The 1929 Tammany Hall -- No. 100 East 17th Street

photo by Alice Lum

At the end of the 19^th century, Tammany Hall was nothing like the benevolent organization organized in Philadelphia in the 18^thcentury.  By the time a New York branch was formed The Society of St. Tammany, or Columbia Order, had spread throughout New England.

It was not until the presidential campaign of 1800 that Tammany involved itself in politics, actively supporting the Jefferson-Burr ticket.  A year later the first New York Tammany Hall was erected, on Frankfort and Nassau Streets.  It was replaced when the organization moved northward and opened the new Hall on July 4, 1868 on 14^th Street.

By the turn of the century Tammany Hall was hugely powerful and often corrupt.  It was in total control of the Democratic Party in New York County and often raised the wrath of reformers and religious leaders alike.

In the 1920s Governor Al Smith joined in an attempt to reform Tammany Hall.  Nightlife-loving Mayor Jimmy Walker’s open defiance of Prohibition offended the governor.  The battle between the two politicians shook the foundations of Tammany.  According to Mary M. Stolberg in her Fighting Organized Crime,  “By 1929 the split between Smith and Walker had further weakened Tammany Hall.”

One of Walker’s counte rmoves was to abandon the old Tammany Hall—a symbol of graft and corruption.  Three blocks to the north, opposite the northeast corner of Union Square, sat the Westmoreland Apartments, constructed as a hotel in 1877.  The old structure was razed in 1928 to make way for a new patriotic-themed hall Tammany Hall.

Wide World Photos published a view of the anticipated structure in August 1928 entitled "The New Home of the Society of Tammany" (copyright expired)

Architects Thompson, Holmes & Converse in conjunction with Charles B. Meyers reached back to the organization’s early Federalist roots.  The Union Square elevation was meant to invoke the original Federal Hall where George Washington had taken the Oath of Office.  Typical neo-Georgian and neo-Federal elements distinguished the design and reflected Colonial America.  The bricks were custom-made in Virginia and a 1929 advertisement by the Old Virginia Brick Company in Salem, Virginia, stressed the patriotic theme:

“How fitting, therefore, that in this building should be used bricks made in the Virginia Jefferson so proudly served.  Likewise in the same size, and made in the same kind of cherry and maple moulds as those of his beloved Monticello, 30 years in its building, and where Jefferson lived for a full half century.”

High on the 17th Street side a carved plaque sits against the custom-made Flemish bond brickwork -- photo by Alice Lum

Not everything would look back to the Jefferson period.  Inside, the black marble floor, the wrought iron railings and curved staircase were rescued from the old 14^thStreet Hall.  The interiors were furnished with reproduction Empire period furniture, white enameled paneling and mahogany woodwork.

The official opening of the new building, which cost $350,000, was held on July 4, 1929.  Interestingly, the now-Governor Franklin Delano Roosevelt shared the spotlight as chief speaker with Alfred E. Smith.  Both Roosevelt and Smith were Democrats; but both shared their ardent disdain of Tammany Hall. 

In 1929 Manufacturers Trust Company took space at street level.  Note the clever adaptation of fan lights into the square openings.  photo from the collection of the New York Public Library

The year following the new building’s completion Governor Roosevelt instigated an investigation into the scandals and alleged corruption.  The heretofore highly popular Mayor Walker was forced to resign in dishonor and Samuel Seabury, who headed the magistrates’ courts, suddenly resigned due to “ill-health.”

Things only got worse for Tammany Hall when Roosevelt became President in 1932.  And in 1933 the new mayor, Fiorello LaGuardia, joined forces with the President to take apart the Tammany organization. 

In 1939 the Federal Writers’ Project’s New York City Guide remarked “When the organization wins at the polls, club leaders and district workers swarm to the Hall for a rousing election night celebration, but such joyful gatherings have been infrequent in recent years.”

