 | The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times |  |
LEAVES
FROM
AN EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO.
“A thing of shreds and patches.”
—Shakspeare.
GROUNDS FOR A DIVORCE.
Had promised long to stay—
Forgot his promise—took French leave,
And bore his lamp away.”
—Halleck.
Charles T—was married a few years ago.
He was a happy man. His business was a thriving
one, and he snapped his fingers, and said he did not
care a fig for the presidents, cashiers and directors
of all the banks in Christendom, for he owed them
nothing; and was not obliged to bow, and stoop, and
cringe to them for a discount, as many do now-a-days,
until it is quite impossible to stand erect in
the presence of an honest man. He had a house in
Broadway, near the Bowling-Green, and lived more
like a nabob than well becomes a decent republican
belle and a beauty; but, like many others of her sex,
she had a will of her own, which she did not lay
aside with her bridal garments. Everybody envied
Charles his good fortune. Matters went on swimmingly.
Charles was a high fellow—fond of his
friends—fond of his horses—fond of his dogs—and
fond of having his way in everything. He liked
company—frequently gave parties at his own house,
and attended balls, routs and soirees at those of his
neighbours. He was, in short, a fine, gay, dashing
spark—full of health and spirits, and in the very
bloom of life. Yet, with all his good qualities,
Charles T—had one fault, which his wife endeavoured
in vain to correct. He would occasionally
stay out until midnight; and, whenever this
occurred, Mrs. T— met him at the threshold
of his own door, with chidings and complaints.
Now, Mr. T— had a touch of Gloster's condition,
which “could not brook the spirit of reproof;”
so that the course his wife took to remedy the defect
in his character, only made matters worse—and discontent
and family bickerings were the result; frequent
wranglings followed, and an open rupture
finally ensued; consequently, in process of time,
both husband and wife grew heartily tired of each
other. One day a grand entertainment was given at
the Astor house, in honour of a distinguished senator.
dinner was excellent—the speeches eloquent—the
wines sparkling, and the company even more sparkling
than the wine. Charles did not go home that
night at all, but arrived at his own door just as St.
Paul's clock struck the hour of four. The morning
was drear and cold. Not a light was to be seen—
not a footstep to be heard—the watchmen were
turned in and the gas-lamps were turned out; and,
more dismal still, the door of Mr. T—'s dwelling
was locked! This had never happened before;
and Charles's patriotism gave way to his petulance.
He pulled most lustily at the bell—he broke the
wire—he dashed the handle on the pavement; but
no one answered his summons. He addressed himself
to the knocker—rap, rap, r-a-p, and repeated;
r-a-p, r—a—p, r-r-a-a-p-p, and again repeated;
but all in vain. The inmates were either asleep, or
dead—it was not certain which; but it was certain
that no one came to his relief. It was striking five
o'clock; and an old dunghill cock, in an adjacent
stable, had “thrice done salutation to the dawn.”
The musical timepiece, on the marble mantel in the
front room of his own house, was playing the popular
air of “How brightly breaks the morning”—but
no friendly hand withdrew the bolt that kept him
from his bed. This was too bad. Rap, rap, rap,
went the knocker once more, and louder than ever.
neighbourhood, except his own—and out shot various
night-caps and bandanas to inquire what the deuse
was the matter? Charles endeavoured to explain,
when, with a bitter reproof for disturbing people in
their virtuous beds, and for waking them out of their
innocent sleep at such unreasonable hours, down
went the sashes, and—presto!—the night-caps and
bandanas disappeared in less time than you could say
Jack Robinson! Charles was boiling over with rage.
He tried the window-shutters, the cellar-door, and the
grate to the coal-vault, but all to no purpose. Finally,
a thought struck him, and he resolved to scale the garden-wall.
He repaired to the rear of the house with
that intention. While clambering over the bricks,
he was arrested by one of the guardians of the night,
who had awakened from a delicious nap, just in the
nick of time to seize him by the leg and bear him
away to the watch-house. Here he remained until
day-break, when he was dismissed by Mr. Justice
Lownds, with an admonition to keep better hours in
future! How the lady explained the matter—how
it happened that none of the household heard the
bell and knocker—and why a night-latch was added
soon after to the front-door, are matters that we
know nothing about; and, if we did, they are not
worth recording here. We pass over these and other
uninteresting particulars for the sake of brevity, and
which has recently been published in the
Albany Argus, wherein it is set forth that a certain
very ill-used lady claims to be divorced from her
husband, on the grounds that he is given to late hours
and bad company!
