Peg Woffington

  Produced by James Rusk

  PEG WOFFINGTON

  By Charles Reade

  To T. Taylor, Esq., my friend, and coadjutor in the comedy of "Masks andFaces," to whom the reader owes much of the best matter in this tale:and to the memory of Margaret Woffington, falsely _summed up_ untilto-day, this "Dramatic Story" is inscribed by CHARLES READE.--

  LONDON. Dec. 15, 1852.

  CHAPTER I.

  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 uncarpetedroom, the deal table of home manufacture, and its slim unsnuffed candle.

  The man was Triplet, scene painter, actor and writer of sanguinaryplays, in which what ought to be, viz., truth, plot, situation anddialogue, were not; and what ought not to be, were--_scilicet,_ smalltalk, 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 favor.

  On his uneasy slumber entered from the theater Mrs. Triplet.

  She was a lady who in one respect fell behind her husband; she lackedhis variety in ill-doing, but she recovered herself by doing her onething a shade worse than he did any of his three. She was what is calledin grim sport an actress; she had just cast her mite of discredit onroyalty by playing the Queen, and had trundled home the moment thebreath was out of her royal body. She came in rotatory with fatigue,and fell, gristle, into a chair; she wrenched from her brow a diadem andeyed it with contempt, took from her pocket a sausage, and contemplatedit with respect and affection, placed it in a frying-pan on the fire,and entered her bedroom, meaning to don a loose wrapper, and dethroneherself into comfort.

  But the poor woman was shot walking by Morpheus, and subsidedaltogether; for dramatic performances, amusing and exciting to youthseated in the pit, convey a certain weariness to those bright beings whosparkle on the stage for bread and cheese.

  Royalty, disposed of, still left its trail of events. The sausage beganto "spit." The sound was hardly out of its body, when poor Tripletwrithed like a worm on a hook. "Spitter, spittest," went the sausage.Triplet groaned, and at last his inarticulate murmurs became words:"That's right, pit now, that is so reasonable to condemn a poor fellow'splay before you have heard it out." Then, with a change of tone, "Tom,"muttered he, "they are losing their respect for specters; if they do,hunger will make a ghost of me." Next he fancied the clown or somebodyhad got into his ghost's costume.

  "Dear," said the poor dreamer, "the clown makes a very pretty specter,with his ghastly white face, and his blood-boltered cheeks and nose. Inever saw the fun of a clown before, no! no! no! it is not the clown, itis worse, much worse; oh, dear, ugh!" and Triplet rolled off the couchlike Richard the Third. He sat a moment on the floor, with a fingerin each eye; and then, finding he was neither daubing, ranting, nordeluging earth with "acts," he accused himself of indolence, and satdown to write a small tale of blood and bombast; he took his seat at thedeal table with some alacrity, for he had recently made a discovery.

  How to write well, _rien que cela._

  "First, think in as homely a way as you can; next, shove your pen underthe thought, and lift it by polysyllables to the true level of fiction,"(when done, find a publisher--if you can). "This," said Triplet,"insures common sense to your ideas, which does pretty well for abasis," said Triplet, apologetically, "and elegance to the dress theywear." Triplet, then casting his eyes round in search of such actualcircumstances as could be incorporated on this plan with fiction, beganto work thus:

  TRIPLET'S FACTS. TRIPLET'S FICTION.

  A farthing dip is on the table. A solitary candle cast its pale gleams around.

  It wants snuffing. Its elongated wick betrayed an owner steeped in oblivion.

  He jumped up, and snuffed it. He rose languidly, and trimmed it with his fingers. Burned his with an instrument that he had by his fingers, and swore a little. side for that purpose, and muttered a silent ejaculation

  Before, however, the mole Triplet could undermine literature and levelit with the dust, various interruptions and divisions broke in upon hisdesign, and _sic nos servavit_ Apollo. As he wrote the last sentence, aloud rap came to his door. A servant in livery brought him a note fromMr. Vane, dated Covent Garden. Triplet's eyes sparkled, he bustled,wormed himself into a less rusty coat, and started off to the TheaterRoyal, Covent Garden.

