AMONG GREAT THINGS
Were people more enthusiastic in old New York than they are at the end
of the century? We have done so much, we have had so many wonderful
happenings since then. To be sure, Dickens had been over and made,
people thought, a somewhat caustic return for the hospitable welcome;
Harriet Martineau had made a tour, and gone home rather favourably
impressed; and the winter before the intellectual circle--and it was
getting to be quite notable--had honoured the Swedish novelist,
Frederica Bremer, and been really charmed by her unaffected sweetness.
If they were not quite ready to take up her theories for the advancement
of women, they fell to reading the delightful "Neighbours" and "Home."
And now there was to be another visitant, "The Swedish Nightingale."
For Mr. Barnum was still the prince of entertainers. Theatres waxed and
waned, and new stars came to the front who had still their laurels to
win; people strove for cards to the Steven's Terrace, just back of
Columbia College on Park Place. Bleecker Street was not out of date,
though Mrs. Hamilton Fish had gone up to Stuyvesant Square, and was
gathering about her a political clique. There were card-parties and
dances; there were Christy's Minstrels and the Hutchinson family; and
some of the more intellectual circles had conversaziones where the best
talent displayed itself. Still, Barnum could not be crowded out. No
sarcasm withered him; and his variety was infinite. It was a safe place
for mothers to go and take their children. The men had formed several
ambitious clubs, and were beginning to entertain themselves.
Jenny Lind had already captivated Europe. Mr. Barnum judiciously brought
interest up to fever heat. After the bargain was made known, and the
young singer had taken her passage with her suite, a musical rage
pervaded the very city. The streets leading to the wharf were thronged
by crowds in the wildest enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were built across
Canal Street, and as she came down the gang-plank of the steamer, shouts
rent the very air.
The young traveller and poet, Bayard Taylor, had captured the prize
offered for the finest ode to be sung at her first concert. Two hundred
dollars seemed a large price at that time, as Tennyson had not been
offered a thousand for a poem. So great was the inquiry for tickets,
that they were sold at auction a few days previous. And Mr. Genin, a
Broadway hatter, signalised himself by making the highest bid for a
ticket,--two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Over one thousand tickets
were sold on the first day.
The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened,
and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its
proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of
expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen
to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm
was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the
fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she
passed beyond it.
Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a
ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first
night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had
bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.
"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the
breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and
Hanny--all of you. Never mind the cost."
"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her
old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people
sing before."
"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the
enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"
The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the
value of money.
"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it
for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."
They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the
rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore.
There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little
tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The
bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers
took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to
the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing,
fervid impetuosity of early youth.
And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by
torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There
was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice
from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved
the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the
hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the
magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home,"
as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough
for any writer of song!
The furore did not abate. But they must all go,--Stephen and Dolly,
Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.
"It is nonsense for an old fellow like me," he declared, half
humourously.
"But I shall like it so much better, and then we can talk it over
afterward. That's half the pleasure."
She looked so wistful out of her soft eyes, and patted his hand with her
caressing little fingers, of course he couldn't say No.
It was so much harder to persuade Mrs. Underhill. "It certainly _was_
wicked to spend so much money just to hear one woman sing. She had heard
the 'Messiah,' with Madame Anna Bishop in it; and she never again
expected to hear anything so beautiful this side of heaven."
They carried the day, however, in spite of her objections. Castle Garden
looked like fairyland, with its brilliant lights, its hundred ushers in
white gloves and rosettes, their wands tipped with ribbon as if for some
grand ball. The quiet was awe-inspiring. One did not even want to
whisper to his neighbour, but just sit in fascinated silence and wonder
what it would be like.
Then Jenny Lind was led on the stage, and the entire audience rose with
one vast, deafening cheer,--a magnificent one, as hearty as on her first
night. It seemed as if they would never stop. There was a cloud of
waving handkerchiefs, shaking out fragrance in the air.
A simple Swedish maiden in her gown of soft, white silk, with no blaze
of diamonds, and just one rose low down in her banded hair, only her
gracious sweetness and simplicity, a thousand times finer and more
effective than flashing beauty. She has heard the applause many a time
before, in audiences of crowned heads; and this from the multitude is
just as sweet.
When all is listening, attentive silence, she begins "Casta Diva." "Hark
to the voice," and every one listens with such intensity that the
magnificent sound swells out and fills the farthest space. There is no
striving for effect. A woman singing with a God-given voice, in simple
thanks for its ownership, not a queen bidding for admiration. Had any
voice ever made such glorious melody, or so stirred human souls?
The applause has in it an immensity of appreciation, as if it could
never get itself wholly expressed.
Then another favourite, which everybody sang at for years afterward: "I
dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." In some of the sorrows of her
womanhood, the little girl was to recall the sweet refrain--
"That you loved me still the same."
