Of all the peculiar and eccentric men who have figured in New York there never was a more peculiar, popular, brilliant and yet, on the whole, a more utterly good for nothin’ one in every practical way, than Mike Walsh. His whole career was a series of contradictions. Nobody exactly understood him; he didn’t understand himself. Spite of his undeniable abilities, nobody really respected him, and spite of his many errors everybody really liked him.
He got some of his odd and contradictory qualities from his father, who was a “queer fish” himself. Mike’s father came over from Ireland, and opened a large lumber-yard in Washington street, New York. He was a great believer in republican institutions, so he said, and yet he never took out any naturalization papers of his own; he was opposed to ‘em, on principle, so he said. And so, although a firm stickler for the right of every man to vote, he never voted.
And Mike shared this silly sort of thing with his daddy, and, although he was at one time a prominent local politician, and even got elected to Congress, he was never, I have every reason to believe, legally a citizen of the United States.
And just as odd as he was in politics, so he was odd in everythin’ else. He was an educated man, for instance, and yet he always talked “slang,” like any tramp who had graduated in the gutter. But then Mike’s slang was first class of its kind, strikin’ and original, such slang or argot as Victor Hugo would have liked. Mike Walsh is credited with the introduction of the expression “too thin,” which has since passed into common use, also with the parentage of the famous “everythin’ is lovely and the goose hangs high.”
He used to go round a good deal with Tom Hyer and do his spoutin’, while Hyer on several occasions did Mike’s fightin’. Another chum of Mike’s was young Jack Haggerty, a gay man about town, the son of Haggerty, the auctioneer. When Morgan L. Mott kept the old Hone house, Walsh used to be the bright particular spirit of its barroom, and such stories as he used to tell, and the way he used to tell ‘em. Harry Pearson, the jolly old actor, said surely that there was no performer livin’ in America who could, on the stage or off of it, tell a story and describe a scene like Walsh. And right here again one of Mike’s characteristic oddities came out. He received a number of offers from professional people to go on the stage, and he himself was very fond of the theatre and actors. But the moment anythin’ was put into business, practical dollars and cents for such and such work sort of shape, Mike’s unpractical soul revolted. So although he was willin’ for a drink or for friendly fun to declaim and act, he never would go through the very same thing for money and fame. What was to become of such an absurd, unpractical fellow?
Durin’ his career Mike Walsh was pitted for awhile against another odd character, Isaiah Rynders. Walsh and Rynders were very different men, Rynders bein’ as practical and persistent as Walsh was the reverse; but both of ‘em were eager for political notoriety, and both of ‘em were, in their different ways, very popular. So, when Rynders had got his Empire Club started, Walsh, not to be outdone, started his Spartan Band. Of all names that Mike could have chosen for his “band,” “Spartan” was about the furthest removed from its real character. Mike was just the opposite of a “Spartan” himself. He loved his ease and liked his creature comforts; didn’t like hardship or sacrifice for a cent, and most of his “Spartans” were just like him. But the name sounded big and implied a knowledge of the classics, and that tickled Walsh’s fancy. And to carry out the idea of the name, Mike gave all the officers of his “Spartan Band” highfalutin’ titles, callin’ some of ‘em after distinguished classical warriors and others after Napoleon and his marshals– at least after the marshals, Mike keepin’ the “Napoleon” for himself.
It was the greatest lot of “Spartans” ever got together. Irish Spartans with French names, all hailin’ from the East Side of New York. Still this highly miscellaneous and erratic “Spartan Band” was quite a power in local politics for several years, though it never equaled that of its rival, the Empire Club. Walsh himself had really more power over his men personally then Rynders had over his–that is, he could talk ‘em into doin’ whatever he wanted ‘em to do by telling ‘em a yarn or a joke. But Rynders had not only the greater number of men, but by far the best discipline and system. In fact, the two clubs were a good deal like the two men who got ‘em up, and the Empire Club is still remembered, while the Spartan Club has long been forgotten, just as Isaiah Rynders lived to a green old age and Mike Walsh dropped off still young, after a night’s spree, found dead in a cellarway near Eighth avenue. Rynders took care of himself and Walsh didn’t.
Mike Walsh was also an antagonist, and a formidable one, of no less a man than John Kelly. Srange as it may sound now, it is true that John Kelly’s pull in New York politics was once not so strong as that of Mike Walsh, and that had the latter only taken care of himself he might have beaten the former. As it was, he once came within an ace of beatin’ Kelly in an election as Representative for Congress from New York city. The “Soft Shells,” as they were then styled, nominated Walsh and the “Hard Shells” nominated Kelly. Before the election the bets were heavily in favor of Mike’s winnin’. The contest was very bitter and very close. Mike made better speeches than Kelly; but Kelly did what his opponent never did, attended closely to business and watched his own canvass. There was a tremendous lot of “wind puddin’” on both sides, and finally, after one of the fiercest fought elections on record, John Kelly came out ahead by only eighteen votes.
Old stagers to this day declare that this election was not altogether fair, and that owing to certain “irregularities” in the Fourteenth Ward, John Kelly’s votes were unlawfully increased, whereas really Walsh came out ahead. This, of course, can never be proved, and it may not be so. But Mike Walsh himself thought it was true at the time and even began to institute the necessary legal proceedin’s to contest the seat of Kelly. But at this stage of the game John Kelly turned the tables on Mike Walsh, procurin’ a statement from a man called Griffin that neither Mike Walsh nor his father were born in the United States, and that neither had even tried to become citizens or taken out the necessary papers. Kelly’s threat to use this Griffin paper stopped all further proceedin’s on the part of Walsh, and Kelly went, instead of Mike Walsh, to Congress.
