l in
his veins the throb of the popular blood. There were classic affectations
in England, there were masks and mummeries and classic puerilities at
court and in noble houses--Elizabeth's court would well have liked to be
classical, remarks Guizot--but Shakespeare was not fettered by classic
conventionalities, nor did he obey the unities, nor attempt to separate
on the stage the tragedy and comedy of life--"immense and living stage,"
says the writer I like to quote because he is French, upon which all
things are represented, as it were, in their solid form, and in the place
which they occupied in a stormy and complicated civilization. In these
dramas the comic element is introduced whenever its character of reality
gives it the right of admission and the advantage of opportune
appearance. Falstaff appears in the train of Henry V., and Doll
Tear-Sheet in the train of Falstaff; the people surround the kings, and
the soldiers crowd around their generals; all conditions of society, all
the phases of human destiny appear by turns in juxtaposition, with the
nature which properly belongs to them, and in the position which they
naturally occupy. . . .

"Thus we find the entire world, the whole of human realities, reproduced
by Shakespeare in tragedy, which, in his eyes, was the universal theatre
of life and truth."

It is possible to make a brutal picture of the England of Shakespeare's
day by telling nothing that is not true, and by leaving out much that is
true. M. Taine, who has a theory to sustain, does it by a graphic
catalogue of details and traits that cannot be denied; only there is a
great deal in English society that he does not include, perhaps does not
apprehend. Nature, he thinks, was never so completely acted out. These
robust men give rein to all their passions, delight in the strength of
their limbs like Carmen, indulge in coarse language, undisguised
sensuality, enjoy gross jests, brutal buffooneries. Humanity is as much
lacking as decency. Blood, suffering, does not move them. The court
frequents bull and bear baitings; Elizabeth beats her maids, spits upon a
courtier's fringed coat, boxes Essex's ears; great ladies beat their
children and their servants. "The sixteenth century," he says, "is like a
den of lions. Amid passions so strong as these there is not one lacking.
Nature appears here in all its violence, but also in all its fullness. If
nothing has been softened, nothing has been mutilated. It is the e