was a brother of the celebrated comedian and vocalist, John Hodgkinson, who was at one time manager of the old Park Theater. Hodgkinson bought the house in 1808, and under his management it soon became and long continued a great resort for the wits of the day, and was celebrated for the superiority of its wines and the quiet comfort and elegance of its private suppers. The "Shakespeare Tavern," in fact, was to New York what the "Mermaid" was to London in the days of Shakespeare and Queen Bess, or, later, the "St. James Coffeehouse" and the "Turk's Head" in the time of Reynolds, Garrick, and Goldsmith. Within its walls, Hugh Gaine and James Cheetham have broken many a lance over the political topics of the day. In its tap-room "Ready-Money Provost" has been seen quietly sipping a mug of foaming flip as he meditated over some fresh scheme for cheating the revenue.* Here, De Witt Clinton was wont to discuss his แ and distinguished for his devotion to the cause of his adopted country in 1812. At his death, which occurred on the day of the reception of General Lafayette, in 1824, he was a captain, and was buried with military honors. Two of his sons served in the "National Guard."-Recollections of the Seventh Regiment, for the use of two copies of which book (now exceedingly rare) the author is indebted to the courtesy of Herman G. Carter, Esq., and to the publishing house of J. M. Bradstreet & Son. *"READY-MONEY PROVOST," or David Provost-a man long known as the chief of a gang of smugglers who infested Long Island Sound-acquired his compound appellation in consequence of the abundance of money which he always had by him, even in times of the greatest scarcity. One of his strongholds for secreting his contraband articles was at Hallett's Cove, L. I. He was for many years such a character, that I here give a conversation said to have been held between him and a gentleman, as illustrative both of the man and of the ideas held by his class upon smuggling: "I have not the honor of an acquaintance with you, Mr Provost; but I have heard much of you and your occupation." "No reflections, if you please, Mr. Talcott: my occupation is an affair of my own: Free Trade''s my maxim: we fowt with Great Britain for liberty, and agin the tea-tax and the custom-houses. I got a bullet in my leg, and like to have had a baggonet in my bread-basket at the battle of Brooklyn, over there where the Jarsey Blues was shot. I was agin the custom-houses then, and I'm agin them now. Well: we whipped the English, and the Hessians to boot, and got our liberties, they tell us. But blast my picture, if we aint more pes pet project, the Erie Canal; here, Fitz-Greene Halleck, and Sands, and Percival, and Paulding, and Willis Gay tered and plagued with custom-houses now than we was then-and be hanged to 'em!" "I meant no reflections, Mr. Provost," replied Mr. Talcott; "but as you said you supposed you were a stranger to me, I only intended to say that you had been pointed out to me as a smug-I beg pardon-as a-” "Ay, smuggler-say it out! They turn up their noses, and call me smug. gler, who have never cheated a man in my life; while they fail for their thousands, and ride in their coaches all the while besides! Many a time have I lent the scoundrels the hard chink-the real Caroluses-to keep them out of limbo; when, before they had turned the next corner, they would call me smuggler!just because I'm for making an honest living by FREE TRADE. There's Congress has just been introducing a Tariff, as they call it, and Madison, and Carroll, and old Roger Sherman, and all on 'em are voting for it. But by the "— and here, with flashing eyes, the smuggler swore a great oath which we will not repeat-Ready-Money Provost' will stand by his reserved rights,' as they call them away there in Virginny, and nullify the custom-house laws, as long as the 'Pot' boils in Hellgate!" "Never mind,” replied Talcott, in a conciliating tone; "we will waive that subject. I am no merchant, and know little of the mysteries of trade or of smuggling. And if-" 66 Smuggling, again! I tell you, Mr. Talcott, you must not make my Jarsey blood boil too hot. I'm an honest man, that pays his debts, and ruins no friend who has the kindness to underwrite for me. I am only a free-trader,-acting as a broker between the importer and the jobber, just to help 'em get clear of the duties which Government puts on to pay their idle officers. It's no harm to cheat the Government,-particklar when one gets along without swearing till all's blue in the custom-house. And, as betwixt man and man, I've never taken anybody in-man nor woman nother—and, what's more, I've always stuck to my engagements." Provost, notwithstanding his roughness and questionable occupation, married the widow of James Alexander, and mother of Lord Stirling, an