The Lost Liederkranz Hall - 31-35 East Fourth Street

 

Other than a new entrance portico for the middle house and a broken pediment with lyre finial, the Liederkranz Society made few exterior changes.  At the far left a tiny sliver of the Seabury Tredwell house can be seen, known today as the Merchant's House.  original source unknown

In the first years of the 1830's elegant mansions were rising along Fourth Street between the Bowery and Lafayette Place.    Sitting within the exclusive neighborhood that would be called the Bond Street District, the 25-foot wide homes were four stories tall above English basements.  Intricate wrought iron basket newels sat on paneled pedestals at the bottom of the marble stoops.  The entrances were framed in elegant Gibbs surrounds (named for the 18th century Scottish-born architect James Gibbs who had resurrected the Roman design of "blocking" the frame of an entrance).  

The sumptuous residences became home to wealthy families.   By the early 1850's Henry C. Dwight lived in No. 379, and attorney William C. Wetmore's family was next door at 381.  (In 1864 Fourth Street was renamed East Fourth Street, and the houses were renumbered 31 and 33)

On the night of November 18, 1854 William Wetmore woke up to the sound of footsteps on the staircase.  The New York Herald reported, "He started up, and on opening the door heard distinctly two men retreating, but he was unable to catch them.  On examining the house he found that books, forks, knives, &c., were missing, and coats were scattered about the hall."

Around 5:00 that morning, two police officers noticed two men carrying a basket into a Bayard Street house.  Decades before search warrants, the policemen followed them into an upstairs room where they found Wetmore's stolen articles, along with burglars' tools.  James Gilmour (who was just 16 years old) and Charles Dean were arrested.  The New York Herald added, "Gilmour had on a pair of Mr. Wetmore's stockings at the time."

The Dwight house was sold in 1855 to Pierre Sarracco who briefly operated the Grand Apollinea, a dance academy, within it.  His advertisement in the New York Daily Herald on June 12 that year read:

Prof. Saracco, the only accomplished teacher known in America, gives lessons every day.  The ladies and gentlemen who may honor him with their patronage can be assured to learn, by his unique method, in a few lessons, all the most fashionable dances.

The following February an ad touted the academy as "the favorite resort of the aristocracy from all parts of the Union; a fashionable and select circle fills every evening his elegant rooms."  Despite his self-described success, Saracco sold the house three months later to esteemed portrait Charles Cromwell Ingham.

Ingham's portrait of Fidelia Marshall is typical of his work.  from the collection of the Smithsonian American Art Museum 

Ingham was a favorite among high society for his portraits of the wives and daughters of New York City's elite.  He was a founder of the National Academy of Design, and served as its vice president until his death in December 1863.

Ingham left the East Fourth Street house in 1862.  In 1863 it and the William C. Wetmore house were purchased by the Liederkranz Society, a German singing group.  The society paid $32,000 for the two properties--just under $675,000 today.   The auction listing of Wetmore's furnishings gives a hint of the resplendent interiors.  Included were velvet carpets, "carved rosewood Suits, in velvet plush," rosewood and mahogany bedroom suites, and velvet window curtains.  The family sold almost everything other than the statuary and paintings.

The Liederkranz Society was formed in 1849 by, according to The New York Times, "a number of German gentlemen, lovers of music, who thought by this means to secure the better cultivation of German music in this country, and to have a place where they might sociably spent their evenings."  The group combined the two houses internally, erected an extension in the rear, and raised the attics to a full floor.  In November 1863 the first rehearsal was held in the new space and a month later the official opening was celebrated with a concert, banquet and ball.

On February 4, 1864 The New York Times said, "The buildings are most admirably arranged for the purpose for which they are intended, having a large dining-room in the basement, two large and handsomely furnished parlors for ladies on the next floor, sitting rooms for the members, dining-room and a cosy little wine-room on the next floor, readings rooms, a fine library, committee and billiard rooms on the floor above."

The concert hall, in the rear, was 75 x 50 feet, its ceiling and walls "beautifully decorated with paintings," according to the article.  Balconies provided guests a viewpoint of the "singing parties" which were held three nights each week.

At the time there were 700 members.  Originally a men's club, by now it accepted women and its chorus of 110 voices was composed of 50 men and 60 women.  The society was renowned not only for its concerts, but for its annual fancy dress balls, which often took the form of costume balls.  They were held in large venues like the Academy of Music or the City Assembly Rooms.

The Liederkranz Society's first ball after moving into its new space was held on February 4, 1864.  The New York Times said it "was looked forward to with great interest by the number who had been so fortunate as to secure tickets."  The $5 tickets were limited only outsiders who had a "personal introduction" by a member could obtain them.  (The cost of admission would equal about $85 today.)

In 1869 the Italianate style house at 35 East Fourth Street was added, increasing the size of Liederkranz Hall by one-third.  While its proportions matched 31 and 35 exactly, it wore the more updated trappings of elliptical arched lintels, a pedimented entrance, and floor-to-ceiling parlor windows with a cast iron balcony.  The three houses were visually joined with a common cornice topped by a pediment.

