When George Lyman Kittredge stalked jauntily out of Harvard 6 one mild May morning last spring, crowds collected to stamp and cheer, and many an official camera snapped busily. For more than a generation Mr. Kittredge had brought Shakspere to Harvard men, stripping the peet of four centuries' integument of other people's criticism, and clothing him in the vestments of that royal Elizabethan age in which he lived. So crowds gathered to honor the passing, with Mr. Kittredge's retirement, of a great Harvard tradition-English 2.
But nobody thought that when Kitty stomped out of Harvard Hall he'd from the shelf the precious Shakspere stol'n and put him in his pocket. After all, Shakspere is the immortal bard who depends not on a single man for his interpretation today-a single man whose little life, as far as his plays go, is decidedly not rounded with a sleep. Could the retirment of one great teacher mean the passing of Shakspere from Harvard College?
Until yesterday we didn't think so. But today we do. For the undergraduates, judging by what we've heard, have sunk to a state of bestial oblivion as far as the bard is concerned, and Harvard Hall, despite the English department's effect to fill in the gap, is cold,-bare ruined choirs where late the sweet bird sang.
A tutor assigned "Hamlet" as a week's reading. When his tutee reported, the subject of Hamlet's madness came up for discussion. "There are three characters in the play who have theories about Hamlet's madness"' said the tutor, "The King Claudius, Polonius, and the Queen".
"No, sir," said the tutee, "The King, Claudius, Polonius, and the Queen make four."