There is a good deal of London to the square inch in New York just now–a sort of English boom in America. But New York has always been a sort of half-way house or way-station for Englishmen of all sorts, from dukes to dogfighters and for Englishwomen of all conditions, from bar maids to professional beauties; and I have come across a lot of them during the last thirty years.
There was jolly Lord Parker, for instance, the son of the old Earl of Macclesfield. He used to be fond of shootin’ in Florida and took New York in on his way. He was chock full of college learnin’, when he chose to show it, which wasn’t very often, and wasn’t a bit of a snob–real lord’s real sons seldom are. He was mighty proud of his full beard and heavy mustache, and used to tell a good story when he was among those who could appreciate it. He was fond of the theaters, too, and knew a pretty woman or a good actress the moment he saw one. He was a great crony of Harry Palmer, and used to go a good deal with Lisa Weber and Pauline Markham.
Colonel Bridges was a friend of his. The colonel was a regular nobby little swell, and belonged to the Fusilier Guards, and was rich as cream. He liked everythin’ in New York but the restaurants and the women. He thought the cooks didn’t know how to cook, and that the New York girls were all too thin. He used to say that “the American woman looked as if they lived on lobster salad and didn’t know the taste of rare roast beef.”
One of the most curious Englishmen I ever met was called Gye, and was more like a German than an Englishman. He was fat and squatty and had a sort of half moon face. He claimed to be a real heir to the British throne. I guess he was crazy on this subject, but there seemed to be a deal of method about him. He carried around with him everywhere, whenever he wentFourth, and the rest of ‘em. He would talk by the hour on this subject if he could get anybody to listen to him. One night he began to tell about his pedigree at say 8:30, and he hadn’t gotten quite up to George the Third at 11:15. But he said he never intended to push his claim to the throne–he didn’t wish to upset the British people–he would rather let things go as they were. Meanwhile he could drink more Bass ale and eat more Yorkshire puddin’ than any man I know of–except Harry Clifton. at a pinch.
Then there was Edwin James, who made such a stir when he first came to New York, and who claimed while he was here to be the guardian a Fanny Stocqueler, the pretty actress; and Mr. Archibald, the old British consul, who used to have a good time among the upper crust on his $80,000 a year, which was twice what the president of the United States was then gettin’.
Mr. Kinnard, who bought Burton’s place at Glen Cove, used to give A1 dinners. His cook was a treasure. He was, of all Englishmen in New York, the one most in favor with all the yachtsmen. He took a great fancy to Jim Bennett and treated him like a prince, and Bennett returned the compliment and treated him like an emperor. The only time that Kinnard was ever known to get real mad was, one day at a public dinner, somebody sitting next to him happened to take him or mistake him for a New York alderman .
One of the most thorough Englishmen I ever saw in England or out of it, was Barrow, who did a big business in New York years ago. He had married an actress and thought that there were only two women in the world, his wife and Queen Victoria. And then there was the McGeachy family, who were all of ‘em theatrically inclined, though none of them ever went on the regular stage. One of the ladies, Miss Rosa McGeachy, has since turned out to be a great concert singer, while the brother is connected with a juvenile “Pinafore” company.
As for actors and actresses and clowns and theatrical people, any quantity of them who have come to New York have hailed from old England. All the “blondes” came here from London and Liverpool, and some of ‘em have stayed here ever since. Edith Chalis, who got into such a muss with some of the New York critics, was English; Lizzie Kelsey, who became such a pet with the management at old Niblo’s, used to be the baby in “Hush-a-by-baby,” at Astley’s. Rose Massey, who had the love suit with Montague, and who had any quantity of admirers in young New York, was from London; so was Ethel Norman, whom they used to call the “middle-aged Venus” when in New York, but who could do more with the men in her “declinin’ years” than most women could accomplished “in the days of their youth,” and who used to speak of her victories in historical lingo as “another Norman Conquest.” Alice Marriott was another importation. She played at Woods Museum for a while. She was married to Bob Edgar, who was, for a wonder, “spoony” on his own wife. There was only one way to get a drink out of Edgar, who was rather close–go up to him and hit him on the shoulder–not too hard, he had the rheumatism–but just gently, and say “I was at Wood’s Museum last night.” Then he would say, seizin’ your hand, “Ah, then you saw her,” by “her” meanin’ of course his wife. You would squeeze his hand in return, and say “yes.” Then he would resqueeze your hand and murmur, “Was she not celestial, angelic, divine?” You would then repeat his action and his words, and then he would say, “Sit down, my dear feller. I honor you for your appreciation of art, genius and virtue. Here, waiter, two beers.”
