Thursday, June 22, 2017

Victorian Survivors - 222 and 224 East 83rd Street

In 1839 the grid of streets and avenues, laid out in the Commissioners' Plan in 1811, began slicing up the farmland in the district known as Yorkville.   The New York and Harlem Railroad had been extended along Fourth Avenue (later Park Avenue) two years earlier, with a station at 86th Street.   The neighborhood became even more accessible in 1852 when the Third Avenue Railway System opened streetcar service.

The residents of Yorkville were mostly blue collar immigrants from Germany and Ireland.   But some were more affluent--shopkeepers and factory owners, for instance.  Two mirror-image houses were built on East 83rd Street in the years just before the outbreak of the Civil War that targeted the latter.

Mirror images, Nos. 222 and 224 East 83rd Street, between Second and Third Avenues, were three stories tall above a shallow English basement.  Faced in brick, they sat back from the property line, creating garden space between the stoops.  Each two bays wide, they were crowned by wooden Italianate cornices supported by ornate leafy brackets with paneled friezes.

By the early 1870s No. 224 appears to have been operated as a boarding house.  Sisters Emma and Carrie Adams lived here from 1874 at least until 1884.  Emma taught at Grammar School No. 36 on Ninth Avenue, making $760 in 1881.  Carrie was a teacher in the Girls Department of Grammar School No. 42 far downtown on Allen Street.  She made slightly less than her sister, making $684 in 1881--or about $16,400 today.

If the house next door was still a private residence in 1880, that was about to come to an end.  Real estate operator Eliza Gardner purchased it at foreclosure auction in December that year, paying $5,500--five dollars more than the amount due on the mortgage.  Although Gardner lived in Paramus, New Jersey, she regularly invested in Manhattan properties.

James E. Morrissey, who had been a clerk in the Tombs Prison for more than three years, was married in November 1894.  He and his bride boarded at No. 222.    Two months later, on the evening of January 14, 1895, he left work "apparently in perfect health," according to The New York Times.  But the following morning his wife found him dead in their bed.  The newspaper reported "It is supposed that his death was caused by heart disease."

A little over a decade later the houses would be struck by a string of deaths.  In 1910 the Bureau of Census reported increases in fatalities from typhoid fever, measles, and influenza.   It may have been these rampant diseases that caused the succession of funerals that were held in Nos. 222 and 224 beginning in 1909.

On August 6 that year, Herman Witt died in No. 224.  Five months later Charles B. Berger died on January 23, 1910; and Abraham Otto died on June 22.  Three weeks later William H. Gardiner died next door.  And on October 31, 1911 Joseph Oppenheimer died in No. 224.

The Great Depression brought change to the two boarding houses.  Architect Lloyd E. Mellor converted No. 224 "for business" that year.  No. 222 was already home to the Flatiron Window Cleaning Company.  One of its employees, 55-year old Walter Tholin, was killed on September 21 that year when he lost his balance and fell from a window ledge on the fourth floor of C. H. Gallagher's brownstone house at No. 141 East 47th Street.

The conversions of the lower floors of both houses resulted in broad shop windows and a modest cornice at the parlor level.  The stoops and the upper floors were left intact.

In 1960 No. 224 was converted to two apartments; while its next door neighbor continued to be home to small businesses--the Veteran's Caning shop in the 1960s, followed by Such Outlandish Stitches, which described itself as "a miraculous boutique."

Then in 1974 it, too, was converted to a parlor floor apartment below a duplex, with a florist shop in the basement.  The greatest change came in 2005, however, when the interior walls were broken through and the joined houses became a single family residence.

It was most likely at this time that the architecturally-incongruous, neo-Classical inspired surrounds were tacked to the upper story openings.  Oddly, their fluted pilasters abruptly end with no bases; making them appear almost like skinny shutters.

Despite the alterations, the quaint garden-fronted pair, nestled back between apartment buildings, create a charming Victorian scene.

photographs by the author

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Shameful Neglect: Halpin's Hotel - 201 West 22nd Street

The sidewalk bridge has been in place for more than a decade, creating what can generously be described as an eyesore.  A smashed window in the repellent penthouse addition allows rain and weather inside, and the copper cornice has been seriously damaged.
 Built in the 1840s, the row of six speculative houses on the north side of West 22nd Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, was up-to-the-minute, architecturally.  The Anglo-Italianate style, which featured low stoops, was just emerging.

Designed as three sets of mirror-image homes, their brownstone-fronted facades included rusticated bases.  The double-doored entrances were framed in particularly pleasing elliptically-arched molded surrounds with foliate carved keystones.  Rows of quoins ran along the three upper stories, clearly distinguishing one house from the other.  Although the residences offered appealing elements; at just over 16 feet wide, they were intended for middle to upper-middle class owners.

The most desirable of the row was No. 201 at the eastern end.  Its location on the corner of Seventh Avenue provided additional light and ventilation.    It also allowed the service entrance to be placed conveniently to the rear, at what would become No. 201 Seventh Avenue.   The first owner apparently ran a private school in the basement level.

The family did not stay long, however.   On April 29, 1852 everything in the house was sold at auction.  The family had furnished their home with high-end appointments.  Included in the auction list were expensive Wilton and Brussels carpets, "mahogany sofas, chairs and divans, in hair cloth," a six-octave mahogany piano manufactured by Pierson, "marble ornaments," along with center tables, mirrors and such.  The notice also mentioned "School Furniture, Desks, Benches, Chairs, Black Boards and Mirrors."

The next owner seems to have been John K. Martin.  He and his wife, Sarah, had one son, Charles.  It was common for private families to rent out one or two rooms, and on February 11, 1853 an advertisement in The New York Herald offered "Furnished or unfurnished rooms, with full or partial board."  (The option of taking one's meals elsewhere would have reduced the rent.)  "The rooms are large and airy; the house furnished with every modern convenience."  The advertisement pointed out that the house was "within a few doors of a railroad route and three omnibus routes."

Even families of moderate means had one or two servants.  One of the Martins' employees was looking for another position in May 1858.  It is possible that the family was leaving for the summer, for the split was apparently amiable.  The woman could be interviewed at the house ("in the rear").  She was looking for "a situation as seamstress, to do chamberwork or to take care of children."

Charles Martin fell ill in December 1858, and died in the house on January 18, 1859.  The cause of his death was pronounced "dropsy on the brain."  His funeral was held in the parlor a few days later.

No. 201 next became home to William H. Bassett, a member of Holmes & Bassett.  The firm manufactured "carriage trimmings and rosettes" at No. 92 Pearl Street.   Basset had married M. Elizabeth Stratton in Bridgeport, Connecticut on December 6, 1853.  She was the daughter of Sherwood Stratton; however newspapers were more interested in the fact that her brother was General Tom Thumb.

Bassett was just 38 years old when he suddenly died in the house on Monday evening, January 18, 1864.  His funeral, too, was held here.  His body was buried in Bridgeport; and it appears that Elizabeth returned to Connecticut soon after.

Within the year No. 201 was occupied by a new family.  As had been the case with the Martins, at least one servant was needed to help out.  On August 23, 1865 an advertisement sought "A girl as chambermaid and to take care of children, in a small family; must be able to sew."

Also like the Martins, the owners rented a room.  An advertisement in December 1869 offered "A strictly private family have a very nice room they will rent, with good board, to one or two respectable gentlemen; house brown stone front; terms reasonable."

