The 1914 J. P. Morgan & Co. Building

Photo Library of Congress

As we agonize under the constant threat of terrorism in the 21st Century, we tend to forget that such activity is not new to the world. In the beginning of the 20th Century it was the “anarchists” who disrupted daily life and planted fear in the hearts of civilians.


On September 16, 1920 brokers and bankers went about their daily routine along Wall Street. Just before noon a mail carrier opened the letter box at Cedar Street and Broadway and found a hand-written note: “Remember we will not tolerate any longer. Free the political prisoners or it will be sure death for all of you. American Anarchists Fighters.”

Shortly thereafter, as the clock in Trinity Church tolled 12:00, a horse-drawn cart packed with 1000 pounds of dynamite and 500 pounds of metal, chunks of iron sash weights and other schrapnel, exploded on the Wall Street side of the J. P. Morgan bank building at 23 Wall Street.

The blast was fearsome, blowing out the glass panes of office buildings for blocks. There were 30 immediate fatalities, hundreds of injured. Six more would subsequently die of wounds.

The Morgan Building made an iconic target as a symbol of capitalism in a time of rising Marxism and Leninism. The terrorists, however, were unaware of the 7-foot thick Tennessee marble walls that withstood the blast structurally unscathed. “If,” said The New York Times, “as is generally believed, the explosion was an anarchist assault upon J. P. Morgan & Co. as a leading banking firm, it failed in its purpose.”

“Although the interior of the Morgan offices was wrecked, the substantial stone building, except for some slightly defacing scars, was not damaged. Within four hours after the explosion workmen were repairing the damage…” said the article. Many of the 400 to 500 employees in the building sustained cuts from flying glass, however only one Morgan associate was killed.

The Morgan building was just four years old at the time.   In 1912, J. P. Morgan had purchased the Drexel Building, used as headquarters for the Mechanics and Metals Bank, as a site for his new offices.  The banker hired architects Towbridge & Livingston, who had recently designed the Bankers Trust Building diagonally across the street.

A year later, on February 18, The New York Times anticipated the new building. “The plans as at present decided upon provide for a building of only two stories, but it will have the height of a four-story structure, as both of the floors will be of exceptional height. The foundations, however, will be sunk in bedrock, sixty feet or so below the surface, giving an opportunity of enlarging the building to thirty or forty stories, if required , in the future.”

Planning for the “opportunity of enlarging the building” included the 7-foot thick lower walls, capable of sustaining the weight and ultimately responsible for surviving the explosion.

“The new Morgan banking house will be constructed entirely of Knoxville marble, the same kind of stone used for Mr. Morgan’s art gallery and library,” said the article. “It will be of a simple Italian Renaissance type of architecture. The main floor will be used for the general banking rooms. Executive offices and conference rooms will be on the second floor.”

J. P. Morgan died in 1913, before construction began. When completed, the staid structure won immediate praise from the Real Estate Record and Guide, which said ''The best skill which Athens could command at the height of her glory was given the construction.” The Guide called it “a rival to the Parthenon.”

The banking floor was a single five-sided room with a 30-foot coffered ceiling around a domed skylight. Each of the paneled partners offices upstairs boasted a fireplace. Outside, there was no sign. If a person did not know that the building was J. P. Morgan & Co. he probably did not belong there.

In 1959 J.P. Morgan & Co. merged with the Guaranty Trust Company, forming Morgan Guaranty Trust Company. In 1960 they merged the 23 Wall Street building with the 1929 Trowbridge & Livingston 38-story building behind it at 15 Broad Street. Architects Rogers & Burgun ripped out most of the 1920s interiors of the skyscraper, replacing them with 1960s Modern designs; however the main banking lobby of the old Morgan building was left essentially intact.

The reprieve was relatively short-lived, however, and in the 1990s the grand banking lobby was stripped of its original detailing and renovated into a training and conference facility.

When Morgan Guaranty merged with Chase Bank in 2000 the building was abandoned and demolition of the skyscraper was proposed, however three years later the combined properties were sold for $100 million. An additional $135 million was spent by A. I. & Boymelgreen to convert them to residential condominiums called “Downtown by Philippe Starck.” Starck, perhaps France’s most prominent designer, not only designed the roof of 23 Wall Street into a garden and pool area for the residents, but added a small theatre, squash courts, bowling alley, and basketball courts for the amusement of the residents.