Edgar would never fall into the mistake of askin’ you what you would have–for you might have said “whisky” or “brandy” at fifteen or twenty-five cents. But he would take it for granted that you, like him, liked beer, and then he would have to pay for your appreciation of art, genius and virtue, just five cents, unless you told the waiter to make yours weiss beer.
Then there were Miss Fiddies (the wife of Dominick Murray), Mrs. Lucette Price (wife of Captain Morton Price), Sallie Maddox, Elise Holt, who married Horace Wall; Marie Longmore, Jim Taylor (Yorkshire Sam), who used to like suppers and hated women; Coleman, of the Waverly Combination Troupe; manager Mercer H. Simpson, who got into so many rows in this country with other managers; Joe Irving, the Pattens, Charley Abbott, the clown, and Beckett the burlesquer, who became such a great friend of Montague’s, living in the same house with him and Stevenson and keepin’ a sort of dog show in common, and Beckett’s brother, who had been all over the world and who had all sorts of adventures and had married Maggie Desmond.
Dooling’s, at the corner of Amity and Thompson streets, used to be a great place for English cracksman and fancy men. Dooling was of middle height, had gray eyes, and a daisy mustache, and was a pretty good fellow in his way, especially outside of his own house; for he was one of those men that believed in bein’ liberal among strangers, but never bein’ careless at home. He kept his eyes about him, and if there was any “misunderstandin’” when he was about, it wasn’t a misunderstanding long for somebody “understood” him at any rate.
He used to have the roughest sort of a rough-and-ready barkeeper, called Ryan, a youngster with red hair, cropped short, and gray eyes that snapped at you, and a tongue that snarled at you, and a fist that he would let fly at you. This Ryan was the boss swearer of New York. He could be a General Jackson or George Washington or Horace Greeley all put together when he got mad. The boys used to get his dander up to hear him swear. He wasn’t so blasphemous; blasphemy wasn’t his strong point; but he was so infernally original in his oaths. You never heard anythin’ like ‘em. No other feller would ever think of ‘em, and he never would think of the same oath two different times. He would always have a new one handy. And whenever he had got off a particular funny or original “swear” he would feel better, and mix himself some fancy mixed drink and swallow it with a relish. He was a character, this Ryan.
Dooling’s was a rather curious and cozy place. It was neatly fitted up, with rows of liquor casks on three sides of the place the bar takin’ up the fourth side.
To the left of the bar, and a little above it, was another room, half sittin’-room like, with comfortable chairs and tables with sportin’ papers, and walls covered with sportin’ prints. There what was known as “the gang” met almost every night and spent their time drinkin’ and smokin’, and readin’ and telling stories and playin’ cards.
Whitey Bob used to belong to “the gang” in those days. Whitey was an “English blood” (as he used to call himself), with a face like a full moon, a regular “beef eater.” They said of Whitey Bob that he was a whole Menagerie in himself, bein’ as mild looking in the face as if he was a lamb; as meek in his manner as if he was a donkey, but as brave as a lion and as keen as a hawk.
Jack Tierney was another of “the gang” in those days, and was as smart as they make ‘em. He was stout and hiary, bluff and hearty, a regular Yorkshireman in appearance and manner, and a regular New York man in habits and life. He knew more about the police on the one side and the “cross men” on the other than any one man in New York. He used to be considered the smartest “go-between” that ever did business in this country. In the Lord Bond robbery he was found very useful in that capacity. That celebrated affair never would have been settled the way it was if it hadn’t been for him. Then that bank robbery in Nassau Street would never have been compromised satisfactorily if it hadn’t been for his influence, both with the authorities and the parties concerned.
Dan Noble went with “the gang” occasionally. Dan was always proud of his English descent, and affected the English style of doing business. He was once a mighty good-lookin’ fellow–a regular pet with the petticoats. He never was much of a drinker and was very dainty in his drinkin’. Whenever he took anythin’ it was champagne. He was very particular, too, in his eatin’, a sort of quail-on-toast fellow.
Dan Noble had a lively black eye, very piercin’. It looked you through and through. There was no foolin’ that eye. It pretended to see a good deal, and really saw a good deal more; in fact, it saw everythin’ there was to see and guessed at the rest. He boasted that he could tell a man, a woman, a horse, or a house, at a glance. He never forgot what he saw either. He would come into a room, look about him once or twice, go out again and a week afterward, if you were to ask him, he would sit down at once and right off draw you a diagram of that room more accurately than the man who owned it could.
Talkin’ of Dan Noble reminds me of a story for which he is an authority. In 1868 the Democratic National Convention was held in New York, and there were a good many strangers, and of course a good many thieves, in town.
