The anonymous writer for the Morning Post was not disappointed. “All our preconceived opinions of the extraordinary vocal powers of Miss Lind, were more than confirmed,” the newspaper reported on April 26. “She sang only as the angels sing in the courts of Paradise. Her voice is sweet as the warbling of birds. Although she can set up no great claims to beauty, yet there is something uncommonly pleasing in her countenance, that never tires the beholder.”
As well received as her concert was, Pittsburgh had to brace itself for disappointment. Jenny Lind was unable to give a second performance. “The public are most respectfully informed that the noise and confusion occasioned by the immense crowd outside the Masonic Hall last night, so completely unnerved M’lle Jenny Lind, that all entreaties and assurances from his honor, the Mayor, and myself, were unavailing to induce her to give another Concert,” P.T. Barnum wrote in the April 28 edition of the Morning Post. “She would have been pleased to do so, had not the tumult on the roofs of the buildings adjacent to her retiring room…thrown her into a state of excitement which she could not control, and which must render it impossible for her to sing until a few days’ seclusion will have restored her to tranquility,” he explained.
The Morning Post estimated the crowd outside the theater to have been between seven thousand and eight thousand people. “There was not the least intention to alarm or annoy M’lle Lind, but so much ‘noise and confusion’ in the vicinity of the dressing room was enough to produce unpleasant emotions in the bosom of any lady,” the Morning Post reported. “The greatest noise that was produced was in consequence of some reckless hack and omnibus drivers attempting to force their vehicles through the dense mass of human beings assembled on Fifth street,” the story continued.
The writer concluded that not much could have been done about the large, but friendly, crowd. “It is idle to suppose that people would seclude themselves at home when the greatest singer the world ever produced was charming the hearts of our citizens by the sweetness of her angelic notes.”
1860: A RUNAWAY BALLOON MEANS “PITTSBURGH, WE HAVE A PROBLEM”
As the United States lurched closer to civil war during the summer of 1860, Pittsburgh residents could look heavenward for some momentary distraction.
In the last days of July, a botched balloon ascension offered nonpolitical drama to readers of the Pittsburgh Gazette.
An “aeronaut” who called himself Professor Wilson took flight over Pittsburgh in 1860 in a basketless, runaway balloon. His aircraft was similar to the one shown that flew over Somerset County during a 1954 air show. Courtesy the Pittsburgh Press.
An “aeronaut,” who called himself Professor Wilson, had announced plans to launch his balloon from Allegheny City—now Pittsburgh’s North Side—on Saturday, July 28. “The event was advertised to take place at four o’clock in the afternoon, but an accident caused the ascension to be made at an unexpected moment,” according to a Gazette story that appeared July 31. The balloon, called the Great Western, had been inflated, using methane gas ordinarily burned in streetlights, at the Diamond Market, an area that is now part of Allegheny Center.
Young balloon handlers, directed by Professor Wilson, were moving the five-story-tall, gas-filled bag east toward the Mechanics Street Bridge, which crossed the Allegheny River at modern Sixteenth Street. At Ohio Street and what was then called East Lane, “one of the ropes which held down the balloon broke, and another quickly followed,” according to the newspaper.
“The crowd (chiefly of boys) who were holding the balloon became frightened, and all of them let go their hold, except police officer Long,” the story said. “He continued his hold until he had been dragged along for several yards and lifted a few feet into the air, and then he let go, and dropped to the ground without injury.”
One person on the ground was not so lucky. “We are informed that while [the balloon was] passing along Ohio Street, a brick torn from one of the houses by the ropes fell on a…woman and injured her severely,” the paper reported. “The balloon had in her nearly twenty thousand feet of gas and was without ballast, basket, or car, or anything save the netting.”
Professor Wilson had been riding in the netting when the balloon broke free. “He remained in his place and coolly exerted his utmost to right her,” but the balloon began “ascending with great rapidity and moving in a northwestern direction.”
