Our
reverence is given to the writer of certain plays and sonnets. To that
second-rate actor, because we believe he wrote those plays and
sonnets, we give that reverence. But our belief is not such as we give
to the proposition that one and two make three. It is a belief that
has to be upheld by argument when it is assailed. When a man says to
us that one and two make four, we smile and are silent. But when he
argues, point by point, that in Bacon's life and writings there is
nothing to show that Bacon might not have written the plays and
sonnets, and that there is much to show that he did write them, and
that in what we know about Shakespeare there is little evidence that
Shakespeare wrote those works, and much evidence that he did not write
them, then we pull ourselves together, marshalling all our facts and
all out literary discernment, so as to convince our interlocutor of
his error. But why should we not do our task urbanely? The cyphers,
certainly, are stupid and tedious things, deserving no patience. But
the more intelligent Baconians spurn them as airily as do you or I.
Our case is not so strong that the arguments of these gentlemen can be
ignored; and naughty temper does but hamper us in the task of
demolition. If Bacon were proved to have written Shakespeare's plays
and sonnets, would mankind be robbed of one of those illusions which
are necessary to its happiness and welfare? If so, we have a good
excuse for browbeating the poor Baconians.
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