  In those days, the artists of the pen and the brush ferreted patrons,instead of aiming to be indispensable to the public, the only patronworth a single gesture of the quill.

  Mr. Vane had conversed with Triplet, that is, let Triplet talk to him ina coffee-house, and Triplet, the most sanguine of unfortunate men, hadalready built a series of expectations upon that interview, when thisnote arrived. Leaving him on his road from Lambeth to Covent Garden, wemust introduce more important personages.

  Mr. Vane was a wealthy gentleman from Shropshire, whom business hadcalled to London four months ago, and now pleasure detained. Businessstill occupied the letters he sent now and then to his native county;but it had ceased to occupy the writer. He was a man of learning andtaste, as times went; and his love of the Arts had taken him some timebefore our tale to the theaters, then the resort of all who pretendedto taste; and it was thus he had become fascinated by Mrs. Woffington, alady of great beauty, and a comedian high in favor with the town.

  The first night he saw her was an epoch in the history of thisgentleman's mind. He had learning and refinement, and he had not greatpractical experience, and such men are most open to impression from thestage. He saw a being, all grace and bright nature, move like a goddessamong the stiff puppets of the scene; her glee and her pathos wereequally catching, she held a golden key at which all the doors ofthe heart flew open. Her face, too, was as full of goodness asintelligence--it was like no other farce; the heart bounded to meet it.

  He rented a box at her theater. He was there every night before thecurtain drew up; and I'm sorry to say, he at last took half a disliketo Sunday--Sunday "which knits up the raveled sleave of care," Sunday"tired nature's sweet restorer," because on Sunday there was no PegWoffington. At first he regarded her as a being of another sphere, anincarnation of poetry and art; but by degrees his secret aspirationsbecame bolder. She was a woman; there were men who knew her; some ofthem inferior to him in position, and, he flattered himself, in mind.He had even heard a tale against her character. To him her face was itsconfutation, and he knew how loose-tongued is calumny; but still--!

  At last, one day he sent her a letter, unsigned. This letter expressedhis admiration of her talent in warm but respectful terms; the writertold her it had become necessary to his heart to return her in some wayhis thanks for the land of enchantment to which she had introduced him.Soon after this, choice flowers found their way to her dressing-roomevery night, and now and then verses and precious stones mingled withher roses and eglantine. And oh, how he watched the great actress'seye all the night; how he tried to discover whether she looked oftenertoward his box than the corresponding box on the other side of thehouse. Did she notice him, or did she not? What a point gained, if shewas conscious of his nightly attendance. She would feel he was a friend,not a mere auditor. He was jealous of the pit, on whom Mrs. Woffingtonlavished her smiles without measure.

  At last, one day he sent her a w
reath of flowers, and implored her, ifany word he had said to her had pleased or interested her, to wear thiswreath that night. After he had done this he trembled; he had courted adecision, when, perhaps, his safety lay in patience and time. Shemade her _entree;_ he turned cold as she glided into sight from theprompter's side; he raised his eyes slowly and fearfully from her feetto her head; her head was bare, wreathed only by its own rich glossyhonors. "Fool!" thought he, "to think she would hang frivolities uponthat glorious head for me." Yet his disappointment told him he hadreally hoped it; he would not have sat out the play but for a leadenincapacity of motion that seized him.

  The curtain drew up for the fifth act, and!--could he believe hiseyes?--Mrs. Woffington stood upon the stage with his wreath upon hergraceful head. She took away his breath. She spoke the epilogue, and, asthe curtain fell, she lifted her eyes, he thought, to his box, and madehim a distinct, queen-like courtesy; his heart fluttered to his mouth,and he walked home on wings and tiptoe. In short--

  Mrs. Woffington, as an actress, justified a portion of this enthusiasm;she was one of the truest artists of her day; a fine lady in herhands was a lady, with the genteel affectation of a gentlewoman, not aharlot's affectation, which is simply and without exaggeration what thestage commonly gives us for a fine lady; an old woman in her hands wasa thorough woman, thoroughly old, not a cackling young person of epicenegender. She played Sir Harry Wildair like a man, which is how he oughtto be played (or, which is better still, not at all), so that Garrickacknowledged her as a male rival, and abandoned the part he no longermonopolized.

