America’s Sweetheart, Mary Pickford, was just one of many silent movie stars who appeared on the silver screen with silver tabbies and other ordinary “movie cats” in the early 1900s.
A century before there was Grumpy Cat, Lil Bub, Street Cat Bob, and all the countless felines inducted into the Internet Hall of Fame, there were the “movie cats” that rose to stardom during the silent film era.
I’m not talking about Felix the Cat, the cartoon cat that made his first appearance in 1919 in a short silent film called Feline Follies.
Nor am I referring to Krazy Cat, another cartoon cat that first appeared in 1913 in the New York Evening Journal and later in several short silent films produced by William Randolph Hearst and others beginning in 1916.
The “movie cats” of the early twentieth century were ordinary cats that had a knack for performing with minimal or no theatrical training. They usually made only cameo walk-on appearances, but still, they shared the screen with silent film stars like Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Lillian Gish, and Rudolph Valentino.
A few of these cats, like the famous Pepper of Keystone Studios, appeared in close to 17 credited movie roles. Many other feline stars never received screen credit, although a few did earn wages for their owners.
The famous Pepper the cat of Keystone Studios appeared in her first film in 1913. Pepper was often paired with Teddy the dog, Charlie Chaplin, and the Keystone Cops.
Two movie cats that were certainly entitled to a Screen Actors Guild (SAG) card were Queen Hatto and Baby Silverette of Richmond Hill, Queens. The two silver tabbies were the pride of Miss Elizabeth Kingston, who ran a cattery called “Kingston Kattery” at 1812 Lambert Street (now 122nd St.) She rented the cats to film studios whenever they needed a cat to play a prominent or important part in the movie.
As the New York Sun reported in 1916: “These cats have been in more motion picture shows than most of the actors, and their acting reaps a nice harvest for their owner. They don’t get rattled when the camera man begins to grind, and seem to enjoy posing.” According to Miss Kingston, her tabbies “registered very well” (showed well on the screen), the photographed beautifully when it came to close-ups, and “they never turn a hair in the most thrilling of scenes and stunts.”
Miss Kingston was no stranger to the stage herself, having served as the financial secretary and then as manager of the Actors’ Child League of New York City. This organization, which was located at 773 East 180th Street in the Bronx (near today’s Mapes ball field and pool), cared for and provided temporary housing for children whose actor parents were away on national tours. Miss Kingston no doubt used this connection to learn about upcoming cat roles in the silent films.
The First Feline of Silent Film
In all fairness, Queen Hatto and Baby Silverette were not the first real cats to appear on film. That honor goes to the “Falling Cat,” which was filmed on one take by Etienne-Jules Marey in 1894 as an experiment to show if cats really do always land on all four feet at the same time. Marey used a chronophotographic gun that was capable of taking 12 consecutive frames a second — and all the frames were recorded on the same picture.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqL9siGDeBA
The Movie Cats Go to Grand Central Palace
In December 1916, Miss Kingston’s “movie cats” made their debut at the Empire Cat Club Show at the Grand Central Palace, an exhibition hall on Lexington Avenue at 46th Street. The news that Queen Hatto and Baby Silverette were going to compete at the show caused quite a stir among cat fanciers, as it was feared the screen stars would steal the scene from the more commonplace $400 and $500 prize cats that, up to then, had been the monarchs of the feline society.
The 13-story Grand Central Palace was built in 1911, and occupied the air rights over the railroad tracks leading into Grand Central Terminal. The Palace was New York’s main exposition hall until it closed in 1953. It was demolished in 1964 to make way for the 48-story office building at 245 Park Ave.
Despite all the hullabaloo, it doesn’t appear that the movie cats walked away with any prizes at the show that year. Most of the big prizes went to Mrs. I.J. Ketchen of New Rochelle, who also earned the position of president of the Empire Cat Club that year. A Catastrophe at the Kattery
In 1919, Miss Kingston purchased a large house and grounds in Brentwood, Long Island, in order to expand her cattery business and increase her feline stock. She ran a standing classified ad in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which brought in customers from all over the country.
Miss Kingston bred Angoras and Smoke Persians, like those shown here, at her Brentwood cattery.
Tragedy struck the cattery on January 9, 1921, when a careless attendant made an adjustment to an oil stove that caused fumes and smoke. All 24 of her prize-winning Persian cats suffocated and died, including several female cats that were pregnant with kittens already on order for Easter.
Miss Kingston did not let the tragic incident let her down. Sometime that same year, she married Alfred N. List, a jeweler from Manhattan. According to the 1930 Census, the couple resided in an apartment at 143 West 4th Street in Manhattan.
Oscar Hammerstein built the Theatre Republic on land that he leased from Mrs. Anna F. Davidson of New York City. In 1901 he leased the theater to David Belasco and constructed a roof garden that featured vaudeville acts and a replica of a Dutch farm. Mrs. Patricia Campbell performed here in 1902.
Oscar Hammerstein, the grandfather of lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II, built several theaters in New York, including the Harlem Opera House on 125th St. and the Olympia on Broadway.
Oscar Hammerstein had a farm (EIEIO). And on this farm he had a watermill, a windmill, a pond with a bridge and two boats, a few stone houses, a vegetable garden, a donkey, a turkey, a rooster, four hens, a near-sighted monkey, three peanut monkeys, several sheep, 1 duck and 4 ducklings.
