“Rum ones, your honour; what they calls Authors.”
“Authors! what the deuce had you or the Colonel to do with Authors?”
“Augh! then, the Colonel was a very fine gentleman, what the larned calls a my-seen-ass, wrote little songs himself, ‘crossticks, you knows, your honour: once he made a play—‘cause why, he lived with an actress!”
“A very good reason, indeed, for emulating Shakespear; and did the play succeed?”
“Fancy it did, your honour; for the Colonel was a dab with the scissors.”
“Scissors! the pen, you mean?”
“No! that’s what the dirty Authors make plays with; a Lord and a Colonel, my-seen-asses, always takes the scissors.”
“How?”
“Why the Colonel’s Lady—had lots of plays—and she marked a scene here—a jest there—a line in one place—a sentiment in t’ other—and the Colonel sate by with a great paper book—cut ‘em out, pasted them in book. Augh! but the Colonel pleased the town mightily.”
“Well, so he saw a great many authors; and did not they please you?”