In
this predicament was the Poet Laureate. "The miscreant Proteus (could
not) escape these chains!" So the miscreant Proteus--no bad name for an
old actor--took his little cocked hat and marched, a smaller, if not a
wiser man. Some disjointed words fell from him: "Mimicry is not acting,"
etc.; and with one bitter, mowing glance at the applauders, _circumferens
acriter oculos,_ he vanished in the largest pinch of snuff on record. The
rest dispersed more slowly.
Mr. Vane waited eagerly, and watched the door for Mrs. Woffington; but
she did not come. He then made acquaintance with good-natured Mr. Quin,
who took him upon the stage and showed him by what vulgar appliances that
majestic rise of the curtain he so admired was effected. Returning to the
green-room for his friend, he found him in animated conversation with
Mrs. Woffington. This made Vane uneasy.
Sir Charles, up to the present moment of the evening, had been unwontedly
silent, and now he was talking nineteen to the dozen, and Mrs. Woffington
was listening with an appearance of interest that sent a pang to poor
Vane's heart; he begged Mr. Quin to introduce him.
Mr. Quin introduced him.
The lady received his advances with polite composure. Mr. Vane stammered
his admiration of her Bracegirdle; but all he could find words to say was
mere general praise, and somewhat coldly received.
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