Article on a typical night at the Melodeon

“BROADWAY BELOW THE SIDEWALK. PRETTY WAITER GIRLS AND UNDERGROUND CONCERT HALLS. NUMBER FOUR. WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE NEW YORK CLIPPER. GEO. HAYDEN’S ‘MELODEON.’

            The Melodeon is situated near the marble palace of Tiffany & Co., in the basement of 563 Broadway, near Prince street. The exterior is very showy, having three conspicuous transparencies, notifying the citizens, furloughed soldiers, officers of the navy, and returned volunteers that it is ‘the best place of its kind in New York.’ ‘Free to all,’ says the handwriting on the canvas, ‘Geo. Hayden’s Great Opera Troupe.’ ‘Free and Easy Every Evening,’ and other extra novelties, ‘to be seen at no other concert hall in the city.’ To a certain extent, all this is true—there is a free and easy, and an opera troupe; but we are prone to judge that here much of the sweetness is lost ‘on the desert sir.’ We fetched up a few evenings ago at the Melodeon, by change, in company with a sporting cutler. We are ‘prejudiced’ against the mazy dance, because, as the young lady from Steubenville said, ‘it makes us puke,’ which, though sounding to vernaculars, somewhat vulgar, is nevertheless so. We don’t dance, neither can any fellow of our size and inches make us dance, unless we get paid for it. It’s mighty hard work, and no mistake, as any of the profession can tell you. Take an A No 1 dancer into a ball room, some terpsichorean celebrity, and see if he or she will dance and sweat the same as those unsophisticated young virgins from East Eleventh, or whatever street they belong to, who would go dead or get the ‘ipsewipsey’ if they couldn’t at end a ball or ‘swarray,’ as they pronounce it in the Drogheda. But it’s not dancing we’re after talking about—we shall come to that after getting through with the concert halls. Jake Roome’s, and such like palces will come in for a shot from our locker, provided nobody puts a shot into us before that time, as was done to the eccentric billposter a few days ago.

            George Hayden, the proprietor, is a man of few words, but of much muscle—a strong, healthy, though pale-faced man with a sharp eye for business. He wears the army moustache. He was formerly connected with the original Melodeon, which used to be where Van Amburgh’s Menagerie is now, as manager, (if Nellie didn’t tell a fib,) and has been connected with various shows at different times. Some months ago the Anatomical Museum used to have its headquarters over the Melodeon, which, after visiting, somewhat disgusted people from dropping into any saloon, either for eating, drinking, or whatever other purposes our married men and single go around of an evening for, but now that the collection of wax figures has been removed towards a more congenial clime, the business has improved muchly.

            After descending the stairs, taking a ‘Bourbon sour’ and prime Havana at the bar counter which is located on the right, by advancing two paces we came to a screen, and passing through the screen, we found our hamdsome and stylish figure right in the midst of a company of females of all styles and complexions, from the dark-skinned Georgian, fair-faced Dane, black-orbed Adalusian, to the flower of the Western prairies, as the manager of the Oriental would say when advertising his gallery of living beauties. Being pressed for time, and seeing that all the tables were preoccupied, we balanced ourselves on one pin, trying to imitate Fanny Wilson in her representations of ancient Greek statuary, but falling far short of the mark. Pretty soon a damsel fair with auburn hair, red bodice (that’s correct, isn’t it girls?) and black silk shirt, came tripping along like a gazelle, and begged and prayed of us to be seated. Assuming an air of dignity, we spake unto her, ‘My dear, lady, there appears to be standing room only,’ to which the blonde replied, ‘We will make room for you, darling, if we have to remove the piano.’ ‘Oh, Philepena!’ rejoined the subscriber, ‘you’re a trump, and we’ll have to stop a little while any how,’ and ordering the best in the house, we cast our dazzled orbs around to see what was what.

