The Blinn Memorial Methodist Episcopal Church - Lexington Avenue and 103rd Street

The Methodist minister Christian Blinn came to New York from his native Germany with a wife, a religious passion and a comfortable personal fortune.  In 1874 he recognized the need for a German-language Methodist church "for the accommodation of the German families in the vicinity of East Fiftieth street," as explained by the New York Christian Advocate.

Bishop James of the East German Conference appointed Blinn as pastor of the non-existent congregation and put him in charge of establishing it.  On March 10, 1876 the newspaper announced "After overcoming various difficulties in securing title, Mr. Blinn has purchased a very desirable site for the new church on Fifty-fifth street, east of Second Avenue, at a cost of $15,000 (a low price for the property,) and will immediately erect thereon a neat and commodious house of worship."

The total outlay, including the property, was projected to be $50,000--a little over $1.1 million today.  Blinn announced that he would personally foot the bill as a gift to the Methodist Episcopal Church.

In the meantime another German Methodist preacher was struggling to establish a ministerial school in Brenham, Texas.  Carl A. Urbantke opened his Mission Institute in the German Methodist Church with a class of three students in March 1883.  News of his difficult endeavor reached New York and Blinn contacted Urbantke, promising to pay the salary of an additional instructor and contributed $10,000 toward the construction of a two story school.

In November 1888 Rev. Christian Blinn traveled to Kansas City to attend the conference of the General Missionary Committee.  While there he fell ill.  The Annual Report of the Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church announced in January 1889 that he "was obliged by illness to remain in his place of entertainment.  He died at Kansas City the day after the adjournment of the committee, November 21 1889."

Blinn's will provided $3,000 each (nearly $82,000 today) to the Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church, the German Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the Mission Institute in Texas (which was soon renamed Blinn Memorial College).

Almost immediately plans were laid for a church in the upper section of Manhattan named in Blinn's honor.  On November 20, 1891 the newly-organized Blinn Memorial Methodist Episcopal Church paid $17,000 for the empty plot at the southwest corner of Lexington Avenue and 103rd Street. 

The land was part of a large tract previously owned by William H. Gebhard.  He placed deed restrictions on the plot, limiting its use to "a Protestant church or a private house."

The trustees were apparently confident in their negotiations because The Sanitary News had reported months earlier, on July 1, that Frank Wennemer had filed plans for the church and parsonage.  "The front will be of long meadow stone and Philadelphia brick."  The Record & Guide added that the cost would be $60,000 and "The church will be Gothic in style."

There was, in fact, little Gothic in the style of the completed structure.  Wennemer had drawn heavily from the German version of Romanesque Revival known as Rundbogenstil.  Hints of Gothic Revival appeared in the terra cotta detailing of the brick eyebrows over the arched openings, and in the engaged granite and terra cotta columns flanking the entrance.  The delicate arched brick corbel tables that outlined the upper facade and the bell tower softened the stern Germanic architecture.

At the time of the building's completion New York City was battling a nefarious problem: white slavery.  Heinous procurers preyed on indigent immigrant girls, snatching them from the streets and forcing them into prostitution.

The Blinn Memorial Methodist Church played a part in bringing down one such ring, headed by "a pickpocket under three or four aliases, the best known of which is that of Slimy Jake," according to The Sun on February 15, 1894.  Working with him was Nellie Martin.

The newspaper began its account saying "Josephine Thompson and Gertrude Franklin of Yonkers are back home now in the care of their parents, and ready to bear witness when the time comes against those who enticed them away."   When Josephine was just 12 years old she had worked at the Smith Carpet Works with Nellie Martin, then named Maginnis.  Following her marriage in 1889 Nellie resigned; but kept in touch with the girl by letters.

Josephine and her mother were surprised when Nellie Martin showed up at their flat two years later.   She invited Josephine to come downtown to live with her for "a little while."  Josephine later explained "I was only 13 at the time, and knew nothing of the world, and mother knew little more but we thought that it would be a good chance for me to see the city, so mother consented."  The girl's mother would not be able to find her for two years.

Josephine tried to write to her mother, but her letters were always intercepted.  Men came and went and the teen was, as described by The Sun, "plunged into immorality."


Nellie took Josephine to the home of Gertrude Franklin around February 1, 1894.  Gertrude was 17 years old and had been a friend of Josephine.  Nellie told the girl's mother that she and Josephine both worked as servants in a "good house" and could get Gertrude a job there.  Because everything seemed legitimate, Mrs. Franklin consented.

Once at Martin's 23rd Street flat Gertrude quickly realized her plight.  George Harrison, who also lived there, "betrayed" the girl.  But the sleazy trio had picked a feisty victim in Gertrude Franklin.  She was ill-educated and impoverished, but her mother had instilled strict Victorian moral values in her.

She told investigators that two weeks later they had not broken her spirit.   "I cried and threatened...I gave him no peace and kept taking on so that Tuesday he told me to get dressed.  Then they took me around the city for five or six hours, thinking to tire me out."

She saw her chance when they came to the corner of Lexington Avenue and 103rd Street.  She broke away from her captors and into the Blinn Memorial Church.  She refused to leave before Harrison married her.  "I had to tell the minister I was 20 years old before he would marry us," she said.

Gertrude later explained that "although I hate him" she was happy she married Harrison.  "I have got my certificate."  The 17-year old knew that without proof of marriage a girl who had lost her virginity had no hope of a later respectable marriage.

With her marriage certificate in hand, Gertrude stole money from Harrison's pocket in the night and fled.  Two weeks after her abduction, she appeared in court.  The Sun reported "She is a delicate girl, and she bore evidence in her appearance of the life she had led the past two weeks."

Her bravery resulted in the rescue of Josephine and the arrest of Slimy Jake and Nellie Martin.  George Harrison was still on the run when the case began.

After the outbreak of the Spanish-American War in 1898, Clara Barton headed to Cuba with 22 nurses, five cooks and two sea vessels loaded with supplies "sufficient for five or six months' use, and a complete equipment for a field hospital of 125 beds," as reported in The New York Times on August 5.  The congregation of the Blinn Memorial Church did its small part, donating $10 to the cause; about $300 today.

Like most churches in the city, Blinn Memorial arranged outings and activities for its members and children.  On May Day 1914 children filled Central Park, but according to The Times, "Perhaps the largest crowd of children" was from Blinn Memorial Church.  They marched from the church to the 99th Street entrance.  "German and American flags led the procession."  The newspaper noted that while popcorn and taffy vendors did a brisk business elsewhere in the park, vendors targeted their German customers here.  "A pretzel vendor stationed himself at the entrance through which the Germans passed and grinned delightedly at his sales for the day."

