“I doubt not he would perform still better at the whipping post, where such knaves more truly belong,” said the Master of Balliol, taking a prodigious pinch of snuff from the box of the Dean. “But as you say, Francis, let the rogue set up his booth in the city, and thither we will repair of an afternoon. We can then judge for ourselves what it is that the taste of Gloriana the peerless approves.” Thus it happened that Gervase and Anne, who had been stowed away in a corner of the gallery out of the sight of the multitude, were able to gaze directly down upon these three grave and serious gentlemen, who were seated upon the stage itself. Grave and serious they might be. Yet as they decked the proscenium, their demeanor was spiced with not a little levity. Not only their surroundings, but the whole of that which was taking place, seemed to provide food for their sly mirth. Gervase had marked one of the three in particular immediately upon his entrance. “I know that man,” he whispered to Anne. “Yes, the fellow in the feathered bonnet and the blue cloak. He is always about the Court. Sit close, dear soul. He’s got the eye of a hawk, but, thank God, he won’t look to see me like this.” Indeed, Mr. Francis Bacon had eyes for nothing save the comedy that was being performed for his benefit. Greatly condescending, the future Lord Chancellor had come in the company of two learned pundits with no better intention than to deride the piece and its author. Now there never was yet a critic since the world began who accosts an author in such a mood who has the least difficulty in making good his intention. If the man has wit, he lacks propriety. If he has invention, he lacks art. If his writing is marvelously alive, it is of course barbarous. If it is poetical, it is not true to nature. If it should happen to be true to nature, the whole performance is so flat, stale and mediocre as to be unworthy of the pains spent upon it. Whichever way the author turns, the critic is ready for him. Every merit he possesses serves as a fresh weapon to assail him. Had these gentlemen had the good fortune to live two hundred years later, when the reputation of the author was already secure, they would have been among the first to make him the standard of comparison. It would have then been quite legitimate to admire “The Merchant of Venice,” and even to have taken credit for doing so. But how was it possible for men of polite learning to treat seriously the production of a shabby fellow who took your half-crown at the entrance to the inn yard? Yet, in spite of themselves, Mr. Francis Bacon and his two august friends were not a little diverted by the briskness of the piece. But any entertainment there was to be derived from it had, of course, to be laid to the door of the actors. The acting was undoubtedly excellent, but the less said of the play, the better.