The 1831 William Laird Porterhouse - 106 Greenwich Ave

 

In the 17th century, the diagonally-running Sand Hill Road, sometimes called Monument Lane, followed an earlier Native American trail.  Towards the end of the 18th century, its name was changed to Old Greenwich Lane (or simply Greenwich Lane), and in 1843 finally renamed Greenwich Avenue.  By then, the expansion of Greenwich Village had overtaken the roadway, which was now lined with homes and shops.

Thirteen years earlier, Dr. James Cameron had purchased building lots on Greenwich Lane from John Harris.  Cameron, who lived nearby on Hudson Street, erected an unassuming, vernacular style house-and-store at 106 Greenwich Lane, completed in 1831.  Above the ground floor shop were two floors of brick.  The six-0ver-six paned windows wore flat lintels and sills, and a delicately dentiled cornice crowned the design.

As early as 1840, William Laird's porterhouse occupied the store level while he and his family lived upstairs.  (A porterhouse was a tavern and restaurant where malt liquor, such as porter, was sold.)  As was common, in the rear yard was a smaller house, which was rented to Joseph Thompson, a gardener, that year.

Laird was described by the New-York Tribune in 1842 as "an old man, and has been been afflicted for years with a paralytic stroke."  For some reason, on December 1, 1841 he was in the notorious Five Points section downtown, when John O'Connor became convinced that Laird had thrown a brickbat through his window.

The following day, the New York Herald reported that O'Conner had been "charged with an outrageous assault and battery on William Laird whom he struck a violent blow on the side of the head with a huge club, knocking him down and placing his life in danger."  When Police Officer McComb came upon the scene, Laird was lying in a snowbank and O'Connor was "beating him over his head with a large hickory club," according to the New-York Tribune.  

O'Connor's trial was held on January 7.  The New-York Tribune reported, "It was proved by officer McComb, as well as Wm. Laird, that the assault was of the most outrageous character, so much so that in all probability the man would have been killed if it had not been for the interference of the officer."  John O'Connor was sentenced to 30 days in jail and a $25 fine (about $925 in 2023).

Before 1845, Laird's porterhouse was renovated for Peter B. Marks's butcher store.  The Laird family may have still lived upstairs, since Marks's home was at Seventh Avenue and 17th Street.

Eli C. Thompkins ran the butcher store in 1851.  By now the upper floors were home to three working class families.  Peter McBride was a carman, or delivery driver; James Mooney was a mason; and Janet McGarrett, presumably a widow, sold toys.

The butcher store changed hands again by 1853, when John Rudman, who lived across the street at 89 Greenwich Avenue, ran the business.   The families of two brewers, Miles Kneeland and Thomas Marrigan, shared in the upper floors.

The wives and daughters of the families who lived at 106 Greenwich Avenue necessarily worked, as well.  An advertisement in the New York Herald on February 27, 1855 read, "Wanted--By a Protestant girl, a situation in some small family, to do general housework."  And the following year in October an advertisement was placed by two women who appear to be sisters:

Wanted--Situations, by two young women; one as first rate cook, and to assist in washing and ironing; the other as chambermaid and waiter; has no objection to assist in washing.  The best of city reference given from their last place, where they lived the last four years.  Apply at 106 Greenwich avenue, between 12th and 13th sts.

By 1857 Henry Schlegel ran the butcher shop.  The upper floors were occupied by a single family again in 1865, when the occupants advertised a furnished room for rent.  Noting it was "handsomely furnished" in "the house of a private family," the advertisement described the room as "suitable for a single gentleman, without board."  (The last caveat made it clear that the renter would have to find his meals elsewhere.)

Peter Carroll lived in the house in the summer of 1870 when a confrontation with Thomas McFadden resulted in a gruesome injury.  McFadden operated a saloon on West Houston Street.  On June 20, the New York Herald reported that he had been charged "with assaulting Peter Carroll...biting out a portion of his lip."

Both 106 and 108 Greenwich Avenue were owned by Christian Wolf by the 1880s.  In 1882 he leased 106 Greenwich Avenue to German-born Louis Koelsch, who appears to have continued running the butcher store.  He was still here in 1890 when Wolf's estate sold both properties to Friedrich Knubel for a total of $19,500.  That price would translate to just under $650,000 today.

