“Upon my word, Harrington,” said Wentworth, “that’s an astonishing thing for you to say!”
“It’s the truth, nevertheless,” replied Harrington, smiling.
“But the facts of Shakspeare’s life are against you,” rejoined Wentworth.
“Well, you must reconcile them as you can,” said Harrington. “Meanwhile, there is the indestructible truth. All history, all facts, all reason testify to it. It is so.”
“But look here, Harrington,” said the amazed Wentworth. “On the one hand, you infer that a man of Shakspeare’s genius must have been a statesman. On the other hand, is the plain fact that Shakspeare was nothing of the sort. Now, therefore, we must at once conclude that your inference is wrong.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Harrington.
“Not necessarily?” Wentworth laughed, and fixed his eyes with a puzzled look upon the floor. “Well, I don’t see how you can escape from so obvious a conclusion. Now, let me state it again. In the first place, who wrote the plays?”
Receiving no answer, Wentworth looked up, and saw Harrington gazing with rapt affection on the noble bust of Verulam. For a moment the young artist held his breath in utter stupefaction; then a deep flush burned upon his face, and he laughed immoderately. Harrington colored, but took his friend’s merriment, as he took everything, good-naturedly, and sat smiling at him.
“Bravo!” cried Wentworth, at length. “Another sacrifice to the idol! Now, Harrington, I can’t swallow the idea, that the idol wrote Shakspeare’s plays, but, for goodness’ sake do publish it! It will make such a jolly row. By Jupiter! what fun it will be to see all the steady old ink-pots fizzing into vitriol bottles, and foaming over on to your idea! Do publish it.”
“One of these days, Richard,” said Harrington, gently. “But I don’t think Verulam alone wrote the plays. He had help from others—and some of them came from a lower order of mind than his. But in all the great plays his intellect and design are visible. However, let it pass, and in the meantime, say nothing about it to any one, for till it can come with solid proof, it will meet with no favor from the Jedburgh justice of a world that hangs your thought first, and tries it afterward. But for your own sake, I wish you could believe that this great poet could not have been the poet he was, if he had not been concerned in everything that concerns mankind. Especially must he have cherished the idea of political liberty, for without that, poet or artist can be but little.”