craves the service of Pindrus to run him through with his sword. He says:

"Now be a freeman, and with this good sword That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer; here, take thou the hilt; And when my face is covered, as 'tis now, Guide thou the sword; Caesar, thou art revenged, Even with the sword that killed thee!" (Dies.)

Brutus is run to earth, and most of his generals dead or fled. He implores Strato to assist him to suicide, and says:

"I pray thee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord; Thou art a fellow of good respect; Thy life hath had some smack of honor in it; Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it! Farewell, good Strato; Caesar now be still, I killed not thee with half so good a will!" (Runs on his sword and dies.)

Antony and Octavius and his army soon find Brutus slain by his own sword, and with a most magnificent and undeserved generosity Antony pronounces this benediction over the dead body of the vilest and most intelligent conspirator who ever lived!

"This was the noblest Roman of them all; All the conspirators, save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only in a general honest thought, And common good to all made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up, And say to all the world, This was a man!"

The whole audience, led by Southampton, Essex, Bacon and Drayton gave three cheers and a lion roar for "Julius Caesar," the greatest historical and classical play ever composed, and destined to run down the ages for a million years!



CHAPTER XIII.

TWO TRAMPS. BY LAND AND SEA.

"Travelers must be content."

"Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."

The translation of Petrarch, Plutarch, Tacitus, Terence, and particularly Homer, by Chapman, gave a great impulse to dramatic writers, and inspired a feverish desire to travel through classic lands where classic authors lived and died.

Shakspere was a natural bohemian, and while he could conform to the conventionalities of society, he was never more pleased than when mixing with the variegated mass of mankind, where vice and virtue predominated without the guilt of hypocrisy to blur and blast the principles of sincerity.

Art, fashion and human laws he knew to be often only blinds for the concealment of plastic iniquity, and were secretly purchased by the few who had the gold to buy.

By sinking the grappling iron of independent investigation into every form and phase of human life, he plucked from the deepest ocean of adversity the rarest shells, weeds and flowers of thought, and spread them before the world as a new revelation.

By mingling with and knowing the good and bad, he solved the riddle of human passions, and with mind, tongue and pen unpurchased, he flashed his matchless philosophy on an admiring world, lifting the curtain of deceit and obscurity from the stage of falsehood, giving to the beholder a sight of Nature in her unexpurgated nakedness!

On the first of May, 1598, William and myself determined to travel into and around continental and oriental lands, and view some of the noted monuments, cities, seas, plains and mountains, where ancient warriors and philosophers had left their imperishable records.

Sailing through the Strait of Dover into the English Channel, our good ship Albion landed us in three days at Havre, the port town at the mouth of the river Seine, leading on to Rouen and up to the ancient city of Paris.

Our good ship Albion was to remain a week trading between Havre and Cherbourg, when we were to be again on board for a lengthy trip to the various ports of the Mediterranean.

Our first night in Paris was spent at the Hotel Reims, a jolly headquarters for students, painters, authors and actors.

LeMour was the blooming host, with his daughter Nannette as the coquettish "roper in." Father and daughter spoke English about as well as William and myself spoke French; and what was not understood by our mutual words and phrases was explained by our gesticulation of hand, shoulder, foot, eye, and clinking "francs" and "sovereigns."

Cash speaks all languages, and it is a very ignorant mortal who can't understand the voice of gold and silver.

"Francs," "pounds" and "dollars" are the real monarchs of mankind! William in a prophetic mood recited these few lines to the "boys" at the bar:

With circumspect steps as we pick our way through This intricate world, as all prudent folks do, May we still on our journey be able to view The benevolent face of a dollar or two. For an excellent thing is a dollar or two; No friend is so true as a dollar or two; In country or town, as we pass up and down, We are cock of the walk with a dollar or two!

Do you wish that the press should the decent thing do, And give your reception a gushing review, Describing the dresses by stuff, style and hue, On the quiet, hand "Jenkins" a dollar or two; For the pen sells its praise for a dollar or two; And flings its abuse for a dollar or two; And you'll find that it's easy to manage the crew When you put up the shape of a dollar or two!

Do you wish your existence with Faith to imbue, And so become one of the sanctified few; Who enjoy a good name and a well cushioned pew You must freely come down with a dollar or two. For the gospel is preached for a dollar or two, Salvation is reached for a dollar or two; Sins are pardoned, sometimes, but the worst of all crimes Is to find yourself short of a dollar or two!

Although the Bard delivered this truthful poem off hand, so to speak, in "broken" French, the cosmopolitan, polyglot audience "caught on" and "shipped" the Stratford "poacher" a wave of tumultuous cheers!

That very night at the Theatre Saint Germain the new play of Garnier, "Juives," was to be enacted before Henry the Fourth and a brilliant audience.

William and myself were invited by a band of rollicking students to join them in a front bench "clapping" committee, as Garnier himself was to take the part of Old King Nebuchadnezzar in the great play, illustrating the siege and capture of Jerusalem.

The curtain went up at eight o'clock, and the French actors began their mimic contortions of face, lips, legs and shoulders for three mortal hours, and while there was a constant shifting of scenes, citizens, soldiers, Jews and battering rams, yells, groans and cheers, it looked as if the audience, including King Henry, was doing the most of the acting, and all the cheering! A maniac would be thoroughly at home in a French theatre!

The play had neither head, tail nor body, but it was sufficient for the excitable, revolutionary Frenchman to see that the Jews were being robbed, banished and slaughtered in the interest of Christianity and the late Jesus, who is reported as having taught the lessons of "love," "charity" and "mercy!"

The "Son of God," it seems, had been crucified more than fifteen hundred years before the audience had been created; and although "Old Neb" of Babylon had destroyed a million of Hebrews several hundred years previous to the birth of the Bethlehem "Savior of Mankind," the "frog" and "snail" eaters of France were still breaking their lungs and throats in cheering for the destruction of anybody!

It was one o'clock in the morning when we got back to the hotel; and with the Bacchanalian racket made by the "students" and fantastic "grisettes" it must have been nearly daylight before William and myself fell into the arms of sleep.

Sliding into the realm of dreams I heard the "mammoth man" murmur:

"Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast!"

Jodelle, Lariney, Corneille, Moliere, Racine, La Fontaine, Rousseau, Voltaire, Balzac, or even Hugo, never uttered such masterly philosophy.

After partaking of a French breakfast, smothered with herbs and mystery, we hired a fancy phaeton and voluble driver to whirr us around the principal streets, parks and buildings of the rushing, brilliant city, everything moving as if the devil were out with a search warrant for some of the stray citizens of his imperial dominions.

The driver spoke English very well, and with a telephone voice, surcharged with monkey gestures, we listened to and saw the history of Paris from the advent of Caesar, Clovis, Charlemagne to Louis and Henry. A city directory would have been a surplusage, and we flattered the "garcon" by seeming to believe everything he said, exclaiming "Oh my!" "Do tell!" "Gee whizz!" "Did you ever!" "Wonderful!" and "Never saw the like!"

As our mentor and nestor pulled up at noted wine cafes to water his horse, we contributed to his own irrigation and our champagne thirst. Be good to yourself.

It was sundown when we nestled in the Hotel Reims, but had been richly repaid in our visit to the king's palace, the great Louvre, St. Denis, Notre Dame and the great cathedrals, picture galleries, cemeteries and monuments that decorated imperial Paris.