The façade of the old Morgan Building is still pock-marked with the damaged of the 1920 explosion. The Morgan Company was adamant about not repairing it; perhaps as a symbol of the bank’s resilience. Whatever the reason, the scarred marble at 23 Wall Street is a vivid reminder of a time of terrorism in American we have been quick to forget.

The 1911 Adelaide Townsend Douglas House -- 57 Park Avenue

photo by Alice Lum

In March 1902, when excavation for the Park Avenue subway resulted in a calamitous cave-in that seriously damaged several mansions, a scandal was being quietly ignored by New York society.  As the clean up on Park Avenue began, Mrs. William P. Douglas and her daughter, Edith Sybil, were anticipating an ocean voyage as guests of J. P. Morgan on his yacht the Corsair.

Adelaide Townsend Douglas was married to capitalist William Proctor Douglas.  Although he had been a member of the first American international polo team, he was best known as a yachtsman.   In 1871 he successfully defended the America’s Cup with his schooner Sappho.  But since 1895, according to Jean Strouse’s “Morgan: American Financier,” Adelaide had been carrying on an affair with Morgan.

Rumors of Morgan’s and Adelaide’s affair never rose above a whisper.  William Douglas moved out of their home on East 46^th Street in 1903.  In 1908, after son J. Gordon Douglas married, William moved again, this time to No. 12 West 76^th Street and, finally, the Social Register listed him and Adelaide separately.

Meanwhile, John J. Murphy had sold his mansion at No. 57 Park Avenue just weeks following the cave-in.    The New York Times reported that it was “one of the houses which was badly damaged by the subway cave-in” and described it as “four stories in height…It is understood that before the cave-in Mr. Murphy held the property at $65,000.”   (That valuation would translate to over $1 million today.)

Now, in 1909 with only Sybil left at home, Adelaide laid plans for a new home—one just steps from the J. P. Morgan mansion at Madison Avenue and 37^th Street.  On April 8, 1909 The Times reported that “Architect Horace Trumbauer of Philadelphia has filed plans for the new six-story residence to be built by Mrs. Adelaide L. Douglas at 57 Park Avenue.  It is to be 25.1 feet front, with a façade of granite and limestone, and will cost $120,000.”  It is interesting to note that by now, although never divorced, the newspapers referred to Adelaide by her own name and not her husband’s.

The unlivable mansion of John Murphy had been purchased in a settlement by the Interboro Rapid Transit Company.    Now it was razed to be replaced by an elegant and restrained townhouse in the French Classic style of Louis XVI.   Apparently Adelaide did not need to worry about the high cost of the structure—her grandson later reported that Morgan financed it; and nearly half a century later The New York Times brashly announced that it was “originally built for J. P. Morgan.”

Construction went on for two years and in 1911 it was completed.   Trumbauer managed to ornament the house with exquisite bas relief carvings, French ironwork and a full menu of window shapes and dimensions; all the while maintaining calm and elegance. 



Urns of full-blown roses and panels depicting children adorn the facade (encroached upon by creeping ivy) photo by Alice Lum

Guests entered into a marble-lined reception hall.  On the first floor was the sumptuous dining room.  Above, where tall French doors opened onto the Park Avenue balcony, were two salons decorated in the French 18^thcentury style.  Adelaide’s bedroom was on the third floor, facing the rear, along with the library to the front.

The one guest who did not enter through the double entrance doors on Park Avenue was J. P. Morgan.  According to family members, the millionaire had a private entrance atthe rear of the house.

If New York society rebuffed those involved in extramarital affairs, it made an exception for the fabulously wealthy.  Dinner parties in the Park Avenue house were regularly noted in the society pages—and attended.

Adelaide was alone in the mansion following her daughter’s marriage.  Edith—referred to as Sybil by friends—was married on January 27, 1913 in fashionable St. George’s Chapel.   She was wed to William Fitzhugh Whitehouse.  Although The Sun, cautioned that “only relatives and a few intimate friends will witness the ceremony,” those who attended the wedding included society’s elite.  The Times listed both Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt and “Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Colonel and Mrs. William Jay, Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Iselin, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Iselin, and Alfonso de Navarro among others.

Following the ceremony, Park Avenue was lined with smart vehicles and waiting drivers as Adelaide hosted the reception in the house.

photo by Alice Lum

On June 3, 1919 Adelaide’s husband died in his home at No. 12 West 76^th Street at the age of 77.   Her affiliation with William Douglas was apparently cordial.  When the will was read, Adelaide received $50,000 of the over $1 million estate and one third of the income from her husband’s real estate.