eminent American officer in the Revolutionary War. He was buried in the family vault, cut in a rocky knoll in Jones's Wood, near the house in which he lived the latter portion of his life. It is now a dilapidated ruin near the foot of Seventy-first Street. The marble slab which he placed over the vault in memory of his wife (and which commemorates him, also) lies neglected over the broken walls. Near the site of the tomb, the Germans, who love the open air, go thither on Sunday, in large numbers, and tents, wherein lager-bier is sold, form conspicuous objects in that still half-sylvan retreat. Provost died in 1791, aged ninety years. * In the spring of 1832, S. G. Goodrich was in New York, and invited Mr. Cooper, the novelist, to dine with Percival at the City Hotel. Mr. Goodrich thus describes their appearance: "It is not easy to conceive of two persons more strongly contrasting with each other. As they sat side by side at the table, I noted the difference. Mr. Cooper was in person solid, robust, athletic; lord Clark, have met in social converse and passed many a merry jest and brilliant repartee; here, too, McDonald Clark, the "Mad Poet," has often startled the little circle gathered around him by one of his strange outbursts of poetic frenzy; here, some of the liveliest sallies of the Croaker and most touching passages in Yamoyden were conceived and brought forth; and here, also, Sands first recited to his friends Stone, Verplanck, and John Inman, his last and most remarkable poem-The Dead of 1832.† Henceforth, let no one say that New York has no memories save those of the temples of the money-changer. The old Shakespeare Tavern has entertained coteries composed in voice, manly; in manner, earnest, emphatic, almost dictatorial-with something of self-assertion bordering on egotism. *** Percival, on the contrary, was tall and thin; his chest, sunken; his limbs, long and feeble; his hair, silken and sandy; his complexion, light and feminine; his eyes, large and spectral; his whole air startled; his attitudes, shy and shrinking; his voice, abashed and whispering. Mr. Cooper ate like a man of excellent appetite and vigorous digestion: Percival scarce seemed to know that he was at the table. Cooper took his wine as if his lips appreciated it: Percival swallowed his evidently without knowing or caring whether it was wine or water. Yet these two men conversed pleasantly together. After a time, Percival was drawn out, and the stores of his mind were poured forth as from a cornucopia. I could see Cooper's gray eye dilate with delight and surprise." Percival, as is well known, was very eccentric, even if he was not at times deranged. He was more free in conversation with Mrs. Colonel Stone than perhaps with any other person. He was subject to deep dejections; and, when he was quite "in the depths," he would come to her, usually spending several days at the house; but he came and went suddenly. One morning, upon coming down to break fast, she found a piece of poetry. It was on her plate; and he was not seen nor heard of for some time afterward. This piece of poetry, entitled "Musings at the House of a Friend," does not appear in his published poems, and is, therefore, given at the close of Appendix No. V. *For several curious anecdotes of McDonald Clark, see Appendix No. V. This poem appeared in the Commercial Advertiser but a few days before Sands's death. "By a singular coincidence," says Mr. Verplanck, in his elegantly written sketch of the poet," he chose for his theme the triumphs of Death and Time over the men who had died in the year just closing-Goethe, Cuvier, Spurzheim, Bentham, and Walter Scott; Champollion, who read the mystic lore of the Pharaohs;' Crabbe, the poet of purity; Adam Clarke, the learned Methodist ;-a goodly company, whom he himself was destined to join before the year had passed away." of as choice spirits as ever supped at the "Turk's Head." True, all is now changed. Where formerly it stood, the hum of business and the rattling of drays have succeeded to the quiet that was once so grateful to the wearied frame; and a bare brick building usurps the site of the quaint vine-clad tavern. But, though all traces of it have vanished, it will live in its traditions, which, like the ivy that formerly covered its portals, shall forever be entwined around the hearts of future generations.* * On the death of its proprietor in 1824, the house passed to his connection by marriage, James C. Stoneall (afterward an alderman of the Second Ward), by whom the interior was remodeled and modernized, and a handsome barroom fitted up in one corner, with an entrance on Fulton Street. Like his predecessor, Stoneall maintained the character of the house until the widening of Fulton Street caused its demolition. THE NEW YORK ANTOR LENOX UNCATIONS. |