The main attraction was a Holstein cow with her very own scantily clad (for the Victorian era) Swiss milkmaid who offered fresh milk in tiny glasses to visitors. The farm was on the roof of Oscar Hammerstein’s Theatre Republic on West 42nd Street.
The Venetian Terrace Garden at the Victoria Theatre
In 1904, the Victoria Theatre was relaunched as Hammerstein’s Victoria “Theatre of Varieties,” with live acts featuring celebrities including Charlie Chaplin, W.C. Fields, and Houdini. That same year, Longacre Square was renamed Times Square.
Before there was air conditioning (and Prohibition), many New York City theaters and hotels featured elaborate roof gardens where Gilded-age guests could dance and dine or enjoy a summer theater performance under strings of electric lights while enjoying the cool river breezes.
Oscar Hammerstein’s Paradise Gardens atop the Theatre Republic (aka Belasco’s) and Victoria Theatre was one of the more novel roof gardens of the era, to say the least.
In 1898, Oscar Hammerstein built the Victoria Theatre on the northwest corner of 42nd Street and 7th Avenue, which was then in an area of Manhattan known as Longacre Square.
This remote neighborhood — previously occupied by large family farms and manure dumping grounds — was populated by carriage makers and stables, and was named for the famed district of London where royal carriages were designed and constructed. Today, this area is the heart of Times Square and New York’s Theater District.
The site Oscar Hammerstein chose for his Victoria Theatre was occupied by Gilley Moore’s Market Stables, seen at bottom left in this 1857 map. To the left is McGory’s Dance Hall, which was replaced by the Theatre Republic. Most of the neighborhood is still undeveloped. New York Public Library
Due to budgetary constraints, Oscar Hammerstein had to be quite resourceful when constructing the Victoria Theatre. Somehow he convinced the Market Livery Company to lease their land to him for 20 years with no money down.
He then used bricks and wood from the demolished stables to construct the theater. The Victoria’s floors were covered with old carpeting from an ocean liner, the seats were purchased second hand, and the hayloft from the stables was used to construct the back stage.
Hammerstein’s Victoria Theatre on the corner of 7th Avenue and 42nd Street. The Theatre Republic is next door, to the left in this image.
Atop the Victoria was a large roof garden that was initially called the Venetian Terrace Garden. The space featured a three-tiered grand promenade and was decorated with greenery and 2,000 electric lights. There was also a small theater-in-the-round, which was later expanded to seat 1,000 patrons.
Roof gardens bathed in new electric light were in vogue in the early 1900s before air conditioning and Prohibition. A scene from Hammerstein’s is depicted in the circle.
To comply with the city’s building code, Hammerstein added eight exits and two elevators that took patrons directly from the street to the roof garden. The roof garden also had a glass-enclosed auditorium allowing for an open-air feeling with windows open on nice evenings, and protection from the elements on rainy nights.
The seating area of the Paradise Roof Garden theater, on top of Hammerstein’s Victoria Theatre, 1901. Museum of the City of New York
The Victoria Theatre opened March 3, 1899, with the Rogers Brothers’ Reign of Error. The Venetian Terrace Garden opened on June 26 of that year.
In 1900, Oscar Hammerstein built the Theatre Republic adjacent to the Victoria on 42nd Street. He also enlarged the rooftop theater to seat 1,000 patrons and connected it to the roof of the Theatre Republic. The combined roof garden was renamed the Paradise Roof Garden.
Another section of the Paradise Roof Garden theater in 1901, with the Dutch farm in the background. Museum of the City of New York
While the main theater remained atop the Victoria, the Theatre Republic’s roof garden featured a much smaller stage that Hammerstein and his son, William, dedicated for Wednesday and Sunday matinees. These afternoon shows featured vaudeville and European novelty acts such as Augusta Rohoff’s Flea Circus from Germany, swimming exhibitions at the pond, jugglers, magicians, and various freak shows.
Newspaper ads show that animal acts were also very popular. Riccabona’s horses, Gillette’s trained monkey and dogs, Rosina Caselli’s midget dogs, a boxing kangaroo, Delita Delfora’s six performing cows, Goolman’s cat and dog circus, a talking dog named Don, and Robert’s trained cats and rats all made appearances in the first decade of the twentieth century. Although these acts were no doubt a hit with the public, the main attraction of the Republic’s roof garden was the Dutch farm and its live barnyard animals.
Don the talking dog was just one of many animal acts that performed atop the Theatre Republic in the early 1900s.
The Milch Cow and the Milkmaid
By 1908, the combined roof gardens were known simply as Hammerstein’s or “The Corner.” That year, a want ad in several New York papers advertised for a milkmaid to milk the cow in the “sylvan glade” at Hammerstein’s.
The ad stated “no homely applicants need apply.” (An article in The New York Times regarding the ad noted that “no homely milkmaid was ever in a sylvan glade, so it is desired that the applicants consider themselves honestly in the mirror before spending carfare.”) The ad also said the salary would be $40 a month “with board thrown in” (Where? At the little Dutch house on the roof?).
According to the Times, the milkmaid would wear “short skirts and pink” and be required to milk “the thoroughly tame cow” in the presence of spectators. The milkmaid would be able to keep some of the milk, and would not be required to attend to the ducks, goats, or any other animals.
