uch types as "Titus Andronicus" or "Troilus and
Cressida," or so mercilessly mutilate the old drama "King Leir."

Gervinus endeavors to prove that Shakespeare possessed the feeling of
beauty, "Schoenheit's sinn," but all Gervinus's proofs prove only that he
himself, Gervinus, is completely destitute of it. In Shakespeare
everything is exaggerated: the actions are exaggerated, so are their
consequences, the speeches of the characters are exaggerated, and
therefore at every step the possibility of artistic impression is
interfered with. Whatever people may say, however they may be enraptured
by Shakespeare's works, whatever merits they may attribute to them, it
is perfectly certain that he was not an artist and that his works are
not artistic productions. Without the sense of measure, there never was
nor can be an artist, as without the feeling of rhythm there can not be
a musician. Shakespeare might have been whatever you like, but he was
not an artist.

"But one should not forget the time at which Shakespeare wrote," say his
admirers. "It was a time of cruel and coarse habits, a time of the then
fashionable euphemism, _i.e._, artificial way of expressing oneself--a
time of forms of life strange to us, and therefore, to judge about
Shakespeare, one should have in view the time when he wrote. In Homer,
as in Shakespeare, there is much which is strange to us, but this does
not prevent us from appreciating the beauties of Homer," say these
admirers. But in comparing Shakespeare with Homer, as does Gervinus,
that infinite distance which separates true poetry from its semblance
manifests itself with especial force. However distant Homer is from us,
we can, without the slightest effort, transport ourselves into the life
he describes, and we can thus transport ourselves because, however alien
to us may be the events Homer describes, he believes in what he says and
speaks seriously, and therefore he never exaggerates, and the sense of
measure never abandons him. This is the reason why, not to speak of the
wonderfully distinct, lifelike, and beautiful characters of Achilles,
Hector, Priam, Odysseus, and the eternally touching scenes of Hector's
leave-taking, of Priam's embassy, of Odysseus's return, and others--the
whole of the "Iliad" and still more the "Odyssey" are so humanly near to
us that we feel as if we ourselves had lived, and are living, among its
gods and heroes. Not so with Shakespeare. From his first words,
exaggera