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Updated: May 18, 2025
It supplied us, we must have felt, our greatest conceivable adventure I cannot otherwise account for its emerging so clear. Everything here is as of yesterday, the identity of the actors, the details of their dress, the charm imparted by the sisters Gougenheim, the elegant elder as the infatuated Helena and the other, the roguish "Joey" as the mischievous Puck. Hermia was Mrs.
The Cataract of the Ganges is all there as well, a tragedy of temples and idols and wicked rajahs and real water, with Davidge and Joey Gougenheim again for comic relief though all in a coarser radiance, thanks to the absence of fairies and Amazons and moonlit mechanical effects, the charm above all, so seen, of the play within the play; and I rank it in that relation with Green Bushes, despite the celebrity in the latter of Madame Céleste, who came to us straight out of London and whose admired walk up the stage as Miami the huntress, a wonderful majestic and yet voluptuous stride enhanced by a short kilt, black velvet leggings and a gun haughtily borne on the shoulder, is vividly before me as I write.
"Well, you must be pretty desperate when you have got to go to Boston for your entertainment." "Well, there's a similar society there, and I never heard of their sending to New York." "Of course not, they think they have got everything. But doesn't it make your life a burden thinking what you can possibly have?" "Oh dear, no. I am going to have Professor Gougenheim all about the Talmud.
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