"Of course, of course," the Spirit cried. "Look you, now, how plain it is. William Drummond of Hawthornden was tinged with the conceits and romances of the Italian school, as was the author of _Romeo and Juliet_. He wrote histories, as did the author of _The History of Henry VII._, attributed to Bacon; as did the author of the historical plays, attributed to Shakespeare. He wrote many reflections on Death, as did the author of the _Sonnets_ and the _Plays_. And who but a Scotsman, I would like you to tell me, could have furnished the local colour and the Scottish character to the tragedy of _Macbeth_?" "Why, man, it's as plain as a pikestaff. The greatest Englishman that ever lived was naturally a Scotsman. The greatest genius of any clime or time was William Drummond of Hawthornden." And, in the frenzy of his exultation, Roderick leaped high again into the air, turned seventeen somersaults in succession, and, alighting upon my nose, danced a wild Highland fling of triumph and defiance. It was certainly very plausible--as plausible, at least, as any argument that I had heard in support of the theory that Bacon wrote Shakespeare's _Plays_. I was almost persuaded: then a difficulty occurred to me. "But," I said, "Drummond of Hawthornden was not born till 1585, and some of Shakespeare's _Plays_ appear to have been produced before 1593." "Well," answered the Spirit, carelessly sticking his sword into my nose and sitting on it, "what has age to do with genius? Has not another poet said, 'He was not of an age, but for all time'? Besides, the Scottish are a precocious people and byordinar'. And furthermore, who told you that Drummond was born in '85?" "English history says so." "English history!" answered the Spirit, with a sneer; "try Scotch." "But," I still objected, "if Shakespeare wrote nothing, why did Ben Jonson, who knew him well, praise his wit and his 'gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped'?" "Well," said Roderick, "and who said that Shakespeare wrote nothing? I only said he did not write Shakespeare's _Works_. But he wrote other poetry--poetry which everybody knows--poetry as familiar in every child's mouth as butterscotch. There is nothing finer of its kind." "It is strange," I muttered, "that I have never heard of it." "What?" cried the Spirit, "never heard of 'Little Jack Horner'? Little Jack Horner sat in a corner Eating a Christmas pie; He pulled out a plum with his finger and thumb, And said "What a good boy am I!" "And is that Shakespeare's?" I exclaimed.