The Church of the Covenant -- 310 E. 42d Street

photo by Alice Lum

When the six-year old Presbyterian Church of the Covenant began plans for a “country chapel” and parish house in 1871 it did not have far to look for an architect.  Josiah Cleaveland Cady had formed the architectural partnership of Cady, Berg & See the previous year.  He was also among a group of church members who had earlier established a mission Sunday school above a stable on East 40^th Street.

The original church, on Fourth Avenue, was designed by Renwick -- photo NYPL Collection

Now the church had decided to establish the Sunday school along with a chapel and parish house seven blocks north at No. 310 East 42^ndStreet.   The New York Times later reported “The church grew so rapidly and extended its mission work over such an area that it was found necessary to erect a mission chapel.  A plot of ground was purchased on East Forty-second Street, near Second Avenue, and here was built what has since been called the Covenant Chapel.”

Cady designed a charming Victorian Gothic structure of brown-red brick trimmed in limestone.  Quaint gables, diamond-paned windows and a slate tiled roof melded into a picturesque structure in the still-developing neighborhood.

photo by Alice Lum

The northward growth of the city that instigated the new chapel would, before long, cause the closing of the Church of the Covenant.  On December 17, 1894 The New York Times reported “Being inadequate to the needs of the congregation, the mother church, on Park Avenue, was torn down some time ago, and its congregation will now worship in the chapel, to which has been transferred the title Church of the  Covenant.”  Special services were held the evening before commemorating the original church cornerstone and a memorial tablet to William Curtis Noyes which were installed in the former chapel.

The Victorian Gothic interior included elaborate pierced fretwork -- http://covenantnyc.org/church_life.html

In the summer of 1897 Sunday school teacher Mrs. Ann Jacques initiated a series of ten-day outings in the country for young boys of the congregation.  She took groups of the boys to Nyack, New York, where they could get away from the crowded city and enjoy the fresh air.  The problem was that she failed to notify the boys’ parents.

The mother of Joseph McCormack rushed to the 67^thStreet police station in June saying that a “woman in black” had kidnapped her son.   After some investigation, Detectives Keating and McDonald discovered the woman in black was Ann Jacques. 

The Times explained “She went to the McCormacks and asked Joseph’s 14-year-old sister, Nellie if the boy wouldn’t like to go away.  Nellie let the boy go.  She couldn’t explain the matter to her mother, who reported to the police that the boy had been kidnapped.”  The newspaper added “Half a dozen other east-side boys are said to be likewise ‘missing’ and at Nyack.”

photo by Alice Lum

Sunday services in the Church of the Covenant were normally subdued.  But such was not the case on April 3, 1898.  On that evening services “were rudely interrupted by a sneak thief,” according to The New York Times.

Church member Joseph Miller arrived late and slipped into a rear pew.  He casually tossed his overcoat over the back of the pew and turned his attention to the service.  Earlier the sexton, Benjamin F. Davis, had noticed two young men enter the church.  His suspicions were raised when the men loitered about in the rear, without taking a seat.  Davis watched the men distrustfully.  His caution was warranted.

“As soon as Miller had become interested one of these young men seized his coat and was about to make off with it when Davis grabbed him,” reported The Times.  “There was a lively tussle in the rear of the church, several members going to the assistance of the sexton.”

When Police Officer Widder arrived Davis was still holding 21-year old William Reilly.  Unfortunately, according to the newspaper, “his confederate got away.”

As the years passed, the neighborhood around the Church of the Covenant gradually changed.  Tenements, a power plant and slaughterhouses filled the surrounding blocks.   Then in the 1920s real estate developer Fred F. French changed all that.  He built his quixotic Tudor City on the three square blocks between East 40^th to East 43^rd Streets, from First Avenue to Second.

The first residential high-rise complex in the world, the buildings reflected old English architectural styles—neo Gothic, Tudor revival, and Jacobethan.  Despite their height, the quaint design of the structures created an Old World atmosphere. 

When the Church of the Covenant (by now affiliated with the Brick Presbyterian Church on Fifth Avenue) laid plans for replacing its outdated parish house, it turned to Tudor City for inspiration.  On December 1, 1926 a meeting of congregants was held during which the planned $30,000 parish house was announced.

