The James and Euphemia Russell House - 44 West 87th Street

 

Having trained in the architectural firm of Duggin & Crossman, Charles Buek established Charles Buek & Co. in 1880.  The development-construction firm doubled as its own architect.  Within a decade, Charles Buek & Co. was one of the most well-known firms in the industry.  On February 21, 1891, the Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide reported that the firm "will shortly commence the erection of six four-story brick and limestone front dwellings on the south side of 87th street, 100 feet east of Columbus Avenue."

Completed in 1892, Nos. 40 through 50 West 87th Street were designed in a refined version of Romanesque Revival.  No. 44 West 87th Street was twenty-three-feet wide, and its basement and parlor levels were clad in rough cut limestone.  A dog-legged box stoop mirrored that of its next door at No. 46.  The two-story midsection was faced in brick.  Grouped windows at the second floor were framed in limestone, distinguished by pilasters with ornate Corinthian capitals.  The fourth floor sat atop an intricately carved cornice.  Its slightly projecting center section held paired openings.  Their limestone frame was anchored by large, swirling volutes.  Directly above was a triangular pediment with a charming daisy rondel.

James and Euphemia Russell purchased the mansion from Charles Buek in February 1893 for $44,500, or about $1.4 million in 2026 terms.  Born in 1827 and 1841 respectively, the couple had four children, Marguerite, George Dunlap, May Isabelle, and Rachel (known as Ray) MacMaster.  The family's country home, Sunny Side, was near Mount Vernon, New York.

George, who had married the previous year, was the only sibling who did not move into the West 87th Street house.  May and Ray were single, and Margaruerite was married to her father's business partner, Charles S. Rees.  The men composed James Rees & Sons, Co., "boiler, engine and steamboat builders," and Russell & Rees, which operated the Continental Brewery.  

Charles S. Rees was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on December 5, 1860.  He graduated from Western University of Pennsylvania. 

Described by The New York Times later as the Russells' "palatial residence," 44 West 87th Street was filled with valuable artwork and antiques.  An inventory held in 1906 described "a valuable collection of Oil Paintings, comprising about one hundred canvases, many by prominent American and Foreign artists."  The parlor, or "salon," was furnished in "Marie Antoinette and Louis Seize," and the music room in Louis XVI.

The Russell women were highly involved in the Woman's Wards of the New York Post-Graduate Hospital.  Margaruerite Rees was president, Ray MacMaster Russell was secretary and treasurer, and Euphemia was an associate member.

Just two years after purchasing 44 West 87th Street, James Russell died.  

Isabelle married Isaac Hallam Jenney in 1898.  (The bride was 17 and the groom 26.)  The couple moved into the West 87th Street mansion.  Isaac Jenney was born in 1871 "in the American consular residence at Bogata, Columbia," as explained by the New York Herald, and graduated from Yale in 1892.  When he married May, he was working as an importer.  Two years later, on February 24, 1900, Marie Jenney was born.  

Society was abuzz in the spring of 1902 when Ray MacMaster Russell's engagement to millionaire Hector H. Havemeyer was announced.  The ceremony was to be held in the Madison Avenue Reformed Church and The New York Times said it "will be a large wedding."  And, indeed, on April 17 the New York Herald headlined an article, "Miss Ray Russell Becomes A Bride / Throng at Church to See Ceremony Which Made her Mrs. Havemeyer."  A who's-who of high society attended the ceremony, including Goulds, Gilseys, Ballards and Mackays.

Before long, Havemeyer, his friend, Peter Gilsey, and Isaac Hallam Jenney formed the real estate company, Gilsey, Havemeyer & Jenney.  

The extended family left 44 West 87th Street in 1902, although Euphemia retained possession.  She leased the house for the winter social season of 1902 to author and playwright Frances Hodgson Burnett.  In her 1927 biography, The Romantick Lady (Frances Hodgson Burnett), Vivian Burnett writes, "Situated in the middle of the block, it was far enough from heavy traffic to give Mrs. Burnett something of the quiet she needed."

Frances Burnett posed for photographer Herbert Rose Barraud in 1886 (copyright expired)

Born in 1848, Burnett had written the children's novel Little Lord Fauntleroy in 1886.  She would later produce two other popular children's works, the 1905 A Little Princess and The Secret Garden, released in 1911.  

The following year, Euphemia leased 44 West 87th Street to Ernest Benjamin Fahnestock and his wife, the former Abby Caroline Rhodes.  Fahnestock was the vice-president and general manager of the Fahnestock Transmitter Co.

Not surprisingly, when Euphemia Russell placed the house for sale in 1906, it was handled by Gilsey, Havemeyer & Jenney.  The property was sold to Dr. Abram Richard Stern and his wife, the former Stella Lichtenstein, in May.

