Discussin’ with a very old friend the other night the subject of queer characters one comes across in the course of a life time, he told me of an old Frenchman who had made New York his home, and one, too, who, singular to say, said he preferred New York to Paris. The real reason probably bein’ that his politics wouldn’t allow him to live in Paris. His name was Pierre de Landais, and he was what was called a revolutionary veteran. But his faculties were well preserved and he could talk by the hour about Paul Jones, under whom he had fought, and fought bravely.
He had an income from some French property, amountin’ to about one hundred and five dollars a year. The old fellow managed to live in New York for many years on that. As he used to say, “he had just two dollars a week to live on–and one dollar over “for the poor.” He was very proud and never borrowed a cent. He just kept soul and body together, that was all. And that’s a great deal more than anybody could do now on two dollars and two cents (about) a week.
When President Jackson was being shown over Castle Garden, and just as he was crossin’ a bridge from Castle Garden to the Battery the bridge gave way, but Jackson jumped ashore unhurt. This was called “Jackson’s luck,” and a good deal of political importance was attached to this little incident. The papers in favor of Jackson said he had always been lucky, and prophesied that his administration would be lucky for the people; all on account of a trifling episode at Castle Garden. But, while Jackson escaped, some of the bystanders were injured, and among them was the old Frenchman, Pierre de Landais, who died soon after, and was buried in the churchyard attached to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Talkin’ of Castle Garden brings up an incident which occurred there on the night of the last appearance of Jenny Lind in America. The “Swedish Nightingale” had made her first appearance at Castle Garden. But she sang for a while, “on her own hook” in concert at Tripler Hall, which used to stand about where the Grand Central Hotel stands now. When, however, it came to her “farewell appearance,” knowin’ what a crowd there would be, she engaged Castle Garden. Big as the Garden was it was hardly big enough to hold those who wanted to bid Jenny Lind God bless her and good-bye.
Crauch wrote a “farewell to America” for Jenny to sing, and her husband, Goldsmith, wrote the music for it. And it was to hear this piece that the greater part of the great crowd came. Over a thousand dollars worth of flowers were bestowed and displayed, in various ways, on this occasion.
A well-known New Yorker, then quite young, had fallen in love with Jenny Lind, in a platonic way, of course. (Jenny wasn’t the kind of woman to encourage “lovers”). He had followed her about the country, had taken tickets for each one of her concerts, and now at her “farewell” he determined to send her “a floral tribute” which should beat anything else of the kind.
He had plenty of money, and if money had been all, he would have easily won his point. But it was necessary not to overdo the matter, and above all it was necessary to have good taste; to make just such a bouquet as would be sure to attract Jenny’s attention, without makin’ it too conspicuous or cumbersome. So he consulted with the florist, and finally settled on his bouquet. He chose white roses and camellias, every sort of white flowers, then right in the middle he put red roses, every red flower and bud that money could procure. In the exact centre he placed some “violets, blue violets,” thus forming “the red, white and blue” in flowers. There couldn’t have been anythin’ tastier, more patriotic and more appropriate. Such a floral tribute as this he felt certain would attract even Jenny Lind’s attention, and with the utmost care he sent it to Jenny herself. Early in the evenin’ the bouquet sender was at his place in the front row of seats at Castle Garden. His heart beat high, but alas! when Jenny made her appearance she did not carry his bouquet, and he was reduced to despair.
She was magnificently received. She sang superbly. All was enthusiasm. The crowd went wild. But all our young man saw was that Jenny Lind did not carry his bouquet. Durin’ the intermission, our young man hunted around for the party by whom he had sent the bouquet, and accused him roundly of not havin’ delivered it. The party accused protested he had delivered it, and a fight nearly took place between the two men about the matter.
The young man did not enter the Garden when the second part commenced. He waited outside till it was time for Jenny Lind to enter for the last time and sing Crauch’s “Farewell to America,” the great piece of the evenin’.
Then he took his seat, and when he turned his eyes to the stage his heart fairly burst with delight and pride, for there in her hand Jenny Lind held his red, white and blue bouquet, pressin’ it to her heart and lips as she sang her farewell. She had given his bouquet the post of honor–the last–which is the first place in a “farewell.”
From that night till the day he died the sender of that bouquet always swore by Jenny Lind. He visited her when he went abroad, and his friendship was one of the many ties which bound Jenny Lind to America, and which she has always readily acknowledged.
