The 1856 James W. Elliot House - 11 Abingdon Square

 

The once-handsome residence suffered abuse in the 20th century.

The extension of Eighth Avenue northward through Greenwich Village created a trapezoidal plot of ground between it and Bank, Hudson and Troy (later West 12th) Streets.  On March 4, 1812, the Common Council declared the otherwise useless space a park.  Because it sat within the former 300-acre estate of Sir Peter Warren, whose eldest daughter had married the Earl of Abingdon, it was named Abingdon Square.   The blocks of Hudson Street and Eighth Avenue fronting the park were, likewise, named Abingdon Square.

By the 1850s, both sides of the park were filling with upscale residences, and in 1855 James Woodward Elliot and his wife Mary began construction of another at 11 Abingdon Square.  Their five-story, brownstone-faced home was three bays wide.  Its Anglo-Italianate design included a rusticated base above a short stoop.  The architrave frames of the upper floor, segmentally arched windows wore corniced lintels.  Between the scrolled brackets of the terminal cornice were ornamental panels.

Born in England in 1824, James Woodward Elliot was brought to America as a boy.  In 1850 he graduated from the New York College of Physicians.  He and Mary had a son, Henry T.  Living with the family was James's brother, Frederic.  The two men had earned their medical degrees simultaneously.

Perhaps fearing confusion on the part of visitors or patients, the family used the addresses 2 Eighth Avenue and 11 Abingdon Square interchangeably.  James Elliot listed his office hours as 8 a.m. to 10 a.m.  The bulk of his day was spent away from the house, visiting patients and tending to his charitable works.  He was, for instance, the vice-president of the St. Barnabas's Free Reading Room of the New-York Protestant Episcopal City Mission Society.

Sadly, two years after moving in the new house, Mary Elliot died on October 25, 1858.  She was 40 years old.  Within a few years, Elliot remarried.  He and his wife Carrie J. welcomed a baby girl named Carrie Augustine on August 14, 1863.  The parlor of 11 Abingdon Square was again the scene of a funeral when the little girl died one day after her first birthday on August 15, 1864.

Other than a fire escape, as late as 1940, the house was perfectly intact.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

In April 1870 the family advertised their house for rent.  James Elliot's ad read:

I will let my five story brown stone (English basement) House, No. 2 Eighth avenue (11 Abingdon square), for $2,000; put in complete order; been occupied by two first class physicians for ten years.

The Elliots' decision to move may have had to do with Henry's now being a physician like his father and uncle.  The family moved to 34th Street where all three doctors shared an office.

No. 11 Abingdon Square was leased to real estate operator R. Walton, who ran his business from the house.  The Elliots' office was leased to Dr. Stephen W. Roof.  Walton, as well, leased rooms in the commodious residence.  Among his roomers in 1873 were George W. and J. L. Sherman.  Mrs. Sherman had a baby girl, Lavinia J., in November that year.  The infant died at eight weeks old two days before Christmas.

It may have been the Shermans' rooms that were advertised for rent in October the following year.  The ad read:

Abingdon Square, near West Twelfth street--Third Floor, five rooms; all improvements; rent to suit if party is right; possession immediately.  Apply at 11 Abingdon square.

The Elliot family returned to 11 Abingdon Square around 1877.  Renting space in the house and possibly working with Elliot, Frederic and Henry was Dr. Bernhard Grunhut.  Also renting a room was Sarah Faulds, a school teacher.

Aside from his medical practice, Bernhard Grunhut invested in real estate.  In November 1877, for example, he erected a four-story brick apartment building at 236 Spring Street.  He would remain with the family through 1880.

That year policeman William T. R. Lowe rented a room (possibly Grunhut's former space).  Unexpectedly, the 34-year-old died on October 26.  His funeral was held in the parlor two days later.

James W. Elliot had continued his charitable works.  In 1876 he became involved with the City Mission and, in addition to his work with the St. Barnabas's Reading Room, he became superintendent of the Sunday School of St. Barnabas's Chapel.

