Yes.And he said it; said it all the time, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, and dog watch; and probably kept it going in his sleep.He bought the literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four times traversed in every thirty-five days--the time required by that swift boat to achieve two round trips.We discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at any rate, HE did, and Igot in a word now and then when he slipped a cog and there was a vacancy.He did his arguing with heat, with energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reverse and moderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house and is perched forty feet above the water.He was fiercely loyal to Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the pretensions of the Baconians.So was I--at first.And at first he was glad that that was my attitude.There were even indications that he admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a compliment--compliment coming down from about the snow-line and not well thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable complement, and precious.
Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if possible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if possible--that I was before.And so we discussed and discussed, both on the same side, and were happy.
For a while.Only for a while.Only for a very little while, a very, very, very little while.Then the atmosphere began to change; began to cool off.
A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes.You see, he was of an argumentative disposition.Therefore it took him but a little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with everything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing REASONING.That was his name for it.It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several times, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle.On the Shakespeare side.
Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me when principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to each other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over to the other side.Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the requirements of the case.That is to say, I took this attitude--to wit, I only BELIEVED Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I KNEW Shakespeare didn't.Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose.Study, practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled me to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly; finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly.After that I was welded to my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked down with compassion not unmixed with scorn upon everybody else's faith that didn't tally with mine.That faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in that ancient day, remains my faith today, and in it I find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy.You see how curiously theological it is.
The "rice Christian" of the Orient goes through the very same steps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after HIM; he goes for rice, and remains to worship.
Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it.The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name.We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any name at all.They show for themselves what they are, and we can with tranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its own choosing.
Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always getting eight feet, eight and a half, often nine, sometimes even quarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom," as HE said.
I got the best of him only once.I prepared myself.Iwrote out a passage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted awhile ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful interlardings.When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the PENNSYLVANIA triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the A.T.LACEY had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling good, Ishowed it to him.It amused him.I asked him to fire it off--READ it; read it, I diplomatically added, as only HE could read dramatic poetry.The compliment touched him where he lived.He did read it; read it with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read again; for HE know how to put the right music into those thunderous interlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound as if they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each one of them a golden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massed and magnificent whole.
