  A LEGEND OF ITALY.
I believe there are few But have heard of a Jew, Named Shylock, of Venice, as errant a "Screw" In money transactions, as ever you knew; An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent A ducat at less than three hundred per cent., Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice, Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies, When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Flight. It is not my purpose to pause and inquire If he might not, in managing thus to retire, Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire; Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do, Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew. But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives, We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives, That "Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!" In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool, Bassanio, a Lord of the Tom-noddy school, Who, by shewing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court, A "swelling" (Payne Collier would read "swilling") "port," And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup, Had shrunk his "weak means," and was "stump'd" and "hard up," Took occasion to send To his very good friend Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end, And who'd often before had the kindness to lend Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend. "Antonio," said he, "Now listen to me: I've just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree, All matters considered, is no bad design, "There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat Was giving last season, we all used to stare at. Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine, Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine, Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks, It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions' and 'Docks', Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks, French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian, In English Exchequer-bills full half a million, Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle. Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways, And more speculations I need not detail, ways Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em, Contribute a deal to improving one's income; In short, she's a Mint! —Now I say, deuce is in't If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint, And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print At the time that I told you of, know from a squint. In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony, Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan—I Am sure of my game—though, of course, there are brutes, Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts, Yet Portia—she's named from that daughter of Cato's— Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes, And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson—cut them all out— Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her! —Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed, For her Three-and-a-half per Cents—New and Reduced! With a wink of his eye His friend made reply In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry, "Still the same boy, Bassanio—never say 'die'! They were going to go, When, lo! down below, In the street, they heard somebody crying, "Old Clo'!" —"By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose!—I knew We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you, —Salarino,—quick!—haste! ere he get out of view, And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!" With a pack, Like a sack Of old clothes, at his back, And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack, Saying, "Rest you fair, Signior Antonio!—vat, pray, Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?" —"Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know, I am what they call 'warm,'—pay my way as I go, And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend, I can break through a rule, to oblige an old friend; And that's the case now—Lord Bassanio would raise Some three thousand ducats—well,—knowing your ways, And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will, Unless you've a couple of names to the bill, Why, for once, I'll put mine to it, Yea, seal and sign to it— Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say "—Vell, ma tear," says the Jew, "I'll see vat I can do! But Mishter Antonio, hark you, 'tish funny You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!' Ven you very vell knows How you shpit on ma clothes, And use naughty vords—call me Dog—and avouch Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch, And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch, You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch. —Vell!—no matters, ma tear,— Von vord in your ear! I'd be friends mit you bote—and to make dat appear, Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill, Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill;— Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay, I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke, A fair pound of your flesh—chest by vay of a joke." So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause; But Antonio, like most of those sage "Johnny Raws" Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws, And think cheaply of "Old Father Antic," because They have never experienced a gripe from his claws, "Pooh pooh'd" the whole thing.—"Let the Smouch have his way— Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty?—Nay, It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay; And, come what come may, I hardly need say My ships will be back a full month ere the day." So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey, And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he Affixed with all speed His name to a deed, Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney. Thus again furnished forth, Lord Bassanio, instead Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread, With fiddling and masques at the Saracen's Head, In the morning "made play," And, without more delay, Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day. But scarcely had he From the harbour got free, And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea, Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's. Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold, By these "wings" I'd express A grey duffle dress, With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule, For an upper class boy in the National School. Jessy ransack'd the house, popped her breeks on, and when so Disguised, bolted off with her beau—one Lorenzo, An "Unthrift," who lost not a moment in whisking Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin. Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket, And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet, Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing, And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing, Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest; And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded, For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did; But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way, The defunct Mr. P., who was now turned to clay, Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant, Left but a queer sort of "Last will and testament,"— Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land, &c., from motives one don't understand, As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing, To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing! Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid; In one of three caskets her picture she hid, And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid. Now you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say, Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day, Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact, Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing, Three months had gone by ere he reach'd the fifth act; Meanwhile, that unfortunate bill became due, Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew, And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew, For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do; (The bitter old Israelite would not renew), What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and embargoes, his Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies, None of the set having come into port, And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport. The serious news Of this step of the Jew's, And his fix'd resolution all terms to refuse, Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of "the Blues," Especially, too, as it came from the pen Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,—then, When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen. "Dear Friend," it continued, "all's up with me—I Have nothing on earth now to do but to die! And, as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor; I should take it as kind Could you come—never mind— Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack, Made a bow to his mistress, then jump'd on its back, Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack. The Signora soon followed herself, taking as her Own escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthazar. "The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met, The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!" As Captain Macheath says,—and when one's in debt, The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know, Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose, As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes, They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose; Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state, With his waistcoat unbutton'd, prepared for the knife, Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life; —On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor, And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before, Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands, With his scales and his great snicker-snee in his hands; —Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands, With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer, Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer, Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his possible To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline, And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine, Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine, Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line. But vain are all efforts to soften him—still He points to the bond He so often has conn'd, And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will. tb THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse, Says, "I can say no more—let the law take its course." Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew, As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel, With a business-like air was beginning to feel Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal, When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel. "Stay, Shylock," says he, "Here's one thing—you see This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood! —the words are 'A pound of flesh,'—that's clear as mud— Slice away, then, old fellow—but mind!—if you spill One drop of his claret that's not in your bill, I'll hang you like Haman!—by Jingo I will!" When apprized of this flaw, You never yet saw Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw As in Shylock, who cried, "Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"— —Off went his three hats, And he look'd as the cats Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw. "—Ish't the law?"—why the thing won't admit of a query— "No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act; Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri— Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt, The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet. See Foscari's 'Statutes at large'—'If a Stranger A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger, The whole of his property, little or great, Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State, And one to the person pursued by his hate; And, not to create Any farther debate, The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.' So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy! Defendant and Plaintiff are now wisy wersy." What need to declare How pleased they all were At so joyful an end to so sad an affair? Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken, His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?— How Shylock got shaved, and turn'd Christian, though late, To save a life-int'rest in half his estate?— How the dandified Lawyer, who'd managed the thing, Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring Which Mrs. Bassanio had giv'n to her spouse, With injunctions to keep it, on leaving the house?— All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat, But a story spun out so's by no means a treat, So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains I have taken to rummage among his remains, No edition of Shakspeare, I've met with, contains; But, if the account which I've heard be the true one, We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one. In an MS., then, sold For its full weight in gold, And knock'd down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain, Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain; Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again, Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main, Became known by the name of the "Flower of Dumblane." That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen, Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine, And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint, Acquired the well-merited prefix of "Saint," And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount, Having given him a patent, and made him a Count, He went over to England, got nat'ralis'd there, And espous'd a rich heiress in Hanover Square. That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew, But converted, I think may be possibly true, But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver, By changing the y in his name into er, Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up, And in Seventeen-twenty-eight make him a Bishop, I cannot believe—but shall still think them two men Till some Sage proves the fact "with his usual acumen." Moral. From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard If an Editor can't draw a moral.—'Tis clear, To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches, "You're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches!" Monied men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants it schools To look well to assets—nor play with edge-tools! Last of all, this remarkable History shews men, What caution they need when they deal with old-clothesmen! So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary, And never let one of them come down the are'! FOOTNOTES: Nec imbellem feroces Progenerant aquilÆ columbam.—Hor. From St. Mark to St. Lawrence—from the Rialto to the Escurial—from one Peninsula to another!—it is but a hop, step, and jump—your toe at Genoa, your heel at Marseilles, and a good hearty spring pops you down at once in the very heart of Old Castille. That Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby, then a young man, was at Madrid soon after the peace of Ryswick, there is extant a long correspondence of his to prove. Various passages in it countenance the supposition that his tour was partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion is much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters, addressed, in after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then acting in the capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Although the Knight spent several months in Spain, and visited many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having actually "seen Seville," beyond the internal evidence incidentally supplied by the following legend. The events to which it alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date, though the genealogical records of the "Kings of both the Indies" have been in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing their precise date, and even Mr. Simpkinson's research has failed to determine which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand is the hero of the legend. The conglomeration of Christian names usual in the families of the haute noblesse of Spain adds to the difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of That a splendid specimen of the genus Homo, species Monk, flourished in the earlier moiety of the 15th century, under the appellation of Torquemada, is notorious,—and this fact might seem to establish the era of the story; but then his name was John—not Dominic—though he was a Dominican, and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have originated—but then again the Spanish Queen to whom he was Confessor was called Isabella, and not Blanche—it is a puzzling affair altogether. From his own silence on the subject, it may well be doubted whether the worthy transcriber knew, himself, the date of the transactions he has recorded; the authenticity of the details, however, cannot be well called in question.—Be this as it may, I shall make no further question, but at once introduce my "pensive public" to |
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