            The room is somewhat narrower than either of those heretofore described, and of a different style. On the walls are painted figures of two female jig dancers, in very gaudy costumes, with dresses short at both ends, and a pair of understandings worthy of a Vestris. They are doing a graceful pose, which one sacriligious [sic] cuss in Navy uniform said was ‘bending the crab.’ Between the two fair ladies is a gentleman fresh from Inniskillen, with his sprig of skillelah and shamrock so green, ready for a ruction or Lannegan’s ball, no matter which; he resembles somebody, but whether it is Thurlow Weed or Dooney Harris, we couldn’t exactly tell. The other portions of the wall are ornamented with little fillamagrees and jimcracks, curious designs, which none but the artist can properly explain. In the centre of the room, forming a sort of terrestrial canopy, is a large scroll, telling the unbenighted how much he has to pay for wine by the pint or quart, on one side; with figures of naked nymphs dancing Mert Sexton’s Essence on the other. At the extreme end is the grand piano on a raised platform, and beyond that, through a small portico, are the ‘supper rooms,’ where the hungry can get their belly full at short notice of anything on the market, from woodcook to pork and beans. As we had been taking our evening repast with an opposition girl from the Club Rooms, one of the Raymond family, but no relation to the Little Villain of newspaper notoriety, we didn’t explore the refreshment saloons.

            Thinking the first lady waiter had forgotten us altogether for the ‘sojer buttons,’ we hailed another one, of the Charlotte Cushman style, ordered fresh drinks, and were just about forking over the equiv., when waiter girl No. 1 turned up with her order, and nothing would do but for us to come the double shuffle. Dismissing one of the clerks, we retained the other by eloquent persuasion and sundry drinks in our company, and had a good old fashioned chat, as though we had known each other for years, although the probability is that we may never more behold her—still that made no difference; it was a sort of thing, which was very womanlike, if not inquisitive, but quite excusable under the circumstances, as perhaps it was not her fault that the conversation turned on the sweets and sours of married life. Giving in to everything she said, we very soon ingratiated ourselves into her good graces, at least for the time being. Every masculine group had their feminine friend, and out of the twenty-five ladies of the place, it would puzzle a Baptist deacon to tell who attracted the most notice.

            The list of ‘talent’ engaged at the Melodeon embraces males and females, who sing comic and sentimental songs. The celebrated Albert Braham, descriptive tenor, who filled an engagement at Wallack’s old theatre when Sir Robert Butler had it, and has sung at different theatres and music halls throughout the country, leads the vocalists. Following in Albert’s wake comes Madame Sidell, a German-American middle aged lady who does opera with all the shakes and trills common to prima donna assolutas. Madame is a very fair singer. Young Solomons, son of the old gentleman, and an excellent tenor, is a good card, and extremely useful withal, for if the ‘piannerist’ or ‘fiddlerist’ or any other ist happens to get taken down sick, Mose takes his posish and the show goes on. He is a sort of Monsieur Boulcourt, calls out the names of the singers, raps for order and raps for applause. His style is melo-dramatic, if you know what that means, or he can’t take a hand at the comic if necessary, always careful to avoid bawdy-house songs, which is more than we can say of some free-and-easies.

            We hadn’t got time to tarry, we hadn’t got time to stay, any longer than to hear the three singers above-mentioned, who are the best in the house, but they have a regular troupe, including Madame Solomon, Hattie St. Clair, Ellen Thompson, Adele Colleen, Maggie Tremaine, Lew Anderson, Maggie Tressler; and Bony Pastor, Charley Brown, W. Coles and Mons. Tom Hermonson, all the way from Germany. Here’s a ‘pome’ which we have had writ for the benefit of our zealous frequenters of ye underground city concert saloons, with which, with the permission of McCunn and the court, we intend to wind up. It is a scene of every night life in the goodlie city of Gotham:—

‘Youngster, spare that girl!

Kiss not those lips so meek;

Unruffled let the fair locks curl

Upon the maiden’s cheek!

‘Believe her quite a saint;

Her looks are all divine,

Her rosy hue is, paint;

Her form is, crinoline.’”