The 1883 Hotel Gerlach -- Nos. 49-55 West 27th Street

photo by Alice Lum

In the first years of the 1880's apartment living suffered the stain of tenement houses.  To differentiate the establishments that catered to financially-comfortable families from the squalid, crowded tenements, they were marketed as French flats.  

In 1882 the entertainment district was creeping up Broadway from 23^rd Street.  As it did, hotels and apartment buildings replaced houses and commercial buildings of a generation earlier.

In 1882 Louis L. Todd demolished the four rowhouses at Nos. 49 through 55 West 27^th Street and set architect August Hatfield to work designing a modern building of French flats.  Completed a year later, the Queen Anne-style structure rose ten stories to a tower.  Bowed bays along the sides captured the slightest breezes in summer.  A three-story base of rough cut stone supported red brick trimmed in stone.  But despite the comfortable accommodations, Todd’s French flats were quickly converted to a mixed residential and transient hotel.

photo by Alice Lum

Operated by hotelier Charles A. Gerlach, the building held on to its reputation as flats for a while.  When a fire broke out early in the morning on October 10, 1890, The New York Times remarked “There was a slight fire in the Gerlach Flat.”  The newspaper took the opportunity to pooh-pooh the structure’s fireproof claims.

“It was easily extinguished, and the damage did not amount to more than $100, but the incident proved that the big building was not as entirely fire-proof as people have been led to suppose.”

By 1893, when wealthy sportsman A. Gerland Hull had a suite here, it was formally known as the Hotel Gerlach.  The 40-year old Hull had studied medicine, but never practiced.  He preferred instead to live a gentleman’s life.  The New York Times noted that he “built a fine residence at Saratoga Lake” and was “one of Saratoga’s wealthiest and most respected citizens.”  The newspaper said that he and his young wife “moved in the best society and made themselves popular wherever they went.”

Sadly, Mrs. Hull’s heath had failed a year earlier and she died.  Despite his obvious grief, society did not believe that A. Gerland Hull was despondent until February 6, 1893 when, at 4:50 in the afternoon he committed suicide “by shooting himself through the head with a revolver,” as reported by The New York Times.

Interestingly, this child's face springs from a sunflower, the companion head on the opposite side of the entrance is winged.  Perhaps a silent tribute to a lost infant. -- photo by Alice Lum

Later that year, on December 13, Judge Henry W. Bookstaver of the Court of Common Pleas attended a dinner of the Fish Commissioners in the hotel.  The event lasted until nearly 2:00 in the morning and there was apparently drink to be had--of which the Judge partook freely.

The Evening World reported that “Policeman Carlin, of the East Fifty-first street station, found Judge Bookstaver wandering about in aimless fashion in Fifth avenue, near Forty-sixth street, a 3:30 o’clock this morning.

“He questioned him, but the jurist was dazed and could give the policeman no information.

“The officer saw blood streaming from a cut on Judge Bookstaver’s nose, and led him to the station.”

Bookstaver had been beaten “at the hands of a highway robber,” opined the newspaper.  Although the police could not get a coherent statement from him, he did realize that his watch and chain were missing.  He could not decide if he had lost anything else.

A doctor diplomatically tried to put the best light on the situation for the judge.  He told reporters he did not think the judge was intoxicated; however Bookstaver could not remember anything.  “It was as if two or three hours had been lost from his life.”

Palm trees wave from the roof in 1895.  The artist creatively added a few floors for impact -- "King's Photographic Views of New York" (copyright expired)

Unfortunately for Gerlach and his wife, Nettie, the Financial Panic of 1893 proved disastrous for the business.  On June 23, 1894 he listed his assets as $90 and his liabilities as $645,579.  The Evening World ran the lugubrious headline “Gerlach May Close.”  Calling the building “very handsome from an architectural standpoint,” the newspaper noted that “The hotel has been quite popular as a family hotel, and has always catered to an exclusive and fashionable patronage.”

An example of that “exclusive and fashionable patronage” was provided earlier that year, in February, when Mrs. Archibald A. Hutchinson lost a diamond and turquoise bracelet while on the way home from the house of a friend on West 78^th Street.  The bracelet was valued at $400 (around $10,000 today).

A few days later it turned up only a half block away from the Gerlach.  “Tuesday evening two colored men entered a pawnshop at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street,” reported The New York Times, “and one of them produced Mrs. Hutchinson’s bracelet and asked the pawnbroker to loan $100 on it.  The pawnbroker refused, and the negroes went away, but were arrested by two Central Office detectives who had been watching them.”

Despite Charles Gerlach’s financial problems, he managed not only to keep the hotel going, but to retain proprietorship.  In 1895 King’s Photographic Views of New York called it "an elegant structure, absolutely fireproof, furnished and equipped with every convenience that can add to the comfort and enjoyment of its guests.  It offers all that is possible for luxuriousness in furnishings and delight in cuisine.”

