The 1932 John J. Sloane Mansion -- Nos. 48-50 East 92nd Street

photo by Alice Lum

In October 1930 John J. Sloane took title to two three-story Victorian brownstone houses at Nos. 48 and 50 East 92^nd Street.   Sloane was president of the W. &. J. Sloane company and a member of the socially prominent and extremely wealthy family that had amassed fortunes from the carpeting and decorating firm.   The family-owned company was among the foremost custom furniture makers, carpeting suppliers and interior design firms in the country.

The Sloanes lived ten blocks south at the time and joined other millionaires who were building restrained French and English mansions in the area.  Earlier that year Virginia Fair Vanderbilt had completed her grand limestone Louis XV-style mansion on East 93^rd Street, next door to the plot where William Goadby Loew was erecting his massive Regency-style home.

Like these, the Sloane mansion would be elegant and chaste—a distinct departure from the overly-ornamented confections of a generation earlier.  Architect James C. MacKenzie Jr. was commissioned to replace the two middle-class brownstones with a 40-foot wide residence worthy of London’s Mayfair district.

photo by Alice Lum

Completed in 1932, the five-story, plus penthouse, limestone-clad residence oozed cultivated taste.  Sitting aloofly behind a tall wrought iron fence on a marble wall, its architectural decoration was understated and refined.   Four stylized Corinthian pilasters defined the first floor which was accessed by a short flight of three marble steps.  The fifth floor, according to the Department of Buildings, was devoted to servants’ quarters.

In 1886, through funds donated by William D. Sloane and his wife, Emily Thorn Vanderbilt Sloane, the Sloane Maternity Hospital had been founded.  Childbirth in the 19^th century was a significant risk and infant mortality rates were high.  The Sloane family's tradition of combating the problem continued through Mrs. John Sloane.

President of the Maternity Center Association, which was founded in 1918 to reduce extreme maternal and infant mortality rates, Mrs. Sloane immediately opened the new house for her charity work.   One of these events she may have later regretted.

On the afternoon of January 22, 1933 she hosted a reception for the cast members of the play “Evensong” which would stage a performance for the benefit of the Association.    Among the guests was British actor Frederick Manthorp who lived in a furnished room at 265 West 81^st Street.  When Manthorp later attempted to extort $2000 from Mrs. Sloane by threatening to murder her, his plan failed miserably.  The intrepid Mrs. Sloane went to detectives and the actor was arrested and held at $10,000 bail.  He explained that he merely “sought money to aid his destitute parents.”

In addition to the 92^nd Street house, the Sloanes maintained a country estate, Pastureland, in Far Hills, New Jersey.  A month after they gave a dance there for “members of the younger set” in anticipation of daughter Grace Elsie’s debut, Mrs. Sloane hosted an afternoon reception at No. 48.  That event was significant for the family, for not only was Grace Elsie introduced to society, but her cousins Alma Nicoll and Elizabeth Nicoll Lawrence were as well.

photo by Alice Lum

One of the most memorable events in the house occurred in 1938 when John was made a member of the French Legion of Honor during a dinner.  The award was presented by Count Rene Doynel de Saint-Quentin, the French Ambassador to the United States.

Unlike the society dinners and balls thrown by Sloane’s turn-of-the-century relatives, affairs in the 92^nd Street house were most often charity affairs.  In addition to the Maternity Center, one of the favored causes was the Union Settlement that worked to educate and assist underprivileged youths.   On April 13, 1943 the Sloanes hosted a concert in the house “to advance the musical education work” at the Settlement, as The Times reported.

Musicales, teas, dinners and receptions were slowly coming to an end here, however.

After Grace Elisie was married to Cyrus Roberts Vance in 1947 the house was, perhaps, a bit too much for the Sloanes.  A few years later, in 1953, the house was turned over to Mrs. Sloane’s most passionate cause, the Maternity Center Association.  The house was renovated as headquarters, with one-family apartments on the fifth and penthouse levels.  The Association worked from the house for half a century, producing the first film on family life and sex education, which was nominated for an Academy Award, publishing pamphlets and guides on childbirth and establishing a nurse-midwife school.

photo by Alice Lum

In 1996 the house was sold to George McFadden of the McFadden Brothers investment firm for $5.5 million.  After McFadden and his wife, Carol, did a multi-million dollar renovation, the mansion was returned to a single family residence.

The interiors, after years of being used by the Maternity Center then renovated into a single family home, would be quite unfamiliar to Mrs. John Sloane -- photo theelitedaily.com

In March 1998 the couple put the house back on the market and it caught the eye of filmmaker Woody Allen.  Allen, 63-years old at the time, was said to have realized his 4,000 square foot duplex penthouse on Fifth Avenue was too small for him, his 28-year old wife Soon-Yi-Previn and their newborn Bechet Dumaine Allen.   Allen paid $17.7 million for the Sloane house in August 1999.

John Sloane’s sedate English mansion was for sale again in 2012 with the somewhat jarring price tag of $43.1 million.  The exterior remains pristinely preserved; an reminder of a time when the fabulously rich built incredible homes in the midst of the Great Depression.

The Endearing 1827 Houses at Nos. 18 and 20 Christopher Street

photo by Alice Lum

In 1825 the streets of New York were overcrowded and unsanitary.  Two years earlier the city had endured a yellow fever epidemic and now doctors noticed an outbreak of another terrifying disease: cholera.