Thomas J. Fallon operated the butcher shop in 1896.  At least two tenants lived upstairs: John Froelich was a saloon keeper, and Augustus F. Urben did not list a profession.  Whatever his business, the 23-year-old found himself in trouble on May 22, 1896 when he was arrested while riding a bicycle at 110th Street and Lenox Avenue.  According to the New York Herald he was charged with stealing Walter R. Greville's $100 bicycle from 36 Barrow Street on May 16.  The article said, "Urben said he could prove that he bought the wheel in good faith, without knowing that it had been stolen."  He was held in $1,000 bail awaiting trial.

Another tenant to land in jail was William Connors, who lived here in 1903.  He was arrested in a raid on six poolrooms (illegal betting operations) on June 26.  The New York Press reported that officers had used "axes, ladders and the usual methods of forcible entry."  The article said that eight patrol wagons were necessary to haul away 592 prisoners.  According to police, of the five "alleged principals" arrested was William Connors.

After having been a butcher shop for more than half a century, in 1907 the H. T. F. & O. Hartemann fish market occupied the store.  Harry Hartemann received a summons from the Department of Labor in 1912 for "employing children under 14 years of age."

In the meantime, the Ezaqul family rented rooms upstairs in 1908.  As with all working class families, their 16-year-0ld son Reginald worked.  He rode his bicycle back and forth to his job at the Conlin Brothers store at 40 Tenth Avenue.  But on Saturday, July 11, he never returned home.

The Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported that he was working on the third floor that day when he was told he could go home.  Instead of going straight home, he took his bike to the second floor.  The article said he "was riding his wheel around when he fell from the bicycle and plunged down the [elevator] shaft."  The teen was killed instantly.

In 1916 the city was struck by a devastating epidemic--poliomyletis, or infantile paralysis, better known as polio.  The disease caught doctors unaware, giving it a foothold.  Dr. Abraham Zingher of the Willard Parker Hospital explained on September 3 that "so little did the average practitioner know about poliomyelitis at the beginning of the present sweep of the scourge that many cases were treated as summer complaint or other common illness for several days before unmistakable symptoms of paralysis began to manifest themselves."

By November that year there were 8,197 cases reported in New York City and 1,988 deaths.  Among those affected was little Amelia Enrich, who lived at 106 Greenwich Avenue.

The upper floors of 106 Greenwich Avenue were converted to "non-housekeeping apartments" in 1928.  The term meant that there were no kitchens, and the Department of Buildings flatly noted, "no cooking permitted on these premises."  It may have been at this time that a coating of stucco was applied to the brick facade.

The stucco was in evidence as early as 1941.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

In the 1960's the ground floor was home to The Rastro, an antiques store "known for its extensive stock of wrought iron, antique brass, old faience, oak furniture--including stools and chairs--carved wood figures and lighting fixtures," according to Interior Design in 1964.  It was replaced in the 1970 by Victoria Galleries, another antiques and collectibles shop, called by the 1982 New York Art Guide a "small house which is often good for jewelry and orientalia."

A renovation completed in 2011 resulted four apartments on each of the upper floors.  The men's clothing store Odin moved into "a glamorous new space at 106 Greenwich Avenue," according to Alexis Mainland of The New York Times on January 11, 2012.

After nearly 200 years, 106 Greenwich Avenue appears more than a bit battered.  Amazingly, its six-over-six upper floor windows survive.  

photographs by the author

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Poetry, "Long Torsos," and Fudge -- the 1845 59 Greenwich Avenue

 

The common cornice of 57 and 59 Greenwich Avenue was updated later in the 19th century.

In the 17th century Sand Hill Road, sometimes known as Monument Lane, followed an earlier Native American trail.  The name was changed in the last years of the 18th century to Old Greenwich Lane and renamed again in 1843 as Greenwich Avenue.  By then Greenwich Village was greatly expanding and development was taking place along the avenue.

In 1844, the year after the name change, attorney and saw mill owner William Van Hook began construction of two speculative houses at 57 and 59 Greenwich Avenue.  Completed the following year, they both most likely always had a store at street level.

Like its neighbor, 59 Greenwich Avenue was faced in brick and rose two-and-a-half stories above the store.  The attic level, as with all Greek Revival style structures, featured squat windows under a flat roof; a spatial improvement over the peaked roof with dormers of the earlier Federal style.

Living here in the late 1860's was the family of Thomas Roberts.  When the Metropolitan Fire Department was organized in 1865, the 26-year old Roberts became a professional fire fighter.  (He had, no doubt, been a volunteer previously.)  He and his wife had two children.

