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| The altered facade still smacked of a church building. To the left is the 1891 Clinton Hall. photograph from the collection of the New York Historical Society, Robert L. Bracklow Photograph Collection |
In 1852 Bishop John Hughes established the Roman Catholic
parish of St. Ann’s in the upscale Astor Place
neighborhood. At the corner of Fourth
Avenue and Eighth Street stood the former Third Associated Reformed
Presbyterian Church—an exquisite Georgian-style structure designed by John
McComb, Jr. and completed in 1812. The
building originally stood on Murray Street, but was astonishingly moved uptown
when the congregation relocated
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| photo by Ewing Galloway, original source unknown |
Now the Presbyterian church moved uptown again, this time
deciding to leave its building. It was
sold to the Catholic Church to become St. Ann’s Roman Catholic Church. On April 23, 1852 an advertisement in The New
York Herald read: “All persons desirous of securing seats in this church are
invited to attend at the church, on Tuesday next, the 27th inst., at
one o’clock, P. M.”
Although the majority of Manhattan’s wealthy citizens were
Episcopalian, St. Ann’s Roman Catholic Church filled with fashionable
parishioners. In April 1865 the well-dressed
worshipers would listen especially intently to the words of their pastor.
The New York Times reported “Rev. Dr. Preston read the
circular of Archbishop McClosky, and delivered some remarks on the untimely
death of Mr. Lincoln, in which he rebuked the spirit of the assassination and
wickedness which prompted the murder, and which if allowed to prevail, would
destroy the Republic.”
The Rev. Thomas Scott Preston was a fiery, opinionated
preacher. On March 20, 1870 he focused
his sermon on “Catholic doubters and offending journalist;” saying that they
were “erring, if not positively unclean.”
And later that year, after the Italian Army stormed Rome and
stripped the Pope of his temporal powers, Father Preston had much to say on the
matter. On November 27 The New York
Herald reported “Last evening St. Ann’s Catholic church, Eighth street, was
crowded with an attentive and respectable congregation, who assembled for the
purpose of hearing the eloquent and gifted pastor, the Rev. Thomas Preston,
deliver his promised lecture on the temporal power of the Popes. Before the doors were opened crowds had
collected outside, and in five minutes after ingress into the sacred edifice
had been allowed there was not a single vacant seat.”
The priest began his lengthy speech saying that all assembled
were aware of “the circumstances in which the Holy Father was placed, and the
fact that he had been deprived of his temporal power.” Father Preston was convinced that a higher
power would correct the situation. “How
long God would allow him to be deprived of it nobody knew; but at this time the
faith, love and devotion of the entire Catholic world should rally around the standard
of St. Peter.”
At the time that Father Preston was discoursing on Papal
powers, the parish was busy contemplating a move to East 12th
Street. On month earlier The New York
Times commended “The old church, in Eight-street opposite Lafayette-place, has,
for some time past, been much too small to accommodate the rapidly-increasing
congregation which worships in it, and it was therefore decided to build a
larger and more pretentious [church] in Twelfth-street, near Fourth-avenue.”
The new church was dedicated on New Year’s Day, 1871. The previous day the Catholic Church had petitioned
the Supreme Court for “an order granting leave to sell St. Ann’s Church…together
with the parsonage and school-house adjoining.” The petition pointed out that dry goods mogul
Alexander Turney Stewart had agreed to buy the property—paying $75,000 in cash
of the $125,000 selling price.
Alterations were made to the building and Stewart used it
for the manufacture of bedding. Nine
years later the Stewart Estate leased the building to theater manager Jacob
Aberle. The once exclusive residential
neighborhood had changed much and was now part of the northward moving
entertainment district.
On September 9, 1879 The New York Herald announced “The old
church edifice on Eighth street, between Fourth avenue and Broadway…after
having suffered many changes in the past few years, has finally been remodeled
into a theatre, and under the management of Mr. Joe Aberle it was opened to the
public last night, when an elaborate programme was presented. In seating capacity, at least, this new house
is a prominent rival of all the other east side variety theatres.”
To create his Tivoli Theatre, Aberle had lopped off the steeple
and transformed the façade from Georgian to Spanish Colonial—a toned down
version of Spanish Baroque. The building
still retained a churchy appearance, nonetheless. Two days after opening night Aberle placed an
advertisement in The New York Herald applauding the “overwhelming success of
this New and Grand Theatre. The Greatest
Attractions in the World. American’s
Best Star Artists.”
For New Year’s Eve that year Aberle staged a special attraction,
a “modern drama” entitled The Poor of New
York. The New York Herald wrote “It
is based upon scene in New York during the financial crisis of 1837-38 and is a
story of fraud and its victims, with the usual accompaniments of wealth,
luxury, destitution and misery.” Jacob Aberle was no doubt especially excited
about the staging of this new play, because it would be the debut of Miss Laura
Aberle as an actress.