It was apparently the boarder who placed the very mysterious personal ad in The New York Herald three months later.  "Will the lady from Washington call again.  Sorry I was out.  V. Clark."

The owners were looking for additional help in March 1873.  They advertised for "Two young women, to do the work of a small family; one as first class cook, washer and ironer; the other as chambermaid and waitress; both must thoroughly understand their business."

By the fall of 1874 Dr. Justice J. Spreng was operating his medical practice from the basement area where the schoolroom had been.  He had graduated from the New-York Medical College in March 1864; and now was as busy writing and selling medical pamphlets as he was treating patients.

Rockland County Messenger, September 24, 1874 (copyright expired)

Spreng advertised in newspapers throughout the country.  By sending a dime in the mail, readers could receive a copy of A Lucid Description of Liver and Stomach Diseases, their Causes, Symptoms and Treatment; or Observations on Diseases of Women.  Regarding the latter, the Medical Review opined "This pamphlet should be read by every lady."

In the meantime, the owners were transitioning from renting a room (in February 1875 it advertised "A private family will let a nicely furnished room, gas, hot and cold water, use of bath in brown stone house") to a full-fledged boarding house.   By September the single room had become "upper part of nicely furnished brown stone house, consisting of four rooms, together or separately, private bath, southern exposure."

By the time Anna E. Smith purchased the house around 1880 Dr. Spreng had moved to No 143 West 22nd Street, half a block away.  His letter to the S. B. Medicine Co. of South Bend, Indiana on September 5, 1889, however, is amusing to modern readers:

Inclosed please find $5.00 for which send me a dozen boxes Cocaine Compound Suppositories.  Don't like to be without them.

Anna E. Smith owned investment properties around the city and she is most likely responsible for the updates to the building, including the first actual storefront on Seventh Avenue.  New and attractive copper bays were added to the second floor on the Seventh Avenue side, and an updated cornice with neo-Classical decorations was installed.

In 1880 she leased the store to Georgeanna P. Marcelin, who dealt in "dentist fixtures, furniture, etc."  Tenants upstairs included Dr. Albert W. Warden, who had been appointed Attending Physician at the New York Dispensary in 1880, only to resign the following year; and Captain Albert Maxfield, who had distinguished himself with the 11th Maine Infantry during the Civil War.

At the turn of the century the house once furnished with costly carpeting and marble statues was described as "a tenement."  The former service entrance had been converted to the main entrance in order to accommodate a second store space on the corner.    Roomers no longer included doctors and businessmen, but the down-and-out.

Early on the morning of July 28, 1903 the body of a woman was found in the hallway here.  Police estimated her age at about 38.   The Evening World reported that the police felt "there was nothing suspicious in the finding of the body and said that the woman had probably died of acute alcoholism."

The metal letters on the facade announced Halpin's Hotel.  photo from the collection of the New York Public Library

By the early 1920s No. 201 West 22nd Street had become a fleabag hotel, named Halpin's.  Tony Arditto called Halpin's Hotel home in 1921.  He and two cohorts stalked banker William Weissman as he headed to his home in Brooklyn on the evening of December 22.  Weissman carried a briefcase containing $700 in gold and $300 in bills--a considerable $13,200 today.

They hit the banker with a blackjack from behind and, as he fell, Arditto grabbed the briefcase.   Weissman shouted that he was being robbed and a passerby, Jack Cohen, ran after Arditto.  He was soon joined by a policeman named Porter, and then by an angry crowd of civilians.

Officer Porter overtook Arditto and, according to The New York Herald, "subdued him after a fight."  The 22-year old thug soon realized his captor had become his protector.  "Meanwhile the crowd gathered around and with cries of 'Lynch him!' tried to take the man from the policeman."

In 1925 35-year old Irish seaman Dennis O'Donnell abandoned his ship, the Transylvania, to start a new life in the United States.  But he failed to apply for residency.  Once he found a job, he sent for his wife, who arrived legally a short time later.  She was working in Halpin's Hotel in 1929 when immigration officials caught up with her husband.  She stood on the pier as he was loaded with other deportees on the White Star liner Baltic, headed back to Donegal, Ireland.

In 1931 the houses on the southern corner (left) had been demolished for a new apartment building.  The Halpin's Hotel lettering can still be seen.  photo from the collection of the New York Public Library

The property was sold in 1950 to George Shaffer.   In reporting the sale, The New York Times diplomatically referred to it as a "three-story rooming house."

In 1992 Israeli businessman Ike Bova operated three "sex video stores" in Manhattan.  But in the fall he opened three more, all in Chelsea.  When he hung his "Welcome" sign at No. 210 Seventh Avenue neighbors had had enough.  According to the newly-formed Chelsea Action Coalition, "seven new pornographic video stores have appeared in Chelsea" within the past few months.  Area residents feared the neighborhood would become the new 42nd Street.

After locals picketed the store, Bova relented.  Sort of.  He told a reporter on December 12 that he would reopen the store the following week as a regular video store "with a very small porno section in the back."

Neighbors may have preferred the presence of the adult video store to its absence when a year later an never-ending nightmare began.  In 1993 a permit was issued for the addition of two stories atop the brick and brownstone house.   Construction began on the gruesome penthouse addition of glass and metal with nothing in common with the historic architecture.  The 1840s brownstone front was veneered in brick, perhaps in an attempt to modernize its appearance.

But one violation after another--91 issued by the Department of Buildings, 70 of which remain open--were apparently too much for owner Erroll Rainess to deal with.  He walked away from the vacant structure, allowing it to deteriorate.  He carefully pays the property taxes so the city cannot take the building.

Despite the inexcusable and possibly irreversible neglect and damage, the former charm of the 1840s house is evident.

Nearly 15 years later the sidewalk bridge remains--shelter for homeless and a convenient spot for urinating.  Repeated complaints to the city have resulted in no action.  The tragically abused property, once a picturesque house, has become an eyesore and potential danger.

photographs by the author

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

The Park & Tilford Bldg - 100 West 72nd Street

In 1835 John M. Tilford, then 20 years old, left the family farm and came to New York City where he obtained a job as a grocery store clerk.  After saving his wages, he joined another clerk, Joseph Park, in 1840 to form "in a small way," as described by Men of the Century in 1896, to form Park & Tilford.   The little store on Carmine Street was the seed of what would be New York City's finest grocery retailer.

The Carmine Street store was in a converted Federal-style house.  King's Views of New York (copyright expired)

By 1886 Park & Tilford had four New York stores as well as a branch in Paris (used mainly for merchandising and exporting).  The term "grocery" had little to do with the word we commonly use today.  Park & Tilford catered to the carriage trade and stocked a dizzying array of goods--wines, confectioneries, gourmet foods and delicacies, cigars, and personal items.  The New York Times deemed Park & Tilford "The very beau ideal of what a first class grocery store should be."

Following John Tilford's death in January 1891, his son, Frank, was elected to succeed him.  A year later he recognized the developing Upper West Side as a prime location for yet another store.    In March 1892 the firm purchased the one-story business building at the southwest corner of Columbus Avenue and 72nd Street.  The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide reported "Park & Tilford will shortly commence the erection of the fire-proof be used entirely for their business."

McKim, Mead & White received the commission to design the new structure.  The firm filed plans on April 22 for a "six-story brick, stone and terra cotta building" to cost $85.000 (more than $2.25 million today).