A gruesome incident occurred two months later.  The first years of the 20th century were marked by terrorist attacks by anarchist groups.  An unintentional, related explosion occurred in the tenement building at No. 1622 Lexington Avenue, next door to the church, on July 4. 

"Mike" Murphy was a member of the radical Industrial Workers of the World.  He had just arrived in New York and was staying in a three-room apartment on the top floor of the building.   He and the socialist revolutionaries who lived there set up a bomb factory.  The intended target was the Tarrytown, New York home of John D. Rockefeller.  But it all went very wrong when a massive explosion blew the entire facade of the building away.

The original pyramidal cap of the church's corner tower can be partially glimpsed in this photo of the devastation.  from the collection of the Library of Congress

Four were killed and seven injured in the blast.  The New York Times reported "Murphy was in the apartment at the time, and was blown, through wreckage and debris, a distance of two floors down."  Half clothed, he escaped.

The church bore gruesome witness to the carnage.  "On the roof of the Blinn Memorial Evangelical Lutheran Church...portions of a human body were found. These may be fragments of Charles Berg, the only other I.W.W. agitator known to have been in the apartment who has not been accounted for."

The newspaper reported that, miraculously, "its walls touching those of the house in which the explosion occurred, is the Blinn Memorial Church, the only building in the immediate neighborhood that was not appreciably damaged."

On January 13, 1927 newspapers announced that the church's trustees had petitioned the Supreme Court to remove the deed restrictions.  The Times reported "The petition discloses that the church wants to sell its property and establish itself elsewhere."  The church argued that the neighborhood was now filled mostly with commercial and tenement buildings and "is no longer desirable for a private dwelling."  Its attorney said "because of the change in the character of the neighborhood the congregation now is exceedingly small."

The church did not get its wish and the congregation limped along until 1930.  The building was taken over in 1931 by the Greek Orthodox Community of St. George.   That congregation had been located on 105th Street and Madison Avenue.  In 1935 the church merged with the Greek Orthodox Community of St. Demetrios, formed just eight years earlier.  Now known as the Greek Orthodox Community of St. George and St. Demetrios, the congregation purchased the church building for $32,000 in 1938.

The community room, accessed through No. 140 East 103rd Street, was severely damaged by a fire on March 12, 1946.  Responding firefighters battled the blaze for an hour before it was brought under control.

A substantial interior renovation was instituted in 1952.  The newly-assigned Megas Archimandrties Matthew Papavasilou (more easily addressed as Father Matthew) envisioned a "true Greek Orthodox Church" with an east-facing altar and iconography-covered walls.

The result was the relocation of the main entrance to 103rd Street, and dazzling interiors.  New stained glass windows were installed, and artist Constantine Yousis, an expert in Byzantine-style iconography, decorated the walls.

St. George and St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church still calls the church home.  Sadly many of the stained glass panels are either broken or completely missing, the cap of the bell tower is gone and its openings are boarded up--giving the handsome structure a look of abandonment.

photographs by the author

The Port Warehouse Bldg - Nos. 54-58 Laight Street

In 1705 Queen Anne granted a massive tract of rural land on Manhattan's west side to Trinity Church.   Stretching approximately from Fulton Street to Christopher Street, it was originally called the Queen's Farm.  Following the Revolution it was known as the Church Farm.

One particularly ardent anti-Royalist during that conflict was Trinity vestryman William Laight.  A prominent merchant, he was a member of the Committee of 100 which, among other activities, sent a list of "American wrongs" to London on May 5, 1775.

When Trinity Church announced plans in 1803 for developing parts of the Church Farm slightly north of the expanding city, reaction was swift and negative.  The boggy, reed-filled area was overrun with mosquitoes and snakes.  It was known for decades as "where was skating in winter and hunting in summer."

Undeterred, the Church forged on, creating Manhattan's most exclusive residential neighborhood, St. John's Park, by 1810.  Trinity named one of the new roads Laight Street, in honor of William Laight.

Laight Street was soon lined with handsome brick-faced homes.   Christopher Lord, a manufacturer of medicine chests, lived at No. 54 Laight in the 1830s; and by 1846 the well-to-do George W. Prescott called it home.  Prescott's private stable was just down the block at No. 48 Laight Street.


But drastic change would come to the refined neighborhood two years after the Civil War.  Trinity Church sold the St. John's Park property to the Hudson River Railroad Company, which immediately laid plans for a freight terminal.   Wealthy homeowners abandoned their Federal-style mansions, which were quickly razed or converted for business.

Henry J. Meyer's ship chandler business had boomed during the Civil War.  He now used his fortune to get in on the rapid redevelopment of the freight terminal neighborhood.   In 1870 he hired George W. DaCunha to design a warehouse building to replace the old houses at Nos. 54, 56 and 58 Laight Street.  It would be just one of several such structures Meyer would erect in the immediate area.

Interestingly, for this project DaCunha doubled as the builder as well.  The completed five story structure was faced in red brick and took inspiration from the German form of Romanesque Revival known as Rundbogenstil.  There was no attempt at costly, decorative materials for the utilitarian building.  Instead, brick was used to create the handsome elements--elliptical arched drip moldings above the openings, a stepped corbel table below the cornice, and a blind roundel within the triangular pediment.

The warehouse had barely commenced operation when it was the victim of what a headline in The New York Times proclaimed an "Extraordinary Burglary."  Indeed, the heist committed on December 2, 1871 was the stuff of sensational crime novels.

Towards the end of November a young woman rented a room on the top floor of the tenement building next door, at No 60 Laight Street.  The newspaper explained that that building "adjoins and is fifteen feet higher than the bonded warehouse of Henry J. Meyer, Nos. 54, 56 and 58 Laight Street."

A few days later, on Saturday, four men were seen bringing trunks to her room.  But there was nothing out of the ordinary in that, nor in the fact that Monday morning "the room was vacated and the trunks carried away with a load of household furniture."

But when the warehouse was opened that Monday morning, it was immediately apparent that burglars had ransacked the place.  Investigation revealed that the criminals had entered by the roof scuttle, which had been forced open from inside the building.  The Times reported that "made it clear that some of the outlaws had managed to secrete themselves in the [ware]house before it was closed on Saturday, and had thus passed out the plunder to their comrades, and had then got out in the same way."

