“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.”