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 slumbered4, but uneasily; the dramatic author was uppermost, and his “Demon of the Hayloft” hung upon the thread of popular favor.
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 mite5 of discredit6 on royalty7 by playing the Queen, and had trundled home the moment the breath was out of her royal body. She came in rotatory with fatigue8, and fell, gristle, into a chair; she wrenched9 from her brow a diadem10 and eyed it with contempt, took from her pocket a sausage, and contemplated11 it with respect and affection, placed it in a frying-pan on the fire, and entered her bedroom, meaning to don a loose wrapper, and dethrone herself into comfort.
But the poor woman was shot walking by Morpheus, and subsided12 altogether; for dramatic performances, amusing and exciting to youth seated in the pit, convey a certain weariness to those bright beings who sparkle on the stage for bread and cheese.
Royalty, disposed of, still left its trail of events. The sausage began to “spit.” The sound was hardly out of its body, when poor Triplet writhed13 like a worm on a hook. “Spitter, spittest,” went the sausage. Triplet groaned14, and at last his inarticulate murmurs15 became words: “That's right, pit now, that is so reasonable to condemn16 a poor fellow's play 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 somebody had 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. I never saw the fun of a clown before, no! no! no! it is not the clown, it is worse, much worse; oh, dear, ugh!” and Triplet rolled off the couch like Richard the Third. He sat a moment on the floor, with a finger in each eye; and then, finding he was neither daubing, ranting17, nor deluging18 earth with “acts,” he accused himself of indolence, and sat down to write a small tale of blood and bombast19; he took his seat at the deal table with some alacrity20, for he had recently made a discovery.
How to write well, rien que cela.
“First, think in as homely21 a way as you can; next, shove your pen under the 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 a basis,” said Triplet, apologetically, “and elegance22 to the dress they wear.” Triplet, then casting his eyes round in search of such actual circumstances as could be incorporated on this plan with fiction, began to work thus:
TRIPLET'S FACTS. TRIPLET'S FICTION.
gleams around.
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 mole25 Triplet could undermine literature and level it with the dust, various interruptions and divisions broke in upon his design, and sic nos servavit Apollo. As he wrote the last sentence, a loud rap came to his door. A servant in livery brought him a note from Mr. Vane, dated Covent Garden. Triplet's eyes sparkled, he bustled26, wormed himself into a less rusty coat, and started off to the Theater Royal, 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 patron worth a single gesture of the quill27.
Mr. Vane had conversed28 with Triplet, that is, let Triplet talk to him in a coffee-house, and Triplet, the most sanguine29 of unfortunate men, had already built a series of expectations upon that interview, when this note arrived. Leaving him on his road from Lambeth to Covent Garden, we must introduce more important personages.
Mr. Vane was a wealthy gentleman from Shropshire, whom business had called to London four months ago, and now pleasure detained. Business still 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 and taste, as times went; and his love of the Arts had taken him some time before our tale to the theaters, then the resort of all who pretended to taste; and it was thus he had become fascinated by Mrs. Woffington, a lady of great beauty, and a comedian30 high in favor with the town.
The first night he saw her was an epoch31 in the history of this gentleman's mind. He had learning and refinement32, and he had not great practical experience, and such men are most open to impression from the stage. He saw a being, all grace and bright nature, move like a goddess among the stiff puppets of the scene; her glee and her pathos33 were equally catching34, she held a golden key at which all the doors of the heart flew open. Her face, too, was as full of goodness as intelligence—it was like no other farce35; the heart bounded to meet it.
He rented a box at her theater. He was there every night before the curtain drew up; and I'm sorry to say, he at last took half a dislike to Sunday—Sunday “which knits up the raveled sleave of care,” Sunday “tired nature's sweet restorer,” because on Sunday there was no Peg36 Woffington. At first he regarded her as a being of another sphere, an incarnation of poetry and art; but by degrees his secret aspirations37 became bolder. She was a woman; there were men who knew her; some of them 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 its confutation, and he knew how loose-tongued is calumny38; but still—!