  Now it very, very rarely happens that a woman of her age is high enoughin art and knowledge to do these things. In players, vanity cripples artat every step. The young actress who is not a Woffington aims to displayherself by means of her part, which is vanity; not to raise her part bysinking herself in it, which is art. It has been my misfortune to see----, and----, and ----, et ceteras, play the man; Nature, forgive them,if you can, for art never will; they never reached any idea more manlythan a steady resolve to exhibit the points of a woman with greaterferocity than they could in a gown. But consider, ladies, a man is notthe meanest of the brute creation, so how can he be an unwomanly female?This sort of actress aims not to give her author's creation to thepublic, but to trot out the person instead of the creation, and showssots what a calf it has--and is.

  Vanity, vanity! all is vanity! Mesdames les Charlatanes.

  Margaret Woffington was of another mold; she played the ladies of highcomedy with grace, distinction, and delicacy. But in Sir Harry Wildairshe parted with a woman's mincing foot and tongue, and played the manin a style large, spirited and _elance._ As Mrs. Day (committee) shepainted wrinkles on her lovely face so honestly that she was taken forthreescore, and she carried out the design with voice and person, anddid a vulgar old woman to the life. She disfigured her own beauties toshow the beauty of her art; in a word, she was an artist! It does notfollow she was the greatest artist that ever breathed; far from it. Mr.Vane was carried to this notion by passion and ignorance.

  On the evening of our tale he was at his post patiently sitting out oneof those sanguinary discourses our rude forefathers thought weretragic plays. _Sedet aeternumque Sedebit Infelix Theseus,_ because Mrs.Woffington is to speak the epilogue.

  These epilogues were curiosities of the human mind; they whom, just toourselves and _them,_ we call our _forbears,_ had an idea their bloodand bombast were not ridiculous enough in themselves, so when thecurtain had fallen on the _debris_ of the _dramatis personae,_ andof common sense, they sent on an actress to turn all the sentiment solaboriously acquired into a jest.

  To insist that nothing good or beautiful shall be carried safe from aplay out into the street was the bigotry of English horseplay. Was aLucretia the heroine of the tragedy, she was careful in the epilogueto speak like Messalina. Did a king's mistress come to hunger andrepentance, she disinfected all the _petites maitresses_ in the houseof the moral, by assuring them that sin is a joke, repentance a greater,and that she individually was ready for either if they would but cry,laugh and pay. Then the audience used to laugh, and if they did not,lo! the manager, actor and author of heroic tragedy were exceedingsorrowful.

  While sitting attendance on the epilogue Mr. Vane had nothing todistract him from the congregation but a sanguinary sermon in fiveheads, so his eyes roved over the pews, and presently he became aware ofa familiar face watching him closely. The gentleman to whom it belongedfinding himself recognized left his seat, and a minute later Sir CharlesPomander entered Mr. Vane's box.

  This Sir Charles Pomander was a gentleman of vice; pleasure he calledit. Mr. Vane had made his acquaintance two years ago in Shropshire. SirCharles, who husbanded everything except his soul, had turned himselfout to grass for a month. His object was, by roast mutton, bread withsome little flour in it, air, water, temperance, chastity and peace, tobe enabled to take a deeper plunge into impurities of food and morals.

  A few nights ago, unseen by Mr. Vane, he had observed him in thetheater; an ordinary man would have gone at once and shaken hands withhim, but this was not an ordinary man, this was a diplomatist. Firstof all, he said to himself: "What is this man doing here?" Then he soondiscovered this man must be in love with some actress; then it becamehis business to know who she was; this, too, soon betrayed itself. Thenit became more than ever Sir Charles's business to know whether Mrs.Woffington returned the sentiment; and here his penetration was atfault, for the moment; he determined, however, to discover.

  Mr. Vane then received his friend, all unsuspicious how that friendhad been skinning him with his eyes for some time past. After the usualcompliments had passed between two gentlemen who had been hand and glovefor a month and forgotten each other's existence for two years, SirCharles, still keeping in view his design, said:

  "Let us go upon the stage." The fourth act had just concluded.