A terra cotta medallion depicts a "Liberty Cap."  -- photo by Alice Lum

By 1943 the diluted organization could no longer afford to pay the mortgage on Tammany Hall.  That summer it sold the building to Local 91 of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union.  The Union made interior alterations to accommodate its needs.  Offices were built out and the auditorium stage was enlarged.  It was officially opened with a concert and dedication ceremony on December 18, 1943.  Ironically both Jimmy Walker and Fiorello LaGuardia were there.  Sharing space did not mean that the pair had reconciled, however.

LaGuardia told reporters “This building was built under the Walker Administration and put out of business—or on the bum—by the LaGuardia Administration.”  He added “You know, I wouldn’t change the name of the building…I would keep it as a permanent monument to the change that came for the City of New York when a mighty, ruthless organization lost the building to an organization of the people.”

In 1947 Local 91 dedicated the 1000-seat auditorium to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, renaming it the Roosevelt Auditorium.  For years its use was offered to other unions and organizations for meetings and rallies.  On March 16, 1983 cabdrivers voted on a strike here; on December 30, 1981 cemetery workers authorized their strike against 70 cemeteries; and on October 29, 1964 firemen turned down the $900 pay increase which had been accepted by the NYPD.  That same month 250 delegates of the Teamsters Union ignored the pressure from Jimmy Hoffa and voted to endorse John F. Kennedy for President.

By 1962 the auditorium was also being used by the “Roosevelt Yiddish Theater.”  Here Max Perlman produced plays like Don’t Worry, Brother, and A Honeymoon in Israel. 

In 1984 the Roudabout Theater signed a long-term lease for the auditorium with the International Ladies Garment Workers Union.  The theater group was at the time at No. 333 West 23^rd Street.  It commissioned architect Robert Asscione to refurbish the interior structure.

“The auditorium will be renovated for the Roundabout company into a 499-seat facility with no seat more than 40 feet from the stage,” reported William G. Blair of The New York Times on July 1, 1984.

The $850,000 in renovations were completed  early in 1985 and the opening was held on February 1.  In attendance were E. G. Marshall, Jim Dale, Kate Burton and Tovah Feldshuh among others.  On February 13 the first production was staged, Playboy of the Western World.  Over the near few years significant performances and productions included A Man for All Seasons starting Philip Bosco and Charles Keating; Dorothy Laudon in The Matchmaker; Room Service, directed by Alan Arkin and starring Mark Hamill, and a revival of Raisin in the Sun which was aired by PBS in 1986.

Following the Roundabout, the auditorium was leased somewhat briefly to Raymond L. Gaspard.  His Union Square Theater staged eight productions.  Then in 1994 the New York Film Academy leased space here.  The film and acting school had been founded two years earlier by producer Jerry Sherlock.   Its graduates have included comedians Damon Wayans and Damon Wayans, Jr.; actress and figure skater Sasha Cohen; and “Glee” actor Chord Overstreet.

 

Above the entrance "The Society of Tammany" is carved into the stonework.  photo by Alice Lum

In 2001, after nearly 60 years of ownership, Local 91 sold the building to Liberty Theatres, Inc.  In 2013 it was designated a New York City Landmark.  Although retail spaces have been carved out of the rusticated limestone base, above street level the handsome Federal design survives.  It is the last relic of a political organization that tried hard, and unsuccessfully, to disguise its gang-like activities behind a patriotic veil.

The 1883 St. George Residence -- Nos. 223-225 East 17th Street

photo by Nicolas Lemery Nantel / salokin.com

In 1882 the notion of high-toned families living in an apartment building rather than private homes was still too radical for most society people to handle.  It was Caroline Astor who reportedly once scoffed at those who “live on shelves.”

Developers who took the risk in erecting upscale apartment houses not only laid out the floorplans to resemble private homes; with costly mantels, floorings and woodwork; they did careful marketing.  Because apartments were associated with the dingy tenement buildings crowded with impoverished immigrants, innovative terms like “French flats” made the distinction. 

