ted; and true it was, they never met again in this
world. They parted in sorrow; but when they meet again, it shall be with
joy.

Women are generally such faithless, unscrupulous and pitiless humbugs
in their dealings with their own sex--which, whatever they may say, they
despise at heart--that I am happy to be able to say, Mrs. Vane proved
true as steel. She was a noble-minded, simple-minded creature; she was
also a constant creature. Constancy is a rare, a beautiful, a godlike
virtue.

Four times every year she wrote a long letter to Mrs. Woffington; and
twice a year, in the cold weather, she sent her a hamper of country
delicacies that would have victualed a small garrison. And when
her sister left this earthly scene--a humble, pious, long-repentant
Christian--Mrs. Vane wore mourning for her, and sorrowed over her; but
not as those who cannot hope to meet again.

*****

My story as a work of art--good, bad or indifferent--ends with that last
sentence. If a reader accompanies me further, I shall feel flattered,
and he does so at his own risk.

My reader knows that all this befell long ago. That Woffington is gay,
and Triplet sad, no more. That Mabel's, and all the bright eyes of that
day, have long been dim, and all its cunning voices hushed. Judge
then whether I am one of those happy story-tellers who can end with
a wedding. No! this story must wind up, as yours and mine
must--to-morrow--or to-morrow--or to-morrow! when our little sand is
run.

Sir Charles Pomander lived a man of pleasure until sixty. He then
became a man of pain; he dragged the chain about eight years, and died
miserably.

Mr. Cibber not so much died as "slipped his wind"--a nautical expression
that conveys the idea of an easy exit. He went off, quiet and genteel.
He was past eighty, and had lived fast. His servant called him at seven
in the morning. "I will shave at eight," said Mr. Cibber. John brought
the hot water at eight; but his master had taken advantage of this
interval in his toilet to die!--to avoid shaving?

Snarl and Soaper conducted the criticism of their day with credit and
respectability until a good old age, and died placidly a natural death,
like twaddle, sweet or sour.

The Triplets, while their patroness lived, did pretty well. She got a
tragedy of his accepted at her theater. She made him send her a copy,
and with her scissors cut out about half; sometimes thinning, sometimes
cutting bodily away. But, lo! the inhere