The Tudor-inspired Parish House melded nicely with the Gothic church -- photo by Alice Lum

The new parish house was completed the following year.  Its Tudor-inspired design with diamond-paned windows, half timbering and creative brickwork was surprisingly harmonious with the Gothic church.

In 1933 Adolph Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and his racist pronouncements raised the ire of Rev. Howard V. Yergin of the Church of the Covenant.  On April 29, 1934 Yergin denounced Hitler from the pulpit.  In what was no doubt a controversial sermon, he also attributed the blame for religious racism to Jews and Christians alike.

“I am, frankly, about as much irritated by certain leaders of the Jewish race in America as I am by Hitler,” he said.  “Both proceed on the same assumption—that the Jews are a race apart, with special attributes, either of good or evil.  I refuse to accept the contention that the Jews are now the chosen people of God, whatever they may have been at one time.  To believe that in the year 1934 any one race is chosen of God is to do violence to every concept I have of a God who is God of all the earth and of every race and individual therein.”

The Christians were not off the hook either.  “If, therefore I call upon every Christian to cease looking upon Jews just as Jews and therefore to eschew Ku Klux Klans and so forth, so also I call upon those of the Jewish race and religion to cease thinking of themselves as a people set apart and thereby entitled to special consideration.”

The following year the Church of the Covenant was the scene of a grisly accident.  Herman R. Voigtlander was a 52-year old hosiery manufacturer who lived in a one-room apartment in the Tudor City Woodstock Tower building.  Around 10:00 on the night of October 14, 1935 church sexton Max Grandel heard a crash and called police.

The responding officers discovered the pajama-clad body of Voigtlander on the roof of the church.  Detectives found that his bed had been slept in and surmised that he lost his balance while opening the casement window, falling to his death on the church roof.  

The lowered street level necessitated a new stone base, staircase and relocated entry -- Historic American Buildings Survey, Library of Congress

In 1950 the city graded 42^nd Street, lowering it several feet.   The change necessitated a granite and limestone base and a flight of steps from the new sidewalk level.  The entry doors were repositioned at the time.

J. Cleaveland Cady’s delightful Church of the Covenant continues as a vigorous presence in the Tudor City neighborhood.  

The Lost 1883 Metropolitan Opera House -- Broadway at 39th Street

At the turn of the century the neighborhood around The Metropolitan Opera House was still fashionable -- photo Library of Congress

At one point in her "The Age of Innocence," Edith Wharton places her socially prominent characters in the Academy of Music.  It was the opera house where New York’s old guard in the 1870s put itself on display.   For wealthy socialites like Wharton’s fictitious Newland Archer or Ellen Olenska being seen at the Academy of Music was as much a social obligation as an evening of entertainment.

Following the Civil War, New Yorkers were desperate to compete with European capitals in terms of taste and cultivation.  Opera was one means of showing that Americans were not backward bumpkins.  The brick structure had a somewhat barn-like appearance that did not dissuade Manhattan’s wealthiest and oldest families from hoarding their boxes and passing them down to family members.  The result was that the newly-made millionaires of the second half of the century were unable to buy boxes.

It was unacceptable to families with names like Morgan, Rockefeller and Vanderbilt.

A group of rich and determined men decided to start its own opera venue—one that would outshine the old Academy.

On April 11, 1880 The New York Tribune published the news that the “Metropolitan Opera House Company, Limited, of New-York” had been incorporated and a meeting held at the office of James A. Roosevelt & Son to open the subscription book.  Twenty-five wealthy financiers and industrialists signed up immediately, among them William K. Vanderbilt, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Robert Goelet and his brother Ogden, Pierrepont Morgan and James Roosevelt.

Roosevelt told reporters that the house would be north of the entertainment district, closer to the mansions of Fifth Avenue.  “It is probable…that a situation will be chosen north of 34^th Street and between Third and Sixth Avenues,” he said.

He added that “The opera house will be constructed as economically as possible, the cost not to exceed $600,000 in any event.  There will be no attempt at external display.”

The first shot in the war between the Academy of Music with its patrician subscribers and the Metropolitan Opera House with its nouveau riche founders had been shot.

When a reporter from The Sun asked George Warren, “Can New York support two opera houses?” he replied smugly, “It will support the better of the two, at all events.”