At 7:45 on the evening of October 24, 1869 a fire broke out in the stables of Dodd's City Express on West 28th Street.   It was a large concern, housing between 40 to 50 horses and numerous wagons. Engine Company No. 14 responded, with Thomas Roberts, who was Assistant Foreman, riding on the tender.  As it approached the blaze, according to the Evening Post, Roberts "leaped to the ground while the tender was in motion, in order to get possession of a fire plug at the corner."  What the newspaper deemed a "melancholy accident" followed.

The New York Herald reported, "His foot caught in a strap and he fell to the pavement, the wheels of the tender passing over his head."  He was killed almost instantly.  His fellow fire fighters later called him "an efficient and faithful officer."

The house and store saw a succession of residents.  At the turn of the last century J. D. Steffens lived above his confectionary store.  

Residing here in the post World War I years was Lawrence Gibson, who saw the world through artistic lenses.  His contemplative letter to the editor of The Evening World was published on August 9, 1922:

The statue of Gen. Sherman by St. Gaudens was before me in Central Park to-day when I noticed a dead horse in the street.  I was struck by the fact that the carcass retained no semblance of life, no grace, no form, it was nothing but a meaningless hulk.  Then I glanced up to the St. Gaudens statue.  Here was, seemingly, life.  The horse was vibrant, tense.  And yet both horses, the dead one and the statue, were clay. 

No less artistic was Horace Gregory, who established the unusual literary publication Folio in 1924.  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse described it that year saying, "Folio consists of loose leaves in a portfolio, each contributor being the owner of one of these leaves, and choosing what in his judgement will best represent him."  Gregory explained, "There is no 'angel,' no editor, no policy, and only the postoffice is censor."

The avant-garde nature of the magazine was exemplified by its carefree publication schedule--or lack of one.  "No monthly or quarterly interval is announced," said Poetry.

A one-step stoop survived in 1926.  from the collection of the New-York Historical Society.

In 1958 the ground floor became home to The Allen Studio.  Lee Bruce's syndicated column "Political Notes" which appeared in The Brooklyn Daily on August 15 announced:

If the women around our Boro are looking svelter these days, it's probably because they have been availing themselves of the services of Beatrice Allen who has classes in Modern Dance and in Body Alignment.  According to informed sources, Body Alignment instruction has been developed to free you from fatigue, tenseness and other pressures of daily living, in addition to giving you that 'long torso' look.  The Allen Studio, in case you want to know is at 59 Greenwich Avenue, Manhattan.

Beatrice Allen may have been slightly ahead of the fitness craze.  With the year the space became The Steak Joint restaurant.

The Villager, June 25, 1959 (copyright expired)

Steaks and chops gave way to home-made candy when Barretts of Cape Cod moved in late in 1962.  Three generations old, the firm had started in Provincetown, Massachusetts and was famous, according to The Village on December 17, 1962, for "its 70-year-old recipe for fudge."  The article said "The fudge, seven regular flavors and a special of the day, is made right in the shop on Greenwich Ave.  A gas stove sits in the window and its manager 'Bo' Peijovich daily makes the fudge."

Barretts was also known for its old-fashioned "penny candies."  The Village wrote, "Over 150 penny candies are available to children of all ages who walk around with a small basket and pick out their favorite sweets.  They have buttons on paper, squirrel nuts, chewy caramels (a big seller), sugary bacon strips, sour balls, just to mention a few."

June Owen, writing in The New York Times on June 14, 1963, said "It is a tossup whether children or adults get the bigger thrill...For the adults, many of those penny candies are sweet reminders of childhood.  The names themselves may inspire nostalgia--licorice sticks, root beer barrels, mint juleps, banana splits, Mary Janes, buttons on paper, cinnamon imperials."

The Villager, December 20, 1962

Nevertheless, said Owen, the fudge was not to be overlooked.  In addition to the regular chocolate, there were also "chocolate nut, vanilla nut, maple, maple nut and peanut butter fudge."  A special treat on the weekends was often marshmallow chocolate fudge.

By 1972 Barretts of Cape Cod gave way to the Bizzare Bath Boutique.  Subsequent tenants in the store were Idle House Bookstore in the 1980's, LaBella Pompeii Pizza in the '90's, and Our Name Is Mud pottery store by 1998.  On December 9 that year, The Village wrote about Our Name Is Mud's "naked pottery you can paint yourself--candlestick holders, picture frames, mugs, vases, housewares."