Thomas Osborne purchased and demolished two residences at Nos. 223 and 225 East 17^th Street for his project.  His risk was lessened by the location, in the fashionable Stuyvesant Square neighborhood.  Sitting at the edge of the square was St. George’s Episcopal Church where J. P. Morgan was senior warden.  Osborne would piggy-back on the church’s high-end reputation, calling his proposed building the St. George Residences.

The widely-talented Osborne not only served as developer, builder, and architect; he owned the stoneworks company that would supply the material for the decorative elements.  On November 11, 1882 The Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide announced “Thomas Osborne will soon commence the erection of an eight-story and basement apartment house…The front will be of English red stone elaborately carved and trimmed, while the interior will be fitted with the latest modern conveniences.”  Osborne projected that the cost, including the lots, would be “at least $165,000.”

Plans were officially submitted with the Inspector of Buildings on December 20, 1882 and construction began soon afterward.  By now the estimated cost had risen to $195,000—over $4 million today.  Ten months later the handsome structure was completed.  Osborne treated it almost as two buildings.  On either side of the central hall with its passenger elevator was one spacious apartment.  To the rear of the building, where it rose to eight stories as opposed to the seven floors at the front, were two freight elevators (called at the time “dumbwaiters”)—one for each side. 

The New York Times described the “handsome structure” as “of blue stone, with Nova Scotia stone trimmings and terra cotta ornamental panels” and made special note of the “pair of polished marble columns” that ornamented the front entrance.  Osborne’s French Renaissance design was encrusted with carved panels of flowers, faces, animals and shells and the modified Corinthian capitals of the entrance columns featured an unexpected coexistence of beasts and cherubs.

Close inspection reveals cherubs, winged beasts, and tridents -- photo by Nicolas Lemery Nantel / salokin.com

According to The Times, residents would enjoy steam heat throughout and was “furnished with electric bells, speaking-tubes, &c.”  There were eight rooms to each apartment and rents ranged from $1,300 to $1,800 a year; about $3,300 per month today.

At other floors the elaborate carving was less fanciful.  Here floral forms and shells embellish the facade -- photo by Nicolas Lemery Nantel / salokin.com

Thomas Osborne quickly turned over his nearly-completed St. George.  On October 6, 1883, barely before the paint was dry, he sold the building to real estate investor and wealthy clothing merchant William R. Martin for $200,000.  Before the end of the month Martin had resold it for $215,000 to John G. Taylor.

The new, luxurious apartments were marketed to moneyed families with a focus not just on the high-end amenities; but on its fire-proof qualities.  Fire was among the greatest fears of the period and Taylor touted the St. George as “absolutely fire-proof.”  The claim would be put to the test before very long.

By the spring of 1884 the entire building had been rented, except for the west apartment on the third floor.  The tenant list was varied with one common denominator—money.  On the first floor were Dr. J. R. Hobbie of the Health Department in the east apartment, and Dr. M. G. Raefle, former Deputy Coroner in the west.  S. H. Gray of Hecker Brothers, flour millers, was in the second floor east flat; and William M. McPherson was in the western apartment.  He was a salesman with H. B. Claflin & Co.

On the third floor was the organist of the Church of the Holy Trinity, A. R. Parsons.  Above him lived Edward Sandford, a laywer and son-in-law of former Governor John T. Hoffman.  He shared the fourth floor with Kate Forsythe, an actress.  Walton Burgess lived in the eastern apartment on the fifth floor and across the hall was United States Commissioner Timothy Griffiths.  Griffiths had been secretary to former Senator Roscoe Conkling.

On the top two floors lived Cornelius Dubois, an insurance man; H. W. Humphrey; John L. Lockwood, who dealt in mineral waters; and W. J. Simonton whose father had been an agent for the Associated Press.  The New York Times remarked on April 8, 1884 that “The occupants of the house are all well-to-do people” and that they filled their apartments “with costly furniture, valuable paintings, and drawings, and bric-a-brac.”  But they slept securely, with the knowledge that their new home was “absolutely fire-proof.”