The Academy attempted to diffuse the situation by accommodating the upstarts.  On the same day that the incorporation of the Metropolitan was announced, Colonel Mapleson told The Sun “Alterations will be made whereby 120 new seats and twenty-six boxes will be added.”

But it was too late.  The minds of the millionaires had been made up.

Two years later the project seemed, to some, doomed never to get off the ground.  The original estimate of $600,000 had grown to $1,050,000 when land values in the desired area were factored in.  Then it was raised to $1,250,000 and by March 15, 1882 the estimate was about $1,525,000.  The New York Tribunereported that “The directors are now in a quandary as to whether it is better to go ahead or stop where they are.”

A vote among the stockholders decided, eight to three, to forge ahead. 

Within a few months ground was broken on Broadway.  The building would stretch from 39^thStreet to 40^th Street.  Prominent architect J. Cleaveland Cady was given the commission, despite his having no experience in theater design..  Decades later the Federal Writers’ Project in its “New York City Guide” would say that this inexperience “seemed to matter little; audiences ever since have paid for his mistakes, as but half the stage can be seen from the side seats of the balcony and family circle.  What did matter at the time, especially to the press and to readers of its society columns, was that the opera house had a ‘Golden Horseshoe’—two tiers of boxes and a row of baignoires—occupied by the seventy original stockholders, among them the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, and the Goulds.”   For their $15,000, the stock holders were entitled to one of these boxes.

Covered carriage entrances at the side streets were reserved for box owners -- photo NYPL Collection

As the opera house rose, Henry E. Abbey secured the lease in December 1882.   The owners were responsible for furnishing scenery, costumes and props for twenty Italian operas.  Abbey had full charge of everything else.  He had already secured prima donna Christine Nilsson—a major coup d’état against the Academy where she was expected to appear.

By May 1883 the exterior of the new house was nearly completed and finishing work was being done inside.  The Tribune remarked on the fire-proof quality of the building.  “In the auditorium there will hardly be anything combustible, except the floor, and above the stage will be the most improved automatic apparatus for the speedy flooding of the stage in case of danger.”

The newspaper referred to the structure as a “great pile of light-colored brick and iron…shaped into architectural forms borrowed from the Italian Renaissance.”  Despite James Roosevelt’s earlier assertion that “There will be no attempt at external display,” the new house would be grand and imposing as compared to the boxy Academy of Music.    “It has been Mr. Cady’s confessed intention to avoid all transient fashions and keep clear of the architectural humors of the day,” said The Tribune.  “He has chosen a style that is approved, and he has striven to subordinate to it all the details of the decoration.”

The building stretched back to 7th Avenue, seen here in 1966, where the rear was decidedly less beautiful -- photo Library of Congress

The Italian Renaissance structure was clad in brick, brownstone and terra cotta.  Its successive rows of arches and balustraded roof line had a decidedly European flavor.

The New York Times was concerned that the auditorium was “on a scale of possibly too great magnitude.”  The newspaper promised that it would “dazzle the eyes” of opera-goers used to “the primitive surroundings” of the Academy of Music.  The scope of the theater would be monumental with 5,780 seats, a stage 92 feet deep and 150 feet wide and the proscenium “the largest in America,” according to Henry Abbey.  The auditorium was five feet longer and three feet wider than La Scala in Milan.

The massive stage opening was redecorated in Beaux Arts ornamentation by Carrere & Hastings in 1901 -- photo Library of Congress

On May 27, 1883 The New York Tribune wrote “The appearance of the auditorium will be light and sunny.  The architectural details are to be in harmony with the style of the exterior, and the prevailing tint will be that of old ivory.  The proscenium is nearly square, and will have the effect of a gigantic picture frame.”

Paintings adorned the arch and the ceiling of the main auditorium, including artist Francis Lathrop’s “The Crowning of Apollo” and “The Chorus” and “The Ballet” by Francis Maynard.    Eight life-sized statues of the Muses decorated the proscenium.

In a forward-thinking move, electrical wiring was run throughout the building “in anticipation of the happy time when the problem of electric lighting shall have been wholly solved,” said The Tribune.  In the meantime thousands of gas jets provided a warm light.