The entire building was vacant in 2018 when Los Angeles hair stylist Chaz Dean sought a special permit to modify the two lower stories of 59 Greenwich Avenue as a "combined hair products retailer and hair salon."  The third and fourth floors would be converted to residential units.  (A special permit was required in order to extend the commercial space above the first floor.)  The request was approved and a renovation-restoration of the 1845 began in 2019.

photographs by the author

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The 1828 Hiram and Linus Little House - 102 Greenwich Avenue

 

As Greenwich Village experienced a population explosion in 1828, Linus and Hiram Little purchased two building plots from Jacob B. Taylor on Greenwich Avenue--formerly an old Native American trail.  Because Linus was a mason it is almost assuredly he who erected the two matching Federal style houses at Nos. 102 and 104, completed in 1829.

The identical 20-foot wide residences were faced in Flemish bond brick and rose two-and-a-half stories.  A short stoop of five steps led to the entrances, and one or two dormers would have pierced the peaked roofs.  The Littles went to the added expense of having handsome paneled lintels carved for the openings.

A paneled lintel was relatively recently exposed when the 1880's cast metal update was removed.

If the men ever intended to live in the residences, it does not appear they ever did so.  Hiram was living in West Bloomfield, New Jersey in 1837 when "George W. Bennett made free" with his silver watch valued at about $1,000 today.  Bennett had made an unfortunate choice in the faulty timepiece.  The New York Daily Herald said, "The complainant said it did not go well, in which opinion the magistrate fully concurred."  Bennett was sent to Bridewell Prison.

No. 120 was being shared by two families by 1847.  No doubt Daniel H. Hallock and Daniel B. Tompkins knew one another professional, as both were carmen.  The term referred to the drivers of horse-drawn delivery drays, similar to today's UPS or Fed-Ex drivers.  

The arrangement continued through 1856--always just two families in the house and rarely any tenant not employed as a carman or coachman.  In 1857, the tenant list--now noticeably Irish--increased with two laborers, James Flynn and Hugh McGlone, sharing the main house with Henry F. W. Warner, another carman.  Living in the smaller house in the rear yard that year were two widows, Mary Beggs and Catharine Riley, and a machinist James McQuille.

At some point before 1887 the attic level was raised to a full floor and a fourth floor in the form of a mansard with two dormers was added.  Molded cast iron lintels were installed over the brownstone originals and an up-to-date Italianate cornice installed.

The occupants at the time were not all upstanding citizens.  Among them in 1889 was Paul V. Grolph who deemed himself a "journalist, inventor, clerk and operator on a small scale."  And indeed, he had dabbled in all those professions, but in a most shady way.

On November 13, 1889 The Evening World reported, "Grolph first came into public notoriety in the Custom House, where, under a pretense of being a confidential clerk, he collected or attempted to obtain money from importers on a promise to lessen their customs duties."  He was fired for extorting bribes.

He then took a clerical position in the National Democratic headquarters during the election, "but was dismissed after a few weeks for good cause."  He tried his hand at reporting for a city newspaper, and then fashioned himself as an "alleged expert electrician."

In October 1889 his wife had him arrested for abandonment.  The Evening World reported that he "was placed under bonds by Justice Gorman to pay to the discarded Mrs. Grolph $7 a week."  Within the month, on November 11, the police were back at No. 102 Greenwich Avenue.  Grolph was arrested for stealing a gold watch from Henry V. Kinsbury and selling it "to a club of men and appropriating the proceeds."

At the police station Grolph pleaded that he was too ill to go to prison.  "Surgeon Van Kuren, of the police force, believed that the prisoner was shamming, but fearful of making a mistake he gave him the benefit of the doubt and had him sent to a hospital," said The Evening World.

Edward H. Beckert rented a room in the house in 1892.   He left home in December to see his sweetheart in Poughkeepsie, Jennie Edwards.  He took along a $150 bicycle which he sold there.  The problem was the bike, worth more than $4,300 today, was not his.  He promptly disappeared.

Beckert's father, who was an attaché in the Custom House, feared his son had suffered an accident and notified the police.  He was found and arrested for the theft.  The New York Herald mentioned, "He was with a woman at the time."

Two years later he was in trouble again.  In the summer of 1894 he presented a fake letter from the Young Men's Christian Association to the clothing firm of  Smith, Gray & Co. of Brooklyn.  It explained that Beckert was about to "depart for foreign fields to engage in missionary work," and sought donated clothing.  Beckert walked away with more than $4,000 worth of clothes by today's valuation.  Once again, he was discovered and arrested.