Born on July 21, 1874, Stern was a graduate of Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons.  He additionally studied in Berlin and Vienna.  At the time of the purchase, he was Adjunct Assistant Attending Physician at Mt. Sinai Hospital.  He and Stella had two children, Richard and Stella Benita. 

Stern's patients ranged from theatrical to society figures.  In December 1907, for instance, he was called to the home of actress Julia Sanderson (who was in private life Mrs. Tod Sloan).  Sanderson had been appearing in The Dairy Maids even though she was feeling unwell.  Finally, she could not continue.  On December 3, The New York Times reported that Stern "diagnosed the case as typhoid."  And when the young and wealthy socialite Mrs. George A. Oppenheimer committed suicide on October 19, 1913, it was Dr. Stern who was call to the scene.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

Among the Sterns' domestic staff in 1919 was their governess, 60-year-old Clarice Deckwis.  She left the house on the evening of October 7 and did not return.  At the corner of 106th Street and Fifth Avenue, Clarice had been hit by an automobile and seriously injured.  She was still unconscious in Mt. Sinai Hospital the following night when Dr. Stern identified her.  She had suffered a fractured skull and three broken ribs.

The Sterns remained at 44 West 87th Street until September 1940, when they sold the house to Joseph Kamert for $40,000 (about $894,000 today).  

It appears that Kamert rented rooms in the former mansion, and among his first tenant was Paul Bante.  The 44-year-old iron worker was born in Germany, but was a naturalized American citizen.  Bante brought nationwide attention to 44 West 87th Street when The New York Times reported on July 1, 1941 that he had been arrested as a member of a German spy ring.  He and 32 others were indicted 15 days later, accused "of having acted as agents" for the Nazi Government.   The New York Sun reported on January 2, 1942, that he had been sentenced to 18 months in a Federal penitentiary and a fine of $1,000.

A renovation completed in 2011 resulted in an office in the basement level and eight apartments in the upper floors.

photographs by the author

The Lost 7th Precinct Station House - 247 Madison Street

from the collection of the New York Public Library

On August 2, 1860, the New-York Daily Tribune reported, "A protest was received from various citizens in the Seventh Ward against the purchase by the city of the lots at Nos. 245 and 247 Madison street, for a new Station House in that Ward."  The citizens were not opposed to a new police station in their neighborhood, they were outraged by the cost.  The article said, "the original owner of the property was willing to take $9,000 for the property, but the [city offered] $15,000 for it."  Despite the grievances, the following day the Board of Alderman passed a resolution "to secure the premises Nos. 245 and 247 Madison street...at a price not exceeding $15,000."

The police department's architect produced a stylish Italianate-style station house.  The fully arched openings were, most likely, ornamented with molded lintels or architraves.  Dimension was achieved by slightly projecting the central three-bay wide section.  A corbelled cast metal cornice with a triangular pediment completed the design.  (A separate building in the rear yard housed the holding cells for prisoners.)

from the collection of the New York Public Library

Shortly after ground was broken for the 7th Precinct Station house, the first shot of the Civil War was fired.  The building was completed and fully staffed when one of the darkest periods in New York City history took place--the Draft Riots.  A revolt over the nation's first attempt at a military draft began with a lottery on July 11, 1863.  The first 1,200 names drawn came overwhelmingly from the city's poor and immigrant population.  Wealthy families had bought exemptions to exclude their sons.

At around 6:30 on the morning of July 13, 1863, riots erupted.  The resulting three-day reign of terror and carnage was unlike anything seen in the country before.  Innocent people were murdered, and draft offices, newspaper buildings, and the homes and neighborhoods of the city’s black population were burned.  The 7th Precinct officers were deployed to "sharp fighting," as described by The New York Times, throughout the district.  The newspaper said that on that first day, the officers staged an "attack upon and severe usage of the rioters at Broadway and Amity-street [later Third Street]."  

On the second day, Henry F. O'Brien, the black colonel of the 11th New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment, was spotted on Second Avenue.  He was surrounded by a vicious gang and for more than an hour he was pummeled with rocks and kicked.  He was then carried to a house where he was tortured to death and his body butchered beyond recognition.  Civilians who attempted to intervene were attacked by the mob.

The New York Times reported that Captain Bennett and men of the 7th Precinct were "detailed, with a company of military, to visit Thirty-fourth-street, where Col. O'Brien was so horribly murdered, to recover the body."  

In recapping the mayhem, on August 9, 1863 The New York Times remarked, "The officers and men of this Precinct saw considerable service during the week, and sustained the good repute hitherto attached to them."

