Part 38

The Old Bowery Theatre, situated on the thoroughfare from which it takes its name, below Canal street, is the only old theatre left standing in the city. Three theatres have preceded it on this site, and all have been destroyed by fire. Within the last few years, the interior of the present theatre has been greatly modernized. The plays presented here are of a character peculiarly suited to that order of genius which despises Shakspeare, and hopes to be one day capable of appreciating the Black Crook. "Blood and thunder dramas," they are called in the city. The titles are stunning--the plays themselves even more so. A writer in one of the current publications of the day gives the following truthful picture of a "Saturday night at the Bowery:"

[Picture: THE OLD BOWERY THEATRE.]

"I had not loitered long at the entrance after the gas blazed up, when from up the street, and from down the street, and from across the street, there came little squads of dirty, ragged urchins--the true gamin of New York. These at once made a gymnasium of the stone steps--stood on their heads upon the pavements or climbed, like locusts, the neighboring lamp-posts; itching for mischief; poking fun furiously; they were the merriest gang of young dare-devils I have seen in a long day. It was not long before they were recruited by a fresh lot of young 'sardines' from somewhere else--then they went in for more monkey-shines until the door should be unbarred. They seemed to know each other very well, as if they were some young club of genial spirits that had been organized outside of the barriers of society for a long while. What funny habiliments they sported. It had never been my experience to see old clothes thrown upon young limbs so grotesquely. The coat that would have been a fit for a corpulent youth nearly buried a skinny form the height of your cane.

"And on the other hand, 'young dropsy's' legs and arms were like links of dried 'bolonas' in the garments which misfortune's raffle had drawn for him. Hats without rims--hats of fur, dreadfully plucked, with free ventilation for the scalp--caps with big tips like little porches of leather--caps without tips, or, if a tip still clung to it, it was by a single thread and dangled on the wearer's cheek like the husk of a banana. The majority seemed to have a weakness for the costumes of the army and the navy. Where a domestic tailor had clipped the skirts of a long blue military coat he had spared the two buttons of the waist-band, and they rested on the bare heels like a set of veritable spurs. Shoes and boots (and remember it's a December night) are rather scarce--and those by which these savoyards could have sworn by grinned fearfully with sets of naked toes. One 'young sport,' he had seen scarcely ten such winters, rejoiced in a pair of odd-mated rubber over-shoes, about the dimensions of snow-shoes. They saluted him as 'Gums.' A youngster, with a childish face and clear blue eyes, now shuffled upon the scene.

"'O Lordy, here's Horace, jist see his get up.' A shout of laughter went up, and Horace was swallowed in the ragged mob.

"'Horace' sported a big army cap like a huge blue extinguisher. He wrapped his wiry form in a cut-down, long-napped white beaver coat, the lapels of which were a foot square, and shingled his ankles as if he stood between a couple of placards. I had seen the latest caricature on the philosopher of the _Tribune_, but this second edition of H. G. swamped it. I knew that that young rogue had counted upon the effect of his white coat, and he enjoyed his christening with a gleeful face and a sparkle in his blue eyes. O, for the pencil of a Beard or a Bellew, to portray those saucy pug-noses, those dirty and begrimed faces! Faces with bars of blacking, like the shadows of small gridirons--faces with woful bruised peepers--faces with fun-flashing eyes--faces of striplings, yet so old and haggard--faces full of evil and deceit.

"Every mother's son of them had his fists anchored in his breeches pockets, and swaggered about, nudging each other's ribs with their sharp little elbows. They were not many minutes together before a battle took place. Some one had tripped 'Gums,' and one of his old shoes flew into the air. I think he of the white coat was the rascal, but being dubbed a philosopher, he did his best to look very wise, but a slap on the side of the ridge of his white collar upset his dignity, and 'Horace' 'went in,' and his bony fists rattled away on the close-shaven pate of 'Gums.'

"The doors are now unbarred, and this ragged 'pent up little Utica' rends itself, but not without much more scratching and much swearing. O, the cold-blooded oaths that rang from those young lips! As the passage to the pit is by a sort of cellar door, I lost sight of the young scamps as the last one pitched down its gloomy passage.

"In the human stream--in a whirlpool of fellow-beings--nudging their way to the boxes and the upper tiers, I now found myself. It was a terrible struggle; females screaming, were eddied around and around until their very faces were in a wire cage of their own 'skeletons.'

"'Look out for pickpockets,' shouted a Metropolitan. Every body then tried to button his coat over his breast, and every body gave it up as a bad job. In at last, but with the heat of that exertion--the smell of the hot gas--the fetid breath of two thousand souls, not particular, many, as to the quality of their gin--what a sweltering bath follows! The usher sees a ticket clutched before him, and a breathless individual saying wildly, 'Where?' He points to a distant part of the house, and the way to it is through a sea of humanity. A sort of a Dead Sea, for one can walk on it easier than he can dive through it. I shall never know how I got there at last; all I remember now are the low curses, the angry growls and a road over corns and bunions.

