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| A turn of the century postcard shows a tree-planted boulevard on Park Avenue. The hospital's "outdoor cottage" can be seen at right. |
In the 18th century nearly as many patients died
of medical treatment or the infection resulting from operations as did they
from disease. The situation prompted
famed British surgeon Sir Astley Cooper to announce “The science of medicine was
founded on conjecture and improved by murder.”
Leipzig physician Samuel Hahnemann took a different path
from established medical practices when he founded the system of homeopathy in
1796. He stressed the importance of
proper diet, exercise, improved hygiene and removing stress—ideals familiar in
the 21st century.
Hahnemann Homeopathic Hospitals would appear in many of
America’s major cities—Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago among them. New York City’s Hahnemann Hospital was
incorporated early in the fall of 1869. While
it waited for a permanent structure, it used a rented house at No. 307 East 55th
Street as its hospital.
The Hahenemann was a “free bed” hospital—meaning that those
who could not afford care were treated as charity cases. During its first year the hospital treated 40
patients; only one of which paid.
At the time Fourth Avenue above the Grand Central Depot was
an edgy neighborhood of small butcher shops, groceries, unimpressive houses and
train tracks that clattered down the center of the thoroughfare. In 1870 the Hahnemann Hospital secured a
lease from the city of twelve buildings lots for the term of 99 years
stretching the entire block from 67th to 68th Street on
the east side. The Legislature granted
the facility $20,000 toward construction of its buildings, on the condition
that Hahnemann Hospital could raise an equal amount.
Like churches, privately-run hospitals used fairs and
bazaars as a primary means of fund-raising.
The directors of the hospital went directly to the doors of the wealthy,
as well, to secure donations. By 1872
$15,000 had been raised and plans were in the works for the new structure.
John Francis Richmond, in his 1872 New York and its Institutions, described the projected
hospital. “The new structures will
consist of a fine administration building, fronting on Fourth avenue, and of
two fine pavilions extending one hundred and twenty-five feet along
Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth streets.
The entire front on Fourth avenue will be two hundred feet ten
inches. The pavilions, besides high
basement, will have two stories each, and a Mansard story, will accommodate one
hundred and seventy-five patients, giving over 1,300 cubic feet of space to
each.” The cost of the completed complex
was estimated at about $200,000—around $3.7 million today.
The planned buildings were badly needed. By the time of Richmond’s description, the Hahnemann Hospital had treated over
40,000 patients and another 2,000 calls had been made by visiting
physicians.
As later explained by hospital president Hiram Calkins (who,
in an interesting side note, was present at the death of President Lincoln), with “the
liberal contributions of the patrons of Homeopathy and a large sum raised at a
fair, the construction of the Hahnemann Hospital on its lots was commenced in
1876.” The cornerstone laying ceremony,
conducted on October 25, 1876 was, as The New York Times described it, “according
to the elaborate and impressive forms of Masonry.”
The complex and mysterious Masonic rites were completed when
the Grand Marshall declared the stone “had been found square, level and plumb,
true and trusty, and laid according to the old customs of Masonry,” said The
New York Times. Grand Master Ellwood E.
Thorne explained “that from time immemorial it had been the custom of the
Ancient and Honorable Fraternity of Free and Accepted Masons to lay, when
requested, the cornerstones of buildings erected for the worship of God, for charitable
objects, or for the administration of justice and free government, but of no
other building.”
William Cullen Bryant spoke at the ceremony, saying that of
all modes of charitable relief, the support of public hospitals was one of the
worthiest and most necessary.
Even as the construction of the new structure neared
completion, the ladies of the hospital kept up their fund-raising—now to
procure the money to furnish it. One
event was held on April 26, 1877 when they hosted a “coffee party” in the 22nd
Regiment Armory on 14th Street at 6th Avenue. In addition to two hours of special
entertainment for children in the afternoon, “good music will be provided, and
from 8 to 12 o’clock there will be dancing for those who desire to participate
in it,” reported The Times. The
newspaper noted that the funds go “to furnish the new hospital building on
Fourth-avenue…which is now nearly finished, and which is entirely free from
debt in every other respect.”
The following year, in October 1878, the hospital opened its
doors to patients. The bulk of the brick
cube was largely unornamented. A stone
portico with Doric columns opened onto Fourth avenue (later renamed Park
Avenue) and stone accents highlighted the openings. But above the third floor cornice an
impressive mansard level rescued the structure from mediocrity. Severely angular and notably tall, its corner
towers tapered upward. Handsome dormers
lined up around the roofline and especially high iron cresting capped the
corners.
Additions to the main building quickly followed—first by an
annex to the east, then by the construction in the side yard of a “cottage for
a special class of surgical cases,” as described by Calkins later. By the 1890s the cottage was being used for
the Out-Door Department, “where a large number of the sick poor daily receive
treatment and obtain relief,” reported The Medical Times in 1895.