Beckert's father blamed female influence on his son's troubles.  The New York Herald said "The young man's father said that his son had always been dutiful until he met a woman, who lives in Franklin avenue, almost six months ago."

One roomer at the time seems to have sought questionable work.  The immigrant named Wernicke placed an advertisement in The New York Times on October 3, 1894 that read:

Valet--By a German; a good nurse, understands massage, rubbing off, frotteur; useful in many ways; in gentleman's apartment, or take care of invalid gentleman; best references.

Another German, Louis Weigand, had a steady job as a stage hand at the Fourteenth Street Theatre.  In the spring of 1895 the play Captain Paul was playing.  It was a biographical story of Captain Paul Jones.  A particularly thrilling scene took place in the third act.  "The battle action is supposed to take place on the deck of the Ranger, the flagship of Paul Jones," explained The New York Times on May 8.  "The shells which burst upon its deck are supposed to have come from its rival, the Bret."

The shells which exploded on the stage were real--dropped from the roof 90 feet above.  They were strung on a line, invisible to the audience, and exploded when they struck a lead plate.  The New York Times explained, "It was Weigand's duty when the shells were dropped...to release the remnants, clearing the way for those which followed."

During the performance on May 6 one of the shells exploded prematurely.  "Weigand attempted to clear the drop line, but before he accomplished his task a second shell dropped down the line and exploded in his face."  The 28-year-old was taken to the Eye and Ear Hospital on 13th Street.  Two days later The New York Times reported, "He is now at his home, 102 Greenwich Avenue.  The doctors say he will never recover his eyesight."

During the first years of the 20th century the house was described as a "tenement" in real estate documents.  When it was sold to Mrs. J. Alverez in April 1920, the New-York Tribune noted that she "will alter the property into studio apartments."

The renovations resulted in the stoop being removed and the doorway lowered to sidewalk level.  A large window replaced the former pair of parlor windows, and the fourth floor dormers were joined into a large, studio window.

An advertisement in June 1921 offered:

Bachelor apartment, two connecting, one independent, bed, sitting room; airy; improvements, kitchen, bath; all or divide, $7 to $10 weekly each room.

The $10 rent would be equivalent to about $143 per week today.

When this photo was taken around 1941, the cast iron lintel above the former entrance was still intact.  Only the Italianate brackets of the cornice survived at this point.   via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

Only eight years later another renovation was performed.  It resulted in "non-housekeeping" apartments throughout the house--meaning that there were no kitchens.  That changed in 1964 when the house was again reconfigured for three apartments per floor.

The building was the scene of a terrifying incident on January 10, 1971.  One of the tenants called the Fire Department to report the smell of gas.  The New York Times reported, "A fire captain, a lieutenant and five firemen entered the basement of the four-story brick apartment house at 102 Greenwich Avenue...shortly after 10:30 P.M."  Shortly afterward "an explosion rocked the basement."

Seven fireman and one resident, Lawrence Sims, were injured in the blast and taken to St. Vincent's Hospital.  It took firefighters an hour to bring the subsequent fire, which was confined to the basement, under control.

The dormer and the mansard (seen above in 2019) have been recently restored.

At some point the cast iron lintel above the entrance fell away, exposing the paneled lintel placed there by Linus Little in 1828.  Only the fascia of the Italianate cornice survives.  

Recently the fish scale shingles of the mansard, for years replaced by a tarpaper type material, were restored, offering hope that the owners intend to rejuvenate the nearly 200-year old beleaguered house.

photographs by the author

The George F. Brush House -- No. 79 Greenwich Avenue

In 1840 mason George F. Brush constructed his family’s three-story brick-faced home at No. 79 Greenwich Avenue.  It stood on the northern rim of an expanding Greenwich Village.  The diagonally-positioned avenue followed the route of a former Indian path and drew the line between the eccentric roads of the Village and the rigidly geometrical scheme of streets and avenues created by the 1811 Commissioners’ Plan.

The ample, 25-foot wide house reflected its working class builder.  The straight-forward design included no unnecessary extras.  The brick was laid in common bond, simple stone sills steadied the openings, and a plain cornice capped it.

In the rear lot was a small house built for rental income.  In 1842 stable operator George Hyatt lived there. 