That year Family Apartments rented for between $800 and $2000 a year; while transient guests paid $4.00 and upward per day.  One of the residents that year was Yugoslavian scientist and inventor Nikola Tesla.  His laboratory was located at No. 33-35 South Fifth Avenue.  Here he worked on his experiments in fluorescent lighting and wireless transmission of power.  The lab and the hotel were approximately 30 blocks apart—the perfect distant for experimenting with wireless transmissions.

Tesla erected his transmission equipment on the roof of the lab building downtown.  With his assistant Diaz Buitrago in charge of the transmitter, Tesla set up receivers on the roof of the Hotel Gerlach.  It was here that he proved that electrical energy could be received remotely.

Around 2:30 a.m. on March 13, 1895, a fire broke out on the ground level of the South Fifth Avenue building.  The entire laboratory was destroyed.  The New York Times lamented “The wizard and rival of Thomas A. Edison was burned out.  His shop, plant, all his apparatus for conducting the scientific experiments on which the gaze of the world is riveted these days, were destroyed.”

Tesla returned to the Hotel Gerlach and closed himself in his rooms, not to be heard from for days.  The scientist emerged with a greater fervor for his work.  Two years later journalist Franklin Chester wrote in part “The daily life of this man has been the same, practically ever since he has been in New York.  He lives in the Gerlach, a very quiet family hotel, in 27^th street, between Broadway and Sixth avenue.  He starts for his laboratory before 9 o’clock in the morning, all day long he lives in his weird, uncanny world, reaching forth to capture new power to gain fresh knowledge.”

Meanwhile, the Hotel Gerlach enjoyed its respected reputation as travelers arrived from far points.  In 1897, the same year that Franklin Chester wrote his article about Tesla, 128 firefighters from the South stopped at the hotel.   The New-York Tribune wrote on August 17 “If the Gerlach Hotel should happen to catch fire any time within the next two or three days no one need worry.  The guests of the hotel went to bed last night in the calmest possible frame of mind, and with a soothing sense of security akin to that felt by a child when its mother comes to quiet it in the night.”  The newspaper explained that the “guests” were firemen “and from the South, where people eat fire.”

That same summer about 100 residents of Augusta, Georgia filed into the hotel, “including some of the most prominent business men of that city, and their families,” said The New York Times.  Indeed, the party of tourists, who intended to “remain in New York long enough to visit all of the attractive Summer resorts in this vicinity,” included a U. S. Senator and a long list of professors, colonels and captains.

After nearly two decades of running the hotel, Charles Gerlach stepped down.  On June 22, 1899 The New York Times reported that the hotel had been leased to Warren Leland, Jr. for ten years.  “It was also said that $150,000 is to be expended in general improvements to the house, which is to be opened under Mr. Leland’s management Oct. 1.”

Leland told reporters that he intended to change the name to the Knickerbocker.  Instead, E. M. Earle was put in charge of the hotel and it was renamed the Hotel Earlington.   From a marketing point of view, the name made sense.  Earle also ran the Hotel Earlington in Richfield Springs, New York; an upscale resort hotel where millionaires spent their summers.  In 1901 the hotel advertised what seems to be a bargain price for dinner.  “Restaurants and Palm Room, Orchestra; Table d’Hote Dinner, One Dollar.”  At the time Samuel Clemens and his wife and daughter were staying in the hotel.

Earle's renovations included an iron-and-glass sidewalk canopy -- (copyright expired)

Earle’s renovations brought the aging hotel up to date.  Rand, McNally & Co.’s Handy Guide described the Hotel Earlington in 1901:

Practically a new house is the Hotel Earlington, in Twenty-seventh Street, near Broadway.  Formerly known as the Gerlach, it was run as a family hotel, but now that it is to be used for the transient trade as well, it has been thoroughly made over, wholly remodeled on the inside, and refurnished, all at an outlay of nearly $200,000.  The building itself cost $1,000,000.

Among the innovations was a system of telephones and call bells that connected every room with the office.  A private electrical plant supplied power to over 3,000 electric lights.  The building was heated by steam and the elevators “are large and run all night from floor to roof.”

The hotel's new name was emblazoned over the entrance -- photo Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1GWTOOJJ

Earle had gutted the interiors.  “Only the walls and floors were retained in the reconstruction,” said the Handy Guide.  There were 250 guest rooms which were arranged so they could be opened into suites of up to seven rooms each.

Perhaps the most startling innovation came a year later.  Eugene M. Earle was also the owner of pedigree show dogs.  He transformed the tower room on the roof to a kennel for his 38 high-bred dogs.  The New York Times reported that “The cost of the kennels has mounted already to the sum of $2,500, an amount that might be begrudged dogs by any but a lover of the animals.  The surroundings are artistic, the woodwork being stained, the walls done in green, and hung with pictures.”

A kennel master kept charge of the dogs who had their own bathroom, and steam heater to dry them after baths.  “When the hour of exercise comes, they only run loose on the roof at certain hours.  A treadmill has been invented for them, and they wait anxiously for their turn at grinding the mill.”

Perhaps the extensive renovations, coupled with a $2,500 dog kennels, were too much.  On August 1, 1907, Eugene M. Earle filed a petition in bankruptcy.  The new manager, Guernsey E. Webb, decided that the best thing to do was to entirely revamp the hotel.