The Renaissance Revival style building was completed in September 1893.  Vast show windows at street level sat between heavy granite piers that supported an entablature announcing the store's name.  The entrance was flanked by fluted Scamozzi columns and embellished with a large circular window embraced by elaborate carving.

The rusticated, brick-faced upper floors were divided into three sections by wide terra cotta bands.  Early photographs show the terra cotta picked out in vividly contrasting colors.  A neo-Classical frieze ran below the pointy, crown-like pressed metal cornice.

King's Photographic Views of New York 1911 (copyright expired)

The New York Times remarked "The building was erected for west side partronage, and it is the firm's intention to make it an establishment of which the people of the west side may well be proud.  Their reputation for dealing only in reliable and first-class groceries has already won for them a warm welcome and a generous number of customers."

The building opened on September 23 and, according to The Times, "was attended by hundreds, who admired the building and the artistic display of goods."  The article added "There is no business building more handsome on the west side" and the New-York Tribune called it "a decided architectural ornament to the neighborhood."

The Tribune noted that the "best class of trade" on the Upper West Side had "suffered much inconvenience by being obliged to order their groceries and household provisions from down-town houses."   They could now rest easy.  "This inconvenience will be no longer felt, for the new store of Park & as complete and perfect in every detail as the most exacting buyers can demand."

Park & Tilford's vast array of merchandise was hinted at in the Tribune's reporting that the new store "is completely stocked with the best quality of standard articles, including a most desirable and extensive assortment of superior perfumery and toilet requisites."  The newspaper said "The ground floor of the building has been decorated and stocked in such a manner that it is no exaggeration to say that it is a work of art."

Frank Tilford was apparently pleased with the location, for he almost immediately began construction of his mansion across the street from the store.  The Real Estate Record called it "palatial" in December 1895.  And The Heroes of the American Revolution and Their Descendants, described it as "one of the handsomest edifices in that particularly handsome part of the city."

At No. 119 W. 72nd St, Tilford's home was almost directly across 72nd Street from the store. Real Estate Record & Guide, Dec 1895 (copyright expired) 
Below the Park & Tilford store were a basement and sub-basement.  Here behind-the-scenes work went on, like the candy-making shop.  In July 1909 the Cold Storage and Ice Trade Journal reported that the firm had improved its "candy factory" with a "10-ton Vesterdahl direct expansion refrigeration machine."  The up-to-the-minute addition would have nearly-deadly consequences later.

On the afternoon of December 17, 1916 six men working in the sub-cellar discovered a fire and pulled the alarm; but before they could reach the exits an ammonia tank to the refrigeration system exploded.

The New-York Tribune reported "All managed to crawl to the stairs or elevators before collapsing.  They were found by volunteers among their fellow employes and dragged to the street."

As fire fighters responded, more ammonia tanks exploded.  The first group of seven reached the sub-cellar with a line of hose, and then tried to retreat.  "All dropped before reaching the elevator," said the article.  A second wave, from Hook & Ladder 40, headed towards the fire and came across them.  But, "by the time they were hauled to the street most of their rescuers were overcome."

Fire fighters worked in shifts, covering their faces with wet towels--half fighting the fire and the other half pulling stricken firemen to the street.  Deputy Chief Burns finally refused to allow any more men to enter the building.  It was new fire-fighting technology that saved the building.  "Captain McElligott and his oxygen helmeted men worked their way into the smoke and fumes filled cellar with a line of hose, but it was a half hour before they had cleared the air sufficiently to permit the other firemen to enter."

In the meantime, the Tribune praised Park & Tilford's emergency preparation and the discipline of the employees.  "Almost 300 employes of Park & Tilford, scattered over six floors, gave an excellent demonstration of the fire drill system.  Summoned by a series of signals, the employes, most of them women, formed in line and marched through the smoke and fumes without disorder to the street."

Park & Tilford sold the building in 1920.  In 1925 architect Bernard Hersbrun was hired to renovated it to what became known as the Papae Building.  There was now a bowling alley in the basement, stores on the first floor, and offices and meeting rooms above.

The meeting rooms were routinely leased by clubs and union groups.  In December 1932, for instance, the election of officers of the Boston Terrier Club of New York was held here; and the following July the New York State Association or Retail Meat Dealers met to discuss a 48-hour work week and minimum wages.

On February 13, 1934, two months after Prohibition was repealed, The New York Times reported that the Retail Druggists Association of New York and the Pharmacy Owners Association had met in the Papae Building.  Surprisingly today, the reason for the meeting was to compose a letter to Governor Herbert Lehman "with a plea that he permit the sale of liquor in the drug stores."  The group, representing 5,000 pharmacies, said they were in "imminent peril" unless "drug stores were permitted to sell alcoholic beverages under the same license system that now governs the liquor dealers."

Considering all the union meetings being held in the building, it was not surprising that Cafeteria Local Union 460 of the I. W. W. leased an office in 1933.  What was surprising was that the "union" had only one member, 22-year old Arthur Fried.

The artful con artist studied up on labor unions in the library, printed letterheads and rented the office.  Then, according to police in January 1934, "he called on cafeteria owners, commanded them to pay their help 'union' rates and when they refused, hired sandwich men at $1 a day to picket their places."  For a $25 payment Fried would call off the business-deflating picketers.

Fried's scheme actually worked.  Until Nathan Brandwine called the police.  It was the end of the one-man Cafeteria Local Union 460.  Fried was arrested and charged with attempted extortion.

The Socialists of the Seventh and Ninth Assembly Districts held its meetings in the Papae Building in the early 1930s.   But a far different type of assemblage drew police attention in the spring of 1935.

To gain entrance to a large, private space on the sixth floor, a visitor needed an admission card.  One was obtained by a plainclothes patrolman in March, and he was shocked by what he uncovered.  At 10:45 on the night of March 12 the place was raided.   The audience, the management and the performers--150 people in total--were arrested for "participating in or attending an indecent performance."

The New York Times explained "the performance consisted of indecent motion pictures, after which performers started an improper presentation."   It required several back-and-forth trips by patrol wagons to transport the arrested throng.   All but one of the girls performing were in their teens, the oldest being 20.   Three of them, who were waiting to take part in the performance, escaped.

By the last quarter of the 20th century the neighborhood of Columbus Avenue and West 72nd Street had severely declined.   But on October 28, 1973 Robert E. Tomasson, writing for The New York Times, called West 72nd Street "a major commercial thoroughfare that has undergone a marked rejuvenation in the last few years."  Part of that rejuvenation was the 1972 renovation of the Park & Tilford building to apartments.

The chamfered corner provided additional light to the selling floors.

McKim, Mead & White's ground floor had been obliterated by now.  Most passersby likely assume that the architecturally sympathetic fluted pilasters that today grace the storefront are original.  The terra cotta now longer wears a colorful palette, and the exuberant cornice cresting was long ago lost.  But the Park & Tilford building, where well-to-do shoppers browsed among champagne and imported French delicacies, still commands a dignified presence.

photographs by the author

Monday, June 19, 2017

The Lost Brennan House - 84th Street and Broadway

The farmhouse as it appeared in 1879.  The rutty, dirt road is 84th Street.  from the collection of the New York Historical Society
In the second half of the 18th century working farms shared the upper portions of Manhattan with elegant country estates.    One farmhouse, situated on a rocky knoll halfway between the Hudson River and the Bloomingdale Road (later the Boulevard and then Broadway) at what would become 84th Street, had begun as a modest frame dwelling, two stories tall, with a peaked roof.  Most likely because of a growing family, a slightly smaller addition added living space sometime later.

