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.