The retired actress, however, had frisker notions left in her. "This is slow," cried she, and bade the fiddler play, "The wind that shakes the barley," an ancient jig tune; this she danced to in a style that utterly astounded the spectators.
She showed them what fun was; her feet and her stick were all echoes to the mad strain; out went her heel behind, and, returning, drove her four yards forward. She made unaccountable slants, and cut them all over in turn if they did not jump for it. Roars of inextinguishable laughter arose, it would have made an oyster merry. Suddenly she stopped, and put her hands to her sides, and soon after she gave a vehement cry of pain.
The laughter ceased.
She gave another cry of such agony that they were all round her in a moment.
"Oh, help me, ladies," screamed the poor woman, in tones as feminine as they were heart-rending and piteous. "Oh, my back! my loins! I suffer, gentlemen," said the poor thing, faintly.
What was to be done? Mr. Vane offered his penknife to cut her laces.
"You shall cut my head off sooner," cried she, with sudden energy. "Don't pity me," said she, sadly, "I don't deserve it;" then, lifting her eyes, she exclaimed, with a sad air of self-reproach: "O vanity! do you never leave a woman?"
"Nay, madam!" whimpered the page, who was a good-hearted girl; "'twas your great complaisance for us, not vanity. Oh! oh! oh!" and she began to blubber, to make matters better.
"No, my children," said the old lady, "'twas vanity. I wanted to show you what an old 'oman could do; and I have humiliated myself, trying to outshine younger folk. I am justly humiliated, as you see;" and she began to cry a little.
"This is very painful," said Cibber.
Mrs. Bracegirdle now raised her eyes (they had set her in a chair), and looking sweetly, tenderly and earnestly on her old companion, she said to him, slowly, gently, but impressively "Colley, at threescore years and ten this was ill done of us! You and I are here now--for what? to cheer the young up the hill we mounted years ago. And, old friend, if we detract from them we discourage them. A great sin in the old!"
"Every dog his day."
"We have had ours." Here she smiled, then, laying her hand tenderly in the old man's, she added, with calm solemnity: "And now we must go quietly toward our rest, and strut and fret no more the few last minutes of life's fleeting hour."
How tame my cacotype of these words compared with what they were. I am ashamed of them and myself, and the human craft of writing, which, though commoner far, is so miserably behind the godlike art of speech: _"Si ipsam audivisses!"_
These ink scratches, which, in the imperfection of language, we have called words, till the unthinking actually dream they are words, but which are the shadows of the corpses of words; these word-shadows then were living powers on her lips, and subdued, as eloquence always does, every heart within reach of the imperial tongue.
The young loved her, and the old man, softened and vanquished, and mindful of his failing life, was silent, and pressed his handkerchief to his eyes a moment; then he said:
"No, Bracy, no. Be composed, I pray you. She is right. Young people, forgive me that I love the dead too well, and the days when I was what you are now. Drat the woman," continued he, half ashamed of his emotion;
"she makes us laugh, and makes us cry, just as she used."
"What does he say, young woman?" said the old lady, dryly, to Mrs. Clive.
"He says you make us laugh, and make us cry, madam; and so you do me, I'm sure."
"And that's Peg Woffington's notion of an actress! Better it, Cibber and Bracegirdle, if you can," said the other, rising up like lightning.
She then threw Colley Cibber a note, and walked coolly and rapidly out of the room, without looking once behind her.
The rest stood transfixed, looking at one another, and at the empty chair. Then Cibber opened and read the note aloud. It was from Mrs.
Bracegirdle: "Playing at tric-trac; so can't play the fool in your green-room to-night. B."
On this, a musical ringing laugh was heard from outside the door, where the pseudo Bracegirdle was washing the gray from her hair, and the wrinkles from her face--ah! I wish I could do it as easily!-- and the little bit of sticking-plaster from her front tooth.
"Why, it is the Irish jade!" roared Cibber.
"Divil a less!" rang back a rich brogue; "and it's not the furst time we put the comether upon ye, England, my jewal!"
One more mutual glance, and then the mortal cleverness of all this began to dawn on their minds; and they broke forth into clapping of hands, and gave this accomplished _mime_ three rounds of applause; Mr. Vane and Sir Charles Pomander leading with, "Bravo, Woffington!"
Its effect on Mr. Vane may be imagined. Who but she could have done this?
This was as if a painter should so paint a man as to deceive his species.
This was acting, but not like the acting of the stage. He was in transports, and self-satisfaction at his own judgment mingled pleasantly with his admiration.
In this cheerful exhibition, one joined not--Mr. Cibber. His theories had received a shock (and we all love our theories). He himself had received a rap--and we don't hate ourselves.
Great is the syllogism! But there is a class of arguments less vulnerable.