Local lore passed down the story that during the Revolution, Washington and his generals used the house as headquarters.  The legend is questionable, since almost every other structure in the area boasted the same claim.  But there was one tenant who would bring draw attention to it later.

Around 1830 the 216-acre farm was acquired by Patrick Brennan and his wife, Mary Elizabeth. Although the Brennans had six children (one historian bumps that number to 10), in June 1843 they agreed to take three boarders--the writer and poet Edgar Allan Poe, his wife, Virginia, and her, Maria Clemm as boarders.  As a matter of fact, according to Poe biographer Christopher P. Semtner, "Mrs. Brennan later admitted she would have turned him away if he had not pleaded so pathetically on Virginia's behalf."

Virginia had been diagnosed with tuberculosis in 1842.  Poe, himself, was suffering from what was then diagnosed as consumption.  According to Dr. Appleton Morgan in his 1920 article "Edgar Allen Poe In New York" written for the Manual, "Poe was advised to seek summer quarters among the ancient farmhouses along the Hudson River as no more expensive than the stuffy precincts of Amity Street and Waverley Place, and he found his way to Harsenville and Bloomingdale."

The three spent that summer and the next with the Brennan family.  Martha Brennan was about 10 years old at the time, and she later recalled that the Poes had a double room on the second floor of the main house, with "two windows toward the river and two toward the East" looking toward the Bloomingdale Road.  Mrs. Clemm spent most of her time there, retiring to a smaller room on the first floor at night.

According to Martha decades later "He was the greatest of husbands and devoted to his invalid wife.  Frequently when she was weaker than usual, he carried her tenderly from her room to the dinner table and satisfied her every whim."

from the collection of the Library of Congress
Poe and Virginia Clemm were first cousins.  He was 26 and she just 13 when they married.  (original source of the 1847 watercolor of Virginia is unclear)

There was only one time when Mary Brennan became "vexed" at her boarder.  That was when she discovered he had scratched his name into her mantelpiece in his room.   General James Rowan O'Beirne, who married Martha, recalled "It was a very quaint and old-fashioned affair with carved fruit and vines and leaves, and Mrs. Brennan always kept it carefully painted.  On the day in question Poe was leaning against the mantelpiece apparently in meditation.  Without thinking, he traced his name in the black mantel, and when Mrs. Brennan called his attention to what he was doing, he smiled and asked her pardon."

According to Martha, Poe was "a shy, solitary, taciturn sort of man, fond of rambling down in the woods, between the house and the river, and sitting for hours upon a certain stump on the edge of the bank of the river."  Her account was backed up by Dr. William Hand Brown who wrote, "It was Poe's custom to wander away from the (Brennan) house in pleasant weather to 'Mount Tom' an immense rock which may still be seen in Riverside Park, where he would sit silently for hours gazing out upon the Hudson."  And General O'Beirne added in 1900 "Other days he would roam through the surrounding woods and, returning in the afternoon, sit in the 'big room,' as it used to be called, by a window and work unceasingly with pen and paper, until the evening shadows.

Poe would spend hours sitting the rocky outcrop known as Mount Tom, seen here in 1923.  Valentine's Manual of Old New York (copyright expired)

Poe was very fond of the children and Martha would lie on the floor at his feet while he wrote.  "She didn't understand why he turned the written side toward the floor," wrote O'Beirne, "and she would reverse it and arrange the pages according to the number upon them."

Among those writings was "The Raven."  It cannot be overlooked that above the door to his and Virginia's room was a small shelf, nailed to the door frame, which held a small plaster cast of Minerva.  Behind the bust, according to O'Beirne, was a transom, "a number of little panes of smoky glass."   The little piece is almost assuredly the "bust of Pallas" which made such a dramatic appearance in "The Raven."

When he finished the poem, he read it to Mary Brennan and other family members.  Then, in January 1845 it was published in the New York Mirror.

A charming, if romanticized, depiction of the Brennan House served as the frontispiece of the 1895 The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, edited by Edmund Clarence Stedman and George Edward Woodberry (copyright expired)

Patrick Brennan, in the meantime, was no illiterate farmer.  He ran a successful coal business in Bloomingdale and was active in politics, although never ran for office.  He was an ardent Roman Catholic and according to The New York Herald, was noted for "aiding in the construction of churches and in the support of charitable and religious institutions."

The wooden house was nearly lost during a violent thunderstorm in the spring of 1854.  The New York Herald reported on April 27, "The residence of Mr. Patrick Brennan, situated at the corner of Eighty-fourth street and Bloomingdale road, was struck by lightning, and, miraculous to relate, the fluid but merely stunned Mr. Brennan and family, leaving them stupefied for a short time.  Every glass in the building was shattered.  It then passed from the house, splitting two large trees; running therefrom to a well, breaking up the platform, and evidently passed down the well into the earth."

Born in 1842, Thomas Brennan was just a toddler when the Poe family rented rooms in the house.  Nevertheless he later recalled "watching Poe draw designs in the dust with his cane."   The boy first attended Public School No. 9 for seven years, then was sent to St. Theresa College in Montreal.  Having graduated at the age of 16, he returned to New York and took a job as night watchman at Bellevue Hospital in 1858.

The wedding of Martha to General O'Beirne took place in the house on October 26, 1862.  He had distinguished himself in the Civil War and was a journalist and author as well. 

It appears that Patrick Brennan was incensed at the amount of taxes levied against his property in 1864.  A meeting of the Board of Aldermen on November 6 noted he had complained of "illegal assessment" of "his property on the corner of Eighty-fourth-street and Broadway."  The minutes of the Board's meeting two months later revealed the Comptroller had been directed to issue a refund to Brennan for $67.91 "being the amount illegally assessed."    The refund would amount to just over $1,000 today.

As the population in the slowly-developing area grew, there was need for police protection.  In 1865 through 1867 Brennan leased an outbuilding as the temporary police station house.  The Board of Aldermen's 1865 report showed $100 rent paid to Brennan every three months; about $6,000 a year in today's dollars.

Patrick Brennan died in in the house on December 1870.  The New York Herald noted "He was advanced in years and was one of the early settlers of the metropolis" and added "It is worthy of notice that the house in which he resided for forty years is one famous as the headquarters of Washington and in which Edgar A. Poe wrote 'The Raven.'"

The funeral was held in the house on Tuesday, December 6 at 10 a.m.  It was followed by a solemn requiem high mass at the Church of the Holy Name of Jesus at the corner of Broadway and 97th Street.  Two years later another funeral was held in the house--that of three-year old Mary Eliza O'Beirne, the only daughter of Martha and James.

In the meantime the career of Thomas S. Brennan, who commanded an imposing figure at 6' 4" in height, had soared.  In January 1875 he was appointed Commissioner of Charities and Correction, having been responsible for significant reforms in that department, including establishing the Park and Reception Hospitals and the Small-pox Reception Hospital.

