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One advantage he had over both Cibber and Pomander, a fair stock 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 and variety of nature, and her movements are free from the stale uniformity that distinguishes artifice from art.
Being set on her feet, she made a splendid courtesy, and dramatically proclaiming, 'Mrs Woffington's carriage waits, swept down the steps and round the corner, trailing Daisy's scarlet shawl majestically behind her. 'Isn't she great fun? I couldn't stop in this dull place if I hadn't that child to make it lively for me.
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." 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."
'Bind up my wounds! Look sharp now with these wounds. 'Have mercy, Heaven! but be quick about it, for the pit can't wait for Heaven. Bustle! bustle! bustle!" The old dog was so irresistibly funny that the whole company were obliged to laugh; but in the midst of their merriment Mrs. Woffington's voice was heard at the door. "This way, madam."
Quin and other actors, critics, etc. Our friend, Sir Charles Pomander, had been guilty of two ingenuities: first, he had written three or four letters, full of respectful admiration, to Mrs. Woffington, of whom he spoke slightingly to Vane; second, he had made a disingenuous purchase. This purchase was Pompey, Mrs. Woffington's little black slave.
"On the fly-leaf of each work, madam," replied that florid author, "and also at the foot of every page which contains a particularly brilliant passage, I have been careful to insert the address of James Triplet, painter, actor, and dramatist, and Mrs. Woffington's humble, devoted servant."
"My wife!" cried Vane, trembling with anger and jealousy. "She here! and with this man?" "No!" cried Triplet. "With me, with me! Not with him, of course." "Boaster!" cried Vane, contemptuously. "But that is a part of your profession!" Pomander, irritated, scornfully drew from his pocket the ladies' joint production, which had fallen at his feet from Mrs. Woffington's hand. He presented this to Mr.
"Sweet are the uses of adversity!" continued this cheerful monitor. "James, take the picture with you," said Mrs. Triplet, in one of those calm, little, desponding voices that fall upon the soul so agreeably when one is a cock-a-hoop, and desires, with permission, so to remain. "What on earth am I to take Mrs. Woffington's portrait for?" "We have nothing in the house," said the wife, blushing.
Woffington's intentions toward him, interest had at present nothing to do with them; indeed it was made clear that even were she to surrender her liberty to him, it would only be as a princess, forging golden chains for herself with her own royal hand. Another fortnight passed to the mutual satisfaction of the lovers.
"May I be permitted to ask whose portrait this is?" said Mr. Cibber slyly. "I distinctly told you, it was to be Peg Woffington's," said Mrs. Clive. "I think you might take my word." "Do you act as truly as you paint?" said Quin. "Your fame runs no risk from me, sir!" replied Triplet. "It is not like Peggy's beauty! Eh?" rejoined Quin. "I can't agree with you," cried Kitty Clive.
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