If the Chinese must go they will have to close up the large theatres in San Francisco owned and controlled by Celestial managers. In these temples of the almond-eyed Thespis extraordinary plays are enacted running through months and even years, in a to-be-continued style, for, the Chinese dramatist, who never writes anything but tragedy of the wildest and most harrowing kind, always begins with the birth of his hero or heroine and does not let the merest incident pass until his or her friends are ready to sit down to a feast of roast pig and rice by the side of the principal character's grave. The dramas are mainly historical, and many a Chinaman who starts in to see a first-class play of the average length is on his way back to China in a coffin or box with his cue neatly folded around him for a burial robe, long before the last act of the drama is reached. So, too, the star actors frequently die before they have time to finish the play. I don't know that any American has ever had the patience to wait for the denouement of a Chinese drama, but to the saffron-skinned, horse-hair-surmounted and slanting-eyed citizen of San Francisco, his theatre is a place next in importance to the Joss House or temple, and when he once buys his season ticket for a show, he sticks to it with a pertinacity that would put an ordinary glue or cement advertisement to the blush. It is the same, too, when they patronize a theatre in which the surroundings and language are English; once in their seats, they stay—forgetting even to go out between the acts for an opera-glass or a bottle of pop.

But to return to the Chinese theatre. Its interior differs very little from the interior of the places of amusement frequented by his American brother. The general contour and arrangement of the auditorium is pretty much the same. The men sit together on benches partitioned off into single seats in the lower portion of the house, or pit, with their little round hats on, and their pipes or cigars in their mouths; the ladies, who are not allowed into the male portion of the auditorium, have galleries for themselves whence they look down upon the actions of their male friends below. Everywhere except on the stage quiet and the utmost serenity prevail, no person in the audience moving a hand, raising a foot, or opening a lip, even when the villain is cut into ribbons by the Sunday-school hero; and at no stage of the performance does the slightest manifestation of delight or disapprobation come from the patient and enduring on-looker. In this respect John Chinamen has neglected to take a lesson from his American cousin, or to acquire the character of the howling short-haired gentlemen who apotheosize Dennis Kearney and think there is no better worshipping place in the world than "the sand lots."

The largest Chinese theatre in San Francisco is on Washington Street and was opened in 1879. Its auditorium is almost a copy of the best theatres of the large cities of the country. Its audience is seated and separated in the manner I have described, and their behavior is, in accordance with the custom of their country, quiet and respectful. The stage of the theatre, though, is a curiosity. There is no curtain, and but one scene that never changes. On the side of the stage—or proscenium—long slips of colored paper with Chinese characters on them are hung—the adages and axioms of what is familiarly known as tea-chest literature—and numerous multi-colored lanterns shed their radiance around the place. At the back of the stage sit several musicians with tom-toms, cymbals, fiddles, and divers other instruments all of wonderful construction and with frightful capacity for setting anybody but a Chinaman crazy. These musicians seem to be as important elements in the action and meaning of the play as the actors themselves are. As soon as the performance begins they immediately tune up, and from that on until the show is over they never give the audience or the music a single rest. The play usually begins at five o'clock in the afternoon and continues until two the following morning, so it will be readily understood that the Chinese musician has a pretty wide scope for his genius, while the Chinese audience must be more than mortal to stand both the music and the actors for some hours at a stretch. The actors make themselves as hideous as possible, employing wigs and long beards with plenty of paint to disguise themselves. They stalk and stamp around in a manner highly suggestive of the English-speaking "scene-eater," and there is a great deal of stabbing and killing—thunder and blood, so to speak—which is wasted, as the audience does not seem to rise to the enthusiasm of the occasion and there are no "gallery gods" to help bring the house down. While the actors are shouting loudest, the musicians, all of whom seem to be playing different tunes, are working hardest and the din and discord of a supremely grand moment of Chinese tragedy are something horrible to hear and simply torturesome to endure. Boys or young men play the female parts as was the custom on the English stage in the time of Elizabeth. There is no levity in the performance, no prancing or dancing, nothing but the utmost severity and solemnity, which leaves me in doubt whether the Chinese go to the theatre to be amused or are compelled by some law of their country or religion to do so.

The property-room of a Chinese theatre is a very queer concern, filled up with lanterns, old clothes, spears, etc., but the most extraordinary feature of the place is the quantity of eatables that find their way into the room and down the throats of the performers. That most delicious morsel, roast pig, of whose discovery by the Celestials Charles Lamb has written so charmingly, occupies a prominent place on the board, and is frequently attacked by the actors, who appear to come off the stage as hungry as six-day go-as-you-please pedestrians are when they leave the track. When the Chinese actor is not acting or putting on his costume you may depend upon it that he is eating. This histrionic peculiarity is strongly marked among the descendants of Ho-Fi, who if they are not good tragedians have first-class appetites and stomachs whose capacity is not measured by three meagre meals a day.

