lovelorn heroine of the piece--at length she comes--with a hop, step,
and a jump, she blushingly alights in the middle of the
stage--applause--she teeters--cheering--she teeters lower yet--prolonged
clapping of hands--bouquet hits her on the head; she picks it up and
teeters lower still--a dozen or so more fall at her feet, or are
scattered indiscriminately over the fiddlers and the boys in the front
row--somebody throws a laurel wreath--she again teeters to the very
earth, so low that I think she will have to sit flat down and pick
herself up by degrees at her leisure, but she ultimately comes up all
right.
Melodramatic villain comes on with a black dress, and a blacker scowl on
his intellectual visage--has some hard words with the heroine--she calls
him a "cowardly wretch," a "vile _thing_," defies him to his teeth,
tells him to do his worst, and finishes in an exhausted mutter, in which
I could only distinguish disconnected words, such as "poison,"
"vengeance," "heaven," "justice," "blood," "true-love," and "death."
Despairing lover appears in the background, remarkable principally for
his spangled dress and dirty tights, at sight of whom the defiant maid
immediately changes her tune, and prays powerful villain to spare her
beloved Adolphus--powerful villain scowls blacker, and turns up his
lip--heroine gets more distracted than before--scowly villain won't
relent--suffering young lady piles on the agony, and implores him "to
save my father from a dungeon, and take this wretched hand."
Powerful villain evidently going to do it, when heroic lover comes down
on a run, throws one arm around his lady-love, draws his sword with the
other, strikes a grand attitude, and makes a terrific face at powerful
villain, who disappears incontinently--lover drops his bloodthirsty
weapon, slaps his hand on his breast, and the interesting pair pokes
their head over each other's shoulders, and embrace in the orthodox
stage fashion.
Scene closes.
Magnificent chamber, furnished with a square-legged table, two chairs,
and carpets whose shortcomings are distinctly visible to the naked
eye--triumphal march, long dose of trumpet, administered in a
flourish--supposed to portend the advent of royalty.
Enter procession of badly scared "supes," with cork whiskers, wooden
spears, pasteboard helmets, tin shields resplendent with Dutch metal,
and sandals of ingenious construction and variety--they march in in
single file, treading on each other's heels, keeping step with the
majestic regularity of a crowd of frightened sheep escaping from a
pursuing bull-dog, and form a line which looks like a rainbow with a
broken back.
King swaggers in, looking very wild--distracted heroine enters all in
tears, her hair down her back, her sleeves rolled up, (evidently being
convinced that "_Jerdon_ is a hard road,") and her general appearance
expressive of great agony of mind.
She makes a tearing speech to the king, during which she rolls up her
eyes, throws her arms about, wrings her hands, pitches about in a
certain and unreliable manner, like a galvanized frog--sinks on her
knees, rumples her hair, yells, cries, whispers, screams, squirms, begs,
entreats, dances, wriggles, shakes her fist at powerful
villain--stretches forth her hand to heaven--throws her train around as
if she was cracking a coach whip--slides about like a small boy on
skates, and at length, when she has exerted herself till she is hoarse,
she faints into the arms of heroic lover, who stands convenient; her
body from the waist up being in a deep swoon, while her locomotive
apparatus retains its usual action, and walks off without assistance,
although the inanimate part of her is borne away in the careful arms of
the enamored swain in the dirty tights.
Several scenes follow, in all of which the heroic lover, the dark
villain, and the despairing maiden, figure conspicuously, and the scenic
resources of this magnificent establishment are displayed to the utmost
advantage--the omnipresent square-legged table being equal to any
emergency--being an ornament of elegant proportions in the palace, then
an appropriate fixture in the lowly cot of the "poor but honest parents"
of heroic lovers.
It is used by the King to sign a death-warrant on, and is then
transferred to the kitchen, where it makes a convenient platform upon
which the low-comedy servant dances a hornpipe--it then reappears in the
country-house of a powerful villain, who uses it by night for a
bedstead--and it then makes its final appearance in the King's private
library, prior to its eventual resurrection in the farce, where barmaid
has it covered with pewter beer-mugs and platters of cold victuals.