The evening before we left Paris we accepted the invitation of Garnier to visit the Latin Quarter. The playwright did not know William or myself, except as young English lords—"Buckingham" and "Bacon," traveling for information and pleasure, sowing "wild," financial "oats" with the liberality of princes.

A well dressed, polite man, with lots of money, and a "spender" from "way back" is a welcome guest in home, church and state; and when it comes to the "ladies," he is, of course, "a jewel," "a trump" and "darling." They know a "soft snap" when they see it.

Some of us have been there.

While basking under the light of flashing eyes and sparkling wine at the Royal Cafe, surrounded by a dozen of the artistic "friends" of the "toast of the town," Garnier said he noticed us in the front bench the night before, and knowing us to be Englishmen, was desirous to know how his play, depicting the siege of Jerusalem compared with the new man Shakspere, who had recently loomed up into the dramatic sky.

William winked at me in a kind of sotto voce way, and with that natural exuberance or intellectual "gall" that never fails to strike the "bull's eye," I bluntly said that Garnier's philosophy and composition were as different from Shakspere's as the earth from the heaven!

The Frenchman arose and made an extended bow when his "girl" friends yelled like the "rebels" at Shiloh and kicked off the tall hat of the noted French dramatist! Great sport!

Extra wine was ordered, and then an improvised ballet girl jumped into the middle of the wine room, with circus antics, champagne glasses in hand, singing the praises of the great and only Garnier! Poor devil, he did not know that my criticism was a double ender. Just as well.

I cannot exactly remember how I got to the hotel, but when William aroused my latent energies the next morning, I felt as if I had been put through a Kentucky corn sheller, or caught up in a Texas blizzard and blown into the middle of Kansas.

William was, as usual, calm, polite, sober and dignified, and while he touched the wine cup for sociability, in search of human hearts, I never saw him intoxicated. He had a marvelous capacity of body and brain, and like an earthly Jupiter he shone over the variegated satellites around him with the force and brilliancy of the morning sun. He was so far above other thinkers and writers that no one who knew him felt a pang of jealousy, for they saw it was impossible to even twinkle in the heaven of his philosophy.

The day before leaving Paris we visited Versailles and wandered through its pictured palaces, drinking in the historical milestones of the past. Here lords, kings, queens, farmers, mechanics, shop keepers, sailors, soldiers, robbers, murderers and beggars had appropriated in turn these royal halls and stately gardens.

Riot and revolution swept over these memorials like a winter storm, and the thunder and lightning strokes of civil and foreign troops had desolated the works of art, genius and royalty.

Nations rise and fall like individuals, and a thousand or ten thousand years of time are only a "tick" in the clock of destiny.

Early on the morning of the seventh of May, 1598, we went on board a light double-oared galley, swung into the sparkling waters of the Seine, and proceeded on our way to Rouen and Havre.

The morning sun sparkling on the tall spires and towers, the songs of the watermen and gardeners, whirring ropes, flashing flags, blooming flowers, green parks, forest vistas, shining cottages, grand mansions and lofty castles, in the shimmering distance gave the suburbs of Paris a phase of enchantment that lifted the soul of the beholder into the fairy realm of dreamland; and as our jolly crew rowed away with rhythmic sweep we lay under a purple awning, sheltered from the midday sun, gazing out on the works of Dame Nature with entranced amazement.

William, in one of his periodical bursts of impromptu poetry, uttered these lines on

CREATION.

The smallest grain of ocean sand, Or continent of mountain land, With all the stars and suns we see Are emblems of eternity.

God reigns in everything he made— In man, in beast, in hill and glade; In sum and substance of all birth; Component parts of Heaven and Earth.

The moving, ceaseless vital air Is managed by Almighty care, And from the center to the rim, All creatures live and die in Him.

We know not why we come and go Into this world of joy and woe, But this we know that every hour Is clipping off our pride and power.

The links of life that make our chain Of golden joy and passing pain, Are broken rudely day by day, And like the mists we melt away.

The voice of Nature never lies, Presents to all her varied skies, And wraps within her vernal breast The dust of man in pulseless rest.

A billion years of life and death Are but a moment or a breath To one unknown Immortal Force Who guides the planets in their course!

As the stars began to peep through the gathering curtains of night, and the young moon like a broken circle of silver split the evening sky, we came in sight of the busy town of Rouen, with its embattled walls and iron gates still bidding defiance to British invasion.

After a night's slumber and a speedy passage our galley drew up against the side of our stout ship Albion, when gallant Captain Jack O'Neil greeted us on board, and refreshed our manhood with a fine breakfast, interspersed with brandy and champagne.

The next morning, with all sails filled, we wafted away into the open waters of the rolling Atlantic Ocean, touching at the town of Brest, land's end port of France, and then away to Corunna in Spain, and on to Lisbon, Portugal, where we remained three days viewing the architectural and natural sights of the great commercial and shipping city of the Tagus.

About the middle of May we swung out again into the breakers of old ocean, and held our course to the wonderful "Strait of Gibraltar," separating Europe from Africa, whose inland, classic shores are bathed by the emerald waters of the romantic Mediterranean Sea.

We remained for a day at the rocky, stormy town of Gibraltar, meeting variegated men of all lands, who spoke all dialects, and preached and practiced all religions.

The pagan, the Moslem, the Buddhist, the Jew and the Christian dressed in the garb of their respective nationalities, were wrangling, trading, praying and swearing in all languages, every one grasping for the "almighty dollar."

As the sun went down over the shining shoulders of the Western Atlantic, flashing its golden rays over the moving, liquid floor of the heaving ocean and Mediterranean Sea, William and myself stood on the topmost crag of giant Gibraltar, and the Bard sent forth this impulsive sigh from his romantic soul:

How I long to roam o'er the bounding sea, Where the waters and winds are fierce and free, Where the wild bird sails in his tireless flight, As the sunrise scatters the shades of night; Where the porpoise and dolphin sport at play In their liquid realm of green and gray. Ah, me! It is there I would love to be Engulfed in the tomb of eternity!

In the midnight hour when the moon hangs low And the stars beam forth with a mystic glow; When the mermaids float on the rolling tide And Neptune entangles his beaming bride,— It is there in that phosphorescent wave I would gladly sink in an ocean grave— To rise and fall with the songs of the sea And live in the chant of its memory.

Around the world my form should sweep— Part of the glorious, limitless deep; Enmeshed by fate in some coral cave, And rising again to the topmost wave, That curls in beauty its snowy spray And kisses the light of the garish day; Ah! there let me drift when this life is o'er, To be tossed and tumbled from shore to shore!

I clapped my hands intensely at the rendition of the poem, and echo from her rocky caves sent back the applause, while the sea gulls in their circling flight, screamed in chorus to the voice of echo and the eternal roar of old ocean.

At sunrise we sailed away into the land-locked waters of the Mediterranean Sea, where man for a million years has loved, lived, fought and died among beautiful, blooming islands that nestle on its bosom like emeralds in the crown of immortality.

We passed along the coast of Spain to Cape Nao, in sight of the Balearic Islands, on to Barcelona, to the mouth of the river Rhone, and up to the ancient city of Avignon.

In and around this city popes, princes and international warriors lived in royal style; but they are virtually forgotten, while Petrarch, the poetic saint and laureate of Italy, is as fresh in the memory of man as the day he died—July 18th, 1374, at the age of seventy.

William and myself remained all night in the Lodge House of the Gardens of "Vacluse," the hermit home of the sighing, soaring poet, who pined his life away in platonic love for "Laura," who married Hugh de Sade, when she was only seventeen years of age, and presented the nobleman ten children as pledges of her homespun affection.

