iod--which was not to be an unhappy one--to take advantage of
the summer holidays, and cross the water with him, and forget everything
in the world with him, but love.

How was it that the very next morning clouds chased one another across
his face? Was it that men are happy but while the chase is doubtful?
Was it the letter from Pomander announcing his return, and sneeringly
inquiring whether he was still the dupe of Peg Woffington? or was it
that same mysterious disquiet which attacked him periodically, and then
gave way for a while to pleasure and her golden dreams?

The next day was to be a day of delight. He was to entertain her at his
own house; and, to do her honor, he had asked Mr. Cibber, Mr. Quin and
other actors, critics, etc.

Our friend, Sir Charles Pomander, had been guilty of two ingenuities:
first, he had written three or four letters, full of respectful
admiration, to Mrs. Woffington, of whom he spoke slightingly to Vane;
second, he had made a disingenuous purchase.

This purchase was Pompey, Mrs. Woffington's little black slave. It is
a horrid fact, but Pompey did not love his mistress. He was a little
enamored of her, as small boys are apt to be, but, on the whole, a
sentiment of hatred slightly predominated in his little black bosom.

It was not without excuse.

This lady was subject to two unpleasant companions--sorrow and
bitterness. About twice a week she would cry for two hours; and after
this class of fit she generally went abroad, and made a round of certain
poor or sick _proteges_ she had, and returned smiling and cheerful.

But other twice a week she might be seen to sit upon her chair,
contracted into half her size, and looking daggers at the universe in
general, the world in particular; and on these occasions, it must be
owned, she stayed at home, and sometimes whipped Pompey.

Pompey had not the sense to reflect that he ought to have been whipped
every day, or the _esprit de corps_ to be consoled by observing that
this sort of thing did his mistress good. What he felt was, that his
mistress, who did everything well, whipped him with energy and skill; it
did not take ten seconds, but still, in that brief period, Pompey found
himself dusted and polished off.

The sacred principle of justice was as strong in Mrs. Woffington as in
the rest of her sex; she had not one grain of it. When she was not
in her tantrums, the mischievous imp was as sacred from check or
remonstrance as a monke