Crossin’ over to Jersey City, the other day, I got thinkin’ what a common thing a steam ferryboat is to-day, but what a time and fuss, and what a deal of bad blood there was about the first establishment of steam ferriage around New York and Brooklyn.
The first ferry boat that ever crossed the North River by steam belonged to Colonel Stevens and ran to Hoboken. A Mr. Godwin was the manager of this Hoboken ferry, which was then a brand new thing, and the very biggest thing out. Altho’ display advertisements were not in fashion then, yet the fact that a steamboat would leave New York, from the corporation wharf at the foot of Vesey street, on a certain hour of a certain day, bound for Hoboken, was announced in big type, with editorial notices, in all the papers, and a much bigger and more excited crowd gathered then to see that ferryboat start for Hoboken than gathers now to see an ocean steamer start for Europe.
After the Hoboken ferry was fairly started it was thought a big thing when one ferryboat made sixteen trips, each way, in a day, with about one hundred passengers to a trip.
From the first there was a fight between the opposition North River ferry companies–a bitter fight. Col. Stevens found that his Hoboken ferry would have to contend for every passenger almost with the Paulus Hook Ferry Company, which started boats to run to what is now Jersey City. The Hoboken Company started off with the first boats, on the principle that the early bird catches the worm, but the Paulus Hook Company waited till it could start out with by far the best boats, on the principle that he who laughs last laughs best.
It was thought at first such an achievement to cross the North River in a steamboat that some people got nervous at the idea of it, expectin’ all sorts of possible dangers on the voyage. In order to get rid of this difficulty, the Paulus Hook Ferry Company caused a big sign to be put up at their dock announcin’ that “the most timid may cross now without fear.”
The Hoboken Ferry people, of course, hinted that the Paulus Hook ferry boats were “slow,” while the Paulus Hook ferry people asserted that the Hoboken boats were unsafe; but the general public very wisely didn’t believe either of ‘em, but patronize ‘em both.
Then the Brooklyn people wanted a show, and the firm of Messrs. Cutting & Co. gave them what they wanted, startin’ a steam ferryboat, the Nassau, across the East River. On her first trip across the East River the Nassau carried five hundred and forty-nine passengers, one wagon, five horses and some chairs and made the trip in four minutes, which was doin’ very well for the first time, and for Brooklyn.
After that time there lived in New York a chap called Daddy Willett, who was famous for always prophesizin’ unpleasant things. Somethin’ terrible, accordin’ to Daddy Willett’s theory, was always found to happen if you only waited long enough. And as soon as these ferryboats began to get popular Daddy Willett commenced to prophesize disaster. “There’s bound to be an accident on those plaguey steam ferryboats soon, mark my words,” he would say, and kept on sayin’ every day, till some of the people, for want of any other excitement, got to believin’ in Daddy Willett’s accidents, and to take their chances on ‘em for a little money makin’–bettin’ among each other whether the comin’ accident would happen on the Hoboken line, on the Paulus Hook line, or on the Brooklyn ferry.
And one day, sure enough, the accident happened–the first accident that ever happened on a steam ferry boat. It was a very tame affair indeed, compared with “the steamboat accidents with modern improvements,” as a friend of mine styles ‘em, which came afterwards. Still it was quite enough–in fact, one accident too much–for the poor devil who figured in it–and whose name was Lewis Rhoda.
Rhoda was inspectin’ the boat–it bein’ the first time he had ever seen a steamboat, and his last. He was lookin’ at the machinery, which had just been started, and which was not surrounded by an engine house or room as it is now. When steppin’, he got entangled with the machinery and was shockingly mangled before he was released. His left arm was cut off, or torn off, below the elbow, and his spine was broken. He lingered in agony three hours.
Daddy Willett had been bettin’ on the accident occurrin’ on the Brooklyn ferry, and won his bet. But he was very much shocked himself when his own prophecy came true, and retired from the prophesyin’ business. There is no profit in bein’ a prophet, generally; but to the day of his death Daddy Willett never trusted himself to one of those steam ferry boats.
Yet, by a somewhat odd luck, the old man was carried dead over the East River in the very same boat, the Nassau, in which this first accident occurred. Daddy Willett was buried in Brooklyn, though he had lived almost all his life in New York.
People have got so used to steamboat navigation now that they have forgotten what a comparatively recent thing it is. Why, old Thurlow Weed, when a boy, swam a long way out into the Hudson River, just to get as near as he could to see the first steamboat pass by. And there is a man whom I often meet in New York, whose father used to belong to a set of boatmen up the Hudson River who, thinkin’ that this new idea of steamboatin’ would interfere with their own business as river boatman, put up jobs on the first steamboats, and tried to do ‘em mischief, and sink ‘em. But the steamboats sunk the boatman first.
Perhaps the saddest thing about this steamboat business is that the man who really invented ‘em not only never made a dollar off of ‘em, but lost his time and labor on ‘em, died of poverty, a suicide, and since his death has had all the glory that really belonged to him given to another. I am speakin’ now of Fitch–John Fitch–poor John Fitch; for if ever there was a smart man who was to be pitied, his name was Fitch.
He used to stand and shiver in his rags talkin’ to people who laughed at him about what a steamboat could and would do. And at last, discouraged and desperate, he saved up some opium pills which the doctor had given him as medicine to be taken each day, till he had a week’s allowance of ‘em on hand. Then he swallowed all the seven pills at once and on the eighth day was out of his troubles. Poor Fitch!
But the early ‘busses and stages, the old omnibus and stage lines of New York, are quite as interestin’ as its ferries.
