About the middle of the last century, at eight o'clock in the evening, in a large but poor apartment, a man was slumbering on a rough couch. His rusty and worn suit of black was of a piece with his uncarpeted room, the deal table of home manufacture, and its slim unsnuffed candle. The man was Triplet, scene painter, actor and writer of sanguinary plays, in which what ought to be, viz. , truth, plot, situation and dialogue, were not; and what ought not to be, were scilicet, small talk, big talk, fops, ruffians, and ghosts. His three mediocrities fell so short of one talent that he was sometimes impransus. He slumbered, but uneasily; the dramatic author was uppermost, and his "Demon of the Hayloft" hung upon the thread of popular favor. On his uneasy slumber entered from the theater Mrs. Triplet. She was a lady who in one respect fell behind her husband; she lacked his variety in ill doing, .