The architectural firm of Waid & Willaur was commissioned to redesign the upper façade.  The architects removed the Victorian trappings—the tower room and parapet; but left the lower floors intact.  The interiors received another make-over.  An advertisement in The Daily Telegraph on December 1, 1909 boasted “This well known, absolutely fireproof hotel, after being entirely renovated, redecorated and fitted up completed with new plumbing has now re-opened November 2.”

In September 1911 the hotel was host to an internationally-prominent figure.  Leonid Menschikoff, the former chief of the Russian secret police, came to America to “expose the Czar’s police.”    With revolutionary stirrings causing upheaval at all levels in Russia, “he admitted to reporters that he had come here ready to expose hired agents of the Russian Government who are posing as revolutionists, but against whom he says he has documentary evidence gathered while he himself was in the inner circle of the secret political police,” said The New York Times.  He warned Americans that they too were being spied on.

By now, the end of the line for the Hotel Earlington was not far off.  The entertainment district had now passed 27^th Street by and one by one the Broadway hotels in the neighborhood were closing.  In April 1915 the Hotel Earlington became another casualty.

On April 28 The New York Times said “The final closing of the Hotel Erlington, in West Twenty-seventh Street, last week, removes from the list of New York City hotels another of the popular hostelries which flourished in that section over a quarter of a century ago…The Hotel Erlington was always more of a family home, and for twenty years after its erection it was one of the most select houses of its kind on Manhattan Island.”

As the United States entered World War I, the old hotel was recycled as a servicemen’s hotel.  “The hotel, which has been vacant for some time, has been leased by the [National Service Commission] for the period of the war, at a nominal rental…As soon as it can be fitted up the commission will throw it open to soldiers, sailors and marines at nominal prices, which will lift the enterprise out of the charity class.”

Called the Service Hotel, it was operated by the New York War Camp Community Service.  The New-York Tribune commented on March 18, 1918 that the servicemen here “were representative of practically every section of the country and branch of the service.  Aero squad men from Mineola mingled with ambulance unit boys from Camp Dix.  The navy—regular and reserve—and the army—National, Regular and National Guard—had their representation.”

A soldier and a sailor use the library at the Service Hotel -- photo from "War Libraries and Allied Studies" 1918 (copyright expired)

With the war’s end, the old hotel, which was now sitting squarely in a bustling business district, was sold.  The New-York Tribune reported on May 15, 1920 that “It contains 200 rooms and covers 100x100, and is to be rebuilt into a store, office and showroom building at a cost approximating $200,000.”

The converted building filled with businesses, many connected to the nearby garment district.  One of the first tenants was Carmel Bros, “manufacturing furs and featuring children’s furs.”  Throughout the 20^th century the floors hummed with light manufacturing and sales rooms.

In 1938, in an attempt at modernizing, sleek granite slabs were plastered over the arched entranceway.  Later unattractive retail spaces were gouged out of the street level walls.  But overall the structure was barely tampered with.  Happily around 1981 the granite was removed and the original handsome entranceway reemerged.

The carved entrance was undamaged by the 1930s attempt at modernization -- photo by Alice Lum

Today the old Gerlach Hotel still looks like a hotel.  Called the Radiowave Building with a nod to Nikola Tesla, it is a stubborn survivor in a somewhat gritty neighborhood.

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The Walter Tower Rosen House -- No. 35 West 54th Street

When 10-year old Walter Tower Rosen came to the United States in 1885 from his native Berlin, the block of West 54^th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues was only partially developed.   John D. Rockefeller was settling into the old mansion he purchased at No. 4 on the south side of the street; while half of the block on the northern side was taken up by the sprawling 1867 St. Luke’s Hospital.

Behind the Hospital the western portion of the block was lined with nearly-identical brownstone rowhouses built shortly after the Civil War.  While respectable and comfortable; they paled in comparison to the lavish mansions that were appearing down the block on Fifth Avenue.

Among these was No. 35, a four-story house sitting high above an English basement.  The Italianate home was the pinnacle of taste in residential architecture when built.  As the 19^th century faded, it was home to wealthy businessman Edward Scheitlin, member of the firm Edward Scheitlin & Co.    The company imported hosiery and gloves.

Only a month after Scheitlin’s death in the house on February 9, 1902 it was purchased by Frank V. Bertram.  The Bertram family quickly resold it in November the following year.

By now the 54^th street block was dramatically changing.  In 1896 demolition of the old hospital  suddenly made building lots available in the most exclusive of New York neighborhoods.  That half of the block now saw rapid development as the modern mansions of prominent bankers and physicians rose in stark contrast to the brownstones of a generation earlier.

No. 35 became the home of the esteemed pediatrician, Dr. Allan M. Thomas.  Along with Dr. William C. Denning, Thomas had headed the maternity ward of the State Emigrant Hospital on Ward’s Island.  The doctors co-designed a three-foot by three-foot “hatching cradle" in 1888—the precursor of today’s incubator.  Warmed by fifteen gallons of water, it was first used for the tiny 2-pound, 7-ounce Edith Eleanor McLean who was born on September 7 of that year.

