These are miracles he cannot work.
He hears a piece; he is delighted with it; he says to the author, 'Your
piece is charming. You will be gratified by my criticism upon it.' He
comes home; he sits at his desk. What happens? Why, the wind which blew
from the north blows from the south; the soap-bubble rose on the left,
it floats away towards the right. His pen runs away with him; praise is
thrown out by the first hole in the road; epigram jumps in; and at last
the poor dramatic author, who was lauded to the skies yesterday,
complimented this morning, finds himself cut to pieces and dragged at
horses' tails in to-morrow's paper. Don't blame Monsieur Jules Janin for
it. 'Tis not his fault. The fault lies with his inkhorn; the fault lies
with his pen, which mistook the mustard-pot for the honey-jar; 'twill be
more careful next time. 'Tis the fault of the hand-organ which would
grind away while he was writing; 'tis the fault of the fly which would
keep buzzing about the room and bumping against the panes of glass; 'tis
the fault of the idea which took wings and flew away. The poor dramatic
author is mortified to death; but, Lord bless your soul! Monsieur Jules
Janin is not guilty.
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