“THE supper given to me by Mr. Florence, at the St. James Hotel, was
also an entertainment to remember. Quite a little family party, was
it not? Mr. Jerome—Larry, as his friends call him—was splendid; and
how many years of local dramatic history he had at his fingers’ ends!
We were quite a little family party; Gilbert, Edwards, Jefferson,—God
bless him!—they were among the guests. Florence, if you remember,
had after supper a great brass urn placed upon the table, sat before
it, and made whiskey toddy. How well actors understand the art of
sociability! ‘Now, friends, let us gather round the tea-table,’ said
Florence, ‘and try the brew!’ We pronounced it ‘nectar for the gods,’
and so it was. Do you remember the interesting episode of his boyish
days that Florence told us? I repeated it to some people who supped
here the other night. It is worth printing, with his permission.”
“And that of Mrs. Florence?” I suggest.
“Oh, yes, of course! I think I remember it. Florence was a very young
man, a boy, in fact, and was filling one of his first engagements on
any stage at the Bowery Theatre. A girl about his own age (who is now
a wife, and a woman of position, in New York) in the company, was his
first love. His adoration was mingled with the most gallant respect.
Their salaries were about ten to twelve dollars each a week. For a
time they only played in the first piece; for in those days two plays
a night were more popular on the American stage than they are now.
One evening, at about nine o’clock, after pulling himself together
for so daring an effort in his course of courtship, he asked her if
she would go to an adjacent restaurant and take something to eat. The
house was kept by a person of the name of Shields, or Shiells. The
supper-room was arranged something after the manner of the old London
coffee-houses. It had compartments divided off from each other. Into
one of these Florence escorted his sweetheart. He asked her what she
would take. After some hesitation, and a good deal of blushing (more
probably on his part than on hers), she said oyster-stew and lemonade.
He concluded to have the same,—an incongruous mixture, perhaps;
but they were boy and girl. Florence was more than once on the eve
of declaring his undying passion and asking her to name the day.
Presently, supper being ended, they rose to go, and Florence discovered
that he had come away without his purse, or, rather, his pocket-book,
as they call it here. He explained to the Irish waiter (and Florence,
I suspect, is himself of Irish descent), who cut him short by saying,
‘No money? Oh, that won’t do; you’re not going to damage the moral
character of the house, bringing of your girls here, and then say you
can’t pay the bill.’—‘How dare you, sir!’ exclaimed Florence, the
girl shrinking back. ‘Dare! Oh, bedad, if you put it that way, I’ll
just give you a piece of my mind!’ and he did. It was a dirty piece,
which hurt the poor young fellow. ‘Take me to your master,’ he said.
The girl was crying; Florence was heart-broken. The master was not
less rude than the man. ‘Very well,’ said the boy; ‘here’s my watch
and ring. I will call and redeem them in the morning with the money.
I am a member of the Bowery Company, and I will ask the manager to
call and see you also. Your conduct is shameful!’—‘By heaven, it is!’
exclaimed a stranger, who, with some others, was smoking near the desk
of the clerk, or landlord. ‘It is infamous! Cannot you understand that
this young gentleman is a good, honest young fellow? Damme! you ought
to apologize to him, and kick that waiter-fellow out. Don’t frown
at me, sir. Give the young gentleman his watch and ring. Here is a
fifty-dollar bill; take what he owes, and give me the change.’ The
stranger was a well-dressed gentleman, with white hair; not old, but of
a venerable appearance. They all went out together, Florence, the young
lady, and their benefactor. As they stepped into the street, Florence
said, ‘I cannot sufficiently thank you, sir. Where shall I call and
leave the money for you?’—‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself about it,’ said
the benevolent gentleman; ‘your surly friend won’t make much out of the
transaction,—it was a counterfeit bill that he changed for me.’”