The Henry Rehwinkel House - 288 Mulberry Street

 

Mulberry Street, which got its name from an 18th century grove of mulberry trees, appeared on maps as early as 1767.  But it would not be until the first decades of the 18th century that the expanding city brought Federal style dwellings to the little thoroughfare.  Around 1830, one appeared at 288 Mulberry Street, steps from Houston Street.  Faced in Flemish bond brick, the house was two-and-a-half stories tall above a basement and 21-feet wide.  One or two dormers originally pierced the peaked roof.

It appears the residence was originally operated as a boarding house.  Living here in 1832 were carpenter Isaac M. Washburn; James Velderan, who was a furrier; grocer Nehemiah Mead; and Richard B. Fletcher, who did not list an occupation, suggesting he may have been retired.

The house and lot were offered for sale in December 1849.  It continued as a boarding house under the new owner.  Mary T. Whitney lived here the following year.  A dressmaker, she would remain at least through 1854.  Also boarding in the house in 1850 were John Lynch, a clerk; George Donelly, who was in the carriage business; and harness maker John Dempsey.

In 1853, Henry Schmale and his family moved in.  The industrious entrepreneur listed his profession as "coal & grocer."  By 1856 (when he now lived at 579 Washington Street), the owner had converted the basement level for Schmale's coal office.  He had another on Washington Street and a piano business at 100 Centre Street.

A gruesome incident occurred here on June 9, 1855.  The New-York Dispatch reported, "A Frenchman named Alfred Dumont, suffocated himself with the flames of charcoal at 288 Mulberry street."  The article attributed his desperation to jealousy.  "He had been living with a woman for some years," it said, "to whom he was not married, although she had had two children by him."  The woman recently left him for another man and "he sought relief from all his worldly troubles by acting as stated."

The boarders were working class throughout the 1860's.  They included John and James Cunningham, presumably brothers, a carpenter and laborer, respectively.  Also living here in 1860 were Conrad Farner, a tailor; Louis Jackson a smith; and laborer Francis McCormick.

In 1871, the family of Hugh O'Brien occupied the house.  He was an assistant alderman and he and his wife had a son, William J.  Also living in the house were Hugh O'Brien's brother, Martin; his widowed mother; and an orphaned nephew, Thomas Francis Jones.  Boarding with the the family were Henry Rehwinkel, a barber, and his family.  

It was around this time that the attic floor was raised to a full story.  Somewhat surprisingly, instead of a bracketed cornice, the contractor finished the facade with a simple, dentiled brick cornice more appropriate to the original 1830 structure.

Rehwinkel converted the former H. Schmale & Co. office in the basement to his barbershop.  He and his wife, Wilhelmina, had four sons, Ferdinand, Andrew, Frederick, and Christopher.  

A year after they established themselves here, tragedy struck.  On August 15, 1872, The New York Times reported, "Christopher Rehwinkel, aged three years, fell out of the third-story window" of the house.  The article erroneously said he, "was fatally injured."  Although Christopher survived the fall, he lost the use of his right arm for life.

The parlor was the scene of Thomas Francis Jones's funeral on December 13, 1874.  The 26-year-old had died two days earlier.  Interestingly, the New York Herald said the funeral would take place, "from the resident of his grandmother, Mrs. John O'Brien," and mentioned "ex-alderman Hugh O'Brien" merely as an uncle.

New Yorkers were outraged when they read in the New York Herald on June 16, 1876, "Frederick Rehwinkel, a youth of sixteen years...is in such a critical condition from a clubbing received five weeks ago at the hands of Officer Thomas Mitchell, of the Fourteenth precinct, that the doctors fear he may not recover."

The article said that on May 7, Rehwinkel, "who is employed in his father's barber shop," stopped at the corner of Mulberry and Jersey Streets to watch a group of boys "pitching pennies and playing marbles."  When Officer Mitchell appeared, the other boys scattered.  He unleashed his rage on Rehwinkel, beating him repeatedly with his nightstick.  Because his father had told him to avoid the location, Frederick did not tell his parents what had happened.  Instead, said the New York Herald, he "staggered home and washed the blood from his face and clothes."  He was then confined to bed for three days.

It was not until Wilhemina Rehwinkel called in Dr. Wolfkin Smith that Frederick told his story.  Henry Rehwinkel preferred a complaint against the officer and a trial was set for June 24.

On the stand, Frederick's story began to unravel.  On June 25, the New York Dispatch reported, "The case from its inception had the flavor of a 'put-up' job,' and one of the morning papers was foolish enough to herald it forth as a terrible police outrage."  When confronted on the stand by Officer Mitchell, Frederick changed his story.  Police Surgeon Fluhrer testified that he had examined the teen and found he was suffering from pneumonia, not a beating.  He said he, "did not discover any marks of clubbing on his person."  Finally, Frederick admitted that "a man named Mahon, whom he knew as 'the man with the big foot,'" according to the New York Dispatch, had convinced him to concoct the story.

Martin O'Brien died of Bright's disease at the age of 39 on April 8, 1879.  His funeral was held in the house the following day.

