The Lost Commercial Cable Building - 20-22 Broad Street

 

from the collection of the New-York Historical Society

John William Mackay was brought to America by his parents as an infant.  Destitute, they lived in the impoverished and dangerous Five Points district.  The immigrant boy who initially survived by selling newspapers made a massive fortune mining in the West, emerging as one of the wealthiest men in America.

Mackay organized the Commercial Cable Company with James Gordon Bennett, Jr. in 1884 to lay and operate the trans-Atlantic cable.  It was a direct competitor of Jay Gould's Western Union operation.  When Western Union refused to relay messages initiated by Commercial Cable, Mackay bought the Postal Telegraph Company and began buying up and consolidating other small telegraph companies until by 1886 his firm was an equal to Western Union.

In 1894 Mackay moved both companies into his new Postal Telegraph Building, designed by George Edward Harding & Gooch at 253 Broadway.  It was a temporary arrangement and a year later ground was broken for the Commercial Cable Building, designed by the same architects.  The site, just south of the New York Stock Exchange, extended from Broad Street through to New Street. 

The Commercial Cable Building was designed to impress.  On November 27, 1895, The Electrical Engineer described the rendering as showing "a handsome and imposing twenty-one story structure, above which rise two towers surmounted by domes representing the two hemispheres.  The towers will be connected by a mansard roof more than three hundred feet above the street level."   While the journalist said, "The general style of the building is the Italian Renaissance," the architects liberally lavished it with Beaux Arts decorations.

George Edward Harding & Gooch included the latest in conveniences and technology.  There would be six "fast electric elevators," as well as lavatories and "retiring rooms" on each floor.  The Commercial Cable Company would occupy the entire ground floor "which will be of unusual height," said The Electrical Engineer and "will be furnished entirely in marble."  The building included nineteen stories of rental offices.  The "total investment in land and structure will represent an outlay of at least $2,000,000," said that article--just under $72 million in 2024.

The architects' 1895 rendering depicted fenestration along the southern side--a feature that would cause troubles later.  Record & Guide, June 6, 1896 (copyright expired)

The Commercial Cable Building was completed in 1897 to general acclaim.  On December 24, the New-York Tribune, saying the structure "lifts its head far up into the clouds," called it "an ornament to the street."  The article added, "It is handsome in design, and represents some of the best ideas of modern building."  But while both the exterior and interior were considered beautiful, the building's function for the Commercial Cable Company was paramount.  "The lines of the Commercial Cable Company diverge to all parts of the civilized world, and the best possible service is furnished both at home and abroad," said the article.

The Architectural Record's critic was less enthusiastic, saying the designer "has put a huge brass knob at either end of the top, giving his skyline two competing features in place of one dominant feature."  He decried that the Commercial Cable Building, "reeks of a rowdy picturesqueness like cowboy slang."

The building had barely opened when it was the scene of an unusual suicide.  On September 24, The Sun titled an article, "Cat Suspected of Suicide" and explained that the janitor's "well-known cat named Thomas" had recently been intimate with a female tabby that disappeared.  The article said, "Yesterday morning Thomas was seen about the lower floors of the building.  Shortly before noon one of the elevator men saw the cat go upstairs.  That was the last seen of it alive."  Before long, Thomas "dropped from the roof of the Commercial Cable Building into New street."

American Architect and Building News, December 11, 1897 (copyright expired)

The tenants on the southern side of the building enjoyed sweeping views of New York Harbor.  But that was threatened in January 1902 when the property next door was sold to Blair & Co.  On May 16, the New-York Tribune reported, "Many of the tenants of the Commercial Cable Building are angry, because much of the light and air on the south side of the building is soon to be cut off by the erection of a new home for Blair & Co., bankers."  When the property was purchased, the Commercial Cable Company was promised that a light court would provide light and air.  But now, said the New-York Tribune, "The plans for the building to be put up by Blair & Co. call, however, for a court, but it will be within instead of outside the building."

Blair & Co. erected its building inches from the Commercial Cable Building, greatly reducing the rental values of the offices on that side.  

photo by Irving Underhill, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York.