At last, one day he sent her a letter, unsigned. This letter expressed his admiration39 of her talent in warm but respectful terms; the writer told her it had become necessary to his heart to return her in some way his thanks for the land of enchantment40 to which she had introduced him. Soon after this, choice flowers found their way to her dressing-room every night, and now and then verses and precious stones mingled41 with her roses and eglantine. And oh, how he watched the great actress's eye all the night; how he tried to discover whether she looked oftener toward his box than the corresponding box on the other side of the house. Did she notice him, or did she not? What a point gained, if she was conscious of his nightly attendance. She would feel he was a friend, not a mere42 auditor43. He was jealous of the pit, on whom Mrs. Woffington lavished44 her smiles without measure.
At last, one day he sent her a wreath of flowers, and implored45 her, if any word he had said to her had pleased or interested her, to wear this wreath that night. After he had done this he trembled; he had courted a decision, when, perhaps, his safety lay in patience and time. She made her entree46; he turned cold as she glided47 into sight from the prompter's side; he raised his eyes slowly and fearfully from her feet to her head; her head was bare, wreathed only by its own rich glossy48 honors. “Fool!” thought he, “to think she would hang frivolities upon that glorious head for me.” Yet his disappointment told him he had really hoped it; he would not have sat out the play but for a leaden incapacity of motion that seized him.
The curtain drew up for the fifth act, and!—could he believe his eyes?—Mrs. Woffington stood upon the stage with his wreath upon her graceful49 head. She took away his breath. She spoke50 the epilogue, and, as the curtain fell, she lifted her eyes, he thought, to his box, and made him 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, justified51 a portion of this enthusiasm; she was one of the truest artists of her day; a fine lady in her hands was a lady, with the genteel affectation of a gentlewoman, not a harlot's affectation, which is simply and without exaggeration what the stage commonly gives us for a fine lady; an old woman in her hands was a thorough woman, thoroughly52 old, not a cackling young person of epicene gender54. She played Sir Harry55 Wildair like a man, which is how he ought to be played (or, which is better still, not at all), so that Garrick acknowledged her as a male rival, and abandoned the part he no longer monopolized56.
Now it very, very rarely happens that a woman of her age is high enough in art and knowledge to do these things. In players, vanity cripples art at every step. The young actress who is not a Woffington aims to display herself by means of her part, which is vanity; not to raise her part by sinking 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 manly57 than a steady resolve to exhibit the points of a woman with greater ferocity than they could in a gown. But consider, ladies, a man is not the meanest of the brute58 creation, so how can he be an unwomanly female? This sort of actress aims not to give her author's creation to the public, but to trot59 out the person instead of the creation, and shows sots what a calf60 it has—and is.
Vanity, vanity! all is vanity! Mesdames les Charlatanes.
Margaret Woffington was of another mold; she played the ladies of high comedy with grace, distinction, and delicacy61. But in Sir Harry Wildair she parted with a woman's mincing62 foot and tongue, and played the man in a style large, spirited and elance. As Mrs. Day (committee) she painted wrinkles on her lovely face so honestly that she was taken for threescore, and she carried out the design with voice and person, and did a vulgar old woman to the life. She disfigured her own beauties to show the beauty of her art; in a word, she was an artist! It does not follow 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 one of those sanguinary discourses63 our rude forefathers64 thought were tragic65 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 to ourselves and them, we call our forbears, had an idea their blood and bombast were not ridiculous enough in themselves, so when the curtain had fallen on the debris66 of the dramatis personae, and of common sense, they sent on an actress to turn all the sentiment so laboriously67 acquired into a jest.
To insist that nothing good or beautiful shall be carried safe from a play out into the street was the bigotry68 of English horseplay. Was a Lucretia the heroine of the tragedy, she was careful in the epilogue to speak like Messalina. Did a king's mistress come to hunger and repentance69, she disinfected all the petites maitresses in the house of 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 exceeding sorrowful.