Thomas S. Brennan -- Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, April 10, 1875 (copyright expired)
Still living in the 84th Street homestead in 1882 was Thomas's sister, Henrietta and her family.  The change in the formerly bucolic neighborhood was apparent when she was set upon and robbed in August that year.  On September 9 The New York Times reported on an update in the case.  "Henry Smith, the colored man who snatched a leather bag containing $30 from Mrs. Henrietta Burg, of Eighty-fourth-street and the Boulevard, a sister of Thomas S. Brennan, Commissioner of Charities and Correction, pleaded guilty, in the Special Sessions Court, yesterday."  Smith was sentenced to two years in State Prison.

A 1909 steel engraving by S. Hollyer prettied up the landscape.  He got his time-line slightly wrong when he titled it "House Where Poe Wrote The Raven, 1840."  from the collection of the Library of Congress

The Brennan family was soon gone from the old wooden house, however, as development closed in.  The rocky landscape that had so enchanted Edgar Allan Poe was being flattened and buildings were appearing on the newly-laid streets.

On July 18, 1888 The New York Times commented "Once an hour, at least, the foundations of the cottage are shaken by the explosion of a charge of dynamite.  From the west the miners are almost upon it, and those who are working from the other side will probably reach the centre of the block in a week...The property has recently changed hands, and is now being prepared for building purposes."

With only days left before the Brennan house was demolished, the journalist floridly wrote  "But shorn of its fair proportions, a dismantled, shriveled shadow of the cottage in which Poe lived and wrote nearly 50 years ago, the battered and riven walls are still objects of interest to many, and for weeks they have been entered almost daily by companies of relic hunters who are permitted to ply their vocation to their hearts' content by the practical who are at present engaged in blowing up and carrying away the crag upon which the cottage stood."

The extension was currently being used by a blacksmith and contained a forge and "a huge bellows."  The article noted that "Much of the lath and plaster has been torn away by relic hunters, but enough remains to satisfy a small army, if wood, plaster, and bricks will satisfy the demand."

Shortly before its demolition a sign hangs from the southern wall (left).  It reads "John Negel, Mason Building, Ovens Built & Burners Set, Kalsomining [white washing]."  On the large rock, next to the rickety stairs, a hand-painted sign directs customers to "H. Hamilton, Upholsterer, 11th Avenue."  from the collection of the New York Public Library

One of those relic hunters was William Hemstreet who was interested in the mantel in the former Poe bedroom.  Unlike the worthless bits of plaster and lath, contractor Patrick Fogarty charged Hemstreet $5 for the mantel.  He supplied a bill of sale dated May 22, 1888 for a "wood mantel of the second story south room of the cottage in 84th street, formerly the resident of Edgar A. Poe; said mantel appearing by its age and construction to be the original one built."

Amusingly, the caption on this late 19th century postcard is unsure if the house was still standing or not.

A few days later the demolition crew had reached 84th Street and Broadway.  The Brennan house, seen only as a curiosity, was reduced to scrap wood and carted off.  That it had stood there at all was mostly forgotten within a decade or two.

The site today.  photo via

And as for the mantel that Poe scratched his name into, upsetting his landlady;  William Hemstreet initially installed it in the library his Brooklyn home.  Then, in December 1906, he offered it to Columbia University.   Despite having (albeit arguable) historic and literary significance, it was placed "temporarily in the Librarian's office, and can be seen on application," according to a 1909 University document.

Columbus University Quarterly, March 1908 (copyright expired)
By the 1970s it stood humiliated in a storage area on the sixth floor of the Butler Library, "surrounded by files and boxes and exposed pipes," as described by Times journalists Benjamin Waldman and Andy Newman.  Finally, in 2012 it was removed to a more visible location in the rare book library, flanked by armchairs, with an oil portrait above it.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

The Tallulah Bankhead House - 230 East 62nd St

Home construction had ground to a near halt during the Civil War years.   But in 1868 brothers John and George Ruddell were making up for lost time.  For the next few years the builders, who operated under the firm name J. & G. Ruddell, would be busy buying up building lots on the Upper East Side and erecting rowhouses.

Between 1868 and 1870 they line the south side of the 62nd Street block, between Second and Third Avenue with 19 similar homes.  Rather surprisingly, they used two architects--F. S. Barns designing nine of them, and James W. Pirrson responsible for two groups of five.

Born in New York City, Pirrson was working on his own in 1868 when he started work on Nos. 222 through 230.  About a year and a half later he would partner with Philip Gengembre Hubert to form Hubert, Pirrson & Co.

Although generally the neighborhood east of Park Avenue was, at the time, considered the "wrong" side, Pirrson's completed homes were handsome and comfortable.   At 20 feet wide and costing about $15,000 each to build (a little over a quarter of a million dollars today), they were intended for upper middle class owners.

Like scores of rowhouses appearing throughout the city, the residences were faced in brownstone and included high stoops.  Architrave openings with projecting lintels, arched double-doored entrances beneath showy peaked pediments, and bracketed and paneled cornices made the houses up-to-date if not uncommon.

No. 230 became home to William F. Croft who, too, got into the building boom.  Bradstreet's (the forerunner of Dun & Bradstreet) reported that he began business "in 1877 with very little capital."  Focusing on the rapidly-developing Yorkville neighborhood, he quickly made money.

While the Crofts did not rub shoulders with the millionaires who summered in Newport and Bar Harbor, they joined other well-to-do families in the fashionable resort hotels of Long Beach, New Jersey.

Somewhat astonishingly it was the assassination of President James A. Garfield on July 2, 1881 that brought Croft's finances crashing down.   On August 2 that year The New York Times reported that the builder's bankruptcy "was a surprise to the trade, as he was regarded as doing a flourishing business."   He was currently constructing an apartment building on Seventh Avenue at 57th Street, costing more than $200,000, along with other structures on Madison Avenue.

But, explained the article, he had invested heavily in elevated railroad stocks.  "He held a considerable line of stocks on margin, and when the tumble followed the shooting of the President his brokers sold him out, it is claimed, without notice."  He incurred losses of $75,000--nearly $1.8 million today.

Croft moved his family to No. 555 West 128th Street before 1888.  But his problems seem to have followed him.   In the early morning hours of April 4, 1888 he was arrested for "smashing a window in Philip Milligan's saloon."  The Evening World explained, "He wanted to get in after the place was closed."

At the time of the window smashing, merchant Robert Gordon was living at No. 230 East 62nd Street.  The well-respected businessman owned his own building on Cedar Street and was one of the founders of the esteemed Down Town Association.

In 1895 brothers Ferdinand and Hermann Carri purchased the house and converted it to The New York Institute for Violin Playing and School for Piano and Vocal Culture.  Both men were composers and accomplished musicians.  Large audiences assembled for their concerts in venues like Mendelssohn Hall and Chickering Hall.  Ferdinand played violin and Hermann the piano.

The Institute would remain in the house for decades.  Following the annual recital in April 1907 the music critic from the New-York Tribune opined "The violin students of Ferdinand Carri...showed some fine results of training in a violin recital held at Mendelssohn Hall last Wednesday evening."

New-York Tribune, September 7, 1907

The Carri brothers ran the Institute here until January 1920. Assessed at $11,500, the value of the outmoded Victorian building had dropped to about $136,000 in today's dollars.  Architect Aymar Embury II would change that.

Embury removed the stoop and moved the entrance to a few steps below street level.  The stone window details were shaved flat, slightly projecting bandcourses defined each level, and a parapet with blind panels of balustrades replaced the outdated cornice.