Two years later, on August 23, 1881, the Rehwinkels purchased the house for $8,500 (about $261,000 in 2024).  They took in a boarder by 1886.  Thomas Carroll was a park keeper with the city and remained with the family at least through 1887.

Despite the injury he received in the 1872 fall, Christopher Rehwinkel got a job with a watchmaker on Houston Street by the time he was 18.  On the evening of February 1887, he left the house with jewelry he had taken to sell on commission.  The following day, the New-York Tribune reported, "A young German whose right arm is paralyzed [reported] that he had been knocked down, choked and robbed in Mulberry-st., within a block of [his house]."  The article explained when Christopher crossed the street at 8:00, he noticed a gang of boys, one of whom, Edward Collins, he recognized.  The newspaper said they, "had not been on good terms."

Collins, said the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, "knocked him down and held him by the throat."  His comrades then "kicked and cuffed him and then ran away."  They made off with the four gold rings Rehwinkel was supposed to sell.  Collins was arrested.  While he admitted striking Rehwinkel, he denied having helped rob him.  

By 1900, Wilhelmina and Henry were empty nesters and Henry had retired.  Rocco Nardiello was leasing the barbershop.  If neighbors viewed them as a kindly old German couple, a scandal that year would change their opinions.

Andrew Rehwinkel, who was a painter, and his wife, Minnie, a servant, lived in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.  The couple had two sons, 11-year-old Harry and 5-year-old Charlie.  In March 1900, Andrew and Minnie separated.  Andrew placed the boys with a family on East 17th Street, paying their board.  But when he lost his job early in July and could no longer afford the cost, he took them to his brother Ferdinand's home.  It worked out for two weeks until Ferdinand, too, lost his job.

Ferdinand was unable to find his brother, so he told the boys that his grandparents would take care of them for awhile.  It appears that Ferdinand was not so certain his parents would be so welcoming to the idea.  He took Harry and Charlie to 288 Mulberry Street on the evening of July 17, rang the doorbell, then left.  Little Charlie later said, "When grandpop came to the door he was mad and said he didn't have no home for us.  Then grandma came along and said for us to go away.  They shut the door, and Harry took me for a walk."

After wandering the neighborhood, the boys returned to 288 Mulberry, "'cause grandpop is the only man we know," Charlie later explained.  The following morning, according to The Sun, "Two little boys with tear-stained faces lay sound asleep, clasped in each other's arms. on the front stoop of the house at 288 Mulberry street, early yesterday morning."  When a passerby roused them and asked why they did not not go home, Charlie answered, "Ain't got no home, mister."

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"This is grandpop's.  He don't want Harry and me and we don't know where to go."

The man went to the Mulberry Police Station and reported the situation.  Policeman McMahon arrived and Charlie repeated the story.  McMahon climbed the stoop and rang the bell.  When he got no answer, he, "planted his department shoe on one of the panels of the door.  He repeated this until an old man opened the door," said The Sun.

An enraged Henry Rehwinkel demanded, "What do you mean waking respectable folks..." but was interrupted by the cop.

"Respectable folks, eh?  Do you call yourselves respectable folks, leaving a couple of kids like these out on the stoop all night?"

Rehwinkel slammed the door and refused to open it again.  McMahon took the boys to the police station, then "made right for the Mulberry street house, and there was wrath in his eye," said The Sun.  "He rang the bell, kicked the door a few times, and finally got a response from a window."  McMahon ordered, "Come down here, you!"

This time Wilhelmina opened the door.  When McMahon began lecturing her on the treatment of little boys, she said, "Well, they shan't come here and you can go and tell the family that, too."

The following day, Officer McMahon appeared in court with the boys, who were temporarily turned over to the Gerry Association (the common term for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children) until a hearing could be held.  The Sun reported, "McMahon said that the grandfather was a retired barber named Henry Rehwinkle [sic], and was well-to-do."  The magistrate issued a summons for Rehwinkel to appear.  "As for the children they went away happy in the assurance of something to eat and a bed to sleep in," said the article.

The following day, all parties were in court, including the boys' mother, who had been tracked down in Sheepshead Bay.  She promised that she was able to support the boys on her income as a servant.  "The boys went away with their mother rejoicing," reported The Sun, which added, "The grandparents, who had been summoned to explain why they left their grandchildren to sleep in the street, were in the Centre street court when the boys were arraigned, but had nothing to say."

By the post-World War I years, the former Rehwinkel residence was operated as a rooming house.  The neighborhood was now sketchy at best.

In 1924, Police Captain Albert L. Youmans of Schenectady, New York initiated what the Ballston Spa Daily Journal called a "vice war" against organized crime.  On the night of November 28, he and Patrolman John Flynn were in "the resort section of Schenectady" when they were gunned down by five "New York gunman [who] had been imported by dive keepers to kill Youmans," said the article.  Among them was Russo Marmore, who lived at 288 Mulberry Street.  The 22-year-old listed his profession as "chauffeur."

In 1929, Alberto Nicoletti operated a linotype business from the commercial space.  On July 11 that year, James Cozza, alias Vincent Cozza, was arrested for stealing printing and office equipment from several printing firms.  The Brooklyn Daily Star reported, "Magistrate Simpson also held a man who described himself as Alberto Nicolette [sic], 288 Mulberry street, Manhattan, in $3,000 on a charge of receiving the stolen property."