Within two years there was a full-scale epidemic and by July 1832 thousands were dying.

Following a trend begun with the first crisis, panicked citizens with the means to do so fled northward.  The New York Evening Post wrote “The roads, in all directions, were lined with well-filled stagecoaches, livery coaches, private vehicles and equestrians, all panic-struck, fleeing the city, as we may suppose the inhabitants of Pompeii fled when the red lava showered down upon their houses.”

The doorway at No. 20 retains its original 8-paneled door, handsome carved framing and overlight -- photo by Alice Lum

The wealthiest of these frightened refugees headed to the Bloomingdale area at the northern end of the island. Most went as far as the Village of Greenwich where the country air was clean and safe.

A flurry of building resulted in Federal-style homes ranging from modest working-class dwellings to refined brick mansions like Samuel Whittemore’s imposing residence.

The 19th century renovations resulted in charming, country store-like storefronts -- photo by Alice Lum

In the earliest days of the development, builder Daniel Simonson constructed two frame houses at Nos. 18 and 20 Christopher Street.  Completed in 1827, the little two-story buildings were faced with brick. Entrance doors, set to the side, were ornamented with unpretentious Federal details – fanlights and delicate side columns.

Unlike the prim, formal dormers of their neighboring houses, these boasted ambitious grouped dormers.  The AIA Guide to New York City would later describe them as “superdormers;” giant, arched structures that encompassed several windows each and offered nearly a full-floor of usable space in otherwise cramped garrets.

After taking this shot in June 1933, photographer P. L. Sperr wrote on the reverse "18-20 are especially prized for their quaintness."  -- photo NYPL Collection

Before the turn of the century both houses were converted to accommodate commercial space on the first floor. The front walls were knocked out and in their place wood-and-glass storefronts were installed; what the authors of “One Thousand New York Buildings” describe as “perhaps the most charming to be found anywhere in New York…Their show windows and doorways are sheltered under unusual hoods.”

In 1934 shutters adorned the second floors and the large dormers had just begun to sag -- Photo NYPL Collection

Sleepy Greenwich Village changed slowly, but the old-fashioned houses at Nos. 18 and 20 Christopher barely changed at all.  In 1924 the Department of Buildings described both as having a store and “non-housekeeping apartments” above.

Fantastic details include the sunburst in the "superdormer," delicate paneled pilasters framing the dormer windows, and carved brownstone lintels, now painted -- photo by Alice Lum

Nearly two centuries after being built, these two picturesque remnants of a nearly-forgotten period in Greenwich Village remain. The weary-looking over-sized dormers sag backwards with age, perhaps adding to their charm.

Throughout the past few years the Department of Buildings has fought the owners’ attempts to alter the buildings. Somehow, however, the two little houses remain, if not untouched, much-loved.

The Lost 1836 Astor House Hotel -- Broadway at Vesey Street

photo Library of Congress

Through his fur trade the original John Jacob Astor had amassed a fortune of nearly a quarter of a million dollars by 1800.  But it was his genius in real estate that would make him the first multi-millionaire in the country.

During the Revolutionary War the Bull's Head Tavern sat on Broadway, on the block just north of St. Paul’s Chapel.   The area was open and mostly undeveloped and the grounds around Adam Vanderburgh’s tavern were shaded by spreading trees.

As the city inched northward the tavern disappeared, replaced by fine brick homes of New York’s wealthy.   Astor owned one of these, at the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street, which he advertised for rent in The New York Gazette in 1813.  The ad doubtlessly infuriated his elite neighbors.

To let, for one or more years, a pleasant situation and an excellent stand for a drygoods store, the corner house of Vesey Street and Broadway.  Inquire of John Jacob Astor, corner of Pearl and Pine Streets.

As the years passed Astor envisioned a grand hotel on this most fashionable of blocks.  In 1830 he began purchasing his neighbors’ mansions—John Rutherford’s home; the house that had belonged to British officer Colonel Axtell then home to Lewis Scott; and Senator Rufus King’s mansion.   Finally he had them all except John G. Coster’s house.

Coster was not only quite wealthy, he was very attached to his corner home and had no intentions of selling it.    Finally, out of frustration, Astor approached Coster with an offer he could not refuse.  If Coster would produce two friends, Astor would choose one of them to put a value on the Coster property.  Whatever that amount was Astor would add $20 thousand to it and write a check on the spot.  John Coster agreed and Astor was forced to pay $60,000 for the house—about $1.7 million today.

Astor’s friends cautioned him about building a hotel on the site.  According to The New York Times years later he was admonished “It can never be a success.  It is altogether too far uptown.”

But Astor was unmoved.   On April 4, 1834 Philip Hone wrote in his diary of “the pulling down of the block of houses next to that on which I live—the whole front from Barclay Street to Vesey on Broadway—where he is going to erect a New York ‘palais royal,’ which will cost him five or six hundred thousand dollars.”

The cornerstone was laid on the Fourth of July that year.  It was a momentous event with the mayor, Cornelius W. Lawrence, presiding and the militia parading up Broadway to the site.  A silver tablet bore the names of John Jacob Astor and the architect, Isaiah Rogers.  Inside was a picture of Lafayette, a picture of New York and copies of the newspapers of that day.