Liederkranz Hall was the scene of glittering receptions and other events.  On December 6, 1870, for instance, The New York Times reported "The German Sanitary Fair drawing of the Weber grand action piano, the Bauer piano, the Mason & Hamlin organ, the India shawl and the 'Rocky Mountain scene' will take place tomorrow at 8 P.M., at the Liederkranz Hall, No. 33 East Fourth-street."

In 1881 a building committee purchased the properties at Nos. 111-119 East 58th Street.  The cornerstone for a new structure was laid on October 1 that year and on November 26, 1882 the Liederkranz Society moved into its new home.

The East Fourth Street building became Everett Hall, a meeting and concert venue.  The structure was threated on June 15, 1887 by fire in the third floor rooms of the proprietor, Charles Beinberg.   

Beinberg's wife had no intentions of leaving the blazing building without her jewelry and cash.  The Sun reported, "Mrs. Beinberg recollected that $800 and her jewelry were in a wardrobe in the burning room, but she was stopped in an effort to reach them by the flames."  Undaunted, she rushed into an adjacent room and through a connecting door.  The article said, "she succeeded at considerable risk in saving the money and all."  Fire fighters were able to extinguish the fire before considerable damage was done.

Everett Hall was the scene of a variety of entertainments.  On September 15, 1888 The Evening World announced that the "Opening ball of the original Alaska Pleasure Club at Everett Hall, 31-35 East Fourth street," would take place that evening.  And a few weeks later, on November 18, the fourth annual ball of the Labischiner Benefit Society was held here.

As the turn of the century approached, Everett Hall became a favorite meeting place of labor groups.  It was the scene of a mass meeting of clothing trade workers in February 1891.  The labor journal Workmen's Advocate entitled an article "Sweating / Away With the Barbarous System" and noted that the hall was crowded.  It said "the organized labor of this city has taken in hand the cause of these trades and will give them all the aid in its power."

In the first years of the 20th century Everett Hall was an equally favored space among Tammany politicians.  On November 18, 1903, for instance, The Tammany Times reported on "invitation ball" of the Lawrence Mulligan Association.  "Many prominent Tammany men besides [Congressman Timothy D.] Sullivan were present."  It was also the scene of wedding receptions of high-ranking Tammany officials.

In 1912 Everett Hall was converted to an opera house.  On September 29, The New York Times reported, "The Garibaldi Theatre, at 31 East Fourth Street, opened last night with the San Carlo Opera Company in Verdi's 'La Forza del Destino.'  To-night 'La Favorita' will be sung."  The article went on to list the upcoming performances, a different opera every night.

As mid-century approached, the West Fourth Street block, where once stylish carriages dropped well-dressed ladies and gentlemen at their marble stoops, had become gritty and industrial.  The former Liederkranz Hall was converted to a parking garage.

The structure survived until 1988 when, according to one historian, it was "demolished surreptitiously in the middle of the night."  The wrecking was done with no concern for the remarkably intact sole survivor of Joseph Brewster's 1831 row.  Known today as the Merchant's House Museum, the Seabury Tredwell house suffered substantial structural damage.

The site of Liederkranz Hall remains a vacant lot.

many thanks to historian Anthony Bellov for suggesting this post

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The Seabury Tredwell House - 29 East 4th Street

photograph by "Tony" from the Wikipedia Takes Manhattan Project

East Fourth Street in 1832 saw the arrival of elegant red brick homes with marble trim as the street became part of the most fashionable residential section of the city, the Bond Street area.  That year Joseph Brewster built six upscale homes on the north side of East 4th Street, between Lafayette Place and Bowery.  He moved into one of them, at what was then No. 361.

Although the identify of the architect is unknown for certain, modern architectural historians recognize distinct similarities to the work of Minard Lafever.  While the exterior reflects the elements of the Federal style--the elegant, arched entrance with marble Gibbs surround, and the dormered attic floor, for instance), the interior transitioned to the newer Greek Revival style.  Here the costliest materials were used:  matching black-and-gold marble mantels in the parlor and dining rooms, exquisite plaster ceiling moldings, a richly carved entry hall newel post of acanthus leaves, and mahogany doors.  To maintain symmetry, so important in Greek Revival architecture, one such door in the parlor opened onto a brick wall, installed simply to balance a second door.

Mahogany pocket doors slide closed to separate the dining room and parlor.  Contemporary critics would have called the interior appointments "pure Greek."  photo via merchantshouse.org

The house was purchased for $18,000 (just over half a million dollars today) by Seabury Tredwell in 1835.  Comfortable after years of successful trade as a partner in Tredwell & Kissam, an importer of English marine hardware, he had retired that year at the age of 55 to live off his interest and investments.  

The Treadwell family was already large.  He and his wife, the former Eliza Parker (who was 17 years younger than he) had six children.  Moving in to help were four servants.  The same year the family moved in, another daughter, Sarah, was born.  Five years later, in 1840, the couples' eighth child, Gertrude was born in the second floor bedroom.

Like their wealthy neighbors, the, Tredwells filled the house with the best furnishings, patronizing the workshops of New York cabinetmakers such as Duncan Phyfe and Joseph Meeks.  Outside their windows the elite of New York society rode by in sleek carriages on their way to the theaters just a few blocks away on the Bowery.  A New York newspaper, in 1835, extolled "The elegance and beauty of this section cannot be surpassed in the country."

