it has met with your approbation, continued he.—O, to be sure, says the sneering manager, without reading it.—I imagined, says the author, you would have been kind enough to have indulged me with a couple of hours out of fifteen months to have perused it, or if you did not intend to peruse it, you would have returned it me again. Ay, ay, says the manager; you shall have it again, take it away with you in God’s name—(looking among a parcel of papers) I don’t mean, Sir, returned the author, to take it from you unless you should reject it, after you have read it.—Why, Sir, says the manager, did not you this moment ask me to return it? If you had no intention to peruse it, says the author. Peruse it! replies the manager—why, Sir, do you think I have nothing else to do than as soon as ever people of your way of living have wrote a thing, to play it immediately? what, I suppose, continues he, you think I should read it, alter it, expunge, and add to it, then rehearse it and so perform it, that you might receive the benefit all in ten days or a fortnight?—No, no, Sir you are too quick for me; let’s see where is this thing (looking over a bundle of manuscript plays)—what is the _procession_ in your play, continued the manager? I shall best find it by that, for they are all marked.—There is no procession at all in mine, Sir, says the author. No procession! Sir, says the amazed manager, what do you mean?—perhaps you call it—a _solemn dirge_—a _triumph_—or an—_ovation_—or—There is nothing at all of the kind Sir, says the author, in my play, nor did I apprehend, says he, it was absolutely necessary to.—Necessary? interrupted the manager,—pray, Sir, what would nine out of ten of the tragedies that have come out within these 20 years have been good for, if it had not been for the processions; but if yours has no procession, adds he, I am sure it is not amongst these; (laying the papers he had been looking over down)—but we shall find it presently somewhere, I warrant you—a procession not necessary!—(looking for the play).—By this time the author began to entertain a most sovereign contempt for him, as I judged from his countenance.—At length the manager produced the play, but in such a condition! some part wanting half a leaf, some a quarter, others three quarters, and what remained was in tatters, and strangely smeared and stained, having been frequently used no doubt in taking the tea-kettle off the fire, and other such worthy employments, as I saw him take it from _under a coffee pot_ that stood in the window.—The author at first was astonished when he saw it, but recovering himself, calmly said, he believed it had been perused, for by the appearance of it, it seemed to have been often in his _hands_; and opening it.—Really, Sir, says the author, you have been in a mistake, for it is evident you have read it over, and have _expunged_ several pages of it, (shewing him the dismembered play)—and, continues he, dare say you