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