I leaned over his shoulder to see what he was laughing at.  ‘That isn’t so funny,’ said I, as I read the paragraph on which his eye was resting.  ‘No,’ said Froude.  ’I wasn’t laughing at that.  I was enjoying the joke that appeared in the same relative position in last week’s issue.’  Now that’s the point—­the whole point.  The Englishman always laughs over last week’s Punch, not this week’s, and that is why you will find a file of that interesting journal in the home of all well-to-do Britons.  It is the back number that amuses him—­which merely proves that he is a deliberative person who weighs even his humor carefully before giving way to his emotions.”

“What is the average weight of a copy of Punch?” drawled Artemas Ward, who had strolled in during the latter part of the conversation.

Shakespeare snickered quietly, but Carlyle and Johnson looked upon the intruder severely.

“We will take that question into consideration,” said Carlyle.  “Perhaps to-morrow we shall have a definite answer ready for you.”

“Never mind,” returned the humorist.  “You’ve proved your point.  Tennyson tells me you find life here dull, Shakespeare.”

“Somewhat,” said Shakespeare.  “I don’t know about the rest of you fellows, but I was not cut out for an eternity of ease.  I must have occupation, and the stage isn’t popular here.  The trouble about putting on a play here is that our managers are afraid of libel suits.  The chances are that if I should write a play with Cassius as the hero, Cassius would go to the first night’s performance with a dagger concealed in his toga, with which to punctuate his objections to the lines put in his mouth.  There is nothing I’d like better than to manage a theatre in this place, but think of the riots we’d have!  Suppose, for an instant, that I wrote a play about Bonaparte!  He’d have a box, and when the rest of you spooks called for the author at the end of the third act, if he didn’t happen to like the play he’d greet me with a salvo of artillery instead of applause.”

“He wouldn’t if you made him out a great conqueror from start to finish,” said Tennyson.

“No doubt,” returned Shakespeare, sadly; “but in that event Wellington would be in the other stage-box, and I’d get the greeting from him.”

“Why come out at all?” asked Johnson.

“Why come out at all?” echoed Shakespeare.  “What fun is there in writing a play if you can’t come out and show yourself at the first night?  That’s the author’s reward.  If it wasn’t for the first-night business, though, all would be plain sailing.”

“Then why don’t you begin it the second night?” drawled Ward.

“How the deuce could you?” put in Carlyle.

“A most extraordinary proposition,” sneered Johnson.

“Yes,” said Ward; “but wait a week—­you’ll see the point then.”