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 with
his fingers. Burned his with an instrument that he had by his
fingers, and swore a little. side for that purpose, and muttered a
silent ejaculation


Before, however, the mole Triplet could undermine literature and level it
with the dust, various interruptions and divisions broke in upon his
design, and _sic nos servavit_ Apollo. As he wrote the last sentence, a
loud rap came to his door. A servant in livery brought him a note from
Mr. Vane, dated Covent Garden. Triplet's eyes sparkled, he bustled,
wormed himself into a less rusty coat, and started off to the Theater