It was as when a strange dog sees us go to take
up a stone.
The actress recoiled.
"I am no judge of such things," cried she, hastily.
Triplet bit his lip. He could have killed her. It was provoking, people
would rather be hanged than read a manuscript. Yet what hopeless trash
they will read in crowds, which was manuscript a day ago. _Les
imbeciles!_
"No more is the manager of this theater a judge of such things," cried
the outraged quill-driver, bitterly.
"What! has he accepted them?" said needle-tongue.
"No, madam, he has had them six months, and see, madam, he has returned
them me without a word."
Triplet's lip trembled.
"Patience, my good sir," was the merry reply. "Tragic authors should
possess that, for they teach it to their audiences. Managers, sir, are
like Eastern monarchs, inaccessible but to slaves and sultanas. Do you
know I called upon Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?"
"You, madam? Impossible!"
"Oh, it was years ago, and he has paid a hundred pounds for each of those
little visits. Well, now, let me see, fifteen times; you must write
twelve more tragedies, and then he will read _one;_ and when he has read
it, he will favor you with his judgment upon it; and when you have got
that, you will have what all the world knows is not worth a farthing. He!
he! he!
'And like the birds, gay Nature's happy commoners, Rifle the sweets
'--mum--mum--mum.
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