re must be imagination, or pathos, or weirdness, or some form of
humour, or a personal charm in the character that awakens the soul of
Henry Irving and calls forth his best and finest powers. There is little
of that quality in Shylock. But Henry Irving took the high view of him.
This Jew "feeds fat the ancient grudge" against Antonio--until the law
of Portia, more subtle than equitable, interferes to thwart him; but
also he avenges the wrongs that his "sacred nation" has suffered. His
ideal was right, his grasp of it firm, his execution of it flexible with
skill and affluent with intellectual power. If memory carries away a
shuddering thought of his baleful gaze upon the doomed Antonio and of
his horrid cry of the summons "Come, prepare!" it also retains the image
of a father convulsed with grief--momentarily, but sincerely--and of a
man who at least can remember that he once loved. It was a most austere
Shylock, inveterate of purpose, vindictive, malignant, cruel, ruthless;
and yet it was human. No creature was ever more logical and consistent
in his own justification. By purity, sincerity, decorum, fanaticism, the
ideal was aptly suggestive of such men as Robert Catesby, Guy Fawkes,
and John Felton--persons who, with prayer on their lips, were
nevertheless capable of hideous cruelty. The street scene demands
utterance, not repression. The Jew raves there, and no violence would
seem excessive. Macklin, Kean, Cooke, and the elder Booth, each must
have been terrific at that point. Henry Irving's method was that of the
intense passion that can hardly speak--the passion that Kean is said to
have used so grandly in giving the curse of Junius Brutus upon Tarquin.
But, there was just as much of Shylock's nature in Henry Irving's
performance as in any performance that is recorded. The lack was
overwhelming physical power--not mentality and not art. At "No tears but
of my shedding" Henry Irving's Shylock took a strong clutch upon the
emotions and created an effect that will never be forgotten.

Ellen Terry's Portia long ago became a precious memory. The part makes
no appeal to the tragic depths of her nature, but it awakens her fine
sensibility, stimulates the nimble play of her intellect, and cordially
promotes that royal exultation in the affluence of physical vitality and
of spiritual freedom that so often seems to lift her above the common
earth. There have been moments when it seemed not amiss to apply
Shakespeare's own bea