Brush’s son, George P. Brush, was also a mason and worked with his father’s company, Rogers & Brush.  He would soon have his own house nearby, at No. 87 Greenwich Avenue.  While the Brushes lived relatively modestly, the success of the company was reflected in the bill they presented to the managers of the New-York Institution for the Blind in 1849.

In reporting the “total cost of the new building on the 8^th Avenue” the Annual Report of the Institution included “Amount paid Rogers & Brush, masons” at $7,685; with $545.70 added for “extra work.”  The total of $8,230.70 they earned for the project would amount to about $275,000 in 2015.

Son George was still living at No. 87 when he lost a valuable item on July 10, 1851.  Within two days an advertisement appeared in the New-York Daily Tribune looking for a lost “memorandum book, belonging to George P. Brush; also a Letter directed to J. H. Cornell, Esq, containing a note for $1,000, at three months from July 5, signed Austin Sherman, and indorsed Rogers & Brush, and George P. Brush.”  The ad clearly admonished that “Payment is stopped” and promised that “Any one leaving the above with George P. Brush, 87 Greenwich-av., or 106 Nassau-st.; will be suitably rewarded.”

In the meantime, the Brush family rented rooms in the rear house.  In 1853 there were two roomers, William Merschoff, a bootmaker; and “carman” William Cahell.  In 1854 space was being rented to broker Thomas W. Ogden, whose office was at No. 50 Wall Street; in 1857 Michael Dunning, a porter, and Patrick Corley rented rooms; and in 1859 another mason, John Farrell, was here.  He also volunteered at the Guardian Engine Company’s firehouse on West 10^th Street. 

Earlier, around 1853, George P. Brush and his wife moved back into No. 79; either because the younger Brush was ill, or because his father had died.  George P. died on August 26, 1854 at the age of 47, and his funeral was held in the house at 2:00 the following Monday.

By the end of the Civil War his widow was still living in No. 79 and was teaching at Industrial School No. 8.  She was also one of three women in charge of the Housekeeping and Repairs department there.

By 1880 the Brush house had become the undertaking shop of Joseph Hanna.  It was here that many coroner’s inquests were held when the circumstances of death were deemed suspicious.  Such was the case with Mrs. Harriet Deutch, or Van Buren, as her fellow boarders knew her.

Harriet arrived at the boarding house of Mrs. Margaret Morgan at No. 234 West 11^th Street in March 1880.  She was accompanied by a man named Deutch, who said he was her “agent.”  It was later discovered he was her former husband.  The two were married on November 2, 1876 and divorced on December 3 that same year “on the ground of incompatibility of temper.”

After boarding with Mrs. Morgan four days, Harriet complained of pain.  A doctor was sent for; but she refused to take the medicine he ordered.  After he left, she asked for tea and toast.  While it was being prepared, another boarder, Belle Montaine, check in on her.  She found Harriet unconscious on the bed.  Before Mrs. Morgan could get to the room, Harriet was dead.

A few minutes later, before Dr. Miller could return, Deutsch arrived and was told Harriet had died.  “He did not seem to be affected by the news, but went up to the room, looked at the dead woman, but made no remark,” reported The New York Times on April 2.  “He then left and returned 15 minutes later with a lady.  He brought her into the room, did not say a word to any one, and went out of the house.  This lady was Mrs. Brodhead, a cousin of the deceased.  Deutch did not return to the house.”

Because of the mysterious circumstances, an autopsy was performed on Harriet.  The coroner pointed to opium poisoning as the cause of death.  On April 1 a jury was sworn in at Joseph Hanna’s undertaking shop after which “they then formally viewed the remains of the unfortunate woman.”

The jury found no foul play involved in Harriet’s death; a decision that was strengthened by Deutch’s attorney testifying that “the deceased had been a confirmed opium-eater for eight years past.”

Joseph Hanna lived in the house where he ran his undertaking business.  He had been a volunteer firefighter in his younger years, and was a member of the Algonquin Gun Club, the Tough Club of the Ninth Ward, and a Mason.  By 1888 he leased space here to industrial photographers Picken & Co.  The Electrical World noted on November 3 that year that “Picken & Co., photographers, of 79 Greenwich avenue, make a specialty of dynamos and other machinery, and can show many good examples of their work.”