The heat of New York City summers also brought odors and, often, diseases.  Wealthy families escaped to summer residences and the Tredwells' was a sprawling 850-acre estate estate in Rumson, New Jersey.  

Seabury Tredwell was, reportedly, a stern, religious father, the namesake of his uncle, the first American Episcopal Bishop.  The children grew up in an environment of class and refinement.  A piano offered entertainment in the evenings.  

Elizabeth was the first of the children to leave the house.  She was married to Effingham Nichols in 1845.  Three years later Mary Adelaide married hardware merchant Charles Richard.  Samuel Lenox Tredwell would be the only other of the children to marry.

Seabury Tredwell died on the evening of March 7, 1865 at the age of 84.  His funeral was held in the parlor four days later, on Saturday afternoon.  

While interior design fashions had changed, they had not arrived at what was now No. 29 East 4th Street.  There were no alterations made to the East 4th Street house during his lifetime.  After his death, the family cautiously updated the parlor with the addition of a few up-to-date Victorian upholstered pieces.  Otherwise, as Gertrude would later repeat again and again, it was left "as papa wanted it."

The family added a modern parlor set sometime after 1865.  photo via merchantshouse.org

Eliza Tredwell died in 1882 and by the turn of the century only Gertrude and her sisters were left in the house.  It would appear that the Tredwell fortune was by this time drying up.  In an October 1906 letter to the The New York Times G. Ellsworth chided the editor for an apparent expose of the sisters' finances:  

As one of the oldest subscribers to your paper, I beg to insert this paragraph to contradict and absolutely deny the erroneous statements set forth in the columns of the daily Times of Saturday last respecting the surviving daughters of the late Seabury Tredwell.   Suffice it to say, despite the assertions made to the contrary, they are only in comfortable circumstances, and are practical, thoroughly good loyal citizens of the substantial old type of character handed down from generations back.

In quick succession the parlor saw the funerals of Gertrude's sisters:  Sarah died in 1906.  A year later Phebe fell down the staircase to her death, and in 1909 Gertrude's last sister Julia died leaving her alone in the last elegant home in the neighborhood.

The city outside the marble-arched entrance to Gertrude's home was no longer the enclave of the privileged.  Commerce had taken over.  The lower floors of once-proud residences not demolished were transformed into shops and warehouses.   Their marble stoops were removed, the interiors gutted.  Where hansoms and cabriolets once transported the wealthy, trucks now clattered.

Gertrude, however, remained isolated in her time capsule, keeping everything preserved.   Nothing was discarded.  Dresses and combs, books and letters, everything was kept intact and in place exactly as things were in 1835.  Despite her finances running low until she was nearly destitute towards the end of her life, Gertrude fought against the progress beyond her curtained windows.

 

In 1933, just short of a century after her father purchased the house, Gertrude Tredwell died upstairs in the same bed in which she was born in 1840.  She was 93 years old.

Gertrude died in this bed in 1933.  photo via merchantshouse.org

A cousin, George Chapman purchased the Tredwell house, recognizing its importance and the need to preserve it.  He opened it as a private house museum in 1936, supporting the cause with his own funds.   

Unfortunately house museums in the Depression were not greatly popular; and he did not have the resources to maintain the aging structure.  When he died in 1962 its condition was perilous.  Water had seeped into the brickwork causing the facade to buckle outward.  The chimney tilted dangerously to one side.  Inside the carpeting and fabrics were faded and worn.

That year The Decorators Club of New York City adopted the house as a pet project.  Scalamandre reproduced the draperies including painstakingly hand-making the heavy tassels.  The "Pompeiian" patterned carpeting was reproduced from a swatch cut from the parlor.  Yet the structural problems were more than the Decorators Club could tackle.

New York University architect Joseph Roberto was consulted and he took on the project in a nearly single-handed effort to save the building. 

One night during the restoration the house was broken into.  The thieves roamed throughout the building searching for valuables they could quickly resell.  They passed by the Tredwell silverware, the 19th century oil paintings and the mahogany knife boxes on the sideboard.  Luckily for posterity, in their ignorance they stole the workers hand tools--the only things of value they recognized.

Over nine years of structural restoration brought the house back.  Roberto's wife Carolyn, an interior designer, worked with the Decorators Club to restore the furniture and interior accessories.  As evidence of Gertrude Tredwell's careful preservation of her family's things, a volunteer one day was going through clothing in an upstairs bedroom.  Putting her hand into an evening cape, she pulled from the pocket the program from a play that had taken place in the late 1800s.   Like almost everything in the house it laid protected from time, never having been touched since that last Tredwell sister nestled it into her pocket after the theater nearly a century earlier.

In 1971 Joe Roberto received The Victorian Society of America's Preservation Award for his work on the Merchant's House.  He was consulted again in 1987 when the house was again threatened, this time by the intended razing of the three houses, long since seriously altered, at Nos. 31, 33 and 35.  Because the Tredwell House and No. 31 shared a party wall there was a genuine possibility of collapse.  Through Roberto's direction, enough of No. 31's interior wall was left to buttress No. 29  so that the old house came down without any damage to the Tredwell home.

