tragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been
able to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of his
explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant,
"What in hell are you up to NOW! pull her down! more! MORE!--there now,
steady as you go," and the other disorganizing interruptions that were
always leaping from his mouth. When I read Shakespeare now I can hear
them as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years
ago. I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational. Indeed, they were
a detriment to me.

His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that
detail he was a good reader; I can say that much for him. He did not use
the book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid
ever knew his multiplication table.

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.

Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if
possible--than I was before, and