ifferent 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 truce, 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, mien, and every gesture to match. A grain
less than this may be good speaking, fine preaching, deep grunting, high
ranting, eloquent reciting; but I'll be hanged if it is acting!"

"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 buckles 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 hesitation 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 s