The new mansions down the block prompted Dr. Thomas to give his residence a much-needed a make-over.  The facade was stripped off and replace with an up-to-date brick and limestone Beaux Arts front that held its own among the fashionable newcomers.

By 1907 the block was being called the “Rockefeller Block” and was fully developed with fine mansions.  The artwork, jewelry and silver inside them were tempting loot for sneak thieves.  For several days in early April the residents were terrified by robberies and attempted break-ins.   Burglars made off with $7,000 in jewelry from the home of Dr. Moses Allen Starr down the block at No. 5.  And in the early hours of April 14 a thief would visit the Thomas house.

The family and the doctor’s household staff were all asleep around 1:30 a.m. when a maid, Christina Gustavson, was awakened by the sound of her window being opened. “She saw a main swing himself in from a rope ladder hung from the roof,” reported The New York Times the following day. “The man held a small electric lamp in his hand. When he saw that she was awake, she said, he whispered to her: ‘If you make the slightest noise I’ll kill you.’”

When the burglar heard movement below the stairs, he slipped back out the window and up the ladder. The terrified maid shrieked for help.

Dr. Thomas was irate and readied himself for action.  The New York Times reported “Detectives Beeron and Baer went to the doctor’s house.  They found Dr. Thomas and his butler, both armed with revolvers, in a very angry state of mind.”

The doctor and his wife, the former Anna O’Neill, lived in the house until 1916 when it was sold to attorney Ferdinand S. Crosley.   Crosley bought the property on behalf of “a client” who paid cash.  Although the house was assessed at $95,000, the asking price was “well over $100,000,” according to The New York Times—about $1.5 million today.  The newspaper commented that “This is one of the modern houses in the block.”

The buyer was Walter Tower Rosen.  The little boy who had come to the United States with his parents 31 years ago had graduated from Harvard in 1901—the youngest in his class—and immediately joined the international banking firm of Ladenburg, Thalmann and Company.  Rosen was a lawyer as well as a banker; and an exceptionally fine pianist.

During his Harvard years, his playing was noticed by the widowed Mrs. Jack Gardener who invited him to practice at Fenway Court—her museum that was yet to be opened.  Perhaps it was here, surrounded by the masterpieces of what would be known as Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum, that Rosen acquired his passion for art and collecting.

In 1914 Rosen had married the beautiful Lucie Bigelow Dodge, another musician.  The artistic list of well-wishers at the time included Rosen’s good friend Pablo Casals.  The Rosens had a son, Walter Bigelow, born in 1915 and another child, Anne Bigelow Rosen, would be born in 1917.

Lucie Bigelow Dodge Rosen with her son, Walter -- photo metmuseum.org

The Rosens traveled extensively, amassing an substantial art collection.  Entertainments in the Rosen townhouse most often included music, often with the hosts as soloists, and No. 35 West 54^th Street was familiar nationwide among musicians and music lovers.

In 1929 Lucie suggested to her husband that “a little place in the country” would be nice.  There the family could escape the hot New York City summers.   The "little place" took ten years to complete and in 1939 the sprawling Caramoor—now a museum and home to the annual Caramoor Music Festival—became the Rosens’ main home.

While Caramoor was being constructed outside of Katonah, New York, Lucie was coming into her own as an accomplished musician of an unusual instrument.   She became entranced with the aetherphone/etherhone, a somewhat bizarre electronic musical instrument developed by Russian inventor Leon Theremin.  Theremin patented the device in 1928.  The instrument was controlled by the player without any physical contact.  Although it is now known mainly for eerie music like the soundtracks for Spellbound, The Lost Weekend, and The Day the Earth Stood Still, it was originally intended as a concert instrument for avant-garde 20^th century music.

Lucie became a virtuoso on the instrument that became generally known as the teremin.   In 1930 she was part of a 10-person ensemble that performed on the stage of Carnegie Hall with Leon Theremin (the inventor had been in the United States in 1927).

Shortly after the Carnegie Hall concert they offered the struggling Russian inventor a room in their home at a low rent.

On August 1, 1936 Walter and Lucie announced Anne’s engagement.  Perhaps not surprisingly, there was a musical connection.  The New York Times gushed on about Anne’s pedigree—“granddaughter of the Hon. Mrs. Lionel Guest of Ferring, England, and of Charles Stuart Dodge of this city, and a great-granddaughter of John Bigelow, American Minister to France under President Lincoln.  She is a niece of Colonel John Bigelow Dodge of London, or Mrs. Maurice Magre of Paris and of Felix Rosen of New York.”

Anne’s fiancé was Janos Scholz of Sopron-Oedenburg, Hungary.  While he was the eldest son of the late Major Julian Scholz of the Royal Hungarian Artillery, The New York Times noted that he “is best known in Europe and this country as the cellist of the Roth Quartet of Budapest.  His family for generations has included distinguished military officers and musicians, and his grandmother was a friend of Franz Schubert, who dedicated one of his compositions to her.”