All three of the Elliot doctors were practicing from 11 Abington Square in 1883, according to The Medical Register.  Within two years, however, that all changed.  On May 1, 1884, James and Carrie Elliot signed a lease on a house at 160 West 14th Street, and in 1885 Henry T. was the only Elliot still listed at 11 Abingdon Square.

Sharing the house with Henry and his family were the Gallaghers.  Dr. Edward J. Gallagher was a police surgeon, and William C. Gallagher was a physician, as well.  Presumably the three doctors shared the office.

Dr. James Woodward Elliot did at the age of 72 on February 28, 1896.  By then his former home on Abingdon Square had been sold for several years.  Living here at the time was the Stoddart family, who suffered public humiliation later that year.

On May 7, 1896, The New York Press reported, "Mrs. Jennie V. O'Connor, private detective in a Sixth avenue dry goods shop, caused the arrest yesterday of two well-dressed women, mother and daughter, for shoplifting."  Those women were Anna L. Stoddart and her daughter, Louise.  The detective accused them of stealing two parasols.  In court they insisted they had bought them in Boston.  The standoff resulted in their being held in jail awaiting trial.

By 1899 George B. and Eleanor Otten owned 11 Abingdon Square.  He was the owner of Otten's Express, a delivery service.  The family remained in the house through the early 1910s.

Little by little throughout the first half of the 20th century, the once fashionable Greek Revival and Italianate houses along the block were demolished, replaced by apartment buildings.  By the 1940s, 11 Abingdon Square was the last surviving house on the block.

Then, a renovation completed in 1948 resulted in furnished rooms on the upper floors.  It was most likely at this time that the stoop was removed, the floor-to-ceiling second floor windows were partially bricked up, and an Art Moderne metal storefront installed for a restaurant.

In the early 1980s, the space was home to the Alamo Cafe bar and grill, described by The New York Times food critic Mimi Sheraton on October 23, 1981 as "friendly, if seedy."  She was tepid in her assessment of the cuisine, a blend of Texas and Mexican dishes. 

In April 1992, the ground floor became home to  the Italian restaurant Mappamondo.  It was apparently the first stage of a renovation to the building that was still ongoing upstairs.  In 1993 what had been furnished rooms were now Class A apartments.

Mappamondo was replaced by Shag in July 2003, so named for the white shag carpeting that covered the walls.  The restaurant served "small plates, like mini-hamburgers," according to Florence Fabricant of The New York Times shortly after its opening.  More recently, the Ethopian restaurant Injera was in the space, and in 2023 Cappone's, an Italian sandwich shop, signed a lease.

The pressed metal storefront has been badly abused.

Easily passed by, today the former Elliot house struggles to suggest its former refinement or the gentility of the Abingdon Square neighborhood.

many thanks to reader Mar Fitzgerald for prompting this post

photographs by the author

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The 1839 Samuel P. Archer House - 599 Hudson St (16 Abingdon Square)

The northward extension of Eighth Avenue through Greenwich Village left behind a triangular-shaped plot between it and Bank Street, and Hudson and Troy (later West 12th) Streets.  On March 4, 1812 the Common Council agreed to make the otherwise useless plot a park.  Because it sat within the former 300-acre estate of Sir Peter Warren, whose eldest daughter had married the Earl of Abingdon, it was named Abingdon Square.  The city spent $3,000 to acquire the land and enclose the park within a cast iron fence. 

The block of Hudson Street facing the park was named, in turn, Abingdon Square.  Houses built along the block would have a pleasant view, as well as guaranteed light and sunlight.  In 1839 Samuel P. Archer erected a 28-foot-wide residence at 16 Abingdon Square (which had the alternative address of 599 Hudson Street).  

Three-and-a-half stories tall above an English basement, the Greek Revival style house featured intricate stoop ironwork that wrapped the newels atop brownstone drums.  The handsome doorway, within a pilastered entrance, included paneled pilasters, sidelights, and an ample transom.  Most unusual was the attic level, where the windows were inset within a brownstone (rather than wooden) fascia with recessed panels.

It is unclear how long (or if) Samuel Archer resided at 16 Abington Square.  By the early 1840's it was home to the Vaneps family.  John P. Vaneps was the principal in J. P. Vaneps & Co., "fancygoods," at 103 Pearl Street.  His son, George K. Vaneps, was listed as a clerk by 1844.  Boarding with the family was Deborah Plum, a widow, and George T. Plum, who was employed at 87 Water Street as a bookkeeper.

