fact that I never learned to write; a glance at the first folios of the
plays attributed to me will likewise show that I never learned to spell;
and yet I walked into London with one of the most exquisite poems in the
English language in my pocket. I am still filled with merriment over it.
How was it, the critics of the years since have asked--how was it that
this untutored little savage from leafy Warwickshire, with no training
and little education, came into London with "Venus and Adonis" in
manuscript in his pocket? It is quite evident that the critic fraternity
have no Sherlock Holmes in their midst. It would not take much of an
eye, a true detective's eye, to see the milk in that cocoanut, for it
is but a simple tale after all. The way of it was this: On my way
from Stratford to London I walked through Coventry, and I remained in
Coventry overnight. I was ill-clad and hungry, and, having no money with
which to pay for my supper, I went to the Royal Arms Hotel and offered
my services as porter for the night, having noted that a rich cavalcade
from London, en route to Kenilworth, had arrived unexpectedly at the
Royal Arms. Taken by surprise, and, therefore, unprepared to accommodate
so many guests, the landlord was glad to avail himself of my services,
and I was assigned to the position of boots. Among others whom I served
was Walter Raleigh, who, noting my ragged condition and hearing what a
roisterer and roustabout I had been, immediately took pity upon me, and
gave me a plum-colored court-suit with which he was through, and which
I accepted, put upon my back, and next day wore off to London. It was
in the pocket of this that I found the poem of "Venus and Adonis." That
poem, to keep myself from starving, I published when I reached London,
sending a complimentary copy of course to my benefactor. When Raleigh
saw it he was naturally surprised but gratified, and on his return to
London he sought me out, and suggested the publication of his sonnets.
I was the first man he'd met, he said, who was willing to publish his
stuff on his own responsibility. I immediately put out some of the
sonnets, and in time was making a comfortable living, publishing the
anonymous works of most of the young bucks about town, who paid well for
my imprint. That the public chose to think the works were mine was none
of my fault. I never claimed them, and the line on the title-page, "By
William Shakespeare," had reference to the publisher only,