Ramblin’ up Broadway the other afternoon, I met at the corner of Thirty-fourth street and Broadway an esteemed friend of mine, Abe Dubois, whose father, “old Abe” was the proprietor of the half-mile track, near McComb’s bridge, which used to be a favorite track of the very best horsemen of New York. From about 1861 to 1866, this half-mile track was the popular resort every afternoon of horse owners representin’ altogether about two hundred millions of dollars. It was a private club or association, and was very exclusive. There was a tavern or clubhouse for the special comfort of the members of the association. Old Commodore Vanderbilt was a leadin’ member, and his delight was to drive out to the half-mile track, order hot apple toddy (the colder the day the hotter the toddy), and sit and look at the horses and their drivers, sippin’ the toddy slowly, at the rate of one glass every half-hour, chewin’ the apples and makin’ some of his characteristic remarks. The old Commodore bought Mountain Maid on the half-mile track. A man named Trimble, I think, from Newburgh brought the horse down, young Abe Dubois trotted him out, and Vanderbilt was so pleased with him that he paid $12,000 for him on the spot. The first Mrs. Vanderbilt used to ride out on the half-mile track often in her own private turnout. Grant had a reception given to him at the half-mile track in 1866, I think, and on this occasion while the first Mrs. Vanderbilt went out to the track, as usual, in her family carriage, the old Commodore met the woman who afterwards became the second Mrs. Vanderbilt, who was then a guest of the Commodore’s wife and very much attached to that lady. William H. Vanderbilt used to patronize the half-mile track, too, in the afternoon, and have a cozy chat on the clubhouse piazza with “the old man,” and try to get some “points” from him, in which operation the younger man was not by any means always successful. But W. H. was shrewd, and it is said it was the fact that the son did not always take the father’s advice, but did as “the old man” did, but not as “the old man” said, that at last determined “the old man” in the idea that William was the proper man to be his successor after all.
On the day when Grant visited the half-mile track he was driven out by Mr. Robert Bonner, behind Peerless and Lady Walmery, a team then regarded as the fastest in the world, trottin’ their mile together in 2:25. Durin’ his visit to the half-mile track, a sort of grand review of the trotters took place in honor of the distinguished visitor’s well known love of horseflesh.
On this occasion the famous queen of the trotting world, Flora Temple, made her last appearance in public. She was driven by her old rider McMann, and still showed traces of her former spirit and power. Humphreys, who was the owner of the famous horse Judge Fullerton, contributed his animal as his share of the review, and Lady Emma and other well-known trottin’ stock was exhibited.
Mssrs. Griswold and Teft, of the well-known dry-goods firm, Robert Stuyvesant and Lew Pettee were members of the association. Mrs. Lew Pettee, famous in her day as one of the handsomest women in the United States, was in the habit of honorin’ the half-mile track with her presence. Old Captain Jake Vanderbilt, from Staten Island, drove out every week, and altogether the old half-mile track could justly boast of a quite select and distinguished crowd.
Harry Felter was also a member of the half-mile track association. This will be enough, with all who knew Harry, to prove that there was no lack of fun. If ever there was a man who loved practical jokes it was Harry Felter. He must have “sold” several hundred people in his time, but he got sold at last, and very simply, too–sold completely, by a man who got up “the sell” merely on the spur of the moment.
One afternoon Harry Felter and McBride Davidson were ridin’ home from a trot at the Fashion track. John Ferris, a well-known sportin’ character who had a stable in Amity street, happened to be in a carriage by himself. The two were drivin’ along slowly in the dusky twilight. At first, Ferris was goin’ to call out to his friends as they passed him, but an idea suddenly struck him. Instead of puttin’ his head out of his carriage window and callin’ to ‘em, as he first intended, Ferris leaned back in the vehicle, hidin’ his face, and, as he did so, extended the tip of his gloved hand, wavin’ a white pocket-handkerchief coyly–”flirtin’” it, as it is called, after the manner of women.
Felter saw the handkerchief wavin’ and turnin’ to Davidson, pointed it out to him, and both took it for granted that it belonged to one of their lady friends, who was beckonin’ ‘em to join her.
The pair accordin’ly turned their horses heads in the direction of the carriage from which they had seen the displayed handkerchief. Ferris then gave the wink to Kelly, who was drivin’ him, and who was “up to snuff” and everything else. Kelly accordin’ly started off, and turned his carriage in the direction of up-town. Felter and Davidson took this as a playful challenge on the part of the supposed fair one, and followed in her (!) wake. The unknown female (!) led her followers a pretty dance. Up Broadway drove Kelly, past Union Square, past Madison Square, up to Thirty-fourth street, managin’ it so that although Felter and Davidson in their vehicle were constantly on the point of catchin’ up with him, they never quite caught up. Then as the crowd of vehicles lessened on the thoroughfare, Kelly turned his carriage and dashed along the side streets and avenues, turnin’ a corner whenever the pursuing party was nearly up to him. Then the procession dashed down-town and before long the two carriages were where they had started from, near Bleecker street. Felter and Davidson, by this time with their blood up, determined to overtake the troublesome and flyin’ fair one, who was all the time lyin’ back on her (!) carriage seat, laughin’ herself (!) almost to death, half the time stuffin’ her handkerchief into her mouth, to keep her yells of last laughter from attractin’ attention outside, and half the time waving it gayly out of the window, to keep the boys behind still on the scent. At last, bein’ closely pressed, Kelly turned suddenly into Jersey street, a little street or alley filled with negroes’ shanties, where Ferris rushed out of the carriage and disappeared into one of the shanties, telling Kelly to drive on with the carriage.