Police Captain Petty went to the room in the tenement.  Breaking open the door, he found "a folding ladder, a dark lantern [one with blinders that limited the spread of light to a specific area], a lot of burglar's tools, and the original paper wrappers of the silks."  (Those silks were 47 bolts of black and colored fabrics belonging to the massive H. B. Claflin & Co. wholesale firm on Worth Street.) 

The crooks got off with $14,000 worth of goods--in the neighborhood of $280,000 today.  Detectives were able to trace them to No. 211 West 13th Street and rushed in to make arrests.  But, wrote The Times, "the hope raised by this discovery was instantly destroyed by the further information that the goods had been removed from this house on Tuesday."

The trail then went cold.  "It was found that they had been taken away in a two-horse furniture truck painted red, the driver of which was a short, stout German who spoke English very imperfectly, and who was assisted in the loading by two colored men.  With this information the trace of the thieves was entirely lost."

The break-in and loss was a rare incident for Henry J. Meyer.   His business continued to flourish and he lived in style with his wife, Jennie, in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.  In 1877, the year that he died, he still operated several storage warehouses including the Laight Street building.

Following Meyer's death, Nos. 54-58 Laight Street was taken over by Baker & Williams.  Among the largest bonded storage firms in the city, it too operated from several locations.  In the summer of 1897 George W. DaCunha's construction expertise was proved when a "fierce fire" broke out in the R. E. Dietz Company's factory next door.

That building, which stretched to the corner of Greenwich Street, was nearly destroyed.  Baker & Williams employees had jumped to action immediately when the fire was discovered.  The Times reported that "the shutters of all the windows in the warehouse were closed, the doors locked, and every precaution taken against a deluge from the hose."

When the blaze was extinguished, insurance inspector went through the warehouse, "but found everything intact.  Not a drop of water had reached any of the valuable dry goods stored in the building."

The Port Warehouse also operated multiple storage facilities.  By 1925 it had acquired No. 54-58 Laight Street.   Unlike Henry Meyer and Baker & Williams, which handled mostly dry goods, Port Warehouse had a wide variety of clients.

photo via trinitywallstreet.org (original source unknown)

On September 28, 1925 one of Port Warehouse's drivers, Henry Harrison, left the building for Brooklyn's massive Bush Terminal.  He was almost there when four men in an automobile forced his truck to the curb.

Newspapers reported "Pressing pistols against his body, two of the four men drove Harrison to Ebbets Field, where he was thrown out.  The other thieves made off with the truck before the police could be summoned."  The kidnapping and robbery took place "in the view of hundreds of dock workers."

Whether the crooks realized what they were stealing is unclear; but Harrison's truck was loaded with $30,000 worth of cigarettes.   The valuable, if surprising, booty would be valued at more than $400,000 today.

Before the rediscovery of Tribeca in the last quarter of the 20th century, Laight Street was industrial and gritty.  photo by Edmund Vincent Gillon from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

The Port Warehouse remained in the building at least through the 1970s.  In 1990 a renovation resulted in offices above the first floor; and in 2009 it was renovated again for use as a "telephone exchange."

The overhanging roof of the former freight platform was removed and the loading bays were filled in  (rather unsympathetically).  And a well-deserved cleaning unfortunately removed the old Port Warehouse signage.  Otherwise, George W. DaCunha's nearly 150-year old warehouse retains its handsome dignity.

photographs by the author

The 1904 Sons of Israel Kalwarie Synagogue --Nos. 13-15 Pike Street

At the turn of the last century the Lower East Side was still the center of the German immigrant population in New York City.  It had also become the enclave of the thriving Jewish community. 

The first Jewish citizens arrived in New York in the late 17^th century and by now the city had the world’s most populous Jewish community—twice as large as the next largest group, in Warsaw, Poland.  In 1853 a faction of Russian-Polish Jews broke away from the Orthodox synagogue of Beth Hamderash, forming its own congregation which was named Beth Hamdrash Livne Yisroel Yelide Polen.  The rather ungainly name translated to the House of Study of the Children of Israel Born in Poland.

Three decades later the congregation renamed itself; choosing another name that, too, did not readily roll off the tongue: Congregation and Chevra Ukadisha B’nai Israel Mikalwarie, or the Sons of Israel from Kalwarie.  Kalwarie, or Kalwarja, was a small town on Poland, near Lithuania, from which many of the congregants hailed.

In 1882 the group purchased two building lots on Pike Street, Nos. 13 and 15, and remodeled the existing building as a synagogue.  By 1903 it was the wealthiest Jewish congregation in New York and a new shul was deemed necessary.

On April 14, 1903 The Sun reported that plans had been filed for a new synagogue, “three-story and basement,” to be built on the existing site.  The article promised a “façade of ornamental limestone” and projected the cost of construction to be about $75,000 (nearly $2 million today).  The estimate would prove to be highly understated.

In February 1904 Victoria Gordon’s wedding date was nearing and she had her heart set on being married in the new synagogue.  The trouble was that the building was still in the finishing phases of construction.  Her father, Louis Gordon, (deemed by The Sun as “the Mayor of Canal street”) was a powerful man.  He was not only the chairman of the building committee, he was, as reported in the newspaper, “said to be the wealthiest real estate owner in that part of the city.”

If Louis Gordon’s daughter wanted to be married in the uncompleted synagogue, he would see to it that she got her wish.  The Sun reported on February 22, “As a compliment to Gordon it was decided to allow the ceremony to be held in it.”

The opulent ceremony (which the newspaper said “broke the records for gorgeousness”) caused a near riot on Pike Street on February 21.  “Victoria Gordon, the young and pretty daughter of Louis Gordon…and Joseph Edelson, a lawyer, were married last night and East Side social authorities say that no wedding on the East Side in years has been its match,” reported The Sun.

Two hours before the 5:00 ceremony “the street in front of the synagogue for a block distant was packed from curb to curb  by a crowd of girls and women.  It was necessary to call out the reserves from the Madison street station to preserve order.”  As the guests arrived in smart carriages and shining automobiles policemen had to form a human wall from the sidewalk to the entrance to keep back the feminine mob.

Gordon not only got his way in staging his daughter’s wedding in the unfinished structure; he was given other, more shocking, indulgences.  “Although an orthodox synagogue, some innovations were permitted,” said The Sun.  “It is a rare thing for music to be allowed at an orthodox service, but for this occasion an orchestra and a choir of twenty boys were present.”

The ceremony was performed by Rabbi Israel Cooper, head of the congregation for 25 years.  The cantor was renowned for his voice and was “spoke of frequently as the Jewish Caruso,” according to the New-York Tribune.

