As I have already
shown, his works give the lie to this flattering fiction, which in all
parts is of course absolutely incredible. It is your Tennyson, who is of
his time and in perfect sympathy with it; Tennyson, with his May Queens,
prig heroes and syrupy creed, who passes through life as a conqueror,
and after death is borne in state to rest in the great Abbey.
The Shakespeares, not being of an age, but for all time, have another
guess sort of reception. From the moment young Will came to London, he
was treated as an upstart, without gentle birth or college training: to
Greene he was "Maister of Artes in Neither University." He won through,
and did his work; but he never could take root in life; his children
perished out of the land. He was in high company on sufferance. On the
stage he met the highest, Essex, Pembroke, Southampton, on terms of
equality; but at court he stood among the menials and was despitefully
treated. Let no one misunderstand me: I should delight in painting the
other picture if there were any truth in it: I should have joyed in
showing how the English aristocracy for this once threw off their
senseless pride and hailed the greatest of men at least as an equal.
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