The Vaneps had left by 1847, when an advertisement appeared in the Morning Courier and New-York Enquirer that read:  

Board in Abingdon Square--Board and very pleasant rooms, with good pantries, suitable for families and for single gentlemen, may be obtained at 16 Abingdon Square, Hudson street.  The situation is a desirable one, and convenient to the stages.

Among the boarders that year were Julius A. Durie, a clerk; physician James B. Nelson; and Jonathan Leeks.  Their relative affluence was reflected in the arrest of Alice Ridley on August 19.  She was charged with "having stolen a gold watch, valued at $60, from Mr. Jonathan Leeks of 16 Abingdon square," according to the New-York Tribune.  The equivalent value of the watch today would be around $2,000.

In 1856 the house was returned to a single-family home.  Balthazer Malick was a director in The Greenwich Insurance Company.  He and his wife, the former Charlotte S. Hall, had seven children.

Despite the large family, plus at lease one or two live-in servants, the Malick's rented space in 1865.  Their advertisement clearly announced that roomers would have to take their meals elsewhere:

A private family will let one or two large, newly furnished Rooms, with closets, gas and bath, to gentlemen only, without board; house first class; references exchanged.

The Malicks moved on around 1868, when the house was once again briefly operated as a boarding house.  Then, in April 1871, Henry Corse purchased it for $16,100--just under $370,000 by 2022 standards.  Like the Maliks, the Corse family was a large one.  Henry and his wife Lydia Ann had eight children.  (Their son, Henry Jr., would go on to become a recognized architect, responsible for several Long Island estates.)

Henry Corse was a real estate agent and ran his business from the Abingdon Square house.  He, as well, accumulated a large among of Greenwich Village property.

The Corses would remain here for a decade, moving to Jane Street in 1884.  Henry  retained possession of 16 Abingdon Square, and leased it that year to the Greenwich Literary Society.  Appleton's Dictionary of New York and its Vicinity described it in 1887 saying it "unites the features of a social club with those of a literary and dramatic association.  The club-rooms are at 16 Abingdon sq., west, which are opened nightly."

The Greenwich Literary Society produced events like the "grand concert" at Steinway Hall on February 6, 1885.  A more surprising entertainment was held in the clubhouse three months later.  On May 12 The Evening Telegram announced, "The Greenwich Literary Society will give a stag party at their rooms, No. 16 Abingdon Square, this evening."

By the spring of 1889 the house had become the headquarters of the Ninth Ward Pioneer Corps.  Rooms on the upper floors were rented to bachelor members.  

A Republican political group, it had rallied for the election of Benjamin Harrison.  It and other political clubs had badges fashioned for his inauguration.  The club's president, Robert B. Miller, sent one to the new First Lady, who wrote back on April 3, 1889:

Please accept my thanks for the beautiful badge which was received some time ago.  Sickness has prevented my acknowledging it sooner.  I am very grateful to receive these badges.  I desire to lay them aside for future years.

                                    Carrie A. Harrison

In the 1890's a popular pastime swept the nation--bicycling.  Riverside Drive and Central Park became a popular destinations for bicyclers, called wheelmen, and social organizations formed bicycling groups.   On July 31, 1892 The Press reported on new bicycle clubs that were "crowding the older ones hard for honors."  The article said, "Among them none is more promising that the Pioneer Corps Wheelmen, which was made up of members of the Ninth Ward Pioneer Corps, May 15, 1891."  Although "their handsome and commodious club house, at No. 16 Abingdon square" was "located in the lower part of the city," the article noted that Eighth Avenue "is asphalted all the way to Central Park."

The bicycle club had 40 members and wore blue uniforms "with the letters N.W.P.C. worked in gold letters on the coat collar."  In order to join, potential members "must be of age, Republicans, and members of the corps proper."

