"Theatre, last night, Jack?"
"No; couldn't get off; wanted to," said we.
"O, you missed a grand opportunity to see the fashion beauty and wealthy people of this city! Such a house! Crowded from pit to dome, met a hundred and fifty of my friends—ladies of the first families in town, with all the 'high boys' of my acquaintance!"
"And how did Fanny do Juliet?" we asked.
"Do it? Elegant! I sat in the second stage box with the two Misses W. (Chestnut street belles!) and Colonel S. and Sam. G., and his sister (all nobs of course!), and they were truly entranced with Miss Kemble's Juliet! I threw for Miss G. her elegant bouquet,—Fanny kissed her fingers to me, and with a look at me, as I stood up so—(the beau gave a tall rear up and was about to spread himself, when glancing at the door, he sees—two ladies! right in the store!) thunder!" he exclaims.
If the beau had been hit by a streak of lightning, he would not have dropped sooner than he did, behind the counter.
The ladies proved to be nobody else than those of the very two Misses W. themselves; they lived close by, and frequently came to the store. Beneath our counter were endless packages, broken glass, refuse oils, rancid perfumes, dust, dirt, grease, charcoal, soap, and about everything else dingy and offensive to the eye and nose. The place afforded a wretched refuge for a hull so big and nice as our beau's, but there he was, much in our way too, with the mournful fact, for Charley, that if those "fine ladies" stayed less than half an hour, without overhauling about every article in the store, it would be a white stone indeed in the fortunes of the beau! The ladies sat; they dickered and examined—we exhibited and put away, the beau lying crouched and crucifying at our feet, and we sniggering fit to burst at the contretemps of the poor victim. Charley stood it with the most heroic resignation for full twenty minutes, when the two Misses W. got up to go. Casting their eyes towards the door, who should be about to pass but the divine Fanny!
Fanny Kemble! Seeing the two Misses W., whose recognition and acquaintance was worth cultivating—even by the haughty queen of the drama and belle of the hour; she rushed in, they all had a talk—and you know how women can talk, will talk for an hour or two, all about nothing in particular, except to talk. Imagine our beau,—"Phancy his phelinks," as Yellow Plush says, and to heighten the effect, in comes the boss! He comes behind the counter—he sees poor Charley sprawling—he roars out:
"By Jupiter! Mr. Whackstack, are you sick? dead?"
"Dead?" utters Fanny.