Passin’ the southwest corner of Fulton and Nassau streets the other day, I met an old friend of mine, a hearty, hale old gentleman, who says to me, pointin’ to the buildin’: “Harry, I was married the day this buildin’ went up–or rather the day that the old Shakespeare tavern that stood on its site was torn down, when they widened Fulton street.”
This old Shakespeare tavern is almost entirely forgotten now, save perhaps by a few score of old cronies like my friend. Yet it was a fine and famous place in its time–finer and more famous than any similar place to-day–and the old New Yorkers who remember it still feel their hearts thrill when they mention the old place. My friend related to me the following reminiscence of this famous hostelry:
The old Shakespeare tavern, which stood at the southwest corner of Nassau and Fulton streets was, when in its prime, a low, cozy, solid, substantial, old-style building built of yellow bricks, which were very small and compactly put together. It was two stories high, at first, with the old fashioned dormer windows on the roof. The original entrance was on Nassau street through a green baize door, and an entry runnin’ through the buildin’ with rooms on both sides of the entry. In a room frontin’ on Nassau street was the “tap,” a circular bar in one corner, in the good old English fashion, as comfortable and cozy as one could possibly imagine.
John Leake, an old soldier, had built the buildin’ originally, but years afterwards they erected a handsome extension to the original buildin’, running along Fulton street, which extension became one of the institutions of old New York. It was three stories high, and very swell for the times.
The second story of this extension was used for the military drills of the National Guard. All the big public meetin’s were also held in this room.
Then in the third story of the extension there was a big room with an arch ceilin’, considered very fine, where they held concerts and amateur entertainments and balls.
Tom Hodgkinson kept the old Shakespeare tavern for many years. Then after his death his relative, Alderman James Stoneall, of the Second Ward, kept it, till it was torn down.
Both proprietors were very proud of the place, and very careful of it, Tom Hodgkinson keepin’ everythin’ as it used to be, but Stoneall “modernizin” the old place a little, putting in a fine barroom, and runnin’ a new entrance from Fulton street.
Tom Hodgkinson was an Englishman by birth, but had become an adopted citizen of this country, and was very proud of his citizenship. He took the part of the United States every time, was an officer in a United States regiment, and had two sons in the National Guard. Tom was a brother of John Hodgkinson, the popular comedian, and vocalist of the old Park Theatre.
The old Shakespeare was as great a resort of actors and literary men as ever Windust’s was, only much more stylish. And then the politicians used to patronize the Shakespeare.
His honor DeWitt Clinton, Mayor of the city and Governor of the State, used to discuss the Erie Canal here–over his wine–and James Cheetham and Hugh Gaines used to talk politics.
Old Astor’s factotum, the poet Fitz Greene Halleck, used to visit here often. Old Astor himself “dropped in” now and then, not very often, though, and when he did somebody else paid his score. Willis Gaylord Clark has jested here a thousand times. James K. Paulding was one of the frequent visitors. So was John Inman, the artist, and Col. Stone, and Gulian C. Verplanck. That queer old author, Percival, and the famous author, Fenimore Cooper, were to be seen here every now and then.
Cooper, by the by, was a tremendous eater and a man who enjoyed and appreciated his wine, just as he enjoyed and appreciated himself. He was a big, burly man, with tip-top health and muscle.
His friend, Percival, was just the opposite of him. He was like a Yankee, or a rail, thin and tall; had long, spindle-shank legs, his chest fell in, and his eyes stuck out and stared wildly. He had sandy hair and chalky complexion, and seemed nervous and afraid of his own shadow. But he was smarter than nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand, and could talk splendidly when he once got a goin’.
This Percival was a very eccentric individual; he would come and go without reason or notice. Once a lady friend invited him to breakfast. He rushed in, put a piece of poetry on a plate, rushed out of the room again, and wasn’t seen for several days.
A curious incident happened in the political world of New York that had somethin’ to do with the old Shakespeare tavern. Gen. Jackson was very popular at that time in New York and throughout the country, and the different political parties were usin’ him as a figurehead. He was invited to a dinner at old Tammany Hall, and a great fuss was made over the dinner by the papers and politicians. At that particular time old Tammany was run by regular Democrats, who were called the Bucktails, while the friends of DeWitt Clinton were opposed to the Bucktails, and were trying to run the Democratic party ‘emselves; consequently there was a deal of bad blood between the Clintonians and the Bucktails, and at a regular Tammany Hall gatherin’ Clinton’s name was never to be mentioned. Oh, no! certainly not.
But General Jackson didn’t know anythin’ about these fine inside points, nor didn’t care much about ‘em. And he liked Clinton very much indeed.
So at the dinner at Tammany Hall Gen. Jackson, in reply to a toast given in his honor, stood up, and while every eye in Tammany Hall was on him, with loud voice and emphatic gesture proposed the health of “DeWitt Clinton, Governor of the State of New York.” The Bucktails wilted.
A scene of confusion followed. Some of the Bucktails even went so far as to hiss the name of the man whose health the guest of the evenin’ had proposed. Others growled, and there was general disorder, durin’ which Jackson went away.
Fitz-Greene Halleck was writin’ up his jokes in The Croaker then, and the next day, at the old Shakespeare, there was a lot of talk about this queer toast of Jackson’s, and sittin’ down at one of the tables, Halleck dashed off some of his very best verses about it, which were read all over the country.
Perhaps the queerest of the many queer characters who used to hang around the old Shakespeare tavern was one of the “early timers” by the name of Provost. “Ready-Money Provost” they nicknamed him. This Provost was only a tradition in the latter days of the old Shakespeare. He was a mere legend, so to speak, when my friend used to frequent the tavern, but he was talked about and alluded to by the boys at the old Shakespeare just as if he was likely to walk in at any minute.
He had been a great smuggler, and had spent years in gettin’ ahead of Uncle Sam in the way of internal revenue. He was the head and front of the Long Island gang of smugglers, and had a place for concealin’ contraband goods at Hallett’s Cove.
He always had plenty of ready money with him in case of an emergency, from which fact the boys called him “Read-Money Provost,” although his Christian name was David.
He liked “flip” immensely, and he was to be seen at all hours sippin’ a mug of it and schemin’ how to get the best of Uncle Sam.
He considered himself as “makin’ an honest livin’ by free trade.” Once he styled himself as “a broker goin’ between the importer and the jobber.” He laid great stress, too, on the fact that he never had to do any false swearin’ in his line of business, a point in which he had the advantage of some big merchants, as he used to tell some of the big merchants to their faces at the old Shakespeare, and the big merchants didn’t like this kind of talk a bit.
Provost was a rough chap, but very shrewd and very brave, too. He would have made in some respects a first-class pirate. Some of his adventures along the Long Island coast were quite excitin’.
He married quite a smart woman, a lady of good family, who was much attached to him. With all his roughness of manner he had a first-class heart. He lived to be nearly a hundred years old, preserved his senses till the last, and was buried in what afterwards became Jones’s Wood, in the family vault near the old homestead, which was a tumble-down affair near the foot of Seventy-first street.
For many, many years the jolly Germans used to drink their beer and picnic near Old David Provost’s grave.