And the same two ubiquitous chairs go through every gradation of
fortune, turn up in all sorts of unexpected places, are always
forthcoming when we least expect to see them--are chairs of state or
humble stools, as occasion may require--are put to all sorts of
uses--appear in varied unexpected capacities, and finally, when we think
their Protean transformations are at last exhausted, they re-appear,
covered with flannel ermine and Turkey red calico, doing duty as thrones
for the King and Queen, and we are expected to honor them accordingly.
The end draws nigh--brigands begin to appear in every other scene--dark
lanterns, long swords, and broad cloaks are in the ascendant.
Terrible thunder-storm prevails--the dashing rain is imitated as closely
as dried peas and No. 1 shot can be expected to do it--the pendant sheet
iron does its duty nobly, and the home-made thunder is a first-rate
article. The plot thickens, so does the weather--heroic young lover is
in a peck of troubles--has a clandestine moonlight, midnight meeting
with injured damsel, and they resolve to kill themselves and take the
chances of something "turning up" in another world.
Comic servant eats whole mince pies, drinks innumerable bottles of
wine, and devours countless legs of mutton and plum-puddings at a
sitting.
Villain is triumphant--blood and murder seem to be victorious over
innocence and virtue--when suddenly "a change comes o'er the spirit of
their dreams."
Heroic lover resolves not to die, but to distinguish himself--fights a
single-handed combat with seven robbers--stabs three, kicks one into a
mill-pond, and throws the rest over a precipice--distressed maid is
pursued by bandit chief--is rescued by heroic lover, who catches her in
his arms and jumps with her through a trap-door over a picket fence.
Hero is unexpectedly discovered to be a Prince, which fact is made known
to the world by his old nurse, who comes from some unknown region, and
whose word everybody seems to set down as gospel.
Despairing lady proves to be a Princess--King summons all hands to
appear before him--heroic lover plucks up courage, runs at big villain
with his sword--fight, with all the usual stamps by the combatants, and
appropriate music by the orchestra.
Big villain is stabbed--falls with his head close to the wing--prompter
slaps red paint in his left eye--looks very bloody--acts very
malicious--spits at heroic lover--squirms about a good deal--kicks his
boots off--soils his stockings, and after a prolonged spasmodic flourish
with both legs, his wig comes off, he subsides into an extensive calm,
and dies all over the stage.
Everybody is reconciled to everybody else. King comes down from his
throne to join the hands of the loving pair, and immediately abdicates
in favor of persevering lover--people all satisfied--young husband
kisses his bride, leaving part of his painted moustache on her forehead,
and she, in return, wipes the Venetian red from her cheeks upon his
white satin scarf--Grand Tableau--triumph of virtue (painted young man
and woman) over vice--(big dead rascal). Everybody cries
"hooray"--curtain goes down.
The appreciating audience congratulate themselves on having done their
part to encourage and sustain the "Modern Classic Drama."
Had I not been informed by the advertisement of the "Grand Thespian
Wigwam," that this was a specimen of a sterling "legitimate Classic
Drama," I should have supposed it to be a blood and thunder
graft of another stock transplanted here for the delectation of
"upper-tendom"--from the rustic shades of the unmentionable Bowery.
Since my visit to this Modern Temple of the Drama, it has been converted
into a Circus, and the Home of Tragedy has been changed into a "Ring"
for the Exhibition of Summersets and Sawdust.
XXVI.
Theatricals Again--A Night at the Bowery.
Not satisfied with having seen the place of amusement referred to in the
last chapter, I also desired to go over to the twenty-five cent side of
the town, and behold the splendors of their dramatic world. Accordingly,
I've been to the Bowery Theatre--the realm of orange-peel and
peanuts--the legitimate home of the unadulterated, undiluted sanguinary
drama--the school of juvenile Jack-Sheppardism, where adolescent
"shoulder hitters" and politicians in future take their first lessons in
rowdyism.
Where the seeds of evil are often first planted in the rough bosom of
the uncared-for boy, and, developed by the atmosphere of this moral
hot-house, soon blossom into crime.
Where, by perverted dramatic skill, wickedness is clothed in the robes
of romance and pseudo-heroism so enticingly as to captivate the young
imagination, and many a mistaught youth goes hence into the world with
the firm belief that to rival Dick Turpin or Sixteen-String Jack is the
climax of earthly honor.