Construction of the mammoth hotel would take four years and cost around $400,000.   On June 1, 1836 the doors opened to the public and the lavish hotel made news as far away as England.  A London newspaper called it “A model of architectural beauty and of massive grandeur, luxurious and elegant in its appointments.”

In 1850 the Broadway neighborhood around the Astor House was still quiet -- Library of Congress

The Astor House was a near copy on a grander scale of the earlier, fashionable Trement House, also designed by Rogers.  Railroad and Steamboat Companion remarked that it was built “in a remarkably massive style, simple and chaste.”  Five stories tall, it was built of Quincy granite—a bluish stone that was also used in a nearby prison—with a Greek Revival entry.  The choice of material would be questioned by many; Putnam’s Magazine complaining that it “looks more like a penitentiary than a hotel.”

The opening was attended by press from Baltimore, Boston, Philadelphia and other cities.  The New Yorker said the interior was of a “style of unostentatious richness and severe simplicity.”  Custom-made black walnut furniture sat among marble columns on blue-and-white marble mosaic floors.  A New York reporter remarked that New Yorkers must now know how Romans felt when they first saw the completed Coliseum.

The hotel introduced travelers to the most modern innovations.    At a time when most houses still relied on candles, it had its own gas manufacturing plant that supplied gas lighting throughout.   The New York Constellation reported that “The house was lighted by this gas everybody is discussing.”   The unfamiliar technology proved a bit dangerous to some guests.   Rather than turn off the gas jet, these visitors would blow out the flame, as they would a candle, with the result that several guests were asphyxiated in their sleep.

A steam engine in the basement ran a pump that provided water to all floors and powered machinery in the kitchen and laundry.   Reservoirs in the attic provided running water to 17 bathing rooms and two showers.  Each floor had hot and cold running water as well as water closets.  The indoor plumbing alone was considered miraculous.

In the basement was a printing press for the printing of daily menus.  There was an innovative system of bells and individualized door locks.  For gentlemen guests there was a grand dining room 108-feet long and smaller elegant dining rooms for women and their male escorts.  The hotel offered a reading room, a bar room, an oyster cellar, smoking rooms, barbers, hairdressers, a drugstore, tailors and boot makers.

There were around 360 rooms in the hotel which prompted The New Yorker to ponder on November 25, 1837 “On Wednesday night 647 persons slept in Astor House, and bye the bye, were not crowded.  How many villages are there in this country that make considerable show that do not contain this number?”

A decade after opening, Astor made a change in the hotel that would have long-lasting effects.  The central courtyard with its fountains and trees was enclosed under a great rotunda.   Here a richly carved bar was installed and the Astor House’s “free lunch” was served to generations of working New Yorkers.

In 1899 the rotunda was still the preferred luncheon spot for businessmen -- NYPL Collection

In 1848 rooms at the Astor House cost $2 per day.  It was around this time that Englishman William Chambers stayed here.  Dazzled, he wrote “An American hotel is not a house:  it is a town.”

The Astor House was the preferred hotel for celebrities, politicians and writers as well as the well-heeled traveler.  On February 16, 1853 President-Elect Franklin Pierce arrived at the Astor House.  He had notified the manager, Charles Stetson, that he wanted no excitement, reception or crowds.  The New York Times noted “He expressed himself in plain terms on this subject, and said if his desire was not complied with, he should take the first train South, en route to Washington.”

Pierce’s name would be added to the list of White House residents to stay at the Astor House:  Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, James Garfield, James Polk, Martin Van Buren among them.  The Prince of Wales, the Grand Duke Alexis, the Prince de Joinville, Louis Kossuth, Horace Greeley and Admiral Farragut were guests.  Sam Houston, Jefferson David, Henry Clay and Charles Dickens slept here.

When Jenny Lind stayed here, adoring crowds unleashed the horses from her carriage and pulled it from Castle Garden to the hotel by hand.

But Daniel Webster was perhaps the name most closely associated with the hotel.   Webster would stay at no other hotel and Stetson always vacated the finest suite in the house upon hearing of his arrival.   Webster wrote to a friend in 1849 "If I were shut out of the Astor House I would never again to go New York.”  Throughout the years Webster never paid for his rooms—a parlor, dining room and bedroom--despite his repeated attempts.

It was here in 1852 that Webster received the news that he had been defeated for the Whig candidacy by Millard Filmore.  Still wearing his dressing gown and slippers, he told the delegates John C. Calhoun and Silas Wright, “Gentlemen, my public life is ended…When perilous times come to you as come they will you will mourn in bitterness of spirit your craven conduct and your base ingratitude.  Gentlemen, I bid you a good-night.”

The following day Webster said good-bye to Charles Stetson.  According to The New York Times he said “Farewell, old friend.  We have known and loved each other for more than thirty years.  You will find a little present from me in the office.”  Two weeks later Daniel Webster was dead.

Charles Stetson would have no one else sleep in the suite of rooms used by Webster.  He turned two of the rooms into a ladies’ dining room and took the bedroom for himself.

Harper's Weekly published a drawing of Lincoln addressing the crowds in 1861 from the entrance pediment.