WANT OF CONFIDENCE.
A little Frenchman loaned a merchant five thousand
dollars when the times were good. He called
at the counting-house a few days since, in a state of
agitation not easily described.
“How do you do?” inquired the merchant.
“Sick—ver sick,” replied monsieur.
“What's the matter?”
“De times is de matter.”
“Detimes?—what disease is that?”
“De malaide vat break all de marchants, ver
much.”
“Ah—the times, eh?—well, they are bad, very
bad, sure enough; but how do they affect you?”
“Vy, monsieur, I lose de confidance.”
“In whom?”
“In everybody.”
“Not in me, I hope?”
“Pardonnez moi, monsieur; but I do not know
several times, all to pieces.”
“Then I presume you want your money?”
“Oui, monsieur, I starve for want of l'argent.”
“Can't you do without it?”
“No, monsieur, I must have him.”
“You must?”
“Oui, monsieur,” said little dimity breeches,
turning pale with apprehension for the safety of his
money.
“And you can't do without it?”
“No, monsieur, not von other leetle moment
longare.”
The merchant reached his bank book—drew a
check on the good old Chemical for the amount, and
handed it to his visiter.
“Vat is dis, monsieur?”
“A check for five thousand dollars, with the interest.”
“Is it bon?” said the Frenchman, with amazement.
“Certainly.”
“Have you de l'argent in de bank?”
“Yes.”
“And it is parfaitement convenient to pay de
sum?”
“Undoubtedly. What astonishes you?”
“Vy, dat you have got him in dees times.”
“Oh, yes, and I have plenty more. I owe nothing
that I cannot pay at a moment's notice.”
The Frenchman was perplexed.
“Monsieur, you shall do me one leetle favour, eh?”
“With all my heart.”
“Vell, monsieur, you shall keep de l'argent for me
some leetle year longer.”
“Why, I thought you wanted it.”
“Tout au contraire. I no vant de l'argent—I vant
de grand confidance. Suppose you no got de money,
den I vant him ver much—suppose you got him, den
I no vant him at all. Vous comprenez, eh?”
After some further conference, the little Frenchman
prevailed upon the merchant to retain the money,
and left the counting-house with a light heart
and a countenance very different from the one he
wore when he entered. His confidence was restored,
and although he did not stand in need of
the money, he wished to know that his property was
in safe hands.
This little sketch has a moral, if the reader has
sagacity enough to find it out.
EFFECTS OF INTERRUPTION.
Guido had painted a picture that astonished all
Florence. It rested upon his easel. It was pronounced
Everybody came to see—to admire—to praise it.
“How glorious!” said one.
“It has never been excelled!” said another.
“What atmosphere—what vitality!” said a third.
“And why don't the group of peasants speak?”
said a fourth.
A slight defect was observed in the face of one
of them, which was a portrait taken from life.
Guido was alone. He sat about remedying the
defect. He had mixed the colours—the brush had
touched the canvass—he was full of the idea of
making the picture “not almost, but altogether”
perfect, and a bland smile irradiated his fine countenance—when
an officer entered his studio and
arrested him for debt. Guido rose from his seat
and dashed the brush at the unoffending canvass!
The picture was ruined for ever!
“What a fretful fool was Guido!” said one.
“How irritable!” said another.
“What a dunce to get into a passion because he
was interrupted!” said a third.
“How silly to spoil in a moment the labour of a
year!” said a fourth.
“He is not constructed like other men, and is a
fool,” said they all.
“Do you paint, friends?” asked a bystander.
“No,” was the reply.
“Then you know nothing of the workings of the
mind of an artist, nor can you feel the withering
disappointment he endures when, just as he is giving
the last touch to a production that is to bring him
fame and competence, his golden dream is broken.
His imagination takes wings, and that which but a
moment before was the aspiration of a bright and
burning fancy, when left unfinished and resumed in
a more serious mood, becomes a mechanical and
weary drudgery. Had Guido been differently constructed,
had he been what you have been pleased
to call him—a fool—he never would have been able
to paint the picture at all.”