In February 1893 the Ninth Ward Pioneer Corps moved to 240 West 14th Street.  The Abingdon Square house next became home to another political group, the Old State Democracy of the Ninth Assembly District.  A Democratic group, it was shockingly anti-Tammany.  During a meeting on March 14, 1894, Otto Kempner asked, "How could the party be reorganized to overthrow the bosses?  It cannot be done with the old organization.  It is necessary to build up a new organization which will respect the wishes of the people."

The group leased the house through 1899.  In 1900 the Corse family rented it to the Republic Club of the 7th District.  Unlike its predecessors, it leased rooms in the upper floors to non-members. 

Among the tenants at the turn of the century were Johanna O'Connor and her teenaged daughter, Julia Robinson.  Julia yearned for a life on the stage.  It resulted in a serious rift between mother and daughter in the summer of 1900.  

On July 14 Johanna took Julia to court.  The Morning Telegraph began an article saying, "Julia Robinson, 19 years old, is an actress who has not yet learned that to fall in love with a married man is dangerous."   Julia had fallen for married actor Bert C. Thayer and had left the rooms on Abingdon Square she shared with her mother.

Johanna told the magistrate, "I can't do anything with her.  She insists upon constantly seeking his company, although I have warned her time and again that she will get into trouble if she doesn't cease."  Julia insisted that although she was just 19, she could take care of herself, adding, "I did not leave home to be with any married man, but because my mother ordered me from the house."

The stage manager of the New York Theatre had accompanied Julia to court.  He testified to her "excellent character."  Johanna O'Connor would return to 16 Abingdon Square frustrated.  The Morning Telegraph reported, "The Court, relying upon the stage manager's experienced career in studying character released the girl, who went on her way rejoicing."

After having owned the house for four decades, the Corse estate sold it in 1911 for $15,700 (about $463,000 today).  By the Depression years it was owned by the 16 Abingdon Square Realty Corp.  The owners completed a renovation in 1931 which resulted in a club in the basement through second floors, and a duplex apartment on the top two.  

The tradition of political clubs continued with the Third Assembly District, Jeffersonian Club in the remodeled space.  The upstairs apartment became home to Thomas J. Culkin and his family.  Culkin was well-connected politically, the son of former Tammany Hall sheriff Charles W. Culkin.  He and his wife Ann Theresa had married in 1920 and now had four children.

A veteran of World War I, Culkin had served in several clerical civic positions.  On April 6, 1933 The New York Sun reported that he had been appointed Deputy Fire Commissioner in charge of Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island.  Three years later he was appointed as ordinance clerk to the Board of Aldermen with a yearly salary of $4,250 (around $83,100 in 2022).

As late as 1941 the Greek Revival stoop ironwork survived.  A sign on the facade announces the Jeffersonian Club.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

The club remained in the building through 1954.  Then, a renovation completed the following resulted in two apartments in the basement, four on the parlor floor, three each on the second and third floors, and four on the fourth.  By the last quarter of the century, things had declined in the once-elegant home.

Joseph Stiletto, known to his friends as Kelly, was provided with a studio apartment by Jayco Realty as an act of charity.  The elderly man had been evicted from another building the company owned when he could not pay rent.  Irving Bush told a reporter, "I felt sorry for the old man," and let him live here without paying rent.

Stiletto became known around the neighborhood, doing odd jobs like cleaning up in a restaurant and helping in a card shop.  His past was sketchy at best.  The New York Times noted, "The police said he had accumulated nine convictions and had served 20 days in jail between the 1960's and the 1980's."

By the 1960's the ironwork had been replaced and the brick painted, most likely an attempt to modernize the appearance.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

By 1987 Stiletto was less and less able to care for himself.  Unable to pay the bill, his electricity was cut off.  His tiny apartment was littered with garbage.  Two neighbors gave him money to buy food, and they ran an extension cord to his apartment.  Through their efforts, the city's Human Resources Administration arranged a home attendant, money to pay for the $90-a-month rent, and basic bills.

An apartment visit had been scheduled for January 11, 1988 and so the night before neighbor Jeanne Atkin stuck a note on the 80-year-old's door to remind him.  The next morning it was still there.  She and a friend, Apu Guecia, entered the apartment (there was no lock on the door).  The New York Times reported that inside, among the "filthy clothing and sheets, soiled mattresses and paint chips," they found the frozen body of Stiletto.  The frigid January wind came through a broken window and the apartment was so cold that a half can of beer had frozen solid.

