mark too,--almost
within the Arctic Circle! Why, in those high latitudes, and in summer, a
ghost would not have an hour to himself on these principles. Don't you
remember the cock Lord Dufferin took North with him, which crowed at
sunrise, and ended by crowing without intermission and going mad, when
the sun did not set at all? You must observe that any rule of that sort
about cock-crow would lead to shocking irregularities, and to an early-
closing movement for spectres in summer, which would be ruinous to
business--simply ruinous--and, in these days of competition,
intolerable."

This was awful, for I could see no way of getting rid of him. He might
stay to breakfast, or anything.

"By the way," he asked, "who does the Cock at the Lyceum just now? It is
a small but very exacting part--'Act I. scene I. Cock crows.'"

"I believe Mr. Irving has engaged a real fowl, to crow at the right
moment behind the scenes," I said. "He is always very particular about
these details. Quite right too. 'The Cock, by kind permission of the
Aylesbury Dairy Company,' is on the bills. They have no Cock at the
Francais; Mounet Sully would not hear of it."

I knew nothing about it, but if this detestable spectre was going to
launch out concerning art and the drama there would be no sleep for me.

"Then the glow-worm," he said--"have they a real glow-worm for the
Ghost's 'business' (Act I. scene 5) when he says?--

"'Fare thee well at once,
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.'

Did it ever strike you how inconsistent that is? Clearly the ghost
appeared in winter; don't you remember how they keep complaining of the
weather?

"'For this relief much thanks; 'tis bitter cold,'

and

"'The air bites shrewdly: it is very cold.'"

"Horatio blows on his hands to warm them, at the Francais," I
interrupted.

"Quite right; good business," said he; "and yet they go on about the glow-
worms in the neighbourhood! Most incongruous. How does Furnivall take
it? An interpolation by Middleton?"

I don't like to be rude, but I admit that I hate being bothered about
Shakespeare, and I yawned.

"Good night," he said snappishly, and was gone.

Presently I heard him again, just as I was dropping into a doze.

"You won't think, in the morning, that this was all a dream, will you?
Can I do anything to impress it on your memory? Suppose I shrivel your
left wrist with