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.