For, granting to Mr. Greenwood {45a} that “the mention of Delphos suggests the Bohemia of a much earlier date, and under the reign of Ottocar (1255-78) Bohemia extended from the Adriatic to the shores of the Baltic,” that only makes matters far worse.  “Delphos” never was a place-name; there was no oracle on the isle of “Delphos”; there were no Oracles in 1255-78 (A.D.); and Perdita, who could have sat for her portrait to Giulio Romano, was contemporary with an Oracle at Delphos, but not with Ottocar.

There never was so mad a mixture, not even in Ivanhoe; not even in Kenilworth.  Scott erred deliberately, as he says in his prefaces; but Will took the insular oracle of Delphos from Greene, inserted Giulio Romano “for his personal diversion,” never heard of Ottocar (no more than I), and made a delightful congeries of errors in gaiety of heart.  Nobody shall convince me that Francis Bacon was so charmingly irresponsible; but I cannot speak so confidently of Mr. Greenwood’s Great Unknown, a severe scholar, but perhaps a frisky soul.  There was no region called Bohemia when the Delphic oracle was in vigour;—­this apology (apparently contrived by Sir Edward Sullivan) is the most comic of erudite reflections.

Some cruel critic has censured the lovely speech of Perdita, concerning the flowers which Proserpine let fall, when she was carried off by Dis.  How could she, brought up in the hut of a Bohemian shepherd, know anything of the Rape of Proserpine?  Why not, as she lived in the days of the Delphic Oracle—­and Giulio Romano, and of printed ballads.

It is impossible, Baconians cry, that the rabbit-stealer, brought up among the Audreys and Jaquenettas of Warwickshire, should have created the noble and witty ladies of the Court; and known the style of his Armado; and understood how dukes and kings talk among themselves—­usually in blank verse, it appears.

It is impossible that the home-keeping yokel should have heard of the “obscure” (sic!) Court of Navarre; and known that at Venice there was a place called the Rialto, and a “common ferry” called “the tranect.”  It is impossible that he should have had “an intimate knowledge of the castle of Elsinore,” though an English troupe of actors visited Denmark in 1587.  To Will all this knowledge was impossible; for these and many more exquisite reasons the yokel’s authorship of the plays is a physical impossibility.  But scholars neither invent nor tolerate such strange liberties with time and place, with history, geography, and common sense.  Will Shakspere either did not know what was right, or, more probably, did not care, and supposed, like Fielding in the old anecdote, that the audience “would not find it out.”  How could a scholar do any of these things?  He was as incapable of them as Ben Jonson.  Such sins no scholar is inclined to; they have, for him, no temptations.

As to Shakspere’s schooling, the Baconians point at the current ignorance of Stratford-on-Avon, where many topping burgesses, even aldermen, “made their marks,” in place of signing their names to documents.  Shakespeare’s father, wife, and daughter “made their marks,” in place of signing.  So did Lady Jane Gordon, daughter of the Earl of Huntly, when she married the cultivated Earl of Bothwell (1566).