Chapter 1 of A Houseboat on the Sticks. Karen, the ferryman of Renown, was cruising slowly along the Sticks one pleasant Friday morning not long ago, and as he paddled idly on he chuckled mildly to himself as he thought of the monopoly in Farriage, which in the course of years he had managed to build up. "'It's a great thing,' he said with a smirk of satisfaction. "'It's a great thing to be the go-between between two states of being, to have the exclusive franchise to export and import shades from one state to the other, and with all to have had as clean a record as mine has been. Valuable as is my franchise, I never corrupted a public official in my life, and—' Here Karen stopped his soliloquy and his boat simultaneously. As he rounded one of the many turns in the river, a singular object met his gaze, and one, two, that filled him with misgiving. It was another craft, and that was a thing not to be tolerated. Had he, Karen, owned the exclusive right of way on the Sticks all these years to have it disputed here in the closing decade of the nineteenth century? Had not he dealt satisfactorily with all, whether it was in the line of Farriage or in the providing of boats for pleasure trips up the river? Had he not received expressions of satisfaction, indeed, from the most exclusive families of Hades, with the very select series of picnics he had given at Karen's Glen Island? No wonder, then, that the queer-looking boat that met his gaze moored in a shady nook on the dark side of the river, filled him with dismay. Blow me for a land-lubber if I like that, he said, in a hardly audible whisper, and shiver my timbers if I don't find out what she's there for. If anybody thinks he can run an opposition line to mine on this river, he's mightily mistaken. If it comes to competition, I can carry shades for nothing and still quaff the B&G Yellow Label benzene three times a day without experiencing a financial panic. I'll show him a thing or two if they attempt to rival me. And what a boat! It looks for all the world like a Florentine barn on a canal boat. Karen paddled up to the side of the craft and, standing up in the middle of his boat, cried out, Chippahoy! There was no answer and the ferryman hailed her again. Receiving no response to his second call, he resolved to investigate for himself. So, fastening his own boat to the stern post of the stranger, he clambered on board. If he was astonished as he sat in his ferryboat, he was paralyzed when he cast his eye over the unwelcome vessel he had boarded. He stood for at least two minutes, rooted to the spot. His eye swept over a long, broad deck, the polish of which resembled that of a ballroom floor. A midships, running from three-quarters aft to three-quarters forward, stood a structure that in its lines resembled, as Karen had intimated, a barn, designed by an architect enamored of Florentine simplicity. But in its construction, the riches of woods had been used, and in its interior arrangement and adornment, nothing more palatial could be conceived. What's the blooming thing for? said Karen, more dismayed than ever. If they start another line with a craft like this, I'm very much afraid I'm done for after all. I wouldn't take a boat like mine myself if there was a floating palace like this going the same way. I'll have to see the commissioners about this and find out what it all means. I suppose it'll cost me a pretty penny too, confound them. A prey to these unhappy reflections, Karen investigated further, and the more he saw, the less he liked it. He was about to encounter opposition, and an opposition which was apparently backed by persons of great wealth, perhaps the commissioners themselves. It was a consoling thought that he had saved enough money in the course of his career to enable him to live in comfort all his days, but this was not really what Karen was after. He wished to acquire enough to retire and become one of the smart set. It had been done in that section of the universe which lay on the bright side of the sticks. Why not, therefore, on the other? he asked. I'm pretty well connected, even if I am a boatman, he had been known to say. With chaos for a grandfather and arabus and nox for parents, I've just as good blood in my veins as anybody in Hades. The noxes are a mighty fine family, not as bright as the days, but older, and were poor. That's it, poor, and its money makes cast these days.  As I haven't, I'm only a boatman. Bah! Wait and see. I'll be giving swell functions myself some day, and these upstarts will be on their knees before me begging to be asked. Then I'll get up a little aristocracy of my own, and I won't let a soul into it whose name isn't mentioned in the Grecian mythologies. Mention in Burke's peerage and the elite directories of America won't admit anybody to Commodore Caron's house unless there's some other mighty good reason for it. For seeing an unhappy ending to all his hopes, the old man clambered sadly back into his ancient vessel and paddled off into the darkness. Some hours later, returning with a large company of new arrivals, while counting up the profits of the day, Caron again caught sight of the new craft, and saw that it was brilliantly lighted and thronged with the most famous citizens of the Arabian country. Up in the bow was a spirit band, discoursing music of the sweetest sort. Merry peals of laughter rang out over the dark waters of the sticks. The clink of glasses and the popping of corks punctuated the music with a frequency which would have delighted the soul of the most ardent lover of commas, all of which so overpowered the grandmaster boatman of the Stygian ferry company that he dropped three obily and an American dime which he carried as a pocket piece overboard. This of course added to his woe, but it was forgotten in an instant, for someone on the new boat had turned a search light directly upon Caron himself and simultaneously hailed the master of the ferry boat. Caron cried the shade in charge of the light. Caron ahoy! Ahoy yourself! returned the old man, paddling his craft close up to the stranger. What do you want? You said the shade. The house committee wants to see you right away. What for? asked Caron cautiously. I'm sure I don't know. I'm only a member of the club, and house committees never let mere members know anything about their plans. All I know is that you are wanted, said the other. Who are the house committee? queried the ferryman. Sir Walter Raleigh, Cassius, Demosthenes, Blackstone, Dr. Johnson, and Confucius replied the shade. Tell him I'll be back in an hour, said Caron, pushing off. I've got a cargo of shades on board, consigned to various places up the river. I've promised to get them all through tonight, but I'll put on a couple of extra paddles. Two of the new arrivals are working their passage this trip, and it won't take as long as usual. What boat is this, anyhow? The Nancy Knox of Erebus. Thunder, cried Caron, as he pushed off and proceeded on his way up the river. Named after my mother. Perhaps it'll come out all right yet. More hopeful of mood, Caron, aided by the two deadhead passengers, soon got through with his evening's work, and in less than an hour was back seeking admittance as requested to the company of Sir Walter Raleigh and his fellow members on the House Committee. He was received by these worthies with considerable effusiveness considering his position in society, and it warmed the cockles of his aged heart to note that Sir Walter, who had always been rather distant to him since he had carelessly upset that worthy Aunt Queen Elizabeth in the middle of the sticks far back in the last century, permitted him to shake three fingers of his left hand when he entered the committee room. How do you do, Caron? said Sir Walter affably. We are very glad to see you. Thank you kindly, Sir Walter, said the boatman. I'm glad to hear those words, Your Honor, for I've been feeling very bad since I had the misfortune to drop Your Excellency and Her Majesty overboard. I never knew how it happened, Sir, but it happened it did, and but for Her Majesty's kind assistance it might have been the worst for us, eh, Sir Walter? The knight shook his head menacingly at Caron. Hitherto he had managed to keep it a secret that the Queen had rescued him from drowning upon that occasion by swimming ashore herself first, and throwing Sir Walter her rough as soon as she landed, which he had used as a light preserver. Don't say anything about that, my man. Very well, Sir Walter, I won't, said the boatman. But he made a mental note of the knight's agitation and perceived a means by which that illustrious courtier could be made useful to him in his scheming for social advancement. I understood you had something to say to me, said Caron after he had greeted the others. We have, said Sir Walter, we want you to assume command of this boat. The old fellows lighted up with pleasure. You want a captain, eh? he said. No, said Confucius, tapping the table with a diamond-studded chopstick. No, we want a, eh, what the deuce is it that they call the functionary Cassius? Senator, I think, said Cassius. Demosthenes gave a loud laugh. Your mind is still running on senator ships, my dear Cassius, that is quite evident, he said. This is not one of them, however. The title we wish Caron to assume is neither captain nor senator, it is janitor. What's that? asked Caron, a little disappointed. What does a janitor have to do? He has to look after things in the house, explained Sir Walter. He's a sort of proprietor by proxy. We want you to take charge of the house and see to it that the boat is kept ship-shape. Where is the house? queried the astonished boatman. This is it, said Sir Walter. This is the house and the boat, too. In fact, it is a houseboat. Then it isn't a newfangled scheme to drive me out of business, said Caron warily. Not at all, returns Sir Walter. It's a newfangled scheme to set you up in business. We'll pay you a large salary, and there won't be much to do. You're the best man for the place, because while you don't know much about houses, you do know a great deal about boats. And the boat part is the most important part of a houseboat. If the boat sinks, you can't save the house. But if the house burns, you may be able to save the boat, see? I think I do, Sir, said Caron. Another reason why we want to employ you for janitor, said Confucius, is that our club wants to be in direct communication with both sides of the sticks, and we think you as janitor would be able to make better arrangements for transportation with yourself as boatman, than some other man as janitor could make with you. Spoken like a sage, said Demosthenes. Furthermore, said Cassius, occasionally we shall want to have this boat towed up or down the river according to the House Committee's pleasure, and we think it would be well to have a janitor who has some influence with the towing company which you represent. Can't this boat be moved without towing? asked Caron. No, said Cassius. And I'm the only man who can tow it, eh? You are, said Blackstone, worse luck. And you want me to be janitor on a salary of what? A hundred oberly a month, said Sir Walter uneasily. Very well, gentlemen, said Caron. I'll accept the office on a salary of two hundred oberly a month.  