Adelaide continued the expected schedule of a wealthy New York socialite.  Each summer her Newport estate “Cozy Nook” was opened and every fall it was closed.   In front of No. 57 Park Avenue, horse-drawn carriages gave way to shining limousines that dropped guests off for dinner parties and receptions.

Adelaide made the change as well.   In 1932 her chauffeur was 22-year old Servie Laccesaglio who, with other staff, lived in the house.  Apparently Laccesaglio felt his Depression Era wages and free board were not enough to see him through.

Early on the morning of December 30, 1932 the chauffeur and two other men noticed Brooklyn restaurant owner Max Advocate emerging from the 20^th Avenue subway station in Brooklyn on his way home.   The men forced him into their automobile, drove him several miles then robbed him of $150 in cash, a $25 check and his bank book.

A passerby had seen the abduction, noted the license plate and notified the police.  Unfortunately for Laccesaglio and his accomplices, the New York Police Department had recently installed radios in its patrol cars.  The New York Times credited the technological innovation with their arrests.  “The police radio system early this morning snared three men half an hour after they had released a Brooklyn restaurant proprietor,” it said.

Adelaide Douglas’s young chauffeur learned that crime does not pay--and assumedly lost a job and free room.

Three years later, on October 23, 1935, the 83-year old colorful Adelaide Townsend Douglas died in her Park Avenue mansion.  Ironically, her New York Times obituary related more about her husband’s life and accomplishments than it did about her.

The Douglas mansion sat vacant for a period, then was leased by Athur Charn in June 1937. Before long, however, the house would be converted to high-end apartments.   Here in 1940 Maurice and Martha Speiser lived.   The couple auctioned off their extensive art collection in 1944 at the Parke-Bernet Galleries.  Included were 115 canvases by Picasso, Chagall, Matisse and other masters; 15 sculptures by artists like Epstein and Brancusi; and 761 books on modern art.  Among the masterworks sold were Modigliani’s Garcon a la Vest Blue and Utrillo’s Eglise Sainte Marguerite.

In 1942 the Douglas Estate sold the house built for Adelaide.   For a few years it housed the offices of American British Technology, Inc. and the Welfare League for Retarded Children, Inc.  Then on June 17, 1959 the United States Olympic Association, Inc. announced that “shortly will have a new home.”  The organization, which had been operating from the Hotel Biltmore, purchased the house at No. 57 Park Avenue.

photo by Alice Lum

The Olympic Association remained in the Douglas mansion for nearly two decades.  In 1978 what was now referred to as the “Olympic House” was sold for $5 million to the Government of Guatemala as its Mission to the United Nations.   As the Landmarks Preservation Commission remarked the following year, “Despite changes to the interior of the house, the exterior remains almost entirely intact.  As such it is a reminder of the period before World War I when Park Avenue was an elegant residential thoroughfare.”

photo by Alice Lum

The Lost Drexel Building -- Broad and Wall Streets

photograph Library of Congress

Anthony Drexel, Sr. was a successful Philadelphia portrait painter until 1837.  But his profession would not provide a living for his young son, Anthony Jr.  So that year, according to The New York Times later, he “determined to engage in business as a broker in order to open up a career for his son.”  On New Year’s Day 1838 he opened his small brokerage office “in which were laid the foundations of the enormous business” that would be eventually run by his son.

Three years later the younger Anthony entered the business at the age of 13.  He took on his father’s ambitious and aggressive business nature.  By the time of the California Gold Rush in 1848 Anthony Drexel Sr. left his son in charge of the firm while he traveled, often for extended periods.

In 1850 the senior Drexel took advantage of the Gold Rush and established the firm of Drexel, Sather & Church in California.  Simultaneously he opened a New York City house, Drexel & Co.  Before long what had started out as a one-man operation was a leading force in American banking.  “The house’s business was always that of money lending on a gigantic scale,” noted The New York Times in 1893, “and its timely help saved many a suffering corporation from bankruptcy, while it piled up the millions to its own credit, and strengthened year by year the already strong foundation of its tremendous trade.”

