le-doo of general defiance; and the denizens of the
green-room, swelled 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 variance
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 profanes herself by whistling,"
thought he. Mr. Cibber was confounded. He appeared to have no idea
whence came this sparkling adagio. He looked round, placed his hands to
his ears, and left off whistling. So did his musical accomplice.

"Gentlemen," said Cibber, with pathetic gravity, "the wind howls most
dismally 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 standing against the younger genius and his
rising school of art.

Off the stage, James Quin was a character; his eccentricities w