"Monop. What Mr. Simile says is very true, gentlemen; and there is nothing surprising in it, if we consider now the general method of writing plays to scenes.
"O'Cul. Writing plays to scenes!—Oh, you are joking.
"Monop. Not I, upon my word. Mr. Simile knows that I have frequently a complete set of scenes from Italy, and then I have nothing to do but to get some ingenious hand to write a play to them.
"Sim. I am your witness, Sir. Gentlemen, you perceive you know nothing about these matters.
"O'Cul. Why, Mr. Simile, I don't pretend to know much relating to these affairs, but what I think is this, that in this method, according to your principles, you must often commit blunders.
"Sim. Blunders! to be sure I must, but I always could get myself out of them again. Why, I'll tell you an instance of it.—You must know I was once a journeyman sonnet-writer to Signor Squallini. Now, his method, when seized with the furor harmonicus, was constantly to make me sit by his side, while he was thrumming on his harpsichord, in order to make extempore verses to whatever air he should beat out to his liking. I remember, one morning, as he was in this situation, thrum, thrum, thrum, (moving his fingers as if beating on the harpsichord,) striking out something prodigiously great, as he thought,—'Hah!' said he,—'hah! Mr. Simile, thrum, thrum, thrum, by gar here is vary fine,—thrum, thrum, thrum, write me some words directly.'—I durst not interrupt him to ask on what subject, so instantly began to describe a fine morning.
"'Calm was the land and calm the seas,
And calm the heaven's dome serene,
Hush'd was the gale and hush'd the breeze,
And not a vapor to be seen.'
I sang it to his notes,—'Hah! upon my vord vary pritt,—thrum, thrum, thrum,—stay, stay,—thrum, thrum,—Hoa? upon my vord, here it must be an adagio,—thrum, thrum,—oh! let it be an Ode to Melancholy.'
"Monop. The Devil!—there you were puzzled sure.
"Sim. Not in the least,—I brought in a cloud in the next stanza, and matters, you see, came about at once.