A boy in uniform would assist by roping off the crowd. About a week after the ads appeared, “a buxom and rosy-cheeked Harlem milkmaid” was reportedly hired. The cow was milked by hand during intermission. (In 1910, an electric milking machine was acquired.)
The Suffragette Farmers
The “Suffragette farmers” in their overalls at Hammerstein’s Dutch farm. Variety, 1911
In June 1911, several New York newspapers reported on the “Suffragette farmers” at Hammerstein’s Dutch farm. According to the New York Herald, the farm’s milkmaid wore high-heeled slippers and silk stockings and another milkmaid in overalls served tiny cups of milk.
Two other suffragette shepherds in overalls were clipping the sheep with an electric clipper at “the baa-baa shop” while other women in overalls encouraged people to try their luck catching a real fish in the trout stream behind the barn. Over the bridge and past the calf pasture near the windmill was the blacksmith shop, where two “matronly smithies toiled at the forge.”
In the farmhouse, two women farmers smoked cigarettes and read newspapers while a man washed clothes and rocked a cradle with his foot. And scattered about the rest of the farm were women trimming hedges and painting roofs.
Arabian acrobats pose on the bridge in front of the windmill and blacksmith shop at Hammerstein’s Paradise Roof Garden. Museum of the City of New York
The End of Paradise and the Roof Garden Era
In the summer of 1908, Mr. Felix Isman, a real estate tycoon from Philadelphia who was slowly but steadily buying theaters in New York, said he had obtained an option on the Victoria and Belasco Theatre sites.
According to Isman, the ground leases contained a clause that said Hammerstein could not keep wild animals on the property. In response, Hammerstein admitted he had farm animals on the property, but none of these were considered “wild.”
He told the Times, “I have notified Mr. Isman that in deference to his desire for evacuation, I will begin to dispossess the monkeys from their cage and allow him to occupy it at once.” Hammerstein continued to hold onto the property and Isman set his sights on other theaters.
S. L. Rothapfel gutted the Victoria in 1915 to make way for the Rialto movie theater. The theater opened in April 16 with “The Good Bad Man” by Douglas Fairbanks.
By the early 1920s, advancements in air-conditioning were rendering New York’s roof garden theatres obsolete and silent movies were luring patrons out of vaudeville theatres. Hammerstein jumped on this bandwagon early, selling the Victoria Theatre in May 1915 to S. L. “Roxy” Rothapfel, who eventually gutted the building to make way for 42nd Street’s first movie theater, the Rialto.
This theater changed hands a few times over the years, and was torn down in 2000 to make way for an office building.
The Republic, which had been taken over by David Belasco in 1902, became home to Billy Minsky’s burlesque shows in 1932. Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia banned burlesque in 1942, and the Republic was converted into a movie theater, the Victory.
Billy Minsky’s was a very popular burlesque joint, especially with the police, who often raided the place.
The Victory was a hot bed, so to speak, for porno movies in the 1970s, but it was restored as a legitimate theater in 1995. Today it is a performing arts center for children and families called the New Victory Theater.
Mrs. Patrick Campbell was born Beatrice Rose Stella Tanner in 1865 in Kensington, London. She reportedly received Pinky Panky Poo in 1890 from Leopold II, the King of the Belgians, who reigned from December 1865 to December 1909.
What does a tiny dog named Pinky Panky Poo and the Plaza Hotel have to do with modern-day doggie day-care centers? Read on…
Shortly after the Plaza Hotel opened in New York City in October 1907, afternoon tea at the iconic hotel became a popular way for the women of high society to idle away the hours. The tea room – later called the Palm Court – was patterned after the informal rooms at the Ritz in Paris and the Carlton in London, and had a very relaxing atmosphere. It was so informal, in fact, that the ladies assumed their canine companions would also be quite welcome there.
At first, management turned a blind eye and allowed the little dogs to accompany their mistresses to tea. But when the barks and growls and cooing of pet names began interrupting Nahan Franko and his orchestra, managing director Frederic Sterry had to put his foot down. As The New York Times noted, “informal tea is all very well, but the dogs were too aggressively Bohemian.”
Before I continue this story, I must explain why the women assumed their dogs would be welcome at tea in the first place – and why the Plaza Hotel still has an open door policy for small pets today.
According to Curtis Gathje, author of “At the Plaza: An Illustrated History of the World’s Most Famous Hotel,” our furry friends owe their gratitude to British actress Mrs. Patrick Campbell and her beastly little dog called Pinky Panky Poo.
In 2012, Martha Stuart treated her dog, Ghenghis Khan, to afternoon tea at the Plaza. The queen of domesticity would not have gotten away with this in 1907, when pampered pooches were relegated to the Plaza’s doggie check room.
The following is their story – it’s one from the file I like to call “You can’t make this stuff up.”
A Monkey Griffon Named Pinky Panky Poo
In 1907, Mrs. Patrick Campbell traveled from Liverpool to New York to embark on her second American theater tour. Her schedule included lead roles in several plays, including “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray,” “The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith,” and “Hedda Gabler.”
Mrs. Pat, as her fans called her, arrived in New York City on November 9 with her daughter, Miss Stella Patrick Campbell, her son, Mr. Alan Urquahart Campbell, and her tiny monkey griffon, Pinky Panky Poo. (Mrs. Pat was a widow; her husband had died in the Boer War in 1900.)