  "Go upon the stage!" said Mr. Vane; "what, where she--I mean among theactors?"

  "Yes; come into the green-room. There are one or two people ofreputation there; I will introduce you to them, if you please."

  "Go upon the stage!" why, if it had been proposed to him to go to heavenhe would not have been more astonished. He was too astonished at firstto realize the full beauty of the arrangement, by means of which hemight be within a yard of Mrs. Woffington, might feel her dress rustlepast him, might speak to her, might drink her voice fresh from her lipsalmost before it mingled with meaner air. Silence gives consent, and Mr.Vane, though he thought a great deal, said nothing; so Pomander rose,and they left the boxes together. He led the way to the stage door,which was opened obsequiously to him; they then passed through a dismalpassage, and suddenly emerged upon that scene of enchantment, thestage--a dirty platform encumbered on all sides with piles of scenery inflats. They threaded their way through rusty velvet actors and fustiancarpenters, and entered the green-room. At the door of this magicchamber Vane trembled and half wished he could retire. They entered; hisapprehension gave way to disappointment, she was not there. Collectinghimself, he was presently introduced to a smart, jaunty, and, to dohim justice, _distingue_ old beau. This was Colley Cibber, Esq., poetlaureate, and retired actor and dramatist, a gentleman who is entitledto a word or two.

  This Cibber was the only actor since Shakespeare's time who had bothacted and written well. Pope's personal resentment misleads the readerof English poetry as to Cibber's real place among the wits of the day.

  The man's talent was dramatic, not didactic, or epic, or pastoral. Popewas not so deep in the drama as in other matters, and Cibber was one ofits luminaries; he wrote some of the best comedies of his day. He alsosucceeded where Dryden, for lack of true dramatic taste, failed. Hetampered successfully with Shakespeare. Colley Cibber's version of"Richard the Third" is impudent and slightly larcenic, but it ismarvelously effective. It has stood a century, and probably will standforever; and the most admired passages in what literary humbugs whopretend they know Shakespeare by the closet, not the s
tage, accept asShakespeare's "Richard," are Cibber's.

  Mr. Cibber was now in private life, a mild edition of his ownLord Foppington; he had none of the snob-fop as represented on ourconventional stage; nobody ever had, and lived. He was in tolerablygood taste; but he went ever gold-laced, highly powdered, scented, anddiamonded, dispensing graceful bows, praises of whoever had the goodluck to be dead, and satire of all who were here to enjoy it.

  Mr. Vane, to whom the drama had now become the golden branch of letters,looked with some awe on this veteran, for he had seen many Woffingtons.He fell soon upon the subject nearest his heart. He asked Mr. Cibberwhat he thought of Mrs. Woffington. The old gentleman thought well ofthe young lady's talent, especially her comedy; in tragedy, said he, sheimitates Mademoiselle Dumenil, of the Theatre Francais, and confoundsthe stage rhetorician with the actress. The next question was not sofortunate. "Did you ever see so great and true an actress upon thewhole?"

  Mr. Cibber opened his eyes, a slight flush came into his wash-leatherface, and he replied: "I have not only seen many equal, many superiorto her, but I have seen some half dozen who would have eaten her upand spit her out again, and not known they had done anything out of theway."

  Here Pomander soothed the veteran's dudgeon by explaining in dulcettones that his friend was not long from Shropshire, and--The criticinterrupted him, and bade him not dilute the excuse.

  Now Mr. Vane had as much to say as either of them, but he had not thehabit, which dramatic folks have, of carrying his whole bank in hischeek-pocket, so they quenched him for two minutes.

  But lovers are not silenced, he soon returned to the attack; he dwelton the grace, the ease, the freshness, the intelligence, the universalbeauty of Mrs. Woffington. Pomander sneered, to draw him out. Cibbersmiled, with good-natured superiority. This nettled the young gentleman,he fired up, his handsome countenance glowed, he turned Demosthenes forher he loved. One advantage he had over both Cibber and Pomander, a fairstock of classical learning; on this he now drew.

