of Shakespeare’s judgment, his implacable and impeccable righteousness of instinct and of insight, was too deeply ingrained in the very core of his genius to be perverted by any provincial or pseudo-patriotic prepossessions; his patriotism was too national to be provincial.  Assuredly no poet ever had more than he:  not even the king of men and poets who fought at Marathon and sang of Salamis:  much less had any or has any one of our own, from Milton on to Campbell and from Campbell even to Tennyson.  In the mightiest chorus of King Henry V. we hear the pealing ring of the same great English trumpet that was yet to sound over the battle of the Baltic, and again in our later day over a sea-fight of Shakespeare’s own, more splendid and heart-cheering in its calamity than that other and all others in their triumph; a war-song and a sea-song divine and deep as death or as the sea, making thrice more glorious at once the glorious three names of England, of Grenville, and of Tennyson for ever.  From the affectation of cosmopolitan indifference not AEschylus, not Pindar, not Dante’s very self was more alien or more free than Shakespeare; but there was nothing of the dry Tyrtaean twang, the dull mechanic resonance as of wooden echoes from a platform, in the great historic chord of his lyre.  “He is very English, too English, even,” says the Master on whom his enemies alone—­assuredly not his most loving, most reverent, and most thankful disciples—­might possibly and plausibly retort that he was “very French, too French, even”; but he certainly was not “too English” to see and cleave to the main fact, the radical and central truth, of personal or national character, of typical history or tradition, without seeking to embellish, to degrade, in either or in any way to falsify it.  From king to king, from cardinal to cardinal, from the earliest in date of subject to the latest of his histories, we find the same thread running, the same link of honourable and righteous judgment, of equitable and careful equanimity, connecting and combining play with play in an unbroken and infrangible chain of evidence to the singleness of the poet’s eye, the identity of the workman’s hand, which could do justice and would do no more than justice, alike to Henry and to Wolsey, to Pandulph and to John.  His typical English hero or historic protagonist is a man of their type who founded and built up the empire of England in India; a hero after the future pattern of Hastings and of Clive; not less daringly sagacious and not more delicately scrupulous, not less indomitable or more impeccable than they.  A type by no means immaculate, a creature not at all too bright and good for English nature’s daily food in times of mercantile or military enterprise; no whit more if no whit less excellent and radiant than reality. Amica Britannia, sed magis amica veritas.  The master poet of England—­all Englishmen may reasonably and honourably be proud of it—­has not two weights and two measures for friend and foe.  This palpable and patent fact, as his only and worthy French translator has well remarked, would of itself suffice to exonerate his memory from the imputation of having perpetrated in its evil entirety The First Part of King Henry VI.