"The prompter's bell tingles and then tingles again. The bearded Germans of the orchestra hush their music, and the big field of green baize shoots to the cob-web arch.

"Now is the time to scan the scene--that teeming house--that instant when all faces are turned eagerly to the foot-lights, waiting breathlessly the first sound of the actor's voice. The restlessness of that tossing sea of humanity is at a dead calm now. Every nook and cranny is occupied--none too young--none too old to be there at the rise of the curtain. The suckling infant 'mewling and puking in its mother's arms.' The youngster rubbing his sleepy eyes. The timid Miss, half frightened with the great mob and longing for the fairy world to be created. Elder boys and elder sisters. Mothers, fathers, and the wrinkled old grand-sire. Many of these men sit in their shirt-sleeves, sweating in the humid atmosphere. Women are giving suck to fat infants. Blue-shirted sailors encircle their black-eyed Susans, with brawny arms (they make no 'bones' of showing their honest love in this democratic temple of Thespis). Division street milliners, black-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and flashy dressed sit close to their jealous-eyed lovers. Little Jew boys, with glossy ringlets and beady black eyes, with teeth and noses like their fat mammas and avaricious-looking papas, are yawning everywhere. Then there is a great crowd of roughs, prentice boys and pale, German tailors--the latter with their legs uncrossed for a relaxation. Emaciated German and Italian barbers, you know them from their dirty linen, their clean-shaven cheeks and their locks redolent with bear's grease.

"Through this mass, wandering from pit to gallery, go the red-shirted peanut-venders, and almost every jaw in the vast concern is crushing nut-shells. You fancy you hear it in the lulls of the play like a low unbroken growl.

"In the boxes sit some very handsome females--rather loudly dressed,--but beauty will beam and flash from any setting.

"Lean over the balcony, and behold in the depths below the famous pit, now crowded by that gang of little outlaws we parted with a short time ago.

"Of old times--of a bygone age--is this institution. In no other theatre in the whole town is that choice spot yielded to the unwashed. But this is the 'Bowery,' and those squally little spectators so busy scratching their close-mown polls, so vigorously pummeling each other, so unmercifully rattaned by despotic ushers--they are its best patrons.

"And are they not, in their light, great critics, too? Don't they know when to laugh, when to blubber, and when to applaud, and don't they know when to _hiss_, though! What a _fiat_ is their withering hiss! What poor actor dare brave it? It has gone deep, deep into many a poor player's heart and crushed him forever.

"The royal road to a news-boy's heart is to rant in style.

"Versatile Eddy and vigorous Boniface are the lads, in our day, for the news-boys' stamps.

"Ranting is out of the female line, but Bowery actresses have a substitute for it.

"At the proper moment, they draw themselves up in a rigid statue, they flash their big eyes, they dash about wildly their dishevelled hair, with out-stretched arms and protruding chins they then shriek out, V-i-l-l-a-i-n!

"O, Fannie Herring! what a tumult you have stirred up in the roused pit! No help for it, my dear lady. See, there's 'Horace,' standing on his seat and swinging his big blue cap in a cloud of other caps--encore! encore! And the pretty actress bows to the pit, and there is more joy in her heart from the yells of those skinny little throats than from all the flowers that ladies and gents from above may pelt her with.

"The bill of fare for an evening's entertainment at the Old Bowery is as long as your cane, and the last piece takes us far into the night--yet the big house sits it out, and the little ones sleep it out, and the tired actor well earns his pay.

"I'll not criticise the acting--a great part of the community thinks it's beyond the pale of criticism--this peculiarity of tearing things to pieces, and tossing around 'supes' promiscuously.

"And another thing, those little ungodly imps down there have a great appreciation of virtue and pathos. They dash their dirty fists into their peepers at the childish treble of a little Eva--and they cheer, O, so lustily, when Chastity sets her heavy foot upon the villain's heart and points her sharp sword at his rascal throat. They are very fickle in their bestowal of approbation, and their little fires die out or swell into a hot volcano according to the vehemence of the actor. 'Wake me up when Kirby dies,' said a veteran little denizen of the pit to his companions, and he laid down on the bench to snooze.

"'Mind yer eye, Porgie,' said his companion, before Porgie had got a dozen winks. 'I think ther's somthen goen to bust now.' Porgie's friend had a keen scent for sensation.

"As I came out, at the end of the performance, I again saw 'Horace.' He had just rescued a 'butt' from a watery grave in the gutter. 'Jeminy! don't chaps about town smoke 'em awful short now'days!' was the observation of the young philosopher.