John Borowski was hired as a window cleaner in May 1905.  He aspired to be an elevator operator and four months later, when he could make time, began learning.  On March 25, 1906, the New-York Tribune reported, "Yesterday he started to practise [sic] with one of the elevators in the annex.  On the twelfth floor he left the car for some purpose, and when he came back evidently started it before he was well in the car."  The young man was crushed between the floor of the car and the top of the door.

Such accidents in the decades before the invention of elevator safety devices were not uncommon.  Less than two years later, on January 13, 1908, the newspaper reported that 15-year-old Harry De Freis "was killed yesterday afternoon by falling down the elevator shaft."  He had opened the grate and looked down to see where the car was, and lost his balance.

Photographer Irving Underhill captured the Commercial Cable Building from between the cornices of two structures in 1903.  King's Views of New York, 1903 (copyright expired)

Bootleg liquor and liberated flappers of the Roaring '20s visited the Commercial Cable Building in 1921 with nearly disastrous results.  Florence Rogers, a 21-year-old telephone operator, was invited to what she described as "an after-hours party in a brokerage office" on the 16th floor here on August 3.  Milton Roth, a clerk in William H. Kemp & Co., had a key to the offices and arranged the party.  There were three men and three women.

The New-York Tribune reported, "In the office cocktails were served, Miss Rogers said, and there was violin and harmonica music.  But things got ugly.  According to her, "she drank cocktails because she was told that if she did not swallow the liquor it would be forced down her throat."

At about midnight the two young women and one of the men left.  Things then became worse for Florence Rogers.  The men, one of whom had a pistol, attacked her, tearing off her blouse.  When she attempted to get to the telephone, one of the men disconnected it from the wall and Florence was "struck on the face."  Luckily, her screams attracted the attention of late-working employees in the building and as they came down the corridor, the two men fled.  When police arrived, "they found Miss Rogers in such a hysterical state that an ambulance was called."  (Not surprisingly, Milton Roth was fired the next day, however it does not appear he was arrested.)

In its November 1926 issue, The Commercial Telegraphers Journal reported that the Postal Telegraph Company was leaving its Broadway home and moving into the Commercial Cable Building.  "It is now felt that greater operating efficient will result from having both land lines and cable systems terminate under the same roof," said the article.

The following year, the New York Stock Exchange leased three floors in the building, including the coveted first floor--heretofore the bastion of the Commercial Cable Company.  Then, on October 4, 1928, The New York Times reported that negotiations were nearly completed between the Mackay Companies and the New York Stock Exchange for the purchase of 20 Broad Street.  "The Stock Exchange, it is understood, plans to take over the building as an annex to its present quarters at Wall and Broad Streets."  The article added, "There is a possibility, it was said yesterday, that if the Exchange buys a building it will raze it and build an annex especially to meet its needs."

That did not happen, however.  The negotiations fell through and The New York Stock Exchange, instead, continued renting space in the Commercial Cable Building.  In 1941, when the Exchange renewed its lease of five floors, The New York Times commented, "The building is not in use above the fifteenth floor."

What seemed inevitable came to pass in 1954 when The New York Times on August 16 announced that The Hanover Bank had purchased "more than half of the Broadway blockfront from Wall Street to Exchange Place."  The bank planned a 400,000 square feet skyscraper on the site, said the article.  "It is expected to be completed in 1956."

image via streeteasy.com

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The 1891 James Kempster House - 153 West 95th Street

 

In October 1890 the architectural firm of Harding & Gooch filed plans for eleven three-story and basement houses on West 95th Street for Lottie H. Baird.  Located on the north side of the block between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues, each would be 18-feet wide and cost $15,000 to construct--about $435,000 in today's money.

Completed the following summer, they were a blend of the Romanesque Revival and Renaissance styles.  The architects configured them as mirror image pairs in an AAA-B-B-A-A-B-B-A-A-B-B pattern (the odd number resulting in one trio at Nos. 145 to 149).

