"
"Well, the reverend gentleman would not have it. He said it was too hard
upon sin. 'You run at the Devil like a mad bull,' said he. 'Sell it in
Lambeth, sir; here calmness and decency are before everything,' says he.
'My congregation expect to go to heaven down hill. Perhaps the chaplain
of Newgate might give you a crown for it,' said he," and Triplet dashed
viciously at the paper. "Ah!" sighed he, "if my friend Mrs. Woffington
would but drop these stupid comedies and take to tragedy, this house
would soon be all smiles."
"Oh James!" replied Mrs. Triplet, almost peevishly, "how can you expect
anything but fine words from that woman? You won't believe what all the
world says. You will trust to your own good heart."
"I haven't a good heart," said the poor, honest fellow. "I spoke like a
brute to you just now."
"Never mind, James," said the woman. "I wonder how you put up with me at
all--a sick, useless creature. I often wish to die, for your sake. I know
you would do better. I am such a weight round your neck."
The man made no answer, but he put Lucy gently down, and went to the
woman, and took her forehead to his bosom, and held it there; and after a
while returned with silent energy to his comedy.
"Play us a tune on the fiddle, father."
"Ay, do, husband. That helps you often in your writing."
Lysimachus brought him the fiddle, and Triplet essayed a merry tune; but
it came out so doleful, that he shook his head, and laid the instrument
down.
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