Following the ceremony a reception was held in the Palm Garden on East 58^th Street.  The Gordon's influence was reflected in the guest list which included the Borough President, the Acting Mayor, a Congressman, two judges, three Senators, and various aldermen and other politicians.

Three weeks later the completed building was dedicated.  On March 14, 1904 The Sun reported that the new synagogue of the Congregation Sons of Israel Kalmarie “was dedicated yesterday afternoon with elaborate ceremonies.”  The newspaper said it “is built of Italian limestone and will seat 1,500 persons.  The interior is finished in hard wood and marble trimmings.”  The basement level served as a school where Eddie Cantor would study, and where a year later that he celebrated his bar mitzvah.

In 1978 Chinese-language signage is seen on the shops near the synagogue--a sign of changes in the neighborhood -- photograph by Edmund V. Gillon from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWBZ328G&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915

The congregation had commissioned the little-known architect Alfred E. Badt to design the building.  He drew on several styles to create the striking synagogue; heavily turning to the German version of Romanesque Revival known as Rundbogenstil.  By placing a grand, split staircase on either side of the triple-arched entrance, Badt create the effect of a grand palace.  The splendid European design in gleaming white limestone, was a striking contrast to the brownstone and brick tenements and commercial buildings along Pike Street.  The Sun said it “is considered the most beautiful Hebrew place of worship on the lower East Side.”

Even though the synagogue was designed to accommodate 1,500 worshipers, more than double that amount showed up.  The New-York Tribune, which now estimated the cost at $85,000, reported that “Admission was by ticket only, several thousand persons being turned away.” 

Twenty policemen under Captain Shaw were on hand to preserve order as the throngs tried to gain entrance to the ceremony.  “The interior of the synagogue was decorated yesterday with a profusion of American flags and bunting,” reported The Sun.  The patriotic decorations were not merely for show, apparently.

“Rabbi Schulman made a plea for the spread of Americanism among those of the Jewish faith who had not received the benefits of an education in our institutions, but he advised them also to see that their children, who are receiving an English education, are taught Hebrew also, that they may be able to teach their elders, in the tongue they understood, the principles of free government and give them some of the benefits of the education received in our public schools,” said The Sun.

The New-York Tribune noted that Rabbi Schulman declared “that nowhere in the universe had Judaism such opportunities for development than in this country.”

Five years after the dedication the congregation was shocked when, on January 12, 1909, the New-York Tribune reported that "the Rev. Israel Cooper, one of the best known and oldest Jewish cantors in the city…died yesterday at the age of sixty-nine years, at his home.”  Rabbi Cooper had been suffering from “an acute nervous illness” for the past six months.

Before coming to New York Cooper had been cantor in Bucharest, Romania.  An authority on Central-European music, he left five sons and two daughters along with his widow.  His funeral brought a halt to the streets of the Lower East Side.

The following day the New-York Tribune reported “Twelve hundred Hebrews attended.  Thousands lined the streets of the lower East Side as the funeral procession passed from one synagogue to another.”

The services began at the Sons of Israel Kalwarie where one hundred well known cantors sang.  After that ceremony, the body was carried to the Beth Medrasch Synagogue on Norfolk Street where another ceremony was conducted.

If mourners had been shocked by the suddenness of Rabbi Cooper’s death; they were more so when they returned home to read the article in The Sun that afternoon with the headline “Jewish Singer a Suicide.”

Apparently depressed over his worsening health, he “killed himself yesterday morning by inhaling gas through a tube at this home,” reported the newspaper.

In 1911 the celebrated Reform Rabbi Judah Magnes was asked to give a series of speeches in the Sons of Kalwarie synagogue.  According to Lawrence J. Epstein in his At the Edge of a Dream: The Story of Jewish Immigrants on New York’s Lower East Side, congregants here wanted to lead traditional Jewish religious lives “but to do so in a specifically American way.  They wanted to speak English.  They wanted to be able to speak—or even dance—with women.”

Thousands crowded Pike Street on the evening of his initial address and police once again had to be called in to maintain order.  The Friday evening lectures laid the foundation for the Young Israel movement.

In 1912 another movement took root at Congregation Sons of Israel Kalwarie.  Young people were seen to be drifting away from traditional Jewish values and observations.  A mass meeting was held  “to bring together the younger generation of Jews and stimulate them with a stronger religious feeling.”

Justice Greenbaum recognized that “Young people had come to think that, as the clothes and traditions of their parents were old-fashioned, the religion of their parents also must be old-fashioned.”  But he saw a shared blame.  “I fear, too, sometimes that the old people do not understand the dangers that beset the young.  There are temptations here that must be fought, and the young must fight them.  One of the saddest sights is to see our girls coming out of the factories, and then to see them again on Sunday on the streets with paint and powder on their faces, looking like women we cannot mention.”

That same year, in March, The Sons of Israel Kalwarie held a two-day jubilee celebration of the 50^th anniversary of its founding.  In announcing the coming celebrations, the New-York Tribune inflated the cost of the building once again, saying “the present synagogue was erected at a cost of $200,000.”

As war ravaged Europe in 1916, congregants had difficulty obtaining news from Poland.  So when Mrs. Mary Watkin of Borough Park returned from Kalwarya and offered to tell of her experiences on May 29, the synagogue was packed.

She told the audience of “the suffering and desolation” there.  The New York Times reported that “Many of those belonging to the synagogue came from Kalwarya, and have either friends of relatives there.  As Mrs. Watkin told her experience many were in tears.”

After spending a year in the little town she had seen much suffering and destitution.  She told the congregants that “many had fled and were now scattered throughout Poland and Russian.”

Rabbi Samuel Schulman added to Mrs. Watkin’s experiences.  “He pointed out that the Jews in the war-ravaged countries were caught between the millstones of war and many had been ground to death,” said The Times.  “He depicted the destitution of those between the contending armies and how their full measure of suffering had come when their towns were captured and recaptured as the tide of fighting rose and fell.”

Following the speeches and collection for victims was taken.  About $1,000, specified for assisting those in Kalwarya, was turned over to the General Committee for the Relief of Jews in the War-Stricken Countries.

On January 18, 1917 a fire broke out in the basement of the synagogue.  Although damage to the structure was minimal, it was a devastating loss to the congregation.  The Sun reported that “Valuable Jewish records, costly books and scrolls were destroyed yesterday in a fire in the basement of the Sons of Israel Synagogue, 13 and 15 Pike street.  “Many of the scrolls and records cannot be replaced.”