Then "Comin' thro' the Rye," with a lilt and dainty deliciousness that
one never can forget. But "Home, Sweet Home," moves to tears and
enthusiasm. Surely, no voice ever put such pathos, such marvellous
sweetness, into it!
And sometimes now, when the little girl looks over to the other country,
one of the many joys she thinks will be hearing such blessed voices as
Jenny Lind's and Parepa Rosa's. You could not shake her faith in
immortality and all these precious joys to come.
She was quite a heroine at school for many days to come. People did not
think it worth while to spend so much money on children at that time.
Margaret and her mother had compromised on the school question, or
rather Margaret had yielded.
Hanny would graduate at the end of the year. Margaret preferred a
stylish boarding-school after that. The Hoffmans were quite in the swim
of that period. The Doctor's connections, and Margaret's beauty, made
them welcome in circles that were beginning to grow a little exclusive,
and demand grandfathers for vouchers. There was a little talk, even
then, about _nouveaux riches_; but, after all, no one seemed to
absolutely despise wealth.
Margaret was really very ambitious for the younger members of the
family. Jim, with his good looks and the brightness that was akin to
wit, was her favourite. Then he took naturally to elegance.
Dolly was very happy and jolly with her husband and children. They lived
in a very pleasant manner; and society courted Dolly as well. Stephen
was prospering wonderfully, and had a fine standing among business-men.
Hanny was extravagantly fond of the children. Stevie called her Auntie
Nan, now; but Annie said simply Nan. Margaret had adopted it as well.
Hannah was rather awkward and old-fashioned. Even Ben sometimes
warbled,--
"Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me?"
She had another great and unexpected treat a few weeks later. She had
gone on Friday to make a real visit at Dolly's, and go from there to
school on Monday morning. And, fortunately for her, she had taken her
best Sunday frock, which she was wearing a good deal lest she might
outgrow it.
And who should drop in but Delia Whitney. Whether Dolly suspected all
was not clear sailing for the young people, no one could have told from
her friendly manner. She had taken quite a liking to Delia, and was much
interested in her success.
They talked over the Jenny Lind concert. Delia had attended two. She was
going about quite a good deal among literary people.
"And to-morrow night, The. and I are going to take Ben to the Osgoods.
Oh, Hanny, that's the author of the little song you sing:--
"'I love you, I adore you; but
I'm talking in my sleep.'
And she's just lovely."
"Oh," cried Hanny, "I should like to see her, truly. You know I told you
about seeing her in the carriage when she went up to Mr. Poe's."
"Well, can't you go? The. has a standing invitation to bring friends.
Why, Nora has gone! She sang up there one evening, and did wonderfully
well. Her teacher thinks in a year or two she can try concerts; only it
isn't best to strain her voice now. And you may see some famous people,
and some yet to be famous, myself among them."
"Oh, I don't care about the others," said Hanny, naively. "And if you
are quite sure--Dolly, ought I to go?"
"Why not?" answered Dolly. "It's fortunate that you brought your best
frock; though we could have sent for it. Why, yes, if you would like
to."
Hanny drew a long breath. Twice of late her mother had found excuses
when she had asked to go down to Beach Street. She, too, had a vague
feeling there was something in the air; but her simple nature was not
suspicious. And it wasn't like going to the Whitney's. She couldn't do
such a thing without asking permission.
Delia finished her call, kissed the babies and Hanny, and said they
would all be up at eight, sharp.
"I'll have Hanny in apple-pie order," answered Dolly, with her bright
smile.
Stephen was delightful in his family; and he had the same odd little
look in his eye as her father, suggestive of fun. He was teaching her to
play checkers; and, although Dolly helped sometimes, she found it hard
work to beat him. Dolly sat by embroidering.
The next morning they drove down-town and did some shopping, and called
on Annette, who made them stay to luncheon. Mrs. Beekman was quite
poorly now, and had grown very, very stout. She said, "she had lost all
her ambition. It was a great thing to be young, and have all your life
before you."
It was so delightful; and Dolly was sure they wouldn't have many more
such Indian summery days, so they went over to Washington Parade-ground,
where the style promenaded on Saturday afternoon. Hanny wore her best
dress and a pretty cloth cape trimmed with a little edge of fur. They
took Stevie, who was delighted of course, and who ran about, very proud
of his new jacket and trousers.
Many of the promenaders nodded to young Mrs. Stephen Underhill. Belles
and beaux went by; prettily dressed children; stylish little boys, who
carried canes, and had long tassels drooping over one side of their
caps. Hanny enjoyed it all very much.
Then after supper, Dolly put a fine lace tucker over the edging at the
neck of her frock, and found a blue sash, and curled her hair so as to
make it all wavy at the edge of her forehead; and there was a very
sweet, attractive girl, if she wasn't a beauty.