The incident sparked a probe into the actions of the Human Resources Administration, which found a "massive cover-up to hide its mistakes," according to Newsday on April 17, 1988.

The Archer house has seen improvements in recent years.  The late 20th century coat of paint has been removed and weather-tight replacement windows installed.  It is the last intact house of the period to survive on Abington Square.

photographs by the author

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Donnelly Brothers' Saloon - 597 Hudson Street (14 Abingdon Square)

 

In the early 19th century, the block-long stretch of Hudson Street between Bethune and West 12th Streets took the name of the little park it faced--Abingdon Square.  Like the others on the block, the upscale house at the corner of Bethune, 14 Abingdon Square, was four-stories tall and faced in brick.  By the end of the century, however, the affluent personality of the neighborhood had greatly changed.  In 1893 developer James W. Ketchum purchased the vintage residence, and replaced it with a store-and-apartment building.

Designed by architect Thomas E. Goodwin, the five-story structure was his somewhat commercial take on the Romanesque Revival style.  Faced in yellow brick and sparsely trimmed in brownstone, most of its ornamentation was executed in brick--the rustication of the second floor, the voussoirs and arched eyebrows of the third and fourth floor windows, and the striped effect of the fifth floor.  Somewhat surprisingly, Goodwin's configuration of the openings on the Abingdon Square elevation followed that of livery stables.

The four- or five-room apartments were marketed as "elegant" with "bath & all improvements."  Rent for a five-room corner apartment was $27, or about $775 per month by 2022 standards.  Perhaps confusing to visitors was that the building had three addresses--14 Abingdon Square, 597 Hudson Street, and (for the westerly store) 6 Bethune Street.

Kethum sold the building to Meyer I. Sire, who, in turn, leased it to Thomas and Michael Donnelly.  The Irish-born brothers opened Donnelly Bros. saloon in the corner space.  They lived in the building, as did their brother James (who would work as a bartender downstairs for years), and sisters Ellen and Catharine.

Senator John Raines had a problem with saloons like the Donnellys'.   In 1896 he wrote a new state liquor tax legislation, known as the Raines Law.  It increased the cost of liquor licenses, raised the legal drinking age from 16 to 18, and banned liquor sales on Sunday, except in hotels with at least 10 rooms and which served the drinks with a meal.  It sparked the nearly omnipresent "Free Lunch" signs that hung over saloon bars.

The Donnellys responded by deeming 14 Abingdon Square a hotel and providing sandwiches with drinks on Sundays.  At 9:00 p.m. on Sunday, July 26, 1896, a plain clothes policeman named Geraghty walked in and ordered a beer and sandwich.  As he lingered, he took note of the other patrons.  He would later swear he saw "people who were drinking in the place, without the formality of also ordering sandwiches," and that he overheard Thomas Donnelly "telling a friend how easy it was to beat the present law by simply serving a sandwich, whether ordered or not."

After about 20 minutes, Geraghty walked to the door, but returned to his seat and ordered a second beer.  When he was served without a sandwich, he arrested Thomas Donnelly.  In court two days later, Donnelly insisted that because Geraghty had not left the saloon, he could legally sell him a second beer with his initial sandwich.  The magistrate agreed; however he held Donnelly on $1,000 bail awaiting trial "on the sworn statement of the policeman that he saw drinks served without a sandwich, and also, that he heard the defendant explaining how he beat the law."

Despite such problems, the brothers' success was such that in 1899 Michael and Thomas Donnelly purchased the building.  As was common among saloon owners, they partnered with a brewery, agreeing to sell only that firm's beers and ales.  For years they did business only with the Bernheimer & Schwartz Brewery.

Among the Donnellys' upstairs tenants at the turn of the century was Augustave Duffy, who made his living as a clerk.  It seems he had the day off on Wednesday, June 24, 1903, because he traveled to Stimmel's Park, in Whitestone, Queens to play baseball.  His day of recreation did not end well.  The 25-year-old Duffy was pitching, when he "was struck under the chin by a ball and received a lacerated wound that required the attention of Dr. B. Folzer," according to The Brooklyn Daily Eagle.  It was a significant injury, the article noting, "He was taken home by friends."