Albert (he dropped the "o" from his first name) Nicoletti still ran his printing business here in 1941.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

In 1932, architect Emil Koeppel was hired to convert the house to apartments above the basement store.  The configuration of one apartment on the parlor level and two each on the upper floors survives today.

In the 1990s, the basement was home to the 288 Bar.  It was described by New York Magazine on October 17, 1994:

The waif thing never died at this conspicuously fabulous watering hole, and the ratio of women to men is an unheard of 3:2.  The wine offering is insincere, but Joe's Jukebox provides the full range from Pavarotti to Luscious Jackson...and just don't ask about the stoneware.

Appropriately, given the history of the property, a barbershop once again operates from the lower level.

photograph by the author

The 1827 James Hart House - 261 Mulberry Street

 

Around 1827, the two-and-a-half story, brick faced house at 261 Mulberry Street was completed.  Home to printer James Evans in 1829, its Federal style design included Flemish bond brickwork and tidy dormers that pierced the peaked roof.

Like James Evans, subsequent occupants of the house continued to be working class.  John S. Houston, a stonecutter, lived here in 1832.  He was followed by Christopher Endeman, who died here at the age of 97 on April 22, 1838.

As early as 1843, James Hart and his family moved into 261 Mulberry Street.  The location directly across the street from St. Patrick's Cathedral was perfect for Hart, who was a sexton of the church.  James and his wife, Eleanor, had three daughters, Mary, Margaret, and Annie E.; and a son, William T. A. Hart.  

As was common, the Harts took in a boarder, normally one at a time.  In 1843, for example, carpenter John Dunn boarded with the family, and in 1847, Caroline Haggerty, a widow, lived here.

By 1857, William T. A. Hart was an undertaker.  Most likely through his father's influence, he became the official undertaker for the cathedral, a position he would hold for six decades.  

Eleanor Hart died here on December 18, 1859.  Her funeral was held in the parlor on December 20.  Interestingly, her body was not interred in the cathedral graveyard across the street, but in the 11th Street Catholic Cemetery between First Avenue and Avenue A.

Such would not be the case a decade later when James Hart died at the age of 86 on April 14, 1869.  His funeral was held in the cathedral and his burial was within the cathedral grounds.

Upon his father's death, William T. A. Hart added the position of sexton to his undertaking role.  He grew wealthy and influential; but his career would be marked by many legal problems.  On May 5, 1889, for instance, The New York Times reported that he was arrested for "interring in St. Michael's Cemetery in an ordinary coffin the body of a person who had died of a contagious disease."  And on May 24, 1893, the newspaper began an article saying, "William T. A. Hart, the sexton of St. Patrick's Cathedral, was the subject of a weighty opinion handed down yesterday by Surrogate Ransom."

Since 1887, Hart had been the executor of the estate of Archibald Johnson, who "died insolvent, leaving his affairs in a tangled condition."  Now, prompted by the complaints of creditors, the court's referee, Sherman W. Knevals, was "severe on Mr. Hart's management."

In the meantime, since his death, James Hart's heirs (who inherited the property equally) had been leasing their childhood home.  First, however, they raised the attic floor to a full floor.  Their architect added a handsome, cast metal Italianate cornice.  For a few years the residence was operated as a boarding house.  It was the scene of a grisly suicide on October 10, 1871.

Peter Coyle, according to the New York Herald, had "long been known in some of the best billiard saloons of the city as a 'marker.'"  (A marker was a scorekeeper.)  But for some time, the 60-year-old bachelor had been out of work and in poor health.  The newspaper reported on October 11, "not far from nine o'clock yesterday morning he raised up in bed, and, with a razor in his possession, cut his throat, and after throwing the weapon away, fell backwards on the pillow and soon died from hemorrhage."

Before the end of the year, Hugh Moore leased the house.  He assuredly knew William T. A. Hart professionally.  He was the superintendent of Calvary Cemetery and was on the Board of Trustees of St. Patrick's Cathedral.  He and his wife had one daughter.

It was not until the spring of 1873 that the city began paving the Mulberry Street block.  On April 1, Hugh Moore looked out his window to see Patrick McHugh (described by the New York Herald as a "stalwart-looking man") pull his cart to the curb and begin loading it with granite paving stones, known as "Belgian blocks."  Moore rushed off to find an officer and McHugh was arrested.  He had driven off with 300 blocks, prompting the New York Herald to call his crime "a heavy larceny."

As the Harts had done, the Moores took in boarders.  In 1874, Edward McGrath and Julia J. McGrath, possibly siblings, lived here.  Julia was a teacher in the primary department of Grammar School No. 27, and Edward was a policeman.

On the warm Saturday afternoon of August 15 that year, the 28-year-old cop took Kitty McGuire, who lived at 75 Mott Street, to the beach on Long Island.  The pair seems to have become victims of an undertow.  The following day, The New York Times reported, "It appears that McGrath and the young lady went in bathing together and got beyond their depth and were drowned before aid could reach them."  Their bodies had not been recovered at the time of the article.