Davidson thought he caught a glimpse of somebody gettin’ out of the first carriage, and told Harry Felter that the woman was only some low drab, and had gone into one of the negro dens. Davidson was disgusted by this time with the whole affair and wanted Felter to give up the chase. But Harry Felter told Davidson that he was mistaken in his idea of seein’ the woman get out; that she was in the carriage still, and that he was determined not to be foiled or fooled by her any longer. So the pair kept on in their carriage, pursuin’ Kelly in his.
After leading them on for about ten minutes more, Kelly, gettin’ tired of the fun, and wantin’ to get his supper, slackened his pace and let Felter and Davidson get up to him.
Felter eagerly looked into Kelly’s carriage and saw nobody. He knew he had been “sold” but still thought that the carriage had been occupied by some woman, and offered Kelly five dollars to reveal her name. Kelly kept up the delusion of the woman, but wouldn’t reveal her name, only hintin’ darkly that the escaped female was a beauty of high social standin’, and with “no end of diamonds.”
Davidson thought it mighty funny that such an elegant creature would have dodged them in such a street as Jersey street, but Harry Felter took it all as a good joke, and took it for granted that it was some high-toned female who had got “sweet” on him, and made up his mind that he would hear from her (?) again. So he did, and sooner and in an entirely different way from that he had expected. He and Davidson went to another trot a few days after, and there were Ferris, John Lovel, Dan Phyfer, Harry Genet and a lot of other horsemen. As soon as they saw Davidson and Felter they all commenced to flirt their handkerchiefs, and Ferris called out, “How did you enjoy the chase, Harry? Did you find out who the young lady was you followed for two hours the other evenin’?” And then, of course, it all came out and the horseman had no end of fun about it. I suppose about five hundred men heard about it before it got through goin’ the rounds, and old Commodore Vanderbilt, who always liked anythin’ at anybody else’s expense, enjoyed it immensely.
Ferris was very proud of this successful prank of his, but his time came pretty soon after. Old Matt Green, a well-known rounder, one of the boys, the foreman of old 15 Engine, that used to lay in Mott street, wanted to get even with Ferris on his own account, and the way he got even was after this fashion:
Ferris had rooms over his stable, and liked to lay in bed in the morning. He said that his best sleep was after sunrise. Well, Matt Green knew this and took advantage of it for his diabolical purpose. He went out and hired one of those Dutch bands that used to go around the streets, makin’ life miserable, and made an arrangement with ‘em to be at Ferris’s stable about six o’clock one Winter mornin’, payin’ the band a little beer and promisin’ both beer and money when they had done their fiendish deed.
Bright and early on the rawest kind of January mornin’ the Dutch band, five in number, four brass instruments–very brass–and one big bass drum, very bass, made their appearance at Ferris’s stable but very quietly. Matt Green was on hand with the key of Ferris’s stable office–a little room down-stairs, right under ferris’s bedroom–in his hand (havin’ got it from Ferris on some excuse the night before), and he admitted the Dutchmen, one by one, on tip-toe, till the entire band with their instruments of death were in the office, while Ferris, right overhead, was sleepin’ sweetly.
All of a sudden Matt Green gave the signal, and then–why, then, the world came to an end, and Gabriel had blown his horn. At least all the neighbors thought so, especially poor Ferris, who woke from his deep sleep with a terrific start, and thought for a moment that the devil was let loose beneath him. Never had there been so much noise to the square inch as proceeded from that little room down-stairs just then. Trumpet, cornet, drum all kept a-goin’ with a most infernal clatter. Ferris jumped out of bed, with the thermometer below zero, in his night clothes. He tried to holler down-stairs to find out what was the matter, but he might as well have whistled against thunder. He was obliged to dress as best he could, the Dutch band playin’ all the time, and Ferris cursin’, till at last, when, in his bare feet and pantaloons, he came downstairs. He saw the Dutchmen and Matt Green, and understood it all.
Matt paid his beer and money, as agreed, to the Dutchmen, but alas! he gave ‘em more than they had bargained for. He gave ‘em each some lozenges for their throats, it bein’ a cold day, and the Dutchmen were grateful for a while. But when they got into the streets, blowin’ for a livin’, and put these lozenges into their mouths, they had to spit–I believe the polite word is expectorate–all the time, and tears came into their eyes, and the more of the lozenges they took the more they wept and spit–I mean expectorated. On being examined the lozenges were found to be full of cayenne pepper. The Dutchmen went round lookin’ for that Matt Green, but Matt had vanished.
[Editor’s notes: Some corrections to the above column: Harry’s friend Abe was Abraham Jackson Dubois (1844-1925), who took over his father’s carriage business. However, though his father might have been nicknamed “old Abe,” his real name was Peter Dubois (1814-1869). He was the proprietor of the Dubois half-mile track near McComb’s Dam, formally known as the Manhattan Island Association.
Robert Bonner’s champion team of trotters was Peerless and Lantern (not “Lady Walmery”, an unknown name).
Harry Felter was Henry D. Felter, the well-known (in his day) wine merchant, horseman, and practical joker.
Grant’s reception at the Dubois track was the seminal event among the New York horsemen of the late 1860s. A more accurate contemporary account:]