  "Other actors and actresses," said he, "are monotonous in voice,monotonous in action, but Mrs. Woffington's delivery has the compass andvariety of nature, and her movements are free from the stale uniformitythat distinguishes artifice from art. The others seem to me to have buttwo dreams of grace, a sort of crawling on stilts is their motion,and an angular stiffness their repose." He then cited the most famousstatues of antiquity, and quoted situations in plays where, by herfine dramatic instinct, Mrs. Woffington, he said, threw her person intopostures similar to these, and of equal beauty; not that she strikesattitudes like the rest, but she melts from one beautiful statue intoanother; and, if sculptors could gather from her immortal graces,painters, too, might take from her face the beauties that belong ofright to passion and thought, and orators might revive their witheredart, and learn from those golden lips the music of old Athens, thatquelled tempestuous mobs, and princes drunk with victory.

  Much as this was, he was going to say more, ever so much more, but hebecame conscious of a singular sort of grin upon every face; this grinmade him turn rapidly round to look for its cause. It explained itselfat once; at his very elbow was a lady, whom his heart recognized, thoughher back was turned to him. She was dressed in a rich silk gown, pearlwhite, with flowers and sprigs embroidered; her beautiful white neck andarms were bare. She was sweeping up the room with the epilogue in herhand, learning it off by heart; at the other end of the room she turned,and now she shone full upon him.

  It certainly was a dazzling creature. She had a head of beautiful form,perched like a bird upon a throat massive yet shapely and smooth as acolumn of alabaster, a symmetrical brow, black eyes full of fire andtenderness, a delicious mouth, with a hundred varying expressions, andthat marvelous faculty of giving beauty alike to love or scorn, asneer or a smile. But she had one feature more remarkable than all, hereyebrows--the actor's feature; they were jet black, strongly marked,and in repose were arched like a rainbow; but it was their extraordinaryflexibility which made other faces upon the stage look sleepy besideMargaret Woffington's. In person she was considerably above the middleheight, and so finely formed that one could not determine the exactcharacter of her figure. At one time it seemed all stateliness, atanother time elegance personified, and flowing voluptuousness atanother. She was Juno, Psyche, Hebe, by turns, and for aught we know atwill.

  It must be confessed that a sort of halo of personal grandeur surroundsa great actress. A scene is set; half a dozen nobodies are there lost init, because they are and seem lumps of nothing. The great artist stepsupon that scene, and how she fills it in a moment! Mind and majesty waitupon her in the air; her person is lost in the greatness of her personalpresence; she dilates with _thought,_ and a stupid giantess looks adwarf beside her.

  No wonder then that Mr. Vane felt overpowered by this torch in a closet.To vary the metaphor, it seemed to him, as she swept up and down, as ifthe green-room was a shell, and this glorious creature must burst itand be free. Meantime, the others saw a pretty actress studying herbusiness; and Cibber saw a dramatic school-girl learning what hepresumed to be a very silly set of words. Sir C. Pomander's eye hadbeen on her the moment she entered, and he watched keenly the effect ofVane's eloquent eulogy; but apparently the actress was too deep in herepilogue for anything else. She came in, saying, "Mum, mum, mum," overher task, and she went on doing so. The experienced Mr. Cibber, who haddivined Vane in an instant, drew him into a corner, and complimented himon his well-timed eulogy.

  "You acted that mighty well, sir," said he. "Stop my vitals! if I didnot think you were in earnest, till I saw the jade had slipped in amongus. It told, sir--it told."

  Up fired Vane. "What do you mean, sir?" said he. "Do you suppose myadmiration of that lady is feigned?"

  "No need to speak so loud, sir," replied the old gentleman; "she hearsyou. These hussies have ears like hawks."

  He then dispensed a private wink and a public bow; with which hestrolled away from Mr. Vane, and walked feebly and jauntily up theroom, whistling "Fair Hebe;" fixing his eye upon the past, and somewhatostentatiously overlooking the existence of the present company.