Construction required more fund-raising and on April 21, 1880 the
Hospital leased the old Madison Square Garden for a charity ball and art
auction. The cream of New York society
was there and the following day The New York Times reported that “A pianoforte
was playing a lively waltz, and among the dancers were persons well known in
New-York society…In the Garden proper about 2,000 persons were about the
various stalls of the Hanemann Fair, and numerous detectives from the Central
Office and the Twenty-ninth Precinct kept watch.” Children were enjoying a Punch and Judy show
in one room. And then the unthinkable
happened.
Around 9:00 Mr. Story, who was in charge of the Art Gallery,
noticed that pieces of plaster were frequently falling from the ceiling,
accompanied by cracking noises. He
mentioned this to Detective Tilley and the pair decided it would be prudent to
evacuate the gallery. To avoid panic,
the guests viewing the artwork were told that the heat in the room could be
injurious to the paintings, so the gas was being turned off and the gallery
closed.
The viewers left slowly as Story turned down the
gaslights. Just as the last one left a
huge chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling—about 18 inches wide and several
feet long. Detective Tilley “saw what
had fallen, and at that moment heard a frightful crackling noise all around
him. The ceiling appeared to open and
then to slide toward the avenue, while the west wall tottered, gaped, and fell
outward,” reported The Times the following morning.
Unaware, well-dressed couples continued to waltz in the
dancing hall “until a few seconds before the second floor and the peaked roof
with the tower fell into Madison-avenue.”
Two guests told a reporter “there was a puff, as of smoke, and a dull
sound, as if an explosion had occurred, then crackling and groaning of wood and
brick work. Then the ceiling split,
large pieces of plaster began to fall, and everything inclined toward the
street; then came a terrible crash and the wall of the dancing-hall fell
outward, and the sky and stars appeared.”
The Times reported “The immense throng on the main floor
surged toward the Madison-avenue exit, over which bricks, plaster, and timbers
were still falling. A terrible crush occurred
in the vestibule, and it seemed likely that a terrible panic was going to take
place, and that many persons would be crushed to death.”
One young man clambered over the rubble and picked up a pair
of cymbals, crashing them together to get the crowd’s attention. He hollered for order. “In the meantime the fear of the musicians
had been allayed, and they were induced to play ‘Yankee Doodle,’” said The Times. “The music stilled the crowd, and they left
the building in comparatively good order.”
When the collapse seemed to have halted, “dozens of young
men, fashionably dressed, began to explore the ruins up stairs a few seconds
after the accident, in a stifling dust.
At least half a dozen persons were helped out of the wreck within a
minute after the time of the falling of the walls.” Tragically, not everyone emerged alive. When it was all over the northwestern tower,
the art gallery, the dancing hall and part of the restaurant lay in a pile on
the street and three women were dead. An
injured man died later.
On May 3 the “grand fair” was reopened at the 22nd
Regiment Armory. Amazingly, some of the
paintings on sale at the Madison Square Garden fair had been recovered,
restored, and now hung here. The
high-tone nature of the fair was evident in the articles offered to donors. “There are 80 valuable articles yet to be
disposed of by subscription votes,” said The Times the day after the reopening,
“including diamonds, pianos, a magnificent doll, with diamond jewelry, and a
tiny wardrobe of 12 handsome dresses; an elegant satin quilt, an artistic
screen, a very fine bicycle, oil-paintings, and a large quantity of silverware,
besides many other articles of value.”
The newspaper noted that General Grant had outbid all competitors for a
gold-headed cane.
Meanwhile, treatment of patients went on in the Hahnemann
Hospital. A peculiar set of circumstances
surrounded the case of Mrs. Arthur Bloodgood in 1884. The woman’s condition had deteriorated to the
point that she was unable to move from a chair and her niece sat with her day
and night. Her physician informed her “that
the only possible chance of her recovery would be a trip to California,”
according to a newspaper.
The problem for the woman who now had her hopes for survival
hinging on a West Coast trip, was that she was embattled in a divorce
proceeding and had no money. Her
alimony case was tied up in litigation and “In the meantime she remains in a
helpless condition at the Hahnemann Hospital.
She recently applied to her brother for assistance, and that gentleman
sent her money enough to pay her car fare to California. It is stated that each day renders her chance
of recovery less possible,” said The Times on April 15 1884.
The newspaper explained part of the problem. “Arthur Bloodgood, the husband,…is also a
helpless invalid in Hahnemann Hospital.”
In 1889 plans were being discussed for a new, state of the
art maternity building. On March 21 that
year The Evening World reported on the upcoming Centennial Festival for the
benefit of the new facility. “The affair
promises to be one of unusual excellence, and a variety of attractions will be
offered, including entertainments and performances during the afternoons and
evenings. A notable feature will be a ‘Martha
Washington Drawing-Room,’ which will contain a collection of Revolutionary
relics.”