In October 1884, the James Hart's children sold 261 Mulberry Street to George J. Kenny for $6,000 (about $192,000 in 2024 terms).  He continued to lease the house to Hugh Moore until 1891, when Moore and his wife moved to 157 East 51st Street.

It was George J. Kenney who hired architect B. W. Berger in January 1897 to make alterations to what was now being described as a "three-story brick tenement."  (The term meant that multiple families lived here.)  It was most likely at this time that the heavy stone enframement was placed around the delicate Federal doorway and cast metal lintels--absurdly out of proportion with the windows--were installed.

Mulberry Street was as much playground as thoroughfare in 1941 when this photo was taken.  The 1890's fire escape was demanded by the tenement laws.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

The family of John A. O'Brien moved into the renovated house.  O'Brien was highly involved with Old St. Patrick's Cathedral (the new cathedral uptown was dedicated in 1879) and headed its charity department.  In its annual report for 1897, the State Department of Charities said that 62 "persons without homes [were] afforded general relief during the year" by the institution.

The O'Briens left 261 Mulberry Street in 1902 when the families of Theodore Palumbo and Robert C. McNally moved in.  Both men worked worked for the city.  Theodore and Eliza Polumbo had at least two daughters, Mary and Theresa.  Living with Robert and Mary McNally was Robert's widowed mother, Catherine.  She died here on November 30, 1903 at the age of 76.  

In 1909, Robert McNally was appointed to fill the position of attendance officer of the New York City Schools.  His promotion came with a $900 salary--about $31,000 today.

There would be two more funerals in the Mulberry Street house.  Mary T. McNally died on December 9, 1910, and Mary Polumbo's funeral was held here on March 13, 1917.  (Interestingly, Theresa Polumbo was listed as an attorney by then.)

The house was sold in April 1938.  It was operated as a rooming house for decades before being converted to apartments--one per floor--in 1960.  It was most likely at this time that the somewhat clunky enframement that attempts to mimic a Federal example was fabricated around the elegant surviving doorway.

photographs by the author

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The Lost Metropolitan Police Headquarters - 300 Mulberry Street

 

from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1854 the infamous Tammany Hall politician Fernando Wood was elected mayor.  He immediately initiated a system of open corruption in appointing and promoting officers within the Municipal Police Department.  The state, however, did not stand idly by.  On April 15, 1857 the Metropolitan Police Act was signed into law by Governor John King.  This effectively disbanded the old Municipal Police Department and took policing out of the hands of Wood.   Corrupt cops were dismissed and while others, were reinstated.

While the Metropolitan Police Department initially took over the old headquarters at 413 Broome Street, plans were almost immediately laid to erect a new structure.  In 1862 property was acquired on the east side of Mulberry Street between Bleecker and Houston Streets.  Construction on the new building was completed in January the following year.

Four stories tall above a high basement level, the headquarters was faced in gleaming white marble.  Gas lamps with green glass panels atop the stoop newels identified the building, especially at night.  The Italianate design featured a rusticated base with arched openings and an impressive entrance flanked by engaged Corinthian columns that upheld an entablature.  It was crowned by a swan's neck pediment with a shield carved with the date of construction.  Each of the upper floors was delineated by a stone bandcourse, and the windows on prominent molded sills were fully enframed.

The department moved into the new building at 300 Mulberry Street in two stages--the Board of Police Commissioners settling in first during the second week of February.  On February 25, The New York Times reported, "Yesterday the entire department was removed, consisting of the office of the detective police, the telegraph office, also that of the Superintendent, the Inspectors of Police and the rendezvous for lost children."

The article was quick to point out that construction costs had been covered by the Contingent Police Fund, and "thus the New-York public will not be directly taxed for the expense of the erection and fitting up of this fine four-story marble front building."  The writer noted, "The entire building is arranged with especial deference to the wants and conveniences of those connected with the Police Headquarters, and reflect much credit upon the architect."

from Valentine's Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1868, (copyright expired)

The opening of the headquarters took place during the height of the Civil War.  Less than four months later, on  July 11, 1863 the nation’s first attempt at a military draft played out in New York with a lottery.  When the first 1,200 chosen names were published, it was obvious that they were overwhelmingly from the city’s poor and immigrant population—the wealthy had either bought exemptions or used their political power to circumvent the draft.  The result was the Draft Riots—a three-day reign of terror and carnage unlike anything seen in the country before.  As worded by Police Commissioner John G. Bergan, "riot, robbery, arson and murder, raged over the City." 

The police department battled the mobs alongside the National Guard.  In one case, Colonel Mott's men "had a contest with the mob in the vicinity of Gramercy Park," according to Police Commissioner John G. Bergan in a letter on July 28.   A sergeant was killed and the guardsmen, forced to retreat, "left the body among the enemy."  An "expedition" from Police Headquarters was assembled to recover the sergeant's body.

The city faced what could have been an equally disastrous incident the following year.  A group of Confederate conspirators devised a plan to burn New York City.  Members checked into hotel rooms across the city and committed synchronized arson, theorizing that the Fire Department, receiving multiple alarms from across the city, would be unable to attack all the blazes and the fires would spread ferociously.

