Faint, sick, and dark, he sat a moment on the seat before he could find
strength to go home and destroy all the hopes he had raised.
While Triplet sat collapsed on the bench, fate sent into the room all in
one moment, as if to insult his sorrow, a creature that seemed the
goddess of gayety, impervious to a care. She swept in with a bold, free
step, for she was rehearsing a man's part, and thundered without rant,
but with a spirit and fire, and pace, beyond the conception of our poor
tame actresses of 1852, these lines:
"Now, by the joys Which my soul still has uncontrolled pursued, I would
not turn aside from my least pleasure, Though all thy force were armed to
bar my way; But, like the birds, great Nature's happy commoners, Rifle
the sweets--"
"I beg--your par--don, sir!" holding the book on a level with her eye,
she had nearly run over "two poets instead of one."
"Nay, madam," said Triplet, admiring, though sad, wretched, but polite,
"pray continue. Happy the hearer, and still happier the author of verses
so spoken. Ah!"
"Yes," replied the lady, "if you could persuade authors what we do for
them, when we coax good music to grow on barren words. Are you an author,
sir?" added she, slyly.
"In a small way, madam. I have here three trifles--tragedies."
Mrs. Woffington looked askant at them, like a shy mare.
"Ah, madam!" said Triplet, in one of his insane fits," if I might but
submit them to such a judgment as yours?"
He laid his hand on them.
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