By the time of the Civil War, Broadway had become a bustling commercial area; but the Astor House remained.  In 1866 Miller’s New York As It Is remarked that “although so many others have arisen since, this well-appointed and extensive establishment still retains its high position.”

The hotel had been updated in 1862, including an elevator.   The Times reassured readers that “Otis’ improvements render this mode of traversing the lofty stories of the Astor House as safe as it is agreeable cutting off every conceivable chance of harm from the breaking of any part, by means of self-acting stops and the safety drum at the top.”

Large windows were cut in the facade at the top floor and the furnishings and decorations updated.  The New York Times raved about the improvements.  "But gorgeous as are the frescoes and gilding, to our mind no art can rival the rich effects and infinite variety of Nature, displayed in the grain of choice woods on the walls of the principal drawing rooms."  Writing of the "six or eight rich woods," the reporter praised "the grains of which are utterly inimitable by art, and until this very season had been of too extravagant cost for practical use."

In 1906 a “ghost dance” was held in the ballroom.  The ball celebrated the early days of the hotel and only those families who were around in the 1830's were included.  “Its invitation list is to include the old-line aristocracy of New York, and its tone is to be exclusive,” said The New York Times.  The guests, including Roosevelts, Hamiltons, Fishes, Clintons, de Peysters, Schuylers and Schermerhorns, were instructed to wear only costumes from 1836.

The grand entertainments and the luncheons under the rotunda would not last much longer.  On May 3, 1913 signs were posted in the corridors announcing that the hotel would close on Thursday, May 29.   The hotel was owned by feuding cousins William Waldorf Astor and Vincent Astor—Vincent owning the southern half and William the northern.  Vincent Astor had sold his share of the property when impending subway excavations threatened its stability.  Obviously, the other half would have to go as well.

Albert C. Kaufmann had been head waiter of the hotel for nearly 45 years when the notice was made.  He reminisced to a New York Times writer about the notable men he had served.  General Grant had a favorite table overlooking St. Paul’s and had a “weakness for roast beef.”  Chester A. Arthur preferred lamb chops and Grover Cleveland’s favorite was mutton chops.  Like Grant, Garfield always ordered roast beef.

The auction of the hotel's contents was advertised across the facade in 1913 -- photo Library of Congress

On May 29 Vincent Astor received a petition with over 5,000 signatures; a desperate plea from New Yorkers to save the venerable hotel.  Astor was unmoved.

“Despite the petition, however,” said The New York Times, “the old hostelry, bar and restaurant were closed at midnight last night and it was said that it was for the last time.  Every patron was turned out.”

On June 10 the auction of the furnishings began.  Along with the items was the 108-year old Chinese bridal bed, a famous fixture of the house.  Carved of ivory with inlaid wood, it was said to have originally cost $2,500.

Crowds rush by in December 1913 as a piece of American history is destroyed -- photo Library of Congress

By the end of the year the monumental granite walls of the old Astor House were demolished.    New Outlook regretted the loss saying, “Thus the old Astor House, always a hotel famed for good cooking and cheer, has been something more than a mere hotel.  It has become a historic part of the metropolis; it has also become embodied in the Nation’s history.  Its passing will be regarded with real regret.”

The 1878 House of Industry -- No. 120 West 16th Street

In March of 1850 a group of approximately fifty wealthy women met in a hotel to discuss the plight of indigent females.  Among them was Catharine Beecher who urged that the best way to help these women was not to dole out money which would soon be spent; but to train them to earn their own income.  She advocated the establishment of sewing classes.

“Where is trained handicraft more important than in making, mending, and preserving the clothing of a family?” she asked. 

From this meeting the House of Industry was founded.  It was a startling concept.   Society women at the time tended to donate their time and money to religious outreach projects in an attempt to relieve the poor.  Charities that focused on the training and education of the poor would not become widespread until the social reform movement late in the century.

The idea of needlework classes for impoverished women trying to improve their lot worked nicely for the founders, as well.  It conveniently kept their hands unsullied by those other uncomfortable social problems: prostitution and drinking.

One of the original leaders of the institution was Catharine Maria Sedgwick, an author.  After she published a moving appeal for donations, money poured in.  The charity touted its noble cause “to afford to infirm and destitute females employment in needlework” and to “lighten the burden of poverty and to lessen the chances of vice.” 

By the end of April 1851 the group had enough money to rent a small wooden house at 120 West 16^th Street.  The owner, Samuel Shaw Howland, offered to sell the house for $7,000 or to rent it at $450 a year.  The women chose to rent; however they had to find a man to lease the house for them.  Howland was unwilling to contract business with a “society of mere women,” so the House of Industry was forced to sublet.

Later that year the House of Industry was incorporated and by 1852 had accumulated $20,000 in donations—nearly half a million dollars by today’s standards.  No doubt with no small amount of satisfaction the women purchased the house from Howland for about $16,000 two years later.

The House of Industry was not merely a training place.  The needy women were actually employed by the school.  Once they were adept at their needlework, they became part of the workforce of the institution and received money for what they produced.

Realizing that bulk orders would bring in more income, the managers regularly knocked on the doors of hospitals, asylums, schools and other institutions that required bedding, uniforms, gowns and related items.  Because the goods could be obtained at a significantly lower price than commercially-manufactured goods, they were especially attractive to the buyers.  An in-house store was initiated for “every article from an iron holder to a woman’s dress or a man’s wrapper,” according to a later annual report.

