narios for the "movies." Through covering his authorship, Bacon was spared the jests of his uppercrust entourage.
Whatever credit, too, the plays had, Bacon would wish his adored soul-mate to reap—just as the present writer has sacrificed his own interests fundamentally that his soul-mate might be benefited. But if Bacon had thought the Shakespeare literature would survive his own generation, he would doubtless, on his deathbed, have confessed himself its author. But even for many years after his death, everybody considered it would be forgotten by man as soon as the shredded leaves of the first printing were thrown into the fire place.
Another reason why Bacon would never confess his authorship is that in his age the law condemned to burial alive any one guilty of such homosexual sentiments as he was constrained, by passion, to express in the "Shakespeare" sonnets.
Francis Bacon published extensively under his own name. He published extensively—as a large body of literateurs believe—under the name of "William Shakespeare." Just as the present writer has quite a number of publications under his legal name, and a number under the name "Ralph Werther—Jennie June." And no one suspects the identity of the two present-day authors.
The actual Shakespeare—behind whose skirts Bacon hid—was, down to his death, only an obscure actor, not known personally to any writer of his own generation except (by supposition) Bacon. The actor Shakespeare has achieved immortality through having been Bacon's soul-mate.