The “story of fraud and its victims” was especially
appropriate, considering that less than a week later Aberle received a
restraining order which prevented his giving any further presentations of the
play. “The proceeding is taken on behalf
of Francis Mayo, who claims to be the owner of the piece,” explained the New-York
Tribune on January 11, 1880.
It was just the first of problems for the theater
owner. On May 13, 1880 The New York
Times reported “A number of unruly boys nightly congregate in the gallery of
Aberle’s Tivoli Theatre, in Eighth-street near Fourth-avenue, and render
themselves a nuisance to the more respectable portion of the audience by their
antics. They are extremely disorderly,
and in guying the actors use the most obscene language.”
The evening before, the boys had been especially
problematic. John Reilly, 17-years old, “made
himself conspicuous in the disturbance,” and lit a cigar in the balcony. He refused to put it out when ordered to do
so by the door keeper. It was only after
considerable wrangling that Police Officer Golle got Reilly out of the theater
and onto the street. But then, “the
friends of the young ruffian assaulted the officer with a shower of stones,
several of which struck him.”
Reilly broke free and ran off with the officer “in hot
pursuit.” The delinquent teen quickly
discovered that assaulting a policeman in 19th century New York came
with its costs. “When the fugitive was
brought back he was bleeding profusely from a wound on the right side of his
head,” reported The Times. The boy had
to be taken to the station house on a stretcher. He complained that Golle had whacked him on
the side of the head with his club, knocking him down.
“The officer said that Reilly, while running across
Fourth-avenue, stumbled and fell on the car-track, cutting his head.”
On New Year’s Day 1881 the theater was inspected by Fire
Department Battalion Chief Bresnan. The
chief did not hold back in his assessment of the place. The Times reported “Aberle’s Theatre…in the
opinion of the Chief is a rookery that should be closed until it is so far
rebuilt as to be in some measure safe.”
He called it “one of the filthiest places in the City, the galleries
being, as he expressed it, ‘as dirty as the streets.’”
He was mainly concerned with the safety of the building—the number
of exits, for example—and pointed out that the employees added to the
problem. “The employes about the
theatre, he says, spend most of their earnings in the bar-room connected with
and adjoining the theatre. Being constantly
more or less under the influence of liquor, he says, they should not be trusted
in such important places, for in his opinion they would add to instead of
preventing a panic in case of a fire.”
Aberle’s problems only increased when he staged The Boss; or, Waiting for Vengeance in
February 1883. One of the actresses was
an eight-year old girl who went by various names including Lillie Atkins,
Petite and May Atkinson. In the audience
on Tuesday night, February 6, was an officer of the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Children.
The New-York Tribune reported “He observed that the child
seemed delicate, that she was poorly clad and that she was suffering.” The girl appeared on stage three times during
each performance, which did not conclude until around midnight. The following day Aberle was informed that
she must be removed from the cast.
An officer checked in on February 8 to make sure the order
was being obeyed. To his surprise (or
not) the little girl took her place on stage exactly as before. Not only was the girl’s father arrested, but
so was Jacob Aberle. He was held at $500
bail—a significant $12,000 in today’s dollars.
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| photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York |
Years later The New York Times recalled a humorous story
which centered around a crooked ticket seller. A patron wanted to see the play The Forty Thieves and passed a $10 bill
to the cashier. “Upon receiving $5 in
return he returned the tickets, at the same time saying he did not want to go
in and see the other thirty-nine thieves.”
Jacob Aberle sold the theater to actor John Thompson, deemed
by The New York Times as “the eminent tragedian.” When Thompson produced and appear in On Hand here, in what was now called the
Eight-Street Theatre, the newspaper said it was “considered one of the most sublime
creations ever produced.”
Thompson did not rely only on dramatic presentations to
ensure success. On October 24, 1884 the
theater was the scene of the Jack Dempsey-Tom Henry boxing match. The Times reported “Every grade of society
was represented, from swell young men about town who wore evening dress, crush
hats, and opera coats, down to dance hall bouncers and Bleecker-street ‘statues.’ All the evening cabs and carriages were driving
up before the theatre, and men and women were crowding through the throng about
the steps and taking their places in the boxes, while Bowery roughs and prize
fighters from the dives were making efforts to pass in unobserved or begging
admission from the doortender.”
The Eighth Street Theatre suffered scandal when actress
Lillie Ellis committed suicide “in the saloon” of the theatre two weeks later. According to testimony the following week, she was
infatuated with a man named James Ryan.
On Wednesday night, November 12, 1884 the two apparently had words. Ryan told Coroner Martin that he “was leaving
the room when she shot herself.” Another
actress, Minnie Western, testified that Lillie was intoxicated and the matter
was closed.
