Joining the Ladies.--Education of a Fashionable Young Lady in New
York--Her Accomplishments.--Tea without Gentlemen.--Commercial
Disasters not affecting the Routine of Amusements in the City of New
York.--The Theatre.--Forest come back to America.--Opinions of the
Americans on Shakspeare and the Drama.--Their Estimation of Forest as
an Actor.--Forest and Rice contrasted.
“A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush’d at herself. And she--in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything,--
To fall in love with what she feared to look on!”
_Othello_, Act I. Scene 3.
On returning to the parlour, we found the ladies, whose number had
considerably increased by the arrival of some “transient people,”
alone; the gentlemen having “sneaked off” to their respective
counting-rooms. They were grouped round the piano, on which one
of those little creatures that played the exclusives of the
boarding-house was “practising” the “Infernal Waltz” from “Robert
the Devil;” the rest were talking, whispering, giggling, or amusing
themselves with feeling the quality of each other’s dresses.
“What a delightful creature that Miss *** is, I declare!” said an
elderly lady, whose _embonpoint_ sufficiently proclaimed her Dutch
origin,--English women being said to grow rather thin in America; “her
mother must be proud of her.”
“Yes,” replied another lady, who _was_ rather thin; “but it is said she
has not yet paid the teacher who taught her daughter all those pretty
things.”
“That is nothing to the purpose; I speak of the young lady,” rejoined
the good-natured woman.
“Surely,” whispered a young creature, who was none other than the young
girl I had lost sight of before entering the dining-room, “she knows
nothing about music; she has been practising that piece ever so long.”
“That is a fact,” said her mother, addressing herself to me; “my
daughter went to the same school with her, they had the same masters,
and, with the exception of trigonometry and astronomy, for which Susan
never had any particular taste, she beat her in everything. My daughter
can play ‘The Storm;’ and her music-master tells me, when a young lady
can once do _that_ she can do anything.”
I bowed assent.
“And as for trigonometry,” she continued, “I care not how little
my daughter knows of that. It’s all _arches_, and _angles_, and
_compliments_, as she tells me, which are of no use to a young lady
except in society. But Susan knows a great deal more about _magnetism_
and _electricity_,--don’t you, my child?”
Here the girl looked very bashful.
I congratulated the mother on possessing such a treasure; and was just
thinking of something pretty to say to the girl, when I was interrupted
by the old lady.
“Yes,” said she, “although I ought not to say it, being my own child,
I was present at the last exhibition, when she explained the whole of
the electrical machine. And she is doing just as well in history. How
far have you got in that, Susan?”
“About _two-thirds_ through with the book,” said Susan; “but how queer
you talk, Ma!”
“And pray, madam, what boarding-school is it your daughter went to?”
demanded I.
“It’s the _first_ in the country, sir--kept by the Misses ***, at T***,
three miles from A***.”
“And what branches are taught in that school?” demanded I, with an
ill-suppressed feeling of curiosity.
“I don’t remember all the hard names, sir,” replied the old lady,
somewhat embarrassed. “Susan, my child, tell the gentleman all you have
learnt at the Misses ***.”
“We had reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, grammar, geography,
history, maps, the globe, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, astronomy,
natural philosophy, chemistry, botany, physiology, mineralogy,
geology, and zoology in the morning; and dancing, drawing, painting,
French, Italian, Spanish, and German in the afternoon. Greek, and the
higher branches of mathematics, were only studied by the _tall_ girls.”
“And how many masters were there for teaching all that?” demanded I,
astonished with the volubility of the young lady’s tongue.
“The Misses *** teach _everything_,” replied the girl. “They wouldn’t
allow a gentleman to enter the house.”
“I know this to be a fact,” interrupted the mother; “and that’s the
reason their school is so popular. It is principally on the score of
morality I sent Susan there. They have always as many girls as they
want, and from the first families too;--isn’t it so, my dear?”
“Just so, Ma,” replied the young lady. “The first girls in New York are
educated there; they don’t take everybody.”
“I told you so,” said the old lady. “It’s a great thing to send a girl
there; and an expensive one too, I can assure you.”
