There is a portrait now adornin’ some windows here and there labeled, “Miss Woodford, the Queen of the Turf.” To my own knowledge there have been in the course of the last thirty years over ten different portraits of different horses with the same general inscription under ‘em, “The Queen of the Turf,” the only difference bein’ in the name of the particular “queen” who was written about, worshiped and then forgotten.
Thirty years ago the mare, Miss Foote, was the recognized “Queen of the Turf,” and she had the rare and distinguished honor of havin’ a dinner given to her, or rather in her honor, though she herself didn’t do any of the eatin’ or drinkin’. There had been a memorable contest of speed between three then famous horses: George W. Kendall, George Morton and Miss Foote, which was held to be the finest four-mile-heat race ever run in this or any other country up to that time, and in which Miss Foote came out winner.
Colonel William T. Porter of Porter’s Spirit [of the Times] was then a high cockalorum in sportin’ matters, and he was so delighted with this race that he gave a dinner to the victor at the office of his paper. This impromptu and peculiar dinner was largely attended by sports and Bohemians. One peculiarity of this dinner was the tremendous proportion, or excess of proportion, of the fluids to the solids. It was like the story of the Mississippi steamboat captain, who got angry at havin’ to ship a half barrel of bread along with eleven barrels of whiskey. He wanted to know “what in thunder the fools wanted to do with all that bread?” So with this dinner. Porter’s bill for the provisions was less than thirty dollars, whereas the wine bill stretched to several hundreds. Porter could stand it though, as some of his friends had won thousands on the race.
Another peculiarity of this, the only dinner I have ever heard of bein’ given by a man to a mare, was that the party to whom it was given was not and could not be present. But her health was drunk standin’ though, with all the honors. Porter proposed, in addition, “nine cheers for Miss Foote,” which were given with a will and were heard all along Barclay street, where the Spirit office was then located.
William T. Porter was perhaps the most enthusiastic and thorough-goin’ sportsman of his time in the city and this country. Among the sportin’ events in which he took a special interest was the great international foot-race in which Gildersleeve and Greenhalgh came out ahead. In this race ten and one-half iles were made in one hour and twelve miles in sixty-nine minutes. The wild Indian of “The Bounding Buffalo” West, the trained English athlete, and the native American sport in this race contended for supremacy, and the native American came out ahead, though not so very much.
William T. Porter was a firm believer in breedin’ horses, and he believed in “blood” among human bein’s quite as much as he did among blooded “stock.” He was himself an example of “blood” and the transmission of certain qualities. His father and his father’s father were of a sportin’ turn and fond of travel and adventure, while his mother and his mother’s mother had been remarkable for their vigor and independence of mind and fondness for general literature. So William T., as a literary sport and an independent, high-toned critic, represented both his father’s and his mother’s families.
His grandmother had been, in her day, a famously determined woman. Her husband had, durin’ the first war with the old country, been a Tory, and had painted the royal arms on his sleigh. He was chased by a mob one time and compelled to rub out these royal arms; but when he got home his wife painted ‘em in again and rode out in the sleigh as if nothin’ had happened. William T., with all his good nature, had a good deal of the old lady’s obstinacy, and havin’ determined to start a sportin’ paper, did so at the last, though he had all manner of difficulties in startin’.
Porter began life in New York as a printer. Horace Greeley was one of the printers workin’ at the case under him while a foreman. Greeley and Porter always loved each other, and spoke good words about each other all their lives. When Porter started his Spirit of the Times Greeley worked on the first number, although he had conscientious prejudices then against “sportin’ papers.” His prejudices were just then shared by a lot of people. Horse racin’ and sportin’ generally was gettin’ to be considered almost disreputable. Porter, however, did all he could to overcome this prejudice. In this attempt he was aided by a number of influential sportin’ gentlemen, like Commodore Stockton, of New Jersey; the Livingstons, of New York; Commodore Stevens, of Hoboken; the Hall Brothers, of New York; “Dick” Smythe and “Major” Jones, of New York; Governor Hampton, of South Carolina; Harding, of Tennessee; Colonel Johnson, of Virginia, and others of like calibre, men who loved sport for sport’s sake, not as a mere means of makin’ money or an excuse for cheatin’; sportin’ men of wealth and character like the Lorillards and Belmonts of to-day.
A number of this, the right kind of sportin’ men, met at the old Astor house in the Stetsons’ time, and agreed to start the Union Course, Long Island. Porter was the leadin’ spirit of this gatherin’, and after the arrangements had all been made, all hands sat down to a merry dinner given in the Stetsons’ best style. Twenty speeches were made at this dinner, and yet Charley Stevens, who timed ‘em, said they were all, includin’ his own, made inside of sixty minutes–considerably less than three minutes to a speech–which considerin’ the dinner lasted nearly six hours, wasn’t a very heavy proportion of talk to grub, or gas to solids.
Porter was just the least bit in the world vain of his skill as a trout fisherman, but then he really had somethin’ to be vain of. He also prided himself on his horsemanship and his judgment in jockeys. He thought Gilpatrick, who used to ride “Boston,” the prince of jockeys.
He was good-natured to a fault, and at one time he nearly turned his newspaper office into a purchasin’ agency and express company, gratis. He announced in his paper that he would be glad to accommodate his country subscribers by buyin’ for ‘em whatever articles in New York they wanted, and he got so many commissions to execute on this arrangement that if he hadn’t soon given it up he would have had to give up his paper. And then the gratitude of his subscribers was even worse for him than their commissions, for they sent him as marks of esteem all sorts of things and truck that he didn’t want and couldn’t use. One party sent him some rattlesnakes, another a bonnet. He gave away the bonnet, and killed the rattlesnakes.
After all, it was this very geniality of nature that was the very best thing about Porter, especially as he had a certain amount of personal dignity about him and common sense, which kept it from carryin’ him too far. Everybody loved him, and he loved pretty nearly everybody. His four brothers almost worshiped him. The Porter brothers were all smart. George was a lawyer, and his brother, “he doctor,” was a professor in Coudert’s down town academy, which I have previously written about. George looked a good deal like William, and “the doctor” looked so much like Martin Van Buren as to be often taken for him–a mistake which always flattered the doctor immensely.
The five Porter boys were tenderly attached to each other, and were all handsome. It was one of the hardest things in William T.’s life gradually to lose one by one his dear brothers. He got thus lonelier and lonelier as he got older and older, till at last he was almost glad to go and join ‘em all.
He died regretted by the city and country alike, and “died, as he had lived, without an enemy.” Such was his epitaph, and what a blessin’ it would be if there were more men like him.
[Editor’s notes: Porter was a key figure in the founding of American sporting literature (through his encouragement of Henry William Herbert, aka “Frank Forester”) as well as Southern humor (reprinting the works of his favorite correspondents from the South. The Spirit of the Times was the leading publication chronicling the rise of recreational sport in America.
The allusion to the foot race between Gildersleeve and Greenhalgh refers to several races that took place in November and December at the Beacon track in Hoboken, New Jersey. The Nov. 21 race, with the largest purse of $1200, was for ten miles, and attracted twelve runners from the United States and Great Britain–and a Native American, John Steeprock, of the Tonawanda band of the Seneca nation. John Barlow, of England won the race, with Steeprock a close second. Gildersleeve, an American, and Greenhalgh, an Englishmen, both competed in additional races over the next month.]