An advertisement on August 15, 1891 touted:

Buyers, Attention!  145 to 165 West 94th St...the most attractive three-story and basement houses, with two modern bath-rooms, open plumbing, tiled walls, mosaic floors, butler's pantry, laundry and wine vault in extensions; magnificent saloon floors, hardwood cabinet trim throughout.

No. 153 was purchased by James and Mary Ann Kempster, who paid the equivalent of $610,000 today.  One of the "B" style houses, its high stone stoop led to the arched entranceway which was, like the parlor window, trimmed in undressed stone and graced with a foliate keystone.  The square-headed windows of the second floor sat below a floating arched pediment with fan carving, and the top floor openings returned to an arched motif.

The row of houses, most of which have lost their cornices, were designed in mirror-image pairs.

Kempster was the principal in the James Kempster Printing Co., founded in 1877.  It was described by Electrical Review as "one of the best-known printing establishments in New York city."

The family had barely moved in when the population of No. 153 was diminished by two.  On November 30, 1892 The Standard Union ran two back-to-back wedding announcements entitled "Kempster-Heath" and "Mathews-Kempster."  The Electrical Review explained, "Mr. Richard Castle Kempster and Miss Louise Elizabeth Kempster, son and daughter of Mr. James Kemspter, of 153 West Ninety-fifth street, New York, were married Tuesday evening, November 29, to Miss Mable Heath and Mr. Theodore Wallace Matthews [sic], respectively."

The double wedding had taken place at the Mount Morris Baptist Church on Fifth Avenue and 127th Street.  The Standard Union reported, "After the ceremony, a reception was held at the Kempster residence."

The clanging of fire truck bells and the galloping steeds that pulled them roused the attention of reporters who rushed to the scene.  And on the evening of March 12, 1894 the scene was the Kempster house.  It was a false alarm that caused temporary confusion as to who called in the alarm, and more long-lasting discord between next door neighbors.

The Sun reported, "An alarm was turned in, and the department came flying to the corner, but could find no fire.  Everything was quiet, but in two houses in Ninety-fifty street, 153 and 155, there was an inward fire burning in the bosoms of two women."  It all started at 5:30 when Emily Rosenheim rushed into the Kempster house and announced, "Your house is on fire, Mrs. Kempster; the smoke is coming out of one of your chimneys."

According to Mary Ann Kempster, she responded, "That's all right; that is where the smoke always goes out."

"Yes, but it's on fire," insisted Mrs. Rosenheim.

Mary Ann sent a servant to check who found nothing out of the ordinary.  She told The Sun reporter, "I said, 'Why, there is nothing the matter with the chimney.'  Then she as much as said that I was a liar and went out, and her daughter in a few moments informed my daughter that they had turned in an alarm.  Pretty soon the department came.  The Chief went through the house, found no fire, and the department went away.  All I have to say is that some neighbors don't mind their own business the way they ought to."

The reporter went next door to get the Rosenheim side of the story.  Emily denied that they had sent in the alarm, saying "Somebody in the street did."

When told that the Kempsters said there was no fire, Emily shot back, "Well, they lie then."   With their neighborly relationship already at a breaking point, one can assume that the women's reading each others' words in the newspaper the following day ended it altogether.  In fact, the Rosenheims were no longer listed at No. 155 the following year, having possibly moved on to less contentious turf.

By then West 95th Street was lined with homes of financially comfortable businessmen and their families.  James Kempster was one of 40 other residents who, on October 2, 1895, sent a one-line request to the City Council.  In it they "respectfully petition for the laying of asphalt upon the pavement" of West 95th Street.  

Well-to-do families spent the summer homes away from the stifling heat of the city.   Husbands necessarily came and went as business demanded, normally staying overnight at their social clubs rather than keeping their townhouses open.  The Kempsters purchased a site for their new country home in June 1899.  The Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported they had purchased "a tract of land on Saxton's Neck and boat house on Awixa Creek, Islip" from James J. McKenna and his wife.  The cost was $14,000; or about $445,000 today.

