Less than forty years ago, when the first of May came on a rainy Friday, as it did this year, a well-known sport of the city was compelled to move under exceptionally distressin’ circumstances.
In those days a cozy road house known all over New York as “Thompson’s” or Madison Cottage, stood just where the Fifth Avenue Hotel now stands.
It was in the midst of a five acre lot which was used occasionally for cattle shows. Its host, “Corporal” Thompson, was a jolly dog, had a snug barroom, and mixed a popular drink he called “ne plus ultra.”
A good many very nice people at that time lived on Elizabeth street, leading traders, like Bennett, the iron man, and Sherwood, the flag manufacturer. Among others Matthew D. Green, afterwards the sport, but who at this time was a hatter, I believe, lived in a nice little house in Elizabeth street with his wife.
At last Matt’s landlord raised his rent. Matt protested, but the landlord was firm and told Matt that if he didn’t agree to pay the increased rent by the Wednesday before Friday, the first of May, he must move out in favor of somebody else who would pay it.
Matt told his wife not to worry, that he would fix it all right with the landlord, and then dismissed the matter altogether from his mind. And on the last Wednesday in April he started off to spend the evenin’ at Thompson’s.
Among its chief attractions was Nick Langdon, afterwards alderman, who was then the champion clam opener of New York, and officiated in that capacity to the delight of all the crowd at “Thompson’s.”
Well, Matt Green spent that evenin’ at Thompson’s–yes, and he spent the whole night there, and the whole of the next day (Thursday), and the night of Thursday.
He met all sorts of people there–hobnobbed with “the Red House set,” as it was called, comprisin’ Charley Brown, Ike Woodruff, Clark Vandewater and Sam Hoagland–drank with the boys he had been in the habit of meetin’ at the old Hazard House, Cato’s, Bradshaw’s and on Third avenue, which was then the great trottin’ grounds for New York horseflesh, had a drink with Sam Segue, who talked horse till he was hoarse, and of course, talked and drank with the regular patrons of Thompson’s as they came along; such men as Niblo, Saul Kip, Nat Blunt, Laverty, Winans and the Costars. He had plenty of company off and on. But his principal occupation during his protracted stay at Thompson’s was playin’ cards, sometimes winnin’, sometimes losin’, but always havin’ fun, perfectly oblivious of such unpleasant facts as landlords or movin’ day.
At last he woke up to the consciousness that Friday, the first day of May, had come, and come in a style worthy of the first day of March, sleetin’, hailin’, blowin’, cold and dismal.
And then he remembered all about what the landlord had told him and how he had promised his wife to see the landlord, and how he hadn’t seen the landlord, and how there would be the deuce to pay at home–that is, if indeed he now had a home, for rememberin’ what the landlord had said, he wasn’t even certain of that. In fact, he woke up to the full consciousness of bein’ in the most unpleasant fix, in the most unpleasant weather possible.
He mentally anathematized Thompson’s for bein’ so comfortable, Nick Langdon for being so popular, and cards for being so seductive. Then he started off for his wife, without an umbrella–all the umbrellas were in use by their owners that day, you bet.
He reached his house in Elizabeth street, but he hardly knew the place, for on the front stoop and all around it where the heaped piles of furniture, while a big truck full of more furniture was waitin’ to be unloaded at the door. It wasn’t his wife movin’, for it wasn’t his furniture; he didn’t recognize a piece of it, and there was a strange man bossin’ the job, while his wife was nowhere to be seen. And then the old landlord was around, waitin’ under a big umbrella–waitin’ for what?
Matt soon found out. The landlord, not havin’ heard definitely from Matt on the Wednesday as agreed upon, had got another tenant for the house, who had brought his things along, and who was only waitin’ till the legal hour of twelve, May 1, to move into Matt Green’s former house and to move Matt Green’s furniture out.
Matt fumed and swore, but had to submit; it was the law. And then feelin’ mighty blue as well as damp, Matt rushed into the house and found his wife on the verge of suicide.
Matt had what the French call “a bad quarter of an hour” with his wife, gettin’ tongue-lashed as he deserved; but what in the deuce were they to do, and where in the deuce where were they to go to?
Matt was really wild with rage at himself. He tore his hair, stamped with vexation, then finally he got desperate, and got an idea.
He kissed his wife, told her to stop cryin’ and to get the things ready right off for movin’. Then with an air of mystery contendin’ with misery on his expressive countenance, he rushed off in the rain, but with an umbrella, and this time to the old sub Post-office near Chatham Square, where Reilly, the big truck-man, used to keep his trucks. The weather was so bad that he found a truck-man disengaged, and he engaged him.