“And what is the usual age of the young ladies?” demanded I.
“They take them from the age of five to the age of eighteen,” she
replied; “it is only a month ago I left it myself.”
“I just wanted to give her a little polish before taking her to
Washington, where we are going to spend the next winter,” interrupted
her mother. “So I took her with me to New York, to let her see European
manners. We reside in T***, rather a little out of the way of society.”
“I am sure Ma is very kind,” said Susan. “I don’t know anybody in T***,
nor do I _want_ to know anybody there. I never associated with any but
the New York girls at the Misses ***; I was quite popular, and always
belonged to their first sets.”
“I am sure of that,” said the mother. “Everybody that sees Susan likes
her.”
I put my hand upon my heart.
“I only trust to Heaven that she will marry a gentleman capable
of appreciating her education”--(here the young lady applied
her handkerchief to her face, and appeared to be very much
embarrassed,)--“and not a man without taste for literature or science,
whom she could neither love nor respect, and who would be no _sort_ of
company to her.”
I trusted her amiable daughter would never be so horribly deceived.
“And yet it is _so_ difficult to judge of men in these times,
especially in New York, where young men keep their knowledge as secret
as their cash, and have generally credit for more than they are worth,”
interrupted my friend sympathisingly.
“Ah me!” sighed the old lady; “it did not use to be so when _my_
husband was alive. There was not one girl out of ten of my acquaintance
knew a word of Latin and mathematics; and yet they all married
respectable men, who were no mathematicians either, and brought up
their children in a right Christian manner. But they say this is the
progress of education; and I do not wish my daughter to be inferior to
other girls. Boys don’t cost half so much; they learn everything they
want at the counting-room.”
“And what they learn there _sticks_ to them as long as they live,”
added my friend.
Here mother and daughter were silent; and my friend, seizing the
opportunity, took my arm, and led me to another part of the room, where
my companion of the dinner-table was sitting alone, reading “The Last
Days of Pompeii.”
“Ah!” exclaimed he, “always reading. Pray, how do you like Bulwer?”
“Not at all,” replied she.
“Why then do you read him?”
“Everybody does so, and I don’t want to be singular.”
“But I should think you had independence enough not to read a book if
you did not like it?”
“Why, I am sure it is not for want of independence I took it up; but
Bulwer is popular in England, and I would not give an English person
the advantage of talking about a work I have not read myself.”
“And is that the only reason? Do you take no pleasure in his novels?”
demanded my friend with astonishment.
“None whatever, I assure you. I don’t like his maudlin sentiments. And,
as for his prison heroes, I am too much of a matter-of-fact person to
think the gallows romantic or poetical. I dare say Bulwer’s novels suit
the sentimentality of the Germans; but to me they are a perfect dose.
I dislike his description of passions,--his love-sick girls, dying
with sentiment, and ready to run off with the first bearded biped that
happens to strike their fancy. I think his novels are doing a vast
deal of mischief in this country, _exposed as we are to the continual
intrusion of foreigners_.”
“I am not quite sure,” replied my friend, “whether I am to take your
remark as a compliment or a reflection. We Southerners are sometimes
honoured with the title of ‘foreigners’ in the Northern States.”
“I do not speak of our own people,” rejoined the lady; “but I know
several instances in which European adventurers have married into our
first families. Our girls seem to have an unaccountable passion for
foreigners, especially if they happen to be noblemen. Have not several
Polish refugees in this city married the daughters of some of our first
merchants?”
“And what harm is there in that, if the Poles make good husbands, and
prove themselves honourable men?” demanded my friend.
“Why, it’s always such an experiment,” she replied, “when one of our
young ladies marries an European! People from the Old World entertain
such different notions about women. Besides, a great many of our girls
have been taken in: they expected to marry a prince, or at least a
count, when their husbands turned out to have been strolling minstrels
or dancing-masters. One of those unfortunate marriages was very nigh
taking place the other day, and only prevented by the father of the
young lady making a compromise with her admirer in the shape of a
handsome sum of money. Another European Don Juan, who was flirting with
every young lady in Boston, was considered so dangerous a personage,
that the respectable merchants of that city made a very handsome
collection to get rid of him by shipping him back to Europe.”
