Tony Hernandez

From Converse's 7th letter to the Cadenza.

To write of guitarists seems hardly within the range of banjo reminiscence, but as I have occasionally made departures from my subject to introduce what seemed would be interesting, and having been asked if I knew Tony Hernandez, an old-time guitarist, and as I did know him well, for he and I were together with Matt Peel's minstrels, I trust a few words concerning him are acceptable to the reader.

Tony Hernandez, a Cuban, was, in many respects, a remarkable character. When he first became a professional I know not, but he was known in minstrelsy about 1855, and was then probably thirty-six or thirty-eight years of age.

My acquaintance with him began when we were members of Matt Peel's company. He claimed to have formerly been connected with the famous Ravel Pantomime troupe, which seems possible, for he was an excellent pantomimist, acrobat and gymnast.

In fact, he was a master of many accomplishments. He was a musical genius, and, though ignorant of the principles of music, was a fine guitarist, with most phenomenal fingers, and his solos were executed with a brilliancy and dash that captivated his audience.

He was an excellent flutist, and played that instrument in the "first part." He also played a horn in our brass band. But this was not he limit of his versatility. He was a ballet dancer, par excellence, and his sketch entitled, "Dancing-master and Pupil," afforded him an opportunity for displaying his remarkable ability in this speciality, as well as his keen sense of burlesque.

He knew how to make all sorts of stage "properties," traps and trick settings, even shoes and dresses for stage wear; and how he could throw the knives!--long, heavy, spear-shaped blades; they must have weighed two pounds each-- and he would hurl them in seemingly the most careless and reckless manner, yet with precision simply marvelous.

I well remember a little sketch in which he introduced this feat, for I was one of the assistants to hold a lighted candle near the target, and I have not forgotten the relief I experienced when he had finished without a mishap. Geo. W. ("Pony") Moore-- then with our company, but later, and now, the proprietor of Christy's Minstrels, London, England, would stand against a board background and be literally pinned to it with the heavy knives thrown by Hernandez, standing at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet away; no, not exactly standing, for he was continually "pirouetting" over the stage in the most grotesque of movements, and gesticulating wildly except when steadying himself for and instant and, with all his force, hurling the knife. The really thrilling act was terminated by lodging a knife between each finger of Moore's outstretched hand, and then splitting an apple upon his head. Ned Winchell, who also held a candle in the act, used to say that what enabled Hernandez to succeed so well was the encouragement we gave him by our chattering Chinese comments.

Quite a romantic incident connected with his early life and exhibiting a phase of his dare-devil recklessness, is worth relating. It resulted from his association with the notorious filibuster, Walker, who was executed in Honduras in 1860, and whose adventures Hernandez had joined. In one of their raids he was captured, imprisoned and condemned to be shot. While in prison, having induced his guard to procure for him a guitar, he composed what he called his death song. It so happened that on the day preceding the one set for his execution the wife of and daughter of one of the officials were visiting the prison, when they were attracted by the sounds of a guitar and the voice of Hernandez who, having observed them, began singing his mournful refrain. The pathos of the situation-- a prisoner about to die calmly and resignedly chanting his own dirge-- so impressed these sympathetic women that they hastened to the authorities and, pleading for his life, succeeded in securing a respite during which they succe