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| In 1910 the tower of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company building can be seen in the background. photo from Both Sides of Broadway, (copyright expired) |
In the first years after the end of the Civil War Peter
Gilsey operated the successful, if small, Barnum House hotel at the northeast
corner of Broadway and 20th Street.
The building and land were owned by the Hess family and Gilsey held a
21-year lease on the hotel. But he had
his eyes on larger things. In 1868 he
purchased property nine blocks north on Broadway and began construction of his
lavish French Second Empire style Gilsey House hotel. It would be the last word in mid-Victorian
architectural fashion.
The Gilsey House opened in 1872 and four years later Peter
Gilsey sublet the Barnum House to hotelier Edward L. Merrifield. Merrifield quickly made changes. He changed the name to the Continental Hotel,
the name of a hotel he had earlier managed at No. 422 Broadway. The New York Times would later mention “He
made such a success of that house that his old patrons followed him to his
uptown quarters.”
He set to work enlarging and remodeling the old hotel. The completed structure stretched from No.
902 to 910 Broadway, and eastward to include No. 19 East 20th
Street. A cast iron base supported four
floors of yellow brick with stone trim. An Italianate cast iron balcony wrapped
the second floor. Above the bracketed
cornice a rather ungainly two-story mansard featured a corner tower and story-high
clock.
Merrifield ran the Continental Hotel on the European
Plan. Included in the room rate were “attendance,
ice-water, gas, and towels,” according to Appleton’s Dictionary of New York in
1879. But, the guide cautioned, guests
would be charged extra for “fires, meals served in rooms, and baths.”
The year that Appleton’s list was published Merrifield hired
Albert Williams as a waiter. Over the
course of the next year items disappeared and on April 2, 1880 The New York
Times said that Merrifield “and his guests have been alike sufferers.”
The mystery of the thefts was solved when Williams was noticed carrying a bag of sugar out of the hotel.
Detectives followed him to his home at No. 104 Sixth Avenue. “In his apartments were found a number of
table-cloths and other articles belonging to the hotel.” Merrifield estimated the value at $1,000.
In 19th century New York, attempted suicide was a
felony. But the punishment was far from
the mind of a 17-year old girl who tried to kill herself in a room in the
Continental Hotel on Saturday November 30, 1889. When she was found, Edward Merrifield sent
for Doctors Robertson and Tavis who practiced nearby at No. 28 East 20th
Street.
When the girl was stabilized, the three men considered their
next actions. Rather than turn the teen over
to police, they sneaked her out of the hotel and out of town. They, too, were now guilty of a felony for
aiding an attempted suicide victim.
The Evening World, on April 3, 1889, reported “Proprietor
Merrifield, of the Continental Hotel, and Drs. Robertson and Tavis…who brought
her back from the brink of the grave and aided her to escape when sufficiently
recovered after he attempted suicide, say they will take the full term of
imprisonment which their action laid them liable to rather than make known her
name or present whereabouts.”
The Evening World described Dr. Robertson “a specialist and
a man of wealth and repute in his profession.
He is just of that character that he would go to jail rather than
withdraw his support from the girl now.”
Edward Merrifield explained their actions to a reporter. “I will go to jail, but I will never give up
the girl to disgrace. Why, if she is
arrested it will either drive her to the river or the brothels, and I don’t propose
to allow that. She is good and innocent
now.”
The three men had obtained employment for the desperate
girl. “’We have secured a good
situation for her, which is open as soon as she is well enough to go to work,
and I will never tell where she is,’ concluded the kindly-faced, gruff-voiced Boniface.”
Like all upscale hotels, the Continental was the permanent
home of some residents. Among them was
the colorful George Francis Train--the entrepreneur who organized the clipper
ship line around Cape Horn to San Francisco, organized the Union Pacific
Railroad and ran for President in 1872.
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| In his later years, George Francis Train spent much of his time in Madison Square, speaking to children and feeding animals, but refusing to address adults -- photograph from the collection of the Library of Congress |
Another full-time resident was Juliet Corson, who founded the
New York School of Cookery in 1876.
Corson devoted her lift to healthful and economic cooking and diet.
