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rather indicated by the steadiness of his purpose than by any extravagance of language or of manner. Profound and powerful minds do not give way to frequent ebullitions of idle rage. To jo scold and rave is the part of a woman or a bully. Deep waters are still. There is a self-possession in the Jew that is almost sublime. Amidst a host of powerful and malignant enemies, and with every disadvantage of position, he is so far from being bewildered by his emotions, or thrown off his guard, that he seems to say just so much and no more, in the way of self-defence and retaliation, as is consistent with his personal safety and the
furtherance of his object. Though he ventures upon sundry
bitter taunts and sneers, they are only of such a character as his enemies from a consciousness of superior power might be supposed to tolerate. He does not call the Christians dogs, or spit and spurn at them, as they do at him. The character of Shylock is by no means complicated, or difficult of apprehension, and it is accordingly the more surprising that it should be so often erroneously represented on the stage. Its traits are broad and simple. The single passion of revenge swallows up every other, even that of avarice. It is not, however, a personal revenge alone, for he has a sympathy for his injured and insulted countrymen which in a Christian would be deemed a virtue. He has “a lodged hate” against Antonio, not only because he has “thwarted his bargains,” but also because he is one of those who have “scorned his nation.” Kean's Shylock was remarkable for an air of suppression and reserve. The few occasional bursts of passion seemed to escape from an habitual restraint. They were irrepressible; not free or voluntary. The effect was thus greatly heightened. The Shylock of other actors appeared to have no concealments and no selfcontrol. In the way in which the part is usually performed, there is often the strongest contrast between the text and the action. The
latter has the air of galvanism; for the life is wanting. Wild and passionate movements are incongruously associated with sly sneers and deliberate scorn. Abstracting our minds from Christian prejudices, we cannot help sympathizing, in some degree, with Shakespeare's Jew ; but the Jew, as he is generally represented on the stage, seems so well able to take his own part and to brow-beat his enemies that he is too powerful to be pitied. The Christians themselves have the tables turned upon them. They are the persecuted party. There is also too much of the demon in the acted Jew. If Shylock hates Antonio “for that he is a Christian,” the Christians hate Shylock because he is a Jew, and not merely on account of his defective moral qualities as a man. A respectable Jewish audience would not regard Shylock with the horror that thrills a Christian audience. They would not only sympathize in his sufferings, but admire his indomitable character and his unanswerable logic. A Christian of the same character, placed under similar circumstances, would receive the same indulgence from people of his own faith. If Shylock is somewhat too fierce and unforgiving, his countrymen would recollect that his bosom is a volcano that has laboured long and fiercely, not only with the internal fire enkindled by his own wrongs, but with the intolerable, and at last irrepressible, sense of the injuries and indignities heaped upon “his sacred nation.” The conclusion of the play is unsatisfactory. We are pained to see a powerful and deeply injured spirit so completely thwarted and subdued by a mere quibble, and are shocked at the absurd and unnecessary insult of insisting (as a part of his punishment too :) “that he do presently become a Christian l’” Shylock's immediate consent to this humiliating demand, and his casting off the religion of his ancestors, like an old coat, at a single jerk, appears inconsistent with the force and inflexibility of his character. It is
at all events difficult to conceive the glory or utility of making a nominal convert to Christianity by taking advantage of a legal quirk, and “convincing a man against his will” by the threatened alternative of sundry pains and penalties. The Jew, however, could not have turned into a real Christian, and scarcely into a hypocrite. It was more easy for Falstaff to give reasons upon compulsion, than for Shylock to give faith.
SONNET-TO A LADY SINGING.
O! BREATHE, impassioned songstress, once again,
I. HAIL to the Bravel and hail the Land Where Freedom's dauntless guardians stand, An honored race, a glorious band, Or prompt to strike, or proud to die, Prepared for death or liberty! II. How hallowed is the Patriot's grave, Who 'neath the banners Freemen wave, With ready hand and bosom brave, Hath fought and died as heroes die, In battle and for liberty! III, How dear his proud immortal name To Virtue, Liberty, and Fame ! Its magic sound the Land shall claim For watch-word and for battle-cry To lead the brave to victory ! IV. Oh! who that patriot honor warms, When sound the trumpet's wild alarms, But nobly burns for deeds of arms, To force his country's foe to fly— To strike for death or liberty W. The Victor's brow may proudly shine, While Beauty's hands the wreath entwine, But, Oh! his country's heart's a shrine For him who greatly dares to die, For glory and for liberty l
I have read that the greatest height to which any balloon has ever ascended is twenty-three thousand, one hundred feet, which is the elevation reached by Guy Lussac in 1804. This is greatly above the highest mountains in the world, excepting the extreme peak of one of the Himmalayahs, which is twenty-eight thousand feet high. Man, winged only by his intellectual faculties, has out-soared the most ambitious of the feathered tribe. The highest flight of the Condor, is said to be about twenty thousand feet above the level of the sea.
I recollect looking down from the top of the monument on Fish-street hill, and wondering at the littleness of man and beast. The Duke of Wellington happened to be passing at the very moment, and the hero looked any thing but heroic. It was a vision of Lilliput. What a sight it would have been for the sarcastic Swift, had he ascended in a balloon, and looked down upon this “ dim spot, which men call earth.” The proud rhodomontade of Richard the third—
“But I was born so high 1–
must seem a very modest metaphor to our modern voyagers through the sky. Probably to their minds, even the gallant Hotspur's aspirations are tamely reasonable—
“By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon 1" What a creature of circumstance is man His opinions are as variable as the colours of the chameleon, and change with every change of position. “The great globe itself, with all that it inherits,” seems to sink into insignificance if we are lifted but a