Sometimes a little
glimmering ray of light illumined Mr. Burkham's pathway, and he was
humbly grateful to Providence for the brief glimpse of sunshine. But for
a meek fair-faced man, with a nervous desire to do well, a very poor
opinion of his own merits, and a diffident, not to say depressed manner,
the world is apt to be a hard battle-ground.
Mr. Burkham sometimes found himself well-nigh beaten in the cruel strife;
and at such times, in the dead silence of the night, with mortal agonies,
and writhings as of Pythoness upon tripod, Mr. Burkham gave himself up to
the composition of a farce, adapted, not from the French, but from his
memories of Wright and Bedford in the jovial old student days, when the
pit of the Adelphi Theatre had been the pleasant resort of his evenings.
He could no longer afford the luxury of theatrical entertainments, except
when provided with a free admission. But from the hazy reminiscences
floating in his poor tired brain he concocted little pieces which he
fondly hoped might win him money and fame.
With much effort and interest he contrived to get himself elected a
Ragamuffin; believing that to be a Ragmuffin was to secure a position as
a dramatic writer. But with one or two fortunate exceptions, his pieces
were refused. The managers would not have the poor little feeble
phantasmagoria of bygone fun, even supported by the whole clan of
Ragamuffins.
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