THE HUNCHBACK.
During the last rehearsal of the play of the Hunchback,
Mr. Knowles, who personally superintended
the stage-directions, was frequently annoyed by the
remarks of the actors. Some of them very much
doubted the success of the piece. Charles Kemble
thought the part of Sir Thomas Clifford unworthy
of his talents; he consented, however, to perform
it, for his daughter's sake. This nettled Knowles,
who would not listen to a single suggestion.
“Give me another entrance and exit speech,”
said Kemble.
“I can add nothing more,” replied Knowles.
“You can't?” exclaimed the actor.
“No!” rejoined the dramatist.
“Give me a few words here,” said the first.
“Not a line,” said Knowles, “except it be one to
hang yourself with.”
Here the parties turned from each other, and the
business of the stage went on for a few moments
longer, when it was again interrupted by Kemble:
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Knowles; but this part
absolutely requires an addition: a slight alteration
would render the play far more effective. You must
make another speech for Sir Thomas.”
Knowles coloured, and, turning abruptly to “the
patrician of the stage,” gave vent to his feelings in
these terms:—
“Mr. Kemble, brains are not shingles, sir; and—”
“And what, sir?” said Kemble.
“And if they were,” rejoined the author, “I am
no carpenter!”
Kemble smiled at the oddity of the expression,
and Knowles left the theatre in a huff.
“At night, the bickerings of the morning were
forgotten—the house was crowded with the beauty,
fashion and taste of the English metropolis—the
play was applauded and cheered throughout—and
the curtain fell amid the most animated applause
ever heard within the walls of a theatre. First
the author (who, in consequence of the indisposition
was called for and made his bow; he was
received with loud and hearty cheers—then the fair
debutante, Miss Fanny Kemble, who had made a
deep impression in the character of Julia: the pit
arose and testified their approbation, and the waving
of handkerchiefs was universal throughout the boxes
—and next came Mr. Charles Kemble, who announced
the play for repetition, amid most deafening
acclamations; and the parties retired, covered with
laurels.
“Well,” said Knowles, when they were out of
publick view, “what alteration can you suggest
now, Mr. Kemble?”
“Nothing in the text,” said Kemble; “but I think
the cast of the piece might be improved.”
“Ah, there,” said Knowles, “I allow you to be a
better judge than myself; any suggestion of yours
is worth attending to—what is it?”
“Why, sir,” said Kemble, intending to hit poor
Knowles in a sensitive part, “I think if Master
Walter were in any other hands but your own, the
play would go off better!”
Knowles looked confused, and was evidently hurt
at the remark; but he immediately rallied his spirits
and asked Kemble what fault he had to find with
his performance.
“Why, sir,” said Kemble, “you are imperfect
that you do not give the true meaning of the
author.”
This retort, strange to say, restored good feeling
between the parties; mutual concessions were exchanged,
and the next day all London was loud in
praise of the Hunchback!
MAJOR NOAH.
We remember, as a thing of yesterday, notwithstanding
many years have passed away since that
merry night, when Mr. Noah's play of “She would
be a soldier,” was first performed; when bonny Miss
Leesugg—now Mrs. Hackett—looked like a Hebe
and sung like a nightingale! She played the principal
character; and, although a spinster then, wore
the breeches to the infinite delight and satisfaction
of everybody. Barnes was then the merriest dog
alive—Simpson was in all his glory, and Pritchard
was the top tragedian of the Park. We have forgotten
who else figured on that memorable occasion;
but one thing we shall never forget; each one of the
audience, on going into the house, was presented
with a printed copy of the play. This was a sad
annoyance to the poor actors, very few of whom
they perceived that each auditor had a book before
him, they were scarcely able to articulate what little
they had committed to memory! The embarrassment
was universal and very amusing; but, when
the audience wet their thumbs and turned over the
pages together, the effect was ludicrous in the extreme!
