ired 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, Ps