of the
stage have an ear for flattery and an eye to the main chance.

The good Sir Charles felt sure that, however she might flirt with
Vane or others, she would not forego a position for any disinterested
_penchant._ Still, as he was a close player, he determined to throw
a little cold water on that flame. His plan, like everything truly
scientific, was simple.

"I'll run her down to him, and ridicule him to her," resolved this
faithful friend and lover dear.

He began with Vane. He found him just leaving his own house. After
the usual compliments, some such dialogue as this took place between
Telemachus and pseudo Mentor:

"I trust you are not really in the power of this actress?"

"You are the slave of a word," replied Vane. "Would you confound black
and white because both are colors? She is like that sisterhood in
nothing but a name. Even on the stage they have nothing in common. They
are puppets--all attitude and trick; she is all ease, grace and nature."

"Nature!" cried Pomander. _"Laissez-moi tranquille._ They have
artifice--nature's libel. She has art--nature's counterfeit."

"Her voice is truth told by music," cried the poetical lover; "theirs
are jingling instruments of falsehood."

"They are all instruments," said the satirist; "she is rather the best
tuned and played."

"Her face speaks in every lineament; theirs are rouged and wrinkled
masks."

"Her mask is the best made, mounted, and moved; that is all."

"She is a fountain of true feeling."

"No; a pipe that conveys it without spilling or holding a drop."

"She is an angel of talent, sir."

"She's a devil of deception."

"She is a divinity to worship."

"She's a woman to fight shy of. There is not a woman in London better
known," continued Sir Charles. "She is a fair actress on the boards, and
a great actress off them; but I can tell you how to add a new charm to
her."

"Heaven can only do that," said Vane, hastily.

"Yes, you can. Make her blush. Ask her for the list of your
predecessors."

Vane winced visibly. He quickened his step, as if to get rid of this
gadfly.

"I spoke to Mr. Quin," said he, at last; "and he, who has no prejudice,
paid her character the highest compliment."

"You have paid it the highest it admits," was the reply. "You have let
it deceive you." Sir Charles continued in a more solemn tone: "Pray be
warned. Why is it every man of intellect loves an actress once in his
life, and no man of sense ever did