The second evening after the banquet was the one set for the performance of our carefully rehearsed comedy, and all the Tory society of Philadelphia was agog with interest and curiosity to see the latest London hit, played by the belles of the city and the most popular of the British officers. I was told, moreover, that the story had gone abroad that the part of Sir Peter would be taken by a youthful Virginia mountaineer, whose giant proportions and unusual gifts of person and bearing—considering his backwoods breeding—made him the feature of the performance. I was no little annoyed by this talk, though I credited Wheaton, who retailed it to me, with a good deal of bantering exaggeration. In truth, being still sore from the insult offered me at the banquet, I wanted to throw up my part; but, after consideration of the difficulties it would entail upon my entertainers, and others who had been courteous to me, I forced myself to stick to my role cheerfully, and to do my best at it.
Rigged out in all the toggery of a stage Sir Peter, I presented myself to Miss Nelly. "Perfect," she exclaimed taking me by the elbow with the tips of her fingers, and slowly turning me around at arm's length, while she inspected critically my pompous finery. "Now must they all admit that there's not so handsome a figure of a man in the British army," and she nodded approval bewitchingly, with her puffed, powdered, and plumed head. She was altogether charming in her rich brocade gown and yellow laces, and I managed to tell her so in words that pleased her.
The play was pronounced a London success, and the players universally complimented. Twice were Lady Teazle and Sir Peter called before the curtain, and such flattering compliments were showered upon me in the green room that I was quite puffed with vanity and forgot my inward soreness. After the performance, Colonel Forbes entertained the players at a supper where sherry, Burgundy, and sparkling white wines of France were as free as spring water. Wheaton was made to sing his hit of the evening—Sheridan's jolly drinking song over again, and did so with even better voice and expression.
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Here's to the widow of fifty,
Here's to the flaunting, extravagant queen
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
(And all joined in the chorus:—)
"Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
"Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir;
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
"Let the toast pass, etc.
"Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
Now to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the girl that is merry.
"Let the toast pass, etc