Mr. Theodore Whitney seemed very much amused and pleased, and politely
inquired if he might be Miss Underhill's escort. Delia looked unusually
nice in her new brown silk and some beautiful old lace Aunt Clem had
given her.
People did not wait until ten o'clock for "functions" to begin; neither
did they give them that uneuphonious name. Hanny had read and heard a
good deal since her first visit to genius in the plain, poor, little
cottage; and this certainly had more of the true aspect one connects
with poesy. The two rooms were daintily furnished; pictures everywhere.
Mr. Osgood was a painter, and his portraits were quite celebrated. The
curtains fell with a graceful sweep. The light brocade of the chairs
threw out glisteny shades; the little tables set about held books and
engravings, and great portfolios leaned against the wall. There was a
case of choicely-bound books, and an open piano. Flowers were in vases
on brackets, and low, quaint china bowls. It was like a lovely picture
to the little girl; but she felt afraid of the people talking so
earnestly, and wondered if they were all poets and authors.
The party greeted their hostess, and Hanny was introduced. Was it the
glamour of the summer and the blue gown that had made Mrs. Osgood so
lovely sitting there in the carriage? Now she was thin, and her hair was
banded down in the fashion of the day; then it had been flying in
ringlets. Her gown was black silk, and that made her look rather grave;
but when she smiled, all the old sweetness was there. Hanny knew her
then.
Delia took charge of Hanny, and seated her by a table with a book of
choice engravings. Ben had found some one he knew, and Mr. Whitney had
gone to talk to General Morris. A tall young lady came over and began
complimenting Miss Whitney on her story in Godey's, and Delia flushed up
with pleasure. Then she begged to introduce her to a friend. She wrote
verses only, and her friend had composed music for them.
Hanny kept watching her hostess. She knew some of the guests, from
having had them pointed out to her in the street. There was Mr. Greeley,
thin of face and careless of attire in those early days. In the street
he could always be told by a shaggy light coat that he wore.
A very sweet-looking elderly lady came up presently and spoke to Delia,
who was in full flow of eager talk with the young musical composer.
"Isn't that your sister, or your niece,--the one who sang here some time
ago? I saw her come in with Mr. Whitney."
"Oh, no," returned Delia. "But she is a very dear friend,--Mr.
Underhill's sister."
"Mr. Stephen Underhill?"
"Yes, she is his sister; but it is Mr. Ben Underhill who is here."
"I know Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Underhill very well. She was a Beekman. And
Dr. Hoffman's wife belongs to the family."
Delia turned and introduced Mrs. Kirtland.
She had such an attractive face, framed in with rows of snowy puffs,
quite gone out of date, but becoming to her nevertheless.
"I feel that I almost know you," she said sweetly, "though I half
mistook you for Miss Whitney; but she is dark, and you are fair, so I
ought not to have made the blunder. I know your brother Stephen and his
wife."
"Oh!" Hanny gave it a glad little sound, and smiled, as she put out her
small hand.
Mrs. Kirtland took the unoccupied seat.
"I suppose you have hardly begun life, you look so young. But no doubt
you are a genius of some sort. Mrs. Osgood is so extraordinarily good to
young geniuses."
"No, I haven't any genius," and Hanny flushed, as she gave a beguiling
smile that lighted up her face. "And though there are a good many of
us, we have not even a family genius."
"That depends upon whether you restrict the word to painting a picture
or writing a poem or a story. Mr. Stephen Underhill is very highly
spoken of as one of the promising young business-men. And is it your
brother who was in the office of old Dr. Fitch, and in the hospital?"
"Yes, ma'am," returned Hanny, with a glow of pleasure. Young people were
still expected to say "Yes, sir," and "Yes, ma'am," to their elders, out
of respect.
"That does very well for one family, though the Whitneys seem to have a
good share. Miss Delia is quite a success, I hear. And we always find
Mr. Whitney very entertaining. Have you known them long?"
"Oh, for years, seven almost. And we used to be neighbours."
"A friendship is said to be certain when you have held it seven years.
Have you met Mrs. Osgood before?"
"No, ma'am; but I saw her quite a long while ago at Fordham."
"At Fordham! Then you must have known the poet Edgar Allan Poe."
"A little," returned Hanny, timidly.
"There's such a romance to his life at that place,--his lovely young
wife dying, and the devotion of Mrs. Clemm. Oh, tell me about your
episode!"
Hanny told the story, very simply, charmingly as well.
"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Kirtland, "Frances must hear that!" Then she
glanced around. Mrs. Osgood was no longer receiving guests, but mingling
with the company. Some one was going to the piano; and everybody
listened to an exquisite voice singing a beautiful Italian melody. When
that was finished, a young man who was to be famous in after years read
a sweet, simple poem that touched every one's heart. Then the talk began
in little groups again.
