There has been no necessity for stating that Sara supposes herself the widow of a libel on his sex, a man unspeakable; and the moment I hear he is, or was, a man of crime unspeakable, I know he will turn up.  Shylock having gone away,—­I do not know where,—­up comes a gondola to the front-door, and, of course, in walks Sarah’s husband.  “Good evening, Ma’am,” says he.  “God of Israel!” says she.  And then such an explanation as this infamous husband gives!  He puts in, that he is a pirate; that his captain, whom he describes as a Venus en corsaire, has lost a son, and wants another; hence speaker, name Arnheim, wants that little Israelite who is so much like Abel and Moses at one and the same moment:  though how Arnheim should know of that little creation, or how he should know him to be also like the lost infantile pirate as well as Abel and Moses, does not sufficiently appear,—­as, indeed, my neighbor, who is suggestive of a Greek Chorus in a blue blouse, discovers in half a dozen disparaging syllables.

Of course, when the supposed widow hears this, her cries ought to wake up all hearing Venice, but not one Venetian comes to her aid; and though she uses her two hands enough for twenty, she has not got her way when thoroughly breathed.

“Sarah,” says that energetic woman’s husband, “Sarah, don’t be a fool!”

Then I know the baby is coming:  there never yet was a French prologue without a baby,—­it seems a French unity; sometimes there are two babies, who always get mixed up.  But to our business.

Out comes the baby, (they never scream,) and—­alas that for effect he should thus commit himself!—­Arnheim rips Sarah up, and down she goes as dead as the Queen of Sheba.

Then comes a really fine scene.  Shylock enters, learns all; in come soldiers for Shylock, and, of course, accuse him of the murder; whereupon Shylock shows on the blade a cross.  “Doth a Jew wear a knife with a cross on it?” says he.  “Go to!—­’tis a Christian murder.”

To this the soldier-head has nothing to say; so he hurries Shylock off to prison, and down comes the curtain.

“Hum!” says the Greek Chorus,—­“it might be worse.”

ACT I.

It is clear there must be lady characters, or I am quite sure the Greek Chorus would find fault wofully,—­and the only one we have had, Sarah, to wit, can’t decently appear again, except in the spiritual form.  Well, there is the original Portia,—­alas for that clever, virtuous, and noble lady!—­how is she fallen in the French!—­she is noble-looking and clever,—­but the third quality, oh, dear me!  This disreputable is named Imperia, and the real Bassanio becomes one Honorius, who is, as he should be, the bosom friend of one Andronic, which is Antonio, I would have you know.  I have thought over it two minutes, and have come to the conclusion that the less I say about Imperia the better, and I know the Anglo-Saxon would not agree with Imperia,—­but, as the Frenchman does, I offer you one, or part of one of Imperia’s songs, as bought by me for two disgraceful sous.