its own condition, or an admiration of what is strange:  all this determines and disposes them unfavourably even towards the best things of the world which are not their property or could not become their prey—­and no faculty is more unintelligible to such men than just this historical sense, with its truckling, plebeian curiosity.  The case is not different with Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of AEschylus would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation:  but we—­accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley of the most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement of art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as little disturbed by the repulsive fumes and the proximity of the English populace in which Shakespeare’s art and taste lives, as perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses awake, we go our way, enchanted and voluntarily, in spite of the drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town.  That as men of the “historical sense” we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:—­ we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, very complaisant—­but with all this we are perhaps not very “tasteful.”  Let us finally confess it, that what is most difficult for us men of the “historical sense” to grasp, feel, taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity in every culture and art, the essentially noble in works and men, their moment of smooth sea and halcyon self-sufficiency, the goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected themselves.  Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is in necessary contrast to good taste, at least to the very bad taste; and we can only evoke in ourselves imperfectly, hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and there:  those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless and infinite,—­when a super-abundance of refined delight has been enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying, by standing firmly and planting oneself fixedly on still trembling ground.  PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to ourselves; our itching is really the itching for the infinite, the immeasurable.  Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we let the reins fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi-barbarians—­and are only in our highest bliss when we—­are in most danger.