In the summer of 1870, three 7th Precinct beat officers--Wild, Shalvey and Jarboe--revealed their sharp focus and concentration.  A year earlier, in April 1869, John Kelly, "alias John Wilson, alias 'Paddy Barry,'" according to The Evening Post, was sentenced to two-and-a-half years in Sing Sing prison.  He escaped six months later.  Kelly managed to blend into the Bowery surroundings for nearly a year.  Then, at around 3:00 on the morning of August 24, 1870, the three officers nabbed him.  The Evening Post reported, "He will be returned to his old quarters to-day."

In 1872, according to the Sunday Mercury, the staff of the 7th Precinct consisted of one captain, four sergeants, 60 patrolmen, and two doormen.  (A "doorman" was the officer who manned the desk just within the front door to address questions and complaints of civilians who walked in.)  

The following year, the country was plunged into a debilitating financial depression--the Panic of 1873.  It would bring dire consequences to the already impoverished residents of the 7th Precinct.  In reporting on the "destitution" that was spreading across the city, on February 9, 1874, the New York Herald quoted Sergeant Oates.  "He thought there ought to be provision made for the wretched poor, fallen from higher estates."  

While the reporter was there, he looked around.  "Their quarters seemed well ventilated, and, not to be too complimentary, considerably the least disgusting of any of those visited."

Members of the 7th Precinct dealt with gangs and "rowdies."  On July 27, 1875, Officer Thomas F. Regan came upon a group of 15 men fighting at the corner of Madison and Scammell Streets.  Rather than call for assistance, he attempted to break up the melee single-handedly.  The mob immediately turned their focus onto the policeman.  The New-York Tribune reported, "he was knocked down, kicked, and left lying insensible on the sidewalk."  He was discovered and taken to the police station.  Regan's injuries were significant and the newspaper said "he was found to be unfit for police duty for some time."

A heart-warming incident took place here in the fall of 1896.  On October 10, a "shabbily dressed man about thirty years old," as described by The New York Times, was found prostrated in the station house doorway.  The man, Andrew Wyzandt, was deemed to be intoxicated and was locked up.

The next morning Detective Mooney escorted him to the Essex Market Police Court.  Wyzandt walked "feebly" and "stopped at garbage barrels along the walk and searched for crusts and apple cores.  When he found any he put them furtively in his pockets," reported The New York Times.

"Look here," Mooney asked, "are you really hungry?"

"I am starved."

Mooney made a detour in their route to the courthouse.  The article said that he "took him into a coffee saloon and ordered for him some chops, potatoes, rolls, and coffee."  Wyzandt merely stared at the plates when they were brought.  The New York Times said, "Losing patience, the detective held a roll under his guest's nose.  The result was magical.  Wyzandt ate the meal furiously."

Less charitably treated by a different precinct was Samuel Levi, who lived at 145 East Broadway.  On June 13, 1897, he rode his bicycle to the Queens County Park, where he fell and broke his leg.  He was taken to the nearest police station but, as reported by The Sun, "they didn't want him, nor did the hospital near by."  Finally, he was transported to the 7th Precinct Station House, arriving at about 7:30 that evening.  The article said that Sergeant MacSweeny sent for an ambulance and Levi was taken to Gouveneur Hospital "several hours after his accident."

An inspection of the brick cell building on December 13, 1911 discovered disturbing conditions.  Saying there were "two rows of cells back to back, eight on one side and seven on the other, with a passageway all around," it noted, "There are no wash-bowls and no shower baths."  The "toilets" used by prisoners were makeshift privies, "in appearance like a megaphone set into a sewer pipe."  The inspectors concluded, "The whole place is inexpressively bad and a disgrace to the city.  It should be abandoned with as little delay as possible and a modern prison built."

That did not happen and following an inspection two years later, State Prisoner Henry Solomon wrote, "This has long been known as the worst police station in the city."  Once again, he stressed that "modern sanitary" water closets should be installed, adding, "wash basins are also needed."  Instead, the rear jail building was simply shut down in 1916 and prisoners were taken to the 13th Precinct on Clinton Street.

On May 20, 1921, the New York Herald reported, "The old Seventh Precinct police station in 247 Madison street, one of the police landmarks of the city, ceased to exist at midnight last night."  The precinct was absorbed into the Oak Street and Clinton Street stations.

Two weeks later, on June 3, John Finck purchased the property "on behalf of a client," as reported by the Proceedings of the Commissioners of the Sinking Fund.  It was acquired "for the purpose of turning it into a public shower bath."  

The extensive renovations (that cost $53,000, or about $975,000 in 2026) took four years to complete.  On April 30, 1925, The New York Times reported that Borough President Julius Miller would officially open the baths the next day.  

