and nonsense; poor stuff and "pernicious nonsense." It is as if the author had studied the weakest of the Robertsonian Comedies, and had thought he could do something like it in a tragic vein.
[Illustration: A Powerful Cast.]
In the last Act there is a situation reminding us strongly of one short scene in _Caste; there_--so delicately and touchingly treated by its author; _here_--so repulsively treated by IBSEN. Let it be reduced to serious burlesque, and let us have it played by PENLEY as _George Tesman_, ARTHUR ROBERTS (with a song) as _Judge Brack_, WEEDON GROSSMITH as _Ejlbert L?vborg_, Miss LOTTIE VENNE as _Mrs. Hedda Tesman_, Mrs. JOHN WOOD as _Aunt Juliana_, and Miss JESSIE BOND (with song and dance) as _Mrs. Elvsted_. It is announced in the bill as "IBSEN's Last Play." There's a crumb of comfort in this.
* * * * *
QUEER QUERIES.
OATMEAL PORRIDGE.--Would some Scotch housewife kindly enlighten me as to the proper mode of preparing the above delicacy? I fancy there must be some mistake about the method I have hitherto adopted. Is it really necessary to "boil for forty-eight hours, and then mix with equal quantities of gin, Guinness's Stout, Gum Arabic, and Epsom Salts?" I have followed this recipe (given me by a young friend, who says he has often been in Scotland) faithfully, but the result is not wholly satisfactory. I doubt whether genuine porridge should be of the consistency of a brick-bat, or taste of hair-oil.--UNDAUNTED.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CLERICAL ?STHETICS.
Fair Parishioner. "AND DO YOU LIKE THE PULPIT, MR. AURIOL?"
The New Curate. "I DO NOT. ER--IT HIDES TOO MUCH OF THE FIGURE, AND I LIKE EVERY SHAKE OF THE SURPLICE TO TELL!"]
* * * * *
"BLOOD" V. "BULLION."
"Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to then: you come to me, and you say, 'SHYLOCK, we would have moneys'--you say so; You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say 'Hath a dog money?'"
_Merchant of Venice_, Act I., Scene 3.
"With bated breath and whispering humbleness?" Not so! There comes a season when the stress Of insolent and exacting tyranny Makes the most patient turn. Autocracy, Without the despot's vaunted virtue, pride, Shows small indeed. Can Power lay aside Its swaggering port, and low petition make (Driven by those Treasury thirsts which never slake) For help from those it harries? PHARAOH's scourge Was the taskmaster's weapon, used to urge The Hebrew bondsmen to their tale of toil, But they round whom the Russian's knout thongs coil, Are of the breed of those the Russian palm Can make petition to. Could triumph balm The wounds of ages, here were balm indeed; But blood revolts. Race of the changeless creed, And ever-shifting sojourn, SHAKSPEARE's type Deep meaning hides, which, when the world is ripe For wider wisdom, when the palsying curse Of prejudice, the canker of the purse, And blind blood-hatred, shall a little lift, Will clearlier shine, like sunburst through a rift In congregated cloud-wracks. Shylock stands Badged with black shame in all the baser lands. Use him, and--spit on him! That's Gentile wont; Make him gold-conduit, and befoul the font,-- That's the true despot-plan through all the days, And cackling Gratianos chorus praise. "The Jew shall have all justice." Shall he so? The tyrant drains, his gold, then bids him--"Go!" _Shylock_? The name bears insult in its sound; But he was nobler than the curs who hound The patient Hebrew from his home, and drive Deathward the stronger souls they dread alive. _Shylock_? So brand him, boors and babbling wags, Who scorn him, yet would share his money-bags; Who hate him, yet can stoop to such appeal! Beneath his meekness there's a soul of steel. High-featured, amply-bearded, see he stands Facing the Autocrat; those sinewy hands, Shaped but for clutching--so his slanderers say-- The huckster bait can coldly put away "Blood against bullion." The Jew-baiting band Howl frantic execration o'er the land; Malign and menace, pillage, persecute; Though the heart's hot, the mouth must fain be mute. The edict fulminates, the goad pursues; Proscription, deprivation,--ay, they use All the old tortures, nor are then content, But crown the work with ruthless banishment. And then--then the proud Muscovite seeks grace, And gold, from kinsmen of the harried race! "He would have moneys" from the Hebrew hoard, To swell his state, or whet his warlike sword; Perchance buy heavier scourges for the backs Of lesser Hebrews, whom his wolfish packs Of salaried minions hunt. Take back thine hand, Imperious Autocrat, and understand Gold buys not, rules not, serves not, salves not all. Blood speaks--in favour of the helpless thrall Of tyranny. Here's no tame _Shylock_: he Shall not
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