Each terrorist piled the furniture and bedding in the center of his room, doused it with turpentine, and, having set it aflame, sauntered out of the building.  The first alarm sounded came at 8:43 on the evening of November 25 from the St. James Hotel.  Within minutes Confederate Army Captain Robert Cobb Kennedy had set Barnum’s Museum on fire.  Quickly fires were discovered in the St. Nicholas, the United States Hotel, the Metropolitan, Lovejoy’s and the New England Hotel.

Lumber yards were also torched.  And the Confederates' plan would have worked had it not been for the quick action of hotel employees.  Unbelievably, by dawn the fires had been extinguished.  

Now the police department was tasked with finding the perpetrators.  And only three months later the last of the four, Robert Cobb Kennedy, was in custody at 300 Mulberry Street.  The New York Dispatch said of him, "A more out-and-out rebel never lived."  The article said "to look upon his face as it rests in quiet," one could not imagine that he was "connected with the nefarious attempt to burn our hotels and places of amusement, and scatter desolation and death over our fair metropolis."

The New York Dispatch, February 19, 1865 (copyright expired)

The Metropolitan Police Headquarters was also the "rendezvous for lost children."  On July 8, 1865 the New York Herald reported that during the previous year 3,477 children were brought here. The article noted, "3,266 were there claimed, and the remaining 211 were sent to the Commissioners of Charities and Correction, there appearing no claimants for them."

Also housed in the building were the District Court Squads, which oversaw the various court district courts, the Sanitary Corps, and the Detective Department.  In the basement of the building was the nerve center for the police telegraph system.  On January 8, 1871 the New York Dispatch explained, "A network of telegraph wires encircles the city, all terminating at No. 300 Mulberry street."  There were between 75 and 80 miles of police telegraph lines in the city.  Transmissions could be sent to or received from each of the precinct stations, and Bellevue Hospital.  "This office is never closed, day or night, and is invaluable to the public in the recovery of lost property, strayed children, accidents, fires, and casualties," said the article.

Harper's Weekly, January 18, 1908 (copyright expired)

The corruption that had prompted the state to abolish the Municipal Police Department had never truly disappeared within the Metropolitan Police Department.  On August 9, 1901 The Evening World recalled, "The seeds of corruption, the seeds of decay, were in it from the beginning...But at least life and property were safe under 'the finest.'  And the strong, if corrupt, hands of the leaders of the force restrained the elements which they corruptly tolerated."

However, by 1895 the malfeasance was once again out of control.  Change would begin on May 6 that year with the installation of a new reform-minded Board of Police Commissioners, headed by 36-year-old Theodore Roosevelt.  Roosevelt and his commissioners initiated numerous reforms within the department.  

Before 1893 a nearly seamless addition had been added to the north.  Kings Views of New York City, 1893 (copyright expired)

Although the building had been expanded in the late 19th century, in 1901 Police Commissioner Michael C. Murphy pushed for a new headquarters, saying 300 Mulberry Street was "too old and too small and too far downtown."  By the following year, when the department had a new commissioner in John N. Partridge, the plan had gained momentum.  On September 12, 1902 Partridge announced he had selected a site for a new headquarters.  The Evening World reported he "suggests that the old Headquarters property be sold and that the amount realized be applied on the new building and property."

As the magnificent new headquarters building at 24 Centre Street was nearing completion in January 1908, Frank Marshall White titled his article in Harper's Weekly "The Passing of '300 Mulberry Street.'"  Comparing it to Scotland Yard for figuring "in history and fiction," he recalled the Draft Riots, the Orange Riots of 1871, and the famous officers--good and bad--who had worked within the building.  "It was at 300 Mulberry Street that Thomas Byrnes, at the head of the Detective Bureau, made an international reputation as thief-taker, and here that he originated the mysterious 'third degree' that has been the undoing of many a criminal since."  Other terms originated at 300 Mulberry Street, White recounted, were "gold brick," (and the "original gold brick is today among other relics of crime" at the building, he said), and "copper," meaning an officer.  At 300 Mulberry Street was displayed a collection of early copper badges. 

At midnight on November 27, 1909, Police Commissioner William F. Baker "pressed a key which switched all the telegraph and telephone lines" from 300 Mulberry Street to 240 Centre Street.  In reporting on the move, The New York Times remarked, "No other building in the city, probably, is richer in memories than 300 Mulberry Street.  It is famous all the world over."  The journalist recalled some of the renowned crimes solved there and the "noted criminals, murderers included, whose names are intimately associated with the hold structure."  Among the colorful names were "Red" Leary, "Humpty" Williams, and Liverpool Jack.

The venerable building was not totally abandoned, however.   The office of the Chief City Magistrate, the Traffic Court, the Probation Bureau, the Fingerprinting Department and the "old record room" continued to be housed here.

The Traffic Court had its most celebrated prisoner on June 7, 1921--baseball great Babe Ruth.  When word got out that he was being held in the detention room, "there was a rush for the 'jail' by court attendants, pretty girl stenographers and other baseball hero worshippers," reported The Evening World.  That portion of the building had to be shut off.  Things got tense as the clock ticked away and the slugger's case had not been heard and the 3:30 game time moved ever closer.

