“How is that?”

“I will tell you!  His Holiness the Pope comes forth in his pontificals, with twelve cardinals in purple canonicals—­for the action of my comedy is supposed to take place at the season of mutatio caparum, when their eminences are not dressed in scarlet but in purple—­therefore propriety absolutely requires that my cardinals should wear purple.  This is a capital point, and one on which your common run of writers would be sure to blunder; but as for me I could not go wrong, for I have read the whole Roman ceremonial through, merely that I might be exact as to these dresses.”

“But where do you suppose,” said the other, “that our manager is to find purple robes for twelve cardinals?”

“If a single one is wanting,” cried the poet, “I would as soon think of flying, as of letting my comedy be represented without it.  Zounds! is the public to lose that magnificent spectacle!  Just imagine the splendid effect on the stage of a supreme Pontiff and twelve grave cardinals, with all the other dignitaries, who will of course accompany them!  By heavens, it will be one of the grandest things ever seen on the stage, not excepting even the nosegay of Duraja!”

I now perceived that one of these young men was a poet, and the other a comedian.  The latter advised the former that he should cut out a few of his cardinals, if he did not want to make it impossible for the manager to produce the piece.  The poet would not listen to this, but said they might be thankful that he had not brought in the whole conclave, to be present at the memorable event which he proposed to immortalise in his brilliant comedy.  The player laughed, left him to his occupation, and returned to his own, which was studying a part in a new play.  The poet, after having committed to writing some verses of his magnificent comedy, slowly and gravely drew from his pocket some morsels of bread, and about twenty raisins, or perhaps not so many, for there were some crumbs of bread among them, which increased their apparent number.  He blew the crumbs from the raisins, and ate them one by one, stalks and all, for I did not see him throw anything away, adding to them the pieces of bread, which had got such a colour from the lining of his pocket, that they looked mouldy, and were so hard that he could not get them down, though he chewed them over and over again.  This was lucky for me, for he threw them to me, saying, “Catch, dog, and much good may it do you.”  Look, said I to myself, what nectar and ambrosia this poet gives me; for that is the food on which they say these sons of Apollo are nourished.  In short, great for the most part is the penury of poets; but greater was my need, since it obliged me to eat what he left.