Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell, There Was Harry Hill’s

From the

Harry Hill (1827-1896) died of an August 27. The exact date of birth is not known; he was not of the class that kept careful track of such things. Hill was born in the vicinity of Epsom Downs in England. His uncle was a gambler there and Harry grew up in and around the racetrack. Disreputable? Perhaps. But on the other hand, he learned how to take care of horses, a useful art whatever your circumstances, especially back then.

Horses, or his skill with them, brought Hill to America. He was hired to run the stables of a prominent sugar magnate in Astoria, which was then a village in the County of Queens (today it would more properly be called a neighborhood in the borough of Queens). All the action was across the river in Manhattan however so within a couple of years Hill set up as a horse dealer there, near what is now Baruch College. From these humble beginnings, in short order Hill was to make himself a millionaire, or something darn close to it.

Because then (in 1854) he opened his legendary joint at the corner of Houston and Crosby Streets. This put it a block east of the fashionable Broadway district and a few blocks west of the rough-and-tumble Bowery. Both crowds were drawn to Harry Hill’s Variety Theatre.

Harry Hill’s was better than some of the worst dives, but definitely much rougher than what was considered polite at the time. At its peak, it was considered a New York institution. It became de rigueur for out of town visitors to go there when they came to town. Politicians and policemen drank shoulder to shoulder with crooks and criminals (then as now, they were mostly one and the same crowd). The only tea was in the glasses of the waiter-girls, who merely pretended to get hammered, the better to roll the marks they were hustling. Clergymen and reformers went in to gather material for their sermons and tracts. Writers like Mark Twain went just so they could say they did, and tell horror stories about it later.

Harry Hill’s was located in a two story townhouse with a brick and clapboard facade and a storefront window facing the sidewalk. Women got in free, because they were regarded as an amenity; men had to pay a door charge of two bits. Each used separate doors. Inside one encountered a warren of specialized chambers, each of which offered different species of diversion. It wasn’t just a “variety theatre” as it said on the sign. The authorities and the public also regarded it as a concert saloon, and it was also known as a dance hall. All three descriptions were accurate. It also had a billiard parlor and an arcade-style shooting gallery. Alcohol was sold from behind several different bars throughout the establishment. On the main stage of Harry Hill’s one could see singers, sexy dancing girls, musicians, comedians in farce plays and sketches, and even Punch and Judy shows. This was par for the course in a variety theatre or concert saloon. But the place was also a sporting house that offered opportunities to bet on exhibitions of bare-knuckle boxing and no-holds-barred wrestling. John L. Sullivan’s first bout was there. It was also the hang out of strongman and wrestler William Muldoon. Future vaudeville impresario Gus Hill (originally a strongman and wrestler himself) named himself after the legendary place.

And Harry Hill himself often took the stage. Sometimes to personally fight his own bouts, sometimes to recite sentimental and humorous poetry, composed by his own hand. This he indulged in once a week, and he demanded total silence from his patrons while he did so. Receipts generally fell off on those nights. Also written in rhyme were the house rules, which were posted on placards behind the bar. The surprising strictures declared that there would be no profanity, loud talking, drunkenness, fighting, or theft (common in saloons at the time). It seems unlikely that these rules were strictly forced. Like the law itself, one gathers that it was there to be cited when the boss man and the bouncers decided it was time to toss someone out. And of course, on those occasions when one wanted to impress authorities as to the propriety of the place. When Hill’s patience was tried enough, he would sometimes leap into the fray himself to maintain order, and as a consequence had been bitten, smacked, cut, and stabbed over the years.

Yet Hill was widely regarded as a solid citizen. Not a crook himself, just someone whose passion for sport and good times was shared by many in the underworld. Harry Hill’s was more a social enterprise than a criminal one per se, despite the constant efforts of certain crusaders to get it shut down. Those being the same busybodies who regard liquor, betting, and sex, as activities to be banned or controlled. Hill himself was a regular church goer who gave generously to charity.

And he had a lot to give. The entrepreneurial Hill had many profitable irons in the fire. In addition to his famous establishment, he had his stable of race horses, a kennel of purebred dogs, a herd of prize cattle, two hotels, and a ferry line in his column of assets. But he needed a steady stream of revenue to keep everything afloat, and there were expenses. For example, a considerable amount of graft was required to get around the Concert Saloon Bill of 1864, which theoretically made his venue illegal. Since the city was full of places like Harry Hill’s, most of of lesser fame but greater infamy, Hill had little to fear from the killjoys and do-gooders, at least for a time.

But then his time was up. In the 1880s, Hill was called to testify in corruption probes, and spoke honestly about his payouts, and to whom they went. In response, the police began forcing him to close his doors early every night, which ate severely into his revenue. Part two of his downfall was an outgrowth of Hill’s own generosity, and represents one of the pitfalls of the kindhearted businessman. He had co-signed many loans for unreliable friends. When these began to come due, and went into default, Hill was tapped to make them good, and it quickly depleted his wealth. He had to close his steamboat line, and his hotel, and then finally, his famous establishment. From here, he tried operating a smaller place at a Harlem location, but police hassles forced him to close that as well. He then opened a hotel in Corona, Queens in 1890, and this went well, but it burned down three years later. He still wasn’t finished though! At the time of his death in 1896, Hill still had his horse stable, and he was running a local taproom in Queens. You can’t keep a good man down.

For more on the history of variety entertainment, including concert saloons and variety theatres like Harry Hill’s,consult No Applause, Just Throw Money: The Book That Made Vaudeville Famous.