wonderfully partial to pressed men.

_Author._ I am a living witness, having been, like a second Laberius,
made a dramatist whether I would or not. I believe my muse would be
_Terry_-fied into treading the stage, even if I should write a sermon.

_Captain._ Truly, if you did, I am afraid folks might make a farce of
it; and, therefore, should you change your style, I still advise a
volume of dramas like Lord Byron's.

_Author._ No, his lordship is a cut above me--I won't run my horse
against his, if I can help myself. But there is my friend Allan has
written just such a play as I might write myself, in a very sunny day,
and with one of Bramah's extra-patent pens. I cannot make neat work
without such appurtenances.

_Captain._ Do you mean Allan Ramsay?

_Author._ No, nor Barbara Allan either. I mean Allan Cunningham, who
has just published his tragedy of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, full of
merry-making and murdering, kissing and cutting of throats, and
passages which lead to nothing, and which are very pretty passages for
all that. Not a glimpse of probability is there about the plot, but so
much animation in particular passages, and such a vein of poetry
through the whole, as I dearly wish I could infuse into my Culinary
Remains, should I ever be tempted to publish them. With a popular
impress, people would read and admire the beauties of Allan--as it is,
they may perhaps only note his defects--or, what is worse, not note
him at all.--But never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to
Caledonia for all that.--There are some lyrical effusions of his, too,