Her interest fell in a moment before her new sense of right. She flung
her profession from her like a poisonous weed.
Long before this, Mrs. Vane had begged her to leave the stage. She had
replied, that it was to her what wine is to weak stomachs. "But," added
she, "do not fear that I will ever crawl down hill, and unravel my own
reputation; nor will I ever do as I have seen others--stand groaning at
the wing, to go on giggling and come off gasping. No! the first night the
boards do not spring beneath my feet, and the pulse of the public beat
under my hand, I am gone! Next day, at rehearsal, instead of Woffington,
a note will come, to tell the manager that henceforth Woffington is
herself--at Twickenham, or Richmond, or Harrow-on-the-Hill, far from his
dust, his din, and his glare--quiet, till God takes her. Amid grass, and
flowers, and charitable deeds."
This day had not come. It was in the zenith of her charms and her fame
that she went home one night after a play, and never entered a theater,
by the front door or back door, again. She declined all leave-taking and
ceremony.
"When a publican shuts up shop and ceases to diffuse liquid poison, he
does not invite the world to put up the shutters; neither will I. Actors
overrate themselves ridiculously," added she; "I am not of that
importance to the world, nor the world to me. I fling away a dirty old
glove instead of soiling my fingers filling it with more guineas, and the
world loses in me, what? another old glove, full of words; half of them
idle, the rest wicked, untrue, silly, or impure.
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