Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a very
crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in making my
wishes understood; especially as our box was next the slips, and
completely overlooked the stage.
"Smith!" said Miss Arabella, as she at comprehended the purport of
my query; "Smith?- why, not General John A. B. C.?"
"Smith!" inquired Miranda, musingly. "God bless me, did you ever
behold a finer figure?"
"Never, madam, but do tell me-"
"Or so inimitable grace?"
"Never, upon my word!- But pray, inform me-"
"Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?"
"Madam!"
"Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be so
good as to look at that leg!"
"The devil!" and I turned again to her sister.
"Smith!" said she, "why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn't it?- great wretches, those Bugaboos- savage and so on-
but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!- Smith!- O yes! great
man!- perfect desperado- immortal renown- prodigies of valor! Never
heard!" [This was given in a scream.
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