The wealth of the congregation was made obvious on March 16, 1928 when Murray Silverstein was arrested for burglary of the synagogue.  The 20-year old was nabbed while pawning pieces of jewelry and silver candelabra in a shop on Second Avenue.  Murray was accused of larceny of more than $6,000 worth of “religious jewels, ornaments and shawls” on complaint of Israel Berg, sexton of the Pike Street synagogue.

As the century progressed, the Lower East Side changed.  By the 1920s most of the German immigrant population was gone; and while the Jewish community still remained for decades, the ever-growing Chinatown area slowly engulfed more and more real estate.

In September 1979, just before Rosh Hashanah, congregants found themselves padlocked out of the Pike Street synagogue.  Where once 1,500 worshipers crowded in for Saturday services, recently only about two dozen showed up.  Without notifying the congregants, the trustees sold their synagogue to a Chinese group.

Esther Singer told Ari L. Goldman of The New York Times, “I was planning to come here Rosh ha-Shanah.  Now they tell me don’t come—the place is for Buddhists.”

Trustees said that they accepted the $180,000 offer—the funds from which would be used to maintain the synagogue’s cemetery in Queens—because the Lower East Side had “drastically changed over the years to the extent that few Jews remain who attend religious services.”

The remaining congregants tried hard to save their synagogue.  They held services on the sidewalk and vowed to prevent a Buddhist temple from taking over their building.  They managed to stave off the sale on the legal grounds that religious property cannot be sold without prior notification of the congregation.

But in the end their protests and efforts were fruitless.  In 1994 the building was sold to a developer who converted the school to retail space, a “community facility” (the Sung Tak Buddhist Temple) in the former sanctuary and residential apartments on the upper floors.

The façade of the Congregation Sons of Israel Kalwarie was designated a New York City Landmark in May 1997—two years too late to save the stained glass windows.  Despite the architectural sacrilege committed to Afred E. Badt’s glorious structure, its integrity is still evident behind garish advertisements.

photographs by the author

The 1865 Stables at Nos. 130-132 West 18th Street

By 1817 the era of summer estates and farms above 14^th Street was rapidly coming to a close.  Already, the Commissioners Plan of 1811 which laid out on paper the grid of streets and avenues had prompted many property owners to start selling off their land as building sites; among them the family of Peter Warren.

It was about this time that wealthy wool merchant John Tonnele began purchasing large tracts of real estate above 14^th Street, including parts of the Warren farm.  Upon his death 32 of the lots, along West 17^th and 18^th Streets, were inherited by his daughter Susan G. Hall.  By the time she decided to start selling off the property in March of 1863, the once-rural neighborhood was sparsely-developed with shanties, a brewery, and the immense 400-foot wide factory of Weber Pianos at No. 18 East 17^th Street, at Seventh Avenue.

The semi-industrial neighborhood was not suited for fine brick or brownstone dwellings; however it was conveniently close to the homes of Fifth Avenue for private stables.  Elisha Brooks, one of the successful Brooks Brothers clothiers, purchased three of Susan Hall’s lots in two sales—in May and then June of 1864.  He had three identical two-story private carriage houses constructed—handsome brick-faced structures with rhythmic arches in the newly-popular Rundbogenstil style—the robust German version of the American Romanesque Revival.

Quite amazingly, Brooks started a surprising trend on West 18^th Street.  During the 19^th century the personal stables of wealthy citizens were almost exclusively designed for the individual owner.  Well-to-do Victorians often vied to outdo their neighbors in the style and attractiveness of these utilitarian buildings.  Stable blocks, which rapidly emerged as corresponding residential blocks developed, were most often a mish-mash of handsome, yet highly individual, designs.

That would not be the case on West 18^th Street.

Susan and her husband Valentine Hall retained one of the plots, No. 128, for their own use.  They erected a carriage house on the site that exactly matched the three built by Brooks.  Within two years there would be a total of 13 private stables along the block, from No. 130 to No. 146—each one a carbon copy of the originals.

The carriage house at No. 128 originally built for Susan and Valentine Hall, received an additional story.  Nos. 130 and 132 are to the right.

Wilmot Johnson began construction of his carriage house next door to the Hall’s, at No. 130, in 1864.  An Albany coal merchant, he had a New York City office downtown at No. 111 Broadway, near Wall Street.  It is unclear whether he intended to use his new stable, finished in 1865; or if it was a speculative investment.  But he soon sold it to banker Walter S. Gurnee.

Gurnee lived nearby at No. 33 West 20^th Street.  Having made a fortune in Chicago (and serving two terms as that town’s mayor) he had moved to New York two years earlier to open an investment banking firm.  The well-respected politician, railroad tycoon and banker was described by Ulysses S. Grant:  “He is a gentleman of intelligence, cultivation and wealth, and particularly well posted in matters abroad and in our financial matters.”

Before long Gurnee and his wife, Mary Matilda Coe Gurnee, would move to Fifth Avenue.  They retained the 18^th Street carriage house only three years, selling it to Henry T. Helmbold in 1868.

Helmbold was a manufacturing druggist with a brilliant mind for marketing.  The Henry T. Helmbold Mfg. Co. made, among other tonics and elixirs, “Henry T. Helmbold’s Highly Concentrated Compound of Fluid Extract.”  Helmbold assured customers that the tonic was prepared under his “personal supervision, and its usefulness and efficacy are guaranteed by his personal reputation and experience.”

Guarantees aside, Henry T. Helmbold declared bankruptcy on September 13, 1872.  But before his financial embarrassment made the newspapers, the carriage house at No. 130 West 18^th Street would once again change hands.  In 1871 he sold the building to Major Theodore K. Gibbs.

The Civil War veteran lived nearby at No. 62 West 21^st Street.  According to The Sun years later, it was Gibbs “who directed the firing of the last cannon shot of the war.”  Twice he had been promoted for gallantry in battle.  For the rest of his life he would be addressed by his military rank.

The Major’s coachman, Irish immigrant William Spence, lived upstairs in the carriage house with his wife Susanna, their son and four daughters.  It would seem to have been a rather crowded environment.

Unlike his predecessors, Gibbs would own the stable for years.  While his carriages and horses were housed on 18^th Street, he busied himself in various philanthropies.  Among his favorites was the Metropolitan Throat Hospital of which he was a trustee.  The New York Times described the facility, saying “It treats poor patients gratuitously for all affections of the throat, nose, and ear.”

On January 23, 1881 the newspaper noted that the Hospital’s trustees held “their annual meeting Friday evening in the parlors of Major Theodore K. Gibbs, in Twenty-first-street.”

Summers would find Major and Mrs. Gibbs entertaining in their Newport cottage on Gibbs Avenue.