Ruth's uniform was delivered to 300 Mulberry Street and at 3:00 his two-seated roadster was sitting at the curb, running.  Finally, after being fined $100 for speeding, Ruth was set free at 3:45--15 minutes after the game began.  To ensure he made it to Yankee Stadium Magistrate McGeeghan rode along, presumably "to see that if he speeded he would do it within the law."

A memorable modernization occurred later that year on September 15, 1921.  The old gas lamps were removed, replaced by electric lamps.  The New York Herald noted that they had burned unceasingly for 59 years.

On January 6, 1922 a bronze tablet, designed by James E. Fraser, was unveiled in the third-floor office once used by Theodore Roosevelt.  The mayor, city officials, and prominent New Yorkers were in attendance, and the Police Glee Club provided music.  (The room would be officially dedicated as the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Room three years later, on March 14.)

Another department was added within 300 Mulberry Street in 1922 with the formation of the new Homicide Court.  On October 3, the day of its opening, Magistrate Frederick B. House said, "This court will be a clearing house for all kinds of fatal accidents and deaths, and will reach two of our greatest evils: the selfish, reckless driver, who is no better than a murderer, and the pistol carrier, or gunman."

During World War II the old building became headquarters for the city air raid wardens and the civilian defense office of the police department.  On January 10, 1942 The New York Times reported, "It is planned to give lectures to classes of 200 to 300 air raid wardens at a time in the new headquarters."

By the time photographer Cyrus Townsend Brady, Jr. took this photograph, the lampposts had been removed.  from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

The old Police Headquarters building was converted to a courthouse in March 1946.  Three new courts opened here, the Lower Manhattan Summons Court, the Lower Manhattan Arrest Court and the Downtown Traffic Court.  The days of honoring the former President within the building ended on May 10 that year.  The New York Times reported that Police Commissioner Arthur W. Wallander "turned over the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Room in the old Police Headquarters Building...to the Home Term Court."  The furniture, portrait of Roosevelt and the plaque were all removed.

Just three years later the venerable marble building was demolished for a parking lot.  For nearly six decades automobiles parked on the site, most of their owners never knowing the history that had played out there.  Then in 2004 a rather nondescript brick apartment building was erected on the site.

image via streeteasy.com

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The Lost 1841 Bohllken House and Store - 46 Spring Street

As boys in knickers play on the sidewalk and street, a roomer gazes down from an attic window.  A curious child is precariously perched in the window next to him.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

On November 16, 1841 the Post of New York reported on the upcoming auction of the "lot of ground...known as No. 46 Spring st."  The vacant plot ran 25 feet along Spring Street and 104 feet on Mulberry Street.  Before a year had passed the lot was filled with a wooden house and store.  The builder had created a no-nonsense structure which, curiously enough, wore a gambrel roof more expected in the Dutch houses of the previous century.

On October 12, 1842 the New-York Spectator reported that "the frame house and lot, No. 46 Spring street...sold for $3,300."  The amount would be equal to about $107,000 today.

The residents who made up the mixed population of the neighborhood came from a variety of countries.  Just two blocks to the north was Old St. Patrick's Cathedral, the congregation of which was predominantly Irish, but Germans also accounted for a significant percentage of the population.  

It is unclear if German immigrant John Bohlken was the initial purchaser of No. 46, but he lived and ran his grocery store here by 1853.  Bohlken and his wife, Catharine, had three children, Martin, Johannes (who also went by John) and Meta.  

Bohlken seems to have run a law-abiding operation.  On June 3, 1853 Assistant Alderman Thomas Whelan released a report on the retail stores in the district which sold alcohol.  It said in part:

It appears that in the Fourteenth Ward, during the past year, there have been about 380 places where liquor has been sold.  Of these about 360 were licensed.  Of the whole number, 13 were reported as disorderly [i.e., brothels], and 166 are family groceries.  Among these liquor sellers about 50 are Americans, 100 German and the remainder, say 230, are Irishmen.

Whelen listed John Bohlken as being among the non-offending operators.  

Bohlken's business did extremely well and in 1855 he opened a feed store in the adjoining building at No. 44 Spring Street.  In 1863 he moved his store to the west side, at the corner of Spring and Greenwich Streets.  The move triggered a rapid turnover of German-born grocery store operators at No. 46.

In 1863 it was run by Frederick Wandmacher.  Charles A. Misegaes took over in 1867 and three years later the store was owned by Frederick Schierhorst, and then by Frederick Kaupman in 1873.  Andrew Kehoe ran the grocery store from 1876 through at least 1880.

And then the Irish moved in.  In 1883 Mullen & McCarthy paid the $30 fee for its excise, or liquor, license.  It was a significant cost of business, almost $800 today.  The turnover continued with Joseph O'Leary operating the commercial space in 1887.  Two years later Mary McGuire had an entire new storefront installed.

The change in the demographics of the neighborhood was again reflected in the storekeeper's names.  The same year that Mary McGuire updated the store, Carlo Ciani got a license to run a sidewalk "newspaper, periodicals, fruits and soda-water" stand.  And in 1890 Joseph Cayo was listed as store owner on the excise license.