The committee went into executive session for five minutes, and on their return informed Caron that in behalf of the associated shades they accepted his offer. In behalf of what? the old man asked. The associated shades, said Sir Walter, the swellest organization in Hades, whose new houseboat you are now on board of. When shall you be ready to begin work? Right away, said Caron, noting by the clock that it was the hour of midnight. I'll start in right away, and as it is now Saturday morning, I'll begin by taking my day off. End of Chapter One of a Houseboat on the Sticks. Read by Zachary Brewster Geis, Greenbelt, Maryland, June 2007. Chapter Two of a Houseboat on the Sticks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Zachary Brewster Geis. A Houseboat on the Sticks. By John Kendrick Bangs. Chapter Two. A Disputed Authorship. How are you, Caron? said Shakespeare, as the janitor assisted him on board. Anyone here tonight? Yes, sir, said Caron. Lord Bacon is up in the library, and Dr. Johnson is down in the billiard room, playing pool with Nero. Ha-ha! laughed Shakespeare. Pool, eh, does Nero play pool? Not as well as he does the fiddle, sir, said the janitor, with a twinkle in his eye. Shakespeare entered the house and tossed up an obelisk. Heads, bacon, tails, pool with Nero and Johnson, he said. The coin came down with heads up, and Shakespeare went into the pool room, just to show the fates that he didn't care a tuppence for the verdict as registered through the obelisk. It was a peculiar custom of Shakespeare's to toss up a coin to decide questions of little consequence, and then do the thing the coin decided he should not do. It showed, in Shakespeare's estimation, his entire independence of those dull persons who supposed that in them was centred the destiny of all mankind. The fates, however, only smiled at these little acts of rebellion, and it was common gossip in Arabus that one of the trio had told the furies that they had observed Shakespeare's tendency to kick over the traces and always acted accordingly. They never let the coin fall so as to decide a question the way they wanted it, so that unwittingly the great dramatist did their will after all. It was a part of their plan that upon this occasion Shakespeare should play pool with Dr. Johnson and the Emperor Nero, and hence it was that the coin bade him repair to the library and chat with Lord Bacon.  How's our little swanlet of Avon this afternoon? Worn out, Shakespeare replied, I've been hard at work on a play this morning, and I'm tired. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, said Nero, grinning broadly.  I wish I had thought to work you up into a tragedy. I've often wondered why you didn't, said Dr. Johnson. He'd have made a superb tragedy at Nero Wood. I don't believe there was any kind of a crime he left uncommitted, was there, Emperor? Yes, I never wrote in English dictionary, returned the Emperor dryly. I've murdered everything but English, though. I could have made a fine tragedy out of you, said Shakespeare. Just think what a dreadful climax for a tragedy it would be, Johnson, to have Nero, as the curtain fell, playing a violent solo. Pretty good, returned the Doctor.  It's better business to let him live, I say. Suppose Nero gave a London audience that little musical he provided at Queen Elizabeth's Wednesday night. How many purely mortal beings do you think would have come out alive? Not one, said Shakespeare. I was mighty glad that night that we were an immortal band. If it had been possible to kill us, we'd have died then and there. That's all right, said Nero, with the significant shake of his head, as my friend Bacon makes Iago say, be aware, my lord, of jealousy. You could never play a garden hose, much less a fiddle. What do you mean by attributing those words to Bacon, demanded Shakespeare, getting red in the face? Oh, come now, William, remonstrated Nero. It's all right to pull the wool over the eyes of the mortals, that's what they're there for. But as for 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 Evonian. We'll have Bacon down here. Here he touched an electric button, and Karen came in answer. Karen, bring Dr. 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.  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 with all that it pierced the spot beneath which in life the heart of Shakespeare used to beat. Good shot, said Dr. Johnson nonchalantly. If you had been a mortal, William, it would have been the end of you.  I know seven dozen actors in the United States who are trying to do it, but they can't. I wish they'd tried 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 iceman chopping up ice with a small pick. Several times I looked up at the galleries to see there were not icicles growing on them. It was so cold. Well, I did the best I 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 Shakespearean, 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 Dr. 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 Sharmut across the Charles. And Sharmut was the Boston micro, was it? asked Johnson. Yes, said Emerson. Spelled with a P, I suppose, said Shakespeare. P-S-H-A-W-Pshaw, M-U-T-Mut, Shaw-Mut, so called because the inhabitants are always muttering Shaw, 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 Karen and the ice for Nero and the ale for Dr. Johnson, appeared as Shakespeare spoke. The philosopher bowed stiffly at Dr. 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 says here that you wrote Othello. What nonsense, said Bacon. The only plays of yours, I wrote, were him— Psh! said Shakespeare, shaking his head madly. Hush! Nobody 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. 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 Evonian. Will was always having his little joke, he said. Hey, Will, how we fooled him on Hamlet, eh, my boy? It was the greatest joke of the century. Well, the laugh is all new, said Dr. Johnson. If you wrote Hamlet and didn't have the sense to acknowledge it, you present to my mind a closer resemblance to simple Simon than to Socrates. For my part, I don't believe you did write it, and I do believe that Shakespeare did. I can tell that by the spelling in the original edition. Shakespeare was my stenographer, gentlemen, said Lord Bacon. If you want to know the whole truth, he did write Hamlet, literally, but it was at my dictation. I deny it, said Shakespeare. I admit you gave me a suggestion now and then, so as to keep it dull and heavy in spots, so that it would seem more like a real tragedy than a comedy punctuated with debts. But beyond that, you had nothing to do with it. I sighed with Shakespeare, put in Emerson. I've seen his autographs, and no sane person would employ a man who wrote such a villainously bad hand as an emmanuensis. It's no use, Bacon, we know a thing or two. I'm a New Englander, I am. Well, said Bacon, shrugging his shoulders as though the results of the controversy were immaterial to him, have it so, if you please, there isn't any money in Shakespeare these days, so what's the use of quarrelling? I wrote Hamlet, and Shakespeare knows it. Others know it. Ah, here comes Sir Walter Raleigh. We'll leave it to him. He was cognizant of the whole affair. I leave it to nobody, said Shakespeare, sulkily. What's the trouble? asked Raleigh, sauntering up and taking a chair under the cue rack. Talking politics. Not we, said Bacon. It's the old question about the authorship of Hamlet. Will, as usual, claims it for himself. He'll be saying he wrote Genesis next. Where, what if he does? laughed Raleigh. We all know Will in his drull ways. No doubt put in Nero, but the question of Hamlet always excites him so that we'd like to have it settled once and for all as to who wrote it. Bacon says you know. I do, said Raleigh. Then settle it once and for all, said Bacon. I'm rather tired of the discussion myself. Shall I tell him, Shakespeare? asked Raleigh. It's immaterial to me, said Shakespeare, airily. If you wish, only tell the truth. Very well, said Raleigh, lighting a cigar. I'm not ashamed of it. I wrote the thing myself. There was a roar of laughter, which, when it subsided, found Shakespeare rapidly disappearing through the door, while all the others in the room ordered various beverages at the expense of Lord Bacon. End of Chapter Two Chapter Three of A Houseboat on the Sticks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Zachary Brewstergeis A Houseboat on the Sticks by John Kendrick Bangs Chapter Three Washington Gives a Dinner It was Washington's birthday, and the gentleman who had the pleasure of being father of his country decided to celebrate it at the associated Shades Floating Palace on the Sticks as the Elysium Weekly Gossip, a journal of society, called it, by giving a dinner to a select number of friends. Among the invited guests were Baron Munchausen, Dr. Johnson, Confucius, Napoleon Bonaparte, Diogenes, and Ptolemy. Boswell was also present, but not as a guest. He had a table off to one side all to himself, and upon it there were no china plates, silver spoons, knives, forks, and dishes of fruit, but pads, pens, and ink in great quantity. It was evident that Boswell's repertorial duties did not end with his labours in the mundane sphere. The dinner was set down to begin at seven o'clock, so that the guests, as was proper, sauntered slowly in between that hour and eight. The menu was particularly choice, the shades of countless canvas-backed ducks, terrapin, and sheep having been called into requisition, and cooked by no less a person than Brea Savarin in the hottest oven he could find in the famous cooking establishment super-intended by the government. Washington was on hand early, sampling the olives and the celery and the wines, and giving to Karen final instructions as to the manner in which he wished things served. The first guest to arrive was Confucius, and after him came Diogenes, the latter in great excitement over having discovered a comparatively honest man, whose name, however, he had not been able to ascertain, though he was under the impression that it was something like burpin or turpin, he said. At eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably about the board. An orchestra of five, under the leadership of Mozart, discourse sweet music behind a screen, and the feast of reason and flow of soul began. This is a great day, said Dr. Johnson, assisting himself copiously to the olives. Yes, said Columbus, who was also a guest, yes, it is a great day, but it isn't a marker to a little day in October, I what of. Still sore on that point, queried Confucius, trying the edge of his knife on the shade of a salted almond. Oh no, said Columbus calmly, I don't feel jealous of Washington, he is the father of his country and I am not, I only discovered the orphan. I knew the country before it had a father or a mother, there wasn't anybody who was willing to be even a sister to it when I knew it, but GW here took it in hand, groomed it down, spanked it when it needed it, and started it off on the career which has made it worthwhile for me to let my name be known in connection with it. Why should I be jealous of him? I am sure I don't know why anybody anywhere should be jealous of anybody else anyhow, said Diogenes. I never was and I never expect to be. Jealousy is a quality that is utterly foreign to the nature of an honest man. Take my own case, for instance. When I was what they call alive, how did I live? I don't know, said Dr. Johnson, turning his head as he spoke, so that Boswell could not fail to hear. I wasn't there. Boswell nodded approvingly, chuckled slightly, and put the doctor's remark down for publication in the gossip. You're doubtless right there, retorted Diogenes. What you don't know would fill a