A place where they announce a grand "benefit" five nights in the week,
for the purpose of cutting off the free-list, on which occasions the
performance lasts till the afternoon of the next day.
Where the newsboys congregate to see the play, and stimulate, with their
discriminating plaudits, the "star" of the evening.
For this is the spawning-ground of theatrical luminaries unheard-of in
other spheres; men who having so far succeeded in extravagant
buffoonery, or in that peculiar kind of serious playing which may be
termed mad-dog tragedy, as to win the favor of this audience, forthwith
claim celestial honors, and set up as "stars."
And a star benefit-night at this establishment is a treat; the
beneficiary feasts the whole company after the performance, and they
hurry up their work as fast as possible so as to begin their
jollification at the nearest tavern; they have a preliminary good time
behind the scenes with such viands and potables as admit of hurried
consumption.
So that while the curtain is down, Lady Macbeth and the witches may be
seen together drinking strong-beer, and devouring crackers and cheese;
and after Macbeth has murdered Duncan, and Macduff has finished Macbeth,
they all three take a "whisky skin," and agree to go fishing next
Sunday.
The "Stranger" plays a pathetic scene, rushes from the stage in a
passion of tears, and is discovered the next minute eating ham
sandwiches and drinking Scotch ale out of the bottle--or Hamlet, after
his suicidal soliloquy, steps off, and, as the curtain descends upon the
act, dances a hornpipe with a ballet-girl, while the Ghost whistles the
tune and beats time with an oyster-knife.
But the Bowery audiences are, in their own fashion, critical, and will
have everything, before the curtain, done to suit their taste.
An actor must do his utmost, and make things ring again; and woe be to
him who dares, in a ferocious struggle, a bloody combat, or a violent
death, to abate one single yell, to leave out one bitter curse, or omit
the tithe of a customary contortion. He will surely rue his presumption,
for many a combatant has been forced to renew an easily won broadsword
combat, adding fiercer blows, and harder stamps--and many a performer
who has died too comfortably, and too much at his ease to suit his
exacting audience, has been obliged to do it all over again, with the
addition of extra jerks, writhings, flounderings, and high-pressure
spasms, until he has "died the death" set down for him.
An actress, to be popular at this theatre, must be willing to play any
part, from Lady Macbeth to Betsey Baker--sing a song, dance a jig,
swallow a sword, ride a bare-backed horse, fight with guns, lances,
pistols, broadswords, and single-sticks--walk the tight-rope, balance a
ladder on her nose, stand on her head, and even throw a back-summerset.
She must upon occasion play male parts, wear pantaloons, smoke cigars,
swear, swagger, and drink raw whiskey without making faces.
The refined taste which approbates these qualifications is also
displayed in the selection of dramas suitable for their display.
Shakspeare, as a general thing, is too slow. Richard III. might be
endured, if they would bring him a horse when he calls for it, and let
him fight Richmond and his army single-handed, and finally shoot himself
with a revolver, rather than give up beat.
Macbeth could only expect an enthusiastic welcome, if all the characters
were omitted but the three witches and the ghost of Banquo; but usually
nothing but the most slaughterous tragedies and melodramas of the most
mysterious and sanguinary stamp, give satisfaction.
A tragedy hero is a milk-sop, unless he rescues some forlorn maiden from
an impregnable castle, carries her down a forty-foot ladder in his arms,
holds her with one hand, while with the other he annihilates a score or
so of pursuers, by picking up one by the heels, and with him knocking
out the brains of all the rest, then springs upon his horse, leaps him
over a precipice, rushes him up a mountain, and finally makes his escape
with his prize amid a tempest of bullets, Congreve rockets, Greek fire
and bomb-shells.
Thus it may be supposed that no ordinary materials will furnish stock
for a successful Bowery play. Probabilities, or even improbable
possibilities, are too tame. Even a single ghost to enter in a glare of
blue light, with his throat cut, and a bloody dagger in his breast, and
clanking a dragging chain, would be too common-place.
When the boys are in the chivalric vein, and disposed to relish a hero,
to content them he must be able, in defence of distressed maidens, (the
Bowery boys are ragged knights-errant in their way, and greatly
compassionate forlorn damsels,) to circumvent and destroy a small-sized
army, and eat the captain for luncheon.