“And I heard that, having spent the money, he made them another visit
to lay them under a fresh contribution,” observed my friend.
“I believe that _was_ the case,” affirmed the lady; “and every Atlantic
city is exposed to the same calamity. _If we could only tell the real
nobleman from the impostor_, I should not care. I prefer, myself, the
higher society of Europe to the business people of this country; but,
lately, _Continental_ noblemen have come in droves, and a greater set
of beggars was never known in America. By the by, do you know what has
become of that handsome Spanish marquis, who last year was so much the
fashion in Philadelphia?”
“The Marquis de *** you mean? I lived with him for nearly three weeks
without knowing his title: he is one of the most unassuming men I ever
knew.”
“And yet I can assure you he is a _real_ marquis,” retorted the young
lady. “Some of our people took a great deal of pains to ascertain
the truth. He brought letters to Mr. ***, and to the *** Consul in
Philadelphia; and they have written to Europe to learn all about
his family. If every foreigner coming to this country were equally
respectable, there would be no complaints about impostors; but our
people are too easily taken in by high-sounding titles.”
“But do you know the marquis is poor? that he cannot at this moment
realise a dollar from his estate?” demanded my friend.
“Ah, that is very unfortunate! poverty is _such_ a drawback!”
“But he set out to make an honest living in the United States.”
“Not by teaching Spanish, I hope. Nothing can be more pitiable than the
avocation of an instructor.”
“Indeed he was a long time resolved to do that; but, being a very
handsome man, I was told no fashionable lady would intrust to him the
instruction of her daughter: so he cut the matter short by opening a
fashionable boarding-house; just the thing for him, you know; he speaks
half-a-dozen languages, and plays the piano equal to some of your first
professors.”
“O horror!” exclaimed the young lady. “A marquis establishing a
boarding-house! If I had known that, I should not have mentioned his
name. That must, of course, have thrown him at once out of society.”
“I believe he had prudence enough to quit society before the latter had
a chance to abandon _him_,” observed my friend calmly.
The young lady made no reply, and was fortunately relieved from her
embarrassment by another negro summons to tea, equally loud, though
less potent in its consequences than that which had called us to
dinner. I expected another rush to the dining-room, but was agreeably
disappointed. Not a single gentleman made his appearance; so that, with
the exception of the two young ladies whom we had before had the honour
of escorting, the women were obliged to form into single file, which
proceeded with the solemnity and slowness of a funeral procession.[5]
Arrived near the table, they took their seats in profound silence,
and with such evident signs of exhaustion from fatigue, that I felt
inclined to believe that they had not yet recovered from the exertion
of the dinner. Nothing, indeed, can be more tiresome than a dinner
at which one does not eat; it is equal to a ball at which one does
not dance, or to a _conversazione_ at which one is obliged merely to
listen to the nonsense of others. I inquired what had become of the
gentlemen? and was told that they had not yet returned from their
counting-rooms,--that they hardly ever took tea, but were rarely absent
from supper, which was sure to be put on the table at nine o’clock
in the evening, in order to remain there till three or four in the
morning. The gentlemen, moreover, I was informed, were so much in the
habit of eating oyster suppers early in the morning, in some of those
innumerable subterraneous eating-houses and oyster-rooms which decorate
the Park and other fashionable avenues of the city, that they did not
“particularly care” about taking a cup of tea and a cold piece of meat
at seven o’clock with the ladies. Dinner was quite a different concern,
for which they were always ready to suffer some inconvenience.
The conversation at tea flagged from the very beginning; and it was
easy to perceive that the ladies, being accustomed to make this meal
the occasion of their regular confabulations, considered my and my
friend’s company rather _de trop_. We therefore pleaded an appointment
with some gentlemen, and, in the words of a French vaudevillist, “did
them the pleasure of afflicting them with our departure.”
* * * * *
“What are you going to do with yourself this evening?” demanded my
friend, as we were going towards the Astor House.