circulating library. Well, I lived in a tub. Now if I believed in envy, I suppose you'd think I'd be envious of people who live in brown stone fronts with backyards and mortgages, eh? Had rather live under a mortgage than in a tub, said Bonaparte contemptuously. I know you would, said Diogenes. Mortgages never bothered you, but I wouldn't. In the first place my tub was warm. I never saw a house with a brown stone front that was except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because it was so. My tub had no plumbing in it to get out of order. It hadn't any flights of stairs in it that had to be climbed after dinner or late at night when I came home from the club. It had no front door with a wandering keyhole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together and reconcile their differences in order that their owner may get into his own house late at night. It wasn't chained down to any particular neighborhood as are most brown stone fronts. If the neighborhood ran down I could move my tub off into a better neighborhood, and it never lost value through the deterioration of its location. I never had to pay taxes on it, and no burglar was ever so hard up that he thought of breaking into my habitation to rob me. So why should I be jealous of the brown stone house dwellers? I am a philosopher, gentlemen. I tell you philosophy is the thief of jealousy, and I had the good luck to find it out early in life. There is much in what you say, said Confucius. But there's another side to the matter. If a man is an aristocrat by nature, as I was, his neighborhood never could run down. Wherever he lived would be the swell section, so that really your last argument isn't worth a stewed icicle. Stewed icicles are pretty good, so said Baron Munchausen, with an ecstatic smack of his lips. I've eaten so many times in the Polo regions. I have no doubt of it, put in Dr. Johnson. You've eaten fried pyramids in Africa, too, haven't you? Only Vance, said the Baron Connolly, and I can't say I enjoyed them. They are rather heavy for the digestion. That so, said Ptolemy, I've had experience with pyramids myself. You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy? queried Bonaparte. Not raw, said Ptolemy with a chuckle, though I've been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of the Sphinx. There was a laugh at this, in which Albert Baron Munchausen joined. I think it is too bad, said the Baron, as the laughter subsided. I think it is very much too bad that you shades have brought mundane prejudices with you into this sphere. Just because some people of his finite minds profess to disbelieve my stories, you think it veiled to be sceptical yourselves. I don't care, however, whether you believe me or not. The fact remains that I have eaten one fried pyramid and countless stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles were fine as in any diamond-backed rat Confucius ever had served at the state banquet. Where's Shakespeare tonight, as Confucius seeing that the Baron was beginning to lose his temper and wishing to avoid trouble by changing the subject? Wasn't he invited, General? Yes, said Washington. He was invited, but he couldn't come. He had to go over the river to consult with an autograph syndicate they formed in New York. You know, his autographs sell for about one thousand dollars a piece, and they're trying to get up a scheme whereby he shall contribute an autograph a week to the syndicate to be sold to the public. It seems like a rich scheme, but there's one thing in the way. Posthumous autographs haven't very much of a market, because the mortals can't be made to believe that they are genuine. But the syndicate has got a man at work trying to get over that. These Yankees are a mighty inventive lot, and they think perhaps the scheme can be worked. The Yankee is an inventive genius. It was a Yankee invented that tale about your not being able to prevaricate, wasn't it, George? As Diogenes. Washington smiled acquiescence, and Dr. Johnson returned to Shakespeare. I'd rather have a morning glory vine than one of Shakespeare's autographs, said he. They are far prettier and quite as legible. Maltels wouldn't, said Bonaparte. What fools they be, chuckled Johnson. At this point the canvas-backed ducks were served, one whole shade of a bird for each guest. Fall too, gentlemen, said Washington, gazing hungrily at his bird. When canvas-backed ducks are on the table, conversation is not required of anyone. It is fortunate for us that we have so considerate a host, said Confucius, unfastening his robe and preparing to do justice to the fair set before him. I have dined often, but never before with one who is willing to let me eat a bird like this in silence. Washington, here's to you. May your life be checkered with birthdays, and may ours be equally well supplied with feasts like this at your expense. The toast was drained, and the diners fell too as requested. Their claint, aren't they, whispered Bonaparte to Munchausen. Fels Raza returned the Baron. I don't see visor mortals don't erect a statue to the canvas-back. Did anybody at this bald ever have as much canvas-backed duck as he could eat? asked Dr. Johnson. Yes, said the Baron. I did, Vance. Oh, you, sneered, told me. You've had everything. Except the mumps, retorted Munchausen. But honestly, I did once have as much canvas-backed duck as I could eat. It must have cost you a million, said Bonaparte. But even then they'd be cheap, especially to a man like yourself who could perform miracles. If I could have performed miracles with all the ease that was so characteristic of all your efforts, I'd never have died at St. Helena. What's the odds where you died? said Dr. Johnson. If it hadn't been at St. Helena, it would have been somewhere else, and you'd have found death as stuffy in one place as another. Don't let's talk of death, said Washington. I am sure the Baron's tale of how he came to have enough canvas-back is more diverting. I've no doubt it is more perverting, said Johnson. It happens this way, said Munchausen. I was out for sport, and I got it. I was alone, my servant having fallen ill, which was unfortunate since I had all these left the filling of my cartridge box to him and underestimated its capacity. I started at six in the morning, and not having hunted for several months was not in very good form. So, no game appearing for a time, I took a few practice shots, trying to snip off the slender tops of the pine trees that I encountered with my bullets, succeeding tolerably well for one who was a little rusty. Bringing down ninety-nine out of the first one hundred and one, and missing the remaining two by such a close margin that they swayed through and through as though fanned by a slight breeze. As I fired my one hundred and first shot, what should I see before me, but a flock of these delicate birds floating upon the placid waters of the bay? What's this, the Bay of Biscay, Baron? queried Columbus with a covert smile that told me. I counted them, said the Baron, ignoring the question, and they offered just sixty-eight. Here's a chance for the record Baron, said I to myself, and then I made ready to shoot them. Imagine my dismay, gentlemen, when I discovered that while I had plenty of powder left, I had used up all my bullets. Now, as you may imagine, to a man with no bullets at hand, the sight of sixty-eight fat canvas-backs is hardly encouraging, but I was resolved to have every one of those birds. The question was, how shall I do it? I never can sink on water, so I paddled quietly ashore and began to reflect. As I lay there deep in thought, I saw lying upon the beach before me a superb oyster, and as reflection makes me hungry, I seized upon the bivalve and swallowed him. As he went down something struck in my throat, and extricating it, what should it prove to be but a pearl of surpassing beauty? My first thought was to be content with my day's find. A pearl versus thousand surely was enough to satisfy the most ardent lover of sport. But on looking up I saw those ducks still paddling contentedly about, and I could not bring myself to give them up. Suddenly the idea came, the pearl is as large as a bullet, and fully as round. Why not use it? Then as thoughts come to me in shoals, I next reflected, ah, but this is only one bullet as against sixty-eight birds. Immediately a third thought came, why not shoot them all with a single bullet? It is possible, though not probable. I snatched out a pad of paper and a pencil, made a rapid calculation based on the doctrine of chances, and proved to my own satisfaction that at some time or another within the following two weeks those birds would doubtlessly be sitting in a straight line and paddling about Indian vile for an instant. I resolved to evade that instant. I loaded my gun with the pearl and a sufficient quantity of powder to send the charge through every one of the ducks, if perchance the first duck were properly hit. To pass over wearisome details, let me say that it happened just as I expected. I had one week and six days to wait, but finally the critical moment came. It was at midnight, but fortunately the moon was at the full, and I could see as plainly as though it had been day. The moment the ducks were in line, I aimed and fired. They everyone squawked, turned over, and died. My pearl had pierced the whole sixty-eight. Boswell blushed. Ahem, said Dr. Johnson. It was a pity to lose the pearl. That, said Munchausen, was the most interesting part of the story. I had made a second calculation in order to save the pearl. I deduced the amount of powder necessary to send the gems through sixty-seven and a half birds, and my deduction was strictly accurate. It fulfilled its mission of death on sixty-seven, and was found buried in the heart of the sixty-eight. A trifle discoloured, but still a pearl, and verse a king's ransom. Napoleon gave a derisive laugh, and the other guests sat, with incredulity depicted on every line of their faces. Do you believe that story yourself, Baron? asked Confucius. Why not? asked the Baron. Is there anything improbable in it? Why should you disbelieve it? Look at our friend Washington here. Is there anyone here who knows more about truth than he does? He doesn't disbelieve it. He's the only man at this table who treats me like a man of honour. His host, and has to, said Johnson, shrugging his shoulders. Well, Washington, let me put the direct question to you, said the Baron. Say you aren't host, and are under no obligation to be courteous. Do you believe I haven't been telling the truth? My dear Munchausen, said the general. Don't ask me. I'm not an authority. I can't tell a lie. Not even when I hear one. If you say your story is true, I must believe it, of course. But, ah, really, if I were you, I wouldn't tell it again, unless I could produce the pearl, and the wishbone of one of the ducks, at least. Whereupon, as the discussion was beginning to grow acrimonious, Washington hailed Karen and, ordering a boat, invited his guests to accompany him over into the world of realities, where they passed the balance of the evening haunting a vaudeville performance at one of the London music halls. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Zachary Brewstergeis, Greenbelt, Maryland, July 2007. Chapter 4 of A Houseboat on the Sticks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Zachary Brewstergeis. A Houseboat on the Sticks by John Kendrick Bangs. Chapter 4. Hamlet Makes a Suggestion. It was a beautiful night on the sticks, and the silvery surface of that picturesque stream was dotted with gondolas, canoes, and other craft, to an extent that made Karen feel like a highly prosperous savings bank. Within the houseboat were gathered a merry party, some of whom were on mere pleasure-bent, others of whom had come to listen to a debate, for which the entertainment committee had provided, between the venerable Patriarch Noah and the late eminent showman P.T. Barnum. The question to be debated was upon the resolution passed by the committee, that the animals of the antediluvian period were far more attractive for show purposes than those of modern make, and singular to relate. The affirmative was placed in the hands of Mr. Barnum, while to Noah had fallen the task of upholding the virtues of the modern freak. It is with the party on mere pleasure-bent that we have to do upon this occasion. The proceedings of the debating party are as yet in the hands of the official stenographer, but will be made public as soon as they are ready. The pleasure-seeking group were gathered in the smoking-room of the club, which was indeed a smoking-room of a novel sort, the invention of an unknown shade who had sold all the rights to the club through a third party, anonymously, preferring, it seemed, to remain in the Elysian world as he had been in the mundane sphere, a mute, inglorious Edison. It was a simple enough scheme, and for a wonder no one in the world of substantialities had thought to take it up. The smoke was stored in reservoirs, just as if it were so much gas or water, and was supplied on the hot-air furnace-principle from a huge furnace in the hold of the houseboat into which tobacco was shoveled by the hired man of the club night and day. The smoke from the furnace carried through flues to the smoking-room was there received and stored in the reservoirs, with each of which was connected one dozen rubber tubes, having, at their ends, amber mouthpieces. Upon each of these mouthpieces was arranged a small meter registering the amount of smoke consumed through it, and for this the consumer paid so much a foot. The value of the plan was threefold. It did away entirely with ashes. It saved to the consumers the value of the unconsumed tobacco that is represented by the unsmoked cigar ends, and it averted the possibility of cigarettes. Enjoying the benefits of this arrangement upon the evening in question were Shakespeare, Cicero, Henry VIII, Dr. Johnson, and others. Of course Boswell was present, too, for a moment with his notebook, and this fact evoked some criticism from several of the smokers. You ought to be upstairs in the lecture-room, Boswell, said Shakespeare, as the great biographer took his seat behind his friend the doctor. Doesn't the gossip want a report of the debate? It does, said Boswell, but the gossip endeavours always to get the most interesting items of the day, and Dr. Johnson has informed me that he expects to be unusually witty this evening, so I have come here. Excuse me for saying it, Boswell, said the doctor, getting red in the face over this unexpected confession. But really, you talk too much. That's good, said Cicero. Stick that down, Boswell, and print it. It's the best thing Johnson has said this week. Boswell smiled weakly and said, But, Doctor, you did say that, you know. I can prove it, too, for you told me some of the things you were going to say. Don't you remember you were going to lead Shakespeare up to making the remark that he thought the English language was the greatest language in creation, whereupon you were going to ask him why he didn't learn it?   You're not going back on the ladder by which you climbed, are you, Samuel? queried Boswell earnestly. The what? cried the doctor angrily. The ladder, on which I climbed, you great heavens, that it should come to this. Leave the room instantly, ladder. By all that is beautiful, the ladder upon which I, Samuel Johnson, the tallest person in letters, have climbed. Go, do you hear? Boswell rose meekly and, with tears coursing down his cheeks, left the room. That's one I knew, Doctor, said Cicero, wrapping his toga about him. I think you ought to order up three baskets of champagne on that.   Yes, said Shakespeare dryly. That's why we laugh. You were a little hard on him, Doctor, said Henry VIII. He was a valuable man to you. He had a great eye for your greatness. Yes, if there's any feature of Boswell that's greater than his nose and ears, it's his great eye, said the doctor. You'd rather have him change his eye to a U, I presume, said Napoleon quietly. The doctor waved his hand impatiently. Let's drop him, he said. Dropping one's biographer isn't without precedent. As soon as any man ever got to know Napoleon well enough to write him up, he sent him to the front, where he could get a little lead in his system. I wish I had a Boswell all the same, said Shakespeare. Then the world would have known the truth about me. It wouldn't if he'd relied on your word for it, retorted the doctor. Hello, here's Hamlet. As the doctor spoke, in very truth, the melancholy Dane appeared in the doorway, more melancholy of aspect than ever. What's the matter with you, asked Cicero, addressing the newcomer? Haven't you got that poison out of your system yet? Not entirely, said Hamlet with a sigh. But it isn't that that's bothering me, it's fate. We'll get out an injunction against fate if you like, said Blackstone. Is it persecution or have you deserved it? I think it's persecution, said Hamlet. I never wronged fate in my life, and why she should pursue me like a demon through all eternity is a thing I can't understand. Maybe Ophelia's back of it, suggested Dr. Johnson. These women have a great deal of sympathy for each other, and candidly, I think you behaved pretty rudely to Ophelia. It's a poor way to show your love for a young woman, running a sword through her father every night for pay, and driving the girl to suicide with equal frequency, just to show theatre-goers what a smart little Dane you can be if you try. "'Tisn't me does all that,' returned Hamlet. I only did it once, and even then it wasn't as bad as Shakespeare made it out to be. "'I put it down just as it was,' said Shakespeare hardly, and you can't dispute it.' "'Yes, he can,' said Yorick. You made him tell Horatio he knew me well, and he never met me in his life.' "'I never told Horatio anything of the sort,' said Hamlet. "'I never entered the graveyard even, and I can prove an alibi.' "'And what's more, he couldn't have made the remark the way Shakespeare has it anyhow,' said Yorick. "'And for very good reason. I wasn't buried in that graveyard, and Hamlet and I can prove an alibi for the skull, too.' "'It was a good play, just the same,' said Cicero.' "'Very,' put in Dr. Johnson. "'It cured me of insomnia.' "'Well, if you don't talk in your sleep, the play did a Christian service to the world,' retorted Shakespeare. "'But really, Hamlet, I thought I did the square thing by you in that play. I meant to anyhow, and if it has made you unhappy, I'm honestly sorry.' "'Spoken like a man,' said Yorick.' "'I don't mind the play so much,' said Hamlet. "'But the way I'm represented by these fellows who play it is the thing that rubs me the wrong way. Why, I even hear that there's a troupe out in the western part of the United States that puts the thing on with three Hamlets, two ghosts, and a pair of bloodhounds. It's called the Uncle Tom-Hamlet combination, and instead of my falling in love with one crazy ophelia, I am made to woo three dusky maniacs named Topsy on a canvas ice-flow, while the bloodhounds bark behind the scenes. What sort of treatment is that for a man of royal lineage?' "'It's pretty rough,' said Napoleon, as the poet ought to have said. Oh, Hamlet, Hamlet, what crimes are committed in thy name!' "'I feel as badly about the play as Hamlet does,' said Shakespeare, after a moment of silent thought. "'I don't bother much about this wild western business, though, because I think the introduction of the bloodhounds and the Topsy's makes us both more popular in that region than we should be otherwise. What I object to is the way we are treated by these so-called first-class intellectual actors in London and other great cities. I've seen Hamlet done before a highly cultivated audience, and by Jove it made me blush.' "'Me too,' sighed Hamlet.  I've heard my to-be-or-not-to-be soliloquy uttered by a famous Tragedian in tones that would make a graveyard yawn at midday, and if there was any way in which I could get even with that man I'd do it.' "'It seems to me,' said Blackstone, assuming for the moment a highly judicial manner, "'it seems to me that Shakespeare, having got you into this trouble, ought to get you out of it.' "'But how?' said Shakespeare earnestly. "'That's the point. Heaven knows I'm willing enough.' Hamlet's face suddenly brightened as though illuminated with an idea. Then he began to dance about the room with an expression of glee that annoyed Dr. Johnson exceedingly. "'I wish Darwin could see you now,' the doctor growled. A Kodak picture of you would prove his arguments conclusively.' "'Rail on, O philosopher,' retorted Hamlet. "'Rail on. I mind your railings not, for I, the germ of an idea, have got.' "'Well, go quarantine yourself,' said the doctor. "'I'd hate to have one of your idea, microbes, get hold of me.' "'What's the scheme?' asked Shakespeare. "'You can write a play for me,' cried Hamlet. "'Make it a fast tragedy. Take the modern player for your hero and let me play him. I'll bait him through four acts. I'll imitate his walk. I'll cultivate his voice. We'll have the first act a tank act, and drop the hero into the tank. The second act can be in a sawmill, and we can cut his hair off on a buzz saw. The third act can introduce a spiral driver with which to drive his hat over his eyes and knock his brains down into his lungs. The fourth act can be at Niagara Falls, and we'll send him over the falls, and for a grand climax we can have him gear-teamed just after he has swallowed a quart of prusik acid and a spoonful of powdered glass. Do that for me, William, and you are forgiven. I'll play it for six hundred nights in London, for two years in New York, and round up with a one-night stand in Boston.' It sounds a good scheme, said Shakespeare meditatively. What shall we call it? Call it Irving, said Eugene Aram, who had entered. I, too, have suffered. And let me be Hamlet's understudy, said Charles the First, earnestly. Done, said Shakespeare, calling for a pad and pencil. And as the sun rose upon the sticks the next morning, the bard of Avon was to be seen writing a comic chorus to be sung over the Moribund River. Over the Moribund Tragedion by the shades of Charles, Aram, and other eminent deceased heroes of the stage, with which his new play of Irving was to be brought to an appropriate close. This play has not as yet found its way upon the boards, but any enterprising manager who desires to consider it may address Hamlet, the houseboat, Hades on the sticks. He is sure to get a reply by a return mail, unless Mephistopheles interferes, which is not unlikely, since Mephistopheles is said to have been much pleased with the manner in which the eminent Tragedion has put him before the British and American public. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Zachary Brewster Geis, Greenbelt, Maryland, July 2007 Chapter 5 of A Houseboat on the Sticks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Zachary Brewster Geis A Houseboat on the Sticks by John Kendrick Bangs Chapter 5 The House Committee Discussed the Poets There's one thing this houseboat needs, wrote Homer, in the complained book that adorned the center table in the reading room, and that is a poet's corner.  