When the couple was married in St. George’s Church on Stuyvesant Square the following January, the ceremony was followed by a reception in the 54^th Street house.  

In 1938 Walter Rosen came to the aid of Leon Theremin one last time.  The same year that The New York Times said “Lucie Bigelow Rosen continues to serve as a high priestess of the electrical instrument that Theremin developed and that bears his name,” the inventor needed money to return to Russia.  Rosen struck a deal.  He paid Theremin $10,000 to create a new machine for Lucie, along with all the schematics and rights to produce more “for personal use only.”

Music was uncharacteristically not part of a gathering in the Rosen townhouse in January 1941.  With the war raging in Europe and England, the British explorer and writer Mrs. Rosita Forbes was briefly a house guest on her way to the Bahamas.  There Mrs. Forbes owned a plantation and “will engage in the production of food on Eleutheria Island…and has obtained charge of three others for the same purpose,” explained The New York Times.

On January 19 it was not a group of socialites or art and music lovers who assembled at No. 35; but members of the press.   They came to hear of conditions in London, despite the weary writer’s having just disembarked from a 14-day voyage from Liverpool to Halifax on a 3,000-ton cargo ship.

Rosita Forbes described conditions for the British in the most positive light.  “The whole standard of life is completely changed.  Money can’t buy anything anymore.  Health is better because everybody walks—driving is impossible at night—and cocktails hardly exist anymore.  Pleasures are much simpler, and there is much more family life.”

The terrors of World War II would soon reach the Rosen house.  Walter Bigelow Rosen left to fight for the Allied Forces, becoming a flying officer with the Royal Air Force.  He was killed in action in 1944.   His father established a foundation in his memory, to which Caramoor would eventually belong, “as a Center for Music and the Arts for the Town of Bedford and the State of New York.”  Lucie established a chair professorship in music at Harvard in his memory.

Walter Tower Rosen died on October 16, 1951, still active as a senior partner of Ladenburg, Thalmann and Company.  Lucie Bigelow Rosen lived on in the house and at Caramoor until November 27, 1968.  She died in the 54^th Street house at the age of 78.

In 1977 the mansion was converted to apartments.  Little on the outside has changed since it was updated just after the turn of the century.   It stands as an elegant reminder of the first phase of development of the stretch of 54th Street that become known as the Rockefeller Block.

photographs taken by the author (sorry!  it was raining!)

The 1910 French Gothic Nos. 150-154 West 22nd Street

In the first years of the 20^th century West 22^nd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues saw the rapid-fire demolition of old row houses—many built within the past 30 years—to make way for expansive loft buildings.  The garment industry was engulfing the former residential neighborhood and developers quickly seized the opportunity.

In 1910 alone more than a dozen houses were purchased and demolished on both sides of the block.  Among them were Nos. 150 through 154 on the south side, purchased by the Marmac Construction Company.    In January of that year The Bridgemen’s Magazine reported that a 12-story loft and store building was slated to replace the old residences.  “The cost will be $225,000,” it said.

The owners/builders chose as their architects Brown & Almiroty—a partnership that had so recently been formed that this was assuredly one of their first—if not their first—commission.   They could not have been disappointed.

While utterly modern, Brown & Almiroty’s loft building took its inspiration from the French Gothic.  Twelve stories of granite, terra cotta, cast iron and buff-colored brick were lavished with Gothic motifs while avoiding being over-done or preposterous.  Gothic arches, quatrefoils, and heraldic shields were joined  by a host of gruesome gargoyles—carved from limestone above the entrances and cast in metal at the cornice.   The purely utilitarian building, completed in 1910, was a delight to the eyes.

Stone, terra cotta and molded metal burst forth in Gothic motifs.

Even before construction was completed, apparel firms were signing leases for space in the up-to-date structure, which included electric elevators by Gurney.   On November 15, 1910 The New York Times reported that Columbia Button Works had taken the seventh floor and D. Saltzman & Co. took the eighth—a total of 12,000 square feet.  Saltzman, manufacturers of “cloaks,” would stay on in the building for years.

It appears that all of the building’s tenants were apparel manufacturers or related trim companies.  Other early tenants were Horwitz & Levy, makers of dresses; The Mutual Skirt Company; Lindenman Gross and Hindes, manufacturers of ladies’ coats; and Flaster and Bleier.  In 1914 Lindenman, Gross & Hindes’ business was doing so well that they took a second floor in the building, doubling their factory output.

By placing its models at the exclusive New York Horse Show, Mutual Skirt hinted at the quality of its garments -- American Cloak and Suit Review, January 1914 (copyright expired)

When Benjamin Benenson purchased the building in August of 1916, it was fully rented.  Benenson paid $425,000 for the structure—about $6 million in today’s dollars.   That same year Rose & Frank Company took over the street level retail store and the basement.    The 1916 equivalent of a Staples store, Rose & Frank sold typewriter ribbons, “paper tissues,” carbon paper and other office necessities.

Benenson’s tenant list included apparel companies like Kaplan & Weinstein, who had the entire sixth floor; Wolfberg & Co.; and Schwartz & Finkel, dealers in silk items.   Schwartz & Finkel had a close call with thieves on February 25, 1918.