And this is the married lady who Petrarch, the poet, wasted his sonnets upon, and was treated in fact as we were told by the "oldest inhabitant" of Avignon, with supercilious contempt.

Boccaccio and Petrarch were intimate friends, and both of these passionate poets lavished their love on "married flirts," who give promise to the ear and disappointment to the heart.

I could see that while Shakspere reveled deep in the mental philosophy of Petrarch, and even plucked a flower from his rustic bower, he had no sympathy with lovesick swains, and as we signed our names in the Lodge House book, he wrote this:

Petrarch, grand, immortal in thy sonnets; Sugared by the eloquence of philosophy— Destined to shine through the rolling ages; Emulating, competing with the stars. Thy love for Laura, pure, unreciprocated; Yet, thou, foolish man, passion dazed and sad, Like many of the greatest of mankind Lie dashed in the vale of disappointment; And flowers of hope, given by woman, Have crowned thy brows with nettles of despair!

Next day the Albion sailed into the Mediterranean, passed by the island of Corsica (cradle of one of the greatest soldiers of the world), through the Strait of Bonifacio, and in due course kept on to the flourishing city of Naples.

It was dark twilight when we came to peer into the surrounding hills and mountains of classic Italy.

To the wonder and amazement of every passenger on board, Mount Vesuvius was in brilliant action, and the flash of sparks and blazing lights from this huge chimney top of Nature dazzled the beholder, and produced a fearful sensation in the soul.

As the great jaws of the mountain opened its fiery lips and belched forth molten streams of lava, shooting a million red hot meteors into the caves of night, the earth and ocean seemed to tremble with the sound and birds and beasts of prey rushed screaming and howling to their nightly homes.

Shakspere entranced stood on the bow of the ship and soliloquized:

Great God! Almighty in thy templed realm; And mysterious in thy matchless might; Suns, moons, planets, stars, ocean, earth and air Move in harmony at thy supreme will; And yonder torch light of eternity, Blazing into heaven, candle of omnipotence— Lights thy poor, wandering human midgets— An hundred miles at sea, with lofty hope— That nothing exists or dies in vain; But changed into another form lives on Through countless, boundless, blazing, brilliant worlds Beyond this transient, seething, suffering sod!

At this moment the vessel struck the dock and lurched William out of his reverie, coming "within an ace" of pitching the poet into the harbor of Naples.

Captain O'Neil informed us that he would be engaged unloading and loading his ship for a week or ten days at Naples, before he started for Sicily, Greece and Egypt.

William and myself concluded to hire a guide and ride and tramp by land to Rome, and view the ancient capital and test the hospitality of the Italians.

Early the next morning we set out for the Imperial City, perched on her seven hills, and enlightening the world with the radiance of her classic memorials.

Our guide, Petro, was a villainous looking fellow, yet the landlord of the Hotel Columbo told us he was well acquainted with the mountain bypaths and open roads, and could, in the event of meeting robbers, be of great service to us.

Petro wanted ten "florins" in advance, and wine and bread on the road; and as we could not do any better, the bargain was made, and off we tramped through the great city of Milan, scaling the surrounding hills and pulling up as the sun went down at the town of Terracino.

After a good night's rest and hot breakfast, we started on horseback through a mountain trail for the banks of the Tiber, but when within three miles of the Capitoline hills Petro seemed to lose his way and rode off into the underbrush to find it.

We stopped in the trail, and in less than five minutes after the disappearance of our faithful guide we were captured by a gang of bandits, whose garb and countenance convinced us that robbery or murder or both would be our fate.

We were dragged off our horses, hustled into the forest gloom, through briars, over streams and rocks, until finally pitched into the tiptop mountain lair of Roderick, the Terrible.

The evening camp fire was lit, and Tamora, the queen of the robbers, with a couple of robber cooks, was preparing supper for the whole band when they returned from their daily avocations.

They seemed to be a jolly set, and with joke, laughter and song, these chivalric sons of sunny Italy were relating their various exploits, and laughing at the trepidation and futile resistance of their former victims.

Just before the band sat around on the ferny, pine clad rocks for supper, Roderick addressed William, and asked him if he had anything to say why he should not be robbed and murdered.

William said he was perfectly indifferent; for, being only a writer of plays and an actor, working for the amusement of mankind, he led a kind of dog's life anyhow, and didn't give a damn what they did with him.

The Robber Chief gave a yell and a roar that could be heard for three miles among the columned pines and oaks of the Apennines, and yelled, "Bully for you! Shake!"

Roderick then turned to me and said, "Who are you?"

I replied at once, "I am a fool and a poet."

He grasped my hand intensely and yelled, "I'm another." That sealed our friendship.

Then these gay and festive robbers invited us to partake of the best in the mountain wilds, with the request that after the evening feast was over we should give samples of our trade.

With the blazing light of a mountain fire, hemmed in by inaccessible rocks and gulches, from a tablerock overhanging a roaring, dashing stream, five thousand feet below, William stood and was requested to give a sample of his dramatic poetry for the edification of the beautiful cut-throat audience! And this, as I well remember, was his encomium in Latin to the "Gentlemen" and "Queen" of independent, gold-getting, robbing, murdering, fantastic Italian "society."

When first I beheld your noble band Pounce from rock and lairs vernal, My soul and hair were lifted With admiration and amazement. Free as air, ye sons of immortal sires, Hold these crags, defiant still, As eagles in their onward sweep— Citizens of destiny, Entertainment awaits your advent, Even beneath yon columned capitol! The emperors, pampered in power Were subject to some human laws, But you, great, wonderful chief, Roderick, the Terrible, and fierce Soar superior over all, bloody villain, Force with gold and silver alone— Dictating thy generous onslaughts! Caesar, Pompey and Scipio Could not compete with thy valor; Only Nero, paragon of infamy, Could match the renown of Roderick, Thy fame, great chief, boundless as the globe! Italy, Spain, France and England Pay constant tribute to thy purse, Travelers and pilgrims, seeking glory By kissing the pope's big toe Drop their golden coin and jewels Into thy pockets capacious, Hear me, ye sprites of Apennine, And the ghouls of murdered travelers Let the circumambient air Ring with universal cheers For Roderick, the glory of Robbers, And the terror of mankind. (Whirlwind of cheers.)

At the conclusion of William's apostrophe to the prince of robbers, Tamora, the fair queen, jabbed me with a poniard and ordered me to sing.

I mounted the platform rock, overlooking the horrible vale below, and sang in my sweetest strain "Black Eyed Susan," gesticulating at the conclusion of each verse in the direction of the queen, who seemed to be charmed with my voice and audacity.

An encore was demanded with a yell of delight, and I forthwith sang the new song "America," which was cheered to the echo—and as they still insisted that I "go on," "go on," I rendered in my best voice the recent composition of "Hiawatha."

The robber band yelled like wild Indians, and the fair queen took me to her pine bower and fondled me into the realm of dreams, although I could see that Roderick was disposed to throw me on the rocks below—but, the "madam" was "boss" of that mountain ranch and gave orders with her poniard.

As the earliest beams of morning lit up the crests of the Apennines we fed on a roast of roe buck and quail, and barley bread washed down by goblets of Falernian wine that had been captured the day before from a pleasure party from Brindisi.

The goblets we drank from were skulls of former citizens of the world, who attempted to dally with the dictates of Roderick.

