The terrible catastrophe at the Opera House in Nice has naturally set people to talkin’ about fires in theatres and places of amusement.
New York has had its share of “theatre fires,” and some of the instances connected with these fires are worthy of mention in these papers.
The old National Theater took fire twice, the second time under Burton. Burton had just produced a spectacular piece in splendid style, and he had spent considerable money on the piece. The fire took place durin’ the night, after the performance. One of the actors and one of the actresses of the company, Mr. Russell and his wife, Mrs. Shaw, had a room at the theater. Mr. Russell managed to get his wife out safely in her night-dress, wrapped up in blankets. She was a good deal frightened but not materially hurt. Then Russell, havin’ saved his wife, did what he could to save his wardrobe, and then did what he could to save the theatre, not succeedin’ in the last.
The place burned like tinder, and was soon a heap of blazin’ ruins. There were several churches near the theatre, several gin shops and one house of notorious character, kept by a woman of the name of Brown.
This latter establishment stood right under one of its walls, which towered far above it. The inmates were all asleep, or supposed to be, but they soon came troopin’ down, screechin’ and screamin’ in the usual feminine way.
Among the inmates of the place was a girl just from Philadelphia, called Mary Walters. She was very young and very beautiful–a blonde, tall, slender, graceful, with magnificent hair, rather well-educated, too, and ladylike. She ought to have been a queen. She was only an unfortunate. She had only been in the place a week or so, but she was so pleasant in her manner that all her companions had learned to love her dearly. She rushed downstairs when the alarm of the fire was given, along with the rest, and with the rest looked out of the window at the theatre wall, towering over her in the smoke, and with the rest shuddered with fear, and shivered with cold in her scanty night-dress.
Then, in an unlucky moment, she thought of a new bonnet, a brand new bonnet, she had left hangin’ in the closet of her room upstairs. It was a fancy bonnet with a fine feather in it. Oh, she must get that bonnet. It wouldn’t take a minute. She knew just where it was. So she started up the narrow staircase. Her companions told her not to go upstairs again. But the girl said that she would only be gone a minute, and must get that bonnet, so she drew her night robe around her form and rushed upstairs.
She hadn’t been gone half a minute when a roar was heard, a rumblin’ roar as of somethin’ fallin’, accompanied by cries from the outside, the cries of an excited crowd. The smoke came faster and fuller than ever, the flames burst out with new violence, and with an awful crash a part of the theatre wall which overhung the establishment of Madam Brown toppled over and fell upon the house, completly crushin’ the upper story of it, and with it buryin’ the pretty girl from Philadelphia.
Her screams of agony were heart-rendin’. They were heard distinctly amid all the other horrible sounds. Mrs. Brown said she never forgot them while she lived.
While that poor unfortunate upstairs was not only buried alive but burnt alive, downstairs the women fell on their knees, for the first time for years, perhaps, and in that house, where a prayer had never been uttered before, prayed for their buried, burned sister a few feet above ‘em, but separated from ‘em forever by a wall of flame and smoke, and wood and brick.
After the fire the body of the poor girl, or some part of it, was found literally baked to a crisp. Her companions took the blackened relic tenderly and gave it a decent burial, wettin’ the coffin with many an honest tear.
Burton knew nothin’ of the burnin’ of his theatre till it was all burnt. Then he took matters very coolly, and, before night, was investigatin’ the cause of the fire–which was supposed to be the work of a gas man who was about to be discharged–and makin’ all his arrangements for new enterprises.
Theatre men are generally the coolest men in the world when a fire takes place. Barnum was burnt out several times, but he took it like a hero every time.
On a hot day in July he was speakin’ in Hartford against some railroad schemes when a telegram was handed him. He opened it, read it, never changing countenance, and went on with his speech. Yet that telegram told him that his American Museum in New York was in flames and couldn’t be saved. He knew that his insurance was only $40,000, while his curiosities, real and bogus, were worth over $400,000; but he had the nerve to never squeal, but stand it, and start all over again.
Then when he was burnt out again up Broadway, and in this fire a tiger escaped, and made a bigger excitement than the fire. About twenty people told yarns that each of the twenty had killed this tiger in the bravest possible manner, till the community in general began to believe that there wasn’t any tiger at all, or only a stuffed one.
A third time Barnum was burnt out up at the Hippodrome, or Hippotheatron, on Fourteenth street.
At this time a Barnum had a Southern show at New Orleans. He was on his way to visit it, and stopped a while at the Planters’ Hotel, St. Louis. One mornin’ while he was at breakfast he got a telegram. This informed him that the ground occupied by his Southern show had been flooded, and that he was a heavy loser. This kind of news wasn’t calculated to increase a man’s appetite, and even Barnum felt like goin’ back on his food. In about five minutes, just as he was thinkin’ about gettin’ up from the table, another telegram was brought to him. It was from his son-in-law in New York, Mr. Hurd, and informed him that the Hippotheatron had been burnt and everythin’ destroyed but two elephants and one old camel. This was worse than the Southern show misfortune; but instead of crushin’ the great showman it brought all his nerve to the surface. He didn’t leave the breakfast table at all; sent a servant for paper, pen and ink, telegraphed to his Southern show people first, then telegraphed to his son-in-law: “Tell New York editors I shall cable European agents to expend half a million dollars for extra attractions. Will have new duplicates and better show than ever early in April.” Then callin’ for a telegraph messenger, he paid for these telegrams bein’ sent, and set to work and ate one of the heartiest breakfasts he had ever eaten in the whole course of his life.
This was grit–this was real pluck. Neither water or fire could interfere with that man’s breakfast. Napoleon Bonaparte, Julius Caesar, Frederick the Great, and all the rest of ‘em never showed more nerve than that.
There have been fifteen theatres altogether destroyed by fire since New York was a city. This isn’t a bad showin’, considerin’, and there hasn’t been ten lives lost directly from theater fires in the whole history of New York, leavin’ out Brooklyn, of course. Some theatres have been particularly unfortunate, just like some individuals. The Bowery theatre–the old Bowery–for instance, has been burnt down four times. Once in 1828, once in 1830, then in 1838 and 1845. Niblo’s Garden burned down once and Niblo’s Garden Theatre. They were goin’ to play the “Twelve Temptations” in big style at Niblo’s Theatre the night it was burned down. Cole, Jim Fisk’s right hand man, was interested in its production, and lost his grip by the fire. Wallack, I believe, never suffered from fire, nor from anythin’ else. Taken altogether, Lester Wallack has been about the luckiest manager in the country.
The Academy of Music was burned down one Monday night in the latter part of May, 1866. Gran’s company was playin’ at the Academy at the time and the performance was just over. When Graham, the assistant gas-man at the Academy, met Pelletier, who was connected with the wardrobe department, and asked him what on earth he was kickin’ up such a dust for, Pelletier, who was windin’ up his night’s work, said” “Dust? I haven’t been kickin’ up any dust. What do you mean?” “Why,” said Graham, “I mean that either I saw some dust just now in the basement, or smoke, and I intend to find out which.” He and Pelletier accordingly went back to the basement of the Academy, and here they soon saw that what Graham had thought to be dust was really smoke. The Academy was on fire. Not a moment was to be lost. Graham rushed for the small hose in the basement, and Pelletier rushed into the street and gave the alarm. Every effort was made to save the buildin’, but without avail. The fire seemed to burst forth in different places at the same time. This looked like the work of incendiaries, and to this day there are those who think that the Academy of Music was set on fire that night.
