was the last affair of prominence, save the distribution of prizes, directly connected with the Exposition.
During the entire Spring and Summer our local boat clubs had been in active training, sitting on the ornamental balconies of their houses, smoking good cigars and telling bad jokes; but they generously vied with one another in the attention bestowed upon visiting clubs, sustaining well the reputation for hospitality usually accorded to jolly watermen.
The 12th day of the month was the great day of the Regatta, the sports opening with a single scull race between the commodores of the leading American navies.
Early in the morning Commodore Ferguson, of the Schuylkill Navy, might have been seen cruising up and down the river, in his flag-ship, the old frigate “Constitution.” In one hand he held a long stick with a hook at the end, which he used for fishing old boots, hats, and other obstructions from the stream; in the other he held a pair of opera glasses. These he raised now and then to his weatherbeaten eye, inspecting ratline, spar, spike, mast, shroud, windlass, and jib-boom of the fleet under his command. The fish from the river had been removed temporarily to the aquaria in the Zoological Gardens, and the Turbine wheels were reversed to pump water into the river from the reservoir, so that the boats might not run aground too easily. Both sides of the river, along the entire course, from the Steamboat landing to Rockland, were actually lined with spectators. Ensigns, pennants, signal flags, and streamers were flying from every available point, and old Sol smiled down graciously from above, with his time honored face newly burnished for the occasion, and reflecting its own happiness in the splashing water-drops below.
First in position was James Gordon Bennett of New York, stripped to the waist, with only a scarf of Scotch plaid thrown negligently about his editorial form. This poor young man makes his living by rowing and walking matches, literally the sweat of his brow, and the sympathies of the crowd were with him. He was in a paper boat, made of old “Heralds” and weighing just nine pounds. On his left was Mr. Lorillard, in a skiff made of pressed tobacco leaves. Occasionally he leaned over to the edge of his boat and bit a piece out. Commodore Forbes of Boston, was seated in the identical boat used by Paul Revere when he rowed from Lexington to Boston to give that alarm Mr. Longfellow wrote about, and Commodore Kingsland had a silver boat. His colors were blue, and he looked his colors all over when he glanced towards Bennett. Commodore Dickinson of Brooklyn, was accompanied by his sister, Anna E., as coxswain; this being required of him on account of the family light weight; his colors were green.
At precisely half past ten, Commodore Ferguson fired a brick into the riverWHO FIRED
THAT BRICK?, which was the signal agreed upon, and the half score of contestants, after the usual salute, dipped their oars and made such a splendid start that it was vociferously encored.
Secretary Robeson took the lead, closely followed by Bennett, the latter being hotly pressed by Forbes of Boston. Then McGinnis of St. Louis, made a spurt, got alongside of the “Herald,” which was soaking up water like a sponge. The race was now bow to bow for a few seconds, when O’Brien of Chicago, got rapidly forward. Robeson would still have had a good lead if the boats had been on the return trip. Opposite the Girard Bridge Commodore O’Shaughnessy of Baltimore, fouled Commodore Riley of New Orleans, and the other contestants being in the rear, the race narrowed down to Bennett, Lorillard, Forbes, and McGinnis. Near the Columbia Bridge, McGinnis ran his penknife through Forbes of Boston’s tub, and though Lorillard promptly tendered a plug from his vessel to stop the leak, this delayed all but the irrepressible Bennett, who won the race in 23 minutes 33½ seconds. This, strangely enough, was the same result which had been published in the “N. Y. Herald” that same morning, five hours before the race began.
There remains now but little more to record. “Screw up your courage to the sticking point” (sticking things into the fire), for we shall soon part, mayhap to meet no more in print. We are happily permitted, however, before concluding, to add weight to the oft-repeated assertion that HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF. Let sceptics reading what follows, change the current of their unbelieving thoughts.
Now the end of the days of the Exposition was drawing nigh, and it came to pass that the chief of all the city’s people dreamed a dream.