One day some English cross men met some Americans and they got talkin’ about the merits of their respective lines of stealing. Of course the Englishmen held that the English thieves were the smartest in the world, and the Americans held that the American thieves were the best in the world, and the chinnin’ got pretty lively.
At last it was proposed that they should settle this matter that very day, and the way they proposed to settle it was this: four English thieves would should start out and four Americans. The whole eight were to try to do each man his best to get all he could all the day and evening up till midnight. Then they were to meet at some tavern and show up which side had scooped in the most, the English or the Americans, and whichever side won was to have a big supper given to it by the men on the other side of the balance of that night.
This was fun as well as business, and there was a kind of national pride about it, each thief settin’ to work to steal all he could for the honor of his country, and the thieves liked the idea very much and set about it with a will.
About eleven o’clock the different thieves began to drop in at the appointed tavern, in the Eighth Precinct, and by midnight all the eight got together. Then they showed up. There a number of pocket-books, watches, etc., among the crowd, and both sides had made a good haul, but the English four had done better than the American four by a large majority.
So the American four owned up, and treated the English four to a big supper. There was nothin’ mean about ‘em and they “piled on the agony” and made the Englishman as drunk as lords. And then, as soon as the Englishmen were drunk, the Americans “went through” ‘em. The American thieves robbed the English thieves, and conquered at last their conquerors.
They cleaned ‘em out so thoroughly that when the English four came to their senses the next mornin’ there wasn’t four cents among the whole four of them.
Bill Purdy, or English Bill, was a character, in his own way; as also was Tom Taylor, of Crosby street, who was as well known in the sportin’ world on this side of the water as Tom Taylor was known in the dramatic World on the other side. Tom was the smartest “hoister” of his time. He was an old, gray-haired man, with sloping shoulders. He had an eye like a hawk, and was as quiet-footed and as fleet as a mouse.
He was just the opposite of noisy Alec Melton, of the Fourth Ward. Alec used to wear the biggest kind of a bristly beard and the biggest kind of a big-brimmed hat–a regular Buffalo Bill kind of a sombrero. He looked more like a Texan than an Englishman, and was as desperate as a Mexican when cornered. He was stout and strong, and though good-natured, was devilish dangerous. He belonged to Bill Varley’s (Reddy the Blacksmith’s) gang and was a smart fellow in his line.
But none of the English cracksmen in New York were any smarter than some of the English women–Nellie Coffee, Kate Diamond and Nellie Flowers, for example, the handsome Lizzie Lee with her yellow hair, and above all, Mrs. Mary Ann Taylor.
This Mary Ann Taylor was at one time the most notorious of the lot. She was a “professional” for over twenty years, and was generally lucky as well as smart. She was quite pleasing, though not at all pretty, and she was just like Emily Soldene in one point, her mouth. They had a sayin’ about her that contrary to the general rule, in her case “one swallow would make a summer disappear altogether.” Some people thought her eyes very sweet. They were of the hazel hue, and looked as innocent as a baby’s. Nobody would ever take a woman with such a pair of eyes as hers as bein’ anything but a big baby. And then she seemed to be so quiet and modest and retirin’; butter, apparently, would not melt in her mouth unless the butter insisted on melting. But with all this t,here was no keener hand in the Metropolis than the same Mary Ann Taylor. Yet there was a good side to her, too. She had a husband who went blind, and all through his blindness she was so good to him and so true, and shared every dollar she got with him “on the square.” And besides this she reared a large family of children and brought ‘em up well.
But I cannot begin to mention one tenth of the peculiar English folk I have met in New York. And I will only add one other–George Augustus Fitz-William Bradford–”Public House George,” as he was called–who used to be a complete walking directory of every English porter, chop and beer house in New York, and who tried to put himself on the free-list of each one of them. Bradford was familiar with the inside of all these places. At the Bucks Head, near the lower end of Crosby street, there were some great old Cockney dinners given, which it wouldn’t have been any disgrace to a lord mayor of London to sit down to. In fact, at one of these dinners to which he got admission on some pretense, George Augustus Fitz-William Bradford did more eatin’ and drinkin’ than any two Lord Mayors mentioned in any history of London.
And then, like some other aristocratic character mentioned in ancient history, “he died of a surfeit.” After this dinner, which had been the first one he had eaten for several days (and was his last, too), he was taken sick and finally died of indigestion. It was this habit of gettin’ eatin’ and drinkin’ for nothin’, this bein’ on the free-list that killed him. I was telling his story once to a theatrical manager, and he said he believed it all but the last part of it, about Bradford dying of a free lunch, “For,” says the manager, “I have never heard or read of the case of man on the free list dyin’. You can’t kill ‘em. Dead heads live forever.”