It was probably during the bath conversion that the Victorian details were removed from the openings. via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Saying that the bath was "something very much needed in this densely populated neighborhood, Miller described:

This old police station has been entirely transformed.  The cells in the yard have been torn down, the yard cleared, a pavement laid and it is now a community playground.  There is a waiting room on the first floor, also women's shower room; on the second floor, men's shower room; and on the third floor, men's and women's shower rooms.

The Madison Street Free Baths operated until 1970.  It was demolished for the first section of the Gouverneur Healthcare Services Building.

photographer by Halil Serkan Kutun

The 1950 Rockefeller Guest House - 242 East 52nd Street

photograph by Epicgenius

An advertisement in the New York Herald on February 18, 1866 offered the "modern high stoop house" at 242 East 52nd Street for sale.  A mirror-image, two-bay wide Italianate dwelling sat next door.  At the time, the once-rural Turtle Bay district was quickly being industrialized as factories, breweries and the like cropped up along the riverfront.  By the Depression years, 242 East 52nd Street had lost its stoop and converted to furnished rooms.  As early as 1940, it was abandoned.

242 and 244 East 52nd Street were an eyesore in 1940.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

John D. Rockefeller III married Blanchette Ferry Hooker in 1932.  They moved into 1 Beekman Place, part of a much-changed area of Turtle Bay, in the 1940s.  The couple were avid art collectors, but "modernist" art, according to Rockefeller, was his "wife's department."

In 1948, Blanchette proposed they erect "a town house designed largely to accommodate visiting members of the family," according to The New York Times.  More importantly, she wanted a venue to display her avant-garde artworks and to entertain.  The couple were well acquainted with Philip C. Johnson.  In 1930 he became director of the architecture department of the Museum of Modern Art, founded by John's mother, Abby Aldrich Rockefeller, in 1929.

The Rockefellers acquired 242-244 East 52nd Street and commissioned Johnson to design their guest house.  The vintage houses were gutted, leaving only two stories of brick side walls.  In his 1952 New York Architecture 1650-1952, Huson Jackson notes, "Although technically a remodelling [sic] job, virtually nothing of the original buildings remains except the party walls.  (By preserving them, the project was deemed "remodeling" and, therefore, circumvented the rigors of "new construction.")

On September 2, 1949, The New York Times reported, "An outstanding example of modern architecture and equipment in a town house designed largely to accommodate visiting members of the family is nearing completion in the Beekman Place section of Manhattan for John D. Rockefeller 3d and his wife."  The article stressed, "The owners, however, will continue to live in their apartment just around the corner."  (A Rockefeller spokesman said, "they preferred to call the new dwelling an adjunct to their apartment, rather than a family guest house.)

Johnson faced the symmetrical, nearly windowless base in Flemish bond, ruddy red brick.  The upper portion was mostly glass--six panels divided by steel bars.  Privacy would be accomplished by draperies.  The New York Times explained that the house was "divided into two sections."  The rear wall of the living room, said the article:

...will be of glass and will look out on a patio with a tree and small pool designed to give an 'outdoor' effect. Reached by stepping stones across this courtyard will be the separate one-story master suite of bedroom, bath and dressing room.  The bedroom also will have a plate-glass wall looking out on the courtyard, and with heavy draperies for privacy.

Above the living room were two smaller bedrooms and two baths.  The New York Times remarked, "It was reported that the furniture and furnishings would be made especially to fit in with the unusual character of the house."

Blanchette Rockefeller in the living room.  from the Library of Congress's Gottscho-Schleisner Collection

Construction was completed in 1950.  Referring to Philip Johnson's close relationship with Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, The New York Times architectural critic Paul Goldberger would later comment, "The exterior is Miesian, with glass, steel and brick creating an air of formality; within is a reflecting pool and an enormous space that is less Miesian than proto-SoHo loft."

from the Library of Congress's Gottscho-Schleisner Collection

(Interestingly, years later Philip C. Johnson said, "The top of the house doesn't exist for me.  I only added it because there is no point to doing a one-story house in New York.  It would look all wrong.")

The public had a chance to see the house in May 1951 when the City Garden Club of New York held its annual showing of gardens and penthouses.  The New York Times said, "Also open will be a New York guest house with modern pool at 242 East Fifty-second Street."  It was opened to the public again in 1954 when a benefit exhibition of young artists' works was held here.

The house was often used as additional space for the Museum of Modern Art.  In his 1973 Good Old Modern: An Intimate Portrait of the Museum of Modern Art, Russell Lynes writes:

It was presided over by a butler named Charles, who could and frequently did run up luncheons for a small number of trustees and donors to the Museum, for Important Persons and those being wooed.  There, too, were cocktail parties and small dinners and the ever present hazard of someone accidently backing into the shallow pool.