The Kempsters became active members of that summer community.  On July 7, 1900 the Times Union said that Bay Shore "enjoys the reputation of being one of the best 'club towns' on the Island" and noted, "There is an aristocratic organization known as the Olympic Club, which is composed of the New York and Brooklyn summerites in Bay Shore.  In wealth represented 'there's millions in it,' and for social style it ranks with the best in the Greater New York."   James Kempster was the president of the Olympic Club at the time of the article.

Around 1915 the Kempsters moved to No. 29 West 76th Street.  Their former home was purchased by Dr. Everett M. Hawks.  A graduate of the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Columbia University, he had been practicing genecology and obstetrics since 1902.

Dr. Hawks most likely would have faded into obscurity were it not for one set of celebrated clients.  On June 21, 1930 he was called to the home of aviator Charles A. Lindbergh and his wife, Anne Marrow Lindbergh.  Anne had just gone into labor.

This was no commonplace situation and he took along four specialists and a nurse, Marie Cummings (who, incidentally, had resigned her position as head nurse at a hospital in order to take part in this single event).   The baby, Charles Augustus Lindbergh,  arrived at 1:10 the following afternoon.  Two years later his kidnapping and murder would launch one of the greatest manhunts in American history.

The paired stone stoops of 153 and 151 were intact in the 1940's.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

By the time of the Lindbergh baby's birth Dr. Hawks had been gone from No. 153 for several years.  In 1922 it contained apartments, one of which was home to Antone Sancher.  He was involved in a frightening accident that year.  On April 4 he was driving towards the intersection of DeKalb and Nostrand Avenues in Brooklyn where boys were playing baseball in the street.  He struck 13-year-old John Petrozits, who suffered a broken thigh and lacerations of the knee.  

In 1968 the upper floors were returned to a single family residence, with two apartments in the basement level.  At some point after mid-century the stone stoop was replaced with a metal version, but on the whole the outward appearance of the home is intact.

photographs by the author

The R. J. Horner Factory -- Nos. 109-111 West 24th Street

In 1886 Robert J. Horner opened his new furniture store at Nos. 61-65 West 23^rd Street.  The block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues would include several of the leading furniture dealers by the end of the century, including George C. Flint and Geiger & Braverman.  Horner, who targeted both middle- and upper-class buyers, launched an innovative technique to attract customers: he installed bedrooms, dining rooms and parlors in the upper floors where furniture could be displayed in room settings.

Despite the Financial Panic of 1893, Horner’s success continued.  In the fall of 1899 he purchased two old buildings on the north side of West 24^th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues from “a Mr. Barber.”  On November 5 the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide reported that “R. J. Horner & Co., the furniture firm…will built a 6-story storage house for their own use.”  The Guide pointed out that the firm had paid “$50,000 cash” for the 50-foot wide property at Nos. 109-111—in the neighborhood of $1.47 million in 2016.

R. J. Horner commissioned the architectural firm of George Edward Harding & Gooch (which often went simply by “Harding & Gooch”) to design its new building.  By the time that a contractor was hired six months later in May 1900, the plans had changed to seven stories.

The completed edifice smacked of a greatly expanded commercial stables building.  The extra-high two story base was clad in stone and featured wide truck bays.  Harding & Gooch used buff-colored brick on the upper floors, laid to resemble rusticated stone.  Here the five-story pilasters, the splayed lintels with their double keystones, and the stepped brackets of the sills were executed in brick.  Above it all a peaked pediment, similar to those routinely found on stables, completed the design.

Horner’s fleet of vehicles was stored and maintained on the lower section, while the upper floors were used both for storing the latest in furniture models and for manufacturing them.  During the day the building would have been a hive of activity as horse-drawn drays came and went, clattering along West 24^th Street with their heavy deliveries of bedroom suites and dining room furniture.

There were about 48 workers in the building on Saturday, morning March 19, 1904; all but four of them working in the factory and warehouse portions on the upper floors.  Suddenly, at around 10:30 a “loud report” was heard on the second floor.  A container of benzine had exploded. 