While the two firms were operating in the main house, the class of occupants in the rear building had declined.  On March 17, 1888 The New York Times reported on “a little family jar.”   Mary Gain and her mother, Bridge Carney, lived together in the basement.  The newspaper said “Both were drunk yesterday.  Bridget threw a lighted kerosene lamp at her daughter, which exploded, and the burning oil was thrown over the arms and hands of the daughter, burning her severely.  Then the daughter belabored her mother with a bale stick, breaking several of her mother’s ribs and cutting a severe gash on her head.”

Both women were treated at nearby St. Vincent’s Hospital, and then Mary was jailed at the Jefferson Market Police Court “to await the result of her mother’s injuries.”

The meager circumstances of the tenants in the rear building was reflected in an advertisement in The Sun on February 17, 1892.  “Woman wants situation in hotel or restaurant as dishwasher.  79 Greenwich av., top floor, rear.”

Joseph Hanna died in the house on May 31, 1893.  His undertaking operation continued in the house for at least two more years.

In May 1920 owner George A. Hamilton sold the property to Clayton M. Hamilton for $5,000.  What the California investor may have already known was that directly across the street from No. 97 Greenwich Avenue, plans were underway for a lavish silent movie theater—the Sheridan.   Certainly Martin J. Durkin knew about the project when he purchased the property a year later, in April, for more than double the amount--$11,000.  The New-York Tribune noted on April 14, 1921 that Durkin “will remodel the property.”

The triangular plot of land across the avenue from No. 79 Greenwich Avenue was about to be improved by a lavish movie palace when this photograph was taken.  photo by Arthur Hosking from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Later that same year The New York Times remarked on the “very noticeable improvements, although not on a large scale, being made in the Greenwich Avenue and Bank Street locality opposite the new Sheridan Theatre, which will be opened this Fall.”  The article noted “The tenement at 79 Greenwich Avenue, opposite the theatre, and the old building on the southwest corner of the avenue and Bank Street are being altered into stores and small apartments.”

When Durkin transferred the title in 1922 to his wife, Annie, the property was described as a three-story brick tenement and stores, with a three-story brick rear tenement.  Annie Durkin sold it on January 24, 1926 to Adolph and Aaron Weiss.

In 1932 The Washington Square Review had to find a new home. The New York Times reported on May 29 that “The magazine is dedicated to the publication of collegiate rebel literature” and had been “suppressed at New York University.”   The radical journal leased space at No. 79 Greenwich Avenue and resumed publication by an editorial board headed by editor Leonard Dal Negro.

According to actor Arthur Anderson in his 2010 autobiography An Actor’s Odyssey: From Orson Welles to Lucky the Leprechaun, when his mother Violet moved the family into a two-room apartment here “above Notle’s Delicatessen,” in the winter of 1935, the monthly rent was $37.50.  The selling price of the property that same year had risen to $28,000.

In 1940 the building was renovated, resulting in two apartments each on the upper floors.  Another overhaul in 1995 resulted in the rear building becoming a single-family residence and No. 97 now having one apartment each on the upper floors.  Vised in between two early 20^th century apartment buildings, George Brush’s home is the last surviving relic of the 1840s on the block.

photograph by the author

The 1837 House at No. 100 Greenwich Avenue

In 1836 Aaron Marsh and Henry M. Perine were busy as Greenwich Village boomed with construction projects.   Perine was a mason at No. 30 Carmine Street and Marsh was a builder who operated from 4th Street near Eighth Avenue.   With the population of the Village exploding, the pair built rows of speculative houses; having just completed a row of nine houses at Nos. 301 to 317 West 4^th Street, near Marsh’s home.

This year they began construction on three matching Federal-style houses on Greenwich Avenue.  Carpenter Daniel H. Weed joined in this project and upon its completion in 1837 they divided the tax responsibilities—Marsh paid the taxes on No. 96, Perine on No. 98 and Weed took responsibility for No. 100.

Unlike their last row of houses on West 4^th Street, these homes were not intended for upper-middle class families.    The modest brick-clad structures were two and a half stories tall with dormers.   Plain brownstone sills and lintels and shallow, three-stepped stoops were more functional than ornamental.  The less expensive and practical American bond brickwork was chosen in place of the attractive Flemish bond found in more costly houses.

While all three houses of the row survive, No. 100 has been restored to look much as it did when the full third story was added

Mary E. Tate was living in the house by 1842.  She was a teacher in the Girls’ Department of Grammar School No. 45 on West 24^th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.   Mary would not marry, focusing instead on education.    It appears that she rented at least one room in the house, for in 1859 John J. Hanly, a “metal roofer,” listed No. 100 as his address.  When Hanley was not busy roofing, he was one of 38 volunteer firefighters at National Engine Company No. 3 at No. 557 Hudson Street.

