The idea of negro minstrelsy in its present shape originated forty years ago with Dan Emmett, Frank Brower, Billy Whitlock and Dick Pelham. This happy quartette organized the Virginia Serenaders in 1841, giving their first performance on December 30th. An idea of the "first part" furnished by that combination was given last season, when Dan Emmett himself appeared with three others in an act in which the old jaw-bone figured, and the other instruments were banjo, tambourine and fiddle. Fifty years before the time of the Virginia Serenaders a Mr. Grawpner is said to have blacked up at the old Federal Street Theatre, in Boston, where he sang an Ethiopian song in character. The first of the negro melodies that have been preserved is "Back Side of Albany Stands Lake Champlain." It was sung by Pot-Pie Herbert, a Western actor who flourished long before the days of "Jim Crow," Rice, or Daddy Rice, as they called him. Herbert's song was as follows:—

Daddy Rice was employed in Ludlow & Smith's Southern theatre as property-man, lamp-lighter, stage carpenter, etc., and he made no reputation until he began jumping Jim Crow, in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1829, after which he became famous and made a fortune by singing his song in this country and England. The original "Jim Crow," with the walk and dress, were copied from an old Louisville negro, and ran along regardless of rhythm in this manner:—

George Nichols, a circus clown, claims to have been the first negro minstrel, and some award this distinction to George Washington Dixon, who disputes the authorship of "Zip Coon" with Nichols, who first sang "Clare De Kitchen," which he arranged from hearing it sung by negroes on the Mississippi. Bill Keller, a low comedian, was the original "Coal Black Rose," in 1830, John Clements having composed the music. Barney Burns, a job actor and low comedian, first sang "My Long Tail Blue," and "Such a Getting up Stairs," written and composed by Joe Blackburn. These were all about Daddy Rice's time, and nearly all the songs of the day were constructed in the style of "Jim Crow." They were taken from hearing the Southern darkies singing in the evenings on their plantations. In the year following the organization of the Virginia Serenaders the original Christy Minstrels were organized by E.P. Christy, in Buffalo. The troupe consisted of E.P. Christy, Geo. Christy (whose real name was Harrington), L. Durand and T. Vaughn. They first called themselves the Virginia Minstrels, but changed to Christy Minstrels in a short time, when Enon Dickerson and Zeke Bakers joined them. The party continued to give concerts up to July, 1850, when E.P. Christy died and was buried in Greenwood. George Christy had withdrawn in October, 1853, owing to some dispute between himself and E.P. His salary during the two years and six months preceding the withdrawal amounted to $19,680. The troupe gave two thousand seven hundred and ninety-two concerts during its existence, took in $317,589.30, paid out $156,715.70, and had a profit left of $160,873.60. The profits of the first year did not exceed $300. Companies were now springing up everywhere, and so great was the rage for ministrelsy that the troupes were obliged to give morning concerts. The entertainment has been one of our public amusements ever since, and a good company of burnt cork artists can command a good house anywhere. Following the spirit of enterprise of the age and the tendency to gigantic proportions in everything, minstrelsy has developed into Mastodon Megatherion and other mammoth organizations. End men by the dozens, song and dance men by the scores and no less than forty ("count 'em") artists now amuse the public that was satisfied with four in '41. By the way it was in this year on July 4th, that bones were first played before an audience, the player being Frank Brower of the Virginia Serenaders.

George Christy, who was the most celebrated Ethiopian performer the world knew in those days was born in Palmyra, State of New York, November 3, 1827. He was sent to school at an early age, and although he excelled in all the branches of education peculiar to boys of his age, after school hours the master often found him at the head of a party of boys whom he had assembled together for the purpose of giving theatrical entertainments, or, as they called it, a show. George was, as he ever has been, the very head and front of this species of amusement; and subsequently, under the auspices of E.P. Christy, made his debut as Julius, the bone-player, in the spring of 1839, and afterwards attained to the very first rank in his profession. He survived his namesake many years.

The only fault to be found with the minstrelsy of the present day is the coarseness that pervades many of the sketches and crops out in the songs and funny sayings. The old-time negro character has been sunk out of sight and the vulgarity of the gamin has taken the place of the innocent comicalities that were in vogue forty years ago. It is true that the negro character has undergone a change and that the black man now vies with his white brother in everything that is low and vicious; but the criticism still holds good that negro minstrelsy is not what it was or what it ought to be, and that no matter how grand its proportions may be made by enterprising managers the many features that make it objectionable to fastidious people must be pruned off before it can be said to be deserving that full recognition which the public always accords to whatever is good in the amusement line.

