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