As Mrs. Pat had previously performed in New York at the Theatre Republic in 1902, the press was already quite familiar with the flamboyant actress and her inseparable canine companion. In fact, on her first American tour, the little dog took center stage in almost every major news article about the visiting actress.
The New York Dramatic Mirror had described the dog as having “bright, black, beady eyes; hair that in a less distinguished dog would be called weedy, and paws like overgrown spiders’ legs.” One New York State newspaper even wrote an ode to Pinky, calling him a “high-bred puplet” and “sniffy little beast from kennels of a king.”
So when Mrs. Pat arrived in 1907, the New York Herald reported that even though the little dog was clad in a coat of Astrakhan fur, “he seemed but a shadow of his former self.” At 17 years old, Pinky weighed less than a pound and was nearly blind – apparently from several cat fights. He was also missing all his teeth. Still, Mrs. Pat treated the senior dog as if he were a prince.
Pinky and Pandora’s Box
For her second U.S. tour, Mrs. Patrick Campbell had made arrangements to stay at the brand-new Plaza Hotel. But when the family arrived there that afternoon (with several servants and about 100 trunks in tow), they were shocked to discover that the hotel did not allow dogs. Oh, the horror!
Fred Sterry realized that rejecting Pinky Panky Poo would cause a public relations nightmare for the Plaza Hotel, so he decided right on the spot to allow small pets in the hotel. Mrs. Pat had to sign an agreement making her responsible for the dog’s good conduct.
Poor Pinky was also relegated to either the maids’ or baggage elevators. But on that day in 1907, Pandora’s Box was opened, and every woman in Manhattan felt entitled to treat her own pup to an afternoon or longer stay at the Plaza Hotel.
Mrs. Pat performed at the Theatre Republic on 42nd Street during her New York tour in 1902. This theater, which was built in 1900 by Oscar Hammerstein, was completely renovated in the 1990s. It is still in operation as a performing arts theater for kids and families called the New Victory Theater.
A. Toxen Worm and Mrs. Pat’s American Theater Tours
The newspaper men and press agents had a field day with Pinky Panky Poo whenever he and his mistress visited New York. One theatrical press agent in particular, a man known as A. Toxen Worm, had a great deal of fun reporting on Pinky, and often used the dog in wacky stunts to generate more publicity for Mrs. Pat.
One published report suggested that it was Worm who gave the dog his ridiculous name — newspaper editors and the American public just loved it, so it stuck. If this is true, he no doubt got the idea from “Pinky Panky Poo; Chinese Love Song,” which was featured in “The Defender” at New York’s Herald Square Theater in the summer of 1902.
(And speaking of silly names, Worm’s actual name was Conrad Henrik Aage Toxen Worm.)
Pinky Panky Poo featured in “The Defender,” which appeared at the Herald Square Theater from July to August 1902 – just three months before Mrs. Pat arrived in New York. Click here to hear an instrumental version of the song.
In the fall of 1902, Mrs. Pat arrived in New York aboard the Oceanic from Liverpool. According to several news reports, Pinky Panky Poo was cordially disliked by many passengers due to a disturbance he created one night when a bagpiper was playing.
Mrs. Pat had disrupted the performance by calling to her secretary to attend to the dog because she thought he must be frightened. Several passengers reportedly plotted to send Pinky overboard, but they obviously never carried out the act.
During her 1902 tour, Mrs. Pat and Pinky Panky Poo stayed at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. One day while bathing Pinky in imported cologne, she applied a little much, which made him quite ill. She got a call from the hotel while she was rehearsing for the play “Aunt Jeannie” at the Garden Theater, and immediately put the rehearsal on hold.
The Fifth Avenue Hotel (c. 1860) was a luxury hotel located at 200 Fifth Avenue from 1859 to 1908. Mrs. Pat and Pinky stayed there in 1902.
Mrs. Pat thought for sure the little dog had been poisoned by a flea repellant, but when she told the “host of medical experts” who were summoned to the hotel about the dog’s routine cologne bath, they were able to find a remedy to cure him (probably a bath in soapy water).
Another time, when Mrs. Pat and Pinky were staying at the Hotel Seville, the tiny dog swallowed a grape seed. The renowned Dr. Martin J. Potter of the Ben-Hur Stables was summoned to the hotel to perform minor surgery on the dog. Dr. Potter obviously had a good sense of humor (or was mean-spirited, depending on your point of view), because he told Mrs. Pat:
“I was called upon in a similar case only a few days ago. I operated on one of the elephants at Luna Park, and found that the pain was caused by overindulging in peanuts. The operation was successful from a scientific point of view, but the elephant died next day.”
This proclamation sent Mrs. Pat into hysterics, but Dr. Potter quickly assured her that the elephant would have survived had it followed the advice of the attending nurse. Pinky Panky Poo spent his recovery time on a silken couch in a special suite at the hotel with a trained nurse in constant attendance. Dr. Potter said it would not do him well to get excited, and thus, banished Mrs. Pat from the room until the dog had completely recovered.
