Machiavel was a man of talent. If he has
been a silent personage hitherto, it is merely because it was not his cue
to talk, but listen; otherwise, he was rather a master of the art of
speech. He could be insinuating, eloquent, sensible, or satirical, at
will. This personage sat in the green-room. In one hand was his diamond
snuffbox, in the other a richly laced handkerchief; his clouded cane
reposed by his side.
There was an air of success about this personage. The gentle reader,
however conceited a dog, could not see how he was to defeat Sir Charles,
who was tall, stout, handsome, rich, witty, self-sufficient, cool,
majestic, courageous, and in whom were united the advantages of a hard
head, a tough stomach, and no heart at all.
This great creature sat expecting Mrs. Woffington, like Olympian Jove
awaiting Juno. But he was mortal, after all; for suddenly the serenity of
that adamantine countenance was disturbed; his eye dilated; his grace and
dignity were shaken. He huddled his handkerchief into one pocket, his
snuff-box into another, and forgot his cane. He ran to the door in
unaffected terror.
Where are all his fine airs before a real danger? Love, intrigue,
diplomacy, were all driven from his mind; for he beheld that approaching,
which is the greatest peril and disaster known to social man. He saw a
bore coming into the room!
In a wild thirst for novelty, Pomander had once penetrated to Goodman's
Fields Theater; there he had unguardedly put a question to a carpenter
behind the scene; a seedy-black poet instantly pushed the carpenter away
(down a trap, it is thought), and answered it in seven pages, and in
continuation was so vaguely communicative, that he drove Sir Charles back
into the far west.
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