I do not smoke, I can't play billiards, and I do not know a tray of diamonds from a silver salver. All I can do is write poetry. Why discriminate against me? By all means let us have a poet's corner where a man can be inspired in peace. For four days this entry lay in the book apparently unnoticed. On the fifth day the following lines, signed by Samson, appeared. I approve of Homer's suggestion. There should be a poet's corner here. Then the rest of us could have some comfort. While playing ventellume with diogenes in the card room on Friday evening, a poetic member of this club was taken with a most violent fancy, and it required the combined efforts of diogenes and myself, assisted by the janitor, to remove the frenzied and objectionable member from the room. The habits some of our poets have acquired of giving way to their inspirations all over the clubhouse should be stopped, and I know of no better way to accomplish this desirable end than by the adoption of Homer's suggestion, therefore I second the motion. Of course the suggestion of two members so prominent as Homer and Samson could not well be ignored by the House committee, and it reluctantly took the subject in hand at an early meeting. I find here, said Demosthenes to the chairman, as the committee gathered, a suggestion from Homer and Samson that this houseboat be provided with a poet's corner. I do not know that I approve of the suggestion myself, but in order to bring it before the committee for debate, I am willing to make a motion that the request be granted. Excuse me, put in Dr. Johnson, but where did you find that suggestion? Here is not very definite, where is here? In the complaint book which I hold in my hand, returned Demosthenes, putting a pebble in his mouth, so that he might enunciate more clearly. A frown ruffled the serenity of Dr. Johnson's brow. In the complaint book, eh? he said slowly. I thought House committees were not expected to pay any attention to complaints and complaint books. I never heard of its being done before. Well, I can't say that I have either, replied Demosthenes, chewing thoughtfully on the pebble, but I suppose complaint books are the places for complaints. You don't expect people to write serial stories or dialect poems in them, do you? That isn't the point, as the man said to the assassin who tried to stab him with the hilt of his dagger, retorted Dr. Johnson with some asparity. Of course complaint books are for the reception of complaints. Nobody disputes that. What I want to have determined is whether it is necessary or proper for the complaints to go further. I fancy we have a legal right to take the matter up, said Blackstone Wearily, though I don't know of any president for such action. In all the clubs I have known, the House committees have invariably taken the ground that the complaint book was established to guard them against the annoyance of hearing complaints. This one, however, has been forced upon us by our secretary, and in view of the age of the complainants, I think we cannot well decline to give them a specific answer. Respect for age is derigure at all times, like clean hands. I'll second the motion. I think the poet's corner entirely unnecessary, said Confucius. This isn't a class organization, and we should resist any effort to make it or any portion of it so. In fact, I will go further and state that it is my opinion that if we do any legislating in the matter at all, we ought to discourage rather than encourage these poets. They are always littering the club up with themselves. Only last Wednesday I came here with a guest, no less a person than a recently deceased Emperor of China, and what was the first sight that greeted our eyes? I'd give it up, said Dr. Johnson. It must have been a catacorn at sight, whatever it was, if the Emperor's eyes slanted like yours. No personalities, please, Doctor! said Sir Walter Raleigh, the Chairman, wrapping the table vigorously with the shade of a handsome gavel that had once adorned the Roman Senate chamber. He's only a Chinaman, muttered Johnson. What was the sight that greeted your eyes, Confucius? asked Cassius. Oma Kayam stretched over five of the most comfortable chairs in the library, returned Confucius, and when I ventured to remonstrate with him, he lost his temper, and said I'd spoiled the whole second volume of the ruby-ut. I told him he ought to do his ruby-utting at home, and he made a scene, to avoid which I hastened with my guest over to the billiard room, and there, stretched at full length on the pool table, was Robert Burns trying to write a sonnet on the cloth with chalk, in less time than Vionne could turn out another with two-lined start, on the billiard table with the same writing materials. Now I ask you, gentlemen, if these things are to be tolerated, are they not rather to be reprehended, whether I am a Chinaman or not? What would you have us do, then? asks Sir Walter Raleigh, a little nettle, exclude poets altogether. I was one, remember. Oh, but not much of one, Sir Walter, put in Dr. Johnson deprecatingly. No, said Confucius, I don't want them excluded, but they should be controlled. You don't let a shoemaker who has become a member of this club turn the library sofas into benches and go pegging away at boot-making, so why should you let the poets turn the place into a verse factory? That's what I'd like to know. I don't know, but what your point is well taken, said Blackstone. Though I can't say I think your parallels are very parallel, a shoemaker, my dear Confucius, is somewhat different from a poet. Certainly, said Dr. Johnson. Very different. In fact, different enough to make a conundrum of the question, what is the difference between a shoemaker and a poet? One makes the shoes and the other shakes the muse, all the difference in the world. Still, I don't see how we can exclude the poets. It is the very democracy of this club that gives it life. We take in everybody, peer, poet, or whatnot, to say that this man shall not enter because he is this or that or the other thing would result in our ultimately becoming a class organization, which, as Confucius himself says, we are not and must not be. If we put out the poet to please the sage, we'll soon have to put out the sage to please the fool and so on. We'll keep it up once the precedent is established, until finally it will become a class club entirely, a plumber's club, for instance, and how absurd that would be in Hades. No, gentlemen, it can't be done. The poets must and shall be preserved. What's the objection to class clubs, anyhow, asked Cassius. I don't object to them. If we could have had political organizations in my day, I might not have had to fall on my sword to get out of keeping an engagement I had no fancy for. Class clubs have their uses. No doubt, said Demosthenes, have all the class clubs you want, but do not make one of this. An author's club, where none but authors are admitted, is a good thing. The members learn that there are other authors than themselves. Poets' clubs are a good thing. They bring poets into contact with each other, and they learn what a board is to have to listen to a poet reading his own poem. Pugilist clubs are good. So are all other class clubs. But so also are clubs like our own, which takes in all who are worthy. Here a poet can talk poetry as much as he wants, but at the same time he hears something besides poetry. We must stick to our original idea. Then let us do something to abate the nuisance of which I complain, said Confucius. Can't we adopt a house rule that poets must not be inspired between the hours of eleven a.m. and five p.m. or in the evening after eight, that any poet discovered using more than five armchairs in the composition of a quatrain will be charged too overly an hour for each chair in excess of that number, and that the billiard marker shall be required to charge a premium of three times the ordinary fee for tables used by versifiers in lieu of writing-pads. That wouldn't be a bad idea, said Sir Walter Raleigh. I, as a poet, would not object to that. I do all my work at home anyhow. There's another phase of this business that we haven't considered yet, and it's rather important, said Domostinis, taking a fresh pebble out of his bonbonnerie. That's in the matter of stationery. This club, like all other well-regulated clubs, provides its members with a suitable supply of writing materials. Karen informs me that the waste baskets last week turned out forty-two reams of our best correspondence paper on which these poets had scribbled the first draft of their verses. Now, I don't think the club should furnish the poets with the raw material for their poems any more than to go back to Confucius' shoemaker. It would supply leather for our cobblers. What do you mean by raw material for poems? asks Sir Walter with a frown. Pen ink and paper. What else? said Domostinis. Doesn't it take brains to write a poem? said Raleigh.  They've got to write to the stationery, though, put in Blackstone. A clear legal right to it. If they choose to write poems on the paper instead of boring people to death with letters, as most of us do, that's their own affair. Well, they're very wasteful, said Domostinis. We can meet that easily enough, observed Cassius. Furnish each writing table with a slate. I should think they'd be pleased with that. It's so much easier to rub out the wrong word. Most poets prefer to rub out the right word, growled Confucius. Besides, I shall never consent to slates in this houseboat. The squeaking of the pencils would be worse than the poems themselves. That's true, said Cassius. I never thought of that. If a dozen poets got to work on those slates at once, a fife corpse wouldn't be a circumstance to them. Well, it all goes to prove what I've thought all along, said Dr. Johnson. Homer's idea is a good one, and Samson was wise in backing it up. The poets need to be concentrated somewhere where they will not be a nuisance to other people, and where other people will not be a nuisance to them. Homer ought to have a place to compose and where the Vanteun players will not interrupt his frenzies, and, on the other hand, the Vanteun and other players should be protected from the woors of the muse. I'll vote to have a poet's corner, and in a time move that Cassius' slate idea be carried out. It will be a great saving, and if the corner we select be far enough away from the other corners of the club, the squeaking of the slate pencils need bother no one. I agree to that, said Blackstone. Only I think it should be understood that, in granting the petition of the poets, we do not bind ourselves to yield to doctors and lawyers and shoemakers and plumbers in case they should each want a corner to themselves. A very wise idea, said Sir Walter, whereupon the resolution was suitably worded and passed unanimously. Just where the poet's corner is to be located, the members of the committee have not as yet decided, although Confucius is strongly in favour of having it placed in a dinghy, situated a quarter of a mile astern of the houseboat, and connected therewith by a slight cord, which can be easily cut in case the squeaking of the poet's slate pencils becomes too much for the nervous system of the members who have no corner of their own. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. I observe, said Dr. Darwin, looking up from a perusal of an asbestos copy of the London Times. I observe that an American professor has discovered that monkeys talk. I consider that a very interesting fact. It undoubtedly is, observed Dr. Livingston, though hardly new. I never said anything about it over in the other world, but I discovered years ago in Africa that monkeys were quite well able to hold a sustained conversation with each other as most men are. And I, too, put in Baron Munchausen, have frequently conversed with his monkeys. I made myself a master of the idioms during my brief sojourn in, uh, in, well, never mind there. I never could remember the names of places. The interesting point is that at one period of my life, I was a master of the monkey language. I have even gone so far as to write a sonnet in Simeon, which was quite as intelligible to the uneducated as nine-tenths of the sonnets written in English or American. Do you mean to say that you could acquire the monkey accent? asked Dr. Darwin immediately interested. In most instances, returned the Baron suavely, though of course not in all, I found the same difficulty in some cases that the German or the Chinaman finds when he tries to speak French. A Chinaman can no more say Trocadero, for instance, as a Frenchman says it, then he can fly. That peculiar, thorny aspirate the Frenchman gives to the first syllable, as though it were spelled Terroc, is utterly beyond the Chinese, and beyond the American, too, whose idea of the tonsillar aspirate leads him to speak of the Trocadero, naturally falling back upon troches to help him out of his laryngeal difficulties. You ought to have been on the staff of punch, Baron, said Thackeray quietly. That joke would have made you immortal. I am immortal, said the Baron, but to return to our discussion of the Simeon tongue, as I was saying, there were some little points about the accent that I could never get, and as in the case of the German and Chinaman with the French language, the trouble was purely physical. Then you consider that in polite Simeon society most of the talkers converse while swinging by their tails from the limb of a tree with a sort of droning accent, which results from their swaying to and fro. You will see at once why it was that I, deprived by nature of the necessary apparatus vis-vis to suspend myself in mid-air, was unable to quite catch the quality which gives its chief charm to monkey-talk. I should hardly think that a man of your fertile resources would have let so small a thing as that stand in his way, said Dr. Livingston. When a man is able to make a reputation for himself like yours, in which material facts are never allowed to interfere with his doing what he sets out to do, he ought not to be daunted by the need of a tail. If you could make a cherry tree grow out of a deer's head, I fail to see why you could not personally grow a tail, or anything else you might happen to need for the attainment of your end. I was not so anxious to get the accent as all that, return the baron. I don't think it is necessary for a man to make a monkey of himself just for the pleasure of mastering a language. Reasoning similarly a man to master the art of braying in a fashion comprehensible to the jackass of average intellect, should make a jackass of himself cultivate his ears and learn to kick, so as properly to punctuate his sentences after the manner of most conversational beasts of that time. Then you believe that jackasses talk too, do you? asked Dr. Darwin. Why not? said the baron. If monkeys, why not donkeys? Certainly they do. Old creatures have some means of communicating their thoughts to one another. By man and his conceit, should think otherwise I don't know. Unless it be that the birds and beasts and their conceit probably think that they alone of all the creatures in the world can talk. I haven't a doubt, said Dr. Livingston, that monkeys listening to men and women talking think they are only jabbering. They're not far from wrong in most cases if they do, said Dr. Johnson, who up to this point had been merely an interested listener. I've thought that many a time myself. Which is, perhaps in a slight degree, a confirmation of my theory, put in Darwin. If Dr. Johnson's mind runs in the same channels that the monkey's mind runs in, why may we not say that Dr. Johnson being a man has certain qualities of the monkey and is therefore in a sense of the same strain? You may say what you please, retorted Johnson wrathfully, but I'll make you prove what you say about me. I wouldn't if I were you, said Dr. Livingston, in a peacemaking spirit. It would not be a pleasant task for you, compelling off when, to prove you descended from the ape. I should think you'd prefer to make him leave it unproved. Have monkeys Boswells, queried Thackeray? I don't know anything about them, said Johnson petulantly. No more do I, said Darwin, and I didn't mean to be offensive, my dear Johnson, if I claim Simeon ancestry for you, I claim it equally for myself. Well, I'm no snob, said Johnson, unmolefied. If you want to brag about your ancestors, do it, leave mine alone, stick to your own genealogical orchard. Phil, I believe fully that we are all descended from the ape, said Munchausen. There isn't any doubt in my mind that before the flood all men had tails, Noah had a tail, Shem, Ham, and Yapeth had tails. It's perfectly reasonable to believe it. The Ark, in a sense, proved it. It would have been almost impossible for Noah and his sons to construct the Ark in the time they did with the assistance of only two hands apiece. Think, however, of how fast they could work with the assistance of that third arm. Noah could hammer a clabbard onto the Ark with two hands, while grasping a saw and cutting a new board or planing it off with his tail. So, as the others, we all know how much a third hand would help us at times. But how do you account for its disappearance, put in Dr. Livingston? Is it likely that they would dispense with such a useful adjunct? No, it isn't, but there are various ways of accounting for this loss, said Munchausen. They may have overworked it, building the Ark. Shem, Ham, or Yapeth may have had his caught in the door of the Ark and cut off in the hurry of the departure. Plenty of things may have happened to eliminate it. Men lose their hair and their teeth. Why might not a man lose a tail? Scientists say that coming generations far in the future will be toothless and bald. Why may it not be that through causes unknown to us, they are similarly deprived of something our forefathers had? The only reason for man's losing his hair is that he wears a hat all the time, said Livingston. The derby hat is the enemy of hair. It is hot and dweighs up the scalp. You might as well try to waive watermelons in the desert of Sahara as to try to waive hair under the modern hat. In fact, the modern hat is a furnace. Well, it's a mighty good furnace, observed Munchausen. You don't have to put call on the modern hat. Perhaps, interposed Zachary, the ancients wore their hats on their toes. Well, I have a totally different theory, said Johnson. You always did have, observed Munchausen. Very likely, said Johnson, to be commonplace never was my ambition. What is your fearway? queried Livingston. Well, I don't know, said Johnson, if it be worth expressing. It may be worth sending by freight, interrupted Zachary. Let us have it. Well, I believe, said Johnson, I believe that Adam was a monkey. A behaved like one, ejaculated Zachary. I believe that the forbidden tree was a tender one, and therefore the only one upon which Adam was forbidden to swing by his tail, said Johnson. Clear enough, so far, said Munchausen. But that the possession of tails by Adam and Eve entailed a love of swinging thereby, and that they could not resist the temptation to swing from every limb in Eden, and that therefore while Adam was off swinging on other trees, Eve took a swing on the forbidden tree, that Adam, returning, caught her in the act, and immediately gave way himself and swung, said Johnson. Then you eliminate the serpent, queried Darwin. Not a bit of it, Johnson answered. The serpent was the tail. Look at most snakes today. What are they but unattached tails? They do look it, said Darwin thoughtfully. Why, it's as clear as day, said Johnson. As punishment, Adam and Eve lost their tails, and the tail itself was compelled to work for a living and do its own walking. I never thought of that, said Darwin. It seems reasonable. It is reasonable, said Johnson. And the snakes of the present day, queried Thackeray. I believe to be the missing tails of men, said Johnson. Somewhere in the world is a tail for every man and woman and child. Where one's tail is no one can ever say, but that it exists simultaneously with its owner, I believe. The abhorrence man has for snakes is directly attributable to his abhorrence for all things which have deprived him of something that is good. If Adam's tail had not tempted him to swing on the forbidden tree, we should all of us have been able through life to relax from business cares after the manner of the monkey, who is happy from morning until night. Well, I can't see that it does us any good to sit here and discuss this matter, said Dr. Livingston. We can't reach any conclusion. The only way to settle the matter, it seems to me, is to go directly to Adam, who is a member of this club, and ask him how it was. That's a great idea, said Thackeray scornfully. You'd look well going up to a man and saying, excuse me sir, but where are you ever a monkey? To say nothing of catacysing a man on the subject of an old and dreadful scandal, put in Munchausen. I'm surprised at you, Livingston. African etiquette seems to have ruined your sense of propriety. I'd just as leaf ask him, said Dr. Johnson. Etiquette! Bah! What business has etiquette to stand in the way of human knowledge? Conventionality is the last thing men of brain should strive after, and I for one am not going to be bound by it. Here Dr. Johnson touched the electric bell, and in an instant the shade of a buttons appeared. Boy, is Adam in the clubhouse today? asked the sage. I'll go and see, sir, said the boy, and he immediately departed. Good boy, that. Yes, but the service in this club is dreadful considering what we might have, said Darwin. With a lad and a member of this club, I don't see why we can't have his lamp with Jeanne Galore to respond. It certainly would be more economical. True, but I for one don't care to fool with Jeanne, said Munchausen. Then one member can summon a servant who is strong enough to take another member and do him up in a bottle and cast him into the sea. I have no use for the system. Plain ordinary mortal shades are good enough for me. As Munchausen spoke, the boy returned. Mr. Adam isn't here today, sir, he said, addressing Dr. Johnson. And Karen says he's not likely to be here, sir, seeing as how his account is closed, not having been settled for three months. Good, said Thackeray. I was afraid he was here. I don't want to have him asked about his Eden experiences in my behalf. That's personality. Well, there's only one other thing to do, said Darwin. Munchausen claims to be able to speak Simeon. He might seek out some of the prehistoric mongies and put the question to them. No, thank you, said Munchausen.  You might as well speak of the human language as the Simeon language.  