"The theatre is almost the only amusement that the ragged newsboy has, apart from those of the senses. The Newsboys' Lodging House, which has been the agent of so much good among this neglected class of our population, find the late hours of the theatre a serious obstacle to their usefulness. It is safe to say that if the managers of the two Bowery Theatres would close at an earlier hour, say eleven o'clock, they would prosper as greatly as at present, and the boys who patronize their establishments would be much better off in body and mind. An effort is about to be made to obtain this reform from the managers voluntarily--instead of seeking legislative aid. We are quite sure it will be for the interest of all to close the theatres early."

The Stadt Theatre, just across the street from the Old Bowery, is exclusively a German establishment. It is a plain old-fashioned building, without and within, but is worth a fortune to its proprietors. The performances are given in the German language, and the company is usually good. The prices are high and the audiences are large. Occasionally a season of German opera is given. I doubt that a more appreciative audience is to be found than that which assembles within the walls of the Stadt on opera nights. They are to a man good judges and dear lovers of music, and their applause, when it breaks forth, is a spontaneous outburst which shakes the house to its foundations. It is generously given, too, and must be particularly grateful to the performers.

It is said that the members of the dramatic profession and the various attaches of the theatres number 5000 persons. They constitute a class, or rather a world of their own. We shall have more to say of some portions of them in other chapters, and can only speak of them in a general way here. As a rule they are poor, and are compelled to work hard. Wallack's and a few other establishments pay good salaries and have many "off nights," but of the majority of performers constant labor is required, at poor pay. It is said that Forrest and Booth have received as much as $500 per night, and that Jefferson and Owens are paid at very near the same rate. The "stars," however, can make their own terms, but the rank and file of the profession have to take what they can get. The pay of these ranges from $15 to $50 per week. Some of the leading ladies and gentlemen receive from $100 to $200 per week, but these can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Considering the work, the pay is poor, for an actor's life requires an immense amount of study and preparation, and is terribly trying to the nervous system. At some of the theatres three performances are sometimes given in a single day, the same members of the company appearing each time.

"Ballet girls," says Olive Logan, "get from $8 to $15 per week; the prompter $25 to $30; the call boy $15; the property man's salary ranges from $15 to $30. Then there are men up in the rigging loft, who attend to the flies and the curtain wheel, and various assistants, at salaries of $20 and $10. There are from two to three scene painters at salaries of from $60 to $100. The back door keeper has $10, and two women to clean the theatre every day at $6 each. The orchestra consists of a leader, at $100, and from twelve to sixteen musicians, whose salaries range from $30 to $18 a week. The gasman and fireman get from $6 to $25 a week; costumer or wardrobe keeper $20 to $40; dressers $5 to $6; ushers $4 to $6; doorkeepers $12; policeman $5; treasurer $25 to $40."

One of the most important positions in the establishment is the ticket clerk. The receipts of the house pass through his hands, and as a constant effort is made to pass off bad money in this way, it is necessary to have some one in this position who is a good judge of money. In some of the theatres a broker's clerk or bank clerk is employed in this capacity.

With the exception of Wallack's, the Fifth Avenue, and perhaps Booth's, the theatres generally change their companies every season. The houses named retain the favorites, and there are among these companies many whose loss would be loudly deplored by the theatre-going people of the city. Many of the best actors, having distinguished themselves here, assume the rank of stars, and play engagements throughout the States. A metropolitan reputation will carry them successfully over the whole Union.

II. MINOR AMUSEMENTS.

Next in popularity to the theatres are the performances of the Negro Minstrels. Some of these companies have permanent halls which they occupy during the winter. The summer and early autumn are spent in travelling through the country. The principal companies are Bryant's and the San Francisco Minstrels.

Dan Bryant is now the proprietor of a beautiful little theatre in Twenty-third street, just west of the Sixth avenue. It is one of the cosiest and most comfortable places in the city, and is usually filled with an audience of city people of the better class. The music is good, the singing excellent, and the mirth unrestrained and hearty. Dan Bryant, himself one of the most irresistibly humorous delineators of the "burnt cork opera," has collected a band of genuine artists, and has fairly won his success. He has raised Negro Minstrelsy to the dignity of a fashionable amusement, and has banished from it all that is coarse and offensive. Men worn out with business cares go there to laugh, and they do laugh most heartily. I think that even the king who "never smiled again," would have been forced to hold his sides here. Families come by the score to laugh at the vagaries of the sable minstrels, and the mirth of the little folks is one of the heartiest and healthiest sounds to be heard in the great city.

Next in order are the concerts. These are well patronized when the performers are well known. There are several fine halls used for concerts and lectures. The principal are Steinway Hall, in Fourteenth street, and Irving Hall, in Irving Place.