In addition to this “house-work,” the more proficient sewers were given “fine ordered work” to do.  Orders were taken for embroidery, braiding, bridal ensembles, quilting and other more intricate work.

Not everyone who applied was accepted into the school.  If a women was deemed able to work for “service,” in other words as a maid or cook, she was denied. 

The Chelsea neighborhood around the school at the time was populated with respectable middle class families, not all of whom appreciated having the waifs and scruffy women going to and from the institution along their street.  In 1871 the Girls’ School counted 203 children on the roll with an average attendance of 75 per class.  The New York Times reported on November 28 of that year, however, that the school “has experienced great opposition on the part of bigoted persons in the neighborhood, but has, notwithstanding, been very useful and shows a larger attendance than ever before.”  The article went on to say that the female benefactors “have contributed much to the happiness of the children.”

John Francis Richmond a year later praised the work of the socialites, perhaps exaggerating their emotional involvement just a little.  “The benevolent ladies who projected this Institution, and have nobly sustained it during twenty years, often amid difficulties that have caused them nights of sleepless anxiety, have performed a noble work that will never be forgotten.  They have raised the fallen, cheered the faint, and covered the naked with a garment.  They have carried bread to the homes of the famishing and the fatherless, and many times assuaged the sorrows of her who was ready to perish.”

By 1873 it was apparent that the bold experiment in raising indigent women to their feet through training and employment worked.  That year’s Annual Report noted that 250 women were working in their homes, assembling garments and other items from already cut goods.  The “fine ordered work” department had 35 expert sewers and the women took home over $4,000 combined income that year.

That year the Sewing School had an enrollment of 125 girls ranging from 6 to 16 years of age who met for classes twice a week.  Here they learned rudimentary sewing skills. 

By now there was also an Infant Industrial School for about 170 boys and girls whom the Annual Report termed “ragged, dirty and ill-fed.”   John Francis Richmond  in his “New York and its Institutions” remarked that  “A comfortable dinner is provided for them, and it is hoped that, by thus surrounding them for a few hours each day with elevating influences, they will be stimulated to self-help and self-respect.”

The Infant Industrial School was a constant financial drain on the House of Industry, however.  In 1877 the group approached the Children’s Aid Society for additional funding for the school.  After months of talks, Charles Loring Brace agreed to subsidize $1500 yearly on the condition that the school would garner subscriptions or donations of at least $700 a year.

By 1878 the House of Industry was among the favored charities of New York’s most elite socialites.  That year Mrs. Minturn proposed that Marion Anthon Fish, familiarly known as Mamie, be accepted to the Board of Managers.   One of the queens of Manhattan society, Mamie Fish was unanimously approved.  Her esteemed name was added to a membership list that read like a roll-call of the upper echelon of New York money:  Astor, Van Rensselaer, Livingston, Gracie and DePeyster among them.  Membership required more than money, however.  All the women were obligated to donate their time as well.

That year it became obvious that the old wooden house was no longer adequate.   Mrs. John C. Green donated $15,000 for the erection of a new building.   Before the year was ended, the old house had been demolished and a new up-to-the-minute brick structure built.

In 1884 Century Magazine published a sketch of the building, including one woman on her way to work (copyright expired)

Architect  Sidney V. Stratton designed a picturesque structure in the Queen Anne style that was just appearing in New York.  Because Stratton’s design is distinctly divided into two sections, at a glance it appears to be two separate buildings.  Just two stories tall over a shallow, stone basement, it oozes architectural charm.  The great, two-story stone oriel window of the eastern section steals attention from the more modest western half.  Stratton employed all the aspects of the new style:  terra cotta panels, multi-paned windows, a fish-scale slate roof and quaint pseudo-balcony.

The Sun described the new building as “quaintly designed” and “arranged with the especial view of facilitating the work of the house.”

Above two intricate brick-and-terra cotta panels, a carved stone tablet announces the name of the building and date of construction.

By 1887 the House of Industry was teaching over 100 youngsters in the sewing school.   There were about 150 women employed making over 12,000 garments a year including, according to The Sun, “jumpers, shirts, drawers, aprons, undergarments, calico dresses and wrappers.”  The fine-ordered department that year produced what the newspaper termed “some of the finest needlework in the city.”  “Many a fashionable bridal trousseau has been enriched by it,” the article said.

Obviously impressed with the work of the House of Industry, the Sun’s writer called it “An institution for the alleviation of the condition of the slaves of the metropolis.”

Today the two-story oriel with its fish scale tile roof and interesting angles and quirks still demands all the attention.

For a full century, until 1951, the House of Industry continued its mission at No. 120 West 16^th Street; what William Howe Tolman called in his 1902 “The Better New York,” “…not to give charity, but work.”  That year the institution merged with the Greenwich Village settlement house, Greenwich House and its focus changed to the needs of aged residents of Chelsea and Greenwich Village.