The Hotel Seville at Madison Avenue and 29th Street – now known as The Carlton. Mrs. Pat and Pinky were two of the hotel’s earliest guests when it opened in 1904. Museum of the City of New York
The Doggie Check Room: A Modern Exigency
So if it weren’t for Pinky Panky Poo, the tiny Poms and Yorkshire Terriers and other canine guests who accompanied the high-society ladies at afternoon tea may not have been welcome at all. But as it was, Fred Sterry had let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and thus had to find a quick solution to the delicate situation. Thus, a check room for dogs was established at the hotel.
According to The New York Times, the doggie check room was located in the main corridor of the hotel. A young man named Sammy who worked in the Plaza’s livery was put in charge as canine custodian.
Even though Sammy was quite young, he was “so careful with the dogs…that no owner need fear Fifi is exchanged for Fido or that her ruby spaniel has been mixed with a bat-eared bulldog from Paris. He knew when to separate the bull dogs from the Pomeranians, and he knew that an actress’s King Charles spaniel had to be held aloof from the patrician Yorkshire of the society leader.”
The Plaza Hotel “tea room,” later, the Palm Court, was modeled after the Winter Garden of the Hotel Carlton in London. The leaded glass dome was removed around World War II, reportedly to prevent it from being a beacon during air raids. Museum of the City of New York
The plan for making the check room work was as follows:
A richly gowned woman, ladled with sables and holding a small dog under her arms, starts for the tea room. The Secret Service recognizes that the furry mass is a dog, and not part of her attire. A courteous bellboy approaches the woman with a bow. “I shall check the dog for you,” he says. “Where?” the lady demands. “We have a check room on this floor for the dogs. They will be safe and comfortable.” The woman usually goes along to make sure her pet is going to be comfortable. When she sees the smile on Sammy’s face, she is put at ease.
“It was necessary to provide a place for the transient dogs,” Mr. Sterry told the Times. “We simply couldn’t have them running about, and how we realize how deeply attached their mistresses are to them, we have opened a check room. The boy is careful, and the dogs have bits of carpet on which to lie down. It is so much the fashion for smart women to take their dogs to tea that we have been obliged to make the afternoon comfortable for them. It is simply a case of meeting a modern exigency.”
Pinky Two and Woosh-Woosh
Sometime around 1909 or 1910, Pinky Panky Poo died, reportedly after consuming some flea powder. In October 1911, the Brooklyn Daily Star reported that Mrs. Pat had a new dog named Pinky Panky Poo Two.
Mrs. Pat and Pinky
Mrs. Pat returned to New York in the fall of 1931, this time to perform as Countess Polaki in Edouard Bourdet’s comedy “The Sex Fable” at Henry Miller’s Theater. On this visit, she was accompanied by a rare Pekingese known as the Chinese chinchilla breed.
The dog was called – I’m not making this up — Wung-Wung Wah-Wah Woosh-Woosh Wish-Wish Bang (he was known more affectionately as Woosh Woosh Wishwoosh). The dog had been left to her in the will of Mrs. Benjamin S. Guinness, a popular New York hostess and intimate friend of Mrs. John Jacob Astor.
Mrs. Pat described the dog: “She’s pure Chinese. She has feathers on her toes and the most marvelous lingerie. There’s nobody like her in the world. She’s almost as nice as Pinky Panky Poo, my famous griffon.”
Mrs. Pat was finally reunited with her beloved Pinky Panky Poo when she passed away on April 9, 1940 in Pau, France, at the age of 75.
An Aside
In her memoir, My Life and Some Letters, Mrs. Pat speaks of her impressions of New York: “As everyone knows, New York is built upon a rock. During this visit of mine they were constructing the subway, and every inch of the tunnel had to blasted with dynamite. The din of New York—the rush, the tall buildings, and the strange-coloured people; Italians, Russians, Chinese–all sorts everywhere–the noise of the elevators, the nasal twang–black boys, bell boys, and the noise of the street cars–I do not want to be unkind, but to me it was demoniacal.”
I often visit the the Hartsdale Pet Cemetery in Westchester County, New York. That is where my mother I came across the story of Sydney De Voe.
You may recall one of my earlier posts about Princess Lwoff-Parlaghy and her pet lion, Goldfleck, who was buried at the Hartsdale Pet Cemetery after living a very short life at the Plaza Hotel in New York. Or perhaps you remember my story about Sport, a fox terrier who may have inspired Dr. Samuel K. Johnson, a New York veterinary surgeon, to carve out a few acres of his apple orchard for use as a pet cemetery in 1886.
There once was a photograph of a Collie on Sydney’s monument at the Hartsdale Pet Cemetery. From the Collection of P. Gavan
Indeed, the Hartsdale Pet Cemetery is rich in animal tales and history. That’s why I spent a few hours of my birthday weekend at the “Peaceable Kingdom” to see what I could dig up. Really bad pun intended.
As we walked up and down the rows of monuments, I experienced numerous emotions. I got tears in my eyes when I saw all the photos of long-lost pets and read the sweet epithets their humans had written. And I stared wide-eyed in astonishment at some of the most outlandish tombstones I’ve ever seen – some more lavish than you’d find in a cemetery for humans.
I also chuckled at some of the pet names, like Grumpy, Kitty Litter, Mr. Thomas, Romeo (not Romeow, like my cat’s name), and Peggy. As I pointed out to my mom, a lot of pets shared my name in the 1920s; perhaps because the song Peg O’ My Heart came out in 1913 and the film of the same name was released in 1922.
