“That is exactly so,” said Tennyson.  “I’d be willing to wager too that, in the line of personal prowess, even D’Artagnan 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 modern eyes to be more or less stuffed?”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Carlyle.

“But you’d draw,” said Barnum, his face lighting up with pleasure.  “You’d drive a five-legged calf to suicide from envy.  If I could take you and Caesar, and Napoleon Bonaparte and Nero over for one circus season we’d drive the mint out of business.”

“There’s your chance, William,” said Ward.  “You write a play for Bonaparte and Caesar, and let Nero 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.  By-by.”

“Humph!” said Shakespeare, as the eminent showman passed out.  “That’s a gay proposition.  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; for 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.

CHAPTER IX:  AS TO COOKERY AND SCULPTURE

Robert Burns and Homer were seated at a small table in the dining-room of the house-boat, discussing everything in general and the shade of a very excellent luncheon in particular.

“We are in great luck to-day,” said Burns, as he cut a ruddy duck in twain.  “This bird is done just right.”

“I agree with you,” returned Homer, drawing his chair a trifle closer to the table.  “Compared to the one we had here last Thursday, this is a feast for the gods.  I wonder who it was that cooked this fowl originally?”

“I give it up; but I suspect it was done by some man who knew his business,” said Burns, with a smack of his lips.  “It’s a pity, I think, my dear Homer, that there is no means by which a cook may become immortal.  Cooking is as much of an art as is the writing of poetry, and just as there are immortal poets so there should be immortal cooks.  See what an advantage the poet has—­he writes something, it goes out and reaches the inmost soul of the man who reads it, and it is signed.  His work is known because he puts his name to it; but this poor devil of a cook—­where is he?  He has done his work as well as the poet ever did his, it has reached the inmost soul of the mortal who originally ate it, but he cannot get the glory of it because he cannot put his name to it.  If the cook could sign his work it would be different.”