The building’s maintenance man, Frederick Kimmelberg was not so sure.  He had noticed that the steam pipes which ran from the boiler in the basement to the top floor were not fully insulated.  According to him, they “were only encased in packing in the basement, and that all the way from the first floor they rested right against the plaster and flooring without any covering whatever.”

One cold night in January 1884, just a few months after the building opened, a nervous John L. Lockwood called Kimmelberg to his 7^thfloor apartment.  According to Kimmelberg the walls had become so hot that “In one place the lathing had begun to smolder.”  He rushed to the basement and turned off the steam, preventing any further damage or fire.

Three months later, on April 7, the building’s luck would run out.  Around 11:00 that morning the elevator boy, Louis Castaigan, took a potential tenant to the empty third floor suite.  As he returned to the elevator he noticed smoke wafting up the shaft.  He joked to the visitor that “the house must be on fire.”  But as the elevator descended, the smoke became denser with each floor.

The boy notified Kimmelberg and rushed onto the street to the nearest fire box at 17^th Street and 2^nd Avenue, then ran back.  Residents of the lower floors were already rushing out “although they were compelled to make their exit without putting on their outer clothing or wraps,” said The New York Times the following day.

Castaigan, worried that Mrs. Lockwood and her invalid son, Louis, and Jennie Wilson, a servant, were still on the seventh floor, took the elevator back up.  As it turned out, they had already made a dramatic escape.  “Adjoining the building on the east side is the mission house and school of the Protestant Sisterhood of St. John the Baptist, the roof of which is several stories lower than the flat-house,” reported The Times.  “The sisters ascended to the roof of their house.  They saw Mrs. Lockwood with her son, 9 years old, whom she had snatched from his bed, and her servant at one of the side windows.  The fire and smoke had full possession of the rear of their apartment, cutting them off from the fire-escape in the rear of the building.”

The sisters “bestirred themselves to procure help.”  They had their janitor bring a ladder to the roof and Mrs. Lockwood, the boy and the servant were able to climb down with the assistance of a fireman and policeman.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Timothy Griffiths, wife of the US Commissioner, had been entertaining a guest in her parlor.  When she heard the commotion and opened her door to the hallway, a thick cloud of smoke billowed in.  She and her friend were able to clamber down the fire escape into the back yard.  The ladies who were one-by-one assembling in the yard were helped over the fence when neighbors dropped a ladder over it.

The women in the other apartments, some quite elderly, were rescued by the fire fighters.  But the elevator boy, Louis Castaigan, who had gone to the top floor to rescue Mrs. Lockwood, was now trapped.  He tried to find an escape route through both apartments, but the thick smoke pushed him back.  “He retreated into the library of Mr. Lockwood’s apartments, shut the door behind him, and, thrusting his head out of the open window, called for help.  Smoke was belching forth from the windows on each side of him,” recounted The Times.

The crowd on the street below hollered at him to be calm.  The seven story St. George was too high for the fire department’s extension ladders so the new “scaling ladders” were brought out.  “It was the first opportunity of putting the life-saving ladders to a practical test,” said the newspaper.  The ingenious scaling ladder was hooked to the window sill of the second story.  Fireman John Binns climbed up, drew the ladder up behind him, then hooked it to the third floor.  The process was repeated until Binns reached Castaigan at the top floor. 

“Seeing help so near, Louis stepped out of the window and sat down on the sill.  When the top of the scaling ladder was within his reach he leaned over, caught it with one hand, and fastened it securely on the window-frame.  Binns then ascended, and, throwing one arm over the shoulders of the youth, spoke a few encouraging words.  Then he descended the scaling ladder with him and down the extension ladder to the ground.”

The crowd of spectators on the ground broke out into applause “and cheered lustily.”

Kimmelberg was found in the basement, nearly unconscious where he had been fighting the fire with a hose until the water gave out.  He was dragged out by fireman and taken to Bellevue Hospital.