The noble chief Roderick and his imperial queen, Tamora, who seemed to rule her terrible husband, with one hundred of the most villainous cut-throats it had ever been my misfortune to behold, gave us a "great send off" from their inaccessible mountain lair.

Roderick gave William a talismanic ring that shown to any of his brother robbers on the globe would at once secure safety and hospitality.

Tamora in her sweetest mountain manner gave me a diamond hilted poniard, and then with a Fra Diavolo chorus, we were waved off down the precipitous crags with a special guide on the main road leading to imperial Rome.

William and myself drew long breaths after we had passed the Horatio Bridge, and planted our feet firmly on the Appian Way, leading direct to the precincts of Saint Peter's, with its lofty dome shining in the morning sun.

Gentle reader, if you have never been in battle or captured by robbers, you needn't "hanker" for the experience, but take it as you would your clothing, "second hand."

At the "Hotel Caesar" we brushed the dust from our anatomy, and ordered dinner, which was served in fine style by a lineal descendant of the great Julius, who wore a spreading mustache, a purple smile and an abbreviated white apron.

In the afternoon we called on Pope Clement, who had heard of our experience with the robbers, and seemed very much interested in our narration of the details of our capture and entertainment.

Clement seemed to be a nice, smooth man, setting on a purple chair with a purple skull cap on his head, and a purple robe on his fat form.

His big toe was presented to us for adoration, but as we did not seem to "ad," he withdrew his pedal attachment and talked about the "relics" and the "weather."

We did not purchase any "relics," and as to the Roman "weather," no mortal who tries it in summer desires a second dose.

There seemed to be a continuous smell of something dead in the atmosphere of Rome, while the droves of virgins, monks, priests, bishops and cardinals seemed to be pressing through the streets, night and day, begging, singing, riding, and like ants, coming and going out of the churches continually.

Selling "relics," psalm singing and preaching was about all the business we could see in the Imperial City.

It is very funny how a fool habit will cling to the century pismires of humanity, and actually blind the elements of common sense and patent truth.

We were offered a job lot of "relics" for five florins, which included a piece of the true cross, a bit of the rope that hung Judas, a couple of hairs from the head of the Virgin Mary, a peeling from the apple of Mother Eve, a part of the toe nail of Saint Thomas, a finger of Saint John, a thigh bone of Saint Paul, a tooth of Saint Antony, and a feather of the cock of Saint Peter, but we persistently declined the proffered honors and true "relics of antiquity," spending the five florins for a "night liner" to wheel us about the grand architectural sights of the city of the Caesars.

The night before leaving Rome William and myself climbed upon the topmost rim of the crumbling Coliseum and gazed down upon the sleeping moonlit capital with entranced admiration.

The night was almost as bright as day, and the mystic rays from the realm of Luna, shining on gate, arch, column, spire, tower, temple and dome, revealed to us the ghosts of vanished centuries, and from the depths of the Coliseum there seemed to rise the shouts of a hundred thousand voices, cheering the gladiator from Gaul, who had just slain a Numidian lion in the arena, when, with "thumbs up," he was proclaimed the victor, decorated with a crown of laurel and given his freedom forever.

Shakspere could not resist his natural gift of exuberant poetry to sound these chunks of eloquence to the midnight air, while I listened with enraptured enthusiasm to the elocution of the Bard:

Hark! Saint Peter, with his brazen tongue Voices the hour of twelve; The wizard tones of tireless Time Thrills the silvery air; The multitudinous world sleeps, Pope and beggar alike— In the land of lingering dreams— Oblivious of glory, Poverty, or war, destructive; Sleep, the daily death of all Throws her mesmeric mantle Over prince and pauper; And care, vulture of fleeting life Folds her bedraggled wings To rest a space, 'till first cock crow Hails the glimmering dawn With piercing tones triumphant; Father Tiber, roaring, moves along Under rude stony arches And chafes the wrinkled, rocky shores As when Romulus and Remus Suckled wolf of Apennines! Vain are all the triumphs of man. These temples and palaces, Reaching up to the brilliant stars In soaring grandeur, vast— Shall pass away like morning mist, Leaving a wilderness of ruins. And, where now sits pride, wealth and fraud Pampered in purpled power— The lizard, the bat and the wolf Shall hold their habitation; And the vine and the rag-weed Swaying in the whistling winds Shall sing their mournful requiem. The silence of dark Babylon Shall brood where millions struggled, And naught shall be heard in cruel Rome, But the wail of the midnight storm, Echoing among the broken columns Of its lofty, vanished glory— Where vain, presumptive, midget man Promised himself Immortality!

After five days of sightseeing we took the public stage for Milan, guarded by soldiers, and arrived safely on board the Albion, which sailed away, through the Strait of Messina, around classic Greece to Negropont and on to Alexandria, Egypt, where we anchored for a load of dates, figs and Persian spices.

William and myself took a boat up the Nile to Cairo, and hired a guide to steer us over the desert to the far-famed Pyramids.

There in the wild waste of desert sands these monuments to forgotten kings and queens lift their giant peaks, appealing to the centuries for recognition, but although the great granite stone memorials still remain as a wonder to mankind, the dark, silent mummies that sleep within and around these funereal emblems give back no sure voice as to when and where they lived, rose and fell in the long night of Egyptian darkness.

Remains of vast buried cities are occasionally exposed by the shifting, searching storm winds of the desert, and many a modern Arab has cooked his frugal breakfast by splinters picked up from the bones of his ancestors.

It was night when we got to the Pyramids, and we concluded to camp with an Arab and his family at the base of the great Cheops until next morning, and then before sunrise scale its steep steps and lofty crest.

A few silver coins insured us a warm greeting from the "Arab family," who seemed to vie with each other in preparing a hot supper and clean couches.

They sang their desert songs until nearly midnight, the daughter Cleo playing on the harp with dextrous fingers, and throwing a soft soprano voice upon the air, like the tones of an angel, echoing over a bank of wild flowers.

Standing on the pinnacle of the Pyramid William again struck one of his theatrical attitudes, and with outstretched hands exclaimed:

Immortal Sol! Image of Omnipotence! To thee lift I my soul in pure devotion; Out of desert wilds, in golden splendor, Rise and flash thy crimson face, eternal— Across the wastes of shifting, century sands; Again is mirrored in my sighing soul The lofty temples and bastioned walls Of Memphis, Balback, Nineveh, Babylon— Gone from the earth like vapor from old Nile, When thy noonday beams lick up its waters! Hark! I hear again the vanished voices Of lofty Memnon, where proud pagan priests Syllable the matin hour, uttering Prophecies from Jupiter and Apollo— To devotees deluded, then as now, By astronomical, selfish fakirs, Who pretend claim to heavenly agency And power over human souls divine. Poor bamboozled man; know God never yet Empowered any one of his truant tribe To ride with a creed rod, image of Himself; And thou, oh Sol, giver of light and heat, Speed the hour when man, out of superstition Shall leap into the light of pure reason, Only believing in everlasting Truth!

In a short time we crossed the sands of the desert and interviewed the Sphynx, but with that battered, solemn countenance, wrinkled by the winds and sands of ages, those granite lips still refused to give up the secrets of its stony heart, or tell us the mysteries of buried antiquity.

We were soon again in the cabin of the Albion, sailing away to Athens, where we anchored for two days.