And on November 10, 1889 Dave Wambold died in his rooms where
he had lived for six years. The 54-year
old was among the best known of the “negro minstrels” in the country. He began his career as a boy doing “burnt-cork”
dancing with the George Christy troupe.
Eventually Wambold would appear internationally as a black-face
minstrel. The Sun remembered “He had a
singularly sweet voice, and his singing was one of the popular features of the
old Birch and Backus show. His greatest
song was the ballad, ‘Robin, Tell Kitty I’m Coming,’ which he made famous in
this country and England.” Wambold’s
other hit was “My Grandfather’s Clock.”
Years earlier Wambold’s wife voiced her desire to go on stage as
well. When he refused to allow it, she
asked for a divorce. A compromise was
reached when Wambold agreed to give her an allowance and live apart.
While the former minstrel player lived “in comfort on his
income,” he had become partly disabled and had difficulty moving around at the
time of his death.
A shocking incident involving a policeman occurred in the
hotel bar on March 2, 1894. Office
McPartland’s post covered Broadway from 18th to 22nd
Street. That night he reported for duty
at 5:00, and then began patrol at 6:00.
Two hours later he appeared in the bar and asked for a drink.
The New York Times reported “The bartender would not give
him one. Then he took from his pocket a
large roll of bills, and said he had money enough to pay for all he wanted to
drink and then have some left to burn.”
When the bartender still refused to serve the already-inebriated
policeman, McPartland became abusive.
He pounded his nightstick on the bar, and then staggered across the café
and fell own three steps into the ladies’ dining room.
“Many women were at dinner.
The policeman’s sudden appearance in an ungraceful heap thoroughly
frightened them. Several of them ran
from the room,” recounted The Times.
By the time an officer arrived to remove McPartland, he had
already gone. Supervisors were waiting
for him when he returned to the station house, where he was pronounced “intoxicated
and unfit for duty.” A New York Times headline
deemed it the “Downfall of Policeman M’Partland.”
An even more shocking event occurred a year later when, on
August 5, 1895, a man checked in around 10:00 at night with a five-year old
boy. He paid for a room, took the boy up
in the elevator, and then was seen leaving the hotel around 1:00 in the
morning. He never returned.
A chambermaid, Mary Collins, found the little boy alone in
the room the next day. She dressed him and took him
downstairs for breakfast. Later he was
given lunch; but when the man still had not returned that evening, Merrifield
notified the Gerry Society—the forerunner of the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children.
The little boy, who identified himself as James Milton
Rogers, was timid at first, but eventually began enjoying what The New York
Times called his “enforced stay” at the hotel.
Wearing “a little blue sailor suit and a broad sailor hat,” he sat in
the hotel office with the porters and bellboys and “thoroughly enjoyed himself.”
Little James told about living with his Grandma Shephard and
his Aunt Fannie in Vermont. “He did not
know the man who took him to the hotel,” said The Times. He was taken to the Gerry Society while a
search for his relatives was initiated.
“There is no danger of our not finding where he belongs,”
said an official. “We have not failed in
a case of this kind in twenty years.”
Indeed, George R. Rogers was found. On August 28 he appeared in court and attempted
to explain his actions. James was his
son by his first wife. A year and a half
earlier George remarried; but he neglected to tell his bride about the boy.
When keeping James hidden on the Vermont farm was no longer
workable, he decided to abandon him in the Continental Hotel with $2 tied in a
handkerchief, rather than explain the boy to his wife. His attorney pleaded for clemency, pointing
out that Rogers had never been arrested and bore a good character.
The judge, Recorder Goff, did not see it things that
way. “This is one of the few crimes
where the law of the land and the law of human nature are in perfect
accord. Generally, those charged with
this crime are poor, unfortunate outcasts, betrayed and deserted women.”
Rogers’ attorney interrupted saying “Rogers tells me the boy
was only his foster child.”
“His statement aggravates the offence,” fired back the
judge. “That claim shows that he is a
coward as well as a lawbreaker…The man’s statement is a cowardly shift to
relieve himself of the consequences of his cowardly act. His former character
does not relieve him in the least.”
Rogers was sentenced to two years and two months in the
State prison.