In 1869 Anthony Drexel, Jr. partnered with J. Pierpont Morgan whom he entrusted to run the New York branch which was renamed Drexel, Morgan & Co.  In 1872 the powerful banking firm laid plans for a headquarters building that would turn heads.  On March paid $250,000 (over $4.5 million today) in gold for the land at the southeast corner of Wall and Broad Streets.  The Times reported on March 17, 1872 that “more money was paid for it than any other piece of ground of a similar area of which there is any record in any city in the world.” 

Drexel, Morgan & Co. commissioned architect Arthur D. Gilman to design the structure which The Times predicted would be “magnificent.”  Work commenced on May 1, 1872 with an anticipated completion of April 1, 1873.  The six-story building would be clad in gleaming white Vermont marble and while Gilman described the style as “Italian renaissance” it would be deemed French Second Empire today.  There would be a grand mansard roof above the fifth floor cornice, crowned by a faceted cap at the corner.  On either side dormers would line up with military precision.

Construction of what would be known as the Drexel Building would be fraught with accidents and set-backs.  On October 30, 1872 The Sun complained “From the inception of this building up to the present time a series of discomfort and disasters have been of almost daily occurrence.”  The newspaper’s assessment was sparked by the worst calamity yet.

On Tuesday October 29 a worker recklessly tossed a piece of lumber from a third floor window.  The hunk of wood struck and killed a pedestrian.  “It is to be hoped this will put an effectual check upon the carelessness which has marked the course of the progress of this building from the start, and that the proper authorities will investigate to-day’s calamity,” said the newspaper.

 

sketch from the collection of the New York Public Library

As the Drexel Building neared completion in April 1873 advertisements for office space appeared.  Offices for “Corporations, Bankers, Lawyers &c.” were offered and the structure’s up-to-date accommodations were marketed.  “Two elevators, two staircases, fire-proof, well ventilated and lighted, heated by steam; every modern convenience on each floor.”

The advertisements did not touch on the upscale finishes and amenities.  The New York Times remarked that the building was “finely finished throughout with black walnut and mahogany, marble floors, &c,” and said that the grand staircase was “one of the largest in New-York.”  Above the main entrance were two larger-than-life statues representing Europe and America.

Drexel, Morgan & Co. took nearly half of the ground floor and the remainder of the building filled quickly.  As the Drexel Building was being planned, the Leather Manufacturers' Bank negotiated what was effectively a separate building with no interior connections.  The New York Times said that the Leather Manufacturers’ Bank section was built “in the same style precisely, so that the two edifices will present one front and have a common entrance way.”  Morton, Bliss & Co. took the remainder of the first floor not occupied by that bank.

 

The six-story structure dwarfed its neighbors -- photographer unknown from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWP7RHZQ&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=631

Although the advertisements for office space had targeted bankers and lawyers, a surprising number of railroad concerns moved in.  Within the first few years the building became home to the Missouri Pacific Railroad offices, the New-Jersey and New-York Railroad Company, the Hackensack and New York Railroad Company, the New-York City and Northern Railway Company, and the Hackensack and New-York Extension Railroad offices.

Perhaps one of the most unexpected tenants was the Barnum Museum Company which had its offices here in 1880. 

In 1885 Adolph Wittemann captured Wall Street and the Drexel Building from a rooftop -- from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWP7RHZQ&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=631

On September 4, 1882 the attention of the world was centered on the Drexel Building as inventor Thomas Alva Edison flipped a switch, illuminating 600 electric lights throughout the building.  It was a ground-breaking moment that would jump-started the transition from gas to incandescent lighting.

Like it is today, Wall Street corruption was sometimes a problem in the 1880s.  In 1888 broker Francis E. Trowbridge had his offices in the Drexel Building.  A highly respected member of the Stock Exchange, he was also a director in at least banks and a Trustee o St. Paul’s Methodist Church (as well as its musical director).  And so it was perhaps surprising when on March 22, 1888 he was arrested for absconding with the proceeds of the sale of stock.

Lawyer Abraham Kling accused Trowbridge of cheating him out of $28,500 and said he “had in a similar manner appropriated money belonging to other people.”  Trowbridge insisted that “the assertion that he is indebted to other people, or that he intended fleeing, are alike preposterous.”  The New York Timessaid “He was very indignant.”

Indignity of another type came to a Drexel Building tenant in 1891.  J. Madison Pinckney was employed as a clerk in the brokerage office of W. Cross.  In September that year the man was running for a telephone on the floor of the Stock Exchange when, in doing so, he jostled Wall Street broker John B. Manning.

