done, and said the thing of all others I should not have said. I expressed
a fear that I had been standing in such a manner as to prevent her from
seeing Shylock; she bowed mildly, and was, I believe, going to speak.

"You have indeed, sir," interrupted Mrs. Coates, "stood so that nobody
could see nothing but yourself. So, since you mention it, and speak without
an introduction, excuse me if I suggest, against the next act, that this
young lady has never been at a play before in her life--in Lon'on, at
least. And though it i'n't the play I should have chose for her, yet since
she is here, 'tis better she should see something than nothing, if
gentlemen will give her leave." I bowed in sign of submission and
repentance; and was retiring, so as to leave my place vacant, and a full
opening to the stage. But in a sweet, gentlewomanlike voice, seeming,
perhaps, more delightful from contrast, the young lady said that she had
seen and could see quite as much as she wished of the play; and she begged
that I would not quit my place. "I should oblige her," she added, in a
lower tone, "if I would continue to stand as I had done." I obeyed, and
placed myself so as to screen her from observation during the whole of the
next act. But now, my pleasure in the play was over. I could no longer
enjoy Macklin's incomparable acting; I was so apprehensive of the pain
which it must give to the young Jewess. At every stroke, characteristic of
the skilful actor, or of the master poet, I felt a strange mixture of
admiration and regret. I almost wished that Shakspeare had not written, or
Macklin had not acted the part so powerfully: my imagination formed such a
strong conception of the pain the Jewess was feeling, and my inverted
sympathy, if I may so call it, so overpowered my direct and natural
feelings, that at every fresh development of the Jew's villany I shrunk as
though I had myself been a Jew.

Each exclamation against this dog of a Jew, and still more every general