While sitting attendance on the epilogue Mr. Vane had nothing to distract him from the congregation but a sanguinary sermon in five heads, so his eyes roved over the pews, and presently he became aware of a familiar face watching him closely. The gentleman to whom it belonged finding himself recognized left his seat, and a minute later Sir Charles Pomander entered Mr. Vane's box.
This Sir Charles Pomander was a gentleman of vice70; pleasure he called it. Mr. Vane had made his acquaintance two years ago in Shropshire. Sir Charles, who husbanded everything except his soul, had turned himself out to grass for a month. His object was, by roast mutton, bread with some little flour in it, air, water, temperance, chastity and peace, to be enabled to take a deeper plunge71 into impurities72 of food and morals.
A few nights ago, unseen by Mr. Vane, he had observed him in the theater; an ordinary man would have gone at once and shaken hands with him, but this was not an ordinary man, this was a diplomatist. First of all, he said to himself: “What is this man doing here?” Then he soon discovered this man must be in love with some actress; then it became his business to know who she was; this, too, soon betrayed itself. Then it became more than ever Sir Charles's business to know whether Mrs. Woffington returned the sentiment; and here his penetration73 was at fault, for the moment; he determined74, however, to discover.
Mr. Vane then received his friend, all unsuspicious how that friend had been skinning him with his eyes for some time past. After the usual compliments had passed between two gentlemen who had been hand and glove for a month and forgotten each other's existence for two years, Sir Charles, 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 the actors?”
“Yes; come into the green-room. There are one or two people of reputation 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 heaven he would not have been more astonished. He was too astonished at first to realize the full beauty of the arrangement, by means of which he might be within a yard of Mrs. Woffington, might feel her dress rustle75 past him, might speak to her, might drink her voice fresh from her lips almost 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 obsequiously76 to him; they then passed through a dismal77 passage, and suddenly emerged upon that scene of enchantment, the stage—a dirty platform encumbered78 on all sides with piles of scenery in flats. They threaded their way through rusty velvet79 actors and fustian80 carpenters, and entered the green-room. At the door of this magic chamber81 Vane trembled and half wished he could retire. They entered; his apprehension82 gave way to disappointment, she was not there. Collecting himself, he was presently introduced to a smart, jaunty83, and, to do him justice, distingue old beau. This was Colley Cibber, Esq., poet laureate, and retired84 actor and dramatist, a gentleman who is entitled to a word or two.
This Cibber was the only actor since Shakespeare's time who had both acted and written well. Pope's personal resentment85 misleads the reader of English poetry as to Cibber's real place among the wits of the day.
The man's talent was dramatic, not didactic, or epic53, or pastoral. Pope was not so deep in the drama as in other matters, and Cibber was one of its luminaries86; he wrote some of the best comedies of his day. He also succeeded where Dryden, for lack of true dramatic taste, failed. He tampered87 successfully with Shakespeare. Colley Cibber's version of “Richard the Third” is impudent88 and slightly larcenic, but it is marvelously effective. It has stood a century, and probably will stand forever; and the most admired passages in what literary humbugs89 who pretend they know Shakespeare by the closet, not the stage, accept as Shakespeare's “Richard,” are Cibber's.
Mr. Cibber was now in private life, a mild edition of his own Lord Foppington; he had none of the snob-fop as represented on our conventional stage; nobody ever had, and lived. He was in tolerably good taste; but he went ever gold-laced, highly powdered, scented90, and diamonded, dispensing91 graceful bows, praises of whoever had the good luck to be dead, and satire92 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 awe93 on this veteran, for he had seen many Woffingtons. He fell soon upon the subject nearest his heart. He asked Mr. Cibber what he thought of Mrs. Woffington. The old gentleman thought well of the young lady's talent, especially her comedy; in tragedy, said he, she imitates Mademoiselle Dumenil, of the Theatre Francais, and confounds the stage rhetorician with the actress. The next question was not so fortunate. “Did you ever see so great and true an actress upon the whole?”