The old Castle Garden was always a great place for music. Jullien’s concerts were all they rage there at that time. Jullien used to lead his orchestra as if he was “a boss acrobat.” He used to put himself into all sorts of positions, shave himself, jump around, twist and turn as if he had a fit of inspiration or the colic, almost throw himself at the musicians as he was directin’. Then when the piece was over and the people applauded, as they always did, (no claque either, for his orchestra was really splendid) Jullien would let himself all fall into a chair, as if utterly exhausted, and would look as limp as a towel, as exhausted as a stump speaker in a political campaign who hadn’t had any “liquor” for an hour. All this was “put on,” of course, but it was very well “put on,” so well that one time an old lady started up on the stage to often offer him her smellin’ salts to revive him.
Old Castle Garden was burned down at last. It took fire one Sunday in July, just after an immigrant ship had landed, and “went up” in smoke. That was the last of the old Castle Garden.
Speakin’ of gardens, before Niblo took charge of his garden, where the Metropolitan Hotel now stands, he used to keep a hotel in William street, known as Niblo’s Hotel, which had quite “a pull” for a while. It was the resort for fashionable Southerners.
A rich young Georgian was dining at Niblo’s Hotel once, and somebody said somethin’ which displeased the Southerner, though the rest of the people at the table seemed to like what was said. The Georgian took an apple, on a fruit dish beside him, and rollin’ it along the table, said defiantly: “If anybody wants to fight me to settle the matter, let him catch and bring me this apple.” Instantly five or six Northern men, sittin’ at the table made a grab all at once for the apple.
It happened to be a little over ripe and went to pieces with some money hands at it. Still, several men each got a piece of the apple, and each brought his piece up to where the Georgian was sittin’, ready to accept his challenge.
The Georgian looked surprisingly at the men with the bits of apple. He had been brought up to believe, like most Southerners, that Northern men were a mere “traders” and wouldn’t fight, but here, right before him, were several men all ready for a fight, on a mere matter of opinion and sentiment, too.
His views on this point began to change. Smilin’ pleasantly, he said: “Gentlemen, I didn’t agree to fight wholesale, nor did I promise to quarrel with anybody but the one man who brought me the whole apple. You have brought me only pieces of it.” Then gracefully gettin’ out of his foolish bravado, he invited all hands to join him in a basket of wine, and from that dinner or the rest of his life that Southerner was always a warm believer in the North. A generation after, when the rebellion broke out, and the young Georgian was an old man, he used to warn his neighbors down South against their idea that “the Yankees wouldn’t fight,” and used to tell with much point the story of the apple of discord at Niblo’s Hotel.
It is a somewhat notable fact that old Niblo, like A. T. Stewart, was a great believer in luck. He considered Friday always a lucky day, and began many of his most successful enterprises on a Friday. Stewart didn’t believe in lucky days, but he did believe in lucky people.
When his store used to be between Warren and Murray streets there was an old apple woman who kept a stall in front of the store, who, havin’ been the first one to wish Stewart luck in his place, was always liberally patronized by Stewart, who had the idea that she really brought luck to him. When he moved into his big store near Chambers street Stewart gave particular orders to have the old apple woman’s stall moved up to Chamber street too, but somehow his orders were forgotten.
Findin’ this to be the case, Stewart started down the street himself, and with his own hands carried the old woman’s stall up to the Chambers street corner. Then he bought out all her stock of apples and stuff, at an advance, and got in return another first-class installment of good wishes from the old apple woman.
When the St. Nicholas Hotel was opened Stewart had a big interest in the place, and stood near its entrance on the openin’ day. “I do hope the first man who registers his name will be a man whom I know to be lucky,” the millionaire merchant had said to a friend, also interested in the hotel, the day before. This friend, wishin’ to gratify Stewart, went to one of his heaviest customers, who happened to be in town, and whom Stewart considered very “lucky,” and induced this customer to be the first one to sign his name on the register. This bein’ done, the friend went and told Stewart of the circumstance, and the merchant millionaire was hugely delighted, and now feelin’ assured of the success of the hotel, went into it financially heavier than ever.
In the same spirit, Stewart was immensely pleased at findin’ that the first purchaser of goods at his up-town store was a lady whom he liked very much and regarded as “lucky,” her husband bein’ a successful businessman. Stewart never forgot this little fact. Years afterward this lady’s husband had died, and by entrusting her property to the care of the man whom Stewart had always disliked, because he considered him “unlucky,” the widow had lost nearly everythin’, and was almost destitute in London. Stewart, then bein’ in London, heard of these facts, and called on the lady in person.