American Cabinet Maker and Upholsterer reported “Within a few moments great tongues of flame were licking the inflammable material stored on every floor, roaring up the stairs and shafts, and dense smoke rose on every side.”  Most of the employees were able to rush down the stairs before being cut off by flames; but about a dozen fled by jumping to the roofs of neighboring buildings.  One, however, had to be rescued after being paralyzed with fear.  “A young woman who had become hysterical when she saw that the stairs were blazing was dropped about ten feet by rescuers.”

Although firefighters responded quickly, the water pressure from the hydrants was nearly useless.  The trade journal explained “It was fully twenty minutes after the arrival of the first engines before a stream of any size could be sent into the building, and even then the pressure was not great enough to be effective.”

The water shortage resulted in four fire alarms.  The situation was compounded when two responding companies, Engines No. 18 and No. 72, collided at Sixth Avenue and 12^th Street.  “There was a terrific shock, and all the horses were thrown.  Both of the poles of No. 18 snapped short, one of them piercing one of the horses of No. 72 and cutting him so that he had to be killed.”  Only Engine 72 could continue on to fight the blaze.

For two hours traffic on Sixth Avenue was held up and crowds of female shoppers—estimated in the thousands--poured from the emporiums on “The Ladies’ Mile” south of 23^rd Street to witness the firefight.   American Cabinet Maker reported “The police had some difficulty in handling the crowds and in keeping them back until five mounted men were obtained from Fifth avenue.  Those who would pay no attention to the policemen afoot promptly retreated before the horses and kept at proper distance.”

The Police Department gained an important lesson in crowd control that day.  “It was the first time that mounted police were used at a fire in the heart of the city, and they demonstrated their usefulness.”

Although the upper floors were devastated, Harding & Gooch’s “fireproof” structure withstood the conflagration.  The trade journal announced “The upper portion of the building was gutted, but the structure proved most substantial, and remained almost intact from the outside aspect.”

Robert J. Horner estimated the damage at $50,000.  The building was repaired and operations continued until 1912.  That year, in February, the firm moved to No. 22 West 36^th Street.  Robert J. Horner, Sr. explained to the Record & Guide that because of “the general tendency of all business to move farther uptown on account of the greater transportation facilities the firm decided upon the move.”

Furniture like this elaborately-carved sideboard was constructed and stored in the 24th Street building.  New-York Tribune, December 12, 1909 (copyright expired)

The former furniture warehouse and factory was taken over by a most unexpected tenant:  The Boyertown Chapel.  For six years it would be the scene of funerals and wakes amid the factories that had cropped up along the block.

On March 2, 1918 R. J. Horner & Co. leased the entire building to the Kimberly & Clark Co.  The Wisconsin paper manufacturers would store its goods here for years, getting a new landlord when the Robert J. Horner estate sold the building to Emil A. Stumpf on August 6, 1922.  The buyer made a quick profit when he resold it two months later to Clara P. Trunk for $105,000.

In 1945 Robert L Marx took the top three floors for his pipe manufacturing factory.  A printing firm was on the 4^th floor and the lower three floors were used as storage.  The following year, with soldiers returning home from war, Marx became active in promoting the hiring of veterans.  He told a reporter “With the boys coming back today there is just as big a job to do as ever, and something should be done to bring attention to those companies that are making the real effort to give the veteran a job and make him a functioning part of our national economy.”

His proposal to “bring attention” to firms that hired veterans was a special flag.  His idea went all the way to the War Department where a design was approved by Secretary of War Robert P. Patterson.  The flag was unveiled in Robert Marx’s office in the 24^th Street building on June 7, 1946, with members of the American Veterans Committee and the United States Employment Service present.

Joseph B. O’Connor, Regional Director of the United States Employment Service commended Marx’s idea.  The New York Times reported “Foreseeing support of the flag both on a local and national scale by his organization, Mr. O’Connell added: ‘Something like this is needed to stir up employers.  Also it would act as an incentive for them to do more than they are doing at the present time.’”

At mid century the ground floor was converted to the showroom of the Montauk Rug & Carpet company.  The upper floors were home to firms like the Continental Corp., manufacturers of wooden novelties; and the Frances Yarn Company.