The boxes were designed with removable partitions so they could be combined when necessary.  Here were silk draperies and wall coverings in “rich red and old gold,” custom woven by Cheney’s mills of Connecticut.  The corridors behind the parterre and tiers included dressing rooms for ladies, smoking rooms for the men and small cafes.

The Tribune noted that “Between the corridor and each box will be a neat salon, seven feet by eight, in the furnishing of which each box-holder is to be permitted to exercise his own taste and fancy, and expend his own money.”

Cady designed the mahogany chairs for the boxes, with black rattan backs and seats.  The tiers were connected to covered carriage entrances on 39^th and 40^thStreets so the millionaire patrons would did be jostled by the general public who entered on Broadway.

On October 22, 1883 the new house opened.  It was the largest opera house in the world on opening night and the Horseshoe was populated by a consolidated wealth of more than $500 million.  Christine Nilsson sang the role of Marguerite in Faust as Vianesi conducted.

The same night the Academy of Music opened its season in its newly-redecorated house.  For weeks society was torn between which house to patronize.  The New York Tribune admitted that “Where to go is this year quite as troublesome a question as what to wear.”  The factions remained divided between the old patroon families and the new industrialists and bankers.

The Tribune noted that on opening night “There will be a dazzling show of fair faces and brilliant toilets at both places.”

Colonel Mapleson of the Academy of Music pooh-poohed the new house to the New York World a day before its opening.  “People may go to the new opera-house to see what it is like,” he scoffed, “but gradually the novelty of the place will die away, and then they will go where they can hear good music.”  He played off Christine Nilsson’s desertion saying “Christine is losing youth and beauty and her voice is not what it used to be.  She sings hardly anything but Marguerite, and you know ‘Faust’ cannot be given over four times in the season’ the public won’t have it.  Now, I understand, they intend giving it six times.”

But on opening night, The Metropolitan Opera House won the first battle hands down.

“Seen from the second tier of boxes,” said the World, “the new Opera House with its brilliant assemblage presented a dazzling sight.  No such audience had probably ever been seen in America.  The triple rows of boxes were all filled.  Diamonds flashed, all the way round from one pole of the great horseshoe magnet to the other, and costumes of the richest materials shone in every hue.

“At 8:30 the house was entirely filled.  Balcony and gallery were congested, inasmuch as they were the only places where men and women could stand up

“A buzz went over the great assembly.  It was the drone of conversation and comment.  Lorgnettes were leveled in all directions.  Men were standing up in the parquet making sweeping surveys of the house.  Ladies leaned over from their boxes to note and smile at their neighbors.”

At the end of the evening Mme. Nilsson gave an encore of the “Jewel Song” after which a “huge casket containing a solid gold wreath and two massive gold pins of elaborate and costly workmanship” were passed to her from the orchestra area, according to The World.

The casket was inscribed “To Christine Nilsson, in commemoration of the opening of the Metropolitan Opera House.”

The war between the houses lasted two years.  In 1911 Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians would recall “For two seasons both houses were occupied by rival managers, rival singers, and rival audiences.  The new house prevailed, and the old, from the most aristocratic playhouse in the city, became one of the most humble and democratic.”

In August 1892 the structure that had been so widely touted as “fireproof” was gutted by fire.  The interior was rebuilt and the house reopened in November 1893.    Lifemagazine commented on the renovations.  “The color scheme is far lighter and, in combination with the lavish use of electroliers, serves to make it bright, and at the same time a most becoming background to an audience.”

Elegantly dressed patrons fill the boxes in 1898 -- sketch NYPL Collection

“The audience at the opening performance was as brilliant as the house could hold.  One would think from its appearance that such a thing as ‘hard times’ had never been heard of.  Every seat and every box was occupied.  In dress and jewels this audience could vie with any similar gathering the world over, but, being in America, the element of feminine personal beauty was added to a degree which should make any fair-minded foreigner admit that it excelled any audience ever in an opera house.”

A decade later Carrere & Hastings was hired to renovate the theater.  The architects got rid of the baignoires but retained the two tiers of boxes, now known as the Diamond Horseshoe.  At the height of the Beaux Arts movement, the auditorium was lavished with lush, carved decorations.

A portion of Carrere & Hastings exuberant auditorium decoration -- photo Library of Congress

The list of stellar names to perform at the Met was endless.  In 1904 Enrico Caruso appeared in Aida—the first of sixteen consecutive “Caruso opening nights.”  Nearly twenty years later he would give his last performance.

