Peg Woffington. Charles Reade Reade

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

      “Bracegirdle!” said Mrs. Clive; “why, she has been dead this thirty years; 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 ancient man appeared with a letter in his hand. This letter Mrs. Woffington snatched and read, and at the same instant in bounced the call-boy. “Epilogue called,” said this urchin, in the tone of command which these small fry of Parnassus adopt; and, obedient to his high behest, Mrs. Woffington moved to the door, with the Bracegirdle missive in her hand, but not before she had delivered its general contents: “The great actress will be here in a few minutes,” said she, and she glided swiftly out of the room.

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      PEOPLE whose mind or manners possess any feature, and are not as devoid of all eccentricity as half pounds of butter bought of metropolitan grocers, are recommended not to leave a roomful of their acquaintances until the last but one. Yes, they should always be penultimate. Perhaps Mrs. Woffington knew this; but epilogues are stubborn things, and call-boys undeniable.

      “Did you ever hear a woman whistle before?”

      “Never; but I saw one sit astride on an ass in Germany!”

      “The saddle was not on her husband, I hope, madam?”

      “No, sir; the husband walked by his kinsfolk's side, and made the best of a bad bargain, as Peggy's husband will have to.”

      “Wait till some one ventures on the gay Lotharia—illi aes triplex; that means he must have triple brass, Kitty.”

      “I deny that, sir; since his wife will always have enough for both.”

      “I have not observed the lady's brass,” said Vane, trembling with passion; “but I observed her talent, and I noticed that whoever attacks her to her face comes badly off.”

      “Well said, sir,” answered Quin; “and I wish Kitty here would tell us why she hates Mrs. Woffington, the best-natured woman in the theater?”

      “I don't hate her, I don't trouble my head about her.”

      “Yes, you hate her; for you never miss a cut at her!”

      “Do you hate a haunch of venison, Quin?” said the lady.

      “No, you little unnatural monster,” replied Quin.

      “For all that, you never miss a cut at one, so hold your tongue!”

      “Le beau raisonnement!” said Mr. Cibber. “James Quin, don't interfere with nature's laws; let our ladies hate one another, it eases their minds; try to make them Christians, and you will not convert their tempers, but spoil your own. Peggy there hates George Anne Bellamy, because she has gaudy silk dresses from Paris, by paying for them, as she could, if not too stingy. Kitty here hates Peggy because Rich has breeched her, whereas Kitty, who now sets up for a prude, wanted to put delicacy off and small-clothes on in Peg's stead, that is where the Kate and Peg shoe pinches, near the femoral artery, James.

      “Shrimps have the souls of shrimps,” resumed this censor castigatorque minorum. “Listen to me, and learn that really great actors are great in soul, and do not blubber like a great school-girl because Anne Bellamy has two yellow silk dresses from Paris, as I saw Woffington blubber in this room, and would not be comforted; nor fume like Kitty Clive, because Woffington has a pair of breeches and a little boy's rapier to go a playing at acting with. When I was young, two giantesses fought for empire upon this very stage, where now dwarfs crack and bounce like parched peas. They played Roxana and Statira in the 'Rival Queens.' Rival queens of art themselves, they put out all their strength. In the middle of the last act the town gave judgment in favor of Statira. What did Roxana? Did she spill grease on Statira's robe, as Peg Woffington would? or stab her, as I believe Kitty here capable of doing? No! Statira was never so tenderly killed as that night; she owned this to me. Roxana bade the theater farewell that night, and wrote to Statira thus: I give you word for word: 'Madam, the best judge we have has decided in your favor. I shall never play second on a stage where I have been first so long, but I shall often be a spectator, and methinks none will appreciate your talent more than I, who have felt its weight. My wardrobe, one of the best in Europe, is of no use to me; if you will honor me by selecting a few of my dresses, you will gratify me, and I shall fancy I see myself upon the stage to greater advantage than before.'”

      “And what did Statira answer, sir?” said Mr. Vane, eagerly.

      “She answered thus: 'Madam, the town has often been wrong, and may have been so last night, in supposing that I vied successfully with your merit; but this much is certain—and here, madam, I am the best judge—that off the stage you have just conquered me. I shall wear with pride any dress you have honored, and shall feel inspired to great exertions by your presence among our spectators, unless, indeed, the sense of your magnanimity and the recollection of your talent should damp me by the dread of losing any portion of your good opinion.'”

      “What a couple of stiff old things,” said Mrs. Clive.

      “Nay, madam, say not so,” cried Vane, warmly; “surely, this was the lofty courtesy of two great minds not to be overbalanced by strife, defeat, or victory.”

      “What were their names, sir?”

      “Statira was the great Mrs. Oldfield. Roxana you will see here to-night.”

      This caused a sensation.

      Colley's reminiscences were interrupted by loud applause from the theater; the present seldom gives the past a long hearing.

      The old war-horse cocked his ears.

      “It is Woffington speaking the epilogue,” said Quin.

      “Oh, she has got the length of their foot, somehow,” said a small actress.

      “And the breadth of their hands, too,” said Pomander, waking from a nap.

      “It is the depth of their hearts she has sounded,” said Vane.

      In those days, if a metaphor started up, the poor thing was coursed up hill and down dale, and torn limb from jacket; even in Parliament, a trope was sometimes hunted from one session into another.

      “You were asking me about Mrs. Oldfield, sir,” resumed Cibber, rather peevishly. “I will own to you, I lack words to convey a just idea of her double and complete supremacy. But the comedians of this day are weak-strained farceurs compared with her, and her tragic tone was thunder set to music.

      “I saw a brigadier-general cry like a child at her Indiana; I have seen her crying with pain herself at the wing (for she was always a great sufferer), I have seen her then spring upon the stage as Lady Townley, and in a moment sorrow brightened into joy: the air seemed to fill with singing-birds, that chirped the pleasures of fashion, love and youth in notes sparkling like diamonds and stars and prisms. She was above criticism, out of its scope, as is the blue sky; men went not to judge her, they drank her, and gazed at her, and were warmed at her, and refreshed by her. The fops were awed into silence, and with their humbler betters thanked Heaven for her, if they thanked it for anything.

      “In all the crowded theater, care and pain and poverty were banished from the memory, while Oldfield's face spoke, and her tongue flashed melodies; the lawyer forgot his quillets; the polemic, the mote in his brother's eye; the old maid, her grudge against the two sexes; the old man, his gray hairs and his lost hours. And can it be, that all this which should have been immortal, is quite—quite lost, is as though it had never been?” he sighed. “Can it be that its fame is now sustained by me; who twang