Mr. Cibber opened his eyes, a slight flush came into his wash-leather face, and he replied: “I have not only seen many equal, many superior to her, but I have seen some half dozen who would have eaten her up and spit her out again, and not known they had done anything out of the way.”
Here Pomander soothed94 the veteran's dudgeon by explaining in dulcet95 tones that his friend was not long from Shropshire, and—The critic interrupted him, and bade him not dilute96 the excuse.
Now Mr. Vane had as much to say as either of them, but he had not the habit, which dramatic folks have, of carrying his whole bank in his cheek-pocket, so they quenched97 him for two minutes.
But lovers are not silenced, he soon returned to the attack; he dwelt on the grace, the ease, the freshness, the intelligence, the universal beauty of Mrs. Woffington. Pomander sneered99, to draw him out. Cibber smiled, with good-natured superiority. This nettled100 the young gentleman, he fired up, his handsome countenance101 glowed, he turned Demosthenes for her he loved. 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 monotonous102 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 artifice103 from art. The others seem to me to have but two dreams of grace, a sort of crawling on stilts104 is their motion, and an angular stiffness their repose105.” He then cited the most famous statues of antiquity106, and quoted situations in plays where, by her fine dramatic instinct, Mrs. Woffington, he said, threw her person into postures107 similar to these, and of equal beauty; not that she strikes attitudes like the rest, but she melts from one beautiful statue into another; and, if sculptors108 could gather from her immortal109 graces, painters, too, might take from her face the beauties that belong of right to passion and thought, and orators110 might revive their withered111 art, and learn from those golden lips the music of old Athens, that quelled112 tempestuous113 mobs, and princes drunk with victory.
Much as this was, he was going to say more, ever so much more, but he became conscious of a singular sort of grin upon every face; this grin made him turn rapidly round to look for its cause. It explained itself at once; at his very elbow was a lady, whom his heart recognized, though her back was turned to him. She was dressed in a rich silk gown, pearl white, with flowers and sprigs embroidered114; her beautiful white neck and arms were bare. She was sweeping115 up the room with the epilogue in her hand, 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 a column of alabaster116, a symmetrical brow, black eyes full of fire and tenderness, a delicious mouth, with a hundred varying expressions, and that marvelous faculty117 of giving beauty alike to love or scorn, a sneer98 or a smile. But she had one feature more remarkable118 than all, her eyebrows119—the actor's feature; they were jet black, strongly marked, and in repose were arched like a rainbow; but it was their extraordinary flexibility120 which made other faces upon the stage look sleepy beside Margaret Woffington's. In person she was considerably121 above the middle height, and so finely formed that one could not determine the exact character of her figure. At one time it seemed all stateliness, at another time elegance personified, and flowing voluptuousness122 at another. She was Juno, Psyche123, Hebe, by turns, and for aught we know at will.
It must be confessed that a sort of halo of personal grandeur124 surrounds a great actress. A scene is set; half a dozen nobodies are there lost in it, because they are and seem lumps of nothing. The great artist steps upon that scene, and how she fills it in a moment! Mind and majesty125 wait upon her in the air; her person is lost in the greatness of her personal presence; she dilates126 with thought, and a stupid giantess looks a dwarf127 beside her.
No wonder then that Mr. Vane felt overpowered by this torch in a closet. To vary the metaphor128, it seemed to him, as she swept up and down, as if the green-room was a shell, and this glorious creature must burst it and be free. Meantime, the others saw a pretty actress studying her business; and Cibber saw a dramatic school-girl learning what he presumed to be a very silly set of words. Sir C. Pomander's eye had been on her the moment she entered, and he watched keenly the effect of Vane's eloquent129 eulogy130; but apparently131 the actress was too deep in her epilogue for anything else. She came in, saying, “Mum, mum, mum,” over her task, and she went on doing so. The experienced Mr. Cibber, who had divined Vane in an instant, drew him into a corner, and complimented him on his well-timed eulogy.
