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