It is often suggested that Henry James based his novel Washington Square on Gertrude Tredwell.  Whether or not that is true, when the 1949 film version, The Heiress, was in process the filmmakers toured the East 4th Street house extensively as research for the interior sets.

Today the Merchant House Museum is widely regarded as one of the finest surviving examples of early 19th century residences both inside and out.  From the grand wrought iron basket newels on the marble stoop to the gloves and parasols in the bedrooms upstairs, the Tredwell residence is a remarkable treasure.

The 1845 Mariners' Temple -- 12 Oliver Street

photo by Alice Lum

The first Baptists arrived in New York City around 1709, however historian William Smith Pelletreau would caution in 1900, “there seems to have been very little similarity of doctrine to those of the present Baptist church, and they were, in fact, Arminians.”

The group was eventually incorporated as the First  Baptist Church and a second congregation, The Second Baptist Church, was formed in 1791.  Although records indicate that Henry Rutgers sold the newer congregation two lots “on the ancient farm of Hendrich Rutgers” on June 30, 1799, the group had already constructed a church there.

The two-and-a-half story wooden structure sat on what was then Fayette Street and--other than the three entrance doors and high arched windows--did not look much different from the larger clapboard houses in the neighborhood.  William Smith Pelletreau said frankly it was “a small wooden building in a style of the most primitive simplicity.”  It took its name from its location, the Fayette Street Baptist Church.

The original wooden structure (right) as depicted in 1808--watercolor from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1819, Oliver Street was extended from Bancker Street (now Madison Street) to Chatham Square.  In the process, Fayette Street became part of Oliver Street and the church was renamed the Oliver Street Baptist Church.

A devastating fire reduced the building to ashes in 1843.  The congregation rebuilt either by the designs of church member Isaac Lucas or, as the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission believes, famed architect Minard Lafever.  Three years earlier, Lafever had dipped his toe into the uncharted area of Gothic Revival for his Reformed Dutch Church on Washington Square.  If the architect of the Oliver Street Baptist Church was, indeed, Lafever, he returned to the more expected Greek Revival for the church building.

In the 1830s and ‘40s, ecclesiastical architecture tended to emulate the temples of ancient Rome and Greece.  Classic triangular pediments sat above substantial columns with Ionic or Doric capitals.  And so it was with the new brownstone-fronted Oliver Street Baptist Church, completed in 1845.   Despite its rather diminutive proportions, its impressive Greek portico and pediment—stretching the entire width of the façade—gave the building an unexpected monumentality.

Pelletreau, in 1900, was not impressed with the structure.  “This vicinity, though somewhat thickly inhabited, was never a fashionable neighborhood, and the style of buildings was distinguished for cheapness, and want of durability.”    Pelletreau was partially correct.  By 1845, the neighborhood was “thickly inhabited” and quickly becoming less-than-fashionable; and the congregation exercised frugality on the building’s materials.  But there is no question on the durability of its construction—substantial walls of stone created a sturdy structure.

Gas street lamps stand on the sidewalk in front of the church around 1880.  photographer unknown; from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York 

The church had a tradition of outreach within its rapidly-changing community.  Two years before the original building burned, a “Juvenile Singing School” had been organized in October 1841.  The children’s singing school (later called the “choir school”) continued for decades.

On November 15, 1851, The New York Times commented that a meeting of “the friends of the Madison University (Baptist) was held in the Oliver-street Church last week, to take measures for assisting in completing the endowments of that institution.”  Further  down the page, the newspaper told of another Baptist organization.  “The Baptist Mariners’ Church in New-York employs regularly ten missionaries, is composed of members from sixteen different nations, and received last month into its fellowship seven persons belonging to as many different nations.”  The two churches would cross paths in a more substantial way a few decades later.

By mid-century, the neighborhood was notoriously impoverished.  The nearby Five Points section was a cauldron of vice and crime—a tenement district of filthy slums and hopeless denizens.  On December 30, 1852, the Union Missionary Society held a meeting in the church to discuss ways “to accomplish the reformation of the wicked, and to supply the necessities of the destitute.”  The society was focused on “the blighted and condemned region of the Five Points.”

Despite its despoiled neighborhood, the church forged on in its religious efforts.  On January 29, 1853, The New York Times said, “It is gratifying to know that a very interesting state of religious feeling is evinced in the congregation of the Oliver-street Baptist Church.  A number have already indulged a hope in the Saviour, and some fifteen are expected to receive the ordinance of baptism next month.”

The same year, “an interesting discourse” was delivered in the lecture room by the Rev. James Tanner, a Chippewa Indian and a Baptist missionary to the native population of the West and Canada.   The audience was less interested in Tanner’s missionary work as they were in his description of Native Americans.

“The Indian was not a worshiper of sticks and stones, as was generally supposed,” explained The New York Times.  “As a general thing, the Indians were grossly misrepresented by writers who undertook to describe their manners, habits and opinions.”

Another Baptist congregation chose a more fashionable neighborhood in which to build.  In 1859, the Madison Avenue Baptist Church erected a structure deemed by The Sun to be a “large and expensive church” on Madison Avenue and 35^th Street.  Indeed the building alone cost $122,000—about $2.5 million today.  In doing so, the congregation overextended itself and before long was in deep financial trouble.