“You acted that mighty132 well, sir,” said he. “Stop my vitals! if I did not think you were in earnest, till I saw the jade133 had slipped in among us. It told, sir—it told.”
Up fired Vane. “What do you mean, sir?” said he. “Do you suppose my admiration of that lady is feigned134?”
“No need to speak so loud, sir,” replied the old gentleman; “she hears you. These hussies have ears like hawks135.”
He then dispensed136 a private wink137 and a public bow; with which he strolled away from Mr. Vane, and walked feebly and jauntily138 up the room, whistling “Fair Hebe;” fixing his eye upon the past, and somewhat ostentatiously overlooking the existence of the present company.
There is no great harm in an old gentleman whistling, but there are two ways of doing it; and as this old beau did it, it seemed not unlike a small cock-a-doodle-doo of general defiance139; and the denizens140 of the green-room, swelled141 now to a considerable number by the addition of all the ladies and gentlemen who had been killed in the fourth act, or whom the buttery-fingered author could not keep in hand until the fall of the curtain, felt it as such; and so they were not sorry when Mrs. Woffington, looking up from her epilogue, cast a glance upon the old beau, waited for him, and walked parallel with him on the other side of the room, giving an absurdly exact imitation of his carriage and deportment. To make this more striking, she pulled out of her pocket, after a mock search, a huge paste ring, gazed on it with a ludicrous affectation of simple wonder, stuck it, like Cibber's diamond, on her little finger, and, pursing up her mouth, proceeded to whistle a quick movement,
“Which, by some devilish cantrip sleight,”
played round the old beau's slow movement, without being at variance142 with it. As for the character of this ladylike performance, it was clear, brilliant, and loud as blacksmith.
The folk laughed; Vane was shocked. “She profanes143 herself by whistling,” thought he. Mr. Cibber was confounded. He appeared to have no idea whence came this sparkling adagio144. He looked round, placed his hands to his ears, and left off whistling. So did his musical accomplice145.
“Gentlemen,” said Cibber, with pathetic gravity, “the wind howls most dismally146 this evening! I took it for a drunken shoemaker!”
At this there was a roar of laughter, except from Mr. Vane. Peg Woffington laughed as merrily as the others, and showed a set of teeth that were really dazzling; but all in one moment, without the preliminaries an ordinary countenance requires, this laughing Venus pulled a face gloomy beyond conception. Down came her black brows straight as a line, and she cast a look of bitter reproach on all present; resuming her study, as who should say, “Are ye not ashamed to divert a poor girl from her epilogue?” And then she went on, “Mum! mum! mum!” casting off ever and anon resentful glances; and this made the fools 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 of Garrick in tragic characters, though the general opinion was, that he could not long maintain a standing147 against the younger genius and his rising school of art.
Off the stage, James Quin was a character; his eccentricities148 were three—a humorist, a glutton149 and an honest man; traits that often caused astonishment150 and ridicule151, especially the last.
“May we not hope for something from Mr. Cibber's pen after so long a silence?”
“No,” was the considerate reply. “Who have ye got to play it?”
“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 a comedian 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.
“How do you know that, sir?” was the supercilious154 rejoinder; “you never tried!”
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 courteous155 smile, “will you be kind enough to explain to me how you could be worse!”
This gentleman was satirical or insolent158, as the case might demand, in three degrees, of which the snuff-box was the comparative, and the spy-glass the superlative. He had learned this on the stage; in annihilating159 Quin he had just used the snuff weapon, and now he drew his spy-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 outweighed160 Colley Cibber's salary for the first twenty years of his dramatic career,” was the delicate reply to the above delicate remark. It staggered him for a moment; however, he affected161 a most puzzled air, then gradually allowed a light to steal into his features.
“Eh! ah! oh! how stupid I am; I understand; you sold something besides oranges!”
“Oh!” said Mr. Vane, and colored up to the temples, and cast a look on Cibber, as much as to say, “If you were not seventy-three!”
