Excerpt from Peg Woffington and Christie Johnstone
About the middle of the last century, at eight o'clock in the evening, in a large but poor apartment, a man was slumbering on a rough couch. His rusty and worn suit of black was of a piece with his uncarpeted room, the deal table of home manufacture, and its slim unsnuffed candle.
The man was Triplet, scene painter, actor, and writer of sanguinary plays, in which what ought to be, viz. truth, plot, situation, and dialogue, were not; and what ought not to be, were: scilicet, small talk, big talk, fops, ruffians, and ghosts.
His three mediocrities fell so short of one talent, that he was sometimes impransus.
He slumbered, but uneasily; the dramatic author was uppermost, and his Demon of the Hayloft hung upon the thread of popular favour.
On his uneasy slumber entered, from the theatre, Mrs. Triplet.
She was a lady who in one respect fell behind her husband, she lacked his variety in ill-doing, but she recovered herself by doing her one thing a shade worse than he did any of his three. She was what is called in grim sport, an actress; she had just cast her mite of discredit on royalty by playing the Queen, and had trundled home the moment the breath was out of her royal body.
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