The negro minstrel is an institution entirely outside of the pale of commonplace people. He talks differently from other people, acts differently, dresses differently. A "gang of nigger singers" can be identified three blocks away by an ordinary observer of human nature. They have a fondness for high and shining silk hats that are reflected in the glaze of their patent-leather, low-quarter shoes every time they pull up their light trousers to look at their red or clocked silk stockings. Their clothes are of a minstrelsy cut, and like the party who came to town with rings on her fingers and rings on her toes, they must have their fingers covered with amethysts or cluster-diamond ornaments, and they rarely ever fail to display a "spark" in their gorgeous shirt fronts. They are "mashers" of the most pronounced type on the stage and off, and just as soon as they take possession of a small town, it is safe to say that all the feminine hearts lying around loose will be corraled within twenty-four hours of their arrival. They are as generous now as they were years ago, and few of them save a cent for the frequently mentioned rainy day. The very best of them have died in poverty, and found graves only through the charity of friends. Johnny Diamond and his partner, Jim Sanford, the former of whom helped Barnum in his first steps along the road to fortune, both died in the same Philadelphia alms-house. They had commanded big salaries, but dressed flashily and lived fast, and when the rainy day came they had to run for shelter to a public charity. Very few performers who die in poverty now are allowed to seek any other than the charity of their professional brethren. The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks takes care of the unfortunates, assisting them generously while living and giving them decent burial at their death.

As I said, the minstrel boy is an irresistible "masher." His particular weakness is women, with wine often only a little behind. He lives at as rapid a rate as his salary will allow, and turns night into day by "taking in the town" after the performance. They frequently get into scandalous history owing to the promiscuousness with which they pick up with petticoats, and their amours get them into great trouble. Women seem to have a lavish fondness for the end-man, and many of them have left husband, children, and home to follow the fortunes of a fickle minstrel. The story of the Chicago gambler's wife who ran off with Billy Arlington is still fresh in the minds of the people of the city by the lake, and still fresher is that of the St. Louis demi-mondaine who sold out her house to be always near her "Johnny," who, I think, was one of the Big Four.

A mash that created a sensation, though, was one that developed in a New York Bowery theatre, one night, when a young woman elegantly attired jumped out of a private box, and embracing a performer who was just finishing a banjo solo, shouted in a voice that was clear and loud, "You're the sort of a man I like!" The audience cheered lustily and the young woman accepted the applause with a courtesy, while the banjoist staggered into the wings, too much amazed to be flattered. A young man from whose side the lady had made her leap upon the stage, succeeded with some difficulty in coaxing her back into the box and the show went on. The pair had been dining and wining together, and the young gentleman had not been as attentive to his companion as she thought proper. So she had chosen the original method of at once rebuking and shaming him. She succeeded. He did not dare to look at another woman on or off the stage again until the curtain fell.

Those who have never witnessed the rehearsal of a minstrel company can have but a very faint idea of the amount of worry and vexation to which the manager is subjected before he becomes satisfied that the company has mastered the work so that it is in a condition to present to the public. The scene at a dramatic rehearsal is the scene of perfect peace and harmony compared with that of a minstrel company. The difference is caused by the fact that dramatic performers study their lines and business carefully, and have the idea constantly before them that they must adhere to the text and the author's ideas closely, while minstrels, or "nigger singers" as they are called by members of the profession, work with only one end in view, and that is, to be funny. A minstrel having a speech of a dozen lines will make it twenty-five times and never make it twice alike. Every time he speaks it he will drop out something or insert something which the author did not intend to be there. The result is that a manager superintending a rehearsal is in hot water, figuratively, all the time. If he storms and swears at the performers, he only makes matters worse, and, therefore while he is inwardly boiling with vexation he must retain a calm exterior and appear as smiling as a June morning. There have been well authenticated cases where minstrel managers have been driven to strong drink by the intense strain upon their mental faculties occasioned by superintending rehearsals. These cases, however, are rare.

Through the courtesy of Manager J.A. Gulick, I had the pleasure, last spring, of witnessing a rehearsal of Haverly's Mastodon Minstrels. I took a seat under the shadow of the balcony to watch developments, and passed ten or fifteen minutes in inspecting the dull, dismal aspect of the house. Everything was quiet and oppressively sombre. Occasionally a scrub woman who was working a broom in the dress circle would bark one of her shins against one of the iron chair-frames and sit down and howl in a subdued tone, but beyond this there was nothing to break the stillness until the members of the company began to arrive. Presently the orchestra came in and began to tune up their instruments to a condition proper for the promulgation of sweet strains, and then the comedians and singers came sauntering in on the stage. Apparently, the first duty of each and every one of them upon getting out of the wings, was to execute a shuffle, cock his hat over his left eye and swagger off up the stage with a satisfied smile. Each having been successfully delivered of his matutinal shuffle, and having satisfied himself that he hadn't contracted the "string-halt" during the night, all seated themselves and awaited the appearance of the manager. Divested of their burnt cork and stage toggery, the company looked more like a collection of well-to-do young men in the commercial walks of life than minstrel performers. All looked as if they had passed a comfortable night, and had not indulged in those revels which are erroneously supposed to be inseparable from the life of a minstrel. Consequently I was bound to conclude that they had said their prayers at 11:30, and at midnight were snoring the snores of the innocent and blessed. The only member of the company who looked as if he might have gone wrong on the previous night was Frank Cushman. His right eye was bloodshot, and he had a protuberance on his forehead over the optic such as might be raised by the kick of a mule. His condition was afterward explained by the fact that in attempting to make a "funny fall" in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," on the night previous, he had made a miscue and had received a genuine fall, striking on his head. Suspicion was therefore allayed, and I became satisfied that Cushman, too, had said his prayers and had gone regularly to bed unloaded.