The rustling of leaves was prodigious, and
the turning of every page was the signal for shouts
of boisterous merriment. We have thought of that
night a thousand times, and laughed heartily at the
recollection of the odd things said and done by
Barnes, who was then so great a favourite that he
took all manner of liberties with the publick with
perfect impunity. The writer of this was a boy at
the time, and remembers Major Noah as the great
literary and political lion of this the greatest of all
possible great cities. He told the best story, rounded
the best sentence, and wrote the best play of all his
contemporaries. He was the life and spirit and quotation
of all circles. As editor, critick, and author,
he was looked up to as an oracle. He was, in short,
the idoneus homo of that day. His wit was everywhere
repeated, and his kindheartedness—which,
by-the-by, to this very hour has never forsaken him
—was the theme of every tongue. He was soon afterwards
appointed sheriff, and the only reason ever
given for turning him out was, that “the people
Christian!” “Pretty christians, forsooth!” said the
facetious major in his newspaper, “whose crimes
have sent them to the gallows!” While in office,
Major Noah wrote several other pieces for the stage,
which were eminently successful. One of them was
so redolent of villanous saltpetre, brimstone, sulphur,
and blue and red lights, that it set fire to the theatre
and burnt it to the ground! The proceeds of that
night were for the benefit of Major Noah. The house
was filled to its utmost limits with the beauty and
fashion of the town. Oh the cheerful hearts and radiant
faces of that merry occasion! and oh the applause
and hilarity of all the mad wags and wits that
were present! The receipts were nearly two thousand
dollars—a larger sum than is ever seen for the
performance of a single evening in these degenerate
days of paper currency and empty pockets. It was
an awful conflagration that succeeded however, and
it produced the greatest distress among the kings and
knights, princes and pickpockets, baronets and banditti,
and all the other heroes of the sock and buskin,
who lost every thing they had, and were thrown entirely
out of employment until the opening of the
Anthony-street theatre. Their drooping fortunes were
here revived by the first appearance of Kean, that
aloe-tree of the dramatick groves, which blooms but
once in a hundred years. Major Noah's two thousand
treasurer, had taken the money home with him for
safe keeping, and the next day Mr. Price enclosed
it to the author. We remember the correspondence
that ensued, and we were struck with the generosity
and magnanimity of Noah, who, notwithstanding his
own pecuniary wants, and they were many at the
time, returned every fraction of the amount, and
caused it to be divided among the performers, who
had been stripped of their little all by the fire! This
noble act made a deep impression upon the mind of
the writer of this, who, after the lapse of a little life-time,
feels an emotion about the heart, while he
records it in these fugitive pages; thinking, perhaps,
that it may serve as a hint to Mr. Dunlap,
or some other historian of the stage, as raw material
for a more elaborate sketch of one who has done
much for the drama and its professors in this country.
We could tell a thousand anecdotes of the good major,
but we forego the pleasure for the present. The
truth is, we merely intended to refer to the fact that
a new play of his was forthcoming, and our feelings,
almost against our will, betrayed us into what has
followed. If we have given “fancy the whip, imagination
the reins, while system came limping behind,”
his good nature will excuse us; and so will our citizens
for writing about one we have known so long
and intimately, with something like a heart-glow.
THE ACTORS AND THE BROKERS.
“Oh, that infernal Jacob Barker!”
Some nine years since, Barnes and Hackett, the
comedians, met in Wall-street. Barnes was in a
towering fury, for he had just heard of the loss of
some two or three thousand dollars, in consequence
of the failure of the Tradesmen's Bank, and other
little misfortunes of that kind. The following dialogue
is authentick:
Barnes.—Hallo, Hackett! here, just step into the
Union Bank with me: I want to get my dividend.
Hackett.—With pleasure. Why, what a great
stockholder you are becoming in the banks.
Barnes.—Oh, confound them. I suppose you have
heard of my losses in the Tradesmen?
Hackett.—Yes, and am very sorry for them.
Barnes.—It's all along with that infernal Jacob
Barker!
Hackett.—Indeed.
Barnes.—Yes, I'd have that fellow hanged: but
let's go in for my dividend.
And in the comedians went together.
Barnes called on the first teller, and told him he
wanted his dividend. The first teller referred him
to the president, an old gray-headed gentleman, who
stood behind the counter.
Barnes.—Called for my dividend, sir.
President.—For your what?
Barnes.—My dividend.
President.—Beg your pardon sir; but what is
your name?
Barnes.—Mr. Barnes.
Upon the avowal of this fact every clerk in the
bank turned to look at the comedian, who was unknown
until the anouncement of his name. Upon
which there was a general titter throughout the
bank, everybody being well acquainted with “old
Barnes,” as he was called upon the stage.