In 1955, Blanchette Rockefeller donated the building to the Museum.  It was used for events and functions until the MoMA's East Wing (also designed by Philip Johnson) was completed in 1964.

from the Library of Congress's Gottscho-Schleisner Collection

On February 7 that year, The New York Times reported, "The Museum of Modern Art has sold its Guest House."  The article noted, "The new owner is Mrs. Robert C. Leonhardt, the wife of a Manhattan business consultant, who also owns a Johnson house in Lloyd's Neck, L. I."  In reporting on the $100,000 sale (about $1 million in 2026), the article called the house, "one of Mr. Johnson's most striking designs."

Leonhardt and his wife, the former Lee Sherrod, had two children.  He told The New York Times, "the transaction was agreed upon in April, 1962."

Philip C. Johnson became the next occupant of 242 East 52nd Street when Lee Leonhardt leased it to him following the death of Robert Leonhardt.  Johnson shared the house with his partner, exhibition designer and former art dealer, David C. Whitney.  The couple introduced artworks by the likes of Andy Warhol, Frank Stella, John Chamberlain and Roy Lichtenstein.  They also repainted the interiors white.

London antiques dealer Robin Symes purchased the property in 1979.  He filled the house with an astounding collection of Art Deco furniture.  The New York Times described, "Robin Symes's collection of Art Deco lacquered or leather-wrapped furniture--the largest private holding of designs by the innovators Pierre Legrain and Eileen Gray--includes many classics of the Paris style."  Symes's partner, Christo Michailidis recalled first seeing the house to Rita Reif of The New York Times, saying, "We needed a house in New York like a hole in the head."  But, he said, they fell in love with it "as an art work."

A decade, on April 2, 1989, The New York Times reported that the entire Symes collection was slated to be sold at auction by Sotheby's.  Included in the artwork was the Rockefeller Guest House.  In reporting that it would be among the items sold (the first real estate offering ever by Sotheby's), Rite Reif noted, "Although not a landmark, it was one of Mr. Johnson's earliest architectural projects and is cited in many books on architecture."  The winning bid for the house was $11.16 million, or about $29 million today.

photograph by Epicgenius

Designated an individual New York City Landmark in 2000, the Rockefeller Guest house has undergone several owners.  It was most recently sold in December 2023 for $20 million.

The 1892 Felix Hamberger House - 123 East 95th Street

 

In two phases--completed in 1890 and 1892--developer Francis J. Schnugg erected 17 abutting houses on the northern side of East 95th Street between Park and Madison Avenues.  Nearly filling the blockfront, they were designed by Louis Entzer Jr. in a happy blend of styles.  Among the second phase was 123 East 95th Street, a mirror image of No. 125.  The structures' Rorschach-like design was best exemplified in the shared molding and Renaissance Revival carving that straddled the doorways.

Along with side-by-side stoops, the parlor floor ornaments unified the pair.

Entzer's potpourri of styles included Gothic Revival inspired square-headed moldings at the parlor level, the Renaissance Revival carving above the doors and faceted oriels at the second floor in the same style, Romanesque Revival arched windows and eyebrows at the third floor, and neo-Classical swags and wreaths in the pressed metal cornices.

No. 123 was purchased by Felix Hamberger, an insurance broker.  The family's upper-middle-class status was reflected in their ads looking for domestic help.  In wealthy families, the roles of the staff were highly defined, while in middle-class homes servants took on several responsibilities.  An advertisement on October 2, 1895 read: "General housework and plain cooking for family, adults.  123 East 95th st." and the following year, on June 15, 1896, an ad sought a "Girl to do plain cooking, washing and ironing for small family of adults."

Francis Schnugg reclaimed the house in foreclosure in 1902.  It was sold to Bernard Neuhaus who resold it to Charles Gulden in June 1906.  Gulden purchased the house as an investment and leased it to Dr. George A. Friedman and his wife.  The couple had two small children.

Among the Friedmans' staff was Katie Becker, described by the New York Herald as "a Hungarian girl of 22."  On April 27, 1912, the newspaper said that Katie was "such a model maidservant that [the couple] wouldn't part with her for anything.  Peace and quiet usually follow Katies ministrations to household needs."

That peace and quiet was shattered the the night of April 25.  Dr. Friedman came home late from a meeting at Mount Sinai Hospital.  "He found his wife and Katie in the dining room, where Katie had prepared a late supper," said the New York Herald.  Just as Friedman sat down in the basement level dining room, Katie remarked that she smelled smoke.  The doctor investigated and found the portieres between the living room and his consulting room were on fire.  The fire was put out, but Katie was "greatly excited."

Dr. Friedman assumed that Katie had accidentally set the curtains on fire while lighting the gas fixtures.  He told Katie that "she wouldn't be scolded," but she insisted that she had nothing to do with the fire.  Unconvinced, Friedman and his wife went back to their dinner and Katie went upstairs.

