He shook them; it did not fall out. He shook
them as a dog shakes a rabbit; nothing!
The tragedies were returned without a word. It took him some time to
realize the full weight of the blow; but at last he saw that the manager
of the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, declined to take a tragedy by
Triplet into consideration or bare examination.
He turned dizzy for a moment. Something between a sigh and a cry escaped
him, and he sank upon a covered bench that ran along the wall. His poor
tragedies fell here and there upon the ground, and his head went down
upon his hands, which rested on Mrs. Woffington's picture. His anguish
was so sharp, it choked his breath;, when he recovered it, his eye bent
down upon the picture. "Ah, Jane," he groaned, "you know this villainous
world better than I!" He placed the picture gently on the seat (that
picture must now be turned into bread), and slowly stooped for his
tragedies; they had fallen hither and thither; he had to crawl about for
them; he was an emblem of all the humiliations letters endure.
As he went after them on all-fours, more than one tear pattered on the
dusty floor. Poor fellow! he was Triplet, and could not have died without
tingeing the death-rattle with some absurdity; but, after all, he was a
father driven to despair; a castle-builder, with his work rudely
scattered; an artist, brutally crushed and insulted by a greater dunce
than himself.
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