Imagine stumbling upon a tale of scandal, murder, and mystery right in the heart of New York City—from a simple dog walk and a fountain plaque. It's the kind of story that makes you question everything about the places we stroll past every day.
Strolling through the Upper West Side: A Dolphin That Unveiled a Shocking Saga
By Yvonne Vávra
It all kicked off on West 76th Street, right at the corner of Riverside Drive. My dog, Lieutenant Louie, simply wouldn't budge from the spot. That led me to hang out near the fountain embedded in the wall of Riverside Park. What a charming fountain, I mused, wandering around it, admiring the large eagle perched atop, and even running my fingers over the cool marble. Meanwhile, Louie was intently sniffing away. Growing a bit restless, I turned my attention to the plaque.
The plaque brimmed with intriguing facts, but one puzzling assertion completely threw me off track. It described the 'lavishly carved fountain' as featuring an eagle with outstretched wings—spot on—a coat of arms—absolutely—and a spray shaped like a dolphin's head. A dolphin's head? I peered back at the fountain. As someone who adores marine life, I was sure I'd spot a dolphin if there was one. But all I saw resembled a peculiar carp at most, with an anxious look in its eyes that didn't evoke dolphin energy in the slightest. I'm quite the enthusiast for sea creatures; back when I was a teen, I even adopted a whale, complete with an official certificate. So, I like to think I know my dolphins from my fish.
I hunted for other water features on the fountain, but came up empty. Alright, maybe that wide-eyed carp is supposed to be a dolphin. Experts can have their say on that. The plaque offered more nuggets of information, though. This fountain, known as the Hamilton Fountain, honors not the renowned Alexander Hamilton, but his great-grandson, Robert Ray Hamilton. He donated $9,000 to the city for its creation and installation. Today, it's celebrated as one of the 'finest and last surviving examples of the decorative horse troughs that once peppered the urban landscape.'
It's amusing to picture the Upper West Side bustling with horses long ago, with streets dotted by similar fountains designed for both people and animals to quench their thirst. But here's where it gets controversial... My curiosity lingered on that supposed dolphin. Once home, I dug into old news from the early 1900s about the fountain, searching for any dolphin mentions. Instead, I uncovered something far more gripping.
Robert Ray Hamilton was a sophisticated, affluent entrepreneur, property owner, and political figure—with a bombshell of a scandal tied to his name. He engaged in an illicit romance with Evangeline Steele, whom newspapers dubbed 'a notorious woman' leading 'a disreputable life,' conveniently omitting her marital status. Drawing from historian Tom Miller's accounts, she and her husband plotted to acquire a baby from an unlawful orphanage for a mere $10, duping Hamilton into believing he was the father. Tragically, the infant perished from starvation due to Evangeline's inability to breastfeed. Undeterred, the pair purchased another child for the same price, this time ensuring proper care. Unaware of the deceit, Hamilton fulfilled his duties by wedding Evangeline in 1889. They set up house together, with her spouse renting a nearby apartment and profiting from Hamilton's fortune, exploiting the frequent absences of politicians.
The marriage was rife with turmoil, including disputes over the baby's caretaker, who quickly saw through Evangeline's facade. One incident escalated dramatically: the two women clashed physically, with the nurse initially gaining the upper hand but ultimately ending up lifeless on the couch, a knife piercing her heart, inflicted by Evangeline. The scandal exploded across front pages of New York newspapers and hundreds more across the nation, dominating headlines for a fortnight. A Hamilton entangled in deceit involving bigamous unions, trafficked infants, and homicide! Hamilton sought refuge in the Rocky Mountains, where, at the tender age of 39, he was 'discovered drowned in the Snake River under questionable circumstances,' as Miller recounts. New York investigators later exhumed his remains from a cramped grave where unknown individuals had crammed him into an undersized coffin.
Amid the turmoil of his existence, Hamilton prepared a will and expressed a passion for fountains, desiring one in New York City. Yet his relatives opposed his wishes, proclaiming in The New York Times in 1891 their intent to 'let him be forgotten.' Undaunted, the city proceeded, albeit at a leisurely pace. The fledgling architectural firm Warren & Wetmore—destined for fame with projects like Grand Central Terminal and the Con Edison Tower—received the assignment, and by 1906, the fountain stood operational. Evangeline, having completed her jail term and passing away destitute in 1904, never witnessed its unveiling.
There's yet another enigmatic aspect to this narrative. And this is the part most people miss... Positioned in the sidewalk wall, the fountain is commonly regarded as a horse trough. But historian Tom Miller suggests that on the park side, below in Riverside Park, a modest marble basin once existed. Might that have served as the drinking area for horses? Did they ever actually sip from this elegant structure?
Over time, that basin became buried under soil. It could still lie hidden—who can say? Not me, as I'm not about traipsing through overgrown brush in search of old troughs. I'm merely an urban explorer, delighted to have stopped at the fountain that afternoon and allowed the neighborhood to captivate me with its secrets. This tale practically begs for a sequel to the Hamilton musical.
To expand on this, consider how urban landmarks often conceal darker histories. For instance, many cities have monuments with stories of scandal or tragedy behind them, reminding us that public art isn't always just about beauty—it's a window into human drama. This fountain, once a practical hydration point, now stands as a silent witness to deceit and demise, encouraging passersby to look closer.
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What do you think—should we dig deeper into the lives behind our city landmarks, even if they reveal uncomfortable truths? Or does uncovering scandals like Hamilton's diminish the charm of places we love? Share your thoughts below—do you agree that some histories are better left buried, or should we embrace the full story for a richer understanding? We'd love to hear your perspective!
