JAMES TRIPLET, water in his eye, but fire in his heart, went home on wings. Arrived there, he anticipated curiosity by informing all hands he should answer no questions. Only in the intervals¹ of a work, which was to take the family out of all its troubles, he should gradually unfold a tale, verging² on the marvelous—a tale whose only fault was, that fiction, by which alone the family could hope to be great, paled beside it. He then seized some sheets of paper fished out some old dramatic sketches³, and a list of dramatis personae, prepared years ago, and plunged⁴ into a comedy. As he wrote, true to his promise, he painted, Triplet-wise, that story which we have coldly related, and made it appear, to all but Mrs. Triplet, that he was under the tutela, or express protection of Mrs. Woffington, who would push his fortunes until the only difficulty would be to keep arrogance⁶ out of the family heart.  
Mrs. Triplet groaned⁷ aloud. “You have brought the picture home, I see,” said she.
 
“Of course I have. She is going to give me a sitting.”
 
“At what hour, of what day?” said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of meaning.
 
“She did not say,” replied Triplet, avoiding his wife's eye.
 
“I know she did not,” was the answer. “I would rather you had brought me the ten shillings than this fine story,” said she.
 
“Wife!” said Triplet, “don't put me into a frame of mind in which successful comedies are not written.” He scribbled⁹ away; but his wife's despondency told upon the man of disappointments. Then he stuck fast; then he became fidgety.
 
“Do keep those children quiet!” said the father.
 
“Hush, my dears,” said the mother; “let your father write. Comedy seems to give you more trouble than tragedy, James,” added she, soothingly¹¹.
 
“Yes,” was his answer. “Sorrow comes somehow more natural to me; but for all that I have got a bright thought, Mrs. Triplet. Listen, all of you. You see, Jane, they are all at a sumptuous¹² banquet, all the dramatis personae, except the poet.”
 
Triplet went on writing, and reading his work out: “Music, sparkling wine, massive plate, rose-water in the hand-glasses, soup, fish—shall I have three sorts of fish? I will; they are cheap in this market. Ah! Fortune, you wretch¹³, here at least I am your master, and I'll make you know it—venison,” wrote Triplet, with a malicious¹⁴ grin, “game, pickles¹⁵ and provocatives in the center of the table; then up jumps one of the guests, and says he—”
 
“Oh dear, I am so hungry.”
 
This was not from the comedy, but from one of the boys.
 
“And so am I,” cried a girl.
 
“That is an absurd remark, Lysimachus,” said Triplet with a suspicious calmness. “How can a boy be hungry three hours after breakfast?”
 
“But, father, there was no breakfast for breakfast.”
 
“Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet,” appealed the author, “how I am to write comic scenes if you let Lysimachus and Roxalana here put the heavy business in every five minutes?”
 
“Forgive them; the poor things are hungry.”
 
“Then let them be hungry in another room,” said the irritated scribe. “They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is going to make all our fortunes; but you women,” snapped Triplet the Just, “have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed; every man Jack¹⁶ of them!”
 
Finding the conversation taking this turn, the brats¹⁷ raised a unanimous howl.
 
Triplet darted¹⁸ a fierce glance at them. “Hungry, hungry,” cried he; “is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting down here, all gayety” (scratching wildly with his pen) “and hilarity” (scratch) “to write a com—com—” he choked a moment; then in a very different voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: “Where's the youngest—where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry.”
 
Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gently to his side, and wrote silently. The others were still.
 
“Father,” said Lucy, aged¹⁰ five, the germ of a woman, “I am not very hungry.”
 
“And I am not hungry at all,” said bluff¹⁹ Lysimachus, taking his sister's cue; then going upon his own tact²⁰ he added, “I had a great piece of bread and butter yesterday!”
 
“Wife, they will drive me mad!” and he dashed at the paper.
 
The second boy explained to his mother, sotto voce: “Mother, he made us hungry out of his book.”
 
“It is a beautiful book,” said Lucy. “Is it a cookery book?”
 
Triplet roared: “Do you hear that?” inquired he, all trace of ill-humor gone. “Wife,” he resumed, after a gallant²¹ scribble⁸, “I took that sermon I wrote.”
 
“And beautiful it was, James. I'm sure it quite cheered me up with thinking that we shall all be dead before so very long.”
 
“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 decency²² 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 peevishly²³, “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 spoke²⁴ like a brute²⁵ 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 bosom²⁶, and held it there; and after a while returned with silent energy to his comedy.
 
“Play us a tune⁵ on the fiddle²⁷, 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. Music must be in the heart, or it will come out of the fingers—notes, not music.
 
“No,” said he; “let us be serious and finish this comedy slap off. Perhaps it hitches²⁸ because I forgot to invoke²⁹ the comic muse³⁰. She must be a black-hearted jade³¹, if she doesn't come with merry notions to a poor devil, starving in the midst of his hungry little ones.”
 
“We are past help from heathen goddesses,” said the woman. “We must pray to Heaven to look down upon us and our children.”
 
The man looked up with a very bad expression on his countenance³².
 
“You forget,” said he sullenly³³, “our street is very narrow, and the opposite houses are very high.”
 
“James!”
 
“How can Heaven be expected to see what honest folk endure in so dark a hole as this?” cried the man, fiercely.
 
“James,” said the woman, with fear and sorrow, “what words are these?”
 