A Jewish charitable organization purchased the building in the 1950s.  In 1977 it leased it to the State of New York which subsequently purchased the property a decade later.  Today the New York State Office of Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities operates a residence for the not-for-profit Young Adults Institute here.  The YAI Network provides opportunities to people with developmental disabilities and their families—continuing the original purpose of the remarkable Queen Anne style building:  providing hope to the less fortunate of New York City.

non-credited photographs taken by the author

The Lost Barnum American Museum -- Broadway and Ann Street

P. T. Barnum created a gigantic billboard out of the facade with painted illustrations of the wonders inside -- sketch NYPL Collection

In 1810, John Scudder put on public display his collection of mounted animals, a live anaconda and alligator, and a gallery of paintings touted as “national portraits.”  A small room was used for lectures on various subjects.  Scudder devoted his life to his American Museum, which was housed in an old two-story structure on Chambers Street that had once been the city’s Almshouse.

The same year that the museum opened, a baby was born in Bethel, Connecticut.  Thirty-one years later that child and John Scudder would cross paths.

By 1835, when he was only 25 years old, P. T. Barnum ’s showmanship and marketing skills were becoming finely-honed.  He paid $1,000—an enormous sum—for the services of an elderly black woman, Joice Heth.  Handbills called her, “Unquestionably the most astonishing and interesting curiosity in the world.”

Heth was the "most interesting curiosity," said Barnum, because she was 161 years old and had been the nurse of George Washington.   The pair traveled through New York and New England and crowds jostled one another to see her.  Ticket sales amounted to approximately $1,500 per week.

Barnum was on his way.

In 1841, he purchased the contents of Scudder’s American Museum and moved the collection into an impressive building at at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street.  Barnum negotiated a payment plan with Scudder, agreeing to pay seven equal installments of $12,000.  Before the first year was out he had paid off the entire amount and grossed $400,000.

Barnum painted the five-story façade, turning it into a gigantic, gaudy advertisement with signs, banners and illustrations of the wonders inside.  Barnum continued Scudder’s educational exhibits; but he was well aware of what would draw the public in huge numbers: the strange and the spell-binding.  Little by little, he created a small zoo, a museum of historical items (the authenticity of which might have been questionable) like the trunk of the tree that shaded Jesus’ disciples and a hat worn by U. S. Grant, as well as new scientific instruments, a flea circus and a theater.

Well-dressed patrons stroll the among the cases in 1853 -- sketch NYPL Collection

A year after opening, in August of 1842, Barnum exhibited the immensely-popular Feejee Mermaid—what appeared to be a mummified or embalmed sea creature.  But it was young Charles Stratton who would make an even bigger impression.

That same year Barnum discovered the five-year old dwarf in Bridgeport, Connecticut.  He negotiated a deal with the boy’s parents for a four-week stint.  The boy was paid $3 per week along with board for the family.  Barnum taught him to dance a jig, recite poetry and perform scenes from popular plays.  If the four weeks were successful, promised Barnum, he would get an additional $7 per week.

Charles Stratton was advertised as being 11 years old and his name was changed to General Tom Thumb.  The public adored him and Barnum’s income rose substantially.  It was the beginning of a long-term business relationship and friendship.

Over the course of the next two decades Barnum would present Tom Thumb to President Lincoln, Queen Isabella of Spain, King Leopold of Belgium, Queen Victoria and other crowned heads.

  

In January 1843, Barnum added to the museum by purchasing the collection of the New York Museum, popularly referred to as Peale’s Museum.  Five years later he added the collection of the Chinese Museum in Philadelphia.  The Barnum Museum was now a considerable collection.

In addition to the museum space, there was a “Moral Lecture Room”—a comfortable theater where dramatic performances were staged.  It was in this hall that Barnum created another sensation.

In 1849, he contacted the opera star Jenny Lind who was famous throughout Europe and well-known in the United States through newspaper accounts.  He offered the diva $1,000 per concert if she would travel to New York and give 150 appearances at the Museum.  The singer asked Barnum how he could offer such a staggering amount to someone he had never heard sing.

“I have more faith in your reputation than in my musical judgment,” replied the showman.

When the Swedish Nightingale arrived in New York Harbor in September 1850, 30,000 people jammed the waterfront to meet the ship.  Barnum auctioned seats for the concerts.  Although she gave 93 concerts rather than the contracted 150, Barnum doubled her salary, paid all her expenses and still netted over $700,000.

In the Moral Lecture Room audiences saw Uncle Tom's Cabin and heard the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind -- sketch NYPL Collection

In the meantime, Barnum continued to lure the public with oddities and human curiosities—what 20^th century carnival showmen would call a freak show.  For their 25-cent admission, the public could gawk at Josephine Boisdechene, the original bearded lady (a card announced, “Visitors are allowed to touch the beard”);  William Henry Johnson, whose abnormally-tapered head earned him the show name of Zip the Pinhead; the Quaker Giant and Giantess; and, of course, the conjoined brothers Chang and Eng for whom the term Siamese twins was coined.

Barnum convinced 17-year old Anna Swan, a Quaker girl from Nova Scotia to join his group of human curiosities.  She became half of "The Quaker Giant and Giantess" and a leading attraction -- poster, Library of Congress

On June 19, 1850, the New-York Tribune reported on the opening play of the season at the Museum.  The theater had been closed for three months and the public was ready to be entertained.  “The opening of the American Museum,” said the article, “after being closed for nine weeks, was the signal for a rush, which crowded the new hall to its utmost capacity.  About three thousand persons were present, who witnessed the performance of the moral Drama of the Drunkard with repeated bursts of applause.”