In July 1915 Michael and Thomas Donnelly transferred the title of the building to their sisters, Ellen and Catharine.  (Interestingly, the liquor license for the saloon had been in Ellen's name since 1908.)  Two months later, on July 12, The New York Press reported that the women had sold the property to "the No. 14 Abingdon Square Company, a new concern."  

The following year, H. J. Goodwin, an electrical contractor, took the commercial space at 6 Bethune.  The Donnellys' saloon continued in the corner space for years.

Despite the onset of Prohibition on January 17, 1920, the Donnelly Brothers' saloon forged on, apparently still selling contraband beer.  Michael Nesil was tending bar on the night of November 30, 1922.  He was chatting with his two customers when three armed men walked in and announced a stick-up.  One walked out again and stood watch.  Nesil was held at gunpoint while the third crook went behind the bar, headed for the cash register.  Nesil picked up a beer bottle and smashed it over the thief's head, who cried out, "Let him have it!"

The gunman fired two shots, both of which entered Nesil's stomach.  As the bartender fell to the floor, the robber opened the cash register and took out the $30.  The two joined their accomplice outside where they were confronted by members of the V.F. W. Michael Lynch Post next door who had heard the shots.  One, Patrick Heney, grabbed the gunman, "but the bandit twisted the gun upward, jabbed it against Heney's stomach and pulled the trigger," reported the New York Herald.  Amazingly, this time the firearm jammed.  The crook managed to free himself and the trio ran down Bethune Street, making their escape in a waiting car on Greenwich Street.

Within minutes Patrolman Shaw arrived.  He sent for an ambulance for Michael Nesil, who was taken to St. Vincent's Hospital.  He died there shortly after midnight.

Seven months later, on June 17, 1923, Ed Sheeran was arrested, accused with five other men of assaulting and attempting to rob Thomas Drayton.  The Sun and The Globe reported, "Screams of nurse girls out with children of the neighborhood for the early morning air saved the life of Drayton."  Sheeran gave his name as John McGuiness, but his fingerprints proved his true identity.  They also linked him to the Nesil murder.

The Sun and The Globe reported, "he did not deny that he was in the saloon of Thomas Donnelly, 597 Hudson street, when the bartender Michael Naasel [sic] was killed.  Sheeran is the man alleged to have done the shooting."

The tenants of the building, for the most part, came and went without drawing attention.  That was not the case with Walter Forster and his wife Annetta, who lived here in the early Depression years.  On January 6, 1936 they were arrested with four others in what the Long Island Daily Press called "One of the biggest life insurance fraud rings ever uncovered--a ring which may even have dealt in murder."

Knowing that his brother, Frederick, was dying of cancer and that he had no communication with his estranged wife, Paul Bottiger conceived a scheme.  Using the name Ewald Rottiger, Walter Forster underwent physical examinations, and took out 30 life insurance policies on himself, totaling more than $1 million (nearly 20 times that much in today's money).  When Bottiger died, Paul had him cremated under the name of Ewald Rottiger.  

The scam fell apart when Clara Bottinger discovered her husband had died and tried to cash in the legitimate life insurance police.  The Long Island Daily Press said she "could not collect on it because her husband's name had been changed on the death certificate."

As it turned out, the scheme went even further.  The newspaper reported, "The Forsters, who were the first to be questioned by police, said...that there were 'many other dead men' upon whom policies had been taken."

In the 1960's the former Donnelly Brothers' saloon space became home to the Bus Stop Coffee Shop.  Like its predecessor, it would become a fixture on the corner, still there six decades later.

photograph by the author

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The Defender of the Flag - Abingdon Square

Unlike the orderly grid of streets and avenues forming above 14^th Street in 1831, Greenwich Village was a confusing tangle of streets—some winding, some diagonal, and a few only a block or two in length.   Old cow paths and property border lines morphed into streets; later intersected by pin-straight new roads.  The result was often irregular, orphaned islands of land.