  There is no great harm in an old gentleman whistling, but there are twoways of doing it; and as this old beau did it, it seemed not unlike asmall cock-a-doodle-doo of general defiance; and the denizens of thegreen-room, swelled now to a considerable number by the addition of allthe ladies and gentlemen who had been killed in the fourth act, or whomthe buttery-fingered author could not keep in hand until the fall ofthe curtain, felt it as such; and so they were not sorry when Mrs.Woffington, looking up from her epilogue, cast a glance upon the oldbeau, waited for him, and walked parallel with him on the other sideof the room, giving an absurdly exact imitation of his carriage anddeportment. To make this more striking, she pulled out of her pocket,after a mock search, a huge paste ring, gazed on it with a ludicrousaffectation of simple wonder, stuck it, like Cibber's diamond, on herlittle finger, and, pursing up her mouth, proceeded to whistle a quickmovement,

  "Which, by some devilish cantrip sleight,"

  played round the old beau's slow movement, without being at variancewith it. As for the character of this ladylike performance, it wasclear, brilliant, and loud as blacksmith.

  The folk laughed; Vane was shocked. "She profanes herself by whistling,"thought he. Mr. Cibber was confounded. He appeared to have no ideawhence came this sparkling adagio. He looked round, placed his hands tohis ears, and left off whistling. So did his musical accomplice.

  "Gentlemen," said Cibber, with pathetic gravity, "the wind howls mostdismally this evening! I took it for a drunken shoemaker!"

  At this there was a roar of laughter, except from Mr. Vane. PegWoffington laughed as merrily as the others, and showed a set ofteeth that were really dazzling; but all in one moment, without thepreliminaries an ordinary countenance requires, this laughing Venuspulled a face gloomy beyond conception. Down came her black browsstraight as a line, and she cast a look of bitter reproach on allpresent; resum
ing her study, as who should say, "Are ye not ashamed todivert a poor girl from her epilogue?" And then she went on, "Mum! mum!mum!" casting off ever and anon resentful glances; and this made thefools laugh again.

  The Laureate was now respectfully addressed by one of his admirers,James Quin, the Falstaff of the day, and the rival at this time ofGarrick in tragic characters, though the general opinion was, that hecould not long maintain a standing against the younger genius and hisrising school of art.

  Off the stage, James Quin was a character; his eccentricities werethree--a humorist, a glutton and an honest man; traits that often causedastonishment and ridicule, especially the last.

  "May we not hope for something from Mr. Cibber's pen after so long asilence?"

  "No," was the considerate reply. "Who have ye got to play it?"

  "Plenty," said Quin; "there's your humble servant, there's--"

  "Humility at the head of the list," cried she of the epilogue. "Mum!mum! mum!"

  Vane thought this so sharp.

  "Garrick, Barry, Macklin, Kitty Clive here at my side, Mrs. Cibber,the best tragic actress I ever saw; and Woffington, who is as good acomedian as you ever saw, sir;" and Quin turned as red as fire.

  "Keep your temper, Jemmy," said Mrs. Woffington with a severe accent."Mum! mum! mum!"

  "You misunderstand my question," replied Cibber, calmly; "I know your_dramatis personae_ but where the devil are your actors?"

  Here was a blow.

  "The public," said Quin, in some agitation, "would snore if we acted asthey did in your time."

  "How do you know that, sir?" was the supercilious rejoinder; _"you nevertried!"_

  Mr. Quin was silenced. Peg Woffington looked off her epilogue.

  "Bad as we are," said she coolly, "we might be worse."

  Mr. Cibber turned round, slightly raised his eyebrows.

  "Indeed!" said he. "Madam!" added he, with a courteous smile, "will yoube kind enough to explain to me how you could be worse!"

  "If, like a crab, we could go backward!"

  At this the auditors tittered; and Mr. Cibber had recourse to hisspy-glass.

  This gentleman was satirical or insolent, as the case might demand,in three degrees, of which the snuff-box was the comparative, andthe spy-glass the superlative. He had learned this on the stage; inannihilating Quin he had just used the snuff weapon, and now he drew hisspy-glass upon poor Peggy.

  "Whom have we here?" said he. Then he looked with his spy-glass to see."Oh, the little Irish orange-girl!"