“I shall look into the Park-street theatre,” replied I, “and then
spend the remainder of the evening at Mrs. ***’s.”
“Then I shall have the pleasure of being with you all the evening,”
rejoined he. “Mrs. ***’s party will be one of the finest given this
season.”
“Which is perhaps not saying much for it, as the commercial
difficulties of this year must necessarily interfere with all
amusements of that sort.”
“That does not follow,” observed my friend; “neither is it actually the
case. Public amusements are going on as usual,--our theatres are well
attended,--crowds of well-dressed people are nightly listening to good,
bad, and indifferent concerts at Niblo’s garden,--horse-races are going
on in fine style, and are this year surpassing all that is on record
by the gentlemen of the turf,--there is the same quantity of champaign
drunk as in former years;--in short, people seem to do as well with
their ‘shin-plasters’[6] as formerly with redeemable bank-notes. Our
merchants are certainly the most extraordinary people in the world;
and, if every other resource were to fail them, would not hesitate one
moment, instead of payment, to take and offer drafts payable in the
moon. That’s what I call the genius of a mercantile community.”
“And the way of keeping up appearances by credit.”
“But the credit system enhances their profits more than in proportion
to their liability to losses,” remarked my friend; “and, besides,
sharpens their wits, by obliging them to inquire into the character of
those whom they trust.”
“All this may be very well with regard to one merchant and another.
Both find their remedy in the enlarged profits of the system; but the
consumer is obliged to pay the advanced price of the merchandize. This
is taxing the labouring classes for the defalcations of the traders.
Besides, when a failure takes place, the merchant, who is more or less
prepared for it, loses generally but a part of his profit; but, if the
creditor be a mechanic, he loses the whole fruit of his labour.”
“But the American merchants say, if it were not for the credit system,
the labour of the mechanic would not command nearly so high a price.”
“And I can assure you,” said I, “that this is altogether an erroneous
conclusion. The wages of the journeyman mechanic or the day-labourer,
and the prices of the common necessaries of life, are _not_ in
proportion to the credit of the merchants--but to the actual demand and
supply. During all this trouble, and while the banks stopped specie
payments, all sorts of provisions were unusually high, and so were all
articles of manufacture. All that the credit system of your merchants
can do consists in creating, _for a time_, an artificial demand,
and thereby raising, for a short period, the price of a peculiar
description of labour; but, if you will take the pains of examining
the history of American trade, you will find every such extraordinary
price of labour soon after followed by a proportional depression, which
could not but prove a greater disappointment to the workmen than would
have been a regular succession of moderate prices.”
“I said that the credit system favoured only _for a time_ particular
trades and occupations; because it is a well-known fact that the
Americans seldom follow the same trade a great number of years. Let
it be known that the cotton speculations of one or two individuals
have been successful, and immediately half the merchants in the
United States will commence speculating in cotton, until the trade is
completely run down, and half the speculators reduced to bankruptcy.
When, in the course of last year, twenty millions of dollars were to
be raised on credit to pay for the purchase of public lands, what
influence did _that_ have on the industry of our working men, except
that the diverting of a large portion of the capital from which
they received their emoluments, into a different channel, reduced
the demand for, and consequently the value of, their industry? But
even granting that the American credit system, which is said to act
favourably with regard to the merchants, proves also a benefit to the
small trader, the mechanic, and the farmer, would not the prosperity of
the latter entirely depend on the former? and would not the extension
or restriction of credit, which, with such a system, can always be
effected by the rich capitalists, affect the demand and supply, and
place the whole community at the mercy of a few individuals?”
“And what is the moral effect of the credit system on the sturdy
husbandman or the mechanic? Instead of being sure of the price of his
labour,--a surety without which the labouring classes of all countries
lack the principal stimulus to exertion,--he sees his success in
business reduced to a game of hazard; in which, like other gamblers,
he often stakes his whole fortune on a single chance. Hence, instead
of adopting a course of rigid economy, he indulges in reckless
expenditure, and a degree of luxury which sooner or later may prove
the grave of the republican institutions of the country. For why
should a man be saving, whose success depends, not on frugality, but
on a ‘successful hit’? and who, in a single speculation, may lose the
savings of years?”