Little has changed to the upper floors of the handsome warehouse building.  An ill-advised coat of chocolate-colored paint covers the limestone base; but the Montauk Rug & Carpet showroom still calls the ground floor home after more than half a century.  

photographs by the author

The 1891 Holland House -- 5th Ave. at 30th Street

At the turn of the century, handsome carriages wait outside the fashionable Holland House Hotel -- NYPL Collection

Swiss-born restaurateur Gustav Baumann managed Kinsley’s Restaurant in Chicago, touted by The Evening World as “the best eating place in that city,” until 1890.  But, the newspaper noted, “Seeking a larger field, Mr. Baumann looked over New York.” 

Gustav Baumann indeed found a larger field.

By now most of the owners of the grand mansion on Fifth Avenue below 34^th Street had moved northward.  The thoroughfare remained exclusive, however, with the elegant Delmonico’s Restaurant at the corner of 26^th Street and the grand Fifth Avenue Hotel at 23^rd Street. 

Baumann partnered with another Chicago restaurateur, H. M. Kinsley to build the most majestic hotel in New York City.   Brownstone mansions were demolished at the southwest corner of 30^th Street, just south of the Astors’ twin mansions, where architects Harding & Gooch would design a stunning new structure. 

The 11-story hotel maintained the reserved dignity of Fifth Avenue with restrained ornamentation.  A grand portico at street level would welcome the well-heeled guests.  Shallow bay windows at the third through fifth floors allowed increased airflow to otherwise stuffy rooms.  But the interiors of the new Holland House Hotel would steal the show.

Two years before the opening of John Astor’s magnificent Waldorf Hotel on the site of his father’s mansion, the Holland House was the last word in luxury and elegance.  When the 2,000 invited guests walked through the door for the grand opening on December 5, 1891 they were dazzled.  Baumann and Kinsley had based the décor on the original Holland House Hotel in the Kensington section of London.

The New York Tribune praised, “The magnificence of the hallway at the Fifth-ave. entrance is a good illustration of the furnishings in other parts of the building.  The walls are of Sienna marble.  The main staircase, which ascends from the centre of the main hallway to the parlors above, is also of richly carved Sienna marble.  The ceiling near the staircase is decorated in silver.”

A large tapestry provides the background for the marble Grand Staircase -- NYPL Collection

The café was decorated, according to The New York Times, “in Louis Quinze style.”  The salmon-and-gold painted ceiling was supported by a long row of columns and “In spite of its size--25 by 50 feet—the dining hall seems delightfully cozy.”  The Tribune noted that “Electric lights in crystal globes hang from oxidized silver chandeliers above every table in the room.”

On the same floor were drawing rooms in white and gold, and the “gilt room”—an Elizabethan-style banquet room--towards the rear which was an exact reproduction of the Gilt Room in the London hotel.  A buffet room on this level was done in Italian Renaissance style.

The Gilt Room was an exact copy of the room of the same name in London's Holland House hotel -- NYPL Collection

The main dining room was on the third floor, fitted with mirrors around the room.  Over each was a reproduction Wattean tapestry. 

W. & J. Sloane had provided the custom carpeting for the 350 guest rooms which The New York Times said “are all beautifully furnished and decorated.”    There was a staff of 180 “below stairs” where, among the marvels of the hotel, was a cellar stocked with $350,000 worth of wine.

The show-stopping hotel cost around $2.5 million and its furnishings another $450,000.  It was owned solely by Mrs. J. Van Doren, a wealthy widow who had inherited her fortune from her father.  She leased the operation to Kinsley and Baumann for a handsome $145,000 for the first five years of the 15-year lease.  “After that time the rental is to be increased,” noted the New York Tribune.

The ivy-covered Marble Collegiate Church shares the block with the Holland House -- postcard Library of Congress

Most of those employees who worked “above stairs” wore simple dark blue uniforms, while the footmen wore full livery and the hallboys and elevator operators wore bright blue with red and white cord.   For the privilege to work at the Holland House a new employee paid for his own uniform—just about three weeks worth of wages.

