[25. The Merchant of Venice.  Med Indledning og Anmaerkninger ved
    Chr.  Collin.  Kristiania. 1902.]

Collin is a critic of rare insight.  Accordingly, although he says nothing new in his discussion of the purport and content of the play, he makes the old story live anew.  He images Shakespeare in the midst of his materials—­how he found them, how he gave them life and being.  The section on Shakespeare’s language is not so solid and scientific as Wiesener’s, but his discussion of Shakespeare’s versification is both longer and more valuable than Wiesener’s fragmentary essay, and Shakespeare’s relation to his sources is treated much more suggestively.

He points out, first of all, that in Shakespeare’s “classical” plays the characters of high rank commonly use verse and those of low rank, prose.  This is, however, not a law.  The real principle of the interchange of prose and verse is in the emotions to be conveyed.  Where these are tense, passionate, exalted, they are communicated in verse; where they are ordinary, commonplace, they are expressed in prose.  This rule will hold both for characters of high station and for the most humble.  In Act I, for example, Portia speaks in prose to her maid “obviously because Shakespeare would lower the pitch and reduce the suspense.  In the following scene, the conversation between Shylock and Bassanio begins in prose.  But as soon as Antonio appears, Shylock’s emotions are roused to their highest pitch, and his speech turns naturally to verse—­even though he is alone and his speech an aside.  A storm of passions sets his mind and speech in rhythmic motion.  And from that point on, the conversations of Shylock, Bassanio, and Antonio are in verse.  In short, rhythmic speech when there is a transition to strong, more dramatic feeling.”

The use of prose or verse depends, then, on the kind and depth of feeling rather than on the characters.  “In Act II Launcelot Gobbo and his father are the only ones who employ prose.  All the others speak in verse—­even the servant who tells of Bassanio’s arrival.  Not only that, but he speaks in splendid verse even though he is merely announcing a messenger:” 

          “Yet have I not seen
  So likely an ambassador of love,” etc.

Again, in Lear, the servant who protests against Cornwall’s cruelty to Gloster, nameless though he is, speaks in noble and stately lines: 

        Hold your hand, my lord;
  I’ve served you ever since I was a child;
  But better service have I never done you
  Than now to bid you hold.

When the dramatic feeling warrants it, the humblest rise to the highest poetry.  The renaissance was an age of deeper, mightier feelings than our own, and this intense life speaks in verse, for only thus can it adequately express itself.

All this is romantic enough.  But it is to be doubted if the men of the renaissance were so different from us that they felt an instinctive need of bursting into song.  The causes of the efflorescence of Elizabethan dramatic poetry are not, I think, to be sought in such subtleties as these.