The 1857 John Foster House -- No. 218 East 18th Street

photo by Alice Lum

By 1856 the land that had once made up the Stuyvesant Square section of what had been Peter Stuyvesant’s expansive farm—the Bouwerie—saw rapid development.  Streets and avenues had been laid out, soon to be lined with brick and brownstone rowhouses that established the area as an elegant residential neighborhood.

That year builder John Foster began work on his own residence at No. 218 East 18^th Street on land leased from the Stuyvesant Family.  Unlike the dour Greek Revival homes built a decade earlier that abutted his property stretching westward, Foster’s Italianate mansion would be a bit cheerier, a bit showier, and a bit more dramatic.

Completed a year after ground was broken, Foster’s home was the showplace of the block.    High above the rusticated English basement the carved brownstone entrance was lavish.  The heavily ornamented enframement enclosed a deeply-recessed double doorway.  Two richly carved and paneled doors protected the inner double-doors and provided extra security at night and in inclement weather.  The reserved lintels of the neighboring houses contrasted with the graceful triple-molded arched (shouldered) lintels of the Foster house.  The high ceilings inside and the additional story resulted in the house looming above its neighbors.  A decade later when architect Julius Boeckell designed four somewhat subdued Italianate residences on the empty lot to the east, he included near-copies of the Foster entrance.

Photo by Alice Lum

John Foster and his wife Anne moved into the elegant new home with their children.  The Fosters had lived relatively nearby, at the northeast corner of 11^th Street and Third Avenue.  The children, whose ages ranged from 11 to 21 at the time, received the education of privileged youngsters.  Son William had attended public schools before being sent to a boarding school in 1849 in Jonesville, 16 miles north of Troy, New York.  The following year he attended the Fergusonville Academy, in Delhi, New York, then finished his studies at Jonesville.



An elaborate plaster ceiling medalion can be glimpsed through the doorway -- photo by Alice Lum

Of the Foster children, it would be William who brought grief and unwanted notoriety to the East 18^th Street home.   The same year that the family moved into the new mansion, William married Jane Norton on September 17.  Three months later they sailed for Australia where they lived for three years.    The same month that Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated and one month before the attack on Fort Sumter William and Jane returned to New York.  He was almost immediately appointed Inspector of Sewers by Thomas Stepheus, President of the Croton Board.

In 1871 William Foster tried a new profession—that of streetcar conductor.  On April 26 tragedy would change the lives of a number of people, including the Foster family.   William ran one trip on Car No. 73, then approached the starter and asked to be excused.  He later explained, “because I was unfit for duty; I was drunk…Drink had crazed my brain, and to the cursed demon, which steals into society of all kinds, and works its damning deeds, may I render thanks for the position I now occupy.”

At the time of his explanation, William Foster was sitting in a cell in the Tombs awaiting his execution for murder.

When Foster was excused from duty, he got on a streetcar at 16^th Street heading to 22^nd Street and rode in the conductor compartment.  There were only three passengers in the car:  Avery D. Putnam, Jennie Duval and her daughter Virginia.  Putnam had encountered the women outside their home at No. 762 Broadway.   They were on the way to the Church of the Advent on 46^th Street where another daughter, Anna Lillie, was singing.   Putnam had graciously offered to escort the women to the church.

A lurid pamphlet published under the title “The Car-Hook Tragedy--Life, Trial and Execution of Wm. Foster,” recounted that Foster “pressing his face against the glass in proximity to Miss Jennie, who had just sat down, smirked in an insulting manner.  This brute, one William Foster, an ex-conductor of the line, seemingly not satisfied, opened the door and peered in, still grinning diabolically toward the ladies.”

Each time that Jennie Duval would close the door to the conductor’s compartment, Foster would slide it open again.  “Mr. Putnam now, becoming indignant, rose from his seat and passed out to the front platform of the car, closing the door after him.  Here Mr. Putnam remonstrated with Foster for his conduct, and begged him, as Madame Duval was suffering from nervous prostration, not to annoy her.”

Rather than resolving the situation, it worsened it.   Foster entered the car and sat next to young Virginia.  Her mother grabbed the girl and moved her away from him.

“What is it your business?” he demanded of her.

“She is my daughter, sir.”

The drunken Foster then turned his attention to Putnam and tried to provoke him by asking how far the three were traveling.  Receiving no response at all, he threatened Putnam saying “Well, I’m going as far as you, and before you get out I’ll give you hell.”

When the car reached 46^th Street—more than 20 blocks farther than Foster originally intended to ride—Jennie and her daughter stepped off the car.   As Putnam started out, Foster struck him in the head with an iron bar called a car-hook.   The injured man fell to the curb and Jennie Duval screamed for help.

Foster clanged the car bell, signaling the conductor to leave.  The horses pulled the streetcar northward while Foster threw the murder weapon into the path of the car and disappeared into the darkness.   With no one around to help Putnam, the women pulled his lifeless body to the sidewalk.

By 3:00 in the morning, having been identified by the conductor, Foster was arrested at his home.   A sensational murder trial followed that was closely followed by the public.  The case became fodder for Sunday sermons throughout the city. 

Following his conviction and sentencing to death, the Governor received a letter from Putnam’s widow asking for Foster’s reprieve.  Rumors were published in the newspapers that John Foster had offered her $15,000 (about $65,000 by today’s standards) to issue the letter. 

John Foster wrote his own letter to Governor Dix on March 12, 1873 denying that he had bribed Mrs. Putnam.  Written from the house on 18^th Street, in it he stressed “I am not aware that I ever saw Mrs. Putnam; but I deny most positively that I have offered or paid her any sum whatever, and I do not know that any of my friends have offered or paid her anything for her letter.  I believe the letter was prompted by the great kindness of her heart.”

In the end, and possibly because of the scandal of the purported bribe, Governor Dix refused to change the verdict to life imprisonment.   It was a politically- and socially-applauded decision.  One citizen wrote “Truly, the maxim, ‘Let justice be done though the heavens fall,’ no longer obsolete, has been electrified into new life; and let all the people good and true rejoice thereat.  In consideration, therefore, of his incalculable services to the nation in times of peace and war, and with all the proper humility of a private citizen, I nominate General John A. Dix for President of the United States.”

William Foste receives word that the Governor had not issued a repeal -- The Car-Hook Tragedy, 1873 (copyright expired)

At 8:30 in the morning of Friday, March 21, 1873, the day Foster was to be hanged, Flora Foster, a matron of the prison, entered Foster’s cell with a cup of warm coffee.  The prisoner was lying on his cot, unresponsive.  After shaking him repeatedly and realizing something was gravely wrong, she said “Oh, you wretched man, what have you been doing?  What have you taken?”

