apper, and dethrone
herself into comfort.

But the poor woman was shot walking by Morpheus, and subsided
altogether; for dramatic performances, amusing and exciting to youth
seated in the pit, convey a certain weariness to those bright beings who
sparkle on the stage for bread and cheese.

Royalty, disposed of, still left its trail of events. The sausage began
to "spit." The sound was hardly out of its body, when poor Triplet
writhed like a worm on a hook. "Spitter, spittest," went the sausage.
Triplet groaned, and at last his inarticulate murmurs became words:
"That's right, pit now, that is so reasonable to condemn a poor fellow's
play before you have heard it out." Then, with a change of tone, "Tom,"
muttered he, "they are losing their respect for specters; if they do,
hunger will make a ghost of me." Next he fancied the clown or somebody
had got into his ghost's costume.

"Dear," said the poor dreamer, "the clown makes a very pretty specter,
with his ghastly white face, and his blood-boltered cheeks and nose. I
never saw the fun of a clown before, no! no! no! it is not the clown, it
is worse, much worse; oh, dear, ugh!" and Triplet rolled off the couch
like Richard the Third. He sat a moment on the floor, with a finger
in each eye; and then, finding he was neither daubing, ranting, nor
deluging earth with "acts," he accused himself of indolence, and sat
down to write a small tale of blood and bombast; he took his seat at the
deal table with some alacrity, for he had recently made a discovery.

How to write well, _rien que cela._

"First, think in as homely a way as you can; next, shove your pen under
the thought, and lift it by polysyllables to the true level of fiction,"
(when done, find a publisher--if you can). "This," said Triplet,
"insures common sense to your ideas, which does pretty well for a
basis," said Triplet, apologetically, "and elegance to the dress they
wear." Triplet, then casting his eyes round in search of such actual
circumstances as could be incorporated on this plan with fiction, began
to work thus:

TRIPLET'S FACTS. TRIPLET'S FICTION.

A farthing dip is on the table. A solitary candle cast its pale
gleams around.

It wants snuffing. Its elongated wick betrayed an owner
steeped in oblivion.

He jumped up, and snuffed it. He rose languidly, and trimmed it