His ejaculation was something so different from any tone any other person there present could have uttered that the actress's eye dwelt on him for a single moment, and in that moment he felt himself looked through and through.
“I sold the young fops a bargain, you mean,” was her calm reply; “and now I am come down to the old ones. A truce162, Mr. Cibber, what do you understand by an actor? Tell me; for I am foolish enough to respect your opinion on these matters!”
“An actor, young lady,” said he, gravely, “is an artist who has gone deep enough in his art to make dunces, critics and greenhorns take it for nature; moreover, he really personates; which your mere man of the stage 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, a lover, or a hero, with voice, mien163, and every gesture to match. A grain less than this may be good speaking, fine preaching, deep grunting164, high ranting, eloquent reciting; but I'll be hanged if it is acting165!”
“Then Colley Cibber never acted,” whispered Quin to Mrs. Clive.
“Then Margaret Woffington is an actress,” said M. W.; “the fine ladies take my Lady Betty for their sister. In Mrs. Day, I pass for a woman of seventy; and in Sir Harry Wildair I have been taken for a man. I would have told you that before, but I didn't know it was to my credit,” said she, slyly, “till Mr. Cibber laid down the law.”
“Proof!” said Cibber.
“A warm letter from one lady, diamond buckles166 from another, and an offer of her hand and fortune from a third; rien que cela.”
Mr. Cibber conveyed behind her back a look of absolute incredulity; she divined 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 she fished them out of her pocket, capacious of such things. The buckles were gravely inspected, they made more than one eye water, they were undeniable.
“Well, let us see what we can do for her,” said the Laureate. He tapped his box and without a moment's hesitation167 produced the most execrable distich 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 follows extemporary verses had subsided, “take me in. Play something to make me lose sight of saucy168 Peg Woffington, and I'll give the world five acts more before the curtain falls on Colley Cibber.”
“If you could be deceived,” put in Mr. Vane, somewhat timidly; “I think 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 tones appeared so sweet to him that he could not find anything to reply for listening to them; and Cibber resumed:
“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 urchin169, 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.
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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6
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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7
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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8
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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9
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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10
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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11
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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12
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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13
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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15
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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16
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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17
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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18
deluging
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| v.使淹没( deluge的现在分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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19
bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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20
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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21
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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22
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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23
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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24
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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26
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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27
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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28
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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29
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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30
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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31
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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32
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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33
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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34
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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35
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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36
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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37
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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38
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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39
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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41
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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42
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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43
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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44
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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47
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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48
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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49
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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50
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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52
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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54
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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55
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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56
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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57
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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58
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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59
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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60
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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61
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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62
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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63
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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64
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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65
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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66
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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67
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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68
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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69
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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70
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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71
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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72
impurities
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| 不纯( impurity的名词复数 )； 不洁； 淫秽； 杂质 | |
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73
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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76
obsequiously
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77
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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78
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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80
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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81
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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82
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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83
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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84
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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85
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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86
luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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87
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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88
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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89
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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90
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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91
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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92
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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93
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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94
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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95
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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96
dilute
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| vt.稀释，冲淡；adj.稀释的，冲淡的 | |
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97
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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98
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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99
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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102
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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103
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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104
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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105
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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106
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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107
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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108
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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109
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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110
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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111
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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112
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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114
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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115
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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116
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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117
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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118
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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119
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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120
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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121
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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122
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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123
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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124
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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125
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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126
dilates
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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128
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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129
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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130
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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131
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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133
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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135
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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136
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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137
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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138
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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139
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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140
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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141
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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142
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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143
profanes
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| n.不敬（神）的( profane的名词复数 )；渎神的；亵渎的；世俗的v.不敬( profane的第三人称单数 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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144
adagio
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| adj.缓慢的；n.柔板；慢板；adv.缓慢地 | |
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145
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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146
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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149
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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150
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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151
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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152
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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153
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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154
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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155
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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156
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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157
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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158
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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159
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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162
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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163
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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164
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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165
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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166
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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167
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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168
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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169
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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