When the blaze was finally extinguished, the St. George was a ruin.  The residents’ fine furniture, silver and artwork were gone.  “What was not destroyed by fire is ruined by water,” said The Times.  The newspaper was scathing in its criticism.

“The St. George, a pretentious apartment house at Nos. 223 and 225 East Seventeenth-street, which had been vaunted by the owner and agent as absolutely fire-proof, was nearly destroyed by fire yesterday morning…Those members of the families who were in when the fire broke out were in extreme peril, but all succeeded in making their escape.”

The foolish failure to insulate the steam pipes resulted in only the 17^th Street façade and parts of the side walls still remaining.  “It will cost $100,000 to rebuild it and place it in as good a condition as before the fire,” said The Times.  Tenants had lost a total of $61,000 worth of goods—about $1.5 million today.

Within the week the humor and satire magazine, Life, caustically lampooned the “fire-proof” claims of the building’s owner.  On April 17 it wrote “There seems to have been something envious about the burning of the St. George Flats.  They were strictly fire-proof, being built after the approved principles upon which ninety-five percent of the other fireproof apartment houses in this city are constructed.  In these the walls are at least four inches thick and made of celluloid rendered incombustible by being dipped in kerosene; the partitions are of the most indestructible variety of tinder and matchwood, sheathed in punk and lined with shavings, asphalt, guncotton, nitro glycerine and turpentine; the chimneys are made of the most obstinate variety of pitch-pine well saturated with saltpeter, and to make the thing still better protected, a safety fuse radiates from the office to each rooms, so that in case of fire no one apartment can get in its fine work ahead of another.”

The magazine went on, criticizing the builders and the agents through sarcasm.  The article ended “Considering all these precautions are taken, it is somewhat surprising to hear that the St. George Flats not only burned up effectively and burned down with promptness, but that its meager populace barely escaped with its lives in broad daylight.  The populace, by the way, lost everything but its several salvations; but with those intact, it is to be supposed it is ready to remove into another fire-proof flat.”

The St. George was rebuilt with its fine façade intact.  Among the new tenants were General Charles H. Tompkins, President of the Diamond Rock Boring Company, and the elderly General Thomas Ewing.  Ewing had had an illustrious career.  The son of Ohio Senator Thomas Ewing who was Secretary of the Treasury under William Henry Harrison and Secretary of the Interior under President Tyler; the general had been active in admitting Kansas into the Union.  In 1861 he became the Chief Justice of that state.  His sister married his law partner, General William Tecumseh Sherman.

After Ewing served valiantly in the Civil War, he opened his law practice in New York City.  While living in the St. George in January 1896 the 67-year old was struck by a cable car nearby at Third Avenue and East 18^th Street.  Hurled nearly halfway across the street, he struck his head on the pavement.  Ewing was brought to his apartment but never regained consciousness.  Around 10:30 on the morning of January 21, he “died without recognizing the members of his family who were about him.”

Also in the building about that time was attorney Winslow E. Buzby.  A member of the Automobile Club, he drove “a handsome Victoria-phaeton which is driven by electricity,” as described by The New York Times on October 28, 1899.  Buzby was annoyed by the city’s prohibition of motorcars in Central Park; a law sparked by the fear that horses would be spooked and cause damage or injury to their owners or vehicles.

Buzby argued that cars were allowed in Prospect Park and Riverside Park, not to mention the Bois de Boulogne in Paris.  Comparing horses in Brooklyn with those in Manhattan he said “Besides, are horses in Manhattan more susceptible of taking fright than those in Brooklyn?  And, anyhow, a horse that is so wild that it will bolt at sight of an automobile ought not to be allowed on a public road.  It would just as easily be scared, and with equal danger to the public, by the sight of a piece of paper blown along by the wind or at a child’s sudden yell.”

Park Commissioners remained steadfast.  So to publicize his protest, Winslow Buzby audaciously drove his electric pleasure car into Central Park on October 27, 1899.  When a policeman tried to stop him, he continued on before being arrested for disorderly conduct and resisting the police.  He paid his $300 and left, explaining his case in length to reporters outside the station house.

