“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.”