President.—Mr. Barnes, we do not make any dividend
for the last six months.
Barnes.—No! why, what the devil's the reason?
Prisident.—Why, haven't you heard of the forgery
on the bank, and the arrest of Redmond?
Barnes.—No; haven't heard a syllable of it; but
I want my dividend. You're not going to swindle
me out of that, I hope! Oh, that infernal Jacob
Barker!
President.—Mr. Barker has nothing to do with
this institution, Mr. Barnes, and we can't make any
dividend until we recover our late losses.
Barnes.—Then, sir, you are all a set of swindlers
—beg your pardon—heaven forgive me for getting
angry—but I believe you are all as bad as Jacob
Barker himself—all in the plot. No dividend, eh!
President.—No, not a cent.
Barnes.—Well, I hope my principal's safe?
President.—Certainly.
Barnes.—Well, that's better than the Tradesmen's.
Oh, that infernal Jacob Barker! Good-day, sir.
Come, Hackett.
And the parties left the bank amid the general
titter of all present. On going out Barnes turned to
Hackett:
Barnes.—Didn't I give it to that old fellow?
Hackett.—Yes, I think you did.
Barnes.—Well, there's some comfort in speaking
one's mind. Oh, that infernal Jacob Barker! I
should like to tell him my opinion.
Hackett.—What makes you so angry with Jacob
Barker?
Barnes.—Why, all these failures are owing to him.
Didn't he advise me to buy in the Tradesmen and
the Union, merely to swindle me out of my money?
I wish I could only see him now. Hollo!—yonder
he goes!—Hollo!—Jacob Barker!—here!—I want
to speak to you.
Barnes and Hackett ran after him at the top of
their speed, and soon overtook the wily broker.
Barker—Why, Mr. Barnes, what's the matter?
Barnes.—Why, matter enough. How came you
to adivse me to buy stock in the Tradesman and
Union Banks?
Barker.—Why, I thought the stock good at the
time.
Barnes.—Well, one's failed and the other has had
a forgery committed upon it.
Barker.—And so you've lost your money.
Barnes.—Exactly.
Barker.—I'm sorry to hear it; but you must bear
your losses like a Christian.
Barnes.—Well, that's cool!
Barker.—Yes, Mr. Barnes, I'm always cool—and
I advise you to keep so too. But I'm too busy to
waste my time with you just now. I've important
business on hand; so good-by.
Barker went on his way, leaving poor Barnes almost
choking with rage at the remembrance of his
losses. He was absolutely too angry to utter a
syllable at the moment; but as soon as he recovered
the use of his tongue he bawled after him, at the top
of his compass—
Barnes.—Good-by, old Shylock! The day you
die there'll be a man hung! Oh, that infernal Jacob
Barker!
(Exit Barnes in a huff—and Hackett convulsed with
laughter.)
HILSON AND PAUL PRY.
“It is a singular fact, but nevertheless eminently true, that of all persons,
actors in general are the worst judges of an unacted play. It was given in
evidence, before the committee of the House of Commons anent Dramatick
Affairs, that the plays which, by the unanimous consent of the green-room, had
been esteemed to be all that they ought to be, were, on the first night of representation,
almost uniformly condemned.”
—Sunbeam.
We remember, on the first announcement of “Paul
Pry” at the Park theatre, meeting with Hilson just
as he was coming out of the house after rehearsal.
“Well,” said we, “what sort of a piece is Paul
Pry?”
“Poor stuff,” said Hilson. “It won't do.”
“How do you like your own part?”
“Not at all—it's very heavy: I wonder how Liston
made anything of it.”
“What sort of a part has Barnes?”
“Not good.”
“What will Mrs. Wheatley do with Mrs. Subtle?”
“Nothing—the piece is bad!”
Who would have thought after this, that this same
play was performed at the Park by these same performers—Barnes
as Colonel Hardy, Hilson as Paul
Pry, and Mrs. Wheatley as Mrs. Subtle, upwards of
two hundred nights, and that it was decidedly the
most popular play ever produced at that theatre?
ORAL ANECDOTES OF WELL-KNOWN INDIVIDUALS.
