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Thursday night of each week is devoted to a “dramatic reception,” to which ladies and gentlemen of Bing­hamton are invited by complimentary cards. We have a compact and pretty little theatre, well equipped, the scenery very cleverly painted by one of our­selves, — an artist of no mean powers for a gentleman amateur,— and the fur­niture in as good taste as the abundant stores of the house can afford ; for orchestra, a piano, occasionally sup­ported by a violin.

An amateur com­pany of fair talent and the most ac­commodating versatility has been mus­tered from the full roll of the house, whosoever can do a funny or a fearful thing being eagerly invited to come forthwith and do it; and if the purpose and the effect do now and then get transposed, that very circumstance but serves to impart to the performance somewhat of the desired “professional” illusion. We have done “Macbeth,” the “Lady of Lyons,” “Still Water Runs Deep,” and a variety of roaring farces, in a style quite above the pro­fessional Crummleses of a country town. Of course all our “women” are afflicted with acongenital masculine disorder ; but for all that, our Lady Macbeth and Mrs. Sternhold may be contemplated with tolerance even by those who have applauded Charlotte Cushman or Mrs. Conway. Our Macbeth is surely truer to Shakespeare and nature than Mr. McKean Buchanan’s very original Thane ; and I have seen Claudes and Hawksleys on Broadway that we can beat without a rehearsal. These “dra­matic receptions ” are our pet vanity they often draw “select” audiences from the town, making our bachelor halls bright with the presence of pretty women ; and their moral influence in our household is notably good.

We at all times abound in good mu­sic. Our pianos and melodeons dis­course much harmony, grave and gay, under the deft fingers of inebriates and the ever-amiable young daughter of the superintendent lends, at any call, her rich and well-trained voice.