Baumann and Kinsley did not hold back when they published an advertisement in King’s Photographic Views of New York City.  “A marvelously beautiful house in the swellest quarter of New York,” it gushed.  The ad noted “An exquisite Italian Renaissance building…Elaborate elevator service.  Every modern appliance in all the details of construction and equipment…The most perfect restaurant in the world.”

To enjoy the luxuries of the hotel, guests would pay $2.00 and up per night for a room—about $46.50 today.  The hotel would see the comings and goings of the most important guests in the world—presidents, politicians, and royalty.  One of the most celebrated visits was that of the Duchess of Devonshire on the night of March 29, 1901—at least her portrait visited.  

Years earlier—in 1876—the American thief Adam Worth had stolen Thomas Gainsborough’s masterpiece The Duchess of Devonshire—perhaps the most famous painting of its time--in London.  The criminal mastermind would become the inspiration for Professor Moriarty of the Sherlock Holmes novels.  Unfortunately for Worth, his ransom negotiations never went far and he retained the painting for a quarter of a century, often carrying it rolled up in an umbrella or in his suitcase.   When the priceless portrait was retrieved in 1901, it spent the night in the Holland House before starting its voyage back to England.

The hotel was the starting point for an eagerly-awaited annual event.  Each Spring, four-horse coaching outings, called Tally-ho parties, would leave the hotel and head northward up Fifth Avenue to Central Park in what the New York Tribune deemed “grand style.”    Wealthy New Yorkers, dressed in their finest, crowded into large coaches for the outings as less fortunate residents and tourists watched from the sidewalks.

Well-dressed participants in front of the Holland House prepare for a Tally-Ho party -- NYPL Collection

In February 1902 a famous French artist staying at the Holland House incited a stir.  Because of his high regard in the international art world The New York Tribune chose not to reveal his name.   After dining alone, the artist was “lingering over a cordial” and “decided to show his approval of the meal and service by drawing an elaborate sketch on the immaculate linen cloth which covered the table.”

In France, the artist was accustomed to having his sketches recognized as a valuable token of appreciation.   The drawings were cut from the table cloths, framed, and hung in a prominent place in the café.   And so, after the waiter asked him to please not mark up the table cloth, the artist continued sketching his Parisian scene.

The New York Tribune reported that the artist explained “I make you a very fine sketch, to which I attach presently my own name.”  The waiter was not moved.  As the famous artist continued his work, the waiter informed the head waiter who had the artist “deposited on the sidewalk.”

The enraged artist made his way across Fifth Avenue through the traffic.  The New York Tribune said “His rage hardly permitted him to speak, but at last he succeeded.  ‘Pigs!’ he cried, and he spat at the hotel through his teeth.”

The wealthy clientele of the Holland House attracted a less savory sort—thieves.   In the Spring of 1902 a brooch valued at $10,000 was stolen from the room of Mrs. R. H. McCormick, of Chicago, the wife of the United States Minister to Austria. 

Although the hotel had superb security personnel, sometimes the crooks appeared in Holland House uniforms.  Patrick Bolan was a porter here that same year and he supplemented his salary with jewelry taken from guest rooms.  His criminal career was cut short after Mr. and Mrs. Matheson of Huntington, Long Island, stayed overnight on April 4 after attending the theater.

The following morning Mrs. Matheson discovered that her pigskin jewelry case was missing, along with the $12,000 worth of jewels.   Later Patrick Bolan entered a Bowery pawnshop and asked for $35 for a necklace that the pawnbroker recognized as being worth about $2,500.    The broker called police and Bolan was taken to the Jefferson Market Court.    When he was searched police found two gold rings—one set with a large opal and surrounded by diamonds, the other set with three large rubies.  

Police then searched Bolan’s room on Houston Street.  The porter had been a busy boy.    Among the jewelry found there were four gold watches, rings, and jeweled chains.

Pliny Fisk, a wealthy banker, was not just a guest at the hotel, he lived here.  On New Year’s Day morning in 1903, around 6:40, Fisk was awakened by a noise in his parlor.  Because his valet customarily entered the suite around 7:00 each morning to prepare the banker’s clothes, he thought little of it.  But when he heard the rustling of papers around 15 minutes later, he grew suspicious.