In 1900 84-year old Celia Frances Dana lived here.  For four decades she was well known as a teacher of elocution and music and as a public reader.  Also in the building were sisters Anna H. Wilde and Ella P. Bigelow.  In November that year they had the unpleasant task of requesting a examination into the sanity of their brother, 35-year old John Wilde.

Wealthy like his sisters, Wilde had gone to China in 1893 as a missionary.  “While abroad he showed signs of insanity, and was sent home by an American consul,” reported the New-York Tribune.  He was institutionalized at the Rivercrest Sanitarium on Long Island where “he believed he was hypnotized and that his food contained poison.”  Wilde escape and eventually turned up in New York City.  The Tribune reported “It is said that he spends his time in studying the Chinese language.  His sanity will be determined by a sheriff’s jury.”

Among the more well-known residents at the time was Margaret Bottome.  A writer and author, she was also president of the International Order of the King’s Daughters and Sons.  She had written Crumbs from the King’s Table; A Sunshine Trip to the Orient; Death and Life; Seven Questions After Easter; and was on the editorial staff of The Ladies Home Journal.

Simultaneously society bandleader John M. Lander had an apartment in the building.  He died here on October 9, 1905.  “He was 65 years old,” said The New York Times, “and was perhaps known to more men and women of social prominence in and about New York than any other musical director since the days of Helmsmueller.”

Lander was a close friend of Ward McAllister and played the music at McAllister’s funeral.  “He supplied the music at the balls and parties of many of the members of the older families, including the Astors, Sloanes, and Vanderbilts.”

John Lander’s family continued on in the apartment.  Six years later his daughter Adelaide would bring attention to the St. George.  Archibald N. Campbell was infatuated with Adelaide and wrote her no fewer than 20 endearing letters.  Sadly for Campbell, Adelaide Lander’s feelings for him cooled.  With no happy ending in sight, Campbell wanted his love letters back.

On Wednesday October 4, 1911 the would-be suitor came to Adelaide’s flat and refused to leave.  She called for the police to have him “put out of the house,” said a newspaper.  “The policeman persuaded the man to leave.”

Adelaide quickly packed a bag and headed to her mother’s home in New London, Connecticut.  On the way out she handed Lottie Guyer, the janitress, a satchel to give to Campbell should he return.  Campbell indeed did come back, trying to gain entrance to the apartment through the dumbwaiter.  When that did not work, he went up the servants’ stairway and kicked in a door panel.

The police returned to the St. George to find Campbell still inside Adelaide Lander’s apartment.  Detective Taczkosi took 20 letters from his prisoner.  “The detective would not reveal the contents of the letters, but said all were of an endearing nature,” reported The New York Times.

A long-time resident in 1937 was Philip F. Donohue.  Since the turn of the century he had been a prominent figure within Tammany Hall.  In 1922 he had been appointed by Mayor John Francis Hylan as Commissioner of the Board of Water Supply, earning $12,000 a year—a considerable $156,000 today.  When the well-connected Donohue reached the mandatory retirement age of 74 in 1932, Mayor Jimmy Walker gave him an exemption from the rules.

Philip F. Donuhue died in his apartment in the St. George at the age of 79 on August 16, 1937.  Two days later Tammany Hall paid tribute by sending an official committee to the apartment and accompanying the body past Tammany Hall to St. Anne’s Roman Catholic Church on 12^th Street near Fourth Avenue.

Within the decade the neighborhood had declined from the fashionable residential area of the 1880s through the early 20^thcentury.  In 1947 the St. George was converted to a Single Room Occupancy hotel.  Where there were once only two sprawling apartments per floor, there were now 22 furnished rooms.  In 1951 stores were installed at the lower level.