William Foster had taken poison in an attempt to end his life before being taken to the gallows.  The matron forced the coffee down his throat, which caused him to vomit.  She immediately called for more hot coffee in order to induce more vomiting.  The prison physician, Dr. Nealis, and keepers poured cold water over his head and walked him up and down the corridor.

Sheriff Brennan arrived, asking Dr. Nealis if Foster as in any condition to go into the yard for his execution.  “He is if he is carried out right way,” replied the doctor.

Foster was carried to the gallows for his scheduled 10:00 execution.  As the religious exercises were being conducted, Dr. Nealis carefully watched the prisoner.  The physician warned the Sheriff that if Dr. Tyng, the minister, did not speed things up, Foster would die from the poison before he could be executed.

As described in "The Car-Hook Tragedy," “For five minutes the reading continued, and Foster’s weakness had so increased that Sheriff Brennan whispered sharply to Dr. Tyng, ‘It’s too long.’  The reverend gentleman indeed brought the service to a sudden close, and, turning quickly to Foster, grasped his right hand and hurried away, overcome with emotion, followed by his assistants,” described."

William Foster, whose drunken action ended an innocent man’s life, was hanged at 9:18 and was pronounced dead at 9:33 a.m.

A year later, on Saturday February 7, 1874 John and Anne Foster’s youngest daughter, Emeline, died in the house at the age of 29.  On Tuesday morning, February 10, her funeral was held in the parlor before her burial in Greenwood Cemetery.

photo by Alice Lum

Following John Foster’s death the mansion was leased by John R. G. Hassard.  The respected writer had been editor of the Catholic World, but was most widely known as the musical critic and literary editor of the New-York Tribune.  He published several books, including “Life of Archbishop Hughes” in 1866; a textbook, the “History of the United States” in 1878; and “A Pickwickian Pilgrimage” in 1881.

The New York Times commended his diplomatic critiques.  “When he condemned a book it was always done in a singularly gentle manner, which never bore a spiteful or savage stamp.  The same can also be said of his musical criticisms.”

Hasssard’s health began failing in 1879 but he worked on for nearly nine years.  Finally on April 18, 1888 he died in the house on 18^th Street from “pulmonary consumption.”  The highly-regarded journalist received wide-spread posthumous praise in the newspapers; his obituary in the New-York Tribune consuming nearly half a page.  His neighbor and good friend, William Winter wrote “Among the old-fashioned phrases of eulogy there is one that long usage has rendered conventional; but it is very expressive:  He was a gentleman and a scholar.”

Hassard’s widow lived on in the house.  When Monsignor  Thomas S. Preson, Vicar-General of the Catholic Archdiocese of New York and pastor of St. Ann’s Church on East 12^th Street became seriously ill, he was brought to the Hassard house.  John Hassard, a devout Catholic, had written several Catholic historical works and had become close friends with the priest.   The Sun explained on October 27, 1891 that “Mgr. Preston was at the home of the widow of John R. G. Hassard, at 218 East Eighteenth street…which is in his parish, in order to be free from the bustle which the knowledge of his illness at the rectory would occasion there.”  As the monsignor’s health deteriorated, he was removed from the Hassard house in mid-October.

By 1893 the house was home to the 30-year old Dr. Simeon B. Minden.  The doctor, whom The Evening World deemed “a reputable physician” on July 21, 1893, would fall from grace decades later.   On March 29, 1921 Minden, now practicing from No. 230 East 69^th Street, performed an abortion on Mrs. Catherine Riga.  Three days later the 32 year old woman died.  Although Minden declared his innocence, he was later convicted of manslaughter.

At the turn of the century the land was owned by Stuyvesant Fish; but the house was still in the possession of the John Foster estate.   On November 27, 1907 The Times noted that Fish had mortgage the property to Oliver G. Barton for $12,000 for five years.  

On January 31, 1914 the New York Herald reported that the Estate of John Foster had leased the house.  But at the end of that year the tangled ownerships were straightened out when on December 5 The New York Times wrote that “Stuyvesant Fish, Jr., has transferred to his wife, Mildred Dick Fish, as a gift No. 218 East Eighteenth Street.”  The gift included both the land and the house.

Within only a few years the neighborhood would no longer be one of upscale private homes and the former mansion became a rooming house.   Along with the change came a different type of resident.  Eighteen year old Joseph Moore was among them.  Moore and three other young men were arrested on Broadway late one Saturday night in November, 1921, charged with felonious assault.  The New York Times noted “Each defendant was fined $3, except Moore, who was fined $25.”

On April 23, 1930 20-year old Joseph Brustein was living here when he was arrested and fined $2 along with two friends.  The fine was “for haranguing a crowd and distributing circulars for a May Day demonstration of workers, sailors, soldiers and marines,” said The New York Times.  “The three Communists were charged with disorderly conduct.”

The following year Paul Leibscher and Bertha Baretz bought the house.   John Moore was still living here and he was still getting into trouble.  Although he said he made his living as a clerk he was, more accurately, a pickpocket.  On March 7, 1938 he found himself under arrest for the 41^st time since 1914 and on his way to a 100-day sentence in the workhouse.

After owning the property for nearly two decades, Liebscher sold the house in September 1959 to The American Friends Service Committee.   Within the year it had been converted to offices.  The group, a Quaker organization, had been founded during World War I with the goal of addressing the root causes of war and violence.  In 1947 it was a co-recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize.

In 1964 the house was also home to the New York Peace Information Center, which offered publications like “The Poor Man’s Guide to War/Peace Literature.”  By the mid-1970s the Center for Global Perspectives was here.  Financed by a grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, it concentrated on the primary and second grades; introducing children to “interdependence, change and communication” in regard to peace studies.

The trend continued as the 20^th century drew to a close.  In 1994 the Joyce Mertz-Gilmore Foundation found its home here.  The organization says of itself that “It has a long-standing commitment to efforts which foster and protect social, economic, and political rights and which promote the development of democratic institutions.”

As it was in 1857 the John Foster house is the star of the block.  Its brick and brownstone façade is impeccably maintained; a reminder of the time when the street was a gracious residential neighborhood.

photo by Alice Lum

The 1889 Red Cross Training Hospital -- No. 233 West 100th Street

In the last quarter of the 19^th century, architects filled the rapidly developing Upper West Side with delightfully fanciful structures.  Distinctly unlike any other part of the city, the streets in this section became a visual banquet of with turrets and towers, gargoyles and stained glass.  French townhouses sat side-by-side with medieval manors.  Here more than anywhere else in the city the architects exercised the freedom to experiment and test the latest styles.