Outspoken on social and educational issues, Mary rose to the position of principal of the school and was called by the New-York Tribune on February 18, 1889 “one of the best-known teachers of the city” and added “Her school for more than two years has ranked among the first.”

By the time the Tribune praised Mary Tate she was no longer at No. 100 Greenwich Avenue, after having lived at least three decades here.   In 1878 the house was home to the family of Ernest B. Stavey.  Like Mary Tate, the Staveys would be here for decades.

In 1836, the same year that construction had begun on the house, the 18^th Street Methodist Episcopal Church opened its doors.  Three years later 10-year old Ernest B. Stavey entered the church with his parents.  He would be a loyal member throughout his lifetime, serving as a Sunday School teacher, Assistant Superintendent of the school, and as Treasurer and Secretary at different times.

The Stavey family included Ernest’s wife, Caroline, and daughters Emma and Carrie.   The entire family was listed as members of the church and on November 19, 1911 when it celebrated its 75^th Anniversary, The New York Times noted that “In the congregation was Ernest B. Stavey, who joined the church seventy-one years ago, and who has the distinction of being the oldest member.”

It was most likely during the Stavey occupancy that all three of the old houses gained a full upper floor.   A unifying cornice tied them together visually, and brownstone lintels and sills, matching the originals below, were sympathetically added.

Following the Staveys, in the 1920s, Edward N. Bunce was in the house.   The retired general manager of the periodical Christian Work, he suffered a near-tragic accident on August 7, 1926.  As Bunce was attempting to board a subway car at a downtown station that Saturday night, the door closed on his foot.  Bunce was dragged along the platform for some distance before the train stopped.  He was confined to the Knickerbocker Hospital with a crushed ankle and scalp wounds.

As the middle of the century neared, many of the small houses that survived on Greenwich Avenue were converted for business purposes.   In 1938 No. 100 became home to the newly-formed Greenwich Village Humane League, an organization founded by Alice Manchester to give advice to pet owners, find homes for stray animals and bring attention to threatened animals.   One method of creating public awareness was through prizes and awards.

On September  23, 1941 The Times reported that “Down at 100 Greenwich Avenue, headquarters of the Greenwich Village Humane League, two dozen boys and girls received recognition for prize-winning essays on mongrel dogs they had saved from an evil fate.”

Two months later on “Cat Day,” radio singer Margaret Speaks awarded gilded medals to school children for “the best letters sent to ‘Orphan Annie,’ the league’s mascot, on the ‘Life of my Cat.’”

The Humane League moved out on December 11, 1942.  Four years later, in January 1946, Daniel Brener returned from the Army and World War II.  The New York Times reported that he “has resumed his realty activity with the purchase of the three-story dwelling which has been altered into small apartments at 100 Greenwich Avenue.”  At the time of the sale the house was assessed at $17,000—about $150,000 in today’s dollars.

Only a year later Brener sold the house.  There were five apartments in the house—two each on the first and second floors and one on the third.   While some of the other old houses on the block were severely altered with show windows and commercial shop fronts gouged into the sidewalk level; No. 100 retained its residential appearance.

In 1976 the house underwent another conversion.  Apartments remained on the upper floors, but the first story was renovated into what the Department of Buildings called an “office.”  The Culinary Center of New York moved in.  It would offer cooking classes here for at least two decades.

Rather unexpectedly, in 2003 the house was reconverted to a single-family residence.   In 2005 it became home to actress Milla Jovovich, star of “The Fifth Element,” who paid $6.38 million for the once-modest home of a spinster school teacher.   If any of the 1837 interior detailing had survived, it was nowhere to be found.

An ornate carved marble mantel from the 1860s graces the open floor plan --photograph corcoran.com/nyc

Jovovich, the wife of director Paul W. S. Anderson, relisted the house in 2008 for $8.75, then took it off the market in 2010 at a reduced price of $7.5 million.   Finally in January 2013 the house was sold to Imax Corporation CEO Rich Gelfond after rocker Courtney Love lost in her attempt to lease the property (the advertised rent was $20,000 per month).

While the interiors of No. 100 Greenwich Avenue show off modern trappings and celebrity residents, the exterior retains the essence of its 1830s charm.  

photographs taken by the author