“Just before leaving the scope of the vision of our citizens, some of whom were anxiously watching him with powerful glasses, he settled down quietly in his seat…He passed from sight between 1 and 2 o’clock.”
Although word didn’t reach Pittsburgh for several days, the balloon had landed about seventy-five miles northeast of the city. “Great fears are entertained for the safety of Prof. Wilson, as when the balloon lodged he was not found with it,” according to the Gazette.
By the politeness of a gentleman from Clarion County, Mr. Hunter Orr, we are informed that the air ship struck…about two miles from Rimersburgh, between that place and the river, Saturday afternoon. She skipped along the ground for about a quarter mile at a fearful rate before she lodged. Nothing was seen or heard from the aeronaut. There was an overcoat, a life preserver and some rope in the netting and a good deal of gas in the balloon.
Despite the ominous initial report, the tale had a happy ending. After taking off from Allegheny City, the balloon had traveled up the Allegheny Valley toward Sharpsburg, where winds carried it north toward Bakerstown. “By this time the Professor had got [the balloon] under control, and he landed with it in a tree on the farm of Mr. Carnahan, near the Butler County line,” the newspaper reported. “He succeeded in getting onto terra firma safely himself, but the balloon escaped from him, ascending rapidly.”
During its unpiloted journey north, it hovered for an hour over the town of Butler, “and was there an object of great attention; and, then, having ascended into an easterly current, it passed to the eastward, out of sight, descending…in Clarion County.”
“We did not hear whether Prof. Wilson was injured in any way…but presume that he was not.” That proved to be the case. When Wilson arrived back in Pittsburgh on August 2, he made a stop at the offices of the Gazette. “He gave us a very interesting account of his sudden and unexpected trip from the Allegheny Diamond…which he will deliver to the public in the shape of a lecture at Lafayette Hall Friday night,” according to the next day’s edition of the newspaper.
Wilson also announced plans for another ascent on August 4, this time accompanied by a reporter named Thomas Plympton, who worked for a competing newspaper, the Pittsburgh Dispatch. Additional passengers could come along at a cost of twenty-five dollars each.
The professor’s second voyage appears to have gone off without incident. The Gazette had no further reports of runaway balloons.
1867: NO JOY IN PITTSBURGH WHEN ROWER CLAIMS A FOUL
The smart money was betting on James Hamill, “the acknowledged champion oarsman of America,” when he defended his national rowing title on Pittsburgh’s rivers against Walter Brown.
Hamill, a Pittsburgh resident, was the favorite in the days leading up to the five-mile single-scull contest, the Pittsburgh Gazette reported. The race was run May 21, 1867, on the Monongahela and Ohio Rivers. While Brown was believed to be a faster oarsman over shorter distances, Hamill “would, by reason of his advantage in ‘wind,’ or endurance, gain the race,” the Gazette said in a May 23 story, recapping the contest.
A competitor in the men’s open singles race heads to the finish line in a 2009 competition. Claims of bad sportsmanship during a similar race in 1869 forced one rower to flee Pittsburgh, fearing for his life. Courtesy Pam Panchak of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
Brown, who lived in Portland, Maine, also had faced terrible pre-race publicity. A letter from him became public, “the tone of which seemed to indicate that he had no hope of success….Following this, his trainer John Shea, deserted him, and published a card, traducing Brown, charging among other things, th
at he had made overtures to ‘sell the race,’” the Gazette reported on May 22. “This circumstance, while many doubted the statement, placed Brown in a peculiar position; but he appears to have set himself assiduously to work to win the race at every hazard, and thus to put at rest imputations on his character.”
The winner’s purse was $2,000, equivalent to more than $31,000 in modern currency. In addition, Hamill, “in excess of confidence, had laid wagers on the result to the extent of three to one”—the champion was betting on himself, according to the Gazette.
“Perhaps the most exciting event that Pittsburgh has seen for many a day transpired yesterday afternoon on the bosom of the Monongahela, when the great aquatic contest between Hamill and Brown…took place,” the Daily Post said on May 22. Its front-page headlines told of “INTENSE EXCITEMENT, “40,000 People Present,” “THE INAUSPICIOUS WEATHER” and “Too Much Water for a Boat Race.”
