praise, it seems.)

"That your judgment, madam, is equal to the reputation of your talent."

The words were hardly spoken before the old lady rose upright as a tower.
She then made an oblique preliminary sweep, and came down with such a
courtesy as the young had never seen.

James Quin, not to disgrace his generation, attempted a corresponding
bow, for which his figure and apoplectic tendency rendered him unfit; and
while he was transacting it, the graceful Cibber stepped gravely up, and
looked down and up the process with his glass, like a naturalist
inspecting some strange capriccio of an orang-outang. The gymnastics of
courtesy ended without back-falls--Cibber lowered his tone.

"You are right, Bracy. It is nonsense denying the young fellow's talent;
but his Othello, now, Bracy! be just--his Othello!"

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried she; "I thought it was Desdemona's little
black boy come in without the tea-kettle."

Quin laughed uproariously.

"It made me laugh a deal more than Mr. Quin's Falstaff. Oh, dear! oh,
dear!"

"Falstaff, indeed! Snuff!" In the tone of a trumpet.

Quin secretly revoked his good opinion of this woman's sense.