When Eighth Avenue was extended northward in 1816, an oddly-shaped plot of land was marooned between it and Bank Street, and Hudson and Troy (renamed West 12^th later) Streets.

That year, on March 4, the Common Council agreed to make the trapezoidal (and otherwise useless) plot a park.  Because it sat within the former 300-acre estate of Sir Peter Warren, whose eldest daughter had married the Earl of Abingdon, it was christened Abingdon Square.  The city spent $3,000 to acquire the land and enclose it in a cast iron fence.  Three decades later, in 1886, Calvert Vaux and Samuel Parsons, Jr., then Superintendent of Parks, redesigned it.

The Victorian spruce-up would not last long.  By the first decades of the 20^th century the Greenwich Village neighborhood was terrorized by street gangs; most notably the Hudson Dusters.  Abingdon Square was a visible landmark of the gang’s territory.

On January 18, 1914 a writer for The Sun wrote, “Greenwich Village, the old Ninth ward, more than any other section of New York city has preserved its individuality.  Within its well defined boundaries stretches a maze of crooked streets; here are the remains of its old Bridewell, incorporated in the walls of a West Tenth street brewery; there is its own market, once the site of an Indian village.  So what is more natural than that the Hudson Dusters should represent a type distinct from the other gangs that rise out of the social morass, the Marginals, the Gophers and the Pearl button gang that prey on their respective districts of the West Side.”

He continued “…at night the gang lurches into life.  It seethes through the district, slips about the corners of Abingdon Square, lurks in Barrow and Bethune streets and vanishes in the shadows of Pig alley.”

Although the residents continued to use the square, it fell into neglect.   A New-York Tribune reporter complained on July 26, 1919, “Abingdon Square needs a trimming.  The grass in the little park is tall and shabby and the shrubbery is in bad shape. Storekeepers in the neighborhood say Park Department employes rarely visit the place.”

Nearby resident John Straut, who had lived on the Square for 66 years, chimed in.  “That park is a disgrace  It has been so neglected that is has become a veritable eyesore.”  And a month later another long-time Village resident, August Druttman, described the area.  “Things have been about the same around here for the last twenty-five years.  Few of the buildings have changed, and things go along smoothly with business good most of the time.  The only complaint I could possibly have is that gangsters do just about as they please, robberies and fights increasing all the time.  But that’s happening all over the city and can’t be held against Abingdon Square.”

But change was on the horizon.  Scores of Greenwich Village youth had sailed off to Europe to fight, never to return.  Now, spearheaded by the Jefferson Democratic Club, the headquarters of which faced the Square, a memorial statue was planned for the park.  John Straut said “All the money for this has been raised by public contributions.  The work cannot be completed soon enough to satisfy the people of this part of town.”

J. R. Morgan of the Army Embarkation Service agreed.  The Trowmart Inn, directly in front of the park, had been used during the war to house army nurses.  It would soon be returned to a hotel for working girls.  “The only bit of park around here has been this neglected plot.  But if a monument is erected and it becomes a prettier spot, this house will seem more inviting.”

Sculptor Philip Martiny, a Village native, was at work on the on the statue in October 1919 when The Sun reported “It commemorates the deceased soldiers and sailors of Greenwich Village.”   But it would be another two years before the unveiling.

Martiny chose to represent a common foot soldier, or doughboy, in a naturalistic post.  He tackled one of the most difficult challenges for a sculptor—the depiction in metal or stone of a flag.  His solution was creative.  As the memorial neared completion on June 26, 1921 the New-York Tribune described it.

“It represents in heroic size a doughboy color sergeant, whose left hand grasps a flagstaff, the end of which is firmly planted on the ground, the folds of the flag falling about his shoulders.  In his right hand he holds a revolver, and the general attitude maintained is of readiness and defiance.”

Through his “Defender of the Flag,” Martiny simultaneously depicted the dignity and resilience of the soldiers, and horror of war.  The helmet of the 7-1/2 foot high doughboy was tilted because of a bandage around his head.  No conquering general whose name would be remembered in history books; the Greenwich Village soldier was no less a hero.