William and myself ran hourly risk of breaking our legs and necks among the classic ruins of Athenian genius, where Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Sophocles, Euripides, Pericles, Alcibiades, Demosthenes, Zeno, Solon, Themestocles, Leonidas, Philip and Alexander had lived and loved in their glorious, imperishable careers.

We went on top of Mars Hill, and climbed to the top of the ruined Acropolis, disturbing a few lizards, spiders, bats, rooks and pigeons that made their homes where the eloquence of Greece once ruled the world.

William made a move to strike one of his accustomed dramatic attitudes, but I "pulled him off," remarking that he could not, in an impromptu way, do justice to the occasion, and intimated that when he arrived at the Red Lion in London, he could write up Cleopatra and Antony, and the ten-years' siege of Troy, with Helen, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Achilles, Pandarus, Paris, Troilus, Cressida and Hector as star performers in the plays.

It was not very often that I interfered with William in his personal movements and aspirations, but as he had given so much of his poetry in illustration of our recent travels, and knowing that I was in honor bound to report to posterity all he said and did as his mental stenographer, I begged him to "give us a rest," and "let it go at that."

The next day the Albion bore away for the Strait of Gibraltar, rounding Portugal, Spain and France, sailing into the Strait of Dover, passed Gravesend, until we anchored in safety under the shadow of the Blackfriars Theatre, where a jolly crowd of bohemians greeted our rapid and successful tour of continental and classic lands.

"This accident and flood of Fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that Persuades me to any other trust."



CHAPTER XIV.

WINDSOR PARK. "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."

"This is the fairy land; O spite of spites We talk with goblins, owls, and elfish sprites.

* * * * *

'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as Madmen tongue and brain!"

* * * * *

"If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it."

Shakspere had blocked out the play of "Midsummer Night's Dream" in the year 1593, and completed it in the summer of 1599.

The story of Palamon and Arcite by Chaucer, and the love of Athenian Theseus for the Amazonian Queen Hippolyta, as told by Plutarch, gave William his first idea of composing a play where the acts of fairies and human beings would assimilate in their loves and jealousies.

One evening while seated at the Falcon Tavern, in company with the Earl of Southampton, Essex, Florio, Bacon, Cecil, Warwick, Burbage, Drayton and Jonson, William read the main points of the play, which was lauded to the skies by all present.

Burbage, the manager of the Globe, suggested to Essex and Southampton that it would be a grand idea to have the "Dream" enacted in the park and woods of Windsor!

It was a novel idea, and one sure to catch the romantic sentiments of Queen Elizabeth, as old Duke Theseus, the cross-purposed lovers, Bottom and his rude theatrical troop, and the fairies, led by Oberon, Titania and Puck could have full swing in the forest, sporting in their natural elements.

In reading or viewing the play, the mind wanders in a mystic grove by moonlight and breathes at every step odors of sweet flowers, while listening to the musical murmurings of fantastic fairies and echoing hounds in forest glens.

Theseus was the first and greatest Grecian in strength of body, second only to his cousin Hercules, each reveling in the god-like antics of seduction, incest, rape, robbery and murder!

The Persian, Egyptian, Grecian and Roman gods commingled with the heroes and heroines of mankind and committed unheard of crimes with impunity, the most outrageous villain seeming to be honored as the greatest god!

The amphitheater grove in front of Windsor Castle, overlooking the Thames, was the place selected for the exhibition of the "Dream." Natural circular terraces for the spectators.

The Virgin Queen had sent out five thousand invitations to her wealthy and intellectual subjects to attend the new and romantic play of Shakspere, "Midsummer Night's Dream," on the 4th of July, 1599.

Everything had been prepared in the way of natural and artificial scenery by the direction of William, while the Queen sat on a sylvan throne, embowered in vines and roses, surrounded by all her courtiers, ladies and lords, in grand, golden array.

The night was calm, bright and warm, while the young moon and twinkling stars, shining over Windsor, lent a celestial radiance to the scene, where lovers and fairies mingled in the meshes of affection. Candles, torches, chimes, lanterns and stationary fire balloons were interspersed through the royal domain in brilliant profusion.

Essex and Southampton were, unfortunately, absent in Ireland putting down a rebellion.

William took the part of Theseus, Field played Hippolyta, Burbage played Puck, Heminge represented Lysander, and Condell Demetrius, while Phillips and Cooke played respectively Hermia and Helen, Jo Taylor played Oberon and Robert Benfield acted Titania, the fairy queen.

The characters Pyramus and Thisbe were played by Peele and Crosse.

The play opens with a grand scene in the palace of Theseus, who thus addresses the Amazonian Queen Hippolyta:

"Now, fair Hippolyta, our mutual hour Draws on apace, four happy days bring in, Another moon; but, O, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue!"

Hippolyta:

"Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; And then, the moon shall behold the night Of our solemnities."

Egeus, a wealthy Athenian complains to Duke Theseus that his daughter Hermia will not consent to marry Demetrius, but disobedient, insists on wedding with Lysander.

Theseus decides that she must obey her father or suffer death, or enter a convent, excluded from the world forever.

Theseus reasons with Hermia thus:

"If you yield not to your father's choice, Whether you can endure the livery of a nun; For aye to be in shady cloister mewed, To live a barren sister all your life; Chanting fair hymns to the cold, fruitless moon. Thrice blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distilled, Than that, which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness!"

This sentiment was cheered heartily by the great forest audience, and "Queen Bess" led the applause!

Lysander pleaded his own case for the heart of Hermia, and sighing, says:

"Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth!"

Hermia and Helena compare notes and wonder at the perversity of their respective lovers.

Hermia says:

"The more I hate Demetrius, the more he follows me;"

And Helena says:

"The more I love him, the more he hateth me!"

Hermia still sighing for Lysander says:

"Before the time I did Lysander see, Seemed Athens as a paradise to me; O then, what graces in my love do dwell That he hath turned a heaven unto hell."

Helena soliloquizes regarding the inconsistency of Demetrius since he saw Hermia:

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And, therefore, is winged cupid painted blind; I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight; Then to the wood, will he, to-morrow night, Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense; But herein mean I to enrich my pain To have his sight thither and back again."

A number of rude workingmen of Athens propose to give an impromptu play in the Duke's palace in honor of his wedding.

It is a burlesque on all plays, and being so very crude and bad, is good by contrast!

Pyramus and Thisby are the prince and princess, who die for love.

Bottom is to play the big blower in the improvised drama and the Jackass among the fairies. He says:

"I could play a part to tear a cat in, to make all split"— "Tho raging rocks, With shivering shocks, Shall break the locks Of prison gates; And Phoebus' car Shall shine from far And make and mar The foolish fates!"

Puck, the mischievous Robin Goodfellow, who is ever playing pranks among his fairy tribe and human lovers, enters the forest scene and addresses one of the fairies thus:

"How now, spirit, whither wander you?"

Fairy says:

"Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, Farewell, thou wit of spirits, I'll be gone; Our queen and all her elves come here anon."

Puck, the funny tattler, tells of the jealousy of King Oberon, because Titania has adopted a lovely boy:

"For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she as her attendant hath A lovely boy stolen from an Indian king, She never had so sweet a changeling!"

This sly cut at Queen Elizabeth, who had recently adopted a young American Indian as her parlor page, elicited applause among the courtiers, yet "Lizzie" did not seem to join in the cheers!

Oberon and Titania meet and quarrel, just as natural as if they belonged to earthly passion people.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania! What, jealous Oberon? Fairy, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company."

Oberon:

"Tarry, rash woman; am I not thy lord?"