The festival opened in May and featured a Russian tearoom
where tea was served by girls wearing quaint Russian costumes, and the Martha
Washington room furnished in 18th century antiques, including the
chair Washington used at his inauguration.
A $4,000 punch bowl had been donated to be awarded to the most popular
club in the city, as voted on by festival patrons.
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| By the time of this turn of the century postcard, additions to the north had been completed. The cottage is now-vine covered. |
The Egbert Guernsey Maternity and Children’s Ward was opened
on December 18, 1894. The $68,000
building (exclusive of land and furnishings) was the last word in modern
facilities. There were comfortable
private rooms, bathrooms, and windows on four sides. “Four private rooms have been daintily and
completely furnished by Mrs. Guernsey, Mrs. G. W. Powers, Mrs. J. Neilson
Stout, and Mrs. Ralph Trautman, with pretty rugs, draperies, pictures and bed
furnishings,” said The Times. “The
color tones…are pink, white, yellow, and blue.
The rooms called forth many expressions of admiration from the visitors.”
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| The obstetric ward and a private room of the new 1894 Maternity Ward are surprisingly modern-looking. photos from The New York Medical Times, January 1895 (copyright expired) |
In 1905 The New York Charities Directory pointed out that
the hospital accepted no contagious cases.
For those patients “in moderate circumstances” $7 per week was
charged. Private rooms for paying
patients ranged from $12 to $50 per week—the latter amount translating to about
$1200 today. As always, those who were
indigent were admitted and treated for free.
The figures put forth by the directory showed a marked change in
charity-versus-paying patients over the years.
In 1901-1902, 997 patients were treated of which 683 paid in full and 29
made “small payments.”
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| Some of the staff pose for a Byron Co. photographer in 1905. Presumably the kitten was not on payroll -- from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYW1PG4N8&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=631 |
The hospital was pulled into a sordid public scandal in September
1913 when Dr. John Husson and his wife appeared in court regarding custody of
their 4-year old son. The boy had
survived with two broken vertebrae in his neck since a fall at the age of 18
months. Dr. Husson pleaded that “only
delicate and interested treatment will preserve his life.”
But the case earned lurid press coverage because Jennie
Husson had earlier sued socialite Mrs. Louise Riddell Park for $5,000 damages
for alienating the affections of her husband.
In addition to charging infidelity Jennie declared, according to The
Evening World, “that her husband assaulted and struck her on Aug. 24 and told
her that it ‘was only a light sample of what he proposed to give to her if she
did not leave his household.’”
Husson, who was 20 years older than his wife, said he was
merely trying to subdue his jealous wife during a fit of rage. He explained that her out-of-control jealousy
had damaged his practice. Patients
stayed away because “his wife was in the habit of calling at his office while
he was treating patients and looking through the key hole.”
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| The hospital's kitchen as photographed by Wurts Bros. on February 1, 1917 -- from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYW1PG4N8&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=631 |
On June 13, 1917 the Medical Record announced that the City
of New York had sold the land occupied by Park Avenue land to the hospital for
$100,000. By now the Park Avenue train
tracks had been lowered and covered over by a landscaped boulevard. Mansions—like
the grand Percy Rivington Pyne residence directly across the avenue—were rapidly
replacing the older structures. The
value of the Hahnemann Hospital land had risen to $775,000.
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| In 1905 surgeons operate on a patient. Rubber gloves, masks and hairnets are already in practice -- photo by Byron Co., from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYW1PG4N8&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=631 |
Now that it owned the land, the Hospital directors knew
exactly what to do—sell it. On July 27,
1919 The Times reported “In a transaction involving about $2,000,000 the
Hahnemann Hospital completed the sale of its property yesterday on the east
side of Park Avenue, between Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth Streets, and
purchased as a site for a new group of buildings the block front on Fifth
Avenue between 105th and 106th Streets.”
The newspaper noted that the Park Avenue site, “one of the
finest of the new large plots left on Park Avenue for residential development…is
surrounded by some of the finest mansions in the city.” The land had been purchased by a syndicate
and “it will be developed in the near future with residences in keeping with
the new house planned by Harold I. Pratt for the opposite corner of Sixty-eight
Street, and the residences of Percy R. Pyne, H. R. Davidson, William Sloane,
Arthur Curtiss James, the twin houses of the Redmonds, George Blumenthal, and
the two Brewsters.”
Although the syndicate, headed by Douglas L. Elliman
originally intended that the private homes of millionaires would rise on the
site; the idea was scrapped in favor of a 10-story apartment building with a
garden courtyard. Designed by James E.
R. Carpenter and Mott B. Schmidt, the handsome structure was completed in 1924.
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| Carpenter's and Schmidt's 1924 block-engulfing building still stands. photo by cityrealty.com |
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