There is one rather interesting case.  On August 25, 1594, Henslowe enters “ne” (that is, “a new play”) “Received at the Venesyon Comodey, eighteen pence.”  That was his share of the receipts.  The Lord Chamberlain’s Company, that of Shakespeare, was playing in Henslowe’s theatre at Newington Butts.  If the “Venesyon Comodey” (Venetian Comedy) were The Merchant of Venice, this is the first mention of it.  But nobody knows what Henslowe meant by “the Venesyon Comodey.”  He does not mention the author’s name, because, in this part of his accounts he never does mention the author or authors.  He only names them when he buys from, or lends to, or has other money dealings with the authors.  He had none with Shakespeare, hence the Silence of Philip Henslowe.

CHAPTER IX:  THE LATER LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE—­HIS MONUMENT AND PORTRAITS

In the chapter on the Preoccupations of Bacon the reader may find help in making up his mind as to whether Bacon, with his many and onerous duties and occupations, his scientific studies, and his absorbing scientific preoccupation, is a probable author of the Shakespearean plays.  Mr. Greenwood finds the young Shakspere impossible—­because of his ignorance—­which made him such a really good pseudo-author, and such a successful mask for Bacon, or Bacon’s unknown equivalent.  The Shakspere of later life, the well-to-do Shakspere, the purchaser of the right to bear arms; so bad at paying one debt at least; so eager a creditor; a would-be encloser of a common; a man totally bookless, is, to Mr. Greenwood’s mind, an impossible author of the later plays.

Here, first, are moral objections on the ground of character as revealed in some legal documents concerning business.  Now, I am very ready to confess that William’s dealings with his debtors, and with one creditor, are wholly unlike what I should expect from the author of the plays.  Moreover, the conduct of Shelley in regard to his wife was, in my opinion, very mean and cruel, and the last thing that we could have expected from one who, in verse, was such a tender philanthropist, and in life was—­women apart—­the best-hearted of men.  The conduct of Robert Burns, alas, too often disappoints the lover of his Cottar’s Saturday Night and other moral pieces.  He was an inconsistent walker.

I sincerely wish that Shakespeare had been less hard in money matters, just as I wish that in financial matters Scott had been more like himself, that he had not done the last things that we should have expected him to do.  As a member of the Scottish Bar it was inconsistent with his honour to be the secret proprietor of a publishing and a printing business.  This is the unexplained moral paradox in the career of a man of chivalrous honour and strict probity:  but the fault did not prevent Scott from writing his novels and poems.  Why, then, should the few bare records of Shakspere’s monetary transactions make his authorship impossible?  The objection seems weakly sentimental.