Let Johnson send his little Boswell out to drum up information. If there is anything to be found out, he'll get it. And then he can tell it to us. Of course, he may get it all wrong, but it will be entertaining and we'll never know any difference. Which seemed to the others a good idea, but whatever came of it I have not been informed. End of Chapter 6. Recording by Zachary Brewster Geis, Greenbelt, Maryland, July 2007. Chapter 7 of A Houseboat on the Sticks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Zachary Brewster Geis. A Houseboat on the Sticks. By John Kendrick Bangs. Chapter 7. A Discussion as to Ladies' Day. I met Queen Elizabeth just now on the row. Said Raleigh as he entered the houseboat and checked his cloak. Indeed, said Confucius, what if you did? Other people have met Queen Elizabeth. There's nothing original about that. True, but she made a suggestion to me about this houseboat, which I think is a good one.  Thus proving that immortal woman is no different from mortal woman, retorted Confucius. They want to see the inside of everything. Curiosity, thy name is woman. Well, I am sure I don't see why men should irrigate to themselves the sole right to an investigating turn of mind, said Raleigh impatiently. Why shouldn't the ladies want to see the inside of this clubhouse? It is a compliment to us that they should, and I for one am in favour of letting them, and I am going to propose that in the Ides of March we give a ladies' day here. Then I shall go south for my health in the Ides of March, said Confucius angrily. What on earth is a club for if it isn't a clubhouse? Or if it isn't to enable men to get away from their wives once in a while? When do people go to clubs? When they are on their way home, that's when, and the more a man's at home in his club, the less he's at home when he's at home. I suppose you'll be suggesting a children's day next, and after that a parent's or a canary bird's day. I had no idea he was such a woman-hater, said Raleigh in astonishment. What's the matter? Were you ever disappointed in love? I? How absurd! retorted Confucius, reddening. The idea of my ever being disappointed in love. I never met the woman who could bring me to my knees, although I was married in the other world. What became of Mrs. C. I never inquired. She may be in China yet, for ought I know, I regard death as a divorce. Your wife must be glad of it, said Raleigh, somewhat ungallantly, for to tell the truth he was netled by Confucius's demeanour. I didn't know, however, but that since you escaped from China and came here to Hades, you might have fallen in love with some spirit of an age subsequent to your own. Mary, Queen of Scots, or Joan of Arc, or some other spook, who rejected you. I can't account for your dislike of women otherwise. Not I, said Confucius. Hades would have a less classic name than it has for me, if I were hampered with a family.  I can at least stay at home that day. What do you propose to do? Throw open the house to the wives of members, or to all ladies irrespective of their husband's membership here? I think latter plan would be the better, said Raleigh. Otherwise, Queen Elizabeth, to whom I am indebted for the suggestion, would be excluded. She'd never married, you know. Didn't she? said Confucius. No, I didn't know it, but that doesn't prove anything. When I went to school, we didn't study the history of the Elizabethan period. She didn't have absolute sway over England then? She had. But what of that? queried Raleigh. Do you mean to say that she lived and died an old maid from choice? demanded Confucius. Surely I do, said Raleigh. And why should I not tell you that? For a very good and sufficient reason, retorted Confucius, which is in brief that I am not a marine. I may dislike women, my dear Raleigh, but I know them better than you do, gallant as you are, and when you tell me in one and the same moment that a woman holding absolute sway over men yet lived and died an old maid, you must not be indignant if I smile and bite the end of my thumb, which is the Chinese way of saying that's all in your eye, Betty Martin. Believe it or not, you poor old back-number, retorted Raleigh hotly. It alters nothing. Queen Elizabeth could have married a hundred times over if she had wished. I know I lost my head there completely. That shows, Sir Walter, said Dryden with a grin. How wrong you are. You lost your head to King James.  Raleigh's face flushed scarlet. Tis better to have had a head and lost it, he cried. Than never to have had a head at all. Mark you Dryden, my boy, it ill befit you to scoff at me for my misfortune, for dust thou art, and to dust thou hast returned, if word from Totherside about thy books and that which in and on them lies be true. What have ye said about my books, said Dryden angrily, be they read or be they not, tis mine they are, and none there be who dare dispute their authorship. Thus proving that men, thank heaven, are still sane, ejaculated Dr. Johnson, to assume the authorship of Dryden would be not so much a claim, my friend, as a confession. Shades of the mighty chow, cried Confucius, and will ye hear the poet's squabble? E gad, a lady's day could hardly introduce into our midst a more diverting disputation. We're all getting a little high-flown in our phraseology, put in Shakespeare at this point. Let's quit talking in blank verse and come down to business. I think a lady's day would be great sport. I'll write a poem to read on the occasion. Then I oppose it with all my heart, said Dr. Johnson. Why do you always want to make our entertainments commonplace? Leave occasional poems to mortals. I never knew an occasional poem yet that was worthy of an immortal. That's precisely why I want to write one occasional poem. I'd make it worthy, Shakespeare answered, like this, for instance. Most fair, most sweet, most beautious of ladies. The greatest charm in all the realm of Hades. Why, my dear doctor, such an opportunity for rhyming Hades with ladies should not be lost. That just proves what I said, said Johnson.  It requires absolute genius to avoid the temptation. You are great enough to make Hades rhyme with bicycle if you choose to do it, but no, you succumb to the temptation to be commonplace. One of these modern drawing-room poets with three sections to his name couldn't do worse. On general principles, said Raleigh, Johnson is right. We invite these people here to see our clubhouse, not to give them an exhibition of our metrical powers, and I think all exercises of a formal nature should be frowned upon. Very well, said Shakespeare.  I'm perfectly willing to save myself the trouble of writing a poem. Writing real poetry isn't easy as you fellows would have discovered for yourselves if you'd ever tried it. To pass over the arrogant assumption of the gentleman who has just spoken, with the silence due to a proper expression of our contempt therefore, said Dryden slowly, I think in case we do have a lady's day, we should exercise a most careful supervision over the invitation list. For instance, wouldn't it be awkward for our good friend Henry VIII to encounter the various Mrs. Henrys here? Would it not likewise be awkward for them to meet each other? Your point is well taken, said Dr. Johnson. I don't know whether the king's matrimonial ventures are on speaking terms with each other or not, but under any circumstances it would hardly be a pleasing spectacle for Catherine of Aragon to see Henry running his legs off getting cream and cakes for Anne Boleyn, nor would Anne like it much if, on the other hand, Henry chose to behave like a gentleman and a husband to Jane Seymour or Catherine Parr. I think if the members themselves are to send out the invitations, they should each be limited to two cards. Would they express understanding that no member shall be permitted to invite more than one wife? That's going to be awkward, said Raleigh, scratching his head thoughtfully. Henry is such a hot-headed fellow that he might resent the stipulation. I think he would, said Confucius. I think he'd be mad as a hatter at your insinuation that he would invite any of his wives, if all I hear of him is true, and what I've heard Woolsey has told me. He knew a thing or two about Henry, said Shakespeare. If you don't believe it, just read that play of mine that Beaumont and Fletch thought so much of. You came near giving your secret away that time, William, said Johnson, with a sly smile, and giving the Avonian a dig between the ribs. Secret? I haven't any secret, said Shakespeare a little acidly. It's the truth I'm telling you Beaumont and Fletcher did admire Henry VIII. Thereby showing their conceit, eh? said Johnson. Of course I didn't write anything, did I? cried Shakespeare. Everybody wrote my plays but me. I'm the only person that had no hand in Shakespeare. It seems to me that joke is about worn-out doctor. I'm getting a little tired of it myself. But, if it amuses you, why keep it up? I know who wrote my plays, and whatever you may say cannot affect the facts. Next thing you fellows will be saying that I didn't write my own autographs? I didn't say that, said Johnson quietly. Only there is no internal evidence in your autographs that you knew how to spell your name if you did. A man who signs his name Shakespeare one day and Shakespeare the next needn't complain if the bank of posterity refuses to honour his check. They'd honour my check quick enough these days, retorted Shakespeare. When a man's autograph brings five thousand dollars or one thousand pounds in the auction room, there isn't a bank in the world fool enough to decline to honour any check hill sign under a thousand dollars or two hundred pounds. I fancy you're right, put in rally. But your checks or your plays have nothing to do with ladies' day. Let's get to some conclusion in this matter. Yes, said Confucius. Let's, ladies' day is becoming a dreadful bore, and if we don't hurry up the billiard room will be full. And I move we get a petition to the council to have it. I agree, said Confucius. And I'll sign it. If there's one way to avoid having ladies' day in the future, it's to have one now and be done with it. All right, said Shakespeare. I'll sign too. As a Shakespeare or Shakespeare, queried Johnson. Have him alone, said Rally. He's getting sensitive about that. And what you'll need to learn more than anything else is that it didn't manage to Twitter man on facts. What's bothering you, Dryden? You look like a man with an idea. It has just occurred to me, said Dryden, that while we could safely leave the question of Henry VIII and his wives to the wisdom of the council, we ought to pay some attention to the advisability of advising Lucretia Borger. I'd hate to eat any supper if she came with an a mile of the banqueting hall. If she comes, you'll have to appoint a tasting committee before I'll touch, a drop of punch, or eat a speck of salad. We might recommend the appointment of Rally to look after the fair Lucretia and see that she has no poison with her, or if she has to keep her from dropping it into the salads, said Confucius with a side-long glance at Rally. He's the especial champion of women in this club and no doubt would be proud of the distinction. I would with most women, said Rally, but I draw the line at Lucretia Borger. And so a petition was drawn up, signed and sent to the council, and they, after mature deliberation, decided to have the ladies' day, to which all the ladies in Hades, excepting Lucretia Borger and Delilah, were to be duly invited. Only the date was not specified. Delilah was excluded at the request of Samson, whose convincing muscles, rather