"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
vulnerable.
If A says to B, "You can't hit me, as I prove by this syllogism" (here
followeth the syllogism), "and B, _pour toute reponse,_ knocks A down
such a whack that he rebounds into a sitting posture; and to him the man,
the tree, the lamp-post and the fire-escape become not clearly
distinguishable; this barbarous logic prevails against the logic in
Barbara, and the syllogism is in the predicament of Humpty Dumpty.
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