Expressin’ his sympathy with her condition, he asked the poor, lone lady to take a ride in his carriage. Acceptin’ his invitation, he drove her out to a little cottage, showed her over it, and then told her that the cottage was hers, a present from A. T. Stewart, the believer in luck. Along with his cottage he settled on her an annuity, which, I believe, is still being punctually paid by the Stewart estate. There was a big heart in Stewart back of his big bank account, though sometimes you couldn’t see the one for the other.
One of the men whom Stewart thought a good deal of was General James Watson Webb of the Courier and Enquirer. Webb was a hot-tempered man, always in trouble, but he was very shrewd and smart, and generally got out of his scrapes with flyin’ colors. Whoever else suffered, he didn’t.
He played a good joke on Hale, of the Journal of Commerce, who was runnin’ opposition to the Courier and Enquirer. In those days there was no telegraph, so the arrival of a ship was of great importance in the way of bringin’ news.
Now, the papers had a habit at that time, if any of ‘em were lucky enough to get some exclusive ship news, why, the rest would get an early copy of this paper, copy the “exclusive” news from it, and then rush it off, just as if the news had come to ‘em direct. This was all very nice for the papers that stole the news, but not so nice for the papers that originally paid for it. The Journal had done this little trick several times on the Courier and Enquirer, so Webb hit on a clever idea to get even.
The ship Ajax came into port, and its news went first and direct to the Enquirer. The Journal, knowin’ this, was lyin’ in wait to steal the exclusive news of the Ajax, and Webb, knowin’ this, prepared a dose for it. He printed several copies of the Enquirer with a lot of bogus news, made up In the Enquirer office, but purportin’ to come from Europe per Ajax. Two of these copies he so fixed that they would they were bound to get into the Journal’s hands, and they did. The Journal at once stole the Ajax bogus news on good faith as real, and published an “extra” with big fuss.
Then having put Hale “in a hole,” Webb recalled all his “bogus” news copies–all but the two copies that had been used in the Journal office–and published the regular edition of the Enquirer with the genuine Ajax news, at the same time publishin’ a double-leaded “leader,” exposin’ the sell by which the Journal had been sold.
Stewart thought it one of the smartest things ever done in New York.
I will close this chapter of ramblin’ reminiscences with a story I heard lately of Bill Tweed, which struck me very forcibly as illustratin’ Tweed’s “heart.”
There used to be about the time Tweed joined the Big Six Company, which had been incorporated out of the members of the Black Joke Company, a Live Oak engine–44, I think–which lay in Houston street.
Between these two engine companies there was a deal of bad blood. One of the members of Live Oak, however, came over to Bill Tweed’s chair makin’ shop one day and said he wanted to see Tweed in private. Tweed wondered that one of Live Oak’s fellows should call on him, but he wondered still more before he got through. To make a long story short, the Live Oak chap told Tweed that he had been unfortunate in Philadelphia years before, and had served a term in prison for some offense, but he had reformed, left Philadelphia, changed his name, and with his invalid sister had been delivering livin’ honorably in New York for some time. But one of the members of Big Six had known him in Philadelphia, and now threatened to expose him. “And if I am exposed here in New York, where my sister has some respectable friends, it will break her heart and mine,” said the Live Oak man to Tweed.
“Tell your sister, young man,” said Bill Tweed, “that her heart shan’t be broken.”
At that time Tweed was not foreman of the Big Six, but he already had big influence with the boys, and so he went to the engine house and called the chap who knew the Live Oak man’s secret aside.
The chap at first was disposed to be obstinate, and insisted on his right to expose the other fellow, especially as he was one of Live Oak’s fellows; but Bill Tweed shut down on him altogether and shut his mouth up forever. “For if you ever tell what you know,” said Tweed, “I’ll set the whole fire department ‘solid’ against you.” A terrible threat in the ears of the man to whom it was uttered, and a threat which he knew the man who made it could and would fulfill.
Years afterward that Live Oak chap became quite rich, and always voted for Bill Tweed and stuck to him to the last. His invalid sister died blessin’ him, and to-day there is many a man who has a pew in some fashionable church who can’t find in his body anythin’ like “the heart” that beat in the breast of William M. Tweed.
[Editor’s Notes: The “Harry Hill’s Gotham” writer (and likely Harry Hill himself) printed several positive stories about William Tweed’s personal generosity and good humor. These were likely not meant to excuse his gross corruption, but to indicate how he gained popularity during his career.
Pierre de Landais’s service as captain of the ship Alliance, under the overall command of John Paul Jones, was described as insubordinate, foolhardy, reckless, and even treacherous. His character was described as being consumed by jealousies and desirous of unshared glory. Jones said: “The general conduct of Landais was that of a malignant madman, as much incited by the prevailing influence of frenzy as actuated by deliberate villainy.”]