Mrs. Kirtland signalled to her hostess, who came over to them.
"Frances," she said, "here is a youthful worshipper who remembers you as
a lovely lady all in cerulean blue, and with long curls, going up to the
Poe cottage. See how you have lived in the child's memory. And she sings
a song of yours."
Hanny's face was scarlet for a moment; but Mrs. Osgood sat down beside
her, and they talked of the poet and Mrs. Clemm, and touched lightly
upon the sad after-happenings. He had at one time been a frequent guest.
There was even yet a deep interest in him, though opinion was sharply
divided. And Mrs. Osgood had known the beautiful Virginia, whose sad
fate even then was hardly realised. They talked a little about "Annabel
Lee" and the "high-born kinsman;" and Hanny thought she had a delightful
time.
There was coffee and chocolate and lemonade, with plates of dainty cakes
and confectionery, in an ante-room. Then a gentleman sang a
hunting-song in a fine tenor voice; and another paper on Art was read.
If people came early, they also dispersed at a reasonable hour. It was
not quite ten when Delia, Hanny, and Ben made their adieus to the
hostess, who stooped and kissed Hanny for "old remembrance' sake," she
said.
Mr. Whitney was going down with some of the older men. Ben saw his
little sister safe in Stephen's hands, and then went on with Delia.
"I've had such a splendid time!" exclaimed Hanny. "I wouldn't have
missed it for the world."
When she told the home-folks about it, her mother made no comment; but
Joe and her father were very much interested. And when, not long after
that, "the high-born kinsman" came for the charming woman who had given
much pleasure in her brief way through the world, and who had not
disdained to write a verse and her name in many a society album, Hanny
felt quite as if she had lost a dear friend.
Two other poets, sisters, Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary, came to New York, and
held receptions that were quite famous as time went on. To be sure,
there was the old name of blue-stocking applied to them now and then;
for people, women especially, were taking a wider interest in other
affairs beside literature, prefiguring the new woman. Miss Delia Whitney
was very much interested. They were not quite up to clubs in those days,
or she would have been a charter-member.
But the child Hanny had enough to do to study her lessons, practise her
music, and make her visits, with a little sewing in between. She did
make her father a set of shirts; but underclothing of all kinds was
being manufactured; and though the older-fashioned women sneered at it,
as rather poor stuff, the men seemed to like it. At gentlemen's
furnishing stores, you could buy shirts cut and made in the latest
style, the neckbands of which always seemed to fit, or else the men
discreetly refrained from grumbling when they had spent so much money.
And women began to find it eased their burdens.
No one wanted home-knit stockings, the English and French and Germans
sent us such perfect ones. White was still all the style, unless you
wore black, or blossom-coloured silk. Of course there were common people
who put slate-colour on their children, because white made so much
washing. And as for pantalets, there were none left.
There were other people called away beside poets, and changes made in
families. Grandmother Underhill went to the country wherein the faithful
abide, and Aunt Katrina. Grandmother Van Kortlandt came to make her home
with her daughter. Aunt Crete and Cousin Joanna Morgan, and here and
there some of the old people, as well as the young, passed over the
narrow river.
But there seemed new babies all around. Dolly and Margaret had little
sons, and Cleanthe a daughter. John was quite jealous of Hanny's notice;
for his little girl was fair, and had light hair, and they were quite
sure it looked like her. John wanted to call her Hannah Ann.
"Oh, no," said Hanny; "there are so many beautiful names now!" Then she
laughed. "I shall not promise her a hundred dollars, nor my string of
gold beads. I am not sorry, for I have loved both grandmothers; and one
is gone--"
"Why don't we name her after _her_ grandmothers?" exclaimed Cleanthe.
"One of hers is gone," and she sighed. "It seems such a long name for a
wee baby."
"Margaret Elizabeth,--it is a beautiful name," said Hanny, with delight.
"Mother will give her something, I know. And I will be her godmother,
and endow her for the Elizabeth."
"With all your worldly goods?" asked John.
"Not _quite_ all--"
"You'll be impoverished, Hanny," interrupted John, with a glint of
humour. "Six nephews and nieces already! And there are four of us still
to marry, if George ever comes back. He hasn't made his fortune yet. He
was crazy to go. The good times here suit me well enough."
Grandmother Underhill put fifty dollars in the bank for the new baby,
and gave it a silver spoon. Hanny gave her a silver cup with her name
engraved on it, and, with Dolly's help, made her a beautiful christening
robe, which Cleanthe saved up for her, the sewing and tucking on it was
so exquisite. She used to show it to visitors with a great deal of
pride.