In 1889 a three-story beauty was completed at No. 233 West 100^th Street, just steps from The Boulevard (later renamed Broadway).  A city take on a suburban Queen Anne house, it boasted the capricious details that made the style so popular among Victorian homeowners—a bowed bay that morphed into a turret, half-moon windows filled with stained glass, creative brickwork, and decorative terra cotta panels.  A brownstone stoop led to the parlor floor above the English basement.  All that was missing from this urban version was a wrap-around porch with intricate woodwork. 

Two years after the house was completed, Clara Barton’s American National Red Cross Association founded the New-York Red Cross Hospital Association.  According to President Mrs. Charles H. Raymond, “The work of the hospital is to train nurses for indoor and outdoor work, no regular price being asked.”

An appeal for contributions for a hospital and training facility building went out and in 1894 enough money had been raised.   That year, in April, The New York Times reported on the auction sale of the 25-foot wide house at No. 233 West 100^th Street; the new Hospital and Training School for the Red Cross Sisters.

In 1896 the Annual Report of the State Board of Charities noted the extended work being done in the building.  Along with the training of nurses, it listed as its objects “to treat disease on most scientifically based methods, in particular without alcoholic stimulants, and to cultivate anything in medicine or surgery which may be of public interest or advantage.”

When the doors to the hospital first opened, Bettina Hofker was its sister-in-chief.  Among the original staff was Dr. A. Monae Lesser, the surgeon-in-chief.  Lesser was noted as “an advocate of surgery and the practice of medicine without the use of alcohol, and he has contributed articles to medical journals on these subjects,” said The Sun on August 8, 1897.

The close working relationship between Sister Hofker and Dr. Lesser fostered a more personal attachment and on August 6, 1897 the pair was married in the hospital by Rev. Dr. McNichol of the Fourth Avenue Methodist Episcopal Church.   Among those witnessing the ceremony were Clara Barton, and Stephen Barton and his wife.

The New York Times noted that “The wedding ceremony was very simple and followed a meeting of the Board of Trustees.  The President of the board, William T. Wardwell, gave away the bride, into whose purse the bridgegroom, following an old Manx custom, dropped a coin after the ceremony.”  (William Wardwell was not only President of the Board, but Treasurer of the Standard Oil Company.)

The newlyweds would soon take a trip to Cuba—but it was no honeymoon.  Rumblings of war with Spain resulted in a build-up of troops in Cuba.  In February 1898 Clara Barton sent Lesser and his wife there to vaccinate nurses and to prepare them “to be ready to start for the front on a moment’s notice.”

The New York Times reported on March 6 “Should war be declared against Spain, it will find the nurses and graduates of the New York Red Cross Hospital and Training School at 233 West One Hundredth Street, prepared to start for the front, for they have been holding themselves in readiness for the last two weeks in anticipation of a hurry call for their services in Cuba.”

Henry M. Flagler, who had been busy developing the coastal communities of Florida, gave land and $5,000 to the Red Cross to build a hospital in Miami, just north of his Royal Palm Hotel.  Twenty-five nurses from New York were sent to Florida in July to staff the new hospital.

Ironically, it was not battle wounds that the nurses were being primarily prepared to treat.    On May 22, 1898 18 Cuban physicians and 12 American doctors held at meeting at the hospital on West 100^th Street concerning a greater danger:  yellow fever and malaria.  Dr. Emiliano Nunez, former director of Our Mother of Mercy Hospital in Havana, told those present that “at the present time fully 75 per cent of all soldiers from foreign countries coming to Cuba were likely to be attacked by epidemic diseases.”

The Sun quoted Dr. Juan D. Sollossa, in charge of the Red Cross in Cuba, as saying “As it is now of each 100 soldiers that go to Cuba twenty-five die from disease alone.  But this percentage could be cut down materially if proper hygienic conditions were established, as could be easily done.”

The Surgeon General requested that the Red Cross supply “immune nurses.”  In response an announcement was placed in the morning newspapers on July 19 that “applicants wishing to become nurses should be at the Red Cross Hospital” that morning.  Volunteers poured in from every walk of life.

Miss Dilworth told The Sun “For the most part the women who apply are attractive, able-looking women and full of earnestness…One has only to look at our volunteer corps, as they sit here listening to lectures about the proposed work, to see that they are a band of typical American women, women who are well and appropriately dressed and thoroughly accustomed to the niceties of life.”

One volunteer in particular was accustomed to the niceties of life.   The Daily Oklahoma State Capital reported that “Miss Margaret Chanler, great-great granddaughter of the original John Jacob Astor, has renounced society to act as assistant nurse in a Red Cross hospital ward, a sublime act of renunciation.”

The newspaper said “The suffering and dying to whom she will minister in Cuba will never know that one of the richest and bluest blooded New York heiresses is their attendant, for Miss Chanler desires to hide her identity when she dons the garb of the great order of mercy and the Red Cross sisters will respect her wishes.”

Margaret Chanler attended the classes at No. 233 West 100^th Street and witnessed surgeries.  Others were not so resilient as the wealthy great-granddaughter of William B. Astor.   During one operation “One of the society women fainted.  Several were forced to leave the room.  It was Miss Chanler alone who stood her ground and established herself in a distinctive niche for the admiration of the experienced nurses who witnesses her heroism.”

Another socialite who donned the nurse’s uniform was Mrs. Thomas “a wealthy woman, who has signified her intention of going where she is told to go and doing what she is told to do,” said The Sun on April 28. 

Sister Bettina told the newspaper “I would like it distinctly understood that we shall accept no more applications for war service unless the volunteer is willing to go where she is ordered, whether for relief work or field service.  A Red Cross nurse must be just as willing to obey orders without question, as a soldier.”

The patriotic fever to help in the war effort crossed gender lines and New Yorkers were surprised when The Sun reported on May 3 that “About fifteen men, in response to a wish recently expressed by Dr. Lesser, applied to join the Red Cross as volunteers to go to Cuba.”  The men’s entrance into the heretofore female-only field was gladly accepted.  That afternoon Dr. Lesser “gave them many practical and valuable points that will be of great use to them in caring for themselves as well as the soldiers, if they are ordered to the field.”