As the years passed, the residents of the upper floors and the patrons who came and went through the grocery store seem to have been well-behaved, working class citizens.  In 1895 and '96 Henry Schnepp was operating the sidewalk stand formerly run by Carlo Ciani.

An interesting side note occurred in 1901.  All three of John and Catharine Bohlken's children were deceased and the couple was living in a large apartment on West 14th Street.  The New York Herald called him "a wealthy retired grocer" and "a German of the old, shrewd type, who made his fortune in the early days of the city."  Bohlken had saved up his money and upon his retirement around 1880, he "invested about $150,000 in stocks and mortgages, and spent the remainder of his days in what was evidently quiet and happiness with his wife."

On September 1, 1901 John fell ill.  He died ten days later.  The New York Herald commented, "Mrs. Bohlken felt the blow deeply.  There were no children and she was left alone."  And Catharine was about to get a second blow.

John's two nephews, Frederick and George N. Bohlken, who lived in the Bronx, were also grocers.  When the will was read it revealed that he had left nearly his entire fortune to them.  Catharine received "but a small allowance for the remainder of her life."  The Herald commented "There is no suggestion that husband and wife were not on the best of terms, and this fact made her grief all the more poignant."

The building as it appeared on July 18, 1929.  From the collection of the New York Public Library

Catharine was unable to handle the double shock.  On October 9, 1901 The New York Herald reported "Grief and the sudden death of her aged husband and worry over the fact that he left her but a pittance of his fortune drove Mrs. John Bohlken to suicide.  Her body was found Sunday morning in the flat she occupied at No. 100 West Fourteenth Street.  All of the gas jets were turned on."

In the meantime the aging wooden building at the corner of Spring and Mulberry Streets survived into the Great Depression.  In 1932 For Sale signs were plastered on the storefront and by 1941 the site was a vacant lot.

The property is for sale in this 1932 photograph.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1954 the City of New York acquired the lot and the surrounding property by condemnation and assigned it to the Parks Department.  The John De Salvio Park (later renamed the DeSalvio Playground) was opened on December 15 the following year.

A Lost Relic - 47 Prince St

Despite advertisements slathered across its face, the building's former refinement was still evident in the 1920's.  Note the tenant in in the second floor window chatting with a woman on the street.  from the collection of the New-York Historical Society

By the time Mr. Benson moved his family to No. 47 Prince Street, on the northwest corner of Mulberry Street, the house had several tenants.  Built in the late 1820's or early '30's, the Federal-style building may have always had a shop in the ground floor.  While technically two-and-a-half stories tall, the exceptional height of the attic within the gambrel roof made that level nearly a full floor.  Tall dormers on the Prince Street elevation and an arched opening flanked by quarter-round openings on the Mulberry filled the attic floor with daylight.

Mr. Benson had been struggling with a difficult problem in the fall of 1843--three of his children had intestinal worms.  He found the cure, according to an advertisement in The New York Herald on December 19, at Apothecaries' Hall, No. 60 Prince Street just one block away.  The ad claimed "No Room For Doubt--Mr. Benson, 47 Prince street, cured three children with one 18 [cent] box of Kent's Worm Lozenges, after many other medicines had been tried without effect."

The house had originally been built for a merchant class family--possibly the owner of the ground floor shop.  It was 25-feet wide on Prince Street and an ample 80 feet deep on Mulberry.

But by now the neighborhood had noticeably changed.  The tenants were working class, as evidenced by an ad placed by two of them in November 1845. "Wanted--Situations by two Young Women--one as good plain cook, washer and ironer; the other as chambermaid, or nurse and seamstress...Apply at 47 Prince st, first floor, back room."

Over the next decades tenants--many of them women--would continue to struggle to find employment.  In December 1840 one sought a job as "Chambermaid and Seamstress, by a Protestant young Woman, or Chambermaid and to do the fine Washing and Ironing."  Another in March 1852 wrote "A Very Respectable Young Woman Wishes a situation to do chamberwork, and assist in the washing and ironing; she is a good plain sewer, and wishes to make herself useful; will take turns in the kitchen, if required."  And another, in the fall of 1862 marketed herself as "a first rate laundress" and sought "a situation in a hotel or boarding house."

Many of those out-of-work women were struggling Irish immigrants, typical of the changing face of the Prince Street neighborhood.  They eked out their hardscrabble existence in an increasingly rough environment.  That was evidenced on July 16, 1874 when The New York Times reported "Ann McGrath, aged forty-one, of No. 47 Prince street, quarreled yesterday evening with Peter Hughes...when Hughes struck her on the head with a glass causing three severe scalp wounds."  Ann was taken to Bellevue Hospital and her assailant was jailed.

Wealthy New Yorkers escaped the suffocating summer heat at their country homes, or at resorts like Newport.  Impoverished immigrants, on the other hand, suffered the heat at their work and in their rooms.  Each day during the hottest weather newspapers published lists of those who were "prostrated" or had succumbed.  On July 13, 1882 The New York Times added to its list: "William McNeil, a Scotchman, 35 years old, died suddenly at his residence, No. 47 Prince-street, from sun-stroke."

