Passin’ along what might be called the middle of Broadway, around Union Square, I was reminded of the changes in that locality, and particularly the complete wipin’ out of that old landmark, Judge Roosevelt’s house.
This not at all handsome, but solid and domestic-lookin’ pile of brick and mortar, was one of the social centres of old New York. Old Judge Roosevelt himself was a rather close-fisted individual, and not to any great degree public-spirited in anythin’. But he was a gentleman, and his wife was a lady by birth, position and character–one of the ladies of the old school, which the new school might do well to imitate. She was connected with the English aristocracy–pretty closely, too, her sister bein’ Lady Ouseley–and her father had been at one time the American Minister to Spain, and had been very popular there. So she had always plenty of Englishmen and foreigners visitin’ at her house.
At one of her receptions there were over two hundred people, of whom over sixty were English, Scotch or Irish–English chiefly; over one hundred were Spanish, Portuguese, French or German, and less than forty were Americans; and of these only about one-half lived in America, the rest generally residin’ abroad. And this was about a fair sample of the company she kept–a sort of foreign headquarters.
Mrs. Roosevelt–or Lady Roosevelt, as some of her friends called her–was not a very good-lookin’ woman, but very winnin’ in her manners as well as very dignified. Her family, too, were all, like herself, not a bit good-lookin’, but amiable and solid.
Among the Englishmen who visited a good deal at the Roosevelt mansion while he was in New York was the great English novelist and satirist Thackeray Thackeray liked a “soft thing,” and findin’ that the Roosevelts kept open house, set a fine table and had excellent wines, he made himself at once “a friend of the family” and used to live there.
At one of the Roosevelt receptions somebody asked Thackeray if he intended to write a book about the Americans. “Dear me, no,” said Thackeray, “certainly not. I like the Americans too much to write about ‘em.”
This sounded funny, but as he afterwards explained it, it was all right. Thackeray meant if he wrote a book about ‘em he would have to tell, among other things, some unpleasant truths, which, as they had treated him nicely, and were on the whole a nice people, he didn’t want to do. It was kindly meant and was really a better style of thing than makin’ the most of a people’s hospitality, then goin’ away and blackguardin’ ‘em and then eatin’ your own words afterwards. Of the two great authors, Thackeray acted towards New York better than Dickens, although New York treated Dickens far better than it did Thackeray.
Thackeray was mighty fond, just like Dickens, of good eatin’ and drinkin’, and his friends gave him several dinners at Delmonico’s, then on Fourteenth street. He ate and drank heartily, and his friends paid the bills. Nobody thought anythin’ about it, and Thackeray looked upon the dinners just as little compliments which didn’t cost much, and which were to be chiefly valued for the sake of the good feelin’ they showed. But the time came when he changed his opinions materially on these points. He gave a little return dinner one evenin’ to four gentlemen who had each given him a dinner, and when he came to pay his little bill for the little dinner, then, and not till then, did the great satirist thoroughly appreciate how kind his four friends had been to him, and how much their kindness had cost ‘em.
Thackeray’s bill for his little Delmonico’s dinner of five was over one hundred dollars, and then from seein’ what he had to pay himself he saw clearly and forcibly what his four friends had had to pay apiece for him.
“Gracious heavens!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea of the expense to which I was puttin’ my friends.” And for once he did feel like sittin’ down and writin’ a book on American restaurants.
Thackeray once said that “the greatest institution in America was oysters,” and he was devoted to this institution all the time he was in New York. The very first day he was here he went all the way down to Fulton Market and ate–ate–ate–and the very last thing he did before leavin’ was to hurry down to Dorlan’s and get a plate of fried.
Even when he got back to England he did not forget the bivalves, but once, with a party of American friends in London, he drank the toast, “Here’s to Boston thought, Baltimore women and New York oysters.”
[Editor’s notes: Judge James I. Roosevelt died in 1875, and the house was razed the next year to make way for commercial buildings, which had taken over the neighborhood. The Mansion was replaced by the Mitchell Vance Co. building, which still stands. James I. Roosevelt was a justice of the New York Supreme Court and grand-uncle of President Theodore Roosevelt–but this column was written long before Theodore Roosevelt’s first entry into public service.]