By the beginning of October 1898 all the nurses who had been sent to Cuba were back at No. 233 West 100^th Street.  But they would not be here for long.  On October 2 The Sun reported that “The Red Cross Hospital at 233 West 100^th street is removing to 259 West Ninety-third street, where there are larger accommodations.  There will be thirty-five beds, which will be ready by Saturday.”

The house-turned-hospital was sold at auction in May 1899.  In February 1900 the title was transferred to the Nameoki Club—the Tammany Club of the 21^st District.  It was traditional for Tammany organizations to take Native American names and the Nameoki Club would offer a double-dose.  It was casually known as the “little Wigwam.”

The Nameoki Club was led by the powerful Matthew “Matt” Donohue.  A plumber, he rose quickly in the ranks of Tammany Hall, becoming the youngest man to sit on the executive committee at the age of 28.  By now the plumber had risen to the position of Superintendent of Sewers.  Donohue’s firm hold on the district was aided by the wealthy men who were listed on the club’s membership roles. 

One was candy-manufacturer George William Loft.  Broadcast Weekly said on February 11, 1904, “There is no more regular attendant at the Nameoki Club than George W. Loft, whose luscious candies have melted in the mouth of many a Democratic and Republican woman…He is one of the men who have done most to enable Leader Donohue to build up the big Democratic following in the district.”

Loft had a lot of irons in the fire.  Having amassed a considerable fortune in the confectionary business, he diversified into real estate, banking and retailing.   He was a well-known breeder of thoroughbred racehorses and represented New York in the United States House of Representatives.

The same year that Broadcast Weekly wrote about Loft, the Nameoki Club found a need to expand its headquarters.   On January 5 the New-York Tribune reported that the club “is to be enlarged and remodeled at a cost of $5,000.  The architect is Thomas W. Lamb.”   Lamb was best known for his designing of theaters and it is possible that it was at this time that the basement and first floor levels were extended to the property line with a brownstone addition, and the entrance lowered to sidewalk level.

The stoop was removed and an extension built to the property line.

The election year of 1906 was marked by an especially bitter race between Donohue and Ross Williams.  As the Nameoki Club prepared for its summer picnic on September 10, The Evening World predicted that the Williams followers would try to derail the festivities.

“A report gained currency through the district that followers of Ross Williams, Mr. Donohue’s rival for the leadership, would attend the picnic with a couple of vans loaded with empty-bottles, pig-iron and lemons.  Mr. Williams indignantly denied that any of his men would attend the Donohue outing so equipped.”

The Evening World also predicted that the Nameoki Club members would come home with hangovers.  “The leader of the band bears the suggestive name of Prof. R. E. Sause.  Tomorrow morning a lot of the merry-makers are likely to be under the care of old Prof. R-E-Morse.”

As it turned out, Donohue lost the election by eight votes after what The New York Times called “a long and tiring battle.”

The Club remained in the house until January 1913.  The building was purchased by Ennis & Sinnott, who quickly sold it within the month to Thomas Jefferson O’Rourke.  The Sun noted that O’Rourke “will remodel the building for business purposes.”   O’Rourke simultaneously purchased No. 232 West 101^st Street which abutted the property to the rear.

By August the renovations were completed and half of the building--the entire third floor and part of the second--were leased to A. W. Brown.

Female faces stare out from the three intricate terra cotta panels in the curved bay.

By the second half of the 20^th century there were just two businesses in the building, which had been allowed to substantially degrade.   Then in 1998 new owners John D. and Rosemary Kuhns completed a full renovation and restoration, resulting in a single family home.  The Kuhns replaced the slate-covered turret cap with a handsome copper bell-shaped dome.   Above it an eagle weather vane, while perhaps not architecturally appropriate, is an interesting curiosity.

The 1904 interiors, designed by Thomas Lamb, have been lost.  http://www.corcoran.com/nyc/Listings/Display/1007464

While few interior details survive, the remarkable Queen Anne house endures along with its equally remarkable past.

 exterior photographs taken by the author

The Lost Wm. Whitney Mansion -- No. 871 Fifth Avenue

The startling renovations to the mansion neared completion in 1901.  Further up the avenue another house is being built -- photo by Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1GW6XN7H&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

On December 12, 1882 sugar refining magnate Robert L. Stuart died in his brownstone residence at No. 154 Fifth Avenue.  He left his widow an estate valued at between $5 and $6 million and the unfinished hulking stone mansion 48 blocks to the north.  Upon his death The New York Times remarked that “The new residence which Mr. Stuart was building at Sixty-eighth street and Fifth-avenue was to cost $350,000, and the owner expected to occupy it next Spring.  It is very nearly completed, and will prove one of the most notable ornaments of the avenue.  It has a frontage on Fifth-avenue of 55 feet, and on Sixty-eighth-street of 136 feet, and the general style of the architecture is the Renaissance.”

Robert Stuart died just months before his new mansion was completed -- NYPL Collection

Stuart ensured that the sidewalk fronting his mansion would be flawless.  The Times said “The flagstone in front of the main entrance is the largest ever quarried and laid in one piece, being 26 feet 6 inches long, 15 feet 6 inches wide, and 9 inches think, and weighing 430 tons.”

Stuart had commissioned architect William Schickel to design the mansion he would never occupy.  Schickel combined elements of the French Second Empire and Renaissance Revival styles to create a bulky confection of oriels, balconies, dormers and cast iron cresting.  The widowed Mary McCrea Stuart had the mansion completed at a final cost of $640,000 not including the land.  She moved into the new Fifth Avenue mansion, entertaining in the three large parlors, impressive dining room and ballroom. 

Eventually the aging Mary’s health showed signs of decline.  In 1887 she slipped while going to her carriage and broke a leg.  For months she was confined to bed in the house.  In February 1889 she showed symptoms of pneumonia and traveled to Thomasville, Georgia with her companion, Miss Stratton and several servants.  When her condition continued to decline, her doctor was summoned from New York.  The New York Times reported that “Upon his arrival a consultation took place concerning Mrs. Stuart’s wish that she should be removed to her home in Sixty-eighth-street.  The physicians did not fancy this, believing that such a course would be fatal to the patient, but her will was not to be withstood.”

A special train was chartered to transport Mary Stuart home, “under the contract to make Jersey City within a day.”  She 75-year old widow paid $1000 for the special train which traveled at the then-astounding average speed of 41 miles per hour.  Within the contracted 24 hours she was back in her bed at No. 871 Fifth Avenue.  She survived the pneumonia and the trip, but would die here at the age of 81 on December 30, 1891.

