BOSS TWEED: The Corrupt Pol who Conceived the Soul of Modern New York by Kenneth D. Ackerman
Authors: Kenneth D. Ackerman
Tags: History
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the backward, chaotic “old” New York, “a Metropolis without … boulevards, and without museums, lyceums, free libraries and zoological gardens” cherished by “some rich old men who cannot realize that New York is no longer a series of straggling villages” along Manhattan Island. F OOTNOTE 11 He pushed to pave sidewalks with Nicolson concrete instead of the traditional wooden planks or dirt, despite complaints over the $5 per square yard cost, and drew a line with city aldermen “not to give approval to schemes for wooden pavement unless property-holders in rather quiet side streets should petition for them.” 12
Hall became ubiquitous, attending public events at the drop of a hat, from the dedication of a new statue of railroad magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt to every sort of funeral, even of political enemies like ex-Mayor James Harper and New-York Times founder Henry Raymond. Manton Marble’s New York World called him “our eccentric but talented Mayor” who “says and writes more bright things and commits more stupid blunders than any politicians we know of.” During a quarrel over how to treat loose animals causing havoc in New York’s muddy, clogged streets, another local paper quipped: “Mayor Hall does not intend incurring even the displeasure of the dogs.” 13
Tweed, too, increasingly enjoyed the public display in this new era: As Tammany’s Grand Sachem, he now presided over the club’s arcane rituals with pomp and ceremony. At Tammany’s annual July 4 gala that year, he led the traditional grand procession draping his large body in “glittering regalia and bearing a silver war hatchet, the Tammany saint’s symbol in his hand,” as one reporter described it. His Indians and Sachems, themselves decked out in colored shoulder sashes and gold medals, followed in double file. He led the crowd in booming cheers as he mounted the podium wearing a silly-looking red, white and blue “liberty cap” and holding a staff. 14
Tweed loved costumes. At his Americus Club lodge on Greenwich’s Indian Harbor where his Tammany friends flocked on summer weekends, he enforced a strict dress code: blue cloth navy pantaloons with gold cord down the seams; blue sack coat of the navy cut; white cloth vest cut low, and navy cap. 15 In January, he led the dancers at the club’s annual ball at the Academy of Music.
His political events, too, became carnivals. That August, he called a mass meeting to protest American inaction against British oppression in Ireland and Spanish oppression in Cuba. Thousands of immigrants came pouring out of slum neighborhoods to flood Tammany Hall and fill Union Square with picnic lunches and pails of beer. A green Irish flag waved over a wooden stage and sounds of fiddles and tin whistles filled the air with songs like “ Garry Owen ” and “ Patrick’s Day .” Tweed greeted them and blushed at the applause, but as usual handed off the speech-making to “our worthy mayor” Oakey Hall who happily entertained the crowd. Shouting out his speech from the platform, he mocked President Grant for lounging in his “smoking room” as “the American eagle sits supinely in the White House and smokes cigars.” When a voice in the crowd shouted back “The General is looking for a crown,” Oakey Hall stopped his speech, paused a moment, then observed: “Ah, as they say in the streets of London, the smallest change for a sovereign is half a crown”—winning a round of laughs. 16
In August, Tweed invited a boatload of charity children—260 teenage boys from pauper schools on Hart and Randall Islands—to spend a sunny afternoon on his forty-acre Greenwich, Connecticut estate, Tweed’s “country seat” as some called it. He sent a band, the “Tweed Blues,” to welcome the boys arriving by boat at the Americus Club pier at Indian Harbor and then greeted them at his home, standing side-by-side with his 18-year-old daughter Josephine. After a few speeches, he served them a
Hall became ubiquitous, attending public events at the drop of a hat, from the dedication of a new statue of railroad magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt to every sort of funeral, even of political enemies like ex-Mayor James Harper and New-York Times founder Henry Raymond. Manton Marble’s New York World called him “our eccentric but talented Mayor” who “says and writes more bright things and commits more stupid blunders than any politicians we know of.” During a quarrel over how to treat loose animals causing havoc in New York’s muddy, clogged streets, another local paper quipped: “Mayor Hall does not intend incurring even the displeasure of the dogs.” 13
Tweed, too, increasingly enjoyed the public display in this new era: As Tammany’s Grand Sachem, he now presided over the club’s arcane rituals with pomp and ceremony. At Tammany’s annual July 4 gala that year, he led the traditional grand procession draping his large body in “glittering regalia and bearing a silver war hatchet, the Tammany saint’s symbol in his hand,” as one reporter described it. His Indians and Sachems, themselves decked out in colored shoulder sashes and gold medals, followed in double file. He led the crowd in booming cheers as he mounted the podium wearing a silly-looking red, white and blue “liberty cap” and holding a staff. 14
Tweed loved costumes. At his Americus Club lodge on Greenwich’s Indian Harbor where his Tammany friends flocked on summer weekends, he enforced a strict dress code: blue cloth navy pantaloons with gold cord down the seams; blue sack coat of the navy cut; white cloth vest cut low, and navy cap. 15 In January, he led the dancers at the club’s annual ball at the Academy of Music.
His political events, too, became carnivals. That August, he called a mass meeting to protest American inaction against British oppression in Ireland and Spanish oppression in Cuba. Thousands of immigrants came pouring out of slum neighborhoods to flood Tammany Hall and fill Union Square with picnic lunches and pails of beer. A green Irish flag waved over a wooden stage and sounds of fiddles and tin whistles filled the air with songs like “ Garry Owen ” and “ Patrick’s Day .” Tweed greeted them and blushed at the applause, but as usual handed off the speech-making to “our worthy mayor” Oakey Hall who happily entertained the crowd. Shouting out his speech from the platform, he mocked President Grant for lounging in his “smoking room” as “the American eagle sits supinely in the White House and smokes cigars.” When a voice in the crowd shouted back “The General is looking for a crown,” Oakey Hall stopped his speech, paused a moment, then observed: “Ah, as they say in the streets of London, the smallest change for a sovereign is half a crown”—winning a round of laughs. 16
In August, Tweed invited a boatload of charity children—260 teenage boys from pauper schools on Hart and Randall Islands—to spend a sunny afternoon on his forty-acre Greenwich, Connecticut estate, Tweed’s “country seat” as some called it. He sent a band, the “Tweed Blues,” to welcome the boys arriving by boat at the Americus Club pier at Indian Harbor and then greeted them at his home, standing side-by-side with his 18-year-old daughter Josephine. After a few speeches, he served them a
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