He is tragic, bitter, pitiable, wretched and broken among
a robust crowd of Jonsons and Elizabeths; but to me he is not
Shakespear because I miss the Shakespearian irony and the
Shakespearian gaiety. Take these away and Shakespear is no longer
Shakespear: all the bite, the impetus, the strength, the grim delight
in his own power of looking terrible facts in the face with a chuckle,
is gone; and you have nothing left but that most depressing of all
things: a victim. Now who can think of Shakespear as a man with a
grievance? Even in that most thoroughgoing and inspired of all
Shakespear's loves: his love of music (which Mr Harris has been the
first to appreciate at anything like its value), there is a dash of
mockery. "Spit in the hole, man; and tune again." "Divine air! Now
is his soul ravished. Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hale
the souls out of men's bodies?" "An he had been a dog that should
have howled thus, they would have hanged him." There is just as much
Shakespear here as in the inevitable quotation about the sweet south
and the bank of violets.
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