Since January 1 that year silk dealers, mostly those who sold finished goods, had been plagued with break-ins and thefts.  In the less than two month period over $150,000 of silk had been stolen.    The New-York Tribune noted that “Steel doors, specially constructed shutters and burglar alarms have proved unavailing against the burglars, and the system of employing special watchmen has been abandoned as useless.”

On Saturday February 25 Detectives Fennelly, Oliver, Dowling and Hoffman, who had been assigned to work the burglaries, were made aware that four men had purchased jimmies at a local hardware store.  The cops followed them to No. 150 West 22^nd Street.  There the thieves broke into the building and forced their way into the Schwartz & Finkel loft.  When they began loading $15,000 worth of silk into their waiting automobile, the detectives were on hand to arrest them.

Stylish coats were manufactured here in 1914 --American Cloak and Suit Review, January 1914 (copyright expired)

Although by the time of the Great Depression the Garment District was firmly entrenched above 23^rd Street, the building continued to be filled with apparel companies.   In the 1930s Blossom Products, Inc. was here, “manufacturers of ladies’ underwear,” as was the Drago Garment Company, makers of dresses.  Aggripino Drago, president, would have a major run-in with the East Thirty-fourth Street Vehicular Ferry, Inc. the summer of 1935.

The 38-year old Drago drove his car onto the ferryboat Mount Hope on the afternoon of June 21, heading to the East 34^th Street ferry slip on the Manhattan side.  Drago sat in the automobile, the first in line, ready to drive off when the boat landed and the gates were opened.   Just before docking, the boat lurched and, according to The New York Times, “Timbers creaked as the engines were reversed and the boat came to a stop.”

Drago’s car crashed through the folding gate and chain and plunged into the East River.  While onlookers screamed for help for the man, Drago managed to swim to a piling and clamber up to the dock.   The ferry boat docked, the other automobiles drove away, and Drago’s car lay on the bottom of the riverbed.

Deckhands insisted they had wedged wooden stops under Drago’s wheels.  He said they had not.  The ferry company said the boat stopped suddenly because the car drove into the river.  Drago insisted the car plunged into the water because the boat stopped short.   Because the ferry company was a private concern, “and as there was no one else in the car and no apparent injuries to Drago, the police did not raise it.”

The Times explained “Raising the car will be a matter for Drago, the ferry company and the insurance agents to work out the police decided.”   Aggirpino Drago did not show up for work that day.  Instead he went home wet, angry and carless.

As they had in 1918, suspicious police foiled another robbery attempt at the building in 1960.  An employee went to the bank at Fifth Avenue and 23^rd Street on August 26 and walked back with “a bulging envelope,” as described by The Times.  Two detectives, Russell Zacka and Daniel Santora “of the safe and loft squad” became suspicious of two men who appeared to be following him.

When the man entered No. 150 West 22^nd Street, the would-be thieves disappeared into the building behind him.  The detectives closed in. 

Before the robbers, carrying .45 caliber and .22 caliber pistols, could attack the employee, they were in a scuffle with the policemen.    As 24-year old Isaac Hicks, Jr., tried to pull his weapon, he was shot in the abdomen; his cohort Ferman Wray surrendered and confessed they had followed the man from the bank.

Miraculously, the wooden panels at street level remain intact, displaying their tiny Gothic details.

Today the ground floor, once a World War I era stationery store, is home to Geoff Howell Studio.  The visual merchandising, prop fabrication and “events décor fulfillment” firm was established around 1997 and has respectfully co-existed with the astonishingly intact ground floor details.  Although the flanking entrances have been altered and gray granite slabs have been pasted on; the retail store section is intact—including one set of Gothic Revival doors.  Overall, other than replacement windows, the delightful Gothic façade of Brown & Almiroty looks much as it did when apparel manufacturers scrambled to rent space in 1910.

Astoundingly, one set of the original Gothic Revival entrance doors survives.

 photographs taken by the author
many thanks to reader Bob Andrews for suggesting this post

The Lost Kerochan Mansion -- No. 824 Fifth Avenue

The house as it appeared on August 26, 1896 -- Architecture and Building News (copyright expired)

In the last years of the 1890s the march of Manhattan’s millionaires northward on Fifth Avenue along Central Park was well underway.    As coal magnate Edward J. Berwind’s magnificent mansion at the corner of 64^th Street and Fifth Avenue was nearing completion in the last months of 1895 millionaire James Powell Kernochan moved into his new mansion three doors south at No. 824 Fifth Avenue.

Kernochan was the son of a wealthy Louisiana sugar plantation owner who spent his winters in New York City.  It was here that James P. Kernochan was born, in October 1831.  His personal fortune was greatly increased when he married Katharine Lorillard, the daughter of Peter Lorillard.  The New York Times remarked that “Mr. Kernochan’s business career consisted mainly of the management of his wife’s and his own estates.”