Titania:

"Then I must be thy lady?"

Oberon accuses Titania with being in love with Theseus and assisting him in the ravishment of antique beauties.

She replies:

"These are the forgeries of jealousy; Never met we on hill, dale, forest or mead; Or on the beached margent of the sea To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport!"

After the departure of Queen Titania and her fairy train, King Oberon calls in Puck to aid in punishing her imagined infidelity.

"My gentle Puck, come hither; thou remember'st Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, The rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea maid's music?"

Puck replies:

"I remember."

Oberon continues:

"That very time I saw, but thou could'st not, Flying between the cold moon and the earth Cupid all armed; a certain aim he took At a fair Vestal, throned by the West; And loosed his shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon; And the Imperial Voteress passed on In maiden meditation, fancy free! Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell; It fell upon a little Western flower— Before milk white; now purple with love's wound— And maidens call it 'love in idleness.' Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee once, The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make, or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again Ere the Leviathan can swim a league."

Puck replies:

"I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes!"

The audience saw by this time that the "Vestal" and "Imperial Voteress" in "maiden meditation, fancy free" was none other than Queen Elizabeth, and therefore three cheers and a roaring lion were given for the delicate and eloquent compliment of Shakspere to her Virgin Majesty!

Tributes to the powerful, though undeserved, are received with spontaneous applause, while just praise for the poor receive no echo from the jealous throng. Poor, toadying humanity!

The infatuated Helena follows Demetrius into the dark forest, and though he tells her that he does not and cannot love her, she says:

"And even for that, do I love you the more; I am your spaniel; and Demetrius The more you beat me, I will fawn on you, And to be used, as you use your dog!"

I have seen fool women and fool men act just that way, and the more they were spurned, the more they clung to their infatuation.

Puck returns with the flower containing the juice that will make wanton women and licentious men return to their just lovers.

Oberon grasping the herb says:

"I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with blooming woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine; There sleeps Titania, sometime of the night Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight, And with this juice I'll streak her eyes To make her full of hateful fantasies. And take thou some of it, and seek through this grove; A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth; anoint his eyes; But do it, when the next thing he espies May be the lady."

Titania enters with her fairy train and orders them to sing her to sleep, and be gone.

Oberon finds his queen sleeping and squeezes some of the love juice on her eyelids, saying:

"What thou see'st when thou dost awake Do it for thy true love take; Love and languish for his sake; When thou makest, it is thy dear, Wake when some vile thing is near."

Lysander and Hermia wander in the woods, lost and tired, and sink down to rest. He says:

"One turf shall serve as pillow for us both, One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth!"

Puck finds the lovers asleep, and says to Lysander:

"Churl, upon thy eyes I throw, All the power that this charm doth owe, When thou wakest, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid."

Puck finds Bottom in the woods, rehearsing the play for the marriage of Theseus, and translates the weaver into an ass, with a desire for love. He wanders near the flowery bed where Queen Titania sleeps.

She hears him sing, and opening her eyes, says:

"What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? Thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee!"

Bottom says:

"Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that; Reason and love keep little company now-a-days!"

Oberon relents and releases his Fairy Queen from her dream of infatuation with Bottom disguised as an ass, and says:

"But first, I will release the fairy queen, Be as thou wast wont to be; (Touching her eyes with the herb.) See as thou wast wont to see; Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower, Hath such force and blessed power, Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen."

Titania awakes and exclaims:

"My Oberon, what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamored of an ass!"

Titania is not the only woman who is enamored by an Ass; in fact the mismatched, cross-purposed, twisted, infatuated affections of the sordid, deceitful earth are as thick as blackberries in July, while pretense and pampered power greatly prevail around the globe.

Theseus and his train wander through the woods in preparation for the grand hunt and find Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena still asleep under the magic influence of Puck.

Theseus wonders how the lovers came to the wood, and says to the father of Hermia:

"But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Helena should give answer of her choice?"

Egeus:

"It is, my lord."

Theseus:

"Go bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. (Expresses surprise at their situation.) How comes this gentle concord in the world, That hatred is so far from jealousy, To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity."

The lovers are reconciled to their natural choice, and Theseus decides against the father:

"Egeus, I will overbear your will, For in the temple by and by, with us These couples shall eternally be knit."

Bottom wakes and tells his theatrical partners:

"I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass, a patched fool. Eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was!"

The vast audience laughed heartily at the befuddled language of Bottom, the weaver, and imagined themselves under the like spell of fantastic fairies.

The fifth and last act opens up with Theseus and his Amazonian Queen in the palace, prepared for the nuptial rites, and also the marriage of Lysander and Demetrius to their choice.



Theseus speaking of the strange conduct of lovers, delivers this great bit of philosophy:

"More strange than true, I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains— Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet, Are of imagination all compact; One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman; the lover all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt; The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name!"

The play of Pyramus and Thisby is then introduced to the palace audience, when Bottom and his Athenian mechanics amuse Theseus and Hippolyta with their crude, rustic conception of love-making.

As the play proceeds Hippolyta remarks:

"This is the silliest stuff that I ever heard."

And Theseus says:

"The best in this kind are but shadows; And the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them!"

Pyramus appeals to the moon thus:

"Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams, I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright, I trust to taste of truest Thisby's sight!"

Pyramus and Thisby commit suicide, for disappointment in love, in the climax scene, and waking again Bottom wishes to know if the Duke wants any more of the burlesque play.

Theseus replies:

"Your play needs no excuse; for when the players are all dead, There need none to be blamed!

* * * * *

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers to bed; 'tis almost fairy time, I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn, As much as we this night have overwatched. This palpable, gross play hath well beguiled The heavy gait of night—sweet friends, to bed; A fortnight hold we this solemnity In nightly revels and new jollity!"

The forest scene is filled with fairies, led by Puck, Oberon and Titania, all fantastically dressed, rehearsing and singing in their mystic revels.

Puck leading, says:

"Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf beholds the moon. Whilst the heavy ploughman snores All with weary task foredone; And we fairies, that do run By the triple of Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun Following darkness like a dream."

Oberon orders:

"Through this house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier; And his ditty, after me, Sing and dance it trippingly."

Titania speaks:

"First rehearse this song by rote; To each word a warbling note, Hand in hand with fairy grace Will we sing and bless this place."

Then all the fairies, joining hands at the command of Oberon, dance and sing:

"Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless; Through this palace with sweet peace, All shall here in safety rest And the owner of it blest, Trip away, make no stay; Meet me all by break of day!"

Then mischievous little Puck flies to the front, makes his final bow and speech, concluding the play of "Midsummer Night's Dream":

"If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended— That you have but slumbered here, While these visions did appear; And this weak and idle theme No more yielding but a dream; Gentles, do not reprehend; If you pardon we will mend. And, as I am honest Puck, If we have unearned luck, How to escape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call, So good night unto you all, Give me your hands if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends!"

Unanimous cheers rang through Windsor forest at the conclusion of this mystic play, and Queen Elizabeth called up Theseus (William), Hippolyta, Oberon, Titania and Puck, presenting to each a five-carat solitaire diamond—a slight token of Her Majesty's appreciation of dramatic genius.

It was after two o'clock in the morning when a thousand sky rockets filled the heavens with variegated colors, indicating for fifty miles around, that "Midsummer Night's Dream" had been successfully launched on the ocean of dramatic imagination!



CHAPTER XV.

THE JEW. SHYLOCK. "MERCHANT OF VENICE."