Seconds later, the Friedmans were jolted by Katie's screams.  The doctor bolted out of the basement door to find a policeman.  The street was busy with men and women who were leaving a dance nearby.  By the time Friedman brought back a policeman, he found his parlor floor crowded with passersby who "had run in to find out what the matter was."  He also found Katie, "lying on the floor under a small table."

The curtain incident had been, apparently, a distraction by an intruder.  When Katie came to, she told of entering her room to surprise a "big man."  She told investigators that he "put chloroform to her mouth and then dragged her downstairs, throwing her into the room where she was found," according to the newspaper.  Other than the $2.50 that had been in her purse, the intruder took nothing.

Because of that, police did not believe Katie's story.  The New York Herald said, "The police were somewhat inclined to think that Katie's digestion was out of order."  Her employer, however, trusted her.  Dr. Friedman now accepted that the "queer burglar" had set the curtains on fire and "that it was a real adventure that Katie met with when she climbed the stairs."  The article said, "So Katie won't loose her job on a charge of being too imaginative."

Dr. Friedman placed what many readers must have consider a bizarre ad in the "Lost" columns of The New York Times on July 14, 1913.  "LOST--Six rubber stomach tubes, July 9, on Lexington car, 118th St.; reward.  Physician, 123 East 95th St., 9 to 1 P.M."

The Friedmans continued to rent 123 East 95th Street through 1918.  On January 28, 1919, the New-York Tribune reported that the Charles Gulden Estate had leased it to Mrs. Harry Symonds.  She was still occupying the house when the Charles Gulden Estate offered it for sale in November 1920.

It is unclear whether Mrs. Symonds continued to lease the house from the new owner, or if she, in fact, was the purchaser.  Either way, she continued to live here.  Her vocation was the breeding of pedigree Pekingese dogs and in 1921 a dozen of her dogs were listed in The American Kennel Gazette and Stud Book.

On December 12, 1925, Noble T. Macfarland and Helen Brantingham were married in Rockford, Illinois.  Macfarland was a 1919 graduate of Amherst College and was a partner in Beckhard & Macfarlane, concert promoters.  The February 1926 issue of the Amherst Graduates' Quarterly noted, "They live at 123 East 95th Street."

As early as 1929, Henry Anderson Rapp (known as Harry) and his wife, the former Elizabeth Reilly, occupied the house.  The couple was married in 1927 and on January 7, 1929, The New York Times reported that their daughter had been born the previous day.  Suzanne Elizabeth would get a sister, Elizabeth Pamela, in 1936.  

Sharing the house by then were Henry's older brother, William J., and his wife, the former Martha Florentine Geyer Rapp.  A maritime attorney, Henry was a partner in the law firm Hann & Rapp.  Also living here was the brothers' widowed mother, Anna G. Reilly Rapp.  Anna was born in 1870.  Her husband and William's and Harry's father, Francis Berkely Rapp, died in 1921.

A young Anna G. Reilly Rapp as she appeared around the 1890s.  (original source unknown)

It was almost assuredly the Rapps who altered the parlor opening to French windows with multiple panes sometime before 1940.

The updated parlor window was in place in 1940.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

The Harry Rapp family's trip to the Bronx on July 4, 1940 was doubly unlucky.  They got a flat tire in Pelham Manor and Harry pulled over to change it.  While he worked, Forest L. Appelby, Jr. slammed his car into the rear of Harry's.  The Daily Argus of Mount Vernon, New York reported, "Both cars were considerably damaged."

Anna G. Rapp died at the age of 75 on October 11, 1946.  Her estate of "more than $10,000," according to the New York Star Journal, was divided equally among her six children.

By the time of Susanne Elizabeth's engagement to E. D. Farrell Sullivan in January 1951, her family had moved to 118 East 93rd Street.  William and Martha continued to live in the East 95th Street house.  

William J. Rapp, who was still actively working at the time, died of a heart attack on December 19, 1965 at the age of 73.  It is unclear how long Martha continued to live at 123 East 95th Street.

An original mantelpiece survives on the parlor floor.  image via streeteasy.com

At some point, the house was converted to a two-family home.  Much of the interior detailing survives and from the exterior the house has changed little since the parlor windows were updated in the early 20th century.

photographs by the author

The Schuchman Apartments - 126 East 12th Street

 

photograph by Anthony Bellov

Born in Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany in 1851, John P. Schuchman arrived in New York City in 1868.  He became an attorney and was highly active in the Lower East Side German community, known as Kleindeutschland.  He sat on the Tenement House Committee in the 1890s, which worked to improve the conditions of the working-class.  His involvement in the German community was greatly reflected on April 17, 1894 when he signed a 13-year renewable lease on 190 Third Avenue, known as Scheffel Hall.  In 1891 he was appointed a judge in City Court.