After Mary’s charitable bequeaths were fulfilled and the valuable collection of artwork and books were donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, an auction of her residual property was held in March 1893.  “The sale, by Mr. Peter F. Meyer,” said The New York Times “was a remarkably successful one in all respects save one.  This exception was the mansion on Fifth Avenue.”

Offers were made on the spacious mansion for over a year, none of which satisfied the executors of the estate.  Finally on December 10, 1894 Amzi L. Barber of the Barber and Trinidad Asphalt Companies purchased it for $675,000.

Barber had renovations done; and by 1895 he and his wife were entertaining in the updated mansion.  Society pages reported on dinners and musicales, like the one for Mrs. Anna Randall Diehl in the residence that year.

But Barber would be here for only about two years.  The mansion became the home of Levi P. Morton, former Vice President of the United States under Benjamin Harrison, and Governor of New York.  Morton’s governorship had ended in 1896 and he leased the house from its new owner, former Secretary of the Navy William C. Whitney. 

While Morton was in the house, Whitney and his wife were living at the southwest corner of 57^th Street and Fifth Avenue.  Whitney had purchased that brownstone mansion from the Duchess de Dino thirteen years earlier.  Now, Whitney’s son, Harry Payne Whitney, was on his honeymoon with his new bride, Gertrude Vanderbilt, and the 57^th Street house was his father’s wedding present to the newlyweds.  “Mr. Whitney will continue to occupy the house he is in now until his son returns,” reported The Sun on November 25, 1896.  The newspaper added, “What he paid for the Stuart house is not made known.”

In the meantime Governor Morton made full use of the 68^th Street mansion.  On Christmas Eve 1896 he hosted a dinner in honor of the Governor-elect, Frank S. Black.  Around the dining room table that evening were Mayor Strong, Mayor Wurster of Brooklyn, Mayor Gleason of Long Island City, General Benjamin F. Tracy, former Mayor Thomas F. Gilrov, Seth Low, Justice John F. Dillon, General Stewart L. Woodford, Senator Clarence Lexow, Lieutenant Governor Thomothy L. Woodruff and a host of other political luminaries.

William and Edith Whitney had been married in 1895, two years after William’s first wife Flora had died.  They were pleased with the location of the former Stuart mansion, but not its style.  The 14-year old house was already out of fashion and the couple commissioned Stanford White to remodel it into a modern showplace.  The renovation would take six years and--just as Robert L. Stuart had not lived to see his completed mansion--Edith Sibyl Randolph Whitney died during construction.

By March 1902 the mansion was nearing completion and a United States Circuit Court judge was required to make a decision regarding three ceilings.  The ceilings were removed from the Barberini Palace in Florence and, according to The Sun on March 14, “are exquisitely painted in oils, on wood, and date back to the fourteenth century.  The artists who painted them are unknown but the work is said to be worthy of the masters.”  Although the Museum of Art of Berlin was eager to acquire one of the ceilings, “Mr. Whitney bought all three at a price that was higher than any museum could afford,” said The Sun.

Now that they had arrived in New York, there was a question on how duty should be charged.  “When the Board of Appraisers was called upon to assess the duties, the question arose: whether the ceilings should be classed as manufactures of wood or as paintings by foreign artists.”  The Board classified them in the first, more expensive duty category, like Vienna chairs or umbrella handles.  William Whitney filed a protest and won.

“Judge Coxe, in his decision, points out that the value of the wood in the ceilings is infinitesimal, as compared with their value as paintings” reported the newspaper.

Rooms were dismantled from European palaces and shipped to New York -- photo McKim, Mead & White, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1GW6DINF&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

Among other imported architectural features was the music room, 60 feet long by 30 feet high, which was originally in the castle of Phoebus d’Albert, Baron of Tours during the time of Louis XIV.  The room was moved to Paris in the reign of Louis Philippe, and then to New York by Whitney.  The elaborately wrought iron and bronze entrance gates came from the Doria Palace in Italy.  The main hall contained 16^th century stained glass windows.

photo McKim, Mead & White, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1GW6DINF&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

Finally the house was completed and there was little trace of the Stuart mansion remaining.  The entrance was now centered on 68^th Street (although the more impressive Fifth Avenue address was retained).  White retained some elements—the slightly projecting central section on 68^th Street, the row of arched openings along the third floor, the cornice and remnants of the mansard roof—but transformed the bulk of the house into a stylish, modern residence.

The New York Times said that Stanford White “entirely remodeled it.  Mr. Whitney refitted it with art treasures, which he had selected during various trips to Europe.  Panelings from European palaces, wrought iron work from Florence, marbles from Roman temples, and carvings from cathedrals are all included in the decorative scheme.”

On December 18, 1903 Whitney gave the first grand entertainment in the house.  “William C. Whitney gave the first notably brilliant ball of the season last night at his home, 871 Fifth avenue,” said The Sun.  “It was a coming out festivity for Mr. Whitney’s niece, Miss Katherine Barney.”

The widowed millionaire’s mansion was gaily decorated for the occasion.  “The walls and ceiling of the wide lower hall were trellised with vines in which were myriads of electric bulbs,” said The Sun.  “Red velvet carpets were thrown on the marble floor, and the stairways were filled in with plants and made into a big picturesque cosey corner.”

On February 1, 1904 The Evening World reported that Whitney was seriously ill.  He had been operated on for appendicitis a few days earlier and complications set in.  “Mr. Whitney’s chances are not of the best,” said a doctor  “He is in very critical condition and anything may happen at any moment…The operation on Mr. Whitney was a success as an operation, but Mr. Whitney did not recover from the shock and has steadily lost strength since.”

The Evening World published a disturbing headline and photo of the mansion as Whitney faded (copyright expired)

The following day, at 4:00 in the afternoon, Whitney died in the 68^th Street house.  He left an estate valued at over $21 million including the mansion which was assessed at $1.4 million in which he had lived only two years.

A little-known, bachelor stockbroker purchased the mansion, its furnishings and artwork as a package.  James Henry “Silent” Smith not only had his own fortune, but had inherited several million dollars from his uncle, George Smith.  Like its previous owners, Smith would not live long in the mansion at No. 871 Fifth Avenue.  Although the broker had been termed “mousy” prior to moving in to the house, he now hobnobbed with the upper echelon of society, including Mamie Fish.  He became fast friends with Annie and William Rhinelander Stewart, sharing his opera box with them and going on extended yacht trips.

Annie Stewart and James Smith became such good friends, in fact, that in August 1906 she divorced William and a month later married Smith.  The couple boarded a steamer for Japan for their honeymoon.  Smith would not return to New York alive.