Meanwhile, the matching stable next door at No. 132 had been built simultaneously with the Gibbs structure.  It was constructed for broker John R. Garland who lived at No. 28 West 21^st Street.  Although Garland sold the stable within three years; its next owner would hold on to it for decades.

The decorative Rundbogenstil-style central arches were executed in wood.  Years of weathering and neglect have heavily marred the once-crisply faceted brownstone keystones.

Nathaniel L’Hommedieu McCready was President of the Old Dominion Steamship Line and, like the other owners along the row, lived close by.  He and Caroline Amanda Waldron McCready owned a handsome brownstone rowhouse just off Fifth Avenue at No. 10 West 22^nd Street where they raised their three children.

McCready’s fleet of steamships ran between New York City and four ports in Virginia.  In addition, he was President of the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railroad.  Nathaniel McCready’s substantial wealth was reflected in his club memberships: New York Yacht Club, the very exclusive Union Club, and the St. Nicholas Society. 

In 1872 Brooklyn and New York were devastated when an unknown “epidemic” swept through the cities’ stables.  Horses died at a rate never before recorded and city traffic came to a near stand-still.  Horse-drawn street cars disappeared from the avenues, retail merchants kept their horses in their stables with “their heads and throats bound up,” according to The New York Times on October 31, and deliveries of ice and other services ground to a halt.  The Times noted that “In view of the disabled condition of the horses of the street-cleaning contractors, the Board of City Works requests persons not to place their ash-barrels on the sidewalks, as their contents cannot be removed.”  The newspaper said the fear of fire was “increased ten-fold by the known fact that nearly all of the horses belonging to the Fire Department are incapable of performing duty.”

Among the long list of horses reported by The Times that had died the day before was one belonging to McCready.

Nathaniel L. McCready died on October 3, 1887 at the age of 66.  His will divided his estate into three equal parts for his children and provided “an annuity for his wife.”  The bequests were apparently substantial.  In 1895 a new 50-foot wide mansion was completed for Nathaniel L. McCready Jr. at No. 4 East 74^th Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues.

That year Caroline McCready had the old carriage house renovated with ramps and upper stalls so horses could be housed on both floors.  Within four years she was ready to sell the building and, interestingly enough, entered negotiations with Major Theodore K. Gibbs.

On Friday, June 9, 1899 The Sun reported that “the two-story stable, No. 132 West Eighteenth street” had been sold to T. K. Gibbs.

The Major retained ownership of the two carriage houses until July 13, 1905, when The Sun reported on their sale to a single purchaser.  Just a year later, on March 29, 1906, the pair was resold.

By now manufacturing lofts were appearing along the block and mammoth, block-wide  emporiums had already taken over 6^th Avenue.  Amazingly the row of two-story stables had survived.  The new owners of Nos. 130 and 132, the Metropolis Security Company, broke through the interior walls, creating a single structure.  The flanking entrance doors of the two buildings were knocked out, creating an additional vehicle entrance and the stone cornice that had separated the two floors was removed.

The combined building was leased to T. J. Gerome who operated his automobile repair garage here.  Two fires, in 1914 and 1946, resulted in necessary alterations at street level; however the upper floor remained mostly intact.

Throughout the 20^th century the two little buildings and their matching cousins along the row were used for various purposes—garages, shops and light manufacturing.  And they were highly abused.  By the turn of the 21^st century, however, they mostly survived relatively intact—an astonishingly rare row of matching 19^th century speculative stable buildings.

photographs taken by the author

The Lost 1861 Wallack's Theatre -- Broadway at 13th Street

By the time this photograph was taken in 1900, the exterior had been heavily altered.  The 13th Street side had been raised to match the Broadway elevation, matching window openings covered the side, the tall oriel window was gone and the parapet remodeled -- photo NYPL Collection.

John Johnstone Wallack was born in New York City on New Year’s Day 1820.   But the newborn did not stay in the city for long.  His British acting parents were in New York on their first tour and the baby boy was soon taken back home. He was educated in England and at the age of 20 was commissioned a lieutenant in the British Army.  But Wallack preferred the stage to the barracks and left the army for a life in the theater.

Wallack’s passion for acting came naturally—his father James William Wallack was an actor.  Using the name Allan Field, he toured with his father.  When he appeared in Dublin as Don Pedro in “Much Ado About Nothing” in 1842 he changed his stage name to John Wallack Lester.

He was back in New York in 1847 where he debuted at the New Broadway Theatre.  While he appeared in Shakespearean roles in various Manhattan theatres, his father opened the hulking Wallack’s Theatre at the northeast corner of Broadway and 13^th Street on September 25, 1861. 

Designed in the German Romanesque “Rundbogenstil” style, its many arched openings could not relieve the heaviness of its red brick mass.   Yet the building had delightful decorative touches.  At the corner a story-tall oriel window terminated in a balcony within a concave niche.  Ornate sculptural ornaments filled the spandrels between the colossal second story windows.  On the 13^th Street side, the fourth and fifth floors slanted back as a high mansard roof, partly broken by a giant arched stained window that interrupted the flat cornice.

Before the alterations, a second entrance cut into the corner -- photo NYPL Collection

The Wallack was 75 feet wide and stretched 148 feet back along 13^th Street.  The spacious stage measured 48 by 45 feet and the auditorium, decorated in red and gold, could seat 1,600.   The new theater opened with Tom Taylor’s comedy, “The New President,” and before the curtains opened, James W. Wallack, Sr. strood on stage and made an address to the audience.  It would be his last appearance on any stage.

James W. Wallack, Sr. lived only three years after opening his theatre, and upon his death in 1864 John Lester Wallack took over as sole proprietor and manager--as well as leading actor.    

In his 1919 book “A History of the Theatre in America” Arthur Hornblow remembered the dazzling seasons here.  “In this new Wallack’s, for more than twenty years the most famous playhouse in America, some of the greatest triumphs connected with the name of Wallack were achieved.  For the lavishness of its productions and the brilliancy of its casts, this theatre has never been equaled in this country.”

John Lester (Wallack) dressed as Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing -- A History of the Theatre in America, 1919 (copyright expired)

John Lester lured the greatest names in American theatre to the stage of Wallack’s Theatre:  John Gilbert, Frederic Robinson, Owen Marlowe, H. J. Montague, Rose Eytinge, Helen Tracy, Maud Granger and Maurice Barrymore among them.

photo NYPL Collection

Recognizing the marketing potential of Charles Dickens’ visit to New York in 1867, Lester mounted a production of “Oliver Twist” on December 27 with an all-star cast.  It was the sort of production that prompted “King’s Handbook of New York City” to say that the house and the company were “famous for the general excellence of the productions, rather than for the brilliancy of particular events.”