Now as the turn of the century neared, James and  Katharine moved into the mansion alone with their staff of servants.   Fourteen years earlier their daughter, Katharine Lorillard Kerochan scandalized the family by eloping with Herbert Pell; although by now, as explained by The Times, she “with her husband has long since been reconciled to her parents.”  Son James had married Eloise Stevenson and now lived on an estate in Hempstead, Long Island.

Like Edward Berwind, Kerochan’s choice of architects was a bit surprising.   Although Henry Franklin Kilburn was responsible for a wide variety of structures in Manhattan—stables, theaters, industrial buildings and private homes—he was most active in the design of churches.  Within the past six years he had designed the West-Park Presbyterian Church, the St. James Episcopal Church Parish House, and the West End Presbyterian Church.

Katherine Lorillard Kerochan costumed for a fancy dress ball -- photo by Mora, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York, http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1GW89EG7&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

There would be nothing ecclesiastic, however, in the finished Kerochan mansion.  Constructed by the Andrew J. Robinson Company, the five story stone-clad house was elegant and restrained.  A two story bay, topped by a balustraded balcony, was supported by a columned portico that smacked of London’s Mayfair district.  A stone balustrade above the cornice matched the third floor balcony; and a centered tripart opening at the fourth floor added a touch of Palladio.

Life seemed ill-fated for the Koernochan’s in their new mansion, however.   On January 10, 1896 son James and his wife came into the city to attend the theater, then stayed overnight at the new Fifth Avenue mansion.  Back home in Hempstead six servants were on hand to watch over their house.

Like his father, James Junior was better known as a sportsman and clubman than a businessman.  His horse Retribution had won the Dumblane Cup in 1891 and the Ivy City Cup two days later.  His show horses and dogs had earned him a room full of silver cups and he himself had won trophies as an accomplished polo player.

While the Kerochan family slept in the New York mansion, thieves were busy ransacking the Hempstead estate.  None of the servants were awakened as the burglars emptied the dining room of a silver tea set, a sterling silver vegetable dish and two silver punch bowls, the racing cups and several flasks and other cups won by Kernochan’s ponies and dogs.  In their hurry they overlooked the chest of heavy silverware and several heavy silver candelabra.  Although the intrinsic value of the silverware taken was estimated to be about $2,000; The New York Times noted that “In other parts of the house to which the thieves could have easily gained access were paintings and other valuables worth thousands of dollars.”

No. 824 is seen at far right.  Among the wealthy neighbors were William Vail Brokaw, directly next door in one of the twin mansions, and Edward J. Berwind on the corner. --photo NYPL Collection

Six months later while James and Katherine were in Newport misfortune again befell the family.   The Fifth Avenue mansion was put in charge of their 60-year old housekeeper.  One of watchman James Lafferty’s duties was to check in with her every night before she locked up the house and went to bed.

On the night of July 23 he looked for her at the basement door.  She normally waited for him there or on the stoop.   By 10:00 when she had not appeared, he notified Policeman Michaels.  After some efforts, they managed to get into the basement of the Kernochan mansion.

“Going through the hallway of the basement floor they stumbled over the body of the housekeeper,” reported The New York Times the following day.  “they lit the gas and discovered that the woman had a severe wound over the left eye, and that she was unconscious.”

Deliveries of milk and other items were still in the areaway from that morning and it appeared that the housekeeper had been lying on the basement floor unconscious all day, having fallen down the stairs.   She was still comatose the following day.

Tragedy struck again on Monday March 1, 1897.  James Kernochan was casually walking down Fifth Avenue around 10:00 a.m.  Simultaneously, and oddly enough, the daughter of George F. Baker, President of the First National Bank, was driving a “light wagon” on the avenue towards 41^st Street.  An unidentified man rode beside her.  The paths of James Kernochan and Miss Baker would soon disastrously intersect.

According to a witness, tailor F. N. Hall, “The woman turned sharply into the side street, and as Mr. Kernochan did not pause, he was struck by one of the shafts, and was knocked about four feet, falling and striking on the back of his head.”

The millionaire lay unconscious in the street as George Baker’s daughter said she would go to get a doctor; but never returned.   He was taken home in a carriage early in the afternoon where Dr. Paul Allen diagnosed a concussion “and that there was nothing worse.”

The Times said that for the first day he “slept as peacefully as a child, but early Tuesday morning he became delirious and tried to get out of bed.”   For days he slipped in and out of consciousness, but was never lucid.   Finally, around 8:00 on the night of March 5, the 66-year old James Powell Kernochan died in his bed.

Katherine soon left the house she and her husband had shared for just over a year.  In October 1899 The Sun reported that she leased the house for two years to Howard and Viola Gould.  “The house will be occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Gould pending the erection of their house at Fifth avenue and Seventy-third street,” it said.

The son of multi-millionaire Jay Gould, Howard had married Viola Katherine Clemmons, the former actress who went by the stage name Katerine Clemmons, exactly a year previously.   The newlyweds had just returned from a nearly year-long cruise “in European waters” according to The New York Times on Gould’s magnificent private yacht, the Niagara.

