[Exit Call-Boy L.
TRIP. I knew it, I sent him three tragedies. They are accepted; and he has left me a note in the hall, to fix the reading—at last. I felt it must come, soon or late; and it has come—late. Master of three arts, painting, writing, and acting, by each of which men grow fat, how was it possible I should go on perpetually starving. But that is all over now. My tragedies will be acted, the town will have an intellectual treat, and my wife and children will stab my heart no more with their hungry looks.
[Enter Call-Boy with parcel.]
CALL-BOY. Here is the parcel for you, sir.
[Exit Call-Boy L.
TRIP. (weighs it in his hand). Why, how is this? Oh, I see; he returns them for some trifling alterations. Well, if they are judicious, I shall certainly adopt them, for (opening the parcel) managers are practical men. My tragedies!—Eh? here are but two! one is accepted!—no! they are all here (sighs). Well, (spitefully) it is a thousand pounds out of Mr. Rich’s pocket, poor man! I pity him; and my hungry mouths at home! Heaven knows where I am to find bread for them to-morrow! Everything that will raise a shilling I have sold or pawned. Even my poor picture here, the portrait of Mrs. Woffington from memory—I tried to sell that this morning at every dealer’s in Long Acre—and not one would make me an offer.
[Enter Woffington L. reciting from a part.]
WOFF. “Now by the joys
Which my soul still has uncontroll’d pursued,
I would not turn aside from my least pleasure.