The former store space had been home to Michael Barry's saloon for several years.  Four months before McNeil's passing, Barry had relinquished the lease of the bar to one of McNeil's countrymen, George D. Noremac.

George's real surname was Cameron and he was a celebrity in the rabidly popular walking races; known in Scotland as "King of the Peds."  Early on, in order to stand out among other contestants, he changed his name by simply spelling it backwards.

On March 25, 1882 the New York Clipper noted that Noremac, "the noted young Scotch long-distance pedestrian" had taken the saloon "formerly kept by Michael Barry."  The newspaper felt his name would be beneficial to his new endeavor, saying "his exploits on the pedestrian path should operated to his advantage in business."

Once settled into the new business, Noremac brought his wife, the former Elizabeth Edwards, and their son and daughter from Scotland (they retained the name Cameron).  The family lived above the saloon, renting rooms to immigrant laborer John Ryan, a house painter, and to Noremac's trainer (who doubled as a bartender) George Beattie.

Noremac sponsored his own walking race later that year.  An announcement in the New York Clipper on December 9 read:

George D. Noremac,

47 Prince Street,

will give $125 in prizes for a GRAND 12-HOUR HANDICAP-RACE, limit 8 miles, go-as-you-please, at Wood's Athletic Grounds, Williamsburg, L.I., on Christmas day.  Entrance $3, to close Dec. 18, at the above address.

George poses in his walking gear.  original source unknown

Noremac took in a house guest in 1883, William Cummings another well-known walking racer.  The New York Clipper reported "This famous Scotch pedestrian...is due at this port to-day, June 6, on board the steamer Wyoming."  He had come to New York to participate in several races.  The newspaper noted "On landing in New York Cummings will take up his quarters with George D. Noremac of six-days, go-as-you-please notoriety, at his saloon, 47 Prince street, and there will have his abode a fortnight to get himself thoroughly in condition to fulfill his engagements."

("Six-day, go-as-you-please" races lasted 144 hours and participants could enter and exit the track at will, picking up where they left off after stopping to eat, sleep or rest.  Judges counted their laps and calculated the miles covered at the end of six days.)

Ten days later the same newspaper updated its readers on Cummings's training for his upcoming match against pedestrian William Steele of Pennsylvania.  Calling Cummings the "celebrated Scotch flyer," the "champion of England," and at "the pinnacle of fame," the article noted that he "has been accompanied in his practice-runs by his backer, Noremac, whose public-house at 47 Prince street he makes his headquarters."

On August 18, 1883 Noremac opened a second saloon, at No. 466 Eighth Avenue.  The family moved into the second floor of that location.  It would become a scene of horror.

George Beattie and Elizabeth did not get along well.  He was often drunk and and used abusive language to the other saloon workers.  And she told her husband Beattie was "a nuisance."

Less than a week after moving in, on Thursday August 23, Beattie entered the apartment knowing Noremac was in the saloon awaiting his breakfast.  The children heard a pistol shot, then another.  Elizabeth Cameron lay on the kitchen floor dead, next to the body of her murderer.

Exactly a year later, in August 1884, Noremac gave up the Prince Street saloon.  It was leased to the Williamsburgh Brewing Co.  Breweries commonly operated saloons in the 19th century; an arrangement which made it possible for them to sell only their own ale and beer.

Murto Moriarty and his wife lived in a single room in the house in 1890.  Early in the morning of July 28 he was awakened by noises in the darkness.  The Evening World reported "He jumped out of bed and collared Edward Reardon, seventeen years old...his brother-in-law, and Daniel Flannery, twenty-one years old."  They had stolen $2 from Moriarty's clothes before being caught.  Moriarty did not let family ties (nor his wife) influence his actions.  He had the teen and his accomplice hauled off to the Tombs Police Court.

James Curtin seems to have been working in the saloon in August 1894 when he sought a new position.  His ad read "Steady, sober waiter wants a job in a downtown lunch-room or restaurant."  Most likely the reason for his career move was his advance notice that the saloon was closing down.

Within months the ground floor space was home to Samuel Cohen's cigar shop.  He employed five men, two teen-aged boys, and two females (one in her teens) to make his cigars.  Cohen would remain until 1901 when Francesco Marchioni leased the space, converting it to a restaurant.  Marchioni's operation lasted seven years.  In 1904 he was paying $500 annual rent on the space, or nearly $1,200 per month today.

In March 1908 Gaetano Mangano took over the lease of the store, paying exactly twice the rent.  It was most likely he who converted the restaurant to a corner store where neighbors could purchase staples like cigarettes and flour.

Murad Cigarettes paid for visible signage above the Prince Street shop windows by the 1920's.  Life magazine, January 1905 (copyright expired)

In 1924 the end of the line for the old structure was on the horizon.  The corner store was boarded up and photographs show the upper floors apparently vacant.

The gritty personality of the Soho neighborhood is evidenced in this 1924 photo.  The corner store is boarded up.  from the collection of the New-York Historical Society.

Ten years later Berenice Abbott photographed the still-vacant building.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

The venerable building lasted just over a century.  Its replacement building was demolished prior to the mid-1960s, and the subsequent structure by Kevin Byrne Architects, P.C., was completed in 2017.