Among Katherine Gould’s first entertainments in the house was one for “one hundred children of many nationalities from the lower section of this city,” as reported in The Sun on April 15, 1900.  “Mrs. Gould’s guests were selected from the various mission churches connected with the Women’s Branch of the New York City Mission and Tract Society.  They were assembled at the churches and were taken to her home in six buses.”

The grand mansion with its tapestries, masterful oil paintings and rare antiques suddenly echoed with the clamor of impoverished children of the Lower East Side.  “Mrs. Gould wisely considered that the best way to begin the afternoon’s pleasure was to appease the appetite of her youthful guests,” said the newspaper.  The children filed into the lavish dining room and were served soup, plates of sandwiches and cakes, “hills of ice cream and baskets of fruit,” which were “disappearing as if by magic.”

The children were given a Punch and Judy show in the parlor, then “soon they were romping through the entire house.  They had the run of the establishment and every nook and corner in it was duly explored.”

There was a magic show, a concert by an Italian band, and songs and recitations for Mrs. Gould by the children.  Around 6:00 in the evening they were given parcels of new summer clothes and a potted plant for Easter.  “As they got into the buses they gave three cheers for their hostess,” said the newspaper.

If Katherine Gould was lenient in letting destitute immigrant children run rampant through her house, she was less indulgent with her staff.   In November 1901 Eric Hamilton, an English butler, was hired by Katherine and given the rules of the household—including one that “he was not to remain out later than 10 o’clock on his night out, except by special permission.”  The very next day was his first night out and he did not return to his room in the mansion until 2:00 in the morning.

The Sun reported “He went before Mrs. Gould later and begged for another chance.  He got it.”

That same day, a Friday, the household was preparing to leave for the Gould country estate, Castlegould, in Port Washington for Thanksgiving.  Hamilton was instructed to go to a drug store to fill a prescription for one of the female servants.  “He was asked to hurry back…and that he had just about time to get back to go to the train with the rest of the servants.  He went, but he did not return.  The rest went to Port Washington.”

When he finally reappeared on Saturday morning, he was informed that the household had gone.  The caretaker of the Fifth Avenue house telephoned ahead warning the staff at Port Washington that the butler was on his way.  “Hamilton walked up to the front door and was hurled out upon the lawn by two men who had for two short days been his official inferiors.”

The butler hid in the shrubbery until nightfall, then pushed his way into the kitchen, demanding to be fed.  While he ate “cold baked meats” a servant rushed to inform Katherine Gould.

Katherine demanded that he leave, informing Hamilton that he was no longer employed by her.  He refused.  “The cook and the scullery man organized an ejection posse and had got Hamilton as far as the door, with some sacrifice of furniture and crockery,” reported The Sun, “when Mrs. Gould succeeded in making herself heard above the din.  She said she wanted a policeman called.”

When Hamilton appeared before the judge days later, Katherine was there.  “Mrs. Gould was present in a Gainsborough hat with flamingo plumes and a long sable robe.”  Although her lawyer wanted to charge him with larceny for the $10 he was given to go to the drug store, Katherine “said that she thought he had troubles enough.”  He was held at $400 bonds for disturbing the peace, trespassing, intoxication and disorderly conduct.

Not long after the Goulds left the house at No. 824 Fifth Avenue they separated.  Howard later filed for divorce on the grounds that Katherine was unfaithful.

The mansion became home to Henry W. Lowe, his wife and two daughters.    With wealthy New Yorkers doing all they could for the war effort, Mrs. Lowe was somewhat embarrassed when she was informed in December 1918 that her butler had refused Red Cross volunteers access to the mansion.    “Red Cross workers were unable to persuade her butler that it would be proper to summon the servants to be interviewed for the Red Cross.  So they appealed to Mrs. Lowe, who had the servants enrolled,” reported The Sun on December 20.

The most publicized entertainments in the Lowe household revolved mainly around the young girls.   1920 was the year that daughter Dorothy was introduced to society and on February 20 the house was the scene of “a large dinner” prior to a dance in the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton.    Four years later, on New Year’s Day, she gave a dance for her “sub-debutante daughter, Miss Muriel Lowe.”

Muriel was still a young teen and The Times reported that “Mrs. Henry W. Lowe gave a dance for school girls and boys at her home, 824 Fifth Avenue, her school girl daughter, Miss Muriel Lowe, being the guest of honor.”

Muriel’s introduction to society came the following year.  Her debutante dance in the mansion on January 1, 1925 would be one of the last grand affairs.   Even before the advent of the Great Depression, the great single family homes of a generation earlier were seen a hulking, expensive white elephants.  Modern Art Deco apartment buildings began replacing the old mansions.  Many of Manhattan’s millionaires preferred the convenience apartment living to supporting a full staff and dealing with the constant maintenance of the aging structures.

The house was razed in 1927.  On December 1, 1929, in an article entitled “Fifth Avenue’s Private Home Row Giving Way to More Apartments,” The New York Times mentioned “A twenty-three-story and basement apartment hotel was recently finished on a plot 70.5 by 200 at 824 Fifth Avenue.”  After standing just over three decades, the elegant home of the Kernochans, Goulds and Lowes was gone.