In 1874 Lester produced what would be his greatest success.  He nearly did not accept Dion Boucicault’s Irish drama, “The Shaughraun,” because he feared audiences would not be able to pronounce the title.   But Boucicault’s reputation convinced him.  Producer-playwright David Belasco pronounced Boucicault “the greatest genius of the theatre at that time.”

According to theater historian Lewis Hardee, “On Saturday evening, November 14, a crowd of eager spectators dressed in their finery, drawn by word that The Shaughraun would be a special event.  They pulled up in their carriages and stepped down from trolleys and omnibuses, filed into the theatre, and filled it from parquet to roof.  They were not to be disappointed.”

An 1874 cabinet card captures the playwright, along with John Gilbert and Ione Burke, in a scene from Shaughraun at Wallack's Theatre -- NYPL Collection

The play ran for 118 evening performances; nearly a year and a half—until the following March--with the playwright himself taking the leading role.  The receipts for the 1875 Thanksgiving Day matinee totaled $2,250; the highest ever recorded for a single performance in New York City.  The play amassed a fortune of half a million dollars for Boucicault, which he reportedly quickly squandered away.

A light carriage pauses before the gates to Wallack's Theatre around 1875 -- photo NYPL Collection.

Within a few years, however, the aging John Lester built a new Wallack’s Theatre further uptown.  By 1881 most of the Lower East Side neighborhood had become “Little Germany” as German immigrants filled the neighborhood with music halls and biergartens.  Adolf Neuendorff ran the Germania Theatre and its success resulted in his need for a larger space.  In May 1881 he took over Wallack’s, signing an 8-year lease for $40,000.  Neuendorff remodeled the interiors that summer and, to great acclaim, opened the new Germania on September 15, 1881.

The New York Times remarked on the new German company.  “The company of the theatre is large, and for the most part, competent; the policy which was once esteemed to be the safeguard of true stage art, and which is now ridiculed by practical directors and other believers in the long run system—sharpens their dexterity and keeps them on the alert and mentally active.”

But Neuendorff had overestimated the popularity of his theater group.  The venue was too large and, faced with serious competition from other German theatrical groups, the Germania failed.   Before completing his second season in the old Wallack’s Theatre, Neuendorff closed the doors on March 24, 1883.

Later than year it was renamed the Star Theatre, managed by Lester’s longtime business partner, Theodore Moss.  Although the interiors had just been redone, Moss remodeled them again.  On  August 21, 1883 The New York Times reported “Artists, masons, and carpenters have been busy during the Summer preparing the interior of the Star Theatre (Wallack’s old house) for the coming season, and when it is thrown open to the public next Monday evening its old patrons will hardly recognize it.’

Moss covered the walls with “rich paper, the prominent color of which is gold,” and he gilded the iron railings.  The domed ceiling was painted by the artist Goatcher.  “The prevailing colors are gold and deep blue,” said The Times, “which tapers off to a very light blue on the outer circle, giving the effect great height to the dome.”

The stage was completely rebuilt and was now “composed of a vast number of pieces, and can be taken entirely apart if desired.  Traps can be arranged in any portion of it without cutting, and platforms can be raised at any point without calling in the aid of a carpenter.  It is claimed to be the best practical stage in America.”

The tourist guide “How to Know New York City” called the newly redecorated Star’s auditorium “large and brilliant.”

Yet despite the star-filled productions such as Dickens’ "The Pickwick Papers" in 1887, the Star Theatre felt the need to lure more crowds..  And so the interiors were redecorated again in 1888.   The dome was repainted in “the Italian Renaissance order,” said The Times.  “In the centre is a huge star, the tones being of the most delicate tints of blue, gray, and gold.  In the centre of this, above a huge electric light, is a large ventilator to be kept constantly revolving, but noiseless in its action.”

New proscenium boxes were installed, upholstered in green, blue and gold with scarlet satin damask draperies and gray-green plush.  The balcony was raised two and a half feet to reduce viewing obstruction and the chairs throughout were reupholstered in scarlet velvet.

“Thus improved the Star starts out for the season one of the most attractive and cozy theatres in the city,” remarked the newspaper.  The auditorium could now seat 1,750 persons.

It was not all Dickens and comedy in the Star Theatre, however.  In 1888 the auditorium was the scene of the presentation of the National League pennant to the Brooklyn Giants.  Among the entertainments that evening was DeWolf Hopper’s second public recitation of “Casey at the Bat.”

The Broadway and 13^th Street neighborhood, by the turn of the century, was less one of theaters and entertainment as it was the garment and millinery center.   On April 7, 1901 New Yorkers were saddened to read in The New York Times “The theatre built by the Wallacks in 1861, in association with Theodore Moss, on Broadway at Thirteenth Street, and which was for twenty years the abiding place of the Wallack stock company, and later, after the stock company had moved still further up town, continued to present great stars up to 1895, is to be torn down.  The old Star Theatre is to make way for a clothing house.”

The Times somehow procured one of the programs from opening night in 1861.  Although the handbill was “crude,” the reporter noted “However the art of praising one’s wares was not undiscovered, as may be seen in the description of the building, claiming that it is absolutely the most magnificent in the whole world.”

Directly across the street were the offices of American Mutoscope—an early motion picture company.  The firm set up a camera to take exposures every four minutes during every 8-hour day while the demolition of the old Wallack’s Theatre progressed.  When the building was gone, the film was produced—a two minute motion picture called "The Demolishing and Building Up the Star Theatre.”

Movie goers sat in the dark and, as the film commenced, saw a normal Manhattan street scene.  There was the Star Theatre as men in derby hats and women in shirtwaists busily crossed the street and dismounted from trolleys.

Suddenly the speed increased and the street cars and passersby whisked by at lightning speed.  Window sashes disappeared, then nighttime engulfed the structure for moments, before sunlight quickly reappeared.   Demolition workers sped along the roof like insects as the height of the building decreased before the audience’s eyes.  On nearby buildings the canvas awnings rolled out, then in, in a dizzying manner.

Little by little the Star Theatre crumbled away until it was no more.  And then, to the surprise of the audience, it began arising from the rubble.  The inventive movie producers reversed the action and the movie-goers were amazed to see the entire structure rise again.  But the film was more than a gimmick.  The American Mutoscope Company meant for the film to symbolize New York City’s continuous building, razing and rebuilding.