The painted stucco, tiny bas relief urns, pinwheel roundels and false balustrades gave the house a Regency flair.

Embury married Ruth Dean in 1923.  A renowned landscape architect, she was best known for designing the gardens of lavish country homes.  Her wealthy clients included Vincent Astor, Howard Cullman and Arthur Lehman.  She was responsible for the grounds at the famous Grey Gardens estate in East Hampton.

Her husband enjoyed a similar clientele, designing the country estates of millionaires like James Boyd's Weymouth, at Southern Pines, North Carolina.   The couple had a daughter, Judith, in 1927.  Their own summer home was in East Hampton.

On May 26, 1932 Ruth died suddenly in the house at the age of 43.  Her funeral was held in East Hampton.  For several years Embury would not return to East 62nd Street.

He leased the furnished house to former United States Attorney Emory R. Buckner in October that year.  A year later the Buckners, who were at their summer home in Nantucket, announced the engagement of daughter Betty to Potter Cox.

Following the Buckers, Alexandra Ewing Noyes moved into the house in 1934 with her three sons.  She was divorced from Newbold Noyes, son of the president of The Associated Press early that year.  Alexandra's grandfather, Thomas Ewing, was Secretary of the Interior under Zachary Taylor and Secretary of the Treasury under William Henry Harrison.  Her father, also named Thomas Ewing, had served as Commissioner of Patents during the administration of Woodrow Wilson.

On December 8, 1934, Alexandra married her brother-in-law, Thomas A. Stone.  Stone had been married to her older sister, who died in childbirth a year later.

Another marriage took place that year.  Aymar Embury married Josephine Bound on September 17.  Following their honeymoon to Spain, they moved into No. 230 East 62nd Street.  Along with his domestic life, Embury's professional life changed upon their return.  The newly-appointed Parks Commissioner Robert Moses chose him as the chief or consulting architect in the many civic projects Moses initiated.

Josephine Embury lavished her attention on the rear gardens.  Every year, beginning around 1938, she opened her "ivy garden" for the City Garden Tour.  It would be a regular stop until 1943.

The Emburys remained in the house until 1955 when, in late November, they sold it to internationally famed stage and motion picture actress Tallulah Bankhead.   She was equally well-known for her biting wit, gravelly voice and somewhat shocking lifestyle.   Author Richard Alleman in his 1988 New York Movie Lover's Guide summed it up saying "She drank heavily, smoked six packs of cigarettes a day, went to bed with both men and women, was renowned for her bawdy stories, and yet, throughout it all, Tallulah Bank head was one great lady."

The following year Bankhead appeared on stage as Blanche DuBois in a revival of Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire.  Williams remarked that after a performance "when the play was finished I rushed up to her and fell to my knees at her feet."

But the actress was suffering from serious addictions at the time.   One of her most memorable television appearances was on the Lucille Ball-Desi Arnaz Comedy Hour in 1957 in which she played herself in the episode "The Celebrity Next Door."  Reportedly both Ball and Arnaz were exasperated by her appearing on set seemingly drunk and delaying rehearsals.

A scene from "The Celebrity Next Door."  via papermoonloveslucy

An article in The New York Times on July 24, 1958 reflected a pattern of accidents happening in the 62nd Street house.  "Tallulah Bankhead, an actress, was slightly injured last night in a fall [in her house].  Miss Bankhead tripped and broke a vase.  She fell and cut her left forearm on one of the fragments.  Her doctor took five stitches in her forearm."

Bankhead sold No. 230 on December 29, 1961 to George Huntington Hartford, heir to the A & P supermarket fortune.   She moved to No. 447 East 57th Street and died in St. Luke's Hospital on December 12, 1968 at the age of 66.  Supposedly, her last understandable words were "codeine...bourbon."

Hartfort paid cash for the house.  In reporting on the sale The New York Times noted "it contains twelve rooms, including three bedrooms, three bathrooms and three servants' rooms."   It was only one of his several residences, including a Melody Farm, a 160-acre estate in Mahwah, New Jersey; a Hollywood estate, The Pines; a townhouse in London; a home in France and another on Paradise Island in the Bahamas.

His most lasting legacy would be his art extensive art collection, which became so large that he commissioned architect Edward Durell Stone to design the Gallery of Modern Art at No. 2 Columbus Circle to house it.  The museum opened in 1964.  Included in the collection were works by Salvador Dali, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Monet, Manet, and Degas.

Other than the removed stoops, the neighboring houses retain their 1868 appearance.

Hartford died in 2008.  No. 230 East 62nd Street remains a single-family home today.   It recently underwent a facade restoration and is little changed since Aymar Embury II gave it a remarkable facelift in the 1920s.

photographs by the author

Friday, June 16, 2017

"The Dairy" - Central Park

photo by Brian Clark ("sooner") via

In 1853, the same year that the New York State Legislature set aside more than 750 acres to create The Central Park, authorities noticed a suspicious rise in the amount of cow's milk being brought from outlying farms into Manhattan.  Previously about 90,000 quarts arrived in the city each day; now the number rose inexplicably to 120,000.  An investigation was launched.

The findings were chilling.  Investigators found that some dairymen were diluting the milk with water, then adding flour to restore its consistency.  But worse, unscrupulous dairy farmers, many in Brooklyn, were feeding their cows the alcoholic mash left over from the whiskey distillery process.

These cows were stricken with disease and deformities – losing their tails and hooves and developing open sores. The resulting milk, called “swill milk” by the press, was a thin, bluish liquid. To disguise it, the dairymen added plaster of paris, starch and eggs.  Molasses gave it the proper coloring of wholesome milk.  Harper’s Weekly, the newspaper that lead the charge against swill milk, reported that up to 8,000 children in New York died every year.

In the meantime, Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux won the 1858 design competition for Central Park.  Their vision would create open space for all New Yorkers, including the poor and underprivileged.  The green spaces, terraces, ponds and roadways were designed not only for their beauty, but to contribute to public health.  As the Park developed, it would play a substantial role in the milk crisis.

But for now the unspeakable corruption and tragedy continued.   When, in 1862, a Brooklyn “distillery dairy” caught fire, The New York Times described the deplorable condition of the milk cows that were released into the streets:

Many of the cows were in such a weak condition that they were thrown down and trampled upon by the more recent additions to the stock, and several will have to be braced up before they can undergo the process of milking again…One cow in particular, owing to her deformed feet, being unable to stand, attracted considerable attention, and yet the lookers-on were assured that she gave the best milk of any animal in the whole country.  [The cows had] long tails, short tails, stub tails, and some with no tails at all.  Their appendages were in every conceivable condition, from a sound stump down to stumps in every degree of decomposition… It was a most pitiable and disgusting spectacle.

At the southern point of Central Park--the spot where families would first enter--was to be a Children's Area.  Although not originally part of Olmstead and Vaux's design, plans were laid for a dairy here in 1869.  Its purpose would be to provide children with wholesome milk and pastries with no fear of contamination.

On February 18, 1870 The New York Times happily anticipated the new project. “The Commissioners of the Central Park have determined to erect and open next Spring a dairy for the supply of pure, wholesome, and unadulterated milk for the special use of invalid and delicate ladies and their infant children visiting the Park…There is a cottage being erected, with a handsome steeple and ornamental turrets, for the accommodation of ladies and infants.  There will be female attendants there, and all the regular conveniences.  In the basement cows will be kept in readiness to supply the demand made of them. Around this cottage a fine area of land is set apart for a playground, exclusively for the very young children, being distinct and separate from the present boys’ and girls’ playground…The milk will be supplied at cost price.”

