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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE..

(WRITTEN ABOUT 1596.)

Jew

INTRODUCTION.

This play takes a place by itself, midway between the group of Shakespeare's early comedies and that more brilliant group of comedies which clusters about the year 1600. With the early comedies it is allied by the frequent rhymes, the occasional doggerel verse, and the numerous classical allusons; with the later group it is connected by its centring the interest of the drama in the develophe lit of character, and by the variety, depth, and beauty of the characterization. No person depicted in any preceding comedy can compare in vigor of drawing and depth of color with Shylock; and Portia is the first of Shakespeare's women who unites in beautiful proportion, intellectual power, high and refined, with unrestrained ardor of the heart. The story of the caskets and the story of the pound of flesh had been told separately many times and in various countries. The forTuer is first found in the mediæval Greek romance of Barlaam and Josaphat, by Joannes Damasrebus (about A.D. 800); in another form it is told by the English poet Gower, and the Italian Ivelist Boccaccio. But points of resemblance are most striking between Shakespeare's version of The casket incident and that given in the collection of stories so popular in the Middle Ages, the Gesta Romanorum. The incident of the pound of flesh also appears in the Gesta; it is found in a long religious poem, written in the Northumbrian dialect about the end of the thirteenth Century, the Cursor Mundi, in an old ballad, "showing the crueltie of Gernutus a Jew," and Elsewhere; there are Persian and Egyptian versions of the tale, which itself perhaps originally came from the East. The form in which we have it in Shakespeare is most closely conDected with the version found in a collection of tales, Il Pecorone, written by Ser Giovanni, a notary of Florence, about A. D., 1378. Here, and only here, the incident of the ring, which forms the subject of the fifth act of The Merchant of Venice, is given; and here the Dame Belmont appears. It is probable, however, that Shakespeare to become acquainted with these stories had not to go to Îl Pecorone and the Gesta Romanorum. Stephen Gosson writing in 1579, in his Schoole of Abuse, about plays which were "tollerable at sometime," mentions "the ... showne at the Bull. . representing the greedinesse of worldly chusers and bloody mindes of usurers." The greediness of worldly choosers seems to point to the casket incident, and the bloody minds of usurers to that of the pound of flesh; we therefore infer that a pre-Shakespearian day existed which combined these two incidents. And it is highly probable that Shakespeare's task In the ease of The Merchant of Venice, as afterwards in that of King Lear, consisted in creating from oli and worthless dramatic material found among the crude productions of the early English theatre Those forms of beauty and of majesty with which we are familiar. Although the play is named after he merchant, Antonio, he is not the chief dramatic person; he forms, however, a centre around hich the other characters are grouped: Bassanio, his friend; Shylock, his erring and would-be urderer; Portia, his savior. Antonio's part is rather a passive than an active one; he is to be an ject of contention and a prize; much is to be done against him and on his behalf, but not much is be done by him; and therefore, although his character is very firmly conceived and clearly incated, his part is subdued and kept low, lest it might interfere with the exhibition of the two chief res of the play-the cruel masculine force of Shylock, which holds the merchant in its reatless, vice-like grip; and the feminine force of Portia, which is as bright as sunlight, and as benefFut. Yet Shakespeare is careful to interest us in Antonio, and to show us that he was worth ty exertion to save. The distinction of Portia among the women of Shakespeare is the union in of nature of high intellectual powers and decision of will with a heart full of ardor and susceptibil- to romantic feelings. She has herself never known trouble or sorrow, but prosperity has left nt generous and quick in sympathy. Her noble use of wealth and joyous life, surrounded with owers and fountains and marble statues and music, stands in contrast over against the hard, sad, contracted life of Shylock, one of a persecuted tribe, absorbed in one or two narrowing and inse passions-the love of money-bags he clutches and yet falls to keep, and his hatred of the man bo had scorned his tribe, insulted his creed, and diminished his gains. Yet Shylock is not like Harlowe's Jew, Barabas, a preternatural monster. Woli-like as his revenge shows him, we pity his Fless, solitary life; and when, ringed round in the trial scene with hostile force, he stands firm Ton his foothold of law, there is something sublime in his tenacity of passion and resolve. But we el that it is right that his evil strength should be utterly crushed and quelled, and when Shylock s the court a broken man, we know it is needful that this should be so. The date of the play is ertain. Perhaps 1596 is as likely a date as we can fix upon; but the precise year matters little if remembered that the play occupies an intermediate place between the early and the middle ap of comedies.

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merry,

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And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap and say you are

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Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture

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Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed
Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her
time:
[eyes
Some that will evermore peep through their
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,
And other of such vinegar aspect
That they'll not show their teeth in way of
smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO,
Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most
noble kinsman,

Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:
Weleave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made

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You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend
on yours.
[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio

Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have
found Antonio,

We two will leave you but at dinner-time.T
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet
Bass. I will not fail you.

Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio You have too much respect upon the world : 40 They lose it that do buy it with much care :

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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 dress'd 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

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

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

140

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way with more advised watch,
To find the other forth, and by adventuring
both

90 I oft found both : I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost; but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both
Or bring your latter hazard back again
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
Ant. You know me well, and herein spend
but time

150

For saying nothing, when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn

those ears

[fools.

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers
I'll tell thee more of this another time:

100

But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:

I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time:

To wind about my love with circumstance;
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong
In making question of my uttermost
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And I am prest unto it therefore, speak. 160
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left ;
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her

eyes

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two
years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own
tongue.
[gear.
Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this
Gra. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only
commendable

110

In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vend-
ible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Ant. Is that any thing now?
Buss. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of
nothing, more than any man in all Venice.
His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in
Two bushels of chaff you shall seek all day
cre you find them, and when you have them,
they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well, tell me now what lady is the

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SCENE II. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S

house.

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

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Por. Good sentences and well pronounced, Ner. They would be better, if well followed. Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose! I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none ?

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

come?

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

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

Ner. Then there is the County Palatine. Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If you will not have me, choose:' he hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to

death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

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

Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 70 Ner. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England ?

Por. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his behavior every where.

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbor?

Por. That he hath a neighborly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and swore he would pay him again when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed under for another.

Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

91

Por. Very vilely in the morning, when Le is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than'a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast: an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.

Per. Therefore, for fear of the worst, 1 pray thee, set a deep glass of rhenish wine oll the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords: they have acquainted me with their determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's impositiol depending on the caskets.

Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I wil die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad thì parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for ther is not one among them but I dote on his ver absence, and I pray God grant them a fair de parture.

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in you father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and

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Por If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach: if be have the condition of a saint and the comMerion of a devil, I had rather he should skrive me than wive me.

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer,
another knocks at the door.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. Venice. A public place.
Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK.
Shy. Three thousand ducats; well.
Boss. Ay, sir, for three months.
Shy. For three months; well.

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Buxs. For the which, as I told you, Antonto shall be bound.

borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Shy. Antonio shall become bound; well. Lass. May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I know your answer?

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd How much ye would?

Shey. Three thousand ducats for three

Shy.

Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

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Ant. And for three months.

Bass. Your answer to that. My. Antonio is a good man.

Shy. I had forgot; three months; you told

me so.

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to

Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;

row

the contrary ?

Shy. Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in Mying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, oreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventires he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men there be Jand-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and Land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is Sae peril of waters, winds and rocks. The Iman is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three toonsand ducats; I think I may take his bond. Buss. Be assured you may.

Nhy. I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio ?

Boss. If it please you to dine with us.

Shy. Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and

Methought you said you neither lend nor bor

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