They had a celebration of the Fourth on Friday at Riverside Park–a park, by the by, destined to be the greatest pleasure ground of New York fashion in the future. It is a spot, too, particularly appropriate for a Fourth of July celebration, because it is full of associations connected with what the American writers on the Revolution are wont to allude to as “the times that tried men’s souls.”
The celebrated DeLancey house stood in what is now Riverside Park, as did the Apthorpe house and grounds. The old Apthorpe house itself still stands, and is gayer now than ever, though under another name, and patronized entirely by a foreign population. It is known now as Elm Park, and is on picnic days one of the jolliest places on the continent.
The original Apthorpe was a rich old chap whose head was level. He was on both sides of the Revolutionary War and on neither.
He entertained British and American officers alike–treated ‘em well. And so both sides spared his property as well as drank his wine. Apthorpe had several handsome daughters who all married well. One married the Hon. Hugh Williamson, a distinguished Southern statesman; another married Mr. Vandenheuvel, who had a splendid country seat on the banks of the Hudson, near what is now Seventy-ninth street. One of the Vandenheuvels married into the Hamilton family, and so today many of the old Apthorpe lots are owned by the Hamilton estate.
The old DeLancey family were bitter Tories and very unpopular with the Americans. One night the Americans swooped down on the DeLancey house and burned it to the ground, compellin’ the ladies of the family to take refuge in the woods of what is now the Riverside Park, in their night gowns, shiverin’ and ashamed. Poor Mrs. DeLancey, bein’ too old to run, concealed herself in a dog kennel all night. The night was a cold November one, and the poor women had no shoes, or bonnets, or wraps. They hugged each other and a little baby they had carried away with ‘em to keep warm. One of the ladies of the family got lost in the woods and tramped on for eight miles or so, till she got to a farm house. Altogether it was very rough on the women, without doin’ the men any particular good.
Thirty years later and English–a genuine English–lord, a Viscount Courtenay, came to this country on a visit and settled on the Hudson, near New York. This Viscount Courtenay was afterwards the Earl of Devon. He was a very handsome man and a great pet of the New York ladies, who made love to him direct. He dressed exquisitely, sang well, talked well, danced well, played on the flute and rode horseback. More than all, he had a splendid wine cellar and entertained hospitably. So no wonder he was popular. He rented old Dr. Post’s house and refurnished it sumptuously. At one time he was reported to be “engaged” to four young ladies, and not one of the four young ladies denied the report. How matters would have terminated can’t be told, for when the second war with England broke out the noble lord left his place on the Hudson and his flirtations in New York and went back to England. His place–or rather old Dr. Post’s place–was afterwards turned into a road house, and a very popular one, known as the Claremont Hotel, on Claremont Hill, a great stoppin’ place for pleasure parties on the old Bloomingdale and Kingsbridge roads.
Right after Viscount Courtenay left the house, and before it became the Claremont Hotel, another Englishman called Jackson occupied the mansion.
This Jackson was one of the most unpopular men who ever visited this country from England–dictatorial and arrogant. Even the fact that he was of good family and occupied an official position couldn’t make him a social success, and the ladies “cut” him. The house durin’ his stay in it was as lonely as a barn–just the opposite of what it had been under Courtenay.
Joseph Bonaparte, the ex-king of Spain, also stayed in this house awhile, after Jackson, and revived its former glories. Bein’ an ex-king, he was even more popular than Lord Courtenay, and under his sway the old house at Claremont was as lively as possible. Altogether the old Claremont Hotel has an interestin’ history and the commissioners in charge of Riverside Park should not disturb it. We need a few old buildin’s in this land of new ones.
Among the old houses in or around what is now Riverside Park were the DePeyster house, the Lawrence mansion, the Beekman country seat and the country seats of the Clarksons, Van Horns, Livingstons and Hogans. Old Dr. Charlton’s house, of the British army, and old John McVickar’s house, a great merchant, ship owner and philanthropist of the olden time, stood around here. The old Somerindyke house, where Louis Philippe stayed awhile, near what is now Seventy-fifth street, was also one of the former sights of this site. And more recently Fernando Wood had a beautiful place here, at which he entertained the Prince of Wales when he was Mayor of New York. The Prince of Wales thought and said that Fernando would was the most elegant and accomplished gentleman he had ever met–outside of England.