  "Whose basket outweighed Colley Cibber's salary for the first twentyyears of his dramatic career," was the delicate reply to the abovedelicate remark. It staggered him for a moment; however, he affecteda most puzzled air, then gradually allowed a light to steal into hisfeatures.

  "Eh! ah! oh! how stupid I am; I understand; you sold something besidesoranges!"

  "Oh!" said Mr. Vane, and colored up to the temples, and cast a look onCibber, as much as to say, "If you were not seventy-three!"

  His ejaculation was something so different from any tone any otherperson there present could have uttered that the actress's eye dwelton him for a single moment, and in that moment he felt himself lookedthrough and through.

  "I sold the young fops a bargain, you mean," was her calm reply; "andnow I am come down to the old ones. A truce, Mr. Cibber, what do youunderstand by an actor? Tell me; for I am foolish enough to respect youropinion on these matters!"

  "An actor, young lady," said he, gravely, "is an artist who has gonedeep enough in his art to make dunces, critics and greenhorns take itfor nature; moreover, he really personates; which your mere _man of thestage_ never does. He has learned the true art of self-multiplication.He drops Betterton, Booth, Wilkes, or, ahem--"

  "Cibber," inserted Sir Charles Pomander. Cibber bowed.

  "In his dressing-room, and comes out young or old, a fop, a valet, alover, or a hero, with voice, mien, and every gesture to match. A grainless than this may be good speaking, fine preaching, deep grunting, highranting, eloquent reciting; but I'll be hanged if it is acting!"

  "Then Colley Cibber never acted," whispered Quin to Mrs. Clive.

  "Then Margaret Woffington is an actress," said M. W.; "the fine ladiestake my Lady Betty for their sister. In Mrs. Day, I pass for a woman ofseventy; and in Sir Harry Wildair I have been taken for a man. I wouldhave told you that before, but I didn't know it was to my credit," saidshe, slyly, "till Mr. Cibber laid down the law."

  "Proof!" said Cibber.

  "A warm letter from one lady, diamond buckles from another, and an offerof her hand and fortune from a third; _rien que cela."_

  Mr. Cibber conveyed behind her back a look of absolute incredulity; shedivined it.

  "I will not show you the letters," continued she, "because Sir Harry,though a rake, was a gentleman; but here are the buckles;" and shefished them out of her pocket, capacious of such things. The buckleswere gravely inspected, they made more than one eye water, they wereundeniable.

  "Well, let us see what we can do for her," said the Laureate. He tappedhis box and without a moment's hesitation produced the most execrabledistich in the language:

  "Now who is like Peggy, with talent at will, A maid loved her Harry, for want of a Bill?

  "Well, child," continued he, after the applause which followsextemporary verses had subsided, "take _me_ in. Play something to makeme lose sight of saucy Peg Woffington, and I'll give the world five actsmore before the curtain falls on Colley Cibber."

  "If you could be deceived," put in Mr. Vane, somewhat timidly; "Ithink there is no disguise through which grace and beauty such as Mrs.Woffington's would not shine, to my eyes."

  "That is to praise my person at the expense of my wit, sir, is it not?"was her reply.

  This was the first word she had ever addressed to him. The tonesappeared so sweet to him that he could not find anything to reply forlistening to them; and Cibber resumed:

  "Meantime, I will show you a real actress; she is coming here to-nightto meet me. Did ever you children hear of Ann Bracegirdle?"

  "Bracegirdle!" said Mrs. Clive; "why, she has been dead this thirtyyears; at least I thought so."

  "Dead to the stage. There is more heat in her ashes than in your fire,Kate Clive! Ah! here comes her messenger," continued he, as an ancientman appeared with a letter in his hand. This letter Mrs. Woffingtonsnatched and read, and at the same instant in bounced the call-boy."Epilogue called," said this urchin, in the tone of command which thesesmall fry of Parnassus adopt; and, obedient to his high behest, Mrs.Woffington moved to the door, with the Bracegirdle missive in herhand, but not before she had delivered its general contents: "The greatactress will be here in a few minutes," said she, and she glided swiftlyout of the room.