The man rose and flung his pen upon the floor.
 
“Have we given honesty a fair trial—yes or no?”
 
“No!” said the woman, without a moment's hesitation³⁴; “not till we die, as we have lived. Heaven is higher than the sky; children,” said she, lest perchance her husband's words should have harmed their young souls, “the sky is above the earth, and heaven is higher than the sky; and Heaven is just.”
 
“I suppose it is so,” said the man, a little cowed by her. “Everybody says so. I think so, at bottom, myself; but I can't see it. I want to see it, but I can't!” cried he, fiercely. “Have my children offended Heaven? They will starve—they will die! If I was Heaven, I'd be just, and send an angel to take these children's part. They cried to me for bread—I had no bread; so I gave them hard words. The moment I had done that I knew it was all over. God knows it took a long while to break my heart; but it is broken at last; quite, quite broken! broken! broken!”
 
And the poor thing laid his head upon the table, and sobbed³⁵, beyond all power of restraint. The children cried round him, scarce knowing why; and Mrs. Triplet could only say, “My poor husband!” and prayed and wept upon the couch where she lay.
 
It was at this juncture³⁶ that a lady, who had knocked gently and unheard, opened the door, and with a light step entered the apartment; but no sooner had she caught sight of Triplet's anguish³⁷, than, saying hastily, “Stay, I forgot something,” she made as hasty an exit.
 
This gave Triplet a moment to recover himself; and Mrs. Woffington, whose lynx eye had comprehended all at a glance, and who had determined³⁸ at once what line to take, came flying in again, saying:
 
“Wasn't somebody inquiring for an angel? Here I am. See, Mr. Triplet;” and she showed him a note, which said: “Madam, you are an angel. From a perfect stranger,” explained she; “so it must be true.”
 
“Mrs. Woffington,” said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill³⁹ whistle.
 
“Now you will see another angel—there are two sorts of them.”
 
Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.
 
“Lucifer, avaunt!” cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the wall; “and wait outside the door,” added she, conversationally⁴⁰.
 
“I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic—black draughts⁴¹ from Burgundy;” and she smiled. And, recovered from their first surprise, young and old began to thaw⁴² beneath that witching, irresistible⁴³ smile. “Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon⁴⁴ with you? I am so hungry.” Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent him for a pie she professed⁴⁵ to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street.
 
“Mother,” said Alcibiades, “will the lady give me a bit of her pie?”
 
“Hush! you rude boy!” cried the mother.
 
“She is not much of a lady if she does not,” cried Mrs. Woffington. “Now, children, first let us look at—ahem—a comedy. Nineteen dramatis personae! What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, or nine? that is the question. You can't bring your armies into our drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger-and-bowl. Are you the Marlborough of comedy? Can you marshal battalions⁴⁶ on a turkey carpet, and make gentlefolks witty⁴⁷ in platoons? What is this in the first act? A duel⁴⁸, and both wounded! You butcher!”
 
“They are not to die, ma'am!” cried Triplet, deprecatingly “upon my honor,” said he, solemnly, spreading his bands on his bosom.
 
“Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? No! Give me a pen; this is the way we run people through the body.” Then she wrote (“business.” Araminta looks out of the garret window. Combatants drop their swords, put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and P. S.) “Now, children, who helps me to lay the cloth?”
 
“I!”
 
“And I!” (The children run to the cupboard.)
 
Mrs. Triplet (half rising). “Madam, I—can't think of allowing you.”
 
Mrs. Woffington replied: “Sit down, madam, or I must use brute force. If you are ill, be ill—till I make you well. Twelve plates, quick! Twenty-four knives, quicker! Forty-eight forks quickest!” She met the children with the cloth and laid it; then she met them again and laid knives and forks, all at full gallop⁴⁹, which mightily⁵⁰ excited the bairns. Pompey came in with the pie, Mrs. Woffington took it and set it before Triplet.
 
Mrs. Woffington. “Your coat, Mr. Triplet, if you please.”
 
Mr. Triplet. “My coat, madam!”
 
Mrs. Woffington. “Yes, off with it—there's a hole in it—and carve.” Then she whipped to the other end of the table and stitched like wild-fire. “Be pleased to cast your eyes on that, Mrs. Triplet. Pass it to the lady, young gentleman. Fire away, Mr. Triplet, never mind us women. Woffington's housewife, ma'am, fearful to the eye, only it holds everything in the world, and there is a small space for everything else—to be returned by the bearer. Thank you, sir.” (Stitches away like lightning at the coat.) “Eat away, children! now is your time; when once I begin, the pie will soon end; I do everything so quick.”
 
Roxalana. “The lady sews quicker than you, mother.”
 
Woffington. “Bless the child, don't come so near my sword-arm; the needle will go into your eye, and out at the back of your head.”
 
This nonsense made the children giggle⁵¹.
 
“The needle will be lost—the child no more—enter undertaker—house turned topsy-turvy—father shows Woffington to the door—off she goes with a face as long and dismal⁵² as some people's comedies—no names—crying fine chan-ey oranges.”
 
The children, all but Lucy, screeched⁵³ with laughter.
 
Lucy said gravely:
 
“Mother, the lady is very funny.”
 
“You will be as funny when you are as well paid for it.”
 
This just hit poor Trip's notion of humor, and he began to choke, with his mouth full of pie.
 
“James, take care,” said Mrs. Triple............