than his arguments, completely won over all opposition to his proposition. End of Chapter 7, recording by Zachary Brewster Geis, Greenbelt, Maryland, July 2007. Chapter 8 of A Houseboat on the Sticks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Houseboat on the Sticks by John Kendrick Banks. Chapter 8. A Discontented Shade It seems to me, said Shakespeare, weirdly one afternoon at the club, that this business of being immortal is pretty dull. Didn't somebody once say he'd rather ride 50 years on a trolley in Europe than on a bicycle in Cathay? I've never heard any such remark by any self-respecting person, said Johnson. I said something like it, observed Tennyson. Dr. Johnson looked around to see who it was that spoke. You, he cried. And who pray may you be? My name is Tennyson. Replied the poet. And a very good name it is, said Shakespeare. I'm not aware that I have ever heard the name before, said Dr. Johnson. Did you make it yourself? I did, said the late Laureate proudly. In what pursuit, asked Dr. Johnson. Poetry, said Tennyson. I wrote loxley hall and come into the garden mod. Humph, said Dr. Johnson. I never read them. Well, why should you have read them, snarled Carlisle? They were written after you moved over here. And they were good stuff. You didn't think because you quit, the whole world put up its shutters and went out of business. I did a few things myself, which I fancy you never heard of. Oh, as for that, retorted Dr. Johnson with a smile. I've heard of you. You were the man who wrote the life of Frederick the Great in 902 volumes. Seven, snapped Carlisle. Well, seven then, returned Johnson. I never saw the work, but I heard Frederick speaking of it the other day. Bonaparte asked him if he had read it, and Frederick said no, he hadn't time. Bonaparte cried, haven't time? Why, my dear king, you've got all eternity. I know, it replied Frederick. But that isn't enough. Read a page or two, my dear Napoleon, and you'll see why. Frederick will have his joke, said Shakespeare, with a wink at Tennyson and a smile for the two philosophers intended, no doubt, to put them in a more agreeable frame of mind. Why, he even asked me the other day why I never wrote a tragedy about him, completely ignoring the fact that he came along many years after I had departed. I spoke of that, and he said, oh, I was only joking. I apologized. I didn't know that, said I. And why should you, said he? You're English. A very rude remark, said Johnson, as if we English were incapable of seeing a joke. Exactly, put in Carlisle. It strikes me as the absurdist notion that the Englishman can't see a joke, to the mind that is accustomed to snap judgments, I have no doubt the Englishman appears to be dull of apprehension. But the philosophy of the whole matter is apparent to the mind that takes the trouble to investigate. The Britain weighs everything carefully before he commits himself. And even though a certain point may strike him as funny, he isn't going to laugh until he has fully made up his mind that it is funny. I remember once riding down Piccadilly with Frude in a handsome cab. Frude had a copy of Punch in his hand, and he began to laugh immoderately over something. 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 Frude. 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 germ 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 Artemis Ward, who had strolled in during the latter part of the conversation. Shakespeare snickered quietly. But Carlisle and Johnson looked upon the intruder severely. We will take that question into consideration, said Carlisle. Perhaps tomorrow 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 these. 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. Supposed, 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 the salvo of artillery instead of applause. He wouldn't mind 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 at the second night? Drawed Ward. How the deuce could you put in Carlisle? A most extraordinary proposition, sneered Johnson. Yes, said Ward, but wait a week, you'll see the point then. There isn't any doubt in my mind, said Shakespeare, reverting to his original proposition, that the only perfectly satisfactory life is under a system not yet adopted in either world, the one we have quitted or this. There we had hard work in which our mortal limitations hampered us grievously. Here we have the freedom of the immortal with no hard work. In other words, now that we feel like fighting cocks, there isn't any fighting to be done. The great life in my estimation would be to return to earth and battle with mortal problems, but equipped mentally and physically with immortal weapons. Some people don't know when they are well off, said Beau Brummel. This strikes me as being an ideal life. There are no Taylor's bills to pay, we are ourselves nothing but memories, and a memory can clothe himself in the shadow of his former grandeur. I can clothe myself in the remembrance of my departed clothes, and as my memory is good, I flatter myself I'm the best dressed man here. The fact that there are ghosts of departed unpaid bills haunting my bedside at night doesn't bother me in the least, because the bailiffs that in the old life lent terror to an overdue account, thanks to our beneficent systems here, are kept in the less agreeable sections of Hades. I used to regret that bailiffs were such low people, but now I rejoice at it. If they had been of a different order, they might have proven unpleasant here. You are right, my dear Brummel, Interposed Munchhausen. This life is far preferable to that in the other sphere. Any of you gentlemen who happen to have had the pleasure of reading my memoirs must have been struck with the tremendous difficulties that encumbered my progress. If I wished for a rare liquor for my luncheon, a liquor served only at the table of an oriental potentate, more jealous of it than one of his one thousand queens, I had to raise armies, charterships, and wage warfare in which feats of incredible valour had to be performed by myself alone and unaided to secure the desired thimbleful. I have destroyed empires for a bon mon at great expense of nervous energy. That's very likely true, said Carlisle. I should think your feats of strength would have wrecked your imagination in time. Not so, said Munchhausen. On the contrary, continuous exercise served only to make it stronger. But, as I was going to say, in this life we have none of these fearful obstacles. It is a life of leisure, and if I want a bird and a cold bottle at any time, instead of placing my life in peril and jeopardizing the peace of all mankind to get it, I have only to summon before me the memory of some previous bird and cold bottle, dine thereon like a well-ordered citizen, and smoke the spirit of the best cigar my imagination can conjure up. You miss my point, said Shakespeare. I don't say this life is worse or better than the other we used to live. What I do say is that a combination of both would suit me. In short, I'd like to live here and go to the other world every day to business, like a suburban resident who sleeps in the country and makes his living in the city. For instance, why shouldn't I dwell here and go to London every day, hire an office there, and put out a sign something like this? William Shakespeare, dramatist. Play is written while you wait. I guess I'd find plenty to do. Guess again, said Tennyson. My dear boy, you forget one thing. You are out of date. People don't go to the theaters to hear you. They go to see the people who do you. That is true, said Ward, and they do do you, my beloved William. It's a wonder to me you are not dizzy turning over in your grave the way they do you. Can it be that I can ever be out of date, asked Shakespeare? I know, of course, that I have to be adapted at times, but to be wholly out of date strikes me as a hard fate. You're not out of date, interposed Carlisle. The date is out of you. There is a great demand for Shakespeare on these days, but there isn't any stuff. Then I should succeed, said Shakespeare. No, I don't think so, returned Carlisle. You couldn't stand the pace. The world revolves faster today than it did in your time. Men write three or four plays at once. This is what you might call a typewriter age, and to keep up with the procession you'd have to work as you never worked before. That is drip, observed Tennyson. You'd have to learn to be ambidextrous so that you could keep two typewriting machines going at once, and to be perfectly franked with you, I cannot even conjure up in my fancy, a picture of you knocking out a tragedy with the right hand on one machine. While your left hand is fashioning a forced comedy on the other. He might do as a great many modern writers do, said Ward. Go in for the paper doll drama. Cut the whole thing out with a pair of scissors, as the poet might have said if he'd been clever enough. Oh, bring me the scissors and bring me the glue, and a couple of dozen old plays.  Oh, bring me a dress made of satin and lace, and a book say Joe Miller's of wit. And I'll make the old dramatis blue in the face with the play that'll turn out for it. So bring me the scissors and bring me the paste, and a dozen fine old comedies. A fine line of dresses and popular taste. I'll make a strong effort to please. You draw a very blue picture, it seems to me, said Shakespeare sadly. Well, it's true, said Carlisle. The world isn't at all what it used to be, in any one respect, and you fellows who made great reputations centuries ago wouldn't have even the ghost of a show now. I don't believe homework can get a poem accepted by a modern magazine, and while the comic papers are still printing Diogenes' jokes, the old gentleman couldn't make enough out of them in these days to pay taxes on his tub, let alone earning his bread. That is exactly so, said Tennyson. I'd be willing to wager, too, that in the line of personal prowess, even D'Artanian and Athos and Porthos and Aramis couldn't stand London for one day. Or New York, either, said Mr. Barnum, who had been an interested listener. A New York policeman could have managed that quartet with one hand. Then, said Shakespeare, in the opinion of you gentlemen, we old time lions would appear to modernize to be more or less stuffed. That's about the size of it, said Carlisle.  You drive a five-legged calf to suicide from Endy. If I could take you, and Caesar, and Napoleon Bonaparte, and Miro, over for one circus season, we'd drive the mint out of business. There's your chance, William, said Ward. You ride a play for Bonaparte and Caesar, and let Miro take his fiddle and be the orchestra. Under Barnum's management, you'd get enough activity in one season to last you through all eternity. You can count on me, said Barnum, rising. Let me know when you've got your plan laid out. I'd stay and make a contract with you now, but Adam has promised to give me points on the management of wild animals without cages. So I can't wait. Bye-bye. Hmpf, said Shakespeare, as the eminent showman passed out.  When monkeys move in polite society, William Shakespeare will make a side show of himself for a circus. They do now, said Thackeray, quietly. Which merely proved that Shakespeare did not mean what he said. Before, in spite of Thackeray's insinuation as to the monkeys and polite society, he has not yet accepted the Barnum proposition, though there can be no doubt of its value, from the point of view of a circus manager. End of chapter 8. Recording by David Federman.