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