Fisk burst into the front room to find a well-dressed man rifling through his desk.  On the floor was a bundle containing jewelry and clothing.   Although Fisk sprang at the thief, he was overpowered.    The Evening World reported “Being a small man, Mr. Fisk was getting the worst of it when he broke loose from the thief and ran down the hall in his pajamas, shouting that there was a thief in the house.”

After much commotion and the somewhat shocking appearance of Pliny Fisk on the first floor of the Holland House in his torn pajamas, the thief was apprehended descending the grand staircase.   He was Charles Dean, otherwise known as Nick Moran, who had already served eight prison terms.  The World was astonished that the near-crime could have happened at all.  “The most interesting feature of Dean’s attempt to rob Mr. Fisk is that it was made in the Holland House.  If there is a well-guarded hotel in the city, it is the Holland House.”

The World provided a sketch of Fisk and the crook -- January 3, 1902 (copyright expired)

Thefts, however, were relatively rare.   But one somewhat sordid activity was not so rare; a hotel accommodation that was definitely not advertised.  Years later Howard Moore would recall his employment in the hotel as switchboard operator in 1905.  "My most frequent customer was  the house detective, a handsome man whose chief function, I soon learned, was that of pimp, providing high-class ladies of the evening for gentlemen who could afford to pay one hundred dollars a night.  This involved much telephoning.”

A postcard view up Fifth Avenue in 1905 shows the rival Waldorf-Astoria Hotel (with the conical tower).

In October 1912 the hotel was a hive of security as President Taft stayed here, shortly after the assassination attempt on Roosevelt in Milwaukee.   On the morning of October 16 the President’s party—his wife, brother Charles, his daughter and Mrs. Taft’s sister—had breakfast in the Holland House dining room then headed for Grand Central Terminal.

“The President and his wife, on their way from the door of the hotel to the automobile passed through a guard of half a dozen policemen.  Secret Service men and detectives watchfully weaved among the persons standing near.  Two Secret Service men got into the car with the President and his wife.  Seven other members of the Secret Service and Detective Bureau boarded another car.  Ten motorcycle policemen were on hand to act as an escort,” reported The Evening World.

In a scenario that foreshadowed today’s Presidential security, Fifth Avenue was shut down as the motorcade passed up Fifth Avenue.  The Evening World noted that “the police officials heaved sighs of relief when he was gone.”

In 1919 Congress passed the Volstead Act, prohibiting the sale of liquor.  The new law appeased the temperance movement, but had other unexpected ramifications.  Thousands lost their jobs in New York City alone—bartenders, tavern owners, brewery workers, and others.   Restaurants and hotels, unable to survive were forced to close.  And so it was with the Holland House.

The 30^th Street area was no longer the center of wealth and newer, more modern hotels in more convenient locations uptown lured well-to-do guests away from the aging hotel.  Prohibition was the last straw for the Holland House.

Other than a brutal roof addition and the loss of the portico, little has changed in the former hotel's outward appearance -- photo by Alice Lum

On July 4, 1920 The New York Tribune noted that three of New York’s resident hotels, including the Holland House, had given way to business.   The article remembered that “The Holland House claimed Marshall Field as one of its regular patrons.  Ambassador Jusserand was among the European notables who had a preference for this hotel.  Probably because of its name, visiting Dutchmen to this country patronized the Holland House more than any other hotel.”   The newspaper added “its last days brought forth much of sentimental reminiscence.”

Some of the hotel’s elaborate interior decorations were incorporated into a renovation of the Mark Twain House in Hartford, Connecticut that was taking place at the same time.   The magnificent Gilt Room, the café, the grand staircase, everything was gutted from the Holland House as the building was renovated into office space.

A close look reveals the intricate geometric carvings along the 9th floor -- photo by Alice Lum

The exterior was restored in 2003.  Yet with its grand portico shorn off and storefronts installed at street level, the once-splendid hotel is easy to pass by.   But astoundingly, very little has changed to the Harding & Gootch’s limestone upper façade—even the carved panel over the entranceway survives.    Once ranked among the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Holland House now serves a much humbler purpose.