The Gazette on that same day described “ocular evidence of the interest taken in the race.”
“Many of our citizens in the different manufacturing establishments, forming a considerable proportion of the foreign element, ‘knocked off work’ for the day, and collected about the wharf.”
The start had been announced for 2:00 p.m., but storms delayed it until a little before 4:00 p.m. “The multitudes assembled on the river’s bosom, the shores, the housetops and the bridge now gave way to all the enthusiasm they had treasured up for the race. Cheers long and loud rolled up, and uniting with the demonical steam screeches of the score of wicked little tow boats…the noise and wild confusion of sounds approached the terrible.”
Shortly after the race started, Brown pulled ahead by inches, then “soon put nearly a full boat length between himself and Hamill.” The halfway marker was a buoy in the Ohio River. “There Brown turned with rare scientific ability, and was followed in as good style by Hamill,” the newspaper said. “Both appeared to be fresh and lively as they entered upon the home stretch.”
“Hamill kept his boat in a faultless line…and gradually gained a little upon Brown.” But he was unable to pull ahead. His supporters claimed that Brown was “purposely ‘zigzagging’ in order to keep Hamill from passing him.”
“Our reporter failed to discover anything particularly wrong with Brown’s action in that respect,” the Gazette said. The boats were still very close when at “Lorenz’s Glass Works, a little below the Point, unaccountably Hamill dropped out of the race and Brown kept manfully on, being feebly cheered as he neared the Monongahela wharf.”
“The people were disappointed; they had a natural local pride in ‘Jimmy’ and seemed disappointed that he had lost the race.”
“The time was exceedingly poor, 46 minutes 50 seconds, but this may be accounted for by the rough state of the water, and not from the lack of abilities of the successful sculler.”
When Hamill arrived back at the starting line, about fifteen minutes later, he complained to his supporters that Brown had fouled him. The race referee, C.P. Caughey, was unable to reach a decision on Hamill’s challenge that afternoon, and the newspapers reported he would meet with a judge representing each side the next morning.
“After having received the fullest testimony available on both sides concerning the alleged ‘foul’… and having carefully and impartially weighed and compared all the facts present, I have decided the race in favor of Walter Brown, and all interested will govern themselves accordingly,” Caughey ruled in a decision reported May 23 in the Gazette.
Brown, however, was not present to enjoy his victory. “We learned last evening that Brown departed on the night train for the east, and also that his departure was hastened through fear of personal violence,” the Gazette said on May 22. The newspaper was scornful of the rower’s fear of physical harm from Hamill’s disappointed supporters. “We cannot believe there was good ground” for his sudden leave taking.
1890: NELLIE BLY COMES HOME
When Nellie Bly’s train stopped at Pittsburgh’s Union Station, the Armstrong County–born reporter was completing a journey that would make her one of the best-known journalists in the country.
She had left New York for England by boat on November 14, 1889, in an effort to beat the fictional record set by Phileas Fogg, hero of Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. She succeeded, completing her trip on January 25, 1890—seventy-two days later.
Born Elizabeth Cochrane in 1864, she had started her career as a reporter for the Pittsburgh Dispatch, where she was given the pen name “Nellie Bly.” Her stories included reports on terrible working conditions for women in Pittsburgh sweatshops. She later reported from and wrote a book on Mexico.
By 1887, she was in New York, where she got a job on Joseph Pulitzer’s World. Feigning madness, she was committed to the city’s lunatic asylum. Her articles and book on the terrible conditions she found there resulted in increased spending and improved treatment for patients.
In 1889, she persuaded her editors to let her circle the globe, sending back dispatches from her travels in England, France (where she met Jules Verne), Egypt, China and Japan. When the twenty-five-year-old reporter arrived back in San Francisco, she was several days behind schedule. Pulitzer arranged for special trains to transport her across the continent.