“That is a fact,” observed my friend. “How many of the gentlemen that
dined with us to-day do you think are possessed of real property? Not
one-third of them. And yet they are all ‘young, respectable merchants,’
as a certain New York paper calls them, doing ‘a handsome business’
on a borrowed capital. You could see them again at the theatre, and,
after that, dashing at some fashionable party, where they will talk of
thousands as of mere bagatelles. And yet nothing acts so demoralizingly
on a community as the insecurity or instability of property. I would
rather see the United States ‘progress slowly and steadily,’ than,
as they have done, by fits and starts, with periods of commercial
calamities, such as no European nation has felt under the yoke of the
most odious tyrant.”
* * * * *
“What’s going on this evening?” demanded my friend of the box-keeper at
the Park-street theatre. “I understand Forest has come back.”
“Yes, sir; fresh from England.”
“Is he to play this evening?”
“Here is the bill, sir. He is going to play Othello.”
“Pretty full house?”
“I don’t believe you will find a seat. There was a great rush for
tickets this morning. The best boxes were sold at auction to the
highest bidder.”
With this piece of information we lost no time in seeking a place, and
were fortunate enough to be able to squeeze ourselves into a box on the
first tier, filled with little more than eighteen or nineteen people,
most of whom seemed to belong to the first society. A stranger always
feels agreeably surprised at the neat arrangement of the interior of
the Park-street theatre, whose outward appearance resembles much more
a Dutch granary than a temple of the Muses. The first tier of boxes
displayed, as usual, one of the choicest collections of fine women
it had ever been my good fortune to behold in any part of the world:
the effect of the second was scarcely inferior to that of the first:
while the third, which in America, as in England, is almost exclusively
reserved for those unfortunate wretches on whom society wreaks its
vengeance for the commission of crimes in which the principal offender
escapes but too frequently with impunity,--presented, as yet, nothing
but empty benches. In a short time, however, these began to fill with
such pale, sad, haggard-looking creatures as seemed to have escaped
from Purgatory to seek a few moments’ relief from their torments.
Immediately above them was the gallery of the gods, which on this
occasion, however, bore a much greater resemblance to the infernal
regions, being studded with the grinning visages of negroes, the
outlines of whose sable countenances so completely inter-mingled with
one another as to present but one huge black mass, from which the
white of their eyes and teeth was shooting streaks of light like so
many burning tapers from an ocean of darkness. The whole seemed to be
a reversion of the unrivalled fiction of Dante,--the _angels_ being
_below_, and the _damned_ occupying the _upper_ regions,--as if it were
the purpose of the Americans to invert even the order of the universe.
It was now very nearly seven o’clock; and the impatience of the
audience began, very differently from that of Boston, to manifest
itself by shrill whistles, loud screams and yells, and the beating of
hands and canes. At last the orchestra, composed of very little more
than twenty musicians, began to play something like an overture; which,
however, was completely drowned in the noise from the pit and gallery,
who seemed to look upon the musical prelude as an unnecessary delay of
the drama. At last the music stopped, and, amid the loud acclamations
of the people,
Enter _Roderigo_ and _Iago_.
_Roderigo._--“Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.”
“Who plays _Iago_?” demanded a young lady in the box, addressing the
gentleman behind her.
“Only one of our _ordinary Americans_,” answered he. “We have not had a
decent _Iago_ since Kemble left us.”
“I thought Kemble made an excellent _Cassio_,” observed the lady.
“That he made indeed,” replied the gentleman. “I never saw an actor
perform the part of a tippler better than he did. It was perfectly
natural to him.”
“Yes,” rejoined the lady; “he could admirably perform the part of a
tipsy _gentleman_, while _our_ actors only play the part of a drunken
blackguard. I think it ridiculous to go and see one of Shakspeare’s
plays performed on one of our stages. But they say Forest has much
improved while in England, and that the first nobility went to see
him.”
“That’s a fact,” ejaculated the gentleman; “I have seen it in the
papers, or I should not be here this evening.”