Lectures also draw largely. The principal halls used for this purpose are Steinway Hall, and the Halls of the Young Men's Christian Association and the Cooper Institute.

Last, but not least in the estimation of New Yorkers, is the Circus. This is a permanent entertainment during the fall and winter. The performances are given in a handsome iron building located on Fourteenth street, opposite Irving Place. The building is in the form of a circus tent, and is lighted with gas, and warmed by steam coils. The audiences are large, and consist to a great extent of children. The little folks are very fond of the sports of the ring, and are among Mr. Lent's best patrons.

XXXVI. THE MARKETS.

The principal markets of New York are the Fulton, Washington, Jefferson, Catharine, Union, Clinton, Franklin, Centre, and Tompkins Markets. With the exception of Tompkins Market, they are, as far as the houses are concerned, unmitigated nuisances to the city. They are in the last stages of dilapidation, and from without present the most ungainly spectacles to be witnessed in New York. The streets around them are always dirty and crowded, and in the hot days of the summer the air is loaded with foul smells which arise from them.

Within, however, the scene is very different. The rickety old buildings are crammed to repletion with everything edible the season affords. In the summer the display of fruit is often magnificent. The products of every section of the Union are piled up here in the greatest profusion. The country for miles around the city has been stripped of its choicest luxuries, and even the distant West, and the far-off South have sent their contributions to the bountiful store. Meats, fish, and fowl also abound, of every species and description. Indeed, one who has the means can purchase here almost everything the heart can desire. The demand is great, and the prices are high. The stock seems immense, but it disappears rapidly. Fruits command high prices in New York, but sell readily. The market is very rarely overstocked. The same may be said of vegetables. Good vegetables are always in demand. Those who furnish pure, fresh vegetables and meats are sure of a prosperous trade, but the amount of tainted wares of this kind disposed of daily is surprising. Nothing is lost here. Everything finds a purchaser.

[Picture: WASHINGTON MARKET.]

Two-thirds of the people of the city, to save time and trouble, deal with the "corner groceries," and "provision stores," and never see the markets, but still the number of persons patronizing these establishments is very large. The sales begin between four and five o'clock in the morning. The first comers are the caterers for the hotels, the restaurants, the fashionable boarding houses and the mansions of the rich, and the proprietors of the aforesaid "corner groceries" and "provision stores." These latter charge their own customers an advance of from twenty-five to fifty per cent. on the market rates. Prices are high at this hour, and the best the market affords is quickly disposed of. The hotels and restaurants leave standing orders with the dealers, but always send their caterers to see that these orders are faithfully executed. "Market-men have to be watched," say the caterers.

As the morning advances, prices decline. The dealers have reaped their harvest, and can afford to "fall" on what is left. Now come those whose means compel them to be content with indifferent fare. With them is seen a perfect torrent of boarding-house keepers, who are too smart to come when the prices are high and the articles good and fresh. Others, too, the dealers will tell you, are independently wealthy, some are said to be millionaires. They are niggardly as to their tables, though they make great show in other respects, and they will haggle over the last penny. Last of all, towards ten o'clock, and later, come the poor, to purchase what is left. God help them! It is no wonder the death rate is large in this class.

The best known markets are the Fulton, at the end of Fulton street, on East River, and the Washington, at the western end of the same street, on North River. Almost anything can be found in the Fulton market. There are all kinds of provisions here; eating stands abound; bar rooms are located in the cellars; cheap finery is offered by the bushel in some of the stalls; books, newspapers, and periodicals are to be found in others, at prices lower than those of the regular stores; and ice creams, confections, and even hardware and dry goods are sold here. The oysters of this market have a worldwide reputation. _Dorlan's_ oyster house is the best known. It is a plain, rough-looking room, but it is patronized by the best people in the city, for nowhere else on the island are such delicious oysters to be had. Ladies in full street dress, young bloods in all their finery, statesmen, distinguished soldiers, those whom you will meet in the most exclusive drawing rooms of the avenue, come here to partake of the proprietor's splendid "stews."

It is more than thirty years since Dorlan began business here, and he has amassed a handsome fortune. He has done so by providing the best oysters in the market. He is well known throughout the city, and is deservedly popular. He is conscientious, upright in the minutest particular, and gives his personal attention to every detail of his business. Although very wealthy, he may still be seen at his stand, in his shirt sleeves, as of old, superintending the operations of his establishment, and setting an excellent example to younger men who are seeking to rise in the world.

The Washington market is more of a wholesale than a retail establishment. Supplies of meat, fish, vegetables, etc., are usually sent to the wholesale dealers here, to be sold on commission. These dealers will frequently go into the country, and engage a truckman's entire crop of vegetables and fruits, and then retail them to city dealers at their own prices.

XXXVII. THE CHURCHES.

I. THE SACRED EDIFICES.