Audience all silent, waiting the coming of the "Evening Star," the 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 att.i.tude, 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 a.s.sistance, 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 n.o.bly, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y--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 Cla.s.sic Drama."
Had I not been informed by the advertis.e.m.e.nt of the "Grand Thespian Wigwam," that this was a specimen of a sterling "legitimate Cla.s.sic 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 d.i.c.k 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 sp.a.w.ning-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 pa.s.sion 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 b.l.o.o.d.y combat, or a violent death, to abate one single yell, to leave out one bitter curse, or omit the t.i.the 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-sh.e.l.ls.
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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 compa.s.sionate forlorn damsels,) to circ.u.mvent 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 mult.i.tudes of enemies, he is swallowed up by an earthquake, mountain and all, just in time to save his life.