The Oliver Street Baptist Church agreed to merge with the Madison Avenue church and contributed between $30,000 and $80,000 towards relieving its debt.  The Oliver Street building was sold to the Mariners’ Temple and the congregation moved northward to Madison Avenue.

The Oliver Street Baptist Church then requested the deed to the new church property and the Madison Avenue church responded by bringing “ a suit of ejectment against the Oliver street church folks,” as explained by The Sun.

A court battle ensued which dragged on for a full decade.  The Sun, on February 3, 1873, said, “For ten years past the congregations of the Madison avenue and Oliver street churches have met in amicable worship on Sundays, and fought in the courts on week days.”  The battle was finally over when Judge Sedgwick ruled in favor of the Oliver Street Baptist Church.

In the meantime the Mariners’ Church forged on with the attempts at reformation and the saving of souls begun by its predecessor.  Alcohol was the object of discussion on November 9, 1874 when Baptist ministers gathered in the church.  Although no conclusive plan of action was formulated, one gossipy preacher shocked his cohorts by disclosing that “there was a church in Brooklyn (not Baptist) in which some of the officers were in the habit of using intoxicating liquors, and had been on the floor of the church at the time of taking the collection incapacitated by drunkenness for the proper discharge of their duties.”

photo by Alice Lum

The seedy, dangerous nature of the neighborhood became obvious one day in December 1889 when pastor Rev. Dr. J. F. Avery innocently walked out of the church to go on his missionary work.  The Evening World described the preacher as “an earnest worker, who goes into the highways and byways with his wife, and lodging houses, low dives and saloons are his principal recruiting stations.”

The newspaper noted, “The hoodlums of the neighborhood, youths from fourteen to twenty years of age, miss no opportunity of annoying him.”  Their, "annoying him” included firing pistol shots through the church windows, smashing the church bulletin board outside that advertised services, and threatening his life.  Rev. Avery in desperation placed notices in the newspapers seeking protection.

The hooligans would sometimes rush into the church to interrupt services.  “Frequently during his most solemn exhortations a band of these youthful marauders will rush into the church like a tribe of Indians, shouting, ‘Rats!’ and ‘Are you here McGinty?’ and on one occasion they stole a new overcoat belonging to the minister’s son,” reported the newspaper.

Now on that Monday evening in December, the situation escalated to physical violence.  Rev. Avery left the church to visit the Bowery lodging houses.  Outside a Chinese boy, whom The Evening World called an “innocent Celestial being” was being bullied by a larger boy.  Avery stepped in and “boxed the boy’s ears and sent the Chinaman away rejoicing.”  He was quickly discovered that his good deed would incite the wrath of a mob.  A group of street toughs crowded around him and one asked why he hit “the kid.”  Before he could answer he was punched in the nose, eyes and mouth, resulting in substantial cuts.

Nevertheless, Avery persevered on and a year later The Sun said the church was “bending its energies to the relief of all forms of suffering in tenement houses.”  Throughout the decade the church provided food for the destitute residents of the area.   On January 9, 1894, the New-York Tribune reported on the people who lined up to receive food here.  “One poor woman begged with outstretched palms and weeping eyes for a little food for her children.  ‘They have had nothing to eat to-day,’ she said, ‘and they will starve.’  She had had nothing to eat herself for a day or two, but she asked for only for her children.”

A week later, on January 16, the newspaper said that on the previous day “135 families were supplied each with groceries worth $1…Those who obtained food at the Mariner’s Temple were Hebrews, Italians and some Americans.”  The New-York Tribune reported, “The work of the Mariner’s Temple is largely among the Italians.” A reporter followed one of the church’s missionaries as he distributed food in the tenements.   The first stop was the home of an Italian immigrant family.  The father had brought with him an eviction notice when he came for his basket of food earlier that day.  He owed $10 rent.
“He also had a certificate from a physician, saying that his little boy was ill with bronchitis, and should not under any circumstances be moved,” said the newspaper.

The house was a wooden shanty in the rear of a tenement-house.  The apartment where the family lived had to be reached by means of a rickety stairway on the outside of the building.  The stairs and platform at the top shook and swayed and seemed about to give away at each step as the visitors climbed up.  The eaves of the house were long and hung down over the little windows with dingy panes of glass.

In two dark rooms the father, mother, six children and the father’s brother lived.  The little boy who was ill turned a pair of unusually bright eyes upon the visitors and smiled faintly when he was spoken to.  He lay for several days in that room desperately sick.  It had been cold nearly all the time.

The missionary could not help the family and in the end they wrapped the little boy in blankets and carried him out of the shanty to live on the streets.

Among the most active in making the food distribution possible was Emily Vanderbilt Sloane “who is one of the most liberal patrons of the Mariners’ Temple,” said the New-York Tribune four years later.  On December 26 that year, she was responsible when “Santa Claus visited the Mariners’ Temple at Oliver and Henry sts…and was received with shouts of delight by the twelve hundred or more children gathered there.”

For these impoverished children, there would be no Christmas at all without Emily Sloane’s kindness.   “The church was decked with flags and wreaths of evergreen, and over the platform was a big star fifteen feet across, made of tri-colored bunting.  On the platform were two Christmas trees, twenty feet high, burdened with boxes of candy, toys and the usual decorations.”

