These spikes imparted anguish to the mind of Mr. Slapman whenever he gazed upon them.  Mrs. S. had heard him say, that “some people would look well hanging up there.”  By “some people,” he was supposed to mean the gentlemen who participated in her dramatic entertainments.  Mrs. S. bore the cruel remark meekly, merely replying that perhaps he had better try the strength of the spikes first, by suspending himself from one of them.

The audience, usually numbering about fifty, were seated in chairs, which filled the parlor, with the exception of a space of ten feet in front of the stage.  A fair view of the entire proceedings could be had from all but the two back rows of chairs, the occupants of which were compelled to imagine the attachment of feet and ankles to the several characters of the drama.

From the left wing of the stage a door opened into the hall, affording communication by the staircase to the ladies’ and gentlemen’s dressing rooms on the floor above.  On the third floor (it was known to some of the guests) was the private apartment of Mr. Slapman.  A strong smell of cigar smoke, as of one fumigating sullenly and furiously, was the unvarying proof of his presence in the house.  On this eventful night, he had been seen, at an early hour, pacing up and down the hall of his third floor, belching forth clouds of smoke, like Vesuvius just before a fiery eruption.

People who were in the sad secret of Mrs. Slapman’s household sorrows, looked at each other and smiled, but said nothing; for it was a point of good breeding not to allude to him in conversation.  The newer guests, unaware of the melancholy facts in the case, supposed that the restless gentleman on the third floor was some one of Mrs. Slapman’s eccentric friends, working out an idea.  Mrs. Slapman paid no attention to her jealous spouse, imagining that he would smoke away his wrath quietly, as usual, and not interfere with the evening’s amusement.  Hitherto, on occasions, he had done nothing more disagreeable than to open the parlor door furtively, cast one wild look inside, and then suddenly withdraw his head, gently slamming the door after him.

The play of the evening was written “expressly for the occasion” by a gentleman who had produced one melodrama at a Bowery theatre, and failed to produce a large number of melodramas at all the theatres in Broadway.  Mrs. Slapman, a true patroness of genius, kindly permitted this gentleman to prepare all her charades, and gratified him, on several occasions by bringing out some of the minor plays from his stuffed portfolio.

By eight o’clock all the chairs were filled, and the actors and actresses were still lingering over their toilet.  After waiting ten minutes longer, and crossing and uncrossing their legs repeatedly, the audience stamped and whistled very much in the manner of an impatient crowd at a real theatre.  Mrs. Slapman relished these little ebullitions of natural feeling, because it made the illusion of her “Thespian parlor” (as she called it) more complete.