Near Riverside Park is also the oldest charitable institution of New York, the Orphan Asylum, founded nearly a century ago by some good ladies of New York, among whom were Mrs. Sarah Hoffman and Mrs. Alexander Hamilton. And near Ninety-third street still stands, in a most beautiful location overlookin’ the Hudson, the old house of Dr. Valentine Mott, where he lived in honor and died in peace.
But, perhaps, to the public of to-day the most interestin’ and excitin’ episode connected with Riverside Park is of recent years–still fresh in the recollection of many.
Some ten years ago a contractor named Decker, Nicholas N. Decker, got the contract for openin’ and improvin’ Riverside Park. He did his work, as he claimed, but he didn’t get all of the money he claimed, so there was a row and a big one.
The Park Commissioners wouldn’t pay Decker his money and Decker wouldn’t give the Commissioners any peace till they did pay him, and at last he took the matter in his own hands and made up his mind that if the public officials did not pay him for his work the public should not have the benefit of it. So he got a gang of men and closed up all the avenues in Riverside Park, thus spoilin’ all the drives. Decker wasn’t a man to do anythin’ by halves, so he made barricades of tool house and piles of stones, put big derricks right in the entrances, boarded up the cross street and spoiled the whole place generally. Not only so, but he hired a lot of watchmen to see that nobody disturbed his disturbances or obstructed his obstructions.
This made the Park Commissioners mad and the public madder; but what could be done? Decker had a legal right, and had a lien on the park till he was paid; and so, to prevent further fuss, the park police were ordered by the Park Commissioners to prevent people from drivin’ through the park, thus playin’ right into Decker’s hands.
Matters stayed in this unpleasant shape for a year, and then Decker made another attempt to get his bill paid, but in vain. So he kept up his obstructions, although the property owners around, and the fashionable people with carriages raised a howl.
At last a lot of fashionable people waited on Decker and try to get him to let up, but he laughed at ‘em. But he laughed on the other side of his face the next mornin’, for when he woke up he found the park clear. All his obstructions had been removed; all his derricks, tool houses, piles of stones and boards had disappeared, and the park was open to anybody who chose to drive through it, and that very afternoon the Riverside Park was full of elegant equipages.
Decker could hardly believe his eyes or ears, but such was the fact, and the park police were the most surprised of all, for they had heard nothin’, seen nothin’, durin’ that night. And yet, durin’ that night, over one hundred men, well drilled and skillfully managed, entered the avenue at Seventy-second street, and between eleven and three o’clock had removed everythin’ that Decker had put there. They tumbled the derricks over the rocks, they threw the boards over the embankments, they broke the tool houses and opened the park. And nobody knew anythin’ about it till the contractor and the park police saw the carriages drivin’ along through the park.
It was a bold piece of work and cost over a thousand dollars, and nobody to this day knows exactly who engineered the job. The responsibility still remains enveloped in mystery. But it is said that ten gentlemen paid each a hundred dollars down for the job, and gave the control of it to a certain lawyer, livin’ on Madison avenue, who had once been a builder.
At any rate, smart as Decker had been in closin’ Riverside Park, the fashionable people had been smarter in openin’ it.
[Editor’s notes: The writers above portray Viscount Courtenay as a profligate flirt, perhaps engaged to four young ladies at the same time. However, Courtenay was better known for his homosexual relationship with art collector William Beckford, a scandal that precipitated Courtenay’s move to New York.
The source for this column was a much longer article written by Martha J. Lamb, “Riverside Park, The Fashionable Drive of the Future,” The Manhattan, v. IV, n. 1, July 1884, pp. 52-61. This magazine issue came out just days before the above column appeared, which was a brazen act of the part of Harry’s ghostwriter, Isaac Reed.]