Like Jacob Aberle, John Thompson found himself on the wrong
end of the law. He was arrested for
serving liquor in the theater without a license; and also for “assaults and
brawls at the place.” But things got
serious in 1885.
That year all of Paris was enthralled by the Can Can. Lines of synchronized dancers kicked their
legs high, revealing stockings and petticoats; and at one point in they
bent over and brushed their skirts above their pantaloons. Paris may have been ready for the Can Can,
but New York society was not.
In the early morning hours of February 22 Police Captain John
J. Brogan “made a descent” on the theater where, according to The Times, he “surprised
about 120 persons of both sexes, who were taking part in or spectators of a
degrading exhibition of the can-can.”
The raid revealed that the respected tragedian was running
more than a theater. “There were nine
rooms and apartments near the stage termed actress’s dressing rooms. The boxes were the scenes of orgies, and
liquor was served in the theatre during variety performances. At late hours the can-can was danced in the
wine room, and each woman endeavored to be more indecent that the others.”
Nineteen women and 45 men were arrested. Police searched the theater for Thompson, who
was finally found trying to hide in a heap of coal in the cellar. He insisted he was in the engine room “bathing
a sore eye with warm water.” He was held
in $1,000 bail for running a disorderly house—the polite 19th
century term for a brothel. John
Thompson’s Eighth Street Theatre was closed down.
The beleaguered theater was reopened as the New
Eighth-Street Theatre by John F. Poole on August 3, 1886. The Times noted “The first play will be ‘Shanema
Lawn,' with Mr. W. J. Scanlan, a very interesting comedian, in the principal
part.”
Poole faired only slightly better than his
predecessors. In 1889 the theater was
raided for serving liquor without a license.
Within months it was under new management. On April 26, 1890 The Evening World reported “The
Boston Howard Athenaeum Company begin a week’s engagement at Harry Kennedy’s
new Eighth Street Theatre.”
The vaudeville show format included “Little Ida Heath, a
clever child artist in the lightning change line; Baggesen, the human corkscrew; Ella Wesner,
the Wems Brothers and Coyne Sisters, Prof. Harry Parker and others.”
Kennedy’s managerial term, too, would be a short one. When comedian Gus Bruno opened the season
here in 1890, The Evening World tried to keep the tangled history of the
theater straight. “The Eighth Street
Theatre, formerly Poole’s and Harry Kennedy’s was opened Saturday night by Gus
Bruno, in a musical burlesque called 'A Queen Family.'”
And once again the notorious venue was shut down. On June 15, 1891 The Evening World announced “The
Eighth Street Theatre has been closed by order of Mayor Grant, who was notified
Saturday that the theatre had been running since May 1 without a license.”
After serving as a boxing venue again for awhile, Adolf
Philipp leased the theater in July 1893.
The Times reported “New-York is to have a German Harrigan’s.” The article said that Philipp proposed “after
renovating the house and making needed improvements, opening it with a German
company of selected artists…The house will be known as the Germania Theatre and
will be open about Sept. 16 at popular prices.”
Later the newspaper would remind its readers that the building
“was at one time a church of considerable importance. Although the exterior has been changed a little,
there is still a distinct church effect noticeable in the architecture…It
became a concert hall of fair reputation, then a dance hall of the Bowery
type, and finally a dive of the most notorious character. In these various roles it failed to pay, and
the property was finally sold to a company of Germans who tried to make it at
least a respectable place for light theatricals.”
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| A group of Germania Theatre stage hands pose for a photo in front of a stage set of a cut-away tenement. photo by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York |
Adolph Philipp, too, had some run ins with the law. He was arrested on January 24, 1899 when he
decided to resolve a problem with Gustav Amberg, who had leased the theater
from him briefly, by punching him in the nose.
And a week later the theater was briefly closed when detectives felt
that the “sacred concert” being staged on a Sunday night was in fact, an
entertainment.
Actually, the detectives were right. Jaegerblut
was a German comedy; however Captain Cooney decided not to interfere. “Besides,” explained The Times, “the players
talked the Bavarian patois, and the detectives could not make out a word of it.”
Despite the minor problems, The New York Times noted on
February 10, 1901 “the Germania Theatre has partly redeemed the building form
its one-time unpleasant associations.”
But in April 1902 Adolf Philipp announced his intentions to construct a
New Germania Theatre on East 14th Street which would be “built and ready
to be opened by May, 1903.”
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| The theater's fate was already sealed when, on October 21, 1900, the New-York Tribune published this photo of the building "and the adjoining property which will be condemned for the rapid transit system." (copyright expired) |
Shortly after the Germania moved out, the entire block where
the old theater stood was demolished to make way for the new subway. The John Wanamaker Department Store's 1906 extension rose over the site of the old theater.
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