The old ‘busses were very imposin’ affairs, and named after the biggest kind of people. Each old-fashioned ‘bus had its old-fashioned name by which it was as well known as the Tally-Ho to-day.
There was the “George Washington” and the “Lady Washington” and the “Benjamin Franklin,” the De Witt Clinton,” and so on.
There was a “Thomas Jefferson” coach, which was never ridden in by some of the old aristocrats on account of Jefferson bein’ considered by ‘em too “radical,” and some of the Bucktails, or regular Tammany Democrats of those days would never ride down town, if they could help it, in the stage named after De Witt Clinton. But as a rule, ninety-nine out of one hundred New Yorkers didn’t care a fig what the coach was called so long as they could get a seat in it.
The fare on the old Broadway lines of stages was one shillin’, or twelve and a half cents. There were no boxes to receive the fair in those days, and a man didn’t have to be shaken almost to pieces or have his toes trodden on or tread on some other fellow’s toes, or get his hat banged or be laid out sprawlin’ while tryin’ to get his change and put his fare in the box. All he had to do then was to hand his shillin’ on enterin’ to a small boy outside the ‘bus, who acted as a kind of car conductor.
This was far better for the stage passenger, but it wasn’t quite so good for the stage proprietor, for it made a pool of three. Two “divvies” had to come out of this arrangement before the “boss” got the proceeds.
There were four horses at first attached to each ‘bus, and their drivers were persons of considerable local importance, and each of ‘em had his “followin’” of admirers, who were willin’ to bet and to drink on his bein’ the best whip of the lot.
These drivers used to race their ‘busses along Broadway, which made things quite lively on that thoroughfare. One day a great race took place between the General Washington, the Benjamin Franklin and the Thomas Jefferson, each filled with passengers. At first Jefferson took the lead and kept it; but about Chambers street he was passed by Ben Franklin, and opposite the City Hall George Washington took a fresh start, and before he reached Liberty street had passed the other two. This made Ben Franklin, or his driver, mad and whippin’ up his four-in-hand, he ran right into the wheels of George Washington, whereupon George Washington, or his driver, got mad and applied the whip, not to his horses, but to the opposition driver, who returned the compliment in kind, so that as they reached Bowling Green the people were treated to the rare sight of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin beatin’ each other. On a Saturday afternoon specially the ‘bus drivers used to indulge in a little racin’, which afforded hundreds of people a good deal of sport for nothin’.
The route at that time for the Broadway stages was from Bowling Green to Bond street, but if it was rainin’, or if there were any ladies inside, the drivers would sometimes go up Broadway past Bond street, and land their fares as far as the old Kipp mansion which then stood on the site of the present New York Hotel. This was a mere matter of favor though, not of right.
There were three lines of stages in those days, “ran” by Abraham Brower, Evan Jones and a man called Colvill. Colvill owned the De Witt Clinton and the Benjamin Franklin and several other ‘busses. He stabled on Grand street, near Broadway, but was cramped for space, so he could never get all his horses under cover at once. Either Benjamin Franklin or De Witt Clinton had to remain out in the streets all night.
Abraham Brower stabled on Broadway near Bond street, runnin’ through to Mercer street. He had plenty of space, but the stables were mere shells. Evan Jones stabled somewhere on White street, but all the stage stables put together wouldn’t make one decent stable now.
There was a fourth and quite comfortable stage line which didn’t take in Broadway direct, only as a part of its route, which was from Pine and Nassau streets up to Broadway to Canal, then up Canal to Hudson street, and so past green fields and “country places” till it stopped at Greenwich Village, about where Charles street is now. A man named Asa Hall owned the ‘busses on this line. This Hall was quite a noted man in his way. He made hats and owned stages, each pretty good of their kind. Hall’s hat shop was at the corner of Greenwich street and Dey street, and had a fine run of custom. He charged twenty-five cents for a round trip on his stages, so he didn’t lose any money by ‘em.
In point of fact, he made so much money that he retired from active life and sold out his stages to two young men, Kipp & Brown, who gave their whole time and attention to the stage line, and made it pay ‘em famously.
Sol Kipp was a character. He always wore a white cravat, but that was the only clerical lookin’ thing about him. He was full of fun, always ready for a joke, ready to play one, and still more ready to take one good-naturedly if played on him. He was a generous man, too; never was known to send away a beggar, did good all the time, and was liked by pretty nearly everybody except George Law.
George Law started the Eighth Avenue Railroad and took away Kipp’s stage business from him pretty soon. You see, the Eighth avenue line covered all, and more than all, of Kipp & Brown’s ‘bus route, so there was no chance for the latter, especially as the cars were really more convenient for travelin’ than the ‘busses.
Kipp was smart enough to see this at once, and smart enough to see that his only chance for life lay in fighting Law at the law, stoppin’ the street railroad if he could in the local courts.
Kipp fought Law and the Eighth Avenue line for years. He had first class though expensive lawyers, and tried every legal dodge against George Law. But Law had better and more expensive lawyers than Kipp, and he beat Kipp at last. The stages stopped from want of patronage and the Eighth avenue line kept on, carryin’ more and more people and makin’ Law richer and richer.
Even Kip himself had to ride on the cars several times on his way up and down town, though it nearly broke the old man’s heart.
Well, it was only a new version of an old story. The march of improvement took the bread and butter out of Sol Kipp’s mouth and the money out of Sol Kipp’s pocket and left him poor where he was once rich, and friendless where he once had hosts of friends.
He used to wander along Hudson street in his old age, alone and unknown in a place where once his face was universally recognized and beloved, and where his will was law.