By 1904 the neighborhood had not improved and, more likely, was more dangerous and degraded.  When the church initiated a “missionary school” that year and invited boys from the neighborhood in, “for the first three or four days the teachers, women as well as men, found that their college athletic training was of more use than they ever expected it to be.”

The rowdy “disturbing elements,” as described by the New-York Tribune, “came in for the express purpose of having some fun along their own lines.”  It became necessary for police to be on hand at the school and “peace was restored by the expulsion of a gang of twenty.”

The violent conflict in the area was caused in part by the increased presence of Chinese immigrants in the neighborhood traditionally inhabited by Italians and Irish.  The large Chinese population was devastated by the news of the 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco, home to another substantial Chinese community.

In May that year, a benefit was held in the Mariners’ Temple for the Christian Chinese of San Francisco, “who lost all in the earthquake,” said The New-York Tribune.  “The programme includes singing by Mrs. Fung Y. Mow and other Chinese women and children in costume, a male quartet, Chinese instrumental music and a display of moving pictures.”
The church’s outreach to the Chinese was extended in 1910 when the Chinese Rescue Mission was opened in September.

By 1915 a steeple had been added.  Young boys in knickers race wooden carts on Oliver Street.  photograph by Samuel Landsman, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

A century later, the neighborhood is still heavily populated by Chinese.  While it is still home to walk-up apartments in low rent buildings, it is no longer the dangerous slum of the turn-of-the-century.  During the 1960s, the membership of the Mariners’ Temple drastically dropped—at one point numbering only 60.  But through the efforts of the Rev. Suzan D. Johnson Cook and her “Hour of Power” noontime services, the church revived.  Rev. Cook was, incidentally, the first African American woman to achieve the role of senior pastor of an American Baptist congregation.

Nearly 175 years of use is reflected in the damaged brownstone of the monumental structure -- photo by Alice Lum

The perfectly-proportioned Greek Revival church is often overlooked—tucked away on a side street far from the business districts.

The Lost Reformed Dutch Church -- Washington Square and Washington Place

A stereopticon view captured the church along with tiny commercial buildings to the south -- from the collection of the New York Public Library

When George Rogers began construction of the first house on Washington Square in 1828, there were

seven Reformed Dutch churches in Manhattan; all still far south of the Rogers mansion.  The oldest organization of Christians in the city, the Garden Street church was among its three principal congregations.

The South Dutch Church on Garden Street had been erected in 1807; only to be razed and replaced by a new structure later.   On December 16, 1835 members watched in dismay as their church burned to the ground.  The proposal to build along Washington Square may have seemed, to some, ill advised.  However by now the Square—a potter’s field only a dozen years earlier—was rapidly developing into one of the city’s three most exclusive residential neighborhoods.

New York University had alread decided on the square and in 1833, two years after its founding, it commissioned Alexander Jackson Davis and Ithiel Town to design its first major building.  The pair were among the preeminent architects of the day and were renowned for their historic-based designs.  The resulting structure, completed in 1836, was an impressive Gothic hall; considered the first example of “Collegiate Gothic” in the country.

Three years after the New York University hall was completed, on March 17, 1839, an equally celebrated architect would receive the commission for the New Reformed Dutch Church.    Ground was purchased at the southeast corner of Washington Square East and Washington Place, directly across the street from the university building, for $44,000—a hefty $825,000 today.

Like Davis and Town, Minard Lafever turned to Gothic Revival—yet his building would be more “archaeological” than academic.   The Gothic style was unheard of for religious structures at the time—churches tended to be Greek or Roman temples with classic porticoes and fluted columns.  History may have cheated Lafever out of bragging rights.  Richard Upjohn is conventionally credited with sparking the Gothic Revival movement in church architecture with his magnificent Trinity Church on lower Broadway.  Yet his plans were submitted on September 9, 1839—fully half a year later than Lafever’s.

The church, completed in 1840, was clad in rough-cut dark granite.  At 62-feet wide, it was an imposing presence on Washington Square.   Two massive 24-foot square towers flanked the entrance above which was an expansive Gothic window.  Lafever added hefty crenelation along the roofline and tops of the towers.   Inside four large columns marched down either side of the aisle, supporting the 63-foot ceiling and forming part of the gallery in doing so.   The ten unusual windows were composed of ground glass.

As the structure neared completion, the church leaders applied for a name change.  On May 13, 1840 an act was passed in the State Senate and Assembly changing the corporation name from “The New Reformed Dutch Church on Washington square” to “The Dutch Church on Washington square.”  Five months later, on October 1, the $80,000 structure was dedicated.   The Rev. Dr. Mathews, the pastor at the time of the fire, and the Rev. Dr. Mancius S. Hutton served as co-pastors—a rather unlikely situation.   

The church's location among the prim Greek Revival mansions coupled with the prevalent, often narrow, Victorian views did not intimidate its open-minded leaders.  On February 21, 1846 the New-York Daily Tribune noted that the subject of a lecture to be held here the following evening would be “The Bible is so constructed that the Christian reader must kindly remember, and deeply sympathize with the Jews.”