In 1900, Judge Schuchman purchased the two vintage houses at 126 and 128 East 12th Street between Third and Fourth Avenues.  On March 11, The New York Times reported that John G. Prague had filed plans for "a six-story brick and stone flat" on the site.  He pr0jected the construction cost at $60,000, or about $2.37 million in 2026.

The commission was unusual for Prague for several reasons.  The prolific builder-architect worked almost exclusively on the Upper West Side where he created more than 200 private rowhouses, and he most often worked for himself.

Prague was known for his ebullient decorative elements.  Interestingly, for The Schuchman he focused only on the first floor.  Above a short stone stoop, he blended brick and brownstone to create a stark contrast of sharp angles (created by the crisp quoins around the openings) and sensuous Romanesque carved ornaments.  The keystone of the foliate carved, concave-arched entranceway took the form of a female head from which swirling ornaments spread Medusa-like.  Unlike most Medieval inspired carvings of the Romanesque Revival style, Prague's boiled with movement.

The stone carver made the decorations come alive--seeming to spume from the portrait keystone.  The bases of the engaged columns are vibrant with flame-like movement.  photograph by Anthony Bellov

Prague was unexpectedly reserved in the mid- and upper sections.  Faced in yellow ironspot brick, their square-headed openings wore uninspired, flat brownstone lintels.  The top floor sat within molded cornices.

There were four apartments per floor in The Schuchman, which was described by the New York Herald as "a bachelor apartment house."  An advertisement described: "Five rooms and bath; hot water, elevator, steam heat."  

Among the first to move in was its owner, Justice John P. Schuchman.  Other residents were middle-class professionals--at least one doctor and several lawyers.  Another initial tenant was Willis H. Alling, who used his apartment as his studio.  He advertised, "teacher of piano and organ, interpretation in singing, Concert and Studio Accompanist."

Although patent attorney Jacob N. McIntyre was "a sufferer from paralysis," as worded by The New York Times, he continued working and had offices in the Temple Court Building.  He hired Signey C. Olesen as his nurse and housekeeper in 1895.  But when he moved into The Schuchman he dismissed her.  The unemployed woman was infuriated.

On January 3, 1901 McIntyre (who "uses an ear trumpet," according to the New-York Tribune) was arrested.  Signey C. Olesen accused him of stealing a $300 pair of diamond earrings from her.  She also charged, "that through the entire six years of her service, although she was to receive $20 a month, she received only about $50 in all from Mr. McIntyre."  

The two faced off in court on January 11.  Olesen asserted that the 65-year-old had given her the earrings "in lieu of salary."  McIntyre countered that, "he simply let her wear them once, and that he never gave them to her."  The case was dismissed because there was no hard evidence against McIntyre.

photograph by Anthony Bellov

At the time, 58-year-old Dr. David Cory shared a first-floor apartment with a man identified only as "a Mr. Ryan."  The physician suffered with alcoholism.  Were his patients to discover that their doctor had a drinking problem, Cory's career would be ruined.  On July 30, 1901, police found him "in a state of alcoholic coma" on Fourth Avenue at 14th Street.  He was taken to the Belleville Hospital alcoholic ward where he said his name was "John Correy" and his contact was "Mrs. Ryan," at 126 East 12th Street.  He was released the next day.

On August 19, Dr. Cory was found drunk and unconscious again.  Once again he was taken to Belleville Hospital, but this time he died "less than thirty minutes after he was admitted," as reported by the New York Herald.  A reporter visited his apartment at The Schuchman, but "Mr. Ryan was not at home," said the New York Herald.

Justice John P. Schuchman retired from the City Court on January 1, 1902.  Two years later, on the evening of September 28, 1904, he returned home and "met a man on his way out.  The man was carrying the hall carpet on his back," reported The Evening World.  When Schuchman asked Edward Conner what he was doing, he responded that he was merely "taking the floor covering out to dust it."

Using street slang that he no doubt picked up during court cases, Judge Schuchman said, "I think that you intend to dust with the carpet."  ("To dust" meant to hurry off or flee.)  Schuchman attempted to detain Connor, but he "fought vigorously."  The uproar attracted Policeman Kepko who arrested the would-be carpet thief.  In court Connor confessed, "If I'd knowed a judge lived in the house I'd have passed it by.  I suppose I'll have to do me bit now."  (To "do one's bit" was to serve a jail sentence.)