_Iago._--“And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof,
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds,
Christian and heathen, must be be-lee’d and calm’d
By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster,
He, in good time must his lieutenant be;
And I (God bless the mark!) his moorship’s ancient!”
“Is it not singular,” observed a gentleman right before us to his
neighbour, “that Shakspeare, who with the English passes for the
arch-inspector of human nature, should have had so poor and erroneous
an estimate of the character of a merchant? If an American author were
to bestow the opprobrious epithet of ‘counter-caster’ on a member of
that most respectable part of our community, nothing could save him
from being Lynched.”
“The character of a merchant,” replied his neighbour, “is decidedly one
in which Shakspeare was altogether unsuccessful. Take, for instance,
his ‘Merchant of Venice.’ What a ludicrous caricature his Antonio
is! On the one hand, the very paragon of prudence,--a man who in
‘riskiness’ would be outdone by the veriest Yankee shopkeeper; while,
on the other, he stakes his whole credit to aid the foolish adventures
of a lover! His merchant has no notion of banking; for
‘He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance.’”
“And then becomes security for a friend,” added the first,--“not merely
by putting his name on the back of a bill, but by pledging his flesh!
How very improbable! And then again consider his insolence to Shylock,
of whom he wants to borrow money; which is about as wise as if an
American who wants credit were to insult Nic’las Biddle!”
“All my sympathies in that play,” rejoined the second, “are with the
Jew; who, after all, claimed nothing that was not lawful, and in every
one of his speeches evinces more common sense than the Christian, who
suffers his vessels to go to sea without having them insured.
‘And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not,’
is a very good motto. The Jew is no fool, I tell you.”
“Quite a sensible man, that,” exclaimed a sharp-featured, long-headed,
grey-eyed, raw-boned male figure who had taken his stand by the side of
us, and had evidently overheard the severe critic: “if it were not for
our _thrifty_ merchants, I do not know _what_ figure we should make in
the world!”
Here the commentators on Shakspeare looked round and measured the
pedlar (for such he was from his language and appearance), and then
turned back again with a doubtful shrug of their shoulders, which had
the effect of completely silencing the “Down-Easter.”
The momentary quiet produced by the cold rebuke of the gentlemen was
soon taken advantage of by the ladies, who, engaging with each other in
loud conversation, notwithstanding the cries of “Hold your tongues!”
from the pit, gave the strongest possible proof of their fashionable
indifference with regard to ordinary acting; until, at last, the
appearance of _Othello_ silenced every voice with the universal roar
of applause from the pit, boxes, and galleries. _Othello_ bowed,
the ladies observing “that he had learned that in England.” Fresh
acclamations and plaudits, followed by renewed acknowledgments on the
part of the actor; during which _Iago_ finishes his speech, and gives
the cue to _Othello_.
_Othello._--“’Tis better as it is.”
“After all, I do not see what the English people liked in Forest,”
observed a lady on the front seat. “I think him excessively clumsy.”
“He is just the man to play the gladiator,” replied her fair neighbour;
“but I dare say he is the first English actor now living.”
“Unquestionably,” resumed the first. “How Macready must have been
jealous of him!”
“And, in fact, every other English actor!” added the second. “You know
the prejudices of John Bull with regard to America.”
_Othello._--“For know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription, and confine,
For the sea’s worth.”
“A fine moral lesson, this, for our young men that want to get
married!” exclaimed an elderly lady, turning round to the gentleman
behind her.
“You must not forget, ma’am, that he is but a negro,” replied the
gentleman.
“I don’t like this play at all,” rejoined the lady. “I think it immoral
from beginning to end.”
“And most unnatural too!” vociferated the gentleman. “A white woman to
fall in love with a black man!”
“And the daughter of a senator too!” exclaimed the lady.
“It’s preaching a regular amalgamation doctrine! The play ought not to
be allowed to be performed before our negroes.”
“But he was not a negro,” exclaimed a young lady; “he was a Moor, Ma:
there is an immense difference between these two races. I am sure no
_lady_ would fall in love with a negro.”
“Or with anything that is coloured,” added the elderly lady with
dignity.