Promptly at eleven o'clock, the hour set for rehearsal, Manager Gulick arrived and proceeded at once to business by delivering an address to the orchestra leader:—

"Now we don't want any break in this first part finish to-night. You want to make that first chorus very forte and then work it off gradually very piano. Then when they all come on you want a short wait and then a crash—see?"

The leader nodded to indicate that he saw.

"Then," resumed Mr. Gulick, "when you hear the pistol fired, work in that te um iddle de te um ah tiddle um tiddle tah—see?" The leader again saw, and the manager continued:

"Then when you come to 'The girl I left behind me,' put in la la tum liddle la la tum liddle ah—see?"

But without waiting to see whether the leader saw or not the manager turned to the company with: "Now, boys, get down to business and we'll rehearse that first part finish."

Then there was a rush of the "40-count 'em" down to the foot-lights, and everybody began to talk. Each man struck a different subject and a different key apparently, and the finish appeared to be so thoroughly jumbled up that it seemed an impossible task to straighten it out again. But the performance appeared to be an adjunct of the rehearsal, for when it was finished Mr. Gulick took his seat at the foot-lights, while the company arranged itself in the usual semi-circle, with E.M. Kayne, the interlocutor, in the centre. More instructions were given by the manager, when a young man rushed in and performed the pantomime of handing Mr. Kayne a telegram, which the latter pantomimically opened and calmly announced that he had just received news that he had just won the prize of $50,000 in the Kentucky State lottery. He didn't make as much fuss over it as any other man would over finding a half-dollar on the street. The news must have pleased him, for he remarked:—

"Boys, I'm in luck."

"What is it?" said Billy Rice.

"Fifty thousand dollar prize," replied Mr. Kayne.

"What did I tell you?" said Rice.

"Take us out and treat us," said Cushman.

"Didn't I tell you I was a Mascot," said another. They all called for lemonade, and Mr. Kayne compromised the matter by agreeing to take them all to Europe on a pleasure trip if they would pack their trunks in five minutes. A chorus was then sung and the trunks were announced packed. Jimmy Fox then came forward and announced that he was captain of the Pinafore. The other members of the company must have been looking for him, for they shot him dead with a vociferous "bang!" and then proceeded to sing "Glory Hallelujah," over his corpse. This brought him to life again and he was readmitted to the excursion party. One of the vocalists then sang "Old Folks at Home," and at its conclusion Mr. Kayne asked if there was no one else to whom they wished to say "good-by," but all responded, "No, not one."

"Yes, there is," said Mr. Kayne, and the orchestra opened with "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

The rehearsal was interspersed with very sweet little melodies, which redeemed such verses as this:

Then Cushman sang:—

Rice retaliated with:—

There was nothing strikingly classical about the words, but the melody was charming, and covered them with a charitable cloak.

The first part finish having been rehearsed, Manager Gulick discovered some flaws in it and ordered it to be done over again. On hearing this the man at the bass viol looked up piteously at Billy Rice and asked:—

"Are we going through it again?"

"Of course," replied Rice; "do you want to rest all the time?"

This question was not answered and the bass viol dropped into a seat apparently completely discouraged. The piece was rehearsed, not once only, but half a dozen times, and when it was pronounced all right the bass viol gave a sigh of relief that shook the building.

Several songs were then rehearsed, during which everybody was busy. At one side of the stage the quartette was singing, Cushman was practising an end song, the orchestra was at work on an overture, three or four men were brushing up on a farce, two song-and-dance men were inventing new steps, and Charley Dockstader was reading the Clipper. It was an exceedingly lively scene, and there was noise enough to wake the dead. Vocal and instrumental music fought a pitched battle, while the dancers hammered the stage with their feet as if by way of applause. A boiler-shop is a haven of rest beside a minstrel rehearsal at this stage.

The rehearsal lasted nearly two hours without a rest, and was as utterly unlike a minstrel performance as can well be imagined. There was nothing particularly amusing in it except its oddity, and yet when it was presented with black faces and varied costumes it caused roar upon roar of the heartiest laughter, because those who saw it then had not seen how the performance was constructed.