While appearing in Elisir d’ Amore at the Brooklyn Academy of Music on December 11, 1920 he suffered a hemorrhage of the throat; but insisted on completing the act.   He gave only three more performances at the Metropolitan Opera House, the last being on Christmas Eve 1920.  The following morning doctors were summoned when he began screaming in pain.  He died on August 2 the following year at 48 years of age.

photo Library of Congress

The great Arturo Toscanini was conductor from 1908 until 1915 when he left after major disagreements with the management.  The maestro is largely credited to bringing the house to its highest musical standards.

Although the house was operating with a surplus in 1929 the Great Depression would change all that.  While ticket buyers would stand in line and performances were often standing-room only, generous donations and contributions of stockholders fell off significantly.  The Metropolitan Opera House was in danger of financial ruin.

In 1935 the house was reorganized and the Metropolitan Opera Association was formed.  It sold radio rights for Saturday matinee broadcasts--a move that brought in as much as $90,000 per season.  The Metropolitan Opera House was saved.

Yet there was the matter of location and space.

The neighborhood by now had been swallowed up by the Garment District.  Well-dressed patrons were obligated to visit an area distinctly less refined than it had been in 1883.  A nostalgic public donated $1 million in 1938 to thwart its possible destruction and  "The New York City Guide" in 1939 noted “Efforts to provide a new building for the Metropolitan Opera House are made perennially—indeed, Rockefeller Center is a by-product of this movement.  Yet, the warehouse-like yellow-brick structure that occupies an entire block on the edge of the garment district remains the home of the world’s foremost opera company.”

But by the 1960s the same problems of space and location were even more untenable.   Trailers lined the back of the building where props and costumes were stored in less-than-desirable conditions.  The Metropolitan Opera was the only legitimate theater so far south and its management was lured by the proposed Lincoln Center and its white marble, modern venues.

In 1966, with only a few months left, the Metropolitan Opera was surrounded by business buildings and its ground floor architecture obliterated by pseudo-modern facades -- photo Library of Congress

The Metropolitan Opera Association leased the property to development firm Keystone Associates for fifty years.  The Old Met would come down.

The brand new Landmarks Preservation Commission was not so sure.  In its very first public hearing the Commission put the fate of the Metropolitan Opera House on the table.  But the Met’s management put a gun to its own head, insisting that if it were forced to retain the old structure, the opera company would be doomed.

The Landmarks Preservation Commission , faced with the destruction of a building or a world class opera company, gave in. 

One last effort of reprieve was headed by the heavy-hitters of the American musical community in 1966.  Marian Anderson, Leonard Bernstein, Gian Carlo Menotti and others began a movement to raise $8 million to purchase the property and up to $14 million to renovate it.

The Opera management declined, saying it would receive nearly double the $8 million in rental payments on the land.

 Ten days after the offer was made, Leopold Stokowski conducted the last performance in the hall on April 16, 1966.  It was a tearful, gala farewell.  The maestro turned to the audience and, quite unexpectedly, made a passionate appeal.  “I beg you to help save this magnificent house.”

Although preservationists and music lovers initiated a hard-fought battle, by August 1966 it was apparent that the Old Met was doomed.

In January 1967 the first swing of the wrecking ball smashed into the venerable façade of the Metropolitan Opera House. 

The 1889 Gustavus Adolphus Swedish Lutheran Church -- No. 153 East 22nd Street

photo by Alice Lum

Along with the waves of German and Polish immigrants who were flooding the Lower East Side in the mid-19^th century were the Swedes.   Unlike the former groups, the Swedish immigrants tended to be pioneers, pushing westward in search of prairie land that could be cultivated into prosperous farms.

But for those who remained in Manhattan and established the Swedish community, a native-language church was needed.   In September 1865 the Reverend A. Andreen organized the Gustavus Adolphus Swedish Lutheran Church.   The small group worshiped for a time in St. James’ Evangelical Lutheran Church on 16^th Street before purchasing the Bethesda Baptist Church at Nos. 151 and 153 East 22^nd Street for $17,000 on July 29, 1866.

In the mid-1880s Swedish immigration was at its peak and the once-small congregation continued to grow.  In 1887, with membership at around 800 and attendance topping 1,500 at some services, a new church structure was planned. 