He arrived in Kyoto seriously ill and died there in March 1907.  Smith’s body was sent home in a coffin that weighed a ton and took eight men to carry.   The new Mrs. Smith, her sister the Duchess of Manchester, and her daughter, Anita Stewart “were all in deep mourning” when the coffin arrived at Grand Central Depot on May 5, 1907, according to The Sun.  “They went to the Smith home at 871 Fifth Avenue.”  It was the first time that Annie Stewart Smith had entered the house as an occupant.

For the second time in three years the body of the mansion’s owner lay in one of the parlors.   Annie’s son, William Rhinelander Stewart, Jr., told reporters “We will probably not keep the house, but I suppose that is provided for in the will.”  The Sun said “He intimated that the house might be sold back to the Whitney family.”  (Indeed, when Smith’s will was read “he instructed his executors to give the first refusal to buy the premises No. 871 Fifth avenue to Harry Payne Whitney,” said the New-York Tribune later.)

Instead, Annie lived here for a few years, before putting the house on the market for $2.5 million in 1908.  On January 3, 1909 the New-York Tribune reported that a buyer had been found.  That buyer was Harry Payne Whitney who purchased the house complete with his father’s furniture, artwork and antiques, just as Smith had done.  “Included in the list of paintings are works by Van Dyck, Costa, Cranach, Murillo, Gainsborough, Diaz, and John La Farge,” said The Times.

Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney in 1916 -- photo Library of Congress

On February 7, 1910 Mrs. Whitney gave a reception for about 200 guests.  Nahan Franko’s orchestra played and Anna Pavlowa and Michael Mordkine of the Imperial Opera House of St. Petersburg and Moscow made their American debut.  “Last night’s was the first large entertainment given by Mrs. Whitney since the former home of William C. Whitney was bought by Mr. Whitney from the estate of the late J. Henry Smith,” noted The Times.

In 1915 the Whitneys had a large overmantel decoration installed.  The New York Times described it as “a remarkable bas relief cast from solid tin, which is said to be the largest work of art of that material ever made in this country.  The relief bears the portraits of their children, Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney and Miss Flora Whitney.  The original work was modeled in 1907 by James Earle Fraser, the sculptor.”

The piece was six feet long and five feet high, weighing more than 900 pounds.  “The material is so treated as to have the appearance of old silver,” said The Times.  “The boy and girl are shown mounted on ponies, and there is in the work the spirit of the out-of-doors life.  Both are bareheaded.”

As World War I erupted, the Whitneys turned their attention to war relief.  On May 17, 1918 an auction was held in the ballroom for the benefit of the Italian Red Cross.  Socialites bid on diamond horseshoe boxes at the Metropolitan Opera House and publisher Frank Crowninshield urged the women to donate generously.  “Come, ladies,” he said, “now’s the time to take your diamond tiaras out of moth balls.”

The auction raised approximately $10,475 for the cause.

Flora and Barbara Whitney would prove to be models of social decorum--unlike their brother.  On April 19, 1920 Flora was married to Roderick Tower in St. Bartholomew’s Church.  “Not only was New York’s ‘Four Hundred’ represented, but Philadelphia’s as well,” reported the New-York Tribune.  The church was decorated with 15,000 lilies.

The reception was held in at No. 871 which “like the church, was decorated with lilies and roses.  These flowers, with bay trees, were used throughout the reception rooms and great hall, as well as the ballroom, and likewise in the dining room, where the buffet was served.”

The following year was Barbara’s coming out and the ballroom was the scene of a grand ball on January 5, 1921.

The Fifth Avenue neighborhood around the Whitney house in the 1920s was still one of private homes -- photo NYPL Collection

The publicity brought to the house by Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney was less positive.  In August 1921 dancer Evan Burrows Fontaine filed a $1 million suit against him saying “that her eighteen-months-old baby is the son of young Whitney and that repeated promises of marriage were never fulfilled.”

Cornelius Whitney vehemently denied the allegations and eventually succeeding in having the case dismissed.  In 1923 he married the debutante Marie Norton; who later filed for divorce in July 1929.

In October 1930 Harry Payne Whitney contracted a slight cold, but went about his business as usual.  When the malady worsened, Dr. John A. Hartwell and several other physicians were called in and although pneumonia had developed, it was not believed to be severe.  Within a few days Whitney died in his bed at No. 871 Fifth Avenue.  He left an estate of over $61 million.

Two years later the house would be in the headlines as a bitter custody battle ensued over little Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt.  Gloria’s mother, Gloria Morgan, was the sister-in-law of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney.  On a Friday afternoon Gloria allowed little Gloria to be taken to “feed the pigeons in Central Park.”  Instead she was whisked off to No. 871 Fifth Avenue. 

Court battles lasted for over two years in which Gertrude Whitney, little Gloria’s nurse and doctors, and others testified that Gloria Morgan was an unfit mother.  The Times reported that “Mrs. Whitney said that while the child has been living with her for more than two years past, ‘her mother has rarely seen her,’ and to Mrs. Whitney’s best recollection ‘her mother has had her overnight on only one occasion since the visit commencing Sept. 18, 1934.”

In 1939 Gertrude Whitney purchased the four-story Eila Haggin McKee house at No. 874 Fifth Avenue, possibly to protect her own mansion from demolition.  “With the property at 871 Fifth Avenue,” said The Times, “Mrs. Whitney now controls a plot 100 by 200 feet on the northeast corner of Sixty-eighth Street.”

But by 1942 Gertrude Whitney was spending less and less time in the Fifth Avenue mansion.  Finally, on April 10 that year, The New York Times reported on its scheduled demolition.  The newspaper said “it has been a center of social life in a neighborhood formerly made up of private residences of the wealthy.  One by one these have given way in late years to apartment houses.”

The article described some of the rare interiors.  “The main hall is of imposing size, with a floor of marbles inlaid with 10,000 pieces of brass.  The Renaissance ceiling formerly was in the Bardini collection in Florence.  The fireplace, of carved white stone in the style of Henri II, formerly in the chateau of the Sieur Franc de Conseil at Aigues-Mortes, France, has a depth of five feet.  The walls and the stairway, with its elaborately carved balustrade, are of Istrian marble.  French seventeenth-century stained glass, rare old hangings and paintings complete the decoration of the hall.

“Opening off this spacious passage are two large rooms facing on Fifth Avenue, one the drawing room, with ceiling from a Roman palace and wall coverings of damask, the other the library, with fifteenth century Italian white marble fireplace, Italian antique ceiling, and elaborately carved old walnut bookcases built in.”

