profitably for me, because he constantly injected commands into
the text. That broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all
up–to that degree, in fact, that if we were in a risky and
difficult piece of river an ignorant person couldn’t have told,
sometimes, which observations were Shakespeare’s and which were
Ealer’s. For instance:
What man dare, _I_ dare!
Approach thou WHAT are you laying in the leads for? what a
hell of an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her
off! rugged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the THERE she
goes! meet her, meet her! didn’t you KNOW she’d smell the reef if
you crowded in like that? Hyrcan tiger; take any ship but that
and my firm nerves she’ll be in the WOODS the first you know!
stop he starboard! come ahead strong on the larboard! back the
starboard! . . . NOW then, you’re all right; come ahead on the
starboard; straighten up and go ‘long, never tremble: or be
alive again, and dare me to the desert DAMNATION can’t you keep
away from that greasy water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch
her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay
in the leads!–no, only with the starboard one, leave the other
alone, protest me the baby of a girl. Hence horrible shadow!
eight bells–that watchman’s asleep again, I reckon, go down and
call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence!
He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and
stormy and 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 more prejudiced against
Bacon–if possible–that I was before. And so we discussed
and discussed, both on the same side, and were happy.