The young bachelor Charles R. Buffalow lived here as early as 1905.  On February 25, 1907, he gave himself a dinner "on the anniversary of his 22d birthday," as worded by The New York Age.  The article said his twelve guests "were entertained in a most charming manner."  The lifestyles of The Schuchman residents were reflected in Buffalow's menu that evening.  The article listed the "relish course" as including oysters, blue points on the half shell, sherry and salted almonds.  For the soup course there was green turtle soup, deviled crabs, fish, and white wine.  The entree included roast filet beef, mushrooms, petit pols pommes and champagne; and asparagus vinaigrette was the salad course.  The dessert course was "biscuit tortoni and dematasse [sic] cordials."

John Schuchman rented an apartment on January 9, 1908.  He had, apparently, not thoroughly vetted his new tenant.  Schuchman arrived home three nights later to find police in the building.  "What is all this excitement about?" he asked.  "I am John Schuchman, formerly Justice of the City Court.  I own this apartment house and live upstairs."

To his surprise, Police Captain Shaw responded, "I am raiding a poolroom.  These men are prisoners."  (A poolroom was an illegal gambling operation.)  The New York Herald said, "The ex-Justice said he found it hard to realize that such a thing as a poolroom had got into his house."  

Among the prisoners were Dan O'Rourke, alias Diamond Dan, and George Wilson, alias Chick Trigger, both well-known Bowery figures.  The New York Herald said the police "found racing sheets and other things connected with the ponies" in the apartment.  

On May 2, 1908, The New York Sun reported that around 7:30 the previous evening John P. Schuchman was driving a runabout (a light buggy) on Lenox avenue.  Suddenly, "his horse took fright at an automobile near 117th street and dashed into a trolley car."  The impact was significant.  The article said that the horse "hit the car squarely amidship and the Judge was thrown through the side window of the car."  Astoundingly, Schuchman was catapulted through the trolley car window.  "He landed in the aisle, knocking over in his flight Ethel Douglas, 7 years old."  The New York Times remarked, "Mr. Schuchman's entrance caused a panic among the passengers."

The little girl was not injured, however Schuchman was removed from the trolly unconscious.  Shaken up, he was treated for cuts on his head, face and hands on the site.  His horse, sadly, broke a foreleg and had to be shot.

Later that year, John P. Schuchman moved back to Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany.  He died there in 1914. 

This turbulent corner carving is alive with writhing leaves and vines.  photograph by Anthony Bellov

The residents of The Schuchman continued to be professional.  Living here in 1914 was John B. Golden, a Democratic Assemblyman.  He sat on the assembly's committee of Codes and Public Education.

William Boland and his wife, Magdalen, lived here in the post-World War I years.  Born in 1843, Boland served in the Civil War.  In 1924, he was one of the last 300 surviving veterans of that war living in New York City.  During the city's Memorial Day parade on May 29 that year, "Those who had fought in the three wars within the generation's span shouldered guns again," said The New York Evening Post.

Despite his advanced age, William Boland marched with the Lloyd Aspinal Post.  In its extensive coverage of the military event, The New York Evening Post recounted a touching moment.  It said that when his unit reached the reviewing stand, "William Boland, eighty-one...looked searchingly around for a lavender hat.  The owner of that bonnet also was looking for him.  They spied each other at the same time."  The article continued:

Mrs. Magdalen Boland, her little hat bobbing clambered down from the stand as her husband stepped from the ranks.  They stood in front of the reviewing stand and kissed.  Then Boland ran to join his company.

By the Depression years, several of the tenants of 126 East 12th Street showed activist tendencies.  On September 28, 1935, two residents, 21-year-old William Castle and 22-year-old John Lamarr, were arrested as part of a mass demonstration.  The group, the National Students League, had been protesting a motion picture that, according to The New York Times, "shows a radical youth in an unfavorable light in comparison with a conservative American."

The 1936 Official Report of the Special Committee on Un-American Activities listed several residents of 126 East 12th Street as registered Communist Party members.

The arrest on March 6, 1937 by Federal agents of resident See Too, who operated a retail business, was shocking.  That afternoon, the freighter Taybank arrived in Brooklyn from Shanghai with crates consigned to See Too.  Customs officials "seized 600 tins of prepared smoking opium," reported The New York Times.  Agents said that the importance of the raid did not lay in the amount of the drug captured, "but in the fact that the raid had broken the link of a major smuggling ring with world-wide activities stretching from Shanghai to New York."

The New York Times reported, "The dark, chunky See Too sat in the outer room of headquarters of the special agents [and] at 5 o'clock last night he was still there, puffing on a long cigar, his face expressionless."

At around the time of See Too's arrest, the ground floor of 126 East 12th Street was given a coat of stucco.  

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

A more drastic modernization came in the 1960s or 1970s when the intermediate and terminal cornices were removed.

The cornices were gone as early as 1980.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Happily, a restoration initiated in 2017 included the installation of approximate replicas of the cornices, the removal of the ground floor covering, and the cleaning and repairing the masonry.

many thanks to historian Anthony Bellov for suggesting this post