If they are in a murderous mood, nothing less than a full-grown battle,
with a big list of killed and wounded, will satisfy their thirst for
blood; and if they fancy a touch of the ghastly, nothing will do but
new-made graves, coffins, corpses, gibbering ghosts, and grinning
skeletons.
I went by the old, damaged, "spout-shop" the other day--saw a big bill
for the evening, and stopped to read--magnificent entertainment--to
commence with a five-act tragedy, in which the hero is pursued to the
top of a high mountain, and after slaying multitudes of enemies, he is
swallowed up by an earthquake, mountain and all, just in time to save
his life.
Professor Somebody was to go from the floor to the ceiling on a tight
rope, having an anvil tied to each foot, and a barrel of salt in his
teeth--then the interesting and bloody drama, "the Red Revenging Ruffian
Robber, or Bold Blueblazo of the Bloody Bradawl"--after which, a solo
on the violin, half a dozen comic songs, three fancy dances, and a
recitation of the "Sailor Boy's Dream," with a real hammock to "spring
from," three farces, and a comic opera--then Bullhead's Bugle Band would
give a concert, assisted by the Ethiopian Minstrel Doves--then an
amateur would dance the Shanghae Rigadoon on a barrel-head--after which
Madame Jumpli Theo. Skratch would display her agility by leaping through
a balloon over a pyramid, composed of a hose truck, two beer barrels,
and a mountain of green fire.
Numberless other things were promised, in the shape of Firemen's
addresses, songs, legerdemain, acrobatic exercises, ventriloquism, &c.,
the whole to conclude with an original Extravaganza, in which the whole
company would appear.
I paid my money, and got inside. A great many straight-up-and-down
red-faced ladies were in the boxes, with cotton gloves on, and bonnets
so small you couldn't tell they had any at all unless you went behind
and took a rear view--and a multitude of men who chewed a great deal of
tobacco, and sat with their hats on; a policeman stood in front of the
stage, and made a great deal of noise with a cane, and constituted
himself a nuisance generally.
The Pit, the dominion of the newsboys, was full of these young
gentlemen, in their shirt-sleeves, with boots too big, and caps perched
on the extreme supporting point of the head (the New York news-boy
always puts his cap on the back of his neck, and pulls all his hair over
his eyes), who were remarkably familiar and easy in their manners, and
all had bobtailed appellations; no boy had a whole name any more than a
whole suit of clothes; nothing more than Bob or Bill, with an adjective
prefixed, which transformed it into "Cross-eyed Bob," or "Stub-legged
Bill."
They enjoyed the performances much; they cheered the tragedy man when he
howled like a mad-bull, and hammered his stomach with both hands;
applauded the injured maiden when she told the "villain," "another step,
and she would lay him a corpse at her feet," at the same time showing a
dagger about as big as a darning-needle, and also, when in despair at
being deserted by the fellow in the yellow boots, in a spangled
night-gown, she poisoned herself with something out of a junk-bottle,
and expired in satisfactory convulsions.
They threw apples at the man who walked up the rope, and tossed peanuts
on the stage when the girl with the foggy dress was going to dance;
they called the actors by their names as they came on the stage, audibly
criticising their dress and manner, the performers often joining in the
conversation--one instant talking heroic poetry to some personage of the
scene, and the next inquiring of Jake, in the pit, how he would trade
his bull-terrier for a fighting-cock and a pair of pistols.
I stayed all night and watched the fun--began to get hungry--audience
all tired, and actors asleep on the stage from sheer exhaustion--the
noisy policeman was leaning against the orchestra railing fast
asleep--the boys had blacked his face with a burnt cork, filled his
boots full of peanut-shells, and cut a hole in his hat to put a candle
in; those boys who were awake were pulling the boots off the sleepy
ones, and putting them into the bass drum through a hole which they had
punched with a crutch.
On the stage the Emperor was sleeping on his throne, with his mouth open
like a fly-trap--the "injured lady" had sunk flat down upon the floor--a
robber lay each side--she was using the "villain" as a pillow, and had
her feet tangled in the hair of the "Amber Witch," who was sleeping
near.
I noticed the short-skirted dancing-girl reposing upon a pile of
"property" apple-dumplings, and the prompter was stretched on the top of
a canvas volcano, with the bell-rope in his hand, and his hair full of
resin from the "lightning-box."