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| photograph, around 1906, taken by Rotograph, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York, http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult&VBID=24UAYWANYLVT&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894 |
In 1901 the Continental Hotel received a modern upgrade when
an “attended telephone pay station” was installed. The Manhattan Guide described the stations as
providing “for Local or Long Distance telephoning; sound-proof booths in charge
of courteous attendants, who will call the station wanted by the customer.”
An astonishing female thief was discovered by Merrifield in
May 1902. He charged 32-year old Kate
Quinlan with stealing silver from the hotel.
The Times reported on May 30 that “When the detectives went to her room,
at 241 East Twenty-second Street, they found two trunk loads of silverware and
other articles.”
Within the month, on June 24, Edward L. Merrifield died
after running the Continental Hotel for nearly three decades. His will instructed his son, Mark E.
Merrifield, “to continue the hotel during the remaining term of the lease.”
The younger man’s proprietorship would start off with a
number of hurdles to jump. On September
17, 1903 his twelve bellboys presented him with a list of grievances. They demanded “six and twelve hour tours of
duty in alternating days, instead of ten and twelve hours.” They also wanted to be able to use the
elevator “in ascending the six flights of stairs of the hotel when carrying ice
water to guests.” At the time they were
allowed inside the elevator only when taking a guest to his room.
Mark E. Merrifield read the list of demands carefully. He then paid each of the boys and fired them as a group.
A tragedy occurred on the afternoon of February 19,
1904. William Love was a “houseman” in
the hotel and somehow the 22-year old became caught between the elevator cab
and the platform. He was crushed to
death.
Mark Merrifield faced serious legal problems at the same
time. That month he was sued by Lucy A.
Case for breach of promise. The case dragged
on until 1906 due to several postponements “because of Mr. Merrifield’s
physical condition,” according to a newspaper
It was based on Lucy’s allegation “that Merrifield promised
to marry her as soon as his father should die.” The Sun, on May 1, 1906 reported “That
promise was given, as she alleges, some years ago, and he elder Merrifield, who
was president of the Hotel Men’s Association, died about two years and a half
ago.”
The 40-year old Merrifield was said to be suffering from
nervous exhaustion. It was a claim that
left Lucy A. Case unmoved. The Sun said
she “wants $50,000 damages for the alleged broken troth.”
In December 1907 Mr. and Mrs. Frederick French stayed at the
Continental. Residents of Watertown, New
York, French accompanied his wife Grand Central Terminal on Saturday December
7. After finishing business he would
follow her on a later train.
Suddenly, according to The Evening World on December 26, “when
the train was speeding through Yonkers she remembered she had left $1,400 under
the pillow of her recently vacated room in the Continental Hotel.” She telegraphed her husband from
Poughkeepsie, “Get money left under pillow.”
When she reached Watertown she sent another telegram “mentioning
the size of the roll and asking if it had been recovered.” When French checked the pillowcase, the money
was gone.
It took weeks of undercover detective work, role-playing,
and infiltration, but a young chambermaid, May Platt, and her boyfriend cab
driver named Finley were finally arrested.
Of the $1,400 Mrs. French had neglectfully left behind, $1,260 was
recovered.
On December 3, 1911 The New York Times announced “The old
Continental Hotel, which for years has been a landmark at the northeast corner
of Broadway and Twentieth Street, has been sold. The New-York Tribune added “This old
landmark, which has been held at $1,250,000, is to make way for a modern skyscraper
within the next year.”
The Times explained “The Continental was long one of the
best known hotels in the city, but in late years it has been eclipsed by the
new type of hostelries in the upper part of the city. It has always been patronized, however, by
those who appreciated the old-fashioned comforts established by the late E. L.
Merrifield.”
On January 15, 1912 Mark E. Merrifield closed the doors of
the Continental Hotel and said good-bye to long-term residents. “My oldest guest has been living here
thirty-three years and several have been here over twenty years,” he told
reporters.
The following Monday the furniture, paintings and other items
were sold at auction. On the site of the
venerable building Bing & Bing erected a 20-story store and loft building
designed by Robert T. Lyons which survives today.
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| photograph by the author |
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