Grumpy Cat apparently had a canine brother. He didn’t rise to fame on the Internet, but his owners treated him to a very nice monument when he died in 1926. From the Collection of P. Gavan
Each monument is a treasure in its own way, but there was one in particular that caught my fancy. The plain white monument looks as old as it is, and has an empty indentation where, I later learned, was once a photograph of a Collie. The monument reads:
Our Sydney Died Sept. 4, 1902 Aged 16 Yrs. Born a Dog Lived like a gentleman Died beloved
The monument is also inscribed “A.R. De Voe.”
So who was A.R. De Voe, and what was his story, I wondered. Was he a wealthy man? Did he have a wife and children, or was Sydney his only beloved “child”? I did some more digging, and found a great old New York story about a fascinating woman.
Mrs. A.R. De Voe
A.R. De Voe was born Annie R. Kimmey in Albany County, New York, in 1847 (give or take a year). Her dad, John J. Kimmey, ran a feed store, and her mother, Eva, kept house. She also had a younger brother named Charles (Chas).
Sometime around 1870 she married Jacob W. De Voe, who worked as a shop clerk. According to the 1870 census, in that year the couple was living with Annie’s parents and brother in Greenwich Village.
In 1874, Annie gave birth to her only child, who was named Edith T. Tragically, the child died in 1880. Jacob also apparently died later that same year, as Annie declared herself a widow living at 40 West 25th Street on the 1880 census.
For almost 30 years, Annie De Voe lived on West 25th Street. Her boarding house was located across the street from the rectory of the Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church, shown here in 1910. From the Collections of the Museum of the City of New York.
A few years after her husband and daughter died, Annie moved across the street to 51 West 25th Street. It was while living at this address that she must have adopted Sydney. I imagine the dog provided much comfort and companionship for this young woman who had lost so much so earlier in life.
It was also during the late 1880s or so that she met the millionaire John Irvin Beggs, who worked with Thomas A. Edison as manager of the Edison Electric Illuminating Co. Annie, who was described as being “a small woman, trim and handsome,” had reportedly gone to the Edison Company to request an inspector come to her house in preparation of installing some electric lights. Beggs offered to come to her home to conduct the inspection, and the two soon became friends.
John Irvin Beggs, a millionaire and pioneer in electric transportation and electric utilities, befriended Annie De Voe in the late 1800s.
“The Little Waldorf”
Soon after meeting Beggs, Annie sought his advice on a four-story brick row house at 28 West 25th Street that she wanted to purchase as an investment property. This home was previously owned and occupied by Lucretia Stevens Rhinelander – the widow of George Frederic Jones – and her daughter, Edith Newbold Jones.
If these names don’t ring a bell, perhaps they will when I tell you that Edith, aka Miss Pussy Jones, married Edward Robbins Wharton at this home in 1885 when she was 23 years old.
According to reports of a mortgage-related lawsuit that Annie filed around 1912, Beggs apparently lent her $15,000 to purchase the 32-room house. She made $5,000 worth of renovations in 1893 and turned it into a boarding house, which was known as “The Little Waldorf.” Annie moved into the house in 1894, and Beggs reportedly also took a room there to use whenever he did business in New York (he was living in St. Louis by this time).
One of the lavish rooms inside the home of Lucretia S. Rhinelander at 28 W. 25th Street in the late 1800s.
The Tokeneke Beach Inn
In January 1901, Annie’s mom passed away (her father passed earlier). Then the following year, it was Sydney’s turn to leave Annie and this world behind. I imagine that Annie would have brought the dog to the New York Veterinary Hospital, where Dr. Johnson worked, as it was just a block away from her house at 117 West 25th Street.
In the early days of the Hartsdale Pet Cemetery, it was customary procedure for people to drop off their deceased pets at Dr. Johnson’s office, where they would be documented, placed in zinc-lined caskets, and transported to the cemetery by train. Internment cost $10 to $25 for dogs and $12 for a cat or other small animal.
Dr. Johnson worked at the New York Veterinary Hospital at 117 W. 25th Street. According to an 1897 map, the hospital was in a two-story brick stable — it may have been the same building shown here today.
Five years after Sydney died, Annie De Voe started working as the manager of the Tokeneke Beach Inn on the Long Island Sound in Rowayton, Connecticut. A few years later, in April 1910, she and her neighbor, Mrs. Bertha Bartlett, sold their adjoining homes on West 25th Street to the Realty Holding Company. Annie placed advertisements in several New York papers announcing that the contents of the home were being sold at auction.
According to the ads, the palatial home was furnished with Louis XV furniture, a Knabe upright piano, Tiffany clocks, ivory carvings, oil paintings, and Oriental rugs, and there was a wine cellar filled with imported wines. The two homes were immediately torn down and replaced by a 12-story mercantile building and a 12-story loft building.
The Tokeneke Beach Inn was constructed in 1904 to accommodate prospective land buyers who were looking to build summer homes in the residential colony. It was on a knoll among a small grove and trees, and featured tennis courts and a bathing beach with bath houses.
An article in the Evening Telegram on June 18, 1912, reported that she was suing Beggs for $40,000. In her suit, Annie asserted that “she is without a husband and dependent upon her own resources.” She said she had relied on Beggs’ judgment when she purchased the house at 28 West 25th Street; however, the article does not provide any additional details.