A massive mid-century apartment house of stone and brick stands on the site of the Whitney mansion.  It was sometimes called the most palatial house in New York; but then others claimed that title as well.  It was nevertheless a remarkable and irreplaceable example of architecture and art.

The Horrific Near Murder at No. 237 East 18th Street

No. 237, to the right, lost its lovely Gothic eyebrows -- photo by Alice Lum

In 1841 the rectory of the Church of the Ascension was completed at No. 7 West 10^th Street.  Designed by Richard Upjohn, the charming residence broke architectural ground—it was faced in brownstone.  Never before used on a Manhattan residence, the material quickly be so commonly used in residences that its name would become synonymous with rowhouses.

For the little building Upjohn turned to what was perhaps his favorite style—Gothic Revival.  The style here was most obvious in the square-headed eyebrows that hugged the tops of the openings.

Later, on the opposite side of town, two mirror-image speculative homes were construction at Nos. 235 and 237 East 18^th Street.  The houses owed much to the rectory.

Three stories tall above an English basement, the houses were faced in smooth brownstone blocks.  The Gothic treatment of the windows was nearly identical to Upjohn’s rectory detailing.   But there the similarities stopped.

The architect stepped away from Gothic Revival and trimmed the double brownstone stoop with Italianate ironwork.  The railings wrapped the handsome cast newels which were topped by attractive flame finials.  Also inconsistent with the Gothic window treatments were the elaborate bracketed cornices and the beautiful, lacy cast iron double porch.

Carved, paneled pilasters flank the doorways.  No. 235 received modern replacement entrance doors in the 1890s.  photo by Alice Lum

The block was lined on both sides with brick or brownstone residences, three and four stories tall, built for merchant class families.   But times would change and as the turn of the century approached, No. 237 had been converted to a rooming house.

On June 21, 1893 an advertisement in The Evening World touted “Handsome rooms, single and connected; all conveniences, $2.50 up; first class locality.”  The weekly rent of what would essentially be $60 in today’s money reflected the still-respectable neighborhood, and boarders were expected to provide references.  Another ad, the following week offered “Cosy rooms, singly or en suite; gas, bath; running water; first-class house.”

Close inspection shows that the unusual flame finials survive on the staircase newels -- photo by Alice Lum.

While boarders came at went on East 18^th Street, a young man was causing heartbreak for his family in Ogden City, Utah.   The son of Dr. M. N. Graves, the town’s “City Physician” and “one of the best insurance examiners in the West,” according to The Sun, Leon Graves was said to have been “the black sheep of the family for many years.”

The 21-year old Graves had a friend, Clarence Barton, whose brother Charles worked in the Ogden City office of the Utah Loan and Trust Company.  On the day after Christmas in 1896 Clarence walked into his brother’s office in broad daylight and stole $5,200.  Barton and Graves divided the money and fled to Walla-Walla, then to New York City.

Barton traveled under his real name; Leon Graves preferred an alias, going by the names of Leon Johnson and Andrew Johnson.  The pair arrived in New York on April 8, 1897 and exactly four days later were arrested by Central Office detectives.  The crooks hired the legal team of Robert S. Clark and Edward A. Scott to fight the extradition proceedings.  The attorneys got them released on a technicality.

Barton left New York immediately; but Graves stayed on.  He had his mail delivered to Scott & Clark’s office and he audaciously engaged the lawyers again, this time to file suit against the Utah Loan and Trust Company for false imprisonment.

Within a few weeks Leon Graves was living in a furnished room in No. 237 East 18^th Street—using money for rent borrowed from Clark & Scott.  Upon Graves’ suggestion, attorney Scott had asked Senator Cannon of Utah and an attorney from Ogden City named Rogers to handle the Utah end of the case.  The men were expected in New York to consult with Scott about the matter.

The Sun described Graves as looking older than his 21 years.  “He is of medium height, slightly built, and has a sallow complexion.  He dresses fairly well, and has a nervous, jerky way of talking.”  As his lawyers already knew, he was a thief and a cad.  Nevertheless, Edward Scott foolishly flashed his wealth.  The newspaper said of him “Scott wears a great many diamonds.”

The dastardly Graves laid a plan.

On July 14, 1897 he was at the law offices and left around noon.  At 3:00 Scott received a note, written on a Western Union Telegraph blank, asking him to come up to the 18^th Street house at 8:30 that night.  The note said that Senator Cannon and the attorney would be there to confer about the case.

But Scott had another appointment that night.  He wrote back to have the men come to the office the following morning.  Graves arrived alone the next day, saying that Cannon and Rogers had been delayed by a storm.

“But I want you to come up to my house at 8 o’clock tonight,” he told Scott.  “My landlady wants to get a divorce on the quiet, and as she has four or five thousand in the bank there’ll be a good fee in it for you.”

Scott was beginning to become suspicious and made an excuse.  As Grave left the office, he off-handedly asked law student, Thomas Gibney who worked as a clerk, when his payday was.  When Gibney told him it was Saturday, Graves invited him to come up to his place on Saturday night.

Unrelenting, Graves was back in the office on Friday morning.  He said “Scott, there’s a friend of mine in town that wants to see you.  Now, he’s up at my place and I want you to come up about 9 o’clock and meet him.”

Scott made the excuse that he was going with Clark to look at pianos.   Clark had recently married and was in the market for a piano for his bride.  Since Scott was engaged to the daughter of a piano manufacturer, he was going to introduce Clark to his future father-in-law.

“Piano!” said Graves.  “Are you looking for a bargain, Mr. Clark?”

Clark admitted that he was and Graves said that in his room in the 18^th Street house was “a fine Steinway” which his landlady was willing to sell.  He called it “a rare opportunity.”

Clark indeed wanted both a piano and a bargain and he agreed to meet Graves at the 18^th Street house at 9:00 that night.  It was a major lapse in judgment on Clark’s part.

Finally, after unrelenting attempts, Graves had succeeded in luring a victim to his room.

Clark left his Brooklyn home at 8:00 and arrived in front of No. 237 East 18^th Street around 9:00 or 9:15.  “Graves was at the stoop waiting for me,” he later recalled.  “He told me that his room was on the third floor, and that the piano was there and we’d have to go up to see it.”

Clark led the way up the stairs, going slowly because it was “pitch dark.”  Not until they reached the third floor did it occur to him to ask Graves why the gas lights were not lit.  Graves said he had just come home and hadn’t “had no chance to light up.”  He asked Clark for a match and the attorney put his hand into his pocket, just as they were crossing the threshold into Graves’ room, to retrieve one.  At that moment Clark received a tremendous blow to the head, just behind his right ear.