Calvert Vaux designed the dairy, a whimsical fantasy of Victorian Gothic, multi-colored gingerbread right off the pages of Hansel and Gretel. The polychrome wooden loggia was intended to shelter the children from the elements and catch cool breezes in the summer. The stone block dairy, a combination of Manhattan schist and sandstone, took its inspiration from picturesque country German church architecture.

Victorian children gather on the grass outside the Dairy not long after its completion.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

Despite the promise that the milk would be supplied "at cost" and the refreshments would be affordable, one Southern family visiting the park in 1874 was thunderstruck at their bill.  After visiting the menagerie on October and seeing among the exhibits the laughing jack-ass, they "discovered they were hungry."

According to the letter to the editor of The New York Herald written by a New York friend, they entered the Dairy and ordered two cups of coffee, one glass of milk and three sandwiches.  When they were finished, the father asked how much he owed.  When the waiter told him $2.50, he hesitated.  John Bangles, who write the letter, said "Our friend does not roll in wealth...he demurred and the waiter, with a glance of pity and a smile, said, 'Well, $2.25.'"  The reduced bill would be equal to about $50 today.

"My friends then departed, the little boy asked what was the mater, the father muttered something about seeing another laughing jackass."

One can almost hear the cacophony within the Dairy in this etching by J. N. Hyde that appeared in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper in 1872 (copyright expired)

It seems that the Southern family were victims of an unscrupulous waiter.  In his 1882 New York by Gaslight, James D. McCabe, Jr. described the Dairy as "a tasteful gothic structure of brick and stone.  Here pure milk and refreshments may be had at moderate prices.  Residents of the city can always purchase fresh milk or cream here, for sick children, and a great quantity is sold daily for this purpose."

An unusual view reveals the surprising scale of the building, including the cow barn section.  photographer unknown, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York
The dairy not only provided children wholesome refreshments in 1899, it was a source of amusement in the form of one draft horse.  On January 18 the Pennsylvania newspaper Republican, wrote about "'Dan Sorrel,' who draws the milk wagon that takes the milk to Central Park Dairy every morning.  His driver often amuses the children that gather about his pet by saying:

'Now, Dan, I believe you are a Democrat.'

'No,' shakes the head.

'What! a Republican?'

'Yes, yes, yes,!' and a stamping of both front feet, while the tail is slashed about like a banner to emphasize his sentiments."

In November 1911 New Yorkers may have been surprised and disappointed when they read that Park Commissioner Charles B. Stover planned to do away with the Dairy as a concession.  The New-York Tribune reported that Stover had announced "in the near future he would convert the Dairy, one of the oldest refreshment stands in the park, into playrooms, doing away with the privilege, which dates back to the early days of the park."

The playroom idea did not work out.   By the 1950s the building was essentially abandoned and dilapidated. Vaux’s once-colorful loggia, now rotted and sagging, was ripped down by the Parks Department and the Dairy suffered the humiliation of becoming a maintenance shed.

After being left forgotten for two decades, the Central Park Administration hired designer James Lamantia and Weisberg Castro Associates to restore the interior of the Dairy.  In 1979 it was opened as the Park’s first visitor center.

Two years later the new Central Park Conservancy took over the Dairy and restored its wonderful wooden loggia. Today a permanent exhibit of the history and design of Central Park is housed here.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Gouveneur Hospital - 621 Water Street

The riverfront neighborhood of Water Street and Gouveneur's Slip was among the seediest in New York City in the 1870s and '80s.  Brothels, saloons and gambling dens lured sailors and miscreants.   Stabbings, shootings, and beatings were common.  So Charity Commissioner Thomas S. Brennan's proposal of an "emergency hospital"--a branch of Bellevue Hospital--at Gouveneur's Slip made sense.

The free-standing, three-story brick building was completed in October 1885 at a cost of $14,000.  Because, as the New-York Tribune pointed out it was "simply a reception hospital" intended only for emergency treatment before patients were transferred to Bellevue, there were just 30 beds.  On October 3, 1885, about two weeks before the hospital opened, The New York Times reminded readers of the character of the neighborhood.

"The site occupied was formerly a police station, then a market place, and afterward a resort for thieves and low characters.  Its regeneration into a hospital grieves the river border gang, but is hailed as a great improvement by respectable neighbors."

Before long the hospital took on the name of the nearby slip.  And a decade after its opening, it was clear that Gouveneur Hospital could not adequately meet the needs of the gritty neighborhood.  A full-service institution was needed.

In April 1897 The Sinking Fund Commission took bids for constructing a new hospital.   The lowest bid, of $116,000 from the Mapes-Reeve Construction Company, was rejected because of "a technical error."  The next lowest bit was from Mahoney Bros. at $129,400.  The total cost, including furnishings and equipment, would eventually rise to $200,000; around $5.75 million today.

The cornerstone was laid in 1898, some months after construction began.

Designed by John R. Thomas, the building was completed late in October 1900; but a public spat between Charities Commissioner John W. Keller and Public Buildings Commissioner Henry S. Kearny delayed opening until January 5, 1901.  In reporting the opening, The New York Times took a jab at the men, saying "Mr. Keller and Public Buildings Commissioner Kearny have been at odds for some months."

Four stories of red brick trimmed in terra cotta, the new facility could accommodate 104 patients.  The Times deemed it "the most perfectly equipped in the Charities Department."   The intention was always that two wings would stretch back from the main administration building; but only the north wing was included in the first stage of construction.

The original hospital (center) was still in use as the modern structure rose around it.  from the collection of Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum

Running alongside the old hospital, the end of the wing was rounded, thereby doing away with interior corners where dirt and germs could accumulate.

The Times reported "The doctors' and nurses' quarters and the dining rooms are all that could be desired.  The laboratory and operating room are filled with up-to-date apparatus, including an X-ray machine, the only one in the Charities Department."

The case of one of the hospital's first patients, 24-year old John Bellinette, reflected not only the type of injuries the facility would receive, but the character of the neighborhood.  Bellinette lived at No. 44 Oliver Street; but he was found just before midnight on Saturday, January 12, 1901 in the yard of No. 22 Hamilton Street.  He had been thrown from the fourth floor window.

Two neighbors informed Patrolman Edward J. O'Rourke that they had seen the crime from their rooms.  "While they were still at the window they saw a man stoop over the body of the injured man and take his overcoat and hat," reported The Times.

O'Rourke went to the apartment and arrested Salvatore Adriate, his wife, Theresa, and another woman, Philamina Perchaine.  Bellinette's overcoat and hat were on the bed.  The three "denied that there was any quarrel in their rooms, and said they did not know who the injured man was."

An investigation, however, revealed that Raphael Cresanzo and Francisco Rimardo had also been in the room at the time of the "accident."  Bellinette, it was revealed, was accused by Cresanzo of cheating him out of money.  Fearing for his life, Bellinette tried to escape onto the fire escape and was pushed to the ground.  Two days later he was still in critical condition in Gouverneur Hospital with a fractured skull.