At some point in time, Annie purchased the “Mountain House” (aka Mount Prospect House) property in Montclair, NJ. In 1916, title to this property passed to John B. Peterkin, but Annie stayed on as the proprietor of a family hotel at the estate, which was marketed as “Always open. Top of mountain. Splendid view. A.R. De Voe, Prop.”
Annie De Voe passed away on May 6, 1932, leaving an estate worth just over $11,000. I do not know where her burial took place, but I’m sure she and Sydney have connected on the other side.
In 1911, Nos. 28 and 30 West 25th Street were torn down and replaced by 12-story mercantile buildings.
“Horses galloping from nowhere to nowhere on sliding platforms in front of a quickly rolling panorama; Ben-Hur on the stage is panoramic, pictorial, musical, terpsichorean, religious.” — Edward A. Dithmar, The New York Times, Dec. 3, 1899.
Dr. Martin J. Potter (in circle) and Dr. Samuel S. Field (top hat). New York Morning Telegraph, March 17, 1901.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, when the use of live horses and other animals in grand productions on the big stage was all the rage, a thespian college for quadruped actors was just what the doctors ordered. Drs. Martin J. Potter and Samuel S. Field, to be specific.
Dr. Martin Potter, better known as Doc Potter, was a veterinary surgeon and renowned animal trainer who supplied animals to practically all the theatrical companies in America. Able to procure almost any kind of trained animal for a dramatic production, he was known as the “Noah of the Theater.”
Martin began collecting fine horses as a teenager, and over the years his collection expanded to include camels, lions, elephants, tigers, dogs, and scores of smaller animals. At one point he owned more than 50,000 horses and 10,000 other varieties of animals, many of which lived in the stalls, cages, lakes, and fields at his stock farm in Stamford, Connecticut.
Dr. S.S. Field was also a veterinary surgeon and horse trainer who owned a stock farm at his estate on Fulton Avenue in Hempstead, Long Island. Although he was born on a farm in Amsterdam, New York, Samuel didn’t like farming, so he worked making springs for wagon wheels.
The thespian college occupied a five-story brick livery stable at 141 East 23rd Street, which may be the building on the far right in this illustration.
He entered the animal business later in life, after serving in the Civil War and spending a few years as a keeper at Clinton Prison in Dannemora, New York (then considered America’s most brutal, repressive prison institution). Sometime during the 1870s, Samuel took up veterinary practice and opened an office at 29 Lexington Avenue near 23rd Street.
One day in 1887 a friend reportedly asked Martin if he could provide a trained horse for the stage. This request inspired Martin and Samuel to start a business training and supplying animals for theater productions. The pair opened their “horse college” in a large, five-story brick livery stable at 141 East 23rd Street sometime around 1900. The press called it “The Quadrupedal Academy of the Drama.”
A scene from William A. Brady’s production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, presented at the Academy of Music in 1901, and featuring Wilton Lackaye as Uncle Tom, Theodore Roberts as Simon Legree, and a few horses from the equine college of Gramercy Park. Museum of the City of New York Collection
On March 17, 1901, a reporter from the New York Morning Telegraph visited the stables to check on the equine undergraduates, as well as a number of graduates actively involved in metropolitan theater engagements.
On that date, seven graduates were performing in Uncle Tom’s Cabin at the Academy of Music in New York. These horses were all trained to dash onto the stage and then immediately slow up to allow for the dialogue. The swift galloping entrance gave the audience the impression that the horses had traveled long and hard.
A scene from the production of Way Down East by Lottie Blair Parker, presented at the Academy of Music in 1898 or 1900, featured Norma, who earned her thespian degree at the Ben-Hur Stables. Museum of the City of New York Collection
Some of the other horses trained at the equine college included Norma, who performed in Way Down East and Teddy, Tim, Andrew, Joe, and Dutch, who were touring with Hearts Are Trumps. The academy also supplied 237 horses for the production of Joan of Arc as well as numerous trained goats and camels (and sometimes elephants) for other dramatic performances. More often than not, the animals had an opportunity to train with their human counterparts at the stables prior to the actual stage performance.
The Equine Stars of Ben-Hur
Ben-Hur, a six-act extravaganza, opened on November 29, 1899, at the Broadway Theater. It starred Edward Morgan as Ben Hur, W.S. Hart as Massala, Henry Lee as Simonides, and 32 trained horses from New York’s equine college.
One of the most difficult theater productions for the horses was Ben-Hur, which opened at New York City’s Broadway Theater on November 29, 1899. Based on the best-selling 19th-century novel by Lew Wallace, Ben-Hur featured 120,000 square feet of scenery, a live camel trained by Doc Potter (and two fake ones), and what the writer William W. Ellsworth called ”one of the greatest stage contrivances of our day” — a chariot race complete with a rolling panorama of a Roman stadium to simulate Ben-Hur’s victory over Messala.
The thrilling scene featured four chariots, each drawn by four live horses and hooked up to an electric motor built into the bed that turned the wheels while the horses ran on a treadmill. The arrangement for each chariot was built into a separate platform that could be moved individually across the stage so that the chariots might alternate the lead in the race.
For this theatrical extravaganza, Drs. Potter and Field had to train 32 horses to rise up on their haunches and to run on an eight-part treadmill to create the amazing chariot race scene. In 1899, the chariot scene was the most spectacular and intricate illusion ever seen on a theater stage.