“If we stay in this box,” observed my friend, “we shall have no chance
of listening to the performance. They are sure to make an abolition
question of it. Let us seek a place elsewhere.”
We accordingly scrambled out of our little prison, and, making the
round of the tier, discovered two slips in a box not far from the
stage, which was almost wholly occupied by gentlemen.
“It must be allowed after all,” said the one; “Forest _is_ the greatest
actor America ever produced.”
“An enthusiast,” replied another, “who has encouraged the drama not
only with his play, but also with his purse.”
“By putting a prize on the best tragedy written in America; which, at
any rate, is more than any of his patrons would have done on this side
of the Atlantic.”
“And then Forest is a self-taught man, who has never had any model to
form himself after.”
“And, besides,” resumed the first, “he is a _modest_ man, who seldom
undertakes what he is not equal to. It is for this reason he hesitated
so long before he ventured to appear in one of Shakspeare’s plays in
England.”
“And he did well to hesitate,” replied another; “he appears to much
greater advantage in one of our Indian dramas.”
“Come,” said the first, “none of your English prejudices, Tom! You
seem to forget that Forest declined being run for representative in
Congress; or, as _I_ heard the story, that he _was_ run and elected
without his consent, and that he refused to take his seat.”
“So would I have done in his place,” rejoined Tom. “What man of talent
would forsake a respectable position in society, in order to earn eight
dollars a day in Washington by making or listening to dull speeches?”[7]
“With such notions about you, you had better go at once to England.”
“That’s what I am about to do. I shall sail in the next packet.”
“How long do you mean to stay in Europe?”
“As long as possible; nothing but absolute necessity shall ever bring
me back to this country.”
“Then it would be cruel to wish you a speedy return!”
(Tom took his hat, and left the box.)
_Iago._--“Thou art sure of me; go, make money.”
“_Iago_ is no fool,” observed a gentleman, who, until now, had
attentively listened to the play, struck with so sensible a remark.
“Nor _Othello_ either,” replied another. “Forest must be worth upwards
of a hundred thousand dollars. Do you know whether he has got any money
by his wife?”
“I do not,” observed the former; “but Forest is a sensible man, and so
I rather think he has.”
“But he must have made a good deal of money in London. Do you know what
his engagements were?”
“I have heard different accounts; but he must have made money in _this_
country.”
“How much do you think?”
“Fifty thousand dollars at least; and, now that he has succeeded in
England, he will make a great deal more.”
“How much do you suppose he makes to-night?”
“Let us count the boxes, and I will tell you in an instant. Have you
got a piece of paper and a lead pencil?”
“I won’t stay here either,” said my friend. “Let us see whether we
cannot find a place up stairs. When these fellows once begin to talk
about money, they are not likely soon to change their conversation:
and, besides, I can only stay another act; I have a particular reason
for being early at Mrs. * * *’s.”
I willingly consented to the proposition; and, the first act being
over, accompanied my friend to the second tier of boxes. This time
we took our seats among a set of people evidently “from the Western
country,” from the natural sagacity of whose remarks my friend and I
anticipated a great deal of amusement. They seemed to be in the best
humour; and, though somewhat noisy, (for they looked upon the theatre
with little more deference than upon a public-house, and “upon the fun
that’s going on there” in the light of “an election spree,”) enjoyed
the play better than the people of fashion who had congregated to
endorse the opinion of the British public. I had not, however, much
time to listen to them, as I had promised to meet a friend at half-past
eight; but the little I heard satisfied me that, much as they liked
_Forest_, they loved _Rice_ more,--the latter being, after all, “_the_
real genuine nigger, the very bringing down of whose foot was worth the
price of a ticket.”
FOOTNOTES:
[5] In the larger boarding-houses in America, tea is not handed round,
but served like a regular meal on the dining-table.
[6] This part of my friend’s journal seems to have been written in the
summer of the year 1837, when, shortly after the suspension of specie
payments, the country was flooded with small notes of 6¹⁄₄, 12¹⁄₂, and
25 cents, which were termed “shin-plasters.”
[7] Eight dollars a day is the pay of every member and senator in
Congress.