The Spirit began by asking whether I regarded Shakespeare as the greatest poet that ever lived, or as the meanest sweater that ever exploited the gifts of the helpless poor—meaning in this case Francis Bacon.
I responded that I did not think Bacon a man of that sort.
"Well," continued the Spirit, "do you think that a man who could scarcely write his own name could write Hamlet?"
"It is a nice point," I said.
"Very well," said the Spirit, dancing a series of fantastic Highland flings in the unsubstantial air, and turning a double somersault at the finish; "if, as everybody admits, Bacon was one of the blackest scoundrels that ever lived, his mind could not have conceived the noble philosophy to which his name is attached. And if Shakespeare, as the signature to his will shows, could scarcely write his own name, he could not have written his own Plays."
"Same again," said I.
"Besides which," continued the Spirit, "neither Shakespeare nor Bacon was a Scotsman."
"That settles 'em," quoth I.
"Now, look at here," continued the Spirit, aggressively shaking his forefinger under my nose; "whoever wrote Shakespeare's Plays must have written Shakespeare's Sonnets."