Barnum addressed the audience after the play, explaining his museum and theater.  

I felt that this community needed and demanded at least one more place of public amusement, where we might take our children, and secure much rational enjoyment, as well as valuable instruction, without the risk of imbibing moral poisons in the chalice presented to our lips.

In 1853, Barnum staged Uncle Tom’s Cabin in the Lecture Room.  The ground-breaking play ran a full season and was brought back the following April.  The plays staged in the Lecture Room most often had a moral or social lesson, with titles like The Drunkard, The Sister’s Sacrifice and Joan of Arc.  In 1858, The Death of Eva was staged—a condensation of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

In 1854, Fanny Fern wrote in her “Shadows and Sunbeams” of the breadth of the museum’s collection:

It is possible that every stranger may suppose, as I did, on first approaching Barnum’s Museum, that the greater part of its curiosities are on the outside, and have some fears that its internal will not equal its external appearance.  But, after crossing the threshold, he will soon discover his mistake.

After listing many of the exhibits—“A Chinese criminal, packed into a barrel, with a hole in the lid, from which his head protrudes, and two at the sides, from whence his helpless paws depend,” and “snakes, insects, and reptiles of every description,” along with stuffed birds, a “scaly set” of creatures and “hideous monsters”—the author claimed that the entire museum could not be seen in one visit.

Time fails us to explore all the natural wonders gathered here, from all climes, and lands, and seas, by the enterprise of, perhaps, the only man who could have compassed it.  We turn away, leaving the greater portion unexamined, with an indistinct remembrance of what we have seen, but with a most distinct impression that the "getting up" of Creation was no ordinary affair, and wondering how it could ever have been done in six days.

Along with Fanny Fern, upwards of 15,000 visitors a day paid their quarter to see the museum.

The ultimate marketing genius, Barnum jumped upon the chance of a lifetime.  In 1864, a dozen native American chiefs were invited by the President of the United States to visit Washington.  Barnum spent an enormous amount of money to bring them to New York to spend time in the museum.

It was a delicate process.  If the proud chiefs of powerful tribes were to get the impression they were on display they would not agree.  The interpreter would not promise a definite time frame, saying “you can only keep them just so long as they suppose all your patrons come to pay them visits of honor.”

Barnum personally took them on stage and introduced them to the audience.  The chiefs had been informed that those in the audience were guests of an important man and that they themselves were the guests of honor.  The public, in the meantime, knew they were seeing real, authentic native American chiefs and willingly paid for the chance.

Barnum took the chiefs around town in a carriage, visiting public schools and presenting them to the Mayor.  The native Americans were awed by Central Park and the rows of substantial houses that lined the streets.  They got the better of Barnum, however; perhaps the only time in his life the showman was bested.

One chief took a liking to a colorful sea shell in a display case and offered to trade Barnum his shirt for it.  Barnum politely refused and handed the shell to the Indian as a gift.  Decades later Joel Benton, in his Life of Hon. Phineas T. Barnum, recalled, “Immediately they all commenced to beg for everything in the vast collection which they happened to take a liking to.  This cost Barnum many valuable specimens and often ‘put him to his trumps’ for an excuse to avoid giving them things which he could not part with.”

By 1865, the museum held one of the foremost collections in the country.  While accounts of today focus on the outlandish and perverse, Barnum’s American Museum also contained scholarly natural history exhibits and was well-regarded by the educated community.  The New York Times remarked, “Those of our citizens who thronged the Lecture-room of the Museum, to the neglect of the well-filled shelves in the many rooms, knew nothing of the capacities of the place for instruction and genuine edification.”

But on the afternoon of July 13 that year, it would all come to an end.  A defective furnace in the cellar of Groop’s restaurant, below the museum office, was discovered by an employee just after 12:30.   Within minutes, flames reached the lower floors of the museum.  Terror-stricken visitors rushed for the exits while firefighters and policemen rushed in.  The firefighters broke the large panes of glass of the live whale tanks in an effort to slow the flames.   The cases of live anacondas, pythons and other reptiles were overturned so the animals could at least attempt escape.  In the end, all the live animals perished—alligators, a kangaroo, a platypus and other creatures.

At 1:30, the Ann Street façade fell in with a thick cloud of dust and smoke that nearly blocked out the sunlight.  Fifteen minutes later, the Broadway front collapsed in three sections, one after another.  By 2:00, the fire had spread to six other buildings.

The fire was finally extinguished by 3:00.  In only two-and-a-half hours, ten buildings were burned to the ground and the Barnum American Museum was no more.  Egyptian antiquities, portraits of American leaders by artists like Rembrandt Peale, and irreplaceable historical relics were incinerated.

Newspapers reported that the smoke and dust clouds darkened the midday sky -- NYPL Collection

The New York Times lamented the end of an incomparable collection:  

No public institution in the country pretended even to rival the geological collection of the museum either in extent or value.  The conchological and ornithological departments were likewise extended in range, infinite in variety, and full of interest.  Birds of rarest plumage, fish of most exquisite tint, animals peculiar to every section, minerals characteristic of every region, and peculiarities of all portions of the earth, costly, beautiful curious and strange, were crowded on the dusty shelves of room after room, where they attracted the earnest attention and studious regard of the scholar and the connoisseur.