By spring 1903 the City was ready to erect the southern wing.  The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide reported on April 18 "Probabilities point to the speedy completion of Gouverneur Hospital...The new administration building with one wing was opened in 1901, and now it is desired that the other wing be built."   Architect Raymond Almirall was give the commission; but he closely followed Thomas's design, resulting in a visually-balanced structure.

It was not until July 1909, however, that the City contracted for what would become perhaps the hospital's iconic feature.  Bids were taken for "railings, supports and all other work for inclosing the balconies and balcony stairways."  The wonderful iron, rounded balconies were outfitted with curtains for privacy and protection from direct midday heat.

The treatment for some diseases, notably tuberculosis, included fresh and and sunshine.  Beds and wheelchairs could be rolled out onto the balconies to provide both.

Close inspection reveals the curtains (one set closed on the second floor in the north wing).  At least one iron bed is visible.  By now the old hospital had been replaced with an ambulance garage with dormers that matched the main building.  photo from the collection of the New York Public Library
By now the Lower East Side was filled with filthy tenements crammed with indigent immigrant families.  At the turn of the century there were 330,000 residents per square mile, tasking the staff at Gouveneur Hospital with another type of patient--children.   Infants and toddlers in poor families suffered from malnutrition, measles, whooping-cough, heat prostration and pneumonia.   Infectious diseases spread within the hospital, since there was no "detention room."  Three times during the winter of 1913 the children's ward had to be quarantined.

The waiting room, in 1907, provided a crowded and piteous scene.  photo by Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York
In 1917 the Department of Health recommended "that a salary sufficient to retain a nurse specifically trained in the care of children be provided."  The investigating committee deemed $600 a year appropriate.

In the meantime rampant crime and gang activity continued.  A peculiar case was that of Mrs. Branaslaw Kucharsky, a 41-year old washwoman.   Around 9:00 on the morning of July 14, 1919 two strangers were seen entering the tenement building where she lived at No. 113 Stanton Street.  About an hour later a neighbor entered her flat and found her on the floor.

An ambulance from Gouveneur Hospital arrived, but found her already dead.  The New-York Tribune reported that she "was either murdered or died of fright when attacked during the robbery of her home."

Gangster violence repeatedly resulted in injuries, often fatal.  On the night of June 13, 1920 Angelo De Rocco waited in ambush outside a Rivington Street movie theater.  When Rosario Demario exited, the "bushwacker," as described by the Tribune, opened fire.  Demario was struck in the back and the panicked crowd scattered.

Two policemen nearby chased De Rocco, who fired his revolver at them as he fled.  Detective Anthony J. Fater returned fire, hitting the fugitive once in the back, and then in the leg.  Both men were taken to Gouveneur Hospital.  But the night was not over yet.

Half an hour later Salvatore Campo was found unconscious in his room on the second floor of No. 217 Bowery with five knife wounds in his body and scalp.  The Tribune reported "One of the wounds had nearly severed his right ear."  He, too, was taken to Gouveneur Hospital.

Police later discovered that all three lived in the building--De Rocco on the first floor, Campo on the second, and Demario on the third.  Neighbors said that there had been "a long standing quarrel among the boarders."

On the night of March 1, 1921, Patrolman Shoemaker was passing No. 46 Pitt Street, just after 11:00, when a man holding a "smoking pistol" staggered backwards out of the doorway and collided with a lamppost.  Rocco Franko was holding his bloodied right hand to his chest.  Shoemaker called an ambulance for the 27-year old, then entered the building.

On the first landing he found Charles Vito, who also held a pistol.  The New-York Tribune reported that he "had his right eye shot away.  Again an ambulance was called from Gouverneur Hospital."  Both men were arrested in the hospital, but refused to give any information.

The eye-catching balconies survive--grabbing the attention of drivers on the FDR Drive feet away.

Street violence and gangster activity continued to result in emergency cases.  In spring 1922 17-year old Samuel Licht had only recently been released from the State Reformatory.   On March 26 he stopped a young woman outside a store on Madison Street.  Whatever he said to the girl, she apparently took offense.  She walked away and Licht loitered around in front of the store.

The Tribune reported "Children who were playing in the street nearby saw a taxicab draw up to the curb and stop.  Two men got out, stood side by side while they leveled revolvers, and fired simultaneously."  One of the bullets lodged in the door of the store, but the other struck Licht in the back of the head.  "The two men re-entered the taxicab and were driven off."

A patrolman who heard the shots called an ambulance from Gouveneur Hospital, but Liche died on the way.

During the Great Depression the Works Progress Administration provided work to artists who, among other projects, decorated civic buildings with murals.  In 1936 artist Abram Champanier began a ambitious series of 15 "Alice in New York Wonderland" murals for the children's ward of Gouveneur Hospital.   The oil-on-canvas works colorfully depicted a very modern Alice in settings like the Central Park Zoo, at the Coney Island Playground, at the New York Public Library and flying over the East River bridges.

Gouveneur Hospital could boast a few firsts.   Dr. Emily Dunning Barringer graduated from the Cornell Medical School in 1897 and was accepted on the Gouveneur Hospital Staff.  The Cornell Alumni News later pointed out she was the first female doctor in a New York City hospital, "thereby establishing the precedent of admitting women physicians to general hospital service."  Even more shocking at the time, Dr. Barringer was the first female ambulance driver in the world.

And in 1940 Dr. George A. Baehr organized a prepaid medical plan for tenants of the nearby housing projects, the Vladeck Houses.  Residents paid 25 cents per person per month.  The plan evolved into what we know today as HIP.

By mid-century the old facility was decidedly out-of-date.  The hospital lost its accreditation in 1957, and on November 21, 1960 locals held a nighttime protest around the building.  The Times reported "About fifty residents of the area used flashlights to accent their demand for 'a ray of hope' for getting a new hospital to serve the section.  Placards complained about service and facilities in the 200-bed hospital."

The building was abandoned in 1961 and in June 1963 Mayor Robert F. Wagner announced plans for a new $14 million Gouveneur Hospital.  The new facility was opened at No. 227 Madison Street on September 21, 1972.

In the meantime the old building sat empty and neglected.  Broken windows allowed weather into the wards, including those where Champanier's wonderful 7-foot tall murals once brightened the mood of sick children.

In 1980 the City offered the property for sale, and demolition was threatened.   Hearing of the W.P.A. murals, Andrew Scott Dolkart and Eddie Friedman of the Landmarks Preservation Commission alerted art conservator Allan Farancz in hopes of saving the artworks.

According to Dolkart later, "we were unable to interest any city, state or Federal agency in either paying for their removal and restoration or agreeing to hang the murals once they were removed.

"On the night before the bulldozers were to destroy the children's ward, with its murals, Mr. Farancz heroically went in and removed the artwork at his own expense."

"Alice Flies Over the East River" now hangs in the Cumberland Diagnostic & Treatment Center in Brooklyn.

Farancz stored the murals, which one-by-one were eventually conserved.  One of them, appropriately, was installed in the new Gouveneur Hospital.

In 1992 a nonprofit group, Community Access, Inc., began renovations of what was now essentially a gutted shell.   Under direction of architect Peter L. Woll the venerable building was renovated for housing for the elderly, mentally ill and AIDS sufferers.

The a splash of Romanesque Revival blends with the overall Renaissance Revival style in the striking terra cotta entrance.

Known today as Gouveneur Court, the building provides assisted living housing for low income and special needs residents.

photographs by the author
many thanks to reader Pete Alsen for suggesting this post