Mike Walsh also figured for a while as an editor and ran a flash paper called “The Subterranean,” which was very clever and very coarse. Like Mike’s own talk, his paper was full of short stories with a point, slang and “squibs.” As long as “Editor” Mike Walsh confined himself to squibbin’ politics and politicians he was all right, but when, after a while, he made the mistake of goin’ in for private individuals he got into trouble.
In those days there was a furniture dealer in the Fifth Ward who had some dealin’s with Mike Walsh. As the furniture dealer was strictly business and the “editor” hadn’t a bit of business in him, their transactions were not mutually satisfactory–far from it–and so the editor tried to get even by squibbin’ in his paper the furniture dealer.
Now, unfortunately, the furniture dealer had a queer name that suited the editor’s squibbin’ designs first class. His last name was Horsepool. So Editor Mike Walsh rang the changes on this name Horsepool till the readers of “The Subterranean” got to laughin’ and the furniture dealer got to law.
Horsepool had Walsh arrested for criminal libel and proved his charge against him easily enough. The editor of “The Subterranean” was accordin’ly sent to the Penitentiary. If he hadn’t already offended so many prominent politicians Walsh might probably have escaped sentence; but his enemies, seein’ their chance now, went for him and made it hot for him.
Mike’s friends, to a certain extent, rallied around him, amongst ‘em David C. Broderick, then a risin’ New York politician; but the case was too clear against him, and Mike had to go to jail, and Mike went, rather enjoyin’ the “lark” of his new notoriety.
But his friends, and especially Broderick, looked upon Mike Walsh as a victim–a victim of men more powerful than this Horsepool and hidin’ their malignity behind him. Broderick loudly proclaimed Mike Walsh a martyr and even went so far as to try to make Mike Walsh make an actual martyr of himself.
Broderick, after the sentence to the Penitentiary, had a private interview with Mike, and urged him to commit suicide, thus showin’ that he preferred death to disgrace, and all that. Here was indeed a chance for Mike to show himself a worthy leader of a “Spartan” band. But he didn’t embrace his opportunity. He preferred life–even life on the “Island”–to death, and determined to remain in the world and serve out his term; but to please Broderick he solemnly promised to throw himself into the waters of the East River on the way over to the Penitentiary; and promisin’ this, Mike Walsh bade Dave Broderick a long, a last adieu.
“Hero! patriot! martyr! farewell forever!” said Broderick, who was then in the enthusiastic stage of his political career, wringin’ Mike’s hand fervently. “I will remain behind to see that posterity does you justice.” Mike, in his heart, resolved to “remain behind” and do justice to himself, but held his peace.
Broderick (unaware that years later on David Dudley Field’s penal code would make it a crime to commit suicide, or to aid and abet another in committin’ it) went away, and told his friends that Mike Walsh had lived a patriot in would die a martyr, and solemnly assured the people that the big-hearted, high-spirited Walsh would never be able to endure the degradin’ punishment to which he had been so unjust unjustly condemned, to the eternal disgrace of New York. And then Broderick would look “unutterable things” and darkly hint at the impendin’ catastrophe.
But no catastrophe took place. True, Walsh jumped off the ferryboat which was takin’ him to “the island,” but he jumped off tryin’ to escape, and was only too glad to be saved from drownin’ and brought back to life and the Penitentiary. There was nothin’ of the hero, the patriot, the martyr or the Spartan about all this, and Broderick was disgusted.
From the time Mike Walsh left the Penitentiary, after servin’ his term, to the day of his death, David C. Broderick never spoke to his once associate and idol again. And yet Mike’s only offense was that, very sensibly, he had not killed himself to please a friend.
If he had only made some practical use of the life he refused to take; but he didn’t; it wasn’t in him. George Steers, the great shipbuilder, took a fancy to him, probably because Mike was in every respect the precise opposite of himself, and gave him a splendid chance to see the world and get rich, while benefitin’ his country and servin’ his employer–all four at once.
Steers was then tryin’ to get a big contract with the Russian officials for buildin’ them a navy, and he conceived the idea that Mike Walsh was the very man to go abroad as his agent and “talk him up” to the Russian government. So he gave Mike lots of money, and procured for him letters from the Secretary of the Navy at Washington, and promised him a big percentage if he got the contract through. Some men would have given ten years of their life for Mike Walsh’s chance; but, like everythin’ else, exceptin’ his mere animal life, he threw it away. He didn’t even go to Russia. He simply went on a big drunk all over Europe, and then, havin’ spent all of Steers’s money, and havin’ none of his own, came back to New York in the steerage.
Such was the career of “Mike Walsh,” a smart fool; a man who didn’t know how to be true to himself or anybody else.
[Editor’s notes: Walsh’s trial for defamation was covered in his own newspaper, The Subterranean, by writer/editor George Wilkes. The New York City District Attorney did not like the tone of Wilkes’s reporting, and had him arrested for working for “an obscene paper.” Wilkes spent 30 days in the “Tombs” municipal jail–and then wrote about that.]