Little-noticed from the street, the incredible volume of carving includes fantastic beasts, imaginary beings, and a water-spouting head -- photo by Nicolas Lemery Nantel / salokin.com

The St. George enjoyed its moment of cinematic fame when it appeared in Woody Allen’s 1993 film Manhattan Murder Mystery.  Today the former St. George Residence is the 17 Hotel.  Other than replacement windows and a few minor alterations, the exterior of Thomas Osborne’s French Renaissance-inspired experiment in housing is little changed.

The Francis Huber House -- No. 209 East 17th Street

When developer Robert Voorhies began construction of the upscale rowhouse at No. 209 East 17^th Street in 1850, he intended that it would stand out from its neighbors—literally.  Completed in 1851, the brick-faced house featured a full-length rounded bay that bulged out from the linear plane created by the flat-faced homes on the block.  But the individual personality of the home would go much farther.

The designer picked and chose among architectural styles; combining unrelated elements with a charming result.  Behind the Italianate cast iron fence and gate the brownstone stoop rose to the entrance.  Here an arched opening more expected in an Italianate home of the period was supported on two simple pilasters similar to those of the Greek Revival doorways along the block.  The windows, too, were surmounted by arched brownstone eyebrows; yet these terminated in more Gothic-inspired ornaments.  The fantastic double-corbelled cornice frieze was echoed in the carved corbels that acted as sills to the windows below—a touch of early Romanesque Revival flavored with Gothic.

Voorhies sold the completed home in 1852 to merchant William H. Smith. 

Before long rumbles of tension between the South and the North worsened, and in January 1861 the South seceded from the Union.  On July 11, 1863 the nation’s first attempt at a military draft played out in New York with a lottery.  When the 1,200 chosen names were published, it was obvious that only the city’s poor and immigrant population was included—the wealthy had bought exemptions or used their political power to circumvent the draft.  The result was the Draft Riots—a three-day reign of terror and carnage unlike anything seen in the country before.

Innocent people were murdered; and draft offices, newspaper buildings, and the homes and neighborhoods of the city’s black population were burned.  In response the terrified owners of No. 209 had handsome iron grills designed and installed on the basement, parlor floor, and entrance door windows as protection.

The intricate iron grills on the entrance doors and lower windows were in direct response to the terrifying Draft Riots.

The immense scope of Smith’s business was reflected in the several thousand pounds of tea that arrived in port for him around 9:00 p.m. on April 29, 1864.  On the very day that the ship docked, Congressed passed a joint resolution that increased the duty rate on all imports.  The increase in duty on tea would go into effect on July 1.

Smith arrived at the Collector’s office the next day at 2:00 in the afternoon, fully prepared to pay the duty that he had paid for the past four years.  According to court papers later, he was “prepared with the entry, invoice and bill of lading, and with gold sufficient to pay the duties applied to be allowed to enter them for consumption upon payment of a duty of 20 cents per pound.”

The Collector, Hiram Barney, refused the entry unless Smith “would consent to pay a duty of 30 cents per pound.”  An offended Smith walked out and withdrew his application on protest.  While the argument simmered, the tea was placed in a Government warehouse.  There it stayed until the new duty rate legally went into effect.  Now Smith was forced to pay the 30 cents per pound.

By the time William H. Smith got his day in court, on July 2, 1865, Hiram Barney had been replaced by Simeon Draper as Collector.  Smith sued Draper for $9,000 in overcharged duty—about $125,000 today.  At 30 cents per pound, it was a lot of tea.  Sadly for Smith, he lost the case.

The house would change hands twice within the next few years.  The family of Peter Way lived here in 1866; and the Platt Rogers family was in the house at least from 1869 until 1890.

But after Dr. Francis Huber purchased the residence in 1890 for $23,000, the family would be here for a century.  A pediatrician and general practitioner, Huber graduated from the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Columbia University in 1877.  His innovative treatment of croup by the use of a tube was credited with saving “the lives of hundreds of children,” The New York Times would later say.

Dr. Huber and his wife, Ella May, had no children.  She was the daughter of the well-known New York ship-builder Peter Clark.  At just 41 years old Ella was struck with heart failure, dying in the house on Saturday, October 30, 1897.  Her funeral was held in the house two nights later.