"O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant."

"Had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All Unity on earth."

In my peregrinations and bohemian investigations I have met on several occasions, and in strange lands, Mr. Ahasuerus, the Jerusalem shoemaker, who is reported to have jeered and scoffed at Christ as he passed his shop, bearing the heavy cross up the rugged heights of Calvary.

That was a terrible day for Jesus of Nazareth (dying for the sins of others), but worse for his foolish brother, the Jew shoemaker; for as punishment to the scoffing and heartless Ishmaelite, the "Son of God," bending under the weight of the cross, exclaimed to the "Son of Saint Crispin": "Tarry thou 'till I come! Move on!"

And from that hour to this the "Wandering Jew" has been traveling and seeking for peace and death, but has never found surcease from everlasting sorrow and misery.

I have often met his business partners, Solomon Isaacs and David Levy; and while these gentlemen are compelled by nations to "move on," they have the great gift of loading up their pack with the rarest jewels—silver, gold and diamonds being their great specialty—with ready made clothing, pawnshops and banks as convenient adjuncts.

Their three golden balls, worn in front of their establishments, they say, represent energy, economy and wealth; while their victims insist that they represent passion, poverty and suicide.

And yet these wandering Jews of all lands and climes, having no home or country anywhere, have the best of homes, churches, banks and temples everywhere.

War and peace they often hold in their financial power, and therefore become the arbitrators and umpires of national fate.

When my friend William was working on the rough sketch of the "Merchant of Venice," in the years 1598 and 1599, there was a great hate manifested against the London Jews, Dr. Lopez, the physician of Queen Elizabeth, having been recently tried and hung for the design of poisoning Her Majesty.

The Jews were accused of clipping the coins of the realm, demanding one hundred per cent. usury, bewitching the people, sacrificing Christian boys on the altar of religious fanaticism and setting fire to the warehouses and shipping along the Thames.

These outrageous stories were believed by many people, and Shakspere, being infected by the hate of the multitude (for the first time in his intellectual career), fashioned the repulsive character of Shylock, who walks the world as a synonym of greed, hate and vengeance.

Several Jew plays had been put on the London boards, like the "Venetian Comedy" and the "Jew of Malta," but none had the lofty pitch of Shakspere's, who derived his main idea of the play from the Italian story of "Pecorone," by Florentina, and Silvayn's "Orator."

Yet, with William's imagination, a hint was sufficient, the rose and acorn giving him scope enough to create flower gardens and forest ranges.

The Jew has always been a great subject for the world's contention and condemnation, particularly since the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. If Christ, the Jew, suffered for others, his own race for nearly two thousand years have been "scapegoats" for private and public villains.

From the days of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, Louis the Fourteenth of France, Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth of England, Emperor William of Germany and the Czars Nicholas and Alexander of Russia, the Jews have been robbed, exiled and murdered by Christian rulers, presumptively for their rebellion against the State, but really as an excuse to rob them of their jewels and gold. The Caucasian Christian has never hesitated to rob and murder anybody anywhere for cash and country!

Look over the world to-day, and you behold nothing but diplomatic cheating, domestic and foreign robbery and international murder for individual ambition and national territorial expansion! The official hypocrite is the greatest liar of the century!

England, Germany, France, Russia and the United States are this very day competing with each other in the race for universal empire! Considering that "Uncle Sam" has had only one hundred and twenty-six years of national life, he has forged to the front amazingly, and has become the grandest "General" on the globe! He does things!

The "gentle reader" (confidentially speaking) may think this a slight digression from the "Merchant of Venice," which was enacted at the Globe Theatre, London, on the first Saturday in December, 1599. The "gentle reader" may also have found out by this time that the "subscriber" pays little attention to the "unities of time and place," as a thousand years are but short milestones in the life of the "Strulbug" family!

What the "gentle reader" needs more than anything else is knowledge and truth; and he observes, if he observes at all, that I give bits of the most eloquent and philosophic speeches in all the plays of Shakspere, besides the true personal transactions and escapades of the Bard of Avon!

The enactment of the various scenes of the "Merchant of Venice" takes place in the great water city—Venice, "Queen of the Adriatic," that ruled the commercial world two thousand years ago.

Antonio, the Christian merchant, and Shylock, the usurious Jew, are the principal characters of the play, while Portia, the wealthy heiress, and Jessica, the daughter of Shylock, with Bassanio and Lorenzo carry the thread of Shakspere's argument trying to prove that it is Christian justice to steal an old man's money and daughter, and punish him for demanding his legal rights!

In speaking privately to William I tried to have him change the logic and morals of the play, but his curt answer was:

"Jack, the dramatic demand and tyrant public must be satisfied."

Burbage took the part of Antonio, Jo Taylor played Shylock, William played Portia, Condell acted Bassanio, Heming represented Lorenzo and Field played Jessica, Poole played Gratiano, Slye played the Duke.

The Globe Theatre was packed from pit to loft by the greatest variety audience I had ever seen; lords, ladies, lawyers, doctors, merchants, mechanics, soldiers, sailors, and street riff-raff—all assembled to see and hear how the Jew, Shylock, was to be roasted by the greatest dramatist of the ages.

Antonio in a street scene in Venice opens up the play thus:

"In sooth, I know not why I am so sad; That I am much ado to know myself."

Salarino replies to the ship merchant:

"Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your argosies, with portly sail— Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea As they fly to traffickers with their woven wings."

Antonio says to his friend Gratiano:

"I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one."

But the light and airy Gratiano utters this philosophic speech, which the "gentle reader" should cut out and paste in his hat:

"Let me play the Fool; With mirth and laughter, let old wrinkles come; 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, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! O, my Antonio, I do know of these, That therefore only are reputed wise, For saying nothing; who I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools!"

Bassanio, in love with the rich heiress, Portia, tries to borrow three thousand ducats from Shylock, and Antonio, his friend, is willing to give bond for the loan.

The Jew and the Christian hate each other; and Shylock vents his opinion:

"How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him, for he is a Christian; Antonio lends out money gratis and brings down— The rate of usury here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation; and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well worn thrift, Which he calls interest; cursed be my tribe If I forgive him!"

Antonio finally asks for the three thousand ducats, and says:

"Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you?"

Then in a speech of brave defiance, Shylock humiliates the Gentile merchant in this manner:

"Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my monies, and my usury; Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; You call me misbeliever, cut-throat, dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well, then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come to me and you say: Shylock, we would have monies; you say so; You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur— Over your threshold; monies is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say; Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats? Or Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman's key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness say this— Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurned me such a day; another time You called me—dog, and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much monies!"

Antonio, not any way abashed at the scolding of the money lender, says:

"I am as like to call thee dog again, And spit on thee again, to spurn thee, too!"

Shylock then agrees to lend the three thousand ducats if Antonio will give bond and penalty to pay the money back with interest in three months.

Shylock says:

"Let the forfeit of the bond Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off, and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me!"

The second act opens with Portia in her grand home at "Belmont," awaiting suitors for her wealth, beauty and brains.

Her father dying, left three locked chests, gold, silver, and lead, one of them containing the picture of Portia; and the fortunate suitor who picked out that rich casket, was to be the husband of the brilliant Portia.

The Prince of Morocco and Prince of Arragon, with Bassanio, were the suitors.

Portia says to Morocco:

"In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing."

Launcelot, the foolish serving man for Shylock, says to old Gobbo, his blind father:

"Do you not know me, father?"