When Commodore Porter last visisted this city,
he spent much of his time at the hospitable mansion
of the late General Morton, who, as every body knows,
was a gentleman of the old school, and a man of very
agreeable wit and compliment. The walls of the
general's library were graced with various productions
of the pencil and graver, and among them full-length
portraits of several distinguished naval officers—Decatur,
Bainbridge, Perry, Morris, and
others. The commodore expressed his admiration
of the fidelity and effect of these; but said they
were too large. “Now, I intend to add my portrait
to your collection shortly; but it shall be done in
quite a different style.”
“Then you do not like these?” said the general.
“Not exactly,” replied the commodore; “there's
entirely too much canvas.”
“That's a very singular objection for you to
make,” observed the facetious general, directing the
attention of his guest to a small picture representing
the engagement of the Essex with a frigate and a
sloop of war, off Valparaiso, which hung in one
corner of the room, “a very singular objection,
indeed, when we have before us an evidence that it
take you.”
There are many good stories in circulation respecting
our worthy fellow-citizen, Preserved Fish.
This gentleman, in early life, was a sea-captain.
One day his vessel was hailed by a brig, when the
following dialogue took place:
“Ship a-hoy?”
“Hallo!”
“Who's your captain?”
“Preserved Fish.”
“Who?”
“Preserved Fish.”
The master of the brig, thinking he was misunderstood,
and wondering at the stupidity of the
opposite party, again applied the trumpet to his
mouth and bawled out,
“I say, mister, I don't want to know what your
cargo is; but what's your captain's n-a-m-e?”
The late Major Fairlie was a marked, original and
peculiar character. When the new constitution of
this state was submitted to the people for adoption,
they were required to deposite either the word yes
or no in the ballot boxes. There was no accepting
the good and rejecting the bad parts of it. No alteration
or amendment whatever would be permitted.
Major F. thought the new document, in many respects,
far preferable to the old one, but he did not
altogether fancy it as it stood. On being asked his
opinion, he said,
“That instrument is like a good oyster, but it's
plaguy hard to be compelled to swallow the shells
along with it.”
The pious Mr. —, who, by the way, is suspected
of being no better than he should be, notwithstanding
all his professions, a short time since rebuked
a well-known merchant of this city for using profane
language.
“Your discourse is ungentlemanly and impious,”
said Mr.—. “You should break yourself of such
an abominable practice.”
“I know it,” returned the dealer in cotton-bales
and profanity; “but most men fall into some error
or other unknown to themselves, yet they are entirely
innocent of all intention to do wrong, notwithstanding
their little inaccuracies—now I swear a
great deal, and you pray a great deal, yet neither of
us, I'm confident, means any thing by it.”
When Mr. Lee was mayor of the city of New-York,
he happened to be in conversation with a
rolled past.
“I was aware,” observed his companion, “that
your honour was destined to play many conspicuous
parts in the great drama of human life; but I never
expected to see you on the public stage!”
No man in this community had a larger circle of
acquaintance than the late Doctor Hosack. He stood
in Wall-street half an hour one morning, talking
with a friend, and almost every body spoke to him
as they passed. It is incredible the number of
nods and how-d'ye-dos and how-are-yes the worthy
physician received in the short space above mentioned.
These, however, were so numerous as to
induce his friend to remark—
“Why, doctor, you appear to be pretty well known
in New-York?”
“Yes,” replied the M. D., with a little pardonable
self-conceit, “I think, if I were to commit murder,
they would find me out.”
“Why, yes,” returned the other, “except you did
it in the way of your profession!”
The doctor, it is said, did not relish the joke.
Doctors are fond of ridiculing each other, and
their controversies are at times quite amusing. Now
it is well known that the practitioners of the old
new. Among your regular Galens, homœpathia
is exceedingly unpopular—they scout it on all occasions.
A lady called on Dr. Francis, an eminent
practitioner, and an adherent of the Sangrado system,
with an imaginary complaint of the heart, and
was recommended by him in derision to try Dr.
Hahncmann's method. “What is that?” asked the
invalid. “Why, madam,” said he, “it is a sovereign
remedy for every complaint under the sun. In your
case, I would advise you to dissolve one grain of
muriate of soda (common salt) in a hogshead of
water, and take a teaspoonful every three months.”