Wallack’s Theatre, at one time the most famous and illustrious theater in New York and possibly the country, was no more.  Few people today know that it stood on the corner of Broadway and 13^th Street and the names of the legendary thespians who trod its boards are largely forgotten.

The 1835 French Evangelical Church -- Nos. 126-128 West 16th Street

In 1887 Frank Leslie’s Sunday Magazine wrote “There stood, formerly on West Sixteenth Street, not far from Sixth Avenue, in New York city, a church edifice which represented one of the oddest denominations in the world, and voiced each Sunday the sentiments of a sect that has a strange history and a strange belief.”

The magazine referred to the Catholic Apostolic Church, an offshoot of the Catholic Church founded in the 1820s by the Reverend Edward Irving, pastor of the Scottish Church on Regent Square in London.  Among the sect’s strong beliefs was that the Second Coming was imminent—precisely it would happen in 1835. 

Twelve new “apostles” were chosen and they alone could ordain ministers of the church—called “angels.”  As it turned out, 1835 came and went but the Second Coming did not.  Nevertheless the Catholic Apostolic Church grew and the date of the Second Coming was pushed off.

In 1848 a congregation was formed in New York City.  The group worshiped for a while in a small room of the University of the City of New York before taking over the small brick church on West 16^th Street mentioned by Frank Leslie’s magazine.

The little building had been built around 1835 when the Chelsea neighborhood was just developing.  The quiet, middle-class block was a peaceful setting for the congregation for three decades.  But by 1885 it had outgrown the small building and erected a large structure at 417 West 57^th Street, completed in 1886.

The 16^th Street church was sold to the Eglise Evangelique Francaise de New-York in 1885.  The French Evangelical Church was a Presbyterian congregation founded in 1846 by the Belgium-born Antoine Frederick Twyeffort.  French immigrants had been settling in the Chelsea area and in 1857 the French language Roman Catholic church of St. Vincent de Paul was completed a few blocks north on 23^rd Street.

The French Evangelical Church commissioned Alfred D. F. Hamlin to remodel the out-of-style church.  The architect redid the interiors and updated the façade in the German version of Romanesque Revival called Rundbogenstil.  The result was a chunky mass with a central arch outlined in dentil brickwork.  Well above the sidewalk, arched entrance doors on either side carried on the rhythm of the collection of arches in the main structure.

The congregation included members from all walks of life.   Sitting alongside middle-class worshipers were wealthy members like Alfred E. Andre who gave $70,000 to build a Young Men’s Christian Association building in Paris and was a Regent of the Bank of France and a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor.

In 1907 when educator Louise H. LeClere’s will was read it caused what the Christian Advocate called “hostile criticism” in her homeland.  Although she left large bequests to American institutions, including the French Evangelical Church, she was extremely generous to French charities.  The Faculte de Theologie Protestante de Mountauban, for instance, received 100,000 francs.  Ironically this is what raised the ire of her countrymen.

In her will she explained her generosity to France was out of concern for its depravity.  “My object in giving institutions in France so large a portion of my means is twofold, namely, to raise her from her present low moral state, and thus prevent her from doing so much harm to this country, in which she exerts so potent an influence.”

The Christian Advocate explained “She believed that France has deteriorated greatly and that the worst influences are exerted over the social side in New York by the Paris moral and social atmosphere.”  Although the French were outraged, they did not refuse the bequests.

The minister of the French Evangelical Church at the time was the 70-year old Rev. Henri I. Grandlienard. The amazing cleric had been a missionary along the upper Nile River before arriving in New York.  On March 21, 1912 The New York Observer made note of his 40^th anniversary as head of the congregation.  In addition, he ran the Home for French Working Girls on West 30^th Street for twenty-five years where young French women arriving in New York were temporarily housed while seeking employment as teachers, maids, nurses or governesses.

The article called him “hale and hearty” and said he was “looking forward to further years of service.”  Tragically, that would not be the case.

Two months later, on May 13, he visited a dentist office on Sixth Avenue to have a tooth pulled.  What would normally have been a routine procedure resulted in his gums hemorrhaging.  He was taken to the New York Hospital where he died later that night from “apoplexy.”

Among the young women who came alone to New York from France was May Jacquard.  When her family was killed in World War I she immigrated, leaving the ruins of her country and the painful memories behind.   The girl got a job with the Y.M.C.A. teaching French to soldiers stationed at Fort Jay and Fort Slocum, as well as prisoners on Governor’s Island.  The future finally looked promising for her.

Then, after being in her job for not quite a year, she contracted tuberculosis and died in a sanatorium at Lakewood, New Jersey.   Her funeral at the French Protestant Church and her burial were taken care of by the Y.M.C.A.

By the following year the church had 656 members and approximately 600 other attendants who were not members.  The pastor, Reverend Paul D. Elsesser was somewhat apologetic for the congregation’s reliance on the French language.  “Our services are in French,” he said, “but part of our people understand English well.  We do not have English classes in the church, but we encourage our people to attend classes in our French Y. M. C. A.”  The minister added “As a rule the members of our church and congregation have a good education and appreciate the United States.”

On November 14, 1948 the French Evangelical Church announced its plans to raze the century-old building and replace it with a $200,000 structure.  The plans, however, never got off the drawing board.  Instead, at some point in the last part of the 20^th century, someone thought it would be a good idea to slather maroon paint over the brick façade, causing the AIA Guide to New York City to complain “The dour dark paint almost smothers form and detail.”

Then, after 125 years in its brick home, the church made plans again.  In August 2010 it sought proposals from developers to gut the building, renovate the cellar, first and second floors for church use, and build an 11-story residential tower above it.

In 2012 the architecturally and historically interesting church awaited its fate.  In the meantime, the church sold the abutting brick structure, used as "an asylum" to Einhorn Development Group who teamed with architect David Howell of DND Architecture Design PLLC.   Worried neighbors were assured that the church would be preserved; and that the planned residential building at No. 124 would meld into the streetscape--just six stories tall with one unit per floor.

In fact, that was not true.

In 2013 the church had been striped of its paint and the lot next door at No. 124 awaits construction -- photo by Scott Stiffler, Chelseanow.com

As the building began rising in 2013, residents of the block discovered that the Einhorn Development Group, which now owns the site, were erecting an 11-story tower and, apparently, had intended to all along.  The resulting sore thumb would not only diminish the important 1835 church next door, but successfully obliterate the charm of the block.

The developer's principal, Yiannes Einhorn, has listened to the heated complaints and keeps building.

non-credited photograph taken by the author