CAUTION: The newspaper column below, reprinted from the New York Sunday Mercury (3/15/1885) contains racist slurs. These appeared frequently in newspapers of the late 1880s. Tony Pastor got his start as a blackface minstrel performer, and incorporated minstrel acts in his vaudeville offerings. Blackface minstrels were a core element of American popular entertainment in the 19th century, and were rooted in ugly, racist stereotypes.
Tony Pastor has been one of the “characters” of New York for some years. His friends are combinin’ to celebrate his twentieth anniversary as a caterer for amusements, and reminiscences of this variety manager, comic singer and general joker may be in order.
Tony, like a woman, is sensitive about his age. He owns up to forty, but maybe sixty, for all anybody but himself knows. At any rate, he was born in New York and went to school here for awhile, so he says. His youthful days were passed around Greenwich street, near the old Pacific Hotel. His first school was in Thames street, where at six years of age he “spoke a piece” at a school exhibition, recitin’ that companion piece to “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” commencin’:
You’d scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage,
amid “unbounded applause” as they say on the small bills.
Accordin’ to Tony’s account, findin’ out at six years of age that he knew more than his teacher, he carried his youthful intellect–and cheek–to the Rector street school, presided over then by the worthy Mrs. Millan, and learned New York life by playin’ truant and knockin’ around the wharves.
One day a wharf rat, bein’ in want of money, conceived the bright idea of makin’ some off of Tony. So he seized the precocious youngster (who kicked and squealed lustily in vain), and threw him slyly overboard, shovin’ him over, by “accident,” into the North River. The wharf rat then, with a big fuss, leaped in after Tony and “saved him from a watery death at the risk of his own life.” That was the way the papers phrased it the next day. Havin’ rescued the drippin’ Tony, the ingenious wharf rat carried him home and triumph and received from his grateful and too confidin’ mother a dollar reward for rescuin’ her darlin’, Tony himself gettin’ only a spankin’, while the wharf rat got the dollar, an arrangement which, to this day, Tony persists in regardin’ as unfair.
Tony then went to live with his folks on Staten Island, and attended school, or was supposed by his still unsuspectin’ parents to be attendin’ school, there. He was fond of singin’, and once figured in a vocal match in which he says he beat the singin’ master; but then the latter individual had already injured his voice by peddlin’ oysters in New York.
The old steamboat Raritan, Captain Fisher, used to ply then between New York and Staten Island, and most of the time that Tony was supposed to be at school he was really travelin’ up and down on the Raritan, givin’ “concerts” on his own hook, and with the proceeds of these “entertainments” payin’ his fare and accumulatin’ pocket money. He got an old banjo, sung to it, then passed around the hat and pocketed the contributions. One day, however, to Tony’s horror and surprise, he came across his own mother on the boat, who was quite as much surprised and horrified as Tony himself. The “concert” was suddenly stopped, the leadin’ vocalist was soundly spanked in the presence of the audience, and there were no more Raritan concerts that season.
Later on Tony sang in a “temperance” concert in the old Hand-in-Hand temperance meeting in Dey street, between Washington and West streets. On one occasion he sang a duet with Chris Woodruff, who was afterward a State senator. “Chris,” as a boy, was celebrated for his fine whistlin’–an accomplishment in which Tony vainly tried to equal him. Tony never could whistle; but then, accordin’ to Tony, Chris could never sing.
At different periods Tony attended other schools, among them the school in Duane street. While supposed to be at this school Tony’s mother took him with her out to the country, and insisted upon takin’ him to bid his teacher, Mr. Stow, good bye before he went. Tony didn’t want to go through this preliminary farewell, and for a good and sufficient reason.
For when, leadin’ him in by the hand, the mother said to the teacher, “I have brought Tony with me, sir, to bid you good bye,” the teacher, lookin’ at Tony, said: “To bid me good bye! Why he made me good bye long ago. That is, I haven’t set eyes on the boy for these three months.” And he hadn’t.
This little incident once more, and this time effectually, opened the fond parents’ eyes, and there was no more foolin’ for Tony. As he wouldn’t take to learnin’, he was told to take to somethin’ else, and to stick to it in real earnest. So he took and stuck to the circus.