Unaccustomed to being manhandled by a clerk, Manning showed his displeasure by landing a vigorous kick on Pinckney’s rear end.  “Mr. Pinckney felt the result,” said The New York Times on September 11, 1891.  The  broker felt the results as well when Abraham Pinckney threatened to sue for $10,000 in damages.

The New York Stock Exchange saw the matter from a difference perspective.  “There is a rule against running on the Exchange,” explained The Times.  “Mr. Manning said yesterday, however, that so far as he was concerned the matter was ended.”  Presumably the office clerk did not reap his envisioned $10,000.

A Drexel tenant with a peculiar commodity was the Railway Ammonia Motor Company.  The firm marketed street cars that ran on ammonia.  The inventor, P. J. McMahon who had formerly been a Chief Engineer in the U.S. Navy, boasted that the cost of running a car with his system was about one cent per mile.

A successful demonstration of the cars was held in Manhattan on March 17, 1893; with one drawback.  “To avoid all possibility of passengers being annoyed by the pungent and disagreeable odor that was noticeable yesterday,” reported The Times the following day, “the company is having a sixteen-foot car built, which will merely carry the motor.”

On June 30 that year Anthony J. Drexel died.   J. P. Morgan, who had functioned as the head of Drexel, Morgan & Co. for years wasted little time in reorganizing the firm.  On January 1, 1895 he renamed the New York branch J. P. Morgan & Co.; the Paris firm became Morgan, Harjes & Co.; while the London branch retained the name J. S. Morgan & Co.  Above the corner entrance he had the name J. P. Morgan & Co. installed.

The quality of the materials used in the Drexel Building was still recognized nearly three decades after its construction.  When the multimillion dollar New York Public was in its planning stage in 1900, it was the Drexel Building that was held as a benchmark.  Reporting on the plans on October 31, 1900 the New-York Tribune noted that the “entire interior [is] to be composed of white marble without blemish, and of the character of that used in the Drexel Building.”

The comparison would end in an injunction a year later when the Board of Estimate awarded the contract for the Library to Norcross Brothers.  The contractor's bid was $77,000 higher than the lowest bidder; Eugene Lentilhon.  And according to affidavits submitted by Lentilhon’s attorney, “the architect…stated to the board that the Drexel Building was built from the quarry from which the Norcross Brothers were to take their stone.” 

In actuality, said the law suit, “the Drexel Building in this city was not built of marble taken from the quarry, and that there are no buildings in the city built of the marble from the Norcross Brothers’ quarry.”

The gigantic white marble building would be draped in mourning in September 1901 following the assassination of President William McKinley.  The New-York Tribune noted that “The earliest preparation for the mourning decorations on a large scale in Wall Street appeared at the Drexel Building.”  Soon after the news of the President’s death was announced, J. P. Morgan arrived at the building and a team of employees was set to work.

“Two heavy packing boxes and a sewing machine were unloaded on the sidewalk.  From the boxes were unpacked bales of crepe, which were stacked upon the sidewalk, while workmen began to cut and sew long streamers of the sombre material, preparatory to draping them on the wooden frames which are to be placed on the front of the building.”

In what was nearly a foreshadowing of things to come, on April 14, 1907 The Times recalled the Drexel Building’s origins and future.  “The firm ‘at the corner,’ J. P. Morgan & Co., was one of the very first, if not the first, to occupy a building designed in part, even, for their own use.  It was when the name was Drexel, Morgan & Co. that the Drexel Building was erected at Wall and Broad Streets, a showplace in its day and a landmark so long as it shall stand.”

In 1909 the building was swathed in patriotic bunting -- from the collection of the New York Public Library

In February 1912 J. P. Morgan established the Drexel Building Corporation for the purpose of purchasing the property.  Anthony J. Drexel’s heirs received $3 million for the land and the building.  Sereno S. Pratt, in his The Work of Wall Street published that same year, called the corner “the most valuable site per square foot of any real estate in New York.”

Rumors quickly circulated that the dignified old building would be razed “for the erection of a modern office building on the site,” as mentioned in The Sun.  Officers of the Drexel Building Corporation played down the stories.  But, as The Times reported a year later on March 23, 1913, “J. P. Morgan has had a new building in mind for a number of years, and leases which expired were not renewed.”

By now tenants were leