Extracted from the secret diary of a horse-holder, and deciphered for modern reading.
Thursday. April 23, an. dom. 1594. With this my Birth Day I begin a new volume. Well, I am 30. How many more years have I in which to discharge the rich cargo of my mind? Never have I been so laden with notions, and with words, words, words in which to set them free. If I could stop thinking for a little, then I could write as I wish to write: if I could stop writing for a little, then I could think. But thoughts and words tumble in my head so restlessly, day and night, that no sooner does a thought present itself than pat! there comes a line of verse for it. This is not the way to write, this is not the way to think. And I am 30, and have little time left.
May 1. Dick Burbage grows more difficult every day. There are no half-shades in his character, as there are (far too many) in mine. To him a thing is Yes or No. Either a play is a tragedy, in which case all the leading characters must be strangled, poisoned, or stabbed (himself last of all): or it is not a tragedy, in which case they must all marry each other willy-nilly, the villains, if any, repenting at the church door. Also he has this fixed idea that no actor can leave the stage without saying a rhymed couplet first. Nothing in nature corresponds with this; one can leave the stage at any time. Also his notion of humour is hard to bear. The scenes between rustic clowns which he inserts into my plays to tickle the ears of the groundlings are so lacking in true comedy that I can no longer listen to them at rehearsal. When I am not to be found, they say that I am ‘holding a horse for somebody’ outside the theatre. This is because, the first time I got up and left the rehearsal, I made the excuse that I had promised to hold a man’s horse for him. If only I had my own theatre, and could produce and write my plays as I wish to!
On reading this through I see that I might have begun, ‘Will Shakespeare grows more difficult every day.’
May 3. I suddenly found myself writing an Essay this morning. Of Innovations. It is good discipline for me to write prose. Short sentences packed with meaning. No getting carried away by my own music. I must do more of this. I have an idea for one on Youth and Age.
May 10. Dick is a good fellow, and I have been unjust to him. He tells me now that these, as they are called, comic scenes with which he peppers my plays are not written by him but by an obscure lawyer called Bacon; who is persuaded that Nature meant him for a playwriter. I asked Dick why an obscure lawyer called Bacon should have a right of entry into my plays, and he said that Bacon was a very clever young man of good family who would probably be Lord Chancellor one day; in which case one would wish not to have offended him. Dear Dick! To lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee—well, as he must do it, he must. But if I had my own theatre . . . Wrote an Essay on Fortune.
May 14. Last night I went through my plays and read again what are called the comic scenes. The strange thing is that this man Bacon is reputed a wit in his conversation. No, that is not strange. The pen and mouth are separate instruments. The strange thing is that a man of high birth should neglect the life which he knows, and insist on writing of common people of whom he is ignorant.
On reading this it came to me that I, a country man of middle-class birth, write mostly of Kings and Courts.
May 15. Have begun a play of rustic life, to be called, I think, ‘A Village Revel’, and to contain many true comedy scenes for lowly characters.
June 25. I have been much occupied with my play, Dick wanting me to set the scene in Athens, as we have the dresses from Titus Andronicus. I know not what my rustics will be doing in Athens, and have therefore called it A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which excuses all. I have nearly enough Essays for a book.
July 1. My book is ready. Dick is opposed to my putting it out over my own name. He says that I am known as a play-writer and a poet, and that it is not good for his theatre that I should play tricks with my reputation. I fear he is right. So I must think of a name for myself. . . . ‘Essays by John Falstaff’. There is an air about that.
July 2. Curious. All day I have been seeing him as a tall, stout, roystering fellow. Then I do not see how he could have written these Essays.
July 9. For the last week I have been working at a play on the Life of Henry IV. It is written round a jolly, fat fellow called Sir John Falstaff, I think my best character so far. He came into my head complete, so soon as I had written down the name. I must think of another author for my book.
July 15. I have met this man Bacon. He came to the theatre when I was with Dick. He is a shifty-eyed creature, with a lean and hungry look. He has three ambitions, as I read him. To be Lord Chancellor—which he may be, since he is apt at intrigue; to be known as a writer—which he will never be, as he cannot write; and to make money—which he is well qualified to do, having no scruples. Let no such man be trusted.
July 20. ‘Essays by William Page’. ‘Essays by John Old-castle’. ‘Essays by——’
July 22. I do not like this idea of putting out these Essays under a made-up name. I would rather that Dick Burbage lent his name to them, for then at least he could recommend the book to his acquaintance. John Oldcastle can do nothing to sell so much as one copy. I did but write them as a curb to my style, and for my own instruction, and if now they be of profit to others, and make a little money for myself, I care not who fathers them.
July 23. Met Bacon again. I have no doubt but that I judged his character aright.
July 25. I think Bacon is the man.
July 31. Bacon comes to my lodging to-morrow.
Aug. 1. It is done! My book is to come out as ‘Essays, by Francis Bacon’. He has read them, and is proud to think that he wrote them—as, in truth, he does almost persuade himself. It is a deception after his own heart, for it gives him all that he most wants. I offered him one half of the money; but in the end he has given me his Note (so worded that he dare not repudiate it) for One Hundred Pounds within six months of its putting out. This, without doubt, will be at the moment which he considers most favourable to his advancement; for there is a tide in the affairs of all men, which, taken at the flood, leads most quickly to fortune. But I care not for that, for now it is off my mind, and I can give myself to my Great Project.
Aug. 2. Began The Advancement of Learning.