Prior to his departure for the “big show” Tony had, during his supposed “school” days, appeared as a “public performer,” under various names, at the old Peale’s Museum.
Later on he appeared as a “minstrel performer” at Barnum’s Museum, where the Herald buildin’ now stands, at $2 a week salary. But he failed lamentably at first. The museum people discharged him after one night’s engagement. Greenwood, Barnum’s museum manager, told him, like Horace Greeley, to go West. So he “went West”–with the circus.
Herr Driesbach, the lion tamer; Bob Hall; George Hoyt; and Gurney, the dulcimer player, were connected with this circus. Tony commenced as “object holder,” as it is called, holdin’ hoops, etc., for others to jump through. Then he got to riding horses in the entrees (he wasn’t as fat then as now), then he got to be a “tumbler,” then to be “ringmaster” and finally “clown.” He was with Maybee’s circus for a while, then with Levi North.
He also tried his luck as “comedian” in the “legitimate” in Chicago, appearin’ as the Yankee in Putnam and performin’ in old Tom Coney’s once popular “dog pieces.” In the company in which Tony played “low comedian” were engaged Charles and Mrs. Hill (parents of Barton Hill), Messrs. McCloskey, McDonald, Hello, George Brown and Mrs. Louisa Pray.
Once, when funds got low, George Brown and Tony Pastor got up a scheme to “raise the wind.” They announced their “joint benefit” and then got up a preparatory street show, consistin’ of an old wagon, covered with a big flag, and drawn by an old horse, whose anatomy was likewise hidden by a patriotic coverin’ of flags, the flags, of course, being borrowed.
They engaged a darkey to accompany ‘em, and then all three started out for a “street parade” in this stars and stripes turn out.
Tony Pastor beat a big drum, the darkey tooted on a fife and George Brown drove the horse and distributed “dodgers” along the route.
And at every saloon the horse and wagon were stopped, a couple of tickets were handed as “complementaries” to the barkeeper, and a lot of other not “complementary” tickets were left on sale.
As a consequence there was a big house for the joint benefit, and when the old darkey with the fife, who was the owner of the wagon and the horse, came to be settled up with, instead of the two dollars the beneficiaries had promised him, they gave him five, the whole of which unexpected fortune was at once spent by the old man in playin’ policy. But George Brown and Tony “salted” their share of the proceeds.
I’m sorry to say that at first, in his early circus days, Tony had no notion of his “professional dignity,” and in his spare times, when “off duty” at the circus, ran a “side show” or “peep show” of his own.
He got his apparatus for $2.50 and took in over $3 in one afternoon. He thought he was thus 50 cents ahead on his very first entertainment, but he was arrested before night for not havin’ secured a “license to exhibit” and had to pay $5 to get off.
He, at various times, also tried lemonade sellin’, makin’ a bucket of lemonade with one lemon, and likewise peddled an “electric oil” of his own make, which was very electric indeed, and came several times near gettin’ him into an “electric” fight with his patients (?). These episodes were, of course, before he had come to appreciate the full dignity of the circus.
His “lemonade racket” closed his engagement with one circus very peremptorily. His mainstay in the lemonade line had been “tarteric acid,” which kindly did away with the necessity of havin’ more than one lemon to the bucket (as before stated). One day Tony wrapped up this accommodatin’ acid in a chest containing some of old Nathan’s–the circus man’s–clothes, and when Nathan went to that chest to get his clothes, lo, he found that Tony’s pet acid had eaten up one leg of a pair of trousers and two russet boots, and if it had not been discovered in time would have eaten into all the rest of his wardrobe.
Nathan at once went for a “guy stake” and chased poor Tony out of that circus tent, which he never was allowed to enter any more, and he never tried to sell any more lemonade either.
In due course of time Tony sowed his professional “wild oats” and settled down to business. He gradually drifted from the “circus” into the “variety” line, and from bein’ performer, started off as manager.
One of his early associates as manager was Sam Sharpley, whose partnership happened accidentally. When Tony was performin’ at 444 Broadway, “The Big Oyster Bay Saloon,” near the Assembly Rooms, was quite a resort for Johnny Wild, Maffit and Bartholomew, and all that set. One night, after the show, they all met there, and it was resolved that they should all make a joint stock company of ‘emselves, each one puttin’ in $200, share and share alike. The next night there was another meetin’ to arrange the details of this organization. The next night there was a third meetin’, and so on, plenty of meetin’s, but no money planked down. So, finally, one night Sam Sharpley, who had heard of these meetin’s, dropped in, saw Tony, didn’t talk much, but planked down the cash, and so Tony and Sam joined forces and did well.
