At one time it seemed all stateliness, at
another time elegance personified, and flowing voluptuousness at another.
She was Juno, Psyche, Hebe, by turns, and for aught we know at will.
It must be confessed that a sort of halo of personal grandeur surrounds a
great actress. A scene is set; half a dozen nobodies are there lost in
it, because they are and seem lumps of nothing. The great artist steps
upon that scene, and how she fills it in a moment! Mind and majesty wait
upon her in the air; her person is lost in the greatness of her personal
presence; she dilates with _thought,_ and a stupid giantess looks a dwarf
beside her.
No wonder then that Mr. Vane felt overpowered by this torch in a closet.
To vary the metaphor, it seemed to him, as she swept up and down, as if
the green-room was a shell, and this glorious creature must burst it and
be free. Meantime, the others saw a pretty actress studying her business;
and Cibber saw a dramatic school-girl learning what he presumed to be a
very silly set of words. Sir C. Pomander's eye had been on her the moment
she entered, and he watched keenly the effect of Vane's eloquent eulogy;
but apparently the actress was too deep in her epilogue for anything
else. She came in, saying, "Mum, mum, mum," over her task, and she went
on doing so. The experienced Mr. Cibber, who had divined Vane in an
instant, drew him into a corner, and complimented him on his well-timed
eulogy.
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