Within a few years Rev. Mathews took a portion of the congregation and established the South Dutch Reformed Church at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 21^st Street.  Thereafter the church on Washington Square was most often referred to as “Dr. Hutton’s Church.”   By now the square was fully developed with the elegant homes of wealthy families.  On July 18, 1853 The New York Times described “Washington-square, all glory in.”

The newspaper said “It is a noble reservation in one of the best parts of the City.  Flanked on the east by the marble University buildings and Dr. Hutton’s Church, and on all other sides by the residences of that comfortable class who can keep their carriages without being charged with extravagance, it is the favorite walking-ground of our wearied people; and on all pleasant days clean children trundle their hoops, fly their kits, or play ‘high spy” there, from early morning till late moonlight.”

The writer went on to mention the square’s history with ghoulish humor.  “It was once a Potter’s Field—the prowling ground of the medical men who were rollicking students many years ago—the scene of hundreds of body-snatching tales,--reason enough why the trees should grow with such rapidity there, and so early form a pleasant shade.”

A watercolor of the New York University Hall shows the towers of the Dutch Reformed Church next door.  To the left a fluted column of a Washington Square North mansion can be seen.  artist unknown, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWRPKIX1&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=579&PN=3#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWRPKIX1&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=579&PN=3

On May 6, 1856 a convention of sorts was held throughout the city of Sunday School children who were subjected to a full day of oratory and preaching.  Fourteen Sunday School groups gathered at the Dutch Reformed Church—around 2,000 children in total.  The New York Times noted that “One of the largest contingents was the children of the Protestant Orphan Asylum.”   Even 19^th century ministers apparently recognized that children would find the speeches boring.  “The speeches were varied by singing, and the young folks seemed to think it was a good time generally.”

The qualification “generally” was most likely significant.  

In 1861 the focus of the church turned to Civil War.   Early in September 1861 The Central Army Committee of the Alliance held a meeting “for the promotion of morals and religion in the camps” here.  Among the speakers was the Rev. Charles C. Goss who gave “the results of his observations among the camps in Virginia, and in the hospitals and rebel prisons,” reported The New York Times.

Thanksgiving that year was an understandably sober one.  Dr. Hutton’s Thanksgiving sermon addressed the torment being felt.  “How many families have been broken up by death and suffering; and, even if death has entered the household, there are hopes of a better world, and thanks to be felt therefore.”  A reporter noted that “From hence he drew the assurance that, notwithstanding our present troubles, there is to be a hopeful, joyful termination of them.”

While the Dutch Reformed congregation was still worshiping on Garden Street in 1831, the Greene Street Methodist Episcopal Church was constructed.  The structure was deemed by The New York Times “the most commodious place of worship belonging to the denomination in New York.”

from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1876 Dr. Hutton retired from the Dutch Reformed Church, receiving a pension of $5,000 a year—the equivalent of a comfortable income of $95,000 today.  The church building was sold to the Greene Street Methodist Episcopal Church for $80,000—to the dollar what the structure had cost to erect over three decades earlier.

The New York Times explained on June 5, 1876 that “Owing to a great loss of membership, on account of the changed character of the neighborhood, stores having entirely superseded residences, the [Greene Street} church property was sold for $100,000, and the Presbyterian Church, corner of Washington place and Washington square—Rev. Dr. Hutton’s—was purchased…repainted, frescoed, and upholstered at an expense of $10,000, leaving the congregation fr4ee of debt and with a balance in the treasury.”

The church re-christened itself the Asbury M. E. Church, in honor of the first Methodist Episcopal bishop ordained in America.  The New York Times said that “The interior is handsomely fitted up, and presents a very cheerful aspect.”   For the opening service the pulpit was “beautifully decorated with trailing vines, in which flowers were entwined.  In front of the pulpit was a bed of white flowers, bearing the words in violets, 'Greene Street, 1831,' 'Asbury, 1876.'"

While the church had been on Greene Street, one of the old practices of the Methodist worshipers was to shout responses.  As times changed, the Methodist services became more reserved, in keeping with other sects.  John Forbes, however, disliked change.

The retired 62-year old lived nearby in the mansion at 23 Washington Square.   “Mr. Forbes, despite his advanced age, is of powerful constitution, and is particularly vigorous of lung,” noted The New York Times on May 67, 1884.  While the rest of the congregation remained silent, in rapt attention to the minister, Forbes erupted with “Amen,” “Hallelujah,” and “That’s so!”

Proper, refined worshipers were annoyed by Forbes’ outbursts—especially considering that his poor hearing sometimes resulted in inappropriate and awkward responses.  When and elderly and highly respected church member was near death in 1882, the pastor Dr. Ferris spoke from the pulpit of the man’s virtues and untarnished reputation.  “And now,” he concluded, “there is a sad prospect that he will pass away from us soon.”

Mr. Forbes shouted out “Thank the Lord!”

Members tried hinting that the lowering of his enthusiasm would be greatly appreciated; however Forbes forged on.   Then late in April 1884 he once again shouted out an inappropriate response that could be taken as an offense to the minister.  On his way home across the park he was intercepted by Henry Roden, Abram Belmont and James Seaman, “who took him to task for his vociferousness,” said a newspaper.

Another member, Mr. Lynn, took him aside and said “See here, Mr. Forbes, you’re an unmitigated nuisance in this church, and everybody would be obliged to you if you’d keep still hereafter.”