The 22^nd Street building was razed in May of that year and architects J. C. Cady & Co. were commissioned to design the new structure.  J. Cleaveland Cady had recently distinguished himself by designing the Metropolitan Opera House and the hulking Romanesque-revival wing of the American Museum of Natural History.  For the new church, Cady would again turn to Romanesque-revival; but his design would have a decidedly Gothic touch.

Cady clad the entire structure in rough-cut stone -- photo by Alice Lum

Five hundred people attended the laying of the cornerstone on December 11.  Within the cornerstone were placed a copy of Nordsijernan (the city’s Swedish language newspaper), The New York Times, and other newspapers from around the country.  Swedish and American coins were included as well.

On the left side of the cornerstone was the founding date, 1865, on the left a reference to 1st Peter 2:6 (See, I lay a stone in Zion, a chosen and precious cornerstone, and the one who trusts in him will never be put to shame)-- photo by Alice Lum

The New York Times promised that “The new building will be a handsome structure” costing around $60,000.    Dedicted two years later on May 12, 1889, it was just that.

Called a “solid-looking structure of gray stone” by The Times, it was clad in rough-cut Amherst Ohio stone.  The entrance doors sat within a dramatic and deep arched portico over which the rose window was centered.  It was the copper-clad steeple, however, that stole the show.

One hundred and fifty-five feet above the sidewalk, the tall, gaunt spire was visible for blocks away.   The steeple and the angular copper-trimmed dormer that pierced the pyramidal roof were evocative of the churches in the congregation’s homeland.

Inside, the church stretched 94 feet from the door to the altar, capable of accommodating 1,000 worshipers.   The New York Times commented that “The furnishings are all substantial and comfortable, and the decorations in good taste.”  Behind the pulpit was a painting of the Ascension.

photo by Alice Lum

By 1905 Gustavus Adolphhus Lutheran was among the leading Swedish churches in New York.   There were now 1,200 members and the two Sunday schools had an average attendance of 300.  A new organ had been recently installed and historian William Smith Pelletreau complimented the church that year saying “The mixed choir furnishes excellent music.”

The church offered social gatherings and help to the congregants with two Sewing Societies, a Young People’s Society, the Sick and Benefit Society and an Aid Society.  Once monthly a service was performed in English.

On September 1, 1907 the pastor of the church, Reverend Dr. Mauritz Stolpe, had the honor of conducting worship services aboard the Swedish warship Fylgia for Prince Wilhelm.  The arrival of the prince had already caused quite a stir among the Swedish-American population.  Over 6,000 crowded the pier at 86^th Street when the ship steamed in.  It was, after all, a rare opportunity said The New York Tribune for “these descendants of the Vikings to greet their ‘sailor prince.’”

photo by Alice Lum

Only three months later Reverend Stolpe announced to his congregation that King Oscar had died.  The entire Swedish community was plunged into mourning.  Although they were now Americans, the love and respect the Swedish-Americans held for the deceased monarch was deep.   Although there would be an official memorial by the Swedish Consul, Reverend Stolpe announced that “whatever was decided on later by prominent Swedish people, there would be a special service at his church.”

Stolpe would head the congregation of Gustavus Adolphus for 47 years, until 1937.  During this time the church experienced its grandest moment.  On May 27, 1926 the Crown Prince Gustav Adolf and Crown Princess Louise arrived in New York for a three-month visit of the United States.  While in Manhattan the royal couple attended services here on June 6.   They presented the church with a signed Bible and a chasuble—the outermost vestment worn by the clergy.

As the 20^th century progressed, the area changed from one of German, Polish and Swedish immigrants to a culturally and ethnically-mixed neighborhood.  In the 1970s the basement of the church became the Basement Coffee House where young locals could enjoy amateur performances.  New York Magazine remarked in 1972 “The Basement Coffee House at Gustavus Adophus Lutheran Church is usually jammed on Saturday nights.  Young folk singers trying to get a start in New York are the most frequent performers, and the shows are often excellent.  It’s mostly a student audience from all over the city.”

Today the sturdy stone church is notably unaltered; although services are no longer solely in German.  It is a striking remnant of an immigrant group that is often forgotten or overlooked.