And when her
sister left this earthly scene--a humble, pious, long-repentant
Christian-- Mrs. Vane wore mourning for her, and sorrowed over her; but
not as those who cannot hope to meet again.
-----
My story as a work of art--good, bad or indifferent--ends with that last
sentence. If a reader accompanies me further, I shall feel flattered, and
he does so at his own risk.
My reader knows that all this befell long ago. That Woffington is gay,
and Triplet sad, no more. That Mabel's, and all the bright eyes of that
day, have long been dim, and all its cunning voices hushed. Judge then
whether I am one of those happy story-tellers who can end with a wedding.
No! this story must wind up, as yours and mine must--to-morrow--or
to-morrow--or to-morrow! when our little sand is run.
Sir Charles Pomander lived a man of pleasure until sixty. He then became
a man of pain; he dragged the chain about eight years, and died
miserably.
Mr. Cibber not so much died as "slipped his wind"--a nautical expression
that conveys the idea of an easy exit. He went off, quiet and genteel. He
was past eighty, and had lived fast. His servant called him at seven in
the morning. "I will shave at eight," said Mr. Cibber. John brought the
hot water at eight; but his master had taken advantage of this interval
in his toilet to die!--to avoid shaving?
Snarl and Soaper conducted the criticism of their day with credit and
respectability until a good old age, and died placidly a natural death,
like twaddle, sweet or sour.
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