This time an embarrassed and hurt Forges took the hint.  He visited the pastor, Mr. Hawxhurst, saying “I shall cause no more trouble in this church.  I am going where I feel at home.”  Forbes had decided to join the fashionable St. George’s Episcopal Church on Stuyvesant Square.

The minister tried to dissuade him from leaving.  “You can’t say ‘Amen’ there,” he pointed out.  Forbes countered that he could say amen at the close of prayers and that was good enough for him.   When the pastor noted that Mrs. Forbes did not want to leave Asbury, her husband responded that she would have to.

Suddenly the congregation missed the odd, noisy man.  James Seaman admitted that “he had a very friendly feeling for Mr. Forbes, and admired his character very much.”   Rev. Hawxhurst said “he did not himself object to Mr. Forbes’s practice of responding to the service.”

Whether the wealthy and proper members of St. George’s appreciated its new member is unknown.
 

The large church building was used annually for the graduation exercises of New York University in the 1880s.   By now the neighborhood south of Washington Square had declined to one of the worst slums in New York; overcrowded criminals, thugs and destitute immigrants.  Asbury M. E. Church sought to relieve the suffering with innovative programs.

On April 28, 1890 The New York Times reported that Dr. Stone, the pastor of the Asbury Church, will open a free dispensary in the church edifice this morning as the first step toward general missionary work in the slums which bound Washington Square on the south.  The establishment of a dispensary is regarded as a practical effort to assist the extremely poor and the sick.” 

The following year the church established an employment agency to help locals find jobs.  Not long after, it announced that “curiously, the laborers desiring work both before and after securing it come to the services.”  A kindergarten was also set up that year—giving mothers the flexibility to secure additional income.

A confusing set of circumstances came to a somewhat tragic end here on May 15, 1892.  The church was filled at 3:00 as Sergeant A J. T. Ray of the Salvation Army arrived to deliver an address.  Ray was well-known as a pulpit orator and The New York Times noted that “Besides the regular attendants of the church the congregation was liberally besprinkled with maidens in Salvation Army bonnets and numerous Captains, Sergeants, and high privates in full regalia.”

In the meantime a brown Scotch terrier had made his way into the park.  “He was taking the air and enjoying the balmy Spring day in a doggish style,” said The New York Times.  “He probably thought that everybody else was having a good, quiet time in the shade of the old park trees.  So he had joined them.”

“When he got into the park he chased a lonesome cat and one or two birds for a little while, and then laid down to rest.”

The terrier’s decision to enter the park that day was a fateful one.  A few little boys were roller skating on the walkways.  “They were common, everyday boys.  They were dressed nicely and did not look more wicked than boys a dozen years old ought to look.”

But the boys noticed the dozing dog and decided to stone him.  The terrier tried to run away, but the boys pursued him, pelting him with rocks.  Men on the park benches laughed and cheered the boys on.  By the time the dog ran frantically toward the Asbury Church, his mouth was foaming and he was bloodied from the onslaught.

“He saw the open church door.  It looked like a haven of refuse to him.  The people inside were quiet.  They did not look cruel like the boys with the sticks and stones.  So the terrier darted into the front door and up the centre aisle.”

The huge crowd inside the church saw the foaming mouth on the disheveled dog and assumed he was mad.  They panicked and Rev. Stone dismissed the congregation.  When the church was empty, the sexton and a few members drove the dog out; where the crowd was waiting.

“When the startled dog appeared, they all chased him.  All the loungers in the park joined in.  About a thousand people raced back and forth across the park after that dog,” reported the newspaper.

“The man in the crowd who was nearest the dog was a negro with a big white stovepipe hat.”  The dog was tired and the man was not.  With only a few steps, he grabbed the dog by the tail.  “He swung the helpless brute around in the air and then grabbed him by the throat.  The dog did not resist; he only yelped.”

The dog was tossed into a garbage box near the Washington Arch and the cover slammed shut.  “Then a policeman came up and fired two shots from his big revolver into the box…The yelping had ceased.  He opened the box and lifted out a dead dog.”  The New York Times concluded “The populace broke into a torrent of admiring cheers.”

Nearby was the Washington Square M. E. Church.  The movement of congregants further north had resulted in both churches suffering loss of members.  On June 7, 1893 a vote was passed in favor of the proposed consolidation of the two churches.  “The united churches will be known as the Washington Square Methodist Episcopal Church,” said the New-York Tribune the following day, “and will worship in the church edifice on Fourth-st.” 

A few weeks later The New York Times explained that “The Asbury Church has an average attendance of less than 150.  The church has property valued at $216,000.”   The last service was held in the old church on October 8, 1893.  Although the property was held for awhile—it was used as a women’s shelter in 1894—the valuable land was worth more than the remarkable structure that sat upon it.

On May 16, 1895 the sale of the church property to Boehm & Coon was announced.  The developers paid $300,000 for the structure, well over its assessed value.  “The purchasers will at once remove the church building and erect a seven-story warehouse,” reported The New York Times.

The replacement structure survives on the site of the grand Lafever edifice -- photo by the author

The handsome loft structure that replaced Minard Lafever’s masterful Gothic church still stands; now occupied by New York University.