The Tribune said “Mr. Martiny has attempted to portray not only the indomitable spirit of the Yankee crusader, but the subtler significance that the American flag bore in the deciding events of the war.  It is done in a spirited manner and the treatment of the banner, always regarded as a difficult problem in sculpture, has been ingeniously solved.”

The sculptor’s work was completed on June 22, 1921 and sent to the Bureau Brothers foundry in Philadelphia for casting.  Architect William A. Hewlett designed the simple, eight-foot granite base.  In all, the completed monument would cost $10,000 (about $130,000 today) and would stand 20 feet high.

The stars and stripes that draped the memorial were removed on Labor Day.  “The folks who live down there were determined that the occasion be made one calculated to please a group of their boys, who were represented yesterday by a score of old women dressed in black,” reported the New-York Tribune.  Equally eager to honor their heroes were the resident gangsters.

“There was shooting yesterday down in Abingdon Square,” wrote the New-York Tribune the following day.  “Shots have echoed in that triangular patch on other days when the Hudson Dusters rallied there to repel invading hordes of trouble-hunting Gophers from old Chelsea.  But this was different.

“Gophers stood shoulder to shoulder with Hudson Dusters, gang rivalries forgotten, as enshrouding flags were drawn from the bronze figure of a doughboy that had been mounted on a block of granite in the exact center of this shabby, insignificant park, with its two naked trees inclosed by an inhospitable iron fence.”

The toll that the war had taken on Greenwich Village was evidenced by the more than 100 Gold Star Mothers in the reported group of around 20,000 spectators.  The group was established by Grace Darling Siebold in 1918 to help other grieving women whose sons never returned from the war.  It was named after the Gold Star that families hung in their windows in honor of their deceased veteran.

Two stands had been erected within the iron fence, which was decorated with bunting and flags.  “In one sat the great men come down to participate in the ceremony,” said the Tribune.  “In the other there were just two rows of old women in black, the aristocracy of Abingdon Square, an aristocracy of sacrifice.  These were the gold star mothers, whose sons are still in France.”

Former Governor Al Smith brought the women in the crowd to tears as he spoke of the lost boys.  “This monument shall be a lesson in usefulness and devotion, as much a monument to these mothers who went down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death that these boys might live and who gave them freely in the country’s hour of need.”

The emotion of the moment was too much for one mother.  Smith’s speech was interrupted when Catherine Smith lost consciousness and collapsed.  Someone in the crowd explained “Both her boys, Jimmy and that other one, were killed.  The fellows brought her over here from that place she lives in down in Hudson Street.”

Three Greenwich Village children, wearing tiny uniforms of the Army, Marines, Navy and a Red Cross nurse, pulled the cords to unveil the memorial.  The band struck up The Star Spangled Banner and Mrs. Smith pulled herself to her feet with the others.

“For old Mrs. Smith it was both her sons who stood there on the pedestal,” mused the Tribune reporter, “and if it meant as much for the others who stood by perhaps this was because none there was able to see distinctly through tear-filled eyes as stalwart doughboys and sailors staggered forward beneath the weight of a huge wreath of smilax and flags that they hung on the pedestal.”

Mayor Hylan, in accepting the statue, said “Of all who went forth at the call of their country, none brought more luster to the shield of America than the men from this quarter of our city, of which Abingdon Square is the center.”  Following his short speech, the police glee club sang Auld Lang Syne; then a group of riflemen wearing olive drab uniforms fired three volleys.  A lone bugler in a nearby attic window responded with Taps.

“And that was the shooting yesterday down in Abingdon Square.”

While Martiny’s “Defender of the Flag” did not always garner critical acclaim; for decades it was the center of Greenwich Village tributes on Veterans Day and Memorial Day.  But by the end of the 20^th century, the practice faded away and the memorial sat mostly overlooked.

In 1993 the Parks Department restored the monument.  It was cleaned, and then treated with walnut shells to remove the grimy patina.  Afterward it was repatinated and the granite base was repaired.

The efforts did not restore the public interest in the Defender of the Flag.  Once an emotionally-charged centerpiece of the Village, it now stands in the oddly-shaped park little noticed.

photographs by the author