want something else. The least particular man, it seems to me,
would desire to have his veal "biled," by way of a change. So I,
tired of the threadbare pieces at the Broadway houses, went to the
East Side for something fresh. I wanted to see some libertines and
brigands. I wanted to see some cheerful persons identified with the
blacksmith and sewing-machine interests triumph over those
libertines and brigands in the most signal manner. I wanted, in
short, to see the Downfall of Vice and Triumph of Virtue. That was
what ailed me. And so I went to the East Side.

Poor Jack Scott is gone, and Jo. Kirby dies no more on the East
Side. They've got the blood and things over there, but, alas!
they're deficient in lungs. The tragedians in the Bowery and
Chatham Street of to-day don't start the shingles on the roof as
their predecessors, now cold and stiff in death, used to when they
threw themselves upon their knees at the footlights and roared a
red-hot curse after the lord who had carried Susan away, swearing to
never more eat nor drink until the lord's vile heart was torn from
his body and ther-rown to the dorgs--rattling their knives against
the tin lamps and glaring upon the third tier most fearfully the
while.

Glancing at the spot where it is said Senator Benjamin used to vend
second-hand clothes, and regretting that he had not continued in
that comparatively honorable vocation instead of sinking to his
present position--wondering if Jo. Kirby would ever consent, if he
were alive, to die wrapped up in a Secession flag!--gazing
admiringly upon the unostentatious signboard which is suspended in
front of the Hon. Izzy Lazarus's tavern--glancing, wondering, and
gazing thus, I enter the old Chatham theatre. The pit is full, but