Francis Huber would not be alone in the house for long.  He remarried and there would be three sons and a daughter, Olive, who was born in Francis and Viola Huber’s bedroom in 1905.

Also in the house was Huber’s father.  Joseph Huber was a retired bookbinder and an original member of the New York Turn Verein (which was founded in 1850; the same year that construction on the 17^th Street house was begun).  The organization was formed by 36 immigrants, almost all of whom had been active in the German revolution of 1848.  Only German was allowed to be spoken in the club.  In January 1906 the 86-year old died in the house.  His funeral was held in his beloved New York Turn Verein.

Perhaps none of Dr. Francis Huber’s treatments would be tenser, or more rewarding, than the operation he performed on young Jacob Miller of No. 40 Essex Street.  Somehow the boy had ingested a nail.  He did not tell his parents despite severe coughing attacks, loss of strength and gradual diminishing health.  After a period of five weeks, his parents took him to several doctors who were puzzled.  Finally an X-ray was taken and the nail was discovered embedded in his right lung.

Huber did the operation with the aid of a fluoroscope.  He made an incision in the windpipe, then “guided by the shadows which X-rays cause when brought in contact with opaque bodies, a delicate, long forceps was introduced into the windpipe and the smaller air tubes.  The shadow of the forceps, marked on the fluoroscope, touched the shadow of the nail, and inside of thirty seconds the impediment was removed through the windpipe,” explained the New-York Tribune on February 28, 1910. 

Jacob Miller came out of the operation in excellent shape and was discharged from the hospital within days.

While Huber’s sons were following in his medical footsteps; Olive’s name was in the newspapers for her athleticism.  A student at Hunter College in the early 1920s, she was somewhat of a track star.  On May 16, 1925 The New York Times noted that the Junior Class “scored a total of 40 points to take the point trophy, while Miss Olive Huber scored 13 points to take the individual trophy.”

As it turned out, Olive, too, would have “Dr.” before her name.  She would go on to teach physiology at her Alma Mater; eventually becoming the chair of the department of physiology and health at Hunter College for four decades.  Two of her three brothers, Frank and Henry, would become doctors.  Joseph Huber would eventually move to St. Louis.

In the meantime, in 1933 the elderly Dr. Francis Huber’s health began declining.  A year later, on December 26, he suffered a fatal heart attack in the house.  Huber was 80 years old.

For six decades the unmarried Olive Huber would remain in the family house.  Unafraid to express her opinion on things, when the city was hit with a severe water shortage in 1985 she sided with Mayor Koch’s decision to turn off public fountains.  The fountains of nearby Stuyvesant Square had just been restored and a test of the plumbing was done on April 29.  Twenty-foot sprays blew into the spring air; then the fountains were shut down again.  Some neighbors grumbled, but Olive was pragmatic.

“No complaints,” she told Susan Heller Anderson of The New York Times, “They worked, that’s the important thing.  This is no time, in a water shortage, to turn them back on for good.”

Four years later at a party at the New-York Historical Society she told a reporter that she had “helped friends move and it was so much trouble I decided I’d never do that.”  And so she remained in the East 17^th Street house filled with 100 years of family memories.  She mentioned to Ron Alexander of The New York Times that “among her fondest memories are of horse-drawn trolley cars.”

The Huber family’s long history in the house came to an end when Olive died on May 14, 1993.  It was purchased by a widower who lived among Olive’s things with his live-in housekeeper and cook, according to Stacy Horn in her 2001 book Waiting for My Cats to Die: A Morbid Memoir.  “The family took a few of her things but left the rest.”

Astonishingly, the Huber family furniture, china, and artwork remained in the house.  Because there had been no change in ownership, the etched glass in the doors, the ceiling plasterwork and the period mantels all survived intact—a sort of private house museum.

The astoundingly unaltered 1851 house sits quietly behind its cast iron gate a rare and wonderful time capsule.

photographs taken by the author