A House-Boat on the Styx | Page 7

us--we're all in the secret here. What's the use of putting on
nonsense with us?"
"We'll see in a minute what the use is," retorted the Avonian. "We'll
have Bacon down here." Here he touched an electric button, and
Charon came in answer.
"Charon, bring Doctor Johnson the usual glass of ale. Get some ice for
the Emperor, and ask Lord Bacon to step down here a minute."
"I don't want any ice," said Nero.
"Not now," retorted Shakespeare, "but you will in a few minutes. When
we have finished with you, you'll want an iceberg. I'm getting tired of
this idiotic talk about not having written my own works. There's one
thing about Nero's music that I've never said, because I haven't wanted
to hurt his feelings, but since he has chosen to cast aspersions upon my
honesty I haven't any hesitation in saying it now. I believe it was one of
his fiddlings that sent Nature into convulsions and caused the

destruction of Pompeii--so there! Put that on your music rack and
fiddle it, my little Emperor."
Nero's face grew purple with anger, and if Shakespeare had been
anything but a shade he would have fared ill, for the enraged Roman,
poising his cue on high as though it were a lance, hurled it at the
impertinent dramatist with all his strength, and with such accuracy of
aim withal that it pierced the spot beneath which in life the heart of
Shakespeare used to beat.
"Good shot," said Doctor Johnson, nonchalantly. "If you had been a
mortal, William, it would have been the end of you."
"You can't kill me," said Shakespeare, shrugging his shoulders. "I know
seven dozen actors in the United States who are trying to do it, but they
can't. I wish they'd try to kill a critic once in a while instead of me,
though," he added. "I went over to Boston one night last week, and,
unknown to anybody, I waylaid a fellow who was to play Hamlet that
night. I drugged him, and went to the theatre and played the part myself.
It was the coldest house you ever saw in your life. When the audience
did applaud, it sounded like an ice-man chopping up ice with a small
pick. Several times I looked up at the galleries to see if there were not
icicles growing on them, it was so cold. Well, I did the best could with
the part, and next morning watched curiously for the criticisms."
"Favorable?" asked the Doctor.
"They all dismissed me with a line," said the dramatist. "Said my
conception of the part was not Shakespearian. And that's criticism!"
"No," said the shade of Emerson, which had strolled in while
Shakespeare was talking, "that isn't criticism; that's Boston."
"Who discovered Boston, anyhow?" asked Doctor Johnson. "It wasn't
Columbus, was it?"
"Oh no," said Emerson. "Old Governor Winthrop is to blame for that.
When he settled at Charlestown he saw the old Indian town of

Shawmut across the Charles."
"And Shawmut was the Boston microbe, was it?" asked Johnson.
"Yes," said Emerson.
"Spelt with a P, I suppose?" said Shakespeare. "P-S-H-A-W, Pshaw,
M- U-T, mut, Pshawmut, so called because the inhabitants are always
muttering pshaw. Eh?"
"Pretty good," said Johnson. "I wish I'd said that."
"Well, tell Boswell," said Shakespeare. "He'll make you say it, and it'll
be all the same in a hundred years."
Lord Bacon, accompanied by Charon and the ice for Nero and the ale
for Doctor Johnson, appeared as Shakespeare spoke. The philosopher
bowed stiffly at Doctor Johnson, as though he hardly approved of him,
extended his left hand to Shakespeare, and stared coldly at Nero.
"Did you send for me, William?" he asked, languidly.
"I did," said Shakespeare. "I sent for you because this imperial violinist
here says that you wrote Othello."
"What nonsense," said Bacon. "The only plays of yours I wrote were
Ham--"
"Sh!" said Shakespeare, shaking his head madly. "Hush. Nobody's said
anything about that. This is purely a discussion of Othello."
"The fiddling ex-Emperor Nero," said Bacon, loudly enough to be
heard all about the room, "is mistaken when he attributes Othello to
me."
"Aha, Master Nero!" cried Shakespeare triumphantly. "What did I tell
you?"
"Then I erred, that is all," said Nero. "And I apologize. But really, my

Lord," he added, addressing Bacon, "I fancied I detected your fine
Italian hand in that."
"No. I had nothing to do with the Othello," said Bacon. "I never really
knew who wrote it."
"Never mind about that," whispered Shakespeare. "You've said
enough."
"That's good too," said Nero, with a chuckle. "Shakespeare here claims
it as his own."
Bacon smiled and nodded approvingly at the blushing Avonian.
"Will always was having his little joke," he said. "Eh, Will? How we
fooled 'em on