old Maid.

"Vio. Oh, there's no Fiend so Envious.

"LEO. Right; she will no more let young People sin, than the Devil
will let 'em be sav'd, out of envy to their happiness.

"Vio. Who is she?

"LEO. One of my own blood, an Aunt.

"Vio. I know her. She of thy blood? She has not a drop of it these
twenty years; the Devil of envy sucked it all out, and let verjuice in
the roome."

These lines are decidedly unfeminine and coarse, as viewed from a
nineteenth century standard, and there is nothing in them to recommend
the two girls to the particular favour of the audience. Yet, in
the case of Leonora, they are given with such rare spirit, and the
speaker, with her almost sensuous charm and the melody of that
marvellous voice, is so fascinating, that the house is suddenly caught
in some entrancing spell. Oldfield has burst upon it in all the sudden
glory of a newly unfolded flower, and murmurs of admiration and
surprise are heard on every side. More than this, Queen Anne, whose
thoughts may have been far away with the dead Duke of Gloucester,
betrays a sudden interest in the performance, and thus sets the
fashion for all those around her, excepting his most sleepy Royal
Highness, the Prince of Denmark. He dozes on; twenty angels from
heaven would not disturb him.

As the play proceeds, the curiosity centres around the new Leonora,
so that even the scene where Sir Courtly is found making the most
elaborate of toilets, with the assistance of a bevy of vocalists, does
not exert the attraction to be found in the presence of Oldfield. The
episode is all very funny, of course, and there is an appreciative
titter when the fop defines the characteristics of a gentleman:

"Complaisance, fine hands, a mouth well furnished--

"SERVANT. With fine language?

"SIR COURTLY. Fine teeth, you sot; fine language belongs to pedants
and poor fellows that live by their wits. Men of quality are above
wit. 'Tis true, for our diversion, sometimes we write, but we ne'er
regard wit. I write, but I never write any wit.

"SERVANT. How then, sir?

"SIR COURTLY. I write like a gentleman, soft and easy."

It is only a titter, however, that Cibber can produce this afternoon,
or evening,[A] nor does the audience take the usual relish in that
touch-and-go rubbish of a duet sung by a supposed Indian and his love,
a duet in which the former declares:

"My other Females all Yellow, fair or Black,
To thy Charmes shall prostrate fall,
As e