“The blow was a clumsy one, and I could tell, dazed as I was, that it was a glancing one.  I struggled to keep my sense, but I couldn’t keep my feet, and reeled and fell.  Then I felt two men raining blows on my head and body.”

Although Clark could not see in the dark, he knew one of the men was Graves.  When the lawyer struggled, one of the men jumped on him with both feet.  Clark realized that if he were to survive this attack, he would have to pretend to be dead or unconscious.

“Then I lay very still, for, dazed as I was, I realized the value of keeping my senses.  It was lucky that I did, for a moment later one of the men was feeling in the dark for my mouth.  When he found it, he put a bottle there and began pouring a stinging acid on my face.”

Graves and his cohort were attempting to murder the attorney by making him ingest acid.

“I felt then that they were trying to kill me, but I didn’t dare move, so I shut my teeth tightly and fixed my tongue against them, so as to prevent the acid going down my throat.  The stuff was like fire, it trickled down my cheeks and neck and a quantity of it went down my throat.  I thought I should go crazy with the agony of it.”

When the bottle was finally taken away, Clark heard Graves say “Let’s do him.”

Clark realized that Graves needed him dead, since he knew him.  The other man hesitated, saying “Let’s see what’s he’s got, first.”

As Clark played dead, they rolled him over and searched his pockets.  They removed $145 in bills and a dime, a diamond ring, his watch and chain, and a diamond pin.  Just as Clark was expecting to be shot or stabbed, someone made a noise in the hallway.  The men both jumped up to listen at the door.

Scott grabbed the opportunity.  “The villains then thought I was dead,” he told reporters later.  He jumped to his feet, ran to an open window and, holding an upended lounge as a sort of shield in case of gunfire, he yelled out the window “Murder! Police!”

Clark told the court later “When I saw policemen coming up the street and heard Graves and his companion running away I felt safe and collapsed utterly.” 

While Clark passed out on the floor below the window, the drama continued downstairs.  Policemen Christopher E. Mackney and John Magner ran into the house to find the halls full of people.   The boarders told them that two men had just come down the stairs and run out through the rear door into the yard.   The officers rushed out just in time to see the crooks scaling a fence. 

The Sun reported “The men didn’t stop when ordered to.  The policemen waited for them to show up on the next fence, meaning to shoot, but they were too cautious.  Policeman Mackney then went out in the street, ran two doors below to 233, and through that house to the rear yard.  People shouted from rear windows that the men were in that yard so Magner went up and joined his fellow officer, and with drawn pistols they made a search of the yard.”

The policemen found the two men crouched behind a grape arbor in the corner of the yard.  Faced with drawn pistols, Graves and his accomplice, John F. Ryan, surrendered with their hands up.  All of Clark’s property was found on Graves.

Later detectives searched the room Graves had rented in No. 237 East 18^th Street.   They found a two-foot long bar of solder which Ryan had used to knock Clark in the head and a silk handkerchief in the bureau drawer tied with 100 “swanshot” to make a bludgeon.  There was also a letter from his mother telling him of the work of the Ogden City Christian Endeavor Society “and telling him to be a good boy.”

In the grape arbor at No. 233 the police found two loaded 44-calibre English bulldog revolvers.

The following week, on July 17, the evidence was presented to Magistrate Crane of the Yorkville Court.  Also in the courthouse was lawyer Robert S. Clark “with his broken head and with burns caused by some acid on the lower part of his face, on his neck, and inside his mouth,” as described by The Sun.  The New York Times said his face was “considerably bruised and scarred” and “his head was bandaged on account of a scalp wound.”

“Graves,” said the newspaper, “looked very sulky as he gave his name and address…Ryan, who is a low-browed, tough-looking citizen, the direct opposite of his companion, said he was 22 years old and a fireman.  He declined to say where he lived.”

Edward Scott appeared as well, and pleaded with the judge “I am sure that unless the very highest possible bail is placed on these men they will secure it and then skip out.  I beg of the court to make the bonds as heavy as possible.”

Magistrate Crane agreed.  “This is certainly the most daring crime that has taken place in New York in years.  Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard were no more audacious robbers than you two men.  What have you got to say to this charge?”

“Not guilty!” they both responded.  They were held on $5,000 bail each.  To enforce his innocence, Graves revealed that he and Ryan had planned to rob the banking firm of Mecklen Brothers at Warren and Greenwich Streets, but changed their minds.

“He [Ryan] told me it would be an easy thing to rob it, saying that between 12 and 1 or 1 and 2 in the afternoon there would only be one of the firm in, and that all I had to do was to reach over and grab the bills and get away.  I visited the banking place several times.”

Graves felt that the fact that they never went through with the  bank heist enforced his innocence.  “We didn’t rob the bank.  At 8 o’clock last night Clark came to my room.  Ryan was there.  We didn’t use any acid on him, nor did we assault him in any way.”

Nevertheless, before the month was up both men changed their pleas to guilty.  On August 1, 1897 The New York Times reported that “John f. Ryan and Leon Graves, who assaulted and robbed Lawyer Robert S. Clarke of Brooklyn July 16, after luring him into a house at 237 East Eighteenth Street, were sentenced to eighteen years in Sing Sing at hard labor.  Both pleaded guilty, and when Justice Newburger called them up for sentence he told them that their crime was one of the boldest and most outrageous he had ever known.”

photo by alice Lum

The short period of notoriety for the brownstone house at No. 237 East 18^th Street came to an end.  In 1905 the boarding house was purchased by Mrs. A. N. Jansen and in 1919 it underwent a remarkable upgrade—the installation of electricity.

On August 31 of that year The Sun remarked that “The use of electricity for illuminating purposes in old tenement buildings is not exactly a novelty, but its introduction into the oldest types and even those of the more modest sort is regarded as an indication of a wholesale attempt on the part of the owners to bring their buildings up to date and to make them attractive to tenants of the better class.”

The article mentioned No. 237 East 18^th Street as one of the old houses that was receiving electric lighting in the hallways.  The article said that “It is the usual experience of the lighting company that as soon as electricity is once brought within the building it is only a matter of a few months before wiring is laid into the individual apartments.”

photo by Alice Lum

The electric company was right and, sure enough, today No. 237 indeed has electricity in every room.  The handsome brownstone façade has sadly lost its Gothic eyebrows; but save for replacement windows, remains largely intact.  The quiet appearance of the old Victorian belies the astonishing story of robbery, attempted murder and horrific assault that played out within a top floor room.