A correspondent writing from Yokohama gives an idea of the amusements served up in the Japanese capital by its enterprising theatrical managers. The Japanese, says this writer, are a theatre-going people, and their taste is catered unto continually. Whether the managers accumulate riches I know not, but theatrical amusements are provided for the wants and means of all classes. At the first-class establishment is a revolving stage, upon which is placed the scenery and properties devoted to the play on the boards. The orchestra occupy the left-hand side of the stage, or rather they are placed in an elevated pen at the left of the stage floor. The revolving part of the business is about fifteen feet from the foot-lights, the intervening space being permanent. The wings are not elaborate, and not much machinery is employed to work up effects. The inevitable trap is utilized on this stage, it being the only place that boasts of the improvement. The actors at this theatre are of the first rank, and their dresses are gorgeous in the extreme. "Regardless of expense" must be their motto; and here are produced all the famous plays known to the natives, they being all of national significance.

The Japanese are patriotic in their instincts, and do not run after strange representations with which to amuse themselves. Everything on the board is intensely Japanese—descriptive of their fables and romances, as well as reproducing actual episodes in the history of the empire. To the stranger who is alien to the language their plays are first-class pantomimes only, though one can but accord the actors rare dramatic ability. I must say, however, that the style affected in their stage step is something too awfully too too for anything. The poetry of motion is a different affair here from what is considered the correct thing elsewhere. Keene or Billy Emerson could, either of them, get a new kink in a stage walk if they could study Japanese methods a while. It costs thirty cents to enter the temples of dramatic art—that is, to be in the place for the upper tendom, the gallery—or dress circle, it may be called—which runs on both sides of the house, as well as on the end fronting the stage. This gallery is about five feet wide, and is entered from the passage-way running along it through openings in the partition without doors. It is divided into spaces of five feet or more by placing a round piece of timber of say two inches in diameter from the gallery front and the back of it. The front is elevated above the floor about fifteen inches only, as the occupants are expected to sit upon their haunches on the matted floor. Between acts tea is served to any who will buy, and smoking is allowed all over the house during the play. The body of the theatre is supplied with benches without backs for the accommodation of the audience.

There is no sharp practice in the way of reserved seats in Japanese theatres. Neither is there necessity to go outside for a clove or browned coffee. When once seated you are at your ease, not having to draw yourself up for any other fellow. The second-grade places are of a cheaper order, where one can sit on the floor, there being no seats, or stand upon the ground, there being no floor, the earth doing duty in that regard. One cent and a half and two cents and a half give the grades of the establishments. They are all, best as well as inferior, lighted with the domestic-made candle, and when the original dips of our grandmothers are remembered, the kind of a candle used is described. The candles smoke as well as the audience. There is a large stock of amusement to be had in a one and a half cent concern, that is, if you are not particular about the Æsthetic nature of the surroundings, and do not carry with you a cultivated musical ear. These places do not carry on their pay-roll any large number of star actors, or a numerous stock company, and they do not devote much time to the rehearsal of parts, as it is the duty of the prompter to flit from one actor to another with the lines of the dialogue in one hand, and in the other a stiff paper lantern. Bending low, he reads in a tone readily caught by the actor the lines, which are duly repeated, while the prompter "is doing his duty" by the next one. It is one of the most interesting features of a play, this constant flitting of the prompter. If any fellow about the establishment earns his pay, the prompter is the man.

There are very many side-shows to attract the pleasure-seeker, all of them being within the compass of the humblest, the charge being from one-half cent to one and one-half cents. In these places are witnessed juggling tricks of real merit, and top-spinning that is a bewilderment to the looker-on. Tops of all sizes are spun with the aid of a string, and made to revolve by the action of the hands only. An expert will throw his top from him, and by the action of the string as it unwinds draw it back so that it is caught in his hand—of course, without it having touched the ground. An unopened fan is then taken in the other hand, and the top is placed upon one of its sides and spun along it. Then the fan is opened, and the top continues to spin along its edge to its farther side, and along it until the hand is reached, when up it runs on the arm to the shoulder, and across the back and down the other arm, on to the fan again. Then it will be tossed into the air and caught upon one of the corners of the opened fan, from which it is tossed again and again into the air and caught as it descends. It is wonderful the way they can manipulate a top. I have seen them take a large-sized one, having a spindle by which it was made to rotate, and by simply placing the spindle between the palms of the hands, and drawing one hand back while advancing the other a number of times it attained sufficient velocity, when it was taken from the table on which it was spinning and a turn taken around the spindle with a string that was pendant from a paper lantern hanging high up against the ceiling of the building. Up went the top into the lantern, which opened into the shape of an umbrella, and a wealth of festoons of bright-colored tissue paper descended from it all about the stage. Those who witnessed Little All Right and the troupe of Japanese acrobats that exhibited their tricks years ago in the United States will remember the many surprising feats done by them. What they paid $1 for seeing can be witnessed in Yokohama in the open air for just what one is pleased to contribute, or under cover for from one to three cents.

There are no manifestations of applause, no cat-calls or signs of impatience. In the places visited by even the poorest, where the accommodations are of the rudest, perfect order is observed, and every one seems to be possessed of a patient quietness that is amazing. They exhibit a deference for the comfort of their fellows that is worthy of imitation. One great reason, perhaps, that the people are so gentle and accommodating, one to the other, may be found in their complete sobriety. No exhibition of drunken rowdyism is to be seen, and yet the entire people, women as well as men, drink of the national beverage, "sake," a liquor distilled from rice. As there is no "tarantula juice" in its composition, its inebriating quality is rather mild. Its effect upon the brain is not lasting, neither is it injurious.