The firemen did all in their power to save the Academy, but it was too big a job, and they had to give it up, and to content themselves with savin’ the adjoinin’ buildin’s. As it was, they didn’t succeed in even doin’ this, for before the night was through the New York Medical University and Dutch Reformed Church in Fifteenth street were destroyed. The great point, however, was to save the gas works, which adjoined the Academy on Irving Place, and this was done. While the conflagration was takin’ place, a lot of the birds sleepin’ up in the trees in Union Square woke up, and bein’ attracted by the glare, dashed towards the fire. Some of ‘em dashed right into it, poor things, and were destroyed. It was a splendid sight, this burnin’ of the Academy, but it was hard on Gran…
I have not alluded in this chapter to any theatre fires outside of New York city, but of course none of my readers have yet forgotten that terrible calamity in our sister city across the river, at the Brooklyn Theatre. This fire took place about two weeks before Christmas, and cast a gloom over the whole holiday season. Two hundred and eighty-nine persons in all were killed by bein’ burned, or crushed, or trampled on, or frightened, and it will ever be regarded as an almost national calamity.
And now while I am talkin’ about fires at places of amusement, and while the people generally are exercised about the World’s Fair, I will wind up this chapter with the burnin’ of the Crystal Palace, which took place in October, 1858.
A few weeks before the fire there had been a monster turnout, a grand illuminated or torchlight parade of the New York Fire Department, in celebration of the successful layin’ of the Atlantic cable.
This was, I believe, the last and best of those torchlight parades which used to be the great glory of the old Fire Department.
The boys turned out in regulation fire cap, red shirt and black pants. The procession formed on Fifth avenue, the right restin’ on Fortieth street. There were ceremonies at the Crystal Palace, and then the boys marched four abreast, lookin’ their prettiest, down town and along Broadway to the Park. Harry Howard was grand marshal, and might easily have been taken for General Washington.
In all its history New York never looked finer than it did one midnight in September, 1858. The air was full of light and fireworks and transparencies; rockets whizzed and fizzed; there were about a million of colored lamps; all the men were out in the streets, and all the women were at the windows; the whole city was three-quarters crazy; every band of music in town was makin’ all the noise it could, and the fire laddies felt each one of ‘em as if his name was John Jacob Astor and his girl was Queen Victoria.
The Crystal Palace was a blaze of light, and well worth walkin’ from Philadelphia to New York to see. But not long after there was nothin’ left of the splendid buildin’ but it’s ashes. The first Tuesday night in October, 1858, witnessed several fires in different portions of New York, all breakin’ out at once, and most of ‘em supposed to be the work of incendiaries. The worst of all these was the one which burned up the Crystal Palace. The building took fire about five o’clock in the mornin’, and about seven there was nothing left of the structure itself, and less than nothin’ of the splendid specimens of art and manufacture which it contained. It was a splendid spectacle, considered as a show piece, this conflagration. It beat all the transformation scenes ever put on the stage; but the firemen didn’t like it for a cent, for it destroyed some of their best engines, which were on exhibition.
Nearly eleven thousand dollars was swallowed up in hose-carriages, trucks and engines in less than eleven minutes. Among the engines destroyed were Mohawk Engine No. 16, Pacific Engine No. 28, and Adriatic Engine No. 31. This last one was a screamer. She was very large, and the boys were tremendously proud of her. She was said to be the most powerful engine in the State. The more dignified and “swell” of the department members called her “The Giant,” but the majority of “the boys” christened her “The Hose Burster,” and under that name they were willin’ and anxious to pit her against all created engines. But “The Hose Burster” went “up the flume,” or up in the flames, along with the rest. As Old Hen Wilson said, “It wasn’t often the flames got a chance to get even with a fire engine, and so they made the best of their opportunity.” Eagle Hose No. 1 just “titivated up,” and lookin’ very pretty, went the way of all flesh. So did Astor Hose No. 6 and Empire Hose No. 40, although the last hose-carriage was saved before it was quite consumed. Lafayette Hook and Ladder No. 1 of Brooklyn, brand new and really beautiful, was burnt clear out. In fact only Hook and Ladder No. 12 was saved without damage.
What made the boys of the Hose Burster most bad was to think that they had only put their engine there that very night, just in time to be burnt up.
It was a bad time for fires, and for the fire department just then. The City Hall had been partially burned, then the Quarantine Hospital followed suit, then the Crystal Palace and the engines.
The boys began to think that the devil himself was settled in New York for the season.