It was after 3:00 a.m. on January 25, 1890, when Bly’s train arrived in Pittsburgh on one of the final legs of her journey. “About 130 people, chiefly newspaper men, surrounded the train immediately, all anxious to get a chance to speak to her,” the Pittsburgh Commercial Gazette reported later that same morning.
“Although she had succeeded in skimming around the globe in the fastest time on record, the achievement had not affected her the least bit,” the paper found. “She was the same bright-eyed girl who used to hustle…in this city, with a cheery greeting for every friend and an eager desire to gather in any stray gems of thought.
“She was as chipper as a cricket, and glad to meet and shake hands with everyone,” the paper reported.
Nellie, when she appeared on the platform of the car, was attired in a long traveling coat, which reached to her feet, and a jaunty little traveling cap, which was saucily set to one side of her head. She looked the picture of health.
“I am feeling splendid,” said Nellie. “I am not in the least fatigued and have had good luck during my entire trip. I kept myself awake on my way to this city as I wanted to see my old home and to meet my old friends. This reception is one of the most gratifying one[s] I have had along the route.”
While her own health was good, she told her friends she was concerned about a pet monkey that had been given to her in Singapore. “I fear the little fellow has the grip,” she told reporters. “The grip,” sometimes spelled “the grippe,” is an earlier term for the flu.
An editorial that appeared in the Gazette on January 27 drew several lessons from her journey.
It is not necessary, for a woman who has a little courage and self-reliance and who desires to visit foreign lands, to provide herself with a male escort. Neither is it essential to her health or comfort that she should carry with her a wagon load of trunks. Nellie Bly found a single suit of navy blue cloth, and a grip-sack supplied with a limited number of essential articles all that was requisite. If she had taken with her the conventional amount of luggage and occupied the time which ladies usually devote to dressing to suit the varied circumstances of their journey, she would not have completed her task in a year.
Her trip around the world was a race not only against the fictional Phileas Fogg but also against a real-life competitor named Elizabeth Bisland. Bisland’s editors at a magazine called Cosmopolitan had sent her west on a round-the-world journey within a few hours after Bly’s ship, traveling east, left for England. For much of the next two months, it appeared that Bisland would beat Bly back to New York, but she missed a final crucial connection in France.
During her stop in Pittsburgh, Bly asked reporters if anything had been heard of her rival. “Being informed in th
e negative [she] gleefully said, ‘Oh, I will win…I am so glad, and yet I’m so tired.”
In 1894, Nellie Bly married an elderly manufacturer named Robert Seaman, eventually taking over his business after his death. She later returned to journalism and was working for the New York Journal when she died of pneumonia in 1922.
1903: SOMETHING DANGEROUS TO DO IN THE DARK
By the time Harry Davis and John Harris opened their Nickelodeon on Smithfield Street in June 1905, Pittsburgh theatergoers had been watching flickering images on screens for almost a decade.
The fiftieth anniversary of the opening of a nickelodeon on Wood Street in Pittsburgh was celebrated in 1955 with a ceremony and a new state historical marker. The city’s links to motion picture shows, however, extend back to 1896. Courtesy the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
Pittsburgh’s Nickelodeon—its name is a combination of the word for the five-cent admission price and the Greek term for “theater”—is often described as the world’s first venue devoted exclusively to presenting films. Movies, however, were no longer a novelty by that time.
On September 8, 1896, the Pittsburgh Press printed brief reviews of not one but two cinema presentations that were opening that week at city theaters.
The main attraction at the Bijou theater, located in the 600 block of Penn Avenue, was a traditional play called The Sidewalks of New York. It was described as a “melodrama dealing with life in the metropolis.” Also on the evening bill was a demonstration of Thomas Edison’s Vitascope, a motion picture projector that “was given its first public exhibition in this city.” A half-dozen shorts were shown. They included Steamer Rosedale, Baby Parade, Toe Dance and “a glove contest between two light-weight pugilists,” according to the newspaper.
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