The lady followed the advice thus given, and strange
to say, after two doses, was entirely cured of her
complaint, and recommended it to others as a specific
in all similar cases. Such is the power of the
imagination!
During the “panick” in the money market some
few years ago, a meeting of merchants was held in
the Exchange, to devise ways and means to extricate
themselves from their pecuniary difficulties.
The great hall was crowded, addresses were made,
resolutions passed, committees appointed, and everything
done that is usual and necessary. After all
this, one of the company moved that the meeting
stand adjourned until some future day, when up
and requested the merchants to linger a moment, as
he had something of the greatest importance to communicate.
The jobber was known to be a very
diffident person; and, as he had never ventured on
the responsibilities of a speech on any former public
occasion, all were anxious to hear what he had
to say.—“Gentlemen,” said he, with evident emotion,
and in the most emphatic, feeling and eloquent
manner, “what's the use of talking of some future
day? We want relief, I tell you!—immediate relief!”
and down he sat amidst a universal roar of laughter.
The next day he failed!
The late Charles Gilfert, the quondam manager
of the Bowery theatre, was a peculiar fellow, and
one of the most fascinating men of his day. At
Albany he met with a Mr. Lemair, a Frenchman, of
whom he borrowed money until he nearly ruined
him. Lemair was one day in a towering rage at the
cause of his misfortunes, and used to tell the following
characteristic story of his friend:—“Monsieur
Charles Gilfert, he come to Albany. He have ruin
me in my business—mes affaires. He borrow de
l'argent from me to large amount. He go to New-York,
and promise to send him, right avay, ver
quick. But, voyez-vous, when I write him, he return
me von réponse inconvenante, von impudent
him. I leave Albany instantly, determined to have
the grand personal satisfaction for the affront he put
upon me. I walk straight avay from de bateau á
vapeur, de steamboat. I go to my boarding-house.
I procure von large stick, and rush out of de pension
to meet him. By-and-by, bientôt, I see him von large
vay off, very remotely. I immedaitely button up
my coat vith strong determination, and hold my
stick fierce in my hand, to break his neck several
time. Ven he come near, my indignation rise.
He put out his hand. I reject him. He smile, and
look over his spectacles at me. I say, you von
scoundrel, coquin infame. He smile de more, and
make un grand effort, a great trial, to pacify my
grande indignation, and before he leave me, he borrow
twenty dollare from me once more, by gar! A
ver pleasant man vas Monsieur Charles Gilfert; ver
nice man to borrow l'argent, ma foi!”
Gilfert, like Sheridan, was in the habit of borrowing
money from everybody, very little of which was
ever paid back; but he always intended to return
it at the time he promised. He was a visionary
man, and did not make the best calculations in the
world. We heard of his meeting a friend in the
Bowery, one day, when the following circumstance
took place:
“Ah,” said Gilfert, “you are the very man I
wanted to see. Lend me two hundred dollars.”
“I would, in a moment,” replied his friend,” “but
it is impossible. I have a note to pay, and I don't
know where to get the money.”
“A note, said Gilfert, “so have I. Let me see
your notice.”
The gentleman produced it from his pocket-book.
“Well,” said Gilfert, “how much are you short?”
“About two hundred dollars,” said his friend.
To his utter surprise, Gilfert handed him the money.
“There,” said he, “go and pay your note. I'll
let mine be protested, as they can't both be taken
up. If your note laid over, it might hurt your
credit, but with me it don't matter, as I am used to
that sort of business.”
At one time Gilfert owed Conrad, the printer, a
bill. Conrad grew tired of dunning him for it, and
one day wrote Gilfert a letter, which put the manager
in a towering fury. Down he sat, and challenged
Conrad to fight, declaring that if he refused, he
would horsewhip him in the public streets the next
day. Conrad returned for answer that he would
not fight, until his bill was paid, as no man in his
senses would voluntarily go out to shoot at his own
money. Some few weeks after this occurrence,
Gilfert had an unexpected windfall. Conrad received
the following terms:
“My dear conrad—I was wrong, but you had
no right to insult me. Yet I ought to have paid you
the money before. I enclose it to you now, principal
and interest. Come and dine with me. Tout
à vous.
What a pity it is that some good writer would not
give us the memoirs of this extraordinary man.
| The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times | |