“Unkraut’s” has, however, attractions apart from the ball-room. By a quiet stair at the end of the gallery, through muffled doors that close upon you as you enter, and shut out like walls the hum and hubbub below, we come upon an ill-shapen apartment, where hushed, absorbed men are seated at desks, as at a school, each with a huge frame dotted with numbers before him. A strange contrast to the scene without. There is a heavy quiet in the place, disturbed only by an occasional cough, a shuffling of feet, and the silvery ringing of little plates of glass. A monstrous game of Lotto is this. A mere child’s play of gambling, requiring neither tact, wit, nor reasoning; a simple lottery, in fact, dependent for success upon the accidental marking (each player upon his own board or table) of the first five numbers that may be drawn. Now we hear a strange rattling of wooden pieces, shaken in a bag, and as each piece is drawn, a bustling man with an obstreperous voice, calls out the number; not in full, sonorous German, but in broad, uncouth Platt Deutsche (low German), and eager tongues respond from distant corners claiming the prize. A dull-headed game is this, fitted only for the most inveterate gamblers; but it yields money to the Stadt, and that is its recommendation.
As the day wears on, its attractions increase. The Elb Pavilion offers a rare treat; exquisite music, executed with vigour, delicacy, and precision. Moreover, its frequenters are decidedly of a respectable class. But we will not be moved; we have set our hearts upon witnessing a play of Shakespeare’s, announced for this night at the Stadt Theatre, and that no less a one than “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
The Stadt Theatre in Hamburg enjoys a strange monopoly; for by the Senate’s will it is declared that no other theatre shall exist within the city walls. Yet, curiously enough, a wonderful old woman, by some unaccountable freak, has the privilege, or hereditary right, of licensing or directing a theatrical establishment within the boundaries, and thus a second theatre contends for the favours of the public; and in order to define its position and state of existence, it is entitled simply Das Zweite Theatre (The Second Theatre). It is an especially favourite place of amusement with the Hamburgers, although they play an incomprehensible jumble of unconnected scenes, called “possen,” adapted solely to display the peculiar talents of certain actors. One odd fellow there reaps showers of applause for no other exhibition of ability than that of looking intensely stupid, for he seldom utters a word; but assumes an appearance of unfathomable vacuity that is inimitable. There are still two theatres outside the city walls: the one, the Tivoli, devoted to farces and vaudevilles; the other consecrated to the portrayal of the deeply sentimental, and the fearfully tragic—with poison, dagger-blades, convulsions and heavy-stamping ever at command.