The article concluded, “All this has gone.”

The 1889 Gustavus Adolphus Swedish Lutheran Church -- No. 153 East 22nd Street

photo by Alice Lum

Along with the waves of German and Polish immigrants who were flooding the Lower East Side in the mid-19^th century were the Swedes.   Unlike the former groups, the Swedish immigrants tended to be pioneers, pushing westward in search of prairie land that could be cultivated into prosperous farms.

But for those who remained in Manhattan and established the Swedish community, a native-language church was needed.   In September 1865 the Reverend A. Andreen organized the Gustavus Adolphus Swedish Lutheran Church.   The small group worshiped for a time in St. James’ Evangelical Lutheran Church on 16^th Street before purchasing the Bethesda Baptist Church at Nos. 151 and 153 East 22^nd Street for $17,000 on July 29, 1866.

In the mid-1880s Swedish immigration was at its peak and the once-small congregation continued to grow.  In 1887, with membership at around 800 and attendance topping 1,500 at some services, a new church structure was planned. 

The 22^nd Street building was razed in May of that year and architects J. C. Cady & Co. were commissioned to design the new structure.  J. Cleaveland Cady had recently distinguished himself by designing the Metropolitan Opera House and the hulking Romanesque-revival wing of the American Museum of Natural History.  For the new church, Cady would again turn to Romanesque-revival; but his design would have a decidedly Gothic touch.

Cady clad the entire structure in rough-cut stone -- photo by Alice Lum

Five hundred people attended the laying of the cornerstone on December 11.  Within the cornerstone were placed a copy of Nordsijernan (the city’s Swedish language newspaper), The New York Times, and other newspapers from around the country.  Swedish and American coins were included as well.

On the left side of the cornerstone was the founding date, 1865, on the left a reference to 1st Peter 2:6 (See, I lay a stone in Zion, a chosen and precious cornerstone, and the one who trusts in him will never be put to shame)-- photo by Alice Lum

The New York Times promised that “The new building will be a handsome structure” costing around $60,000.    Dedicted two years later on May 12, 1889, it was just that.

Called a “solid-looking structure of gray stone” by The Times, it was clad in rough-cut Amherst Ohio stone.  The entrance doors sat within a dramatic and deep arched portico over which the rose window was centered.  It was the copper-clad steeple, however, that stole the show.

One hundred and fifty-five feet above the sidewalk, the tall, gaunt spire was visible for blocks away.   The steeple and the angular copper-trimmed dormer that pierced the pyramidal roof were evocative of the churches in the congregation’s homeland.

Inside, the church stretched 94 feet from the door to the altar, capable of accommodating 1,000 worshipers.   The New York Times commented that “The furnishings are all substantial and comfortable, and the decorations in good taste.”  Behind the pulpit was a painting of the Ascension.

photo by Alice Lum

By 1905 Gustavus Adolphhus Lutheran was among the leading Swedish churches in New York.   There were now 1,200 members and the two Sunday schools had an average attendance of 300.  A new organ had been recently installed and historian William Smith Pelletreau complimented the church that year saying “The mixed choir furnishes excellent music.”

The church offered social gatherings and help to the congregants with two Sewing Societies, a Young People’s Society, the Sick and Benefit Society and an Aid Society.  Once monthly a service was performed in English.

On September 1, 1907 the pastor of the church, Reverend Dr. Mauritz Stolpe, had the honor of conducting worship services aboard the Swedish warship Fylgia for Prince Wilhelm.  The arrival of the prince had already caused quite a stir among the Swedish-American population.  Over 6,000 crowded the pier at 86^th Street when the ship steamed in.  It was, after all, a rare opportunity said The New York Tribune for “these descendants of the Vikings to greet their ‘sailor prince.’”

photo by Alice Lum

Only three months later Reverend Stolpe announced to his congregation that King Oscar had died.  The entire Swedish community was plunged into mourning.  Although they were now Americans, the love and respect the Swedish-Americans held for the deceased monarch was deep.   Although there would be an official memorial by the Swedish Consul, Reverend Stolpe announced that “whatever was decided on later by prominent Swedish people, there would be a special service at his church.”

Stolpe would head the congregation of Gustavus Adolphus for 47 years, until 1937.  During this time the church experienced its grandest moment.  On May 27, 1926 the Crown Prince Gustav Adolf and Crown Princess Louise arrived in New York for a three-month visit of the United States.  While in Manhattan the royal couple attended services here on June 6.   They presented the church with a signed Bible and a chasuble—the outermost vestment worn by the clergy.

As the 20^th century progressed, the area changed from one of German, Polish and Swedish immigrants to a culturally and ethnically-mixed neighborhood.  In the 1970s the basement of the church became the Basement Coffee House where young locals could enjoy amateur performances.  New York Magazine remarked in 1972 “The Basement Coffee House at Gustavus Adophus Lutheran Church is usually jammed on Saturday nights.  Young folk singers trying to get a start in New York are the most frequent performers, and the shows are often excellent.  It’s mostly a student audience from all over the city.”

Today the sturdy stone church is notably unaltered; although services are no longer solely in German.  It is a striking remnant of an immigrant group that is often forgotten or overlooked.