Had enough theatre for once--went straight home, got a late breakfast,
and went to bed just as the clock struck three-quarters past ten.
[Illustration: Doesticks in the Lodge of the K. N.'s]
XXVII.
Mysterious Secrets of the K. N.'s--A Midnight
Initiation.--Philander Fooled.
Having of late heard a great deal about a mysterious individual known as
"Sam," I felt a strong desire to become more intimately acquainted with
a person of so much importance. Expressing a desire to that effect one
day in presence of a young friend who wore a set of gold stars on the
front entrance of his shirt, and had a star breast-pin, with the number
67 on it, he informed me that he knew the residence of the omnipresent
Samuel, and that, if I desired, he would put me in the way to gain the
like knowledge.
I snapped at his offer, and he told me to be at the foot of the Grand
street Liberty-pole at 2 o'clock in the morning, singing "Hail
Columbia," the "Star Spangled Banner," and "Yankee Doodle," in alternate
verses. That I must have a copy of the constitution in my coat pocket,
that at intervals I was to sing out "Yankee," and that when an
individual replied "Doodle" I was to take him by the arm and go whither
he should lead.
Bull Dogge accompanied me and we followed our directions to a dot.
After standing in the cold till our jaws rattled like a dice-box, a
person in a long cloak appeared. I whispered "Yankee," Shanghae-like he
responded "Doodle," and arm-in-arm we started.
We went through a long series of lanes, alleys, stair-cases, up ladders,
and through cellars, and at last came to an out-of-the-way room which we
could only enter by climbing up a two-inch rope and crawling on our
hands and knees on the roof about half a block, then letting ourselves
down through the garret-window.
Immediately on our entering the room, I was seized by several men,
blind-folded by having a red liberty-cap pulled over my eyes, and gagged
with the butt-end of a Yankee flag-staff.
Soon a gruff voice pronounced the mystic words, "off with the
night-cap." The cap was hastily removed, when the same voice continued,
"let there be light."
It was undoubtedly the intention to have a brilliant illumination
immediately follow this command, that the opening scenes of the
initiation might be grand and impressive.
The solemnity of the thing was, however, sadly interfered with by having
bad lucifer matches which would not take fire, notwithstanding the
active exertions and "curses not loud" but still audible, of the member
who was striving to ignite the same by rubbing them on the sole of his
boot, in which endeavor he broke them all in two, and split his finger
nails on the pegs in his heels.
After some delay, however, "there _was_ light," and then I discovered my
situation.
In a long room, a wooden statue of the Goddess of Liberty, at one end; a
picture of La Fayette, with a cocked hat on, at the other; and a man in
a pulpit in the middle, dressed up to represent Washington, in a
revolutionary uniform, with his hair powdered, and a sword in his hand.
As I approached him he gave me a goblin wink with his left eye, shook
his fist at me solemnly, and began to question me concerning my
nativity. Told him I was a full born Yankee, that the sight of an
Englishman makes me mad and fighty, that I wanted to kick every
Frenchman who comes in my path, and to trip up every Dutchman, and that
even the most distant glimpse of an Irishman makes me sick at the
stomach.
Said he thought I'd do, and told the rest to put me through the sprouts.
They wrapped me in an American flag, made me kneel down before the white
oak goddess of Liberty and solemnly swear hatred to the Pope, the
abolitionists, and the king of England, death and destruction to all
foreigners, and eternal fidelity to "Sam;" that I never would employ
Irishmen, never work for an Irishman, never have my washing done by an
Irishwoman, or my shirts made of Irish linen, and that when I said the
prayer in the book for all the world, I should make a special
reservation of the Irish, and insert a petition that in the general
resurrection they be overlooked "by particular desire."
At this juncture Bull Dogge fainted away, and was brought to by the High
Lord Noodle throwing dirty water in his face, and treading on his corns.
I was then made to stand upon my feet, hold up my right hand, and take a
terrible swear to the effect that I would never reveal the grand
principle of the order; which is to get trusted at the Irish groceries,
and use their liquor as long as credit holds out, in order to drink up
all the Irish whiskey, and get it out of the country; the supposition
being, that when the liquor is gone and the potato rot has done its
worst, the Irish will all perish for want of nourishment.