Gobbo replies:

"Alack, sir. I am sand-blind. I know you not."

Launcelot makes this wise statement:

"Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, You might fail of the knowing of me: It is a wise father that knows his own child!"

Shylock discharges Launcelot, and Jessica, the beautiful daughter of the money lender, parts with him regretfully—she gives him a secret letter to deliver to her Christian lover, Lorenzo, and then says:

"Farewell, good Launcelot— Alack, what heinous sin it is in me To be ashamed to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners; O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife; Become a Christian, and thy loving wife!"

This beautiful Jewess forswears her birth and religion for infatuated love, and throws to the winds all duty and honor as a daughter; a renegade of matchless quality, stealing her father's money and jewels to elope with the fascinating Christian Lorenzo.

The Hebrew race has not produced many Jessicas; and the morality taught by Shakspere of a daughter "fooling her father" is base and rotten in principle.

Shylock says to his daughter:

"Well, Jessica, go in to the house, Perhaps I will return immediately; Do as I bid you; Shut doors after you; fast bind, fast find, A proverb never stale in thrifty mind."

Then at the turn of his back the beautiful fraud Jessica says:

"Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost!"

Lorenzo with his friends appear under the window of Shylock's house to steal away Jessica, and she appears above in boy's clothes, and asks:

"Who are you? Tell me for more certainty, Albeit, I'll swear that I do know your tongue."

He responds:

"Lorenzo and thy love."

Jessica before leaving her home spouts the following stuff to her lover:

"Here, catch this casket, it is worth the pains; I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me; For I am much ashamed of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some more ducats, and be with you straight!"

Nice specimen of a dutiful daughter.

Contrast the conduct of the Christian Portia with the Hebrew Jessica, and the latter's action is thoroughly reprehensible.

Portia obeys the injunction and will of a dead father, while Jessica violates criminally the duty she owes a live father, who is in the toils of personal and official swindlers.

Portia in her palace awaits foreign and domestic suitors for her hand, heart and wealth.

The Prince of Morocco and his train first appear.

Portia in her splendid drawing room receives the Prince, and says to her waiting maid:

"Go draw aside the curtains, and discover The several caskets to this noble prince;— Now make your choice!"

The Prince reads the inscriptions on the three caskets, gold, silver and lead:

"Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire."

"Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves."

"Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath."

The Prince asks:

"How shall I know if I do choose the right?"

Portia replies:

"The one of them contains my picture, Prince; If you choose that then I am yours withal."

The Prince of Morocco makes a long speech on the beauty and glory of Portia, and then decides to open the golden casket. Portia hands him the key, and when the contents come to view he exclaims:

"O hell! what have we here!"

"A carrion death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll? I'll read the writing.

'All that glitters is not gold, Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold, But my outside to behold; Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old Your answer had not been enscrolled, Fare you well, your suit is cold.'"

The disappointed black prince says:

"Portia, adieu! I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave; thus lovers part."

Portia exclaims after his exit:

"A gentle riddance; draw the curtains, go Let all of his complexion choose me so!"

When Shylock returned home, found his house deserted and robbed, he rushed into the street, and cried:

"My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian? O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones Stolen by my daughter! Justice! Find the girl! She hath the stones upon her and the ducats!"

The frantic raging of the old broken down, soul lacerated Jew, only brought from that Christian audience, laughter, yells, and howling jeers. The mob spirit was there, and the appeal for justice by Shylock fell upon deaf ears and stony hearts.

Portia still holds court for her hand and heart at beautiful "Belmont," setting like an Egyptian Queen in the circling, blooming hills of the blue Adriatic.

The Prince of Arragon comes to the choice of caskets, and with lofty words in praise of virtue, says:

"Let none presume to wear an undeserved dignity. O, that estates, degrees, and offices, Were not obtained corruptly! and that clear honor Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover, that stand bare! How many be commanded that command! How much low corruption would then be gleaned From the true seed of honor! and how much honor Picked from the chaff and ruin of the times!"

The Globe Theatre shook with applause at this fine political speech of the Prince, and may be well contemplated in the State transactions of to-day.

The Prince unlocks the silver casket, and finds a portrait of a blinking idiot; and departing exclaims:

"Some there be that shadows kiss, Such have but a shadow's bliss; There be fools alive I wis— Silvered o'er, and so was this!"

Portia soliloquizes:

"Thus hath the candle singed the moth Of these deliberate fools, when they do choose, They bare their wisdom by their wit to lose."

And Nerissa, the bright waiting maid, says:

"The ancient saying is no heresy;— Hanging and wiving go by destiny!"

The third act opens with a street in Venice, and friends of Antonio bemoan the reported loss of several of his ships at sea, which will cause his default and ruin, by the demands of Shylock.

Salarino says to the Jew:

"Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not Take his flesh; what's that good for?"

Shylock now begins to gloat over his prospect of a dire vengeance upon the Christian Antonio, and replies to Salarino:

"To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, It will feed my revenge! Antonio hates me because I'm a Jew; Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands; Organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, Subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, Warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, As a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? if you poison us Do we not die? and if you wrong us shall we not revenge? The villainy you teach me, I will execute!"

Tubal, the Hebrew friend of Shylock, says:

"But Antonio is certainly undone."

Shylock delighted says:

"That's true, that's very true. Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of Antonio if he forfeit the bond. Go, Tubal, meet me at our synagogue."

Portia again appears for the third time to undergo matrimonial choice.

Bassanio, the particular friend of Antonio, is the real love suitor for the hand and heart of the beautiful Portia, and appears at her palace, attended by his faithful Venetian friends. He is a high-toned, but impecunious Italian gentleman, whose heart and soul are ninety per cent. larger than his pockets.

Portia seems to be fascinated with Bassanio, and wishes him to remain at her home and take time in choosing the right casket, but he wants to act instanter, confessing his love.

Portia says:

"Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Now he goes, With no less dignity, but with much more love Than young Alcides, when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea monster!"

Bassanio, standing before the leaden casket, utters this high sounding, moral, truthful speech:

"The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts! How many cowards whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beard of Hercules, and frowning Mars; Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk? And these assume but valor's excrement, To render them redoubted. Look on beauty And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it; So are those curled, snaky golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowers of a second head; The scull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the treacherous shore To a most dangerous sea! Thou meagre lead casket, Which rather rebuffs than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I; joy the consequence!"

Opening the leaden casket, Bassanio exclaims:

"What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit. What demigod Hath come so near creation; Here's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune— If you be well pleased with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn you where your lady is And claim her with a loving kiss!"

Bassanio kisses Portia, and she makes this womanly speech:

"You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand Such as I am; though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better; yet, for you I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich. Happiest of all is that my fond spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her Lord, her Governor, her King! Myself and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted; but now I was the Lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours, my Lord, I give them with this ring; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim to you!"

Bassanio tells Portia that he is not a freeman, that Antonio borrowed three thousand ducats for him from Shylock, and that now he is miserable because Antonio may lose his life by the Jew claiming a pound of flesh in forfeit of the bonded debt.

Portia proposes to pay six thousand ducats rather than Antonio suffer, and says to Bassanio:

"First go with me to church and call me wife, Then away to Venice to your friend. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over!"

Shylock swears out a writ and puts Antonio in jail, and demands trial before the Grand Duke of Venice.

The Duke in open court, with all the witnesses and lawyers and people present, implores Shylock not to insist to cut a pound of flesh from the body of Antonio, and argues for mercy.