In the course of his career as performer and manager Tony Pastor has acted with, or himself engaged, over fifteen hundred men and women and has been the lessee of seven or eight different places of amusement in the city of New York, embracin’ the Broadway Music Hall (once Wallack’s Theatre and Brougham’s Lyceum), corner Broadway and Broome street; No. 444 Broadway, once Fellows’, then Wood’s Minstrel Hall, then Christy’s Minstrels, between Grand and Howard streets; Hoym’s old theatre on the Bowery, where Morrissey and Heenan sparred and old Bob Johnson played J. W. Wallack, Jr. to a $20 house; and No. 585 Broadway (at different times known as the French theatre, Buckley’s, Christy’s San Francisco Minstrels, Butler’s Varieties and Canterbury Hall, with the “pretty waiter girls,” while Heller afterwards opened this place as the “Salle Diabolique.”
Tony’s first travelin’ company embraced Johnny Wild, Sheridan and Mack, James Gaynor, Fernando Pastor (Tony’s brother), John Braham as leader of the orchestra, Signor Tortoni, Professor Jackson and Herr Leefels. It started out just twenty years ago, and every year since then Tony’s travelin’ company has ranked in drawin’ power next to the circus. Later on George Edison and wife; Robert Butler, the pantomimist; Amelia Wells; Ernestine De Fabler and Messrs. Willes and Armstrong joined the original company, and since then changes have been numerous and additions constant.
Any number of funny incidents have transpired in the course of Tony’s experience. One night, Levi White, Tony’s stage manager, got into a row behind the scenes with Johnny Wild, the comedian, and in the progress of the row the combatants tumbled into the trough in which the minstrels washed off their faces after the performance. This was literally a case of washin’ dirty linen in public, as the partly soiled shirts the two men had on were rendered still dirtier and the whole company was lookin’ at the fun. Both parties when they got through were wetter and wiser men.
Once Harrigan and Hart had a dog named “Bones,” which they were very proud of. There was then another dog around the theatre nicknamed “Calamity,” which they all wanted to get rid of. The theatre people put up a job to make away with “Calamity” but “Bones” fell into the trap instead. On another occasion Bob Hart, Johnny Wild, Tony and a lot of others went to see a friend off to Havana. Bob Hart got carried away on the steamer, and of course his friends were worried about his bein’ thus suddenly taken away unprepared, as he had no money with him, never had. They all went to Schwarz’s drinking saloon to drink Bob’s health, and of course told Schwarz about his untimely takin’ off. But what did Schwarz do, but (instead of looking surprised or grieved) called out to his frau, “Dere now, Katrina, did I not tell you dat dis d—-d Bob Hart would not pay me mine forty cents he owes me for eight beers. See how he has been got himself taken off all der way to Havana, so as to cheat me out of mine forty cents,” and for months Schwarz stuck to his idea of this disappearance, till Bob Hart suddenly reappeared and paid him his “forty cents.”
In windin’ up this chapter, I may call passin’ attention to the two main facts in Tony Pastor’s career. One is the number of people he has brought out, or brought into prominence, embracin’: Harrigan and Hart; Gus Williams; George Thatcher; Barry and Fay; John F. Poole; Harry Miner; Nat Goodwin; William J. Scanlon; Neil Burgess; Dan Thompson; Fred Williams; William Norris; Jacques Kruger; Evans and Hoey; Dan Sully; Billy Emerson; Pat Rooney; George S. Knight; Baker and Farron; and among the women: Carrie Swain; Flora Moore; Maddie Vickers; the once famous but now almost forgotten Lillian Russell; and her pretty and popular successor, Miss Hilda Thomas.
The other fact is that altho’ only a “variety manager,” Tony Pastor has always maintained quite as high a standard of propriety as any theatre that calls itself “legitimate,” has always paid debts and salaries, and has conducted his business on business principles. Else he would not now be celebrating his silver wedding as a manager.