“Where do you want me to move the things from?” asked the truck-man. Matt gave him his address. “And where do you want me to move the things to?” That Matt couldn’t tell him, for the simple reason that Matt didn’t know himself. So he assumed his air of mystery and answered: “No matter where to. I am paying you by the hour, ain’t I, and not by the job, and you will move the things just where I tell you.” “All right, boss,” replied the truck-man. “So you pay me my $3 an hour, it’s all one to me where I takes your things.” But he looked at the mysterious Matt as if he thought he was drunk or craz–and to tell the truth just then he was a little of both.
“Come along, then,” says Matt, and the truck-man and Matt went to the house in Elizabeth street, where Mrs. Matt had already got things in shape for movin’, as well as she could in such a hurry.
“Oh, I am so glad you have got a place, dear,” said poor Mrs. Matt, when she found her hubby helping the truck-man to move her things. “But how quick you must have been about gettin’ it. Where is the new place, dear?”
The most natural question in the world for a wife to ask, but just the question that the husband couldn’t then answer.
“So he replied vaguely, and looked more mystery, and tellin’ his wife to wait till he came back for her, which he said confidently (though he didn’t feel confident a bit) would be in a little while, he started out, stalkin’ away under his umbrella, tellin’ the truck-man to follow him.
Up and down Elizabeth street, Market street and the joining streets, tramped poor Matt Green, lookin’ for a home in all this rain, resolved to move his household goods into the very first house, or part of a house, that was vacant and to let. That was his idea, that was his only hope.
But you never find anythin’ just when you want it, and to save his soul, and eyes, and legs, Matt Green couldn’t see any vacant houses, or parts of houses, or signs of any, just then, and for the first time in his life, began to feel desperate and wicked.
He knew his wife thought that he was drunk. He suspected that his truck-man (following his mysteriously erratic movements and cursin’ him as he followed him) thought he was crazy. He began to fear he was goin’ mad himself, for he was gettin’ mad, very mad. He felt like doin’ somethin’ wild, felt like makin’ a forcible entry into some house and takin’ possession of it nolens volens. He felt like becomin’ a sort of burglar by day, a new sort of burglar who broke into somebody else’s house, not to secretly take things out of it, but to violently bring things into it.
And just then a new constable in that section of the city, who didn’t know Matt, and had been watchin’ his queer behavior for a while came up to him and was goin’ to arrest him on the ground that he had stolen this furniture and it was tryin’ to get away with it.
This was the last drop in the poor Matt’s cup of woe–the last straw that broke the camel’s back–his head achin’ from Thompson’s “ne plus ultra” and Nick Langdon’s clams, his wife thinkin’ him drunk, his truck-man thinkin’ him crazy, wet through, his furniture getting ruined by the rain, disgusted with the world, out in the storm, with nowhere to go, and now about to be ignominiously arrested for stealin’ his own furniture.
It was more than mortal spirit or “sport” could bear. But what Matt Green would have done will never be known, for he didn’t have to do anythin’.
For a man passed by in the rain, looked at Matt a moment, stopped, grasped Matt’s hand, called him by name and asked him in a loud, cheery voice what in (some place below the earth) he was doin’ there, and then and thus. And Matt Green made a clean breast of it and explained the situation.
The man laughed heartily at Matt a minute–we all laugh heartily at even a friend’s scrape–but then he came to the rescue of this “specimen of utter for loan forlorn,” as Reilly’s truck-man afterwards described Matt Green. He explained matters to the constable’s satisfaction, and then to Matt’s infinite satisfaction told him that old Joe Hoxie had just such a floor as he wanted, right around the corner.
By night Mr. and Mrs. Matt Green were comfortably installed in the lower part of Mr. Joe Hoxie’s house. But Matt never stayed overnight any more at Corporal Thompson’s, and he never forgot the kindness shown him in that hour of movin’ misery by William M. Tweed.
[Editor’s Notes: Like any political machine, New York’s Tammany Hall blended corruption and strong-arm tactics with benevolence and favors. William M. “Boss” Tweed had a talent for this combination, and was a great friend to his supporters–which included both Matthew Green and Corporal Thompson.
W. Thompson’s Obit:
Ironically, Mathew Davis Greene (abt. 1812-1870) was known only for the above anecdote–which put Boss Tweed in a good light–and for the story of a visit made to Greene’s deathbed by a frequent political opponent of Boss Tweed, Thurlow Weed.
Thompson’s Madison House was a New York landmark. Blogger Tom Miller has an excellent post on the history of the Madison House, built on a farm once owned by former slaves.
Sadly, the recipe for the “ne plus ultra” remains a mystery.]
