Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book?
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 I got 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.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305