According to Bernard Hewitt’s “Theater U.S.A.: 1668 to 1957,” the way it worked was that each of the horses was led onto a separate treadmill activated by the animal’s running. Equipped with whips and racing skirts, the actors playing Ben-Hur and Messala climbed into actual chariots and the horses began running behind a darkened scrim.
When the sound built to a fever pitch, the scrim flew up, exposing a chariot race in full stride. As the panoramas rolled, Messala’s treadmills were slowly shifted upstage so that the Ben-Hur chariot would appear to be gaining. In the finale, the wheels were pulled off Messala’s chariot, the horses reared, and the lights fell.
Not only did the horses seem to hurdle toward the spectators, but a continuous panoramic backcloth was wound around upright rollers so that it could be made to travel rapidly in the opposite direction to the horses, and thus, create an illusion of moving scenery. Even the dust was reproduced by a narrow slot in the stage under each chariot wheel — as the wheels span, the dust was flung out behind the chariots.
To prepare for Ben-Hur, carpenters began constructing the stage set in October 1899. They first tore open the entire stage to put in place eight of the racing machines required for the chariot race. Steel girders were also placed under the stage to make it strong enough for the horses, chariots and drivers – about 85 tons. Additional timbers were also added to the sub-cellar of the theater.
The mega-hit ran for 6,000 performances over 21 years, and was estimated to have been seen by more than 20 million people. Almost as soon as the curtain fell on the final stage performance in the spring of 1921, a cinematic production from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was in the works.
Billed as “the triumphant return of Ben-Hur in sound,” the silent film premiered in 1925 and featured synchronized sound effects and live music. In 1959, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer released the feature-length film starring Charlton Heston as Ben-Hur.
The Broadway Theatre and old Cosmopolitan Hall
Constructed in 1887, the Broadway Theatre at 41st Street was the first major playhouse built in what has become today’s Times Square Theater District. Its first proprietors were James A. Bailey (yes, the circus Bailey), T. Henry French, and Frank W. Sanger. The first production was Sardou’s La Tosca, which opened on March 3, 1888.
The Broadway Theatre, designed by J.B. McElfatrick & Co., was constructed in 1887.
The building was formerly the old Cosmopolitan Hall, which was erected for use as a great concert hall by the Metropolitan Concert Hall Company and opened on May 26, 1890. The Metropolitan Concert Hall was renamed the Metropolitan Casino by Henry E. Abbey and Edward G. Gilmore, to showcase light opera, but theatrical managers called it The Morgue.
In 1882, J. Fred Zimmerman reopened it as the Metropolitan Alcazar, but that also failed. Next came S.M. Hickey, who called it Cosmopolitan Theatre and soon thereafter walked away. Captain Samuels of Brooklyn converted it into a skating rink during the roller-skating craze, and later it was used for fairs, flower shows, lectures, and billiards.
The Broadway Theatre was three stories with a roof of colored glass, which could be opened for ventilation. About the framework of the roof was a garden, where people could sit and listen to music coming from the stage below in summer.
A queue of people for the box office on the sidewalk outside of the Broadway Theatre in 1901. Museum of the City of New York Collections
According to building plans published in The New York Times, the theater was to be as fireproof as possible, and it had electric knobs that, when pushed, would open every single stage door outward so people could get out quickly. There were three stores on the Broadway side of the building, and the two upper stories above the stores had offices. The stage was 44 x 100 feet and had seating for about 2,000 people.
A Tragic Death
By 1906, it appears that the two vets had gone their separate ways. Doc Potter got a job as the vet for the Hippodrome Theatre shortly after it opened in 1905; he was also hired as the veterinarian for the Fox Film Corporation at 130 West 46th Street. In addition to these jobs, he continued collecting and selling animals for stage and screen.
In 1905, Doc Potter started working as the veterinarian at the new Hippodrome Theatre on 6th Avenue and 43rd Street.
At some point prior to December 1920, Doc Potter had moved his Ben-Hur Stables to 156 East 30th Street, where he ran an animal pawn shop for hard-luck circus men and animal trainers who needed loans. The animals were used as collateral, for which Doc Potter charged “room and board” in lieu of interest payments on the loans.
Firemen and their ladders were still visible following the fatal fire at 27-29 East 57th Street.
Tragically, in the early morning hours of December 2, 1920, a fire broke out at his home at 27-29 West 57th Street. Five residents, including Doc Potter, were trapped in the buildings and burned to death.
The residents’ deaths could probably have been prevented had the joined buildings not undergone extensive renovations a year earlier, in which the staircases were removed between the first and second floor of each building to create – ironically– more living space.
Four years later, the site of Doc Potter’s death was occupied by the 13-story Chickering building, which you may recall from my last post about a high-flying peacock.
Following Doc Potter’s untimely death at the age of 49, his widow, Frances, decided to hold onto the stables at 156 E. 30th Street for 18 months until the lease expired. The building shown here was built in 1920, but I wonder if the lower floor is part of the original stables?
Dr. Field lived a much longer life, and in fact, was named Hempstead’s oldest male resident on his 90th birthday on September 13, 1933.
He had sold his farm in 1907 — it was cut into lots by developers — and he was living alone at 22 Columbia Street in the village by this time (his wife, Margaret, passed away in 1915). Dr. Field passed away on October 28, 1936.
