Peg Woffington

artment, a man was slumbering on a rough couch. His rusty and worn suit of black was of a pie

h what ought to be, viz., truth, plot, situation and dialogue, were not; and what

so short of one talent tha

hor was uppermost, and his "Demon of the Hay

r entered from the t

had just cast her mite of discredit on royalty by playing the Queen, and had trundled home the moment the breath was out of her royal body. She came in rotatory with fatigue, and fell, gristle, into a chair; she wrenched from her brow a dia

atic performances, amusing and exciting to youth seated in the pit, convey a certa

e 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's play before you have heard it out." Then, with

, 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, ranting, no

e well, rie

blisher-if you can). "This," said Triplet, "insures common sense to your ideas, which does pretty well for a basis," said Triplet, apologetically, "and elegance to th

ACTS. TRIPL

the table. A solitary

ms a

Its elongated wic

d in o

fed it. He rose langui

s. Burned

hat he had b

little. si

nd muttere

cul

gn, 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,

ed patrons, instead of aiming to be indispensable to the p

t sanguine of unfortunate men, had already built a series of expectations upon that interview, when this note

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

n 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 pathos were equally catching,

estorer," because on Sunday there was no Peg Woffington. At first he regarded her as a being of another sphere, an incarnation of poetry and art; but by degrees his secret aspirations became bolder. She was a woman; there were men

er this, choice flowers found their way to her dressing-room every night, and now and then verses and precious stones mingled 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

safety lay in patience and time. She made her entree; he turned cold as she glided 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 glossy

graceful head. She took away his breath. She spoke the epilogue, and, as the curtain fell, she lifted her eyes, he thought, to his

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, thoroughly old, not a cackling young person of epicene gender

nking 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 manly than a steady resolve to exhibit the points of a woman with greater ferocity than they

l is vanity! Mesda

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

sanguinary discourses our rude forefathers thought were tragic plays. Sedet aeter

a their blood and bombast were not ridiculous enough in themselves, so when the curtain had fallen on the debris of the dra

speak like Messalina. Did a king's mistress come to hunger and repentance, she disinfected all the petites maitresses in the house of the moral, by assuring them that sin is a joke, repentance a greater, and t

five heads, so his eyes roved over the pews, and presently he became aware of a familiar face watching him closely. The gentlem

Charles, who husbanded everything except his soul, had turned himself out to grass for a month. His object was, by roast mutton, bread with

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 it

ome time past. After the usual compliments had passed between two gentlemen who had been hand and glove for a

stage." The fourth a

Mr. Vane; "what, where she

one or two people of reputation there; I w

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 dismal passage, and suddenly emerged upon that scene of enchantment, the stage-a dirty platform encumbered on all sides with piles of scenery in flats. They threaded their way through rusty velvet actors and fustian carpent

cted and written well. Pope's personal resentment misleads the reader

eded where Dryden, for lack of true dramatic taste, failed. He tampered successfully with Shakespeare. Colley Cibber's version of "Richard the Third" is impudent and slightly larcenic, but it is marvelously effective. It

ventional stage; nobody ever had, and lived. He was in tolerably good taste; but he went ever gold-laced, highly powdered, scented,

rt. 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 D

have not only seen many equal, many superior to her, but I have seen some half dozen who would

ulcet tones that his friend was not long from Shropshire, and-

ot the habit, which dramatic folks have, of carrying his whole

fington. Pomander sneered, to draw him out. Cibber smiled, with good-natured superiority. This nettled the young gentleman, he fired up, his handsome countenan

otion, and an angular stiffness their repose." He then cited the most famous statues of antiquity, and quoted situations in plays where, by her fine dramatic instinct, Mrs. Woffington, he said, threw her person into postures similar to these, and of equal beauty; not that she strikes attitudes like the rest, but she melts from one beautiful

ned 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 embroidered; he

e to love or scorn, a sneer or a smile. But she had one feature more remarkable than all, her eyebrows-the actor's feature; they were jet black, strongly marked, and in repose were arched like a rainbow; but it was their extraordinary flexibility which made other faces upon the stage look sleepy beside Margaret Woffington's.

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 majesty wait upon he

ss 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 eloquent eulogy; but apparently the ac

als! if I did not think you were in earnest, till I saw

sir?" said he. "Do you suppose my

ied the old gentleman; "she hears you

ane, and walked feebly and jauntily up the room, whistling "Fair Hebe;" fixing his eye up

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 absu

e devilish can

variance with it. As for the character of this ladylike pe

ber was confounded. He appeared to have no idea whence came this sparkling adagio. He looked

avity, "the wind howls most dismally this

s 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

e day, and the rival at this time of Garrick in tragic characters, though the general opinion was,

were three-a humorist, a glutton and an honest man; traits tha

hing from Mr. Cibber's pen

erate reply. "Who ha

"there's your humbl

he list," cried she of the

ght this

, the best tragic actress I ever saw; and Woffington, who is as go

aid Mrs. Woffington with a s

Cibber, calmly; "I know your dramatis per

was a

e agitation, "would snore if we

?" was the supercilious re

d. Peg Woffington lo

aid she coolly, "w

round, slightly ra

a courteous smile, "will you be kind enou

rab, we could

ered; and Mr. Cibber had

nuff-box was the comparative, and the spy-glass the superlative. He had learned this on the stage; i

he looked with his spy-glass to see

eer," was the delicate reply to the above delicate remark. It staggered him for a moment; howe

am; I understand; you sold

temples, and cast a look on Cibber, as much

here present could have uttered that the actress's eye dwelt on him for a s

come down to the old ones. A truce, Mr. Cibber, what do you understand by an ac

critics and greenhorns take it for nature; moreover, he really personates; which your mere man of the stage

Sir Charles Poman

voice, mien, and every gesture to match. A grain less than this may be good speaking, fine p

ever acted," whispere

Mrs. Day, I pass for a woman of seventy; and in Sir Harry Wildair I have been taken for a man. I would have tol

" said

les from another, and an offer of her hand

her back a look of absolute

leman; but here are the buckles;" and she fished them out of her pocket, capacious of such thin

reate. He tapped his box and without a moment's hesitat

ke Peggy, with

er Harry, for

subsided, "take me in. Play something to make me lose sight of saucy Peg Woffington

ly; "I think there is no disguise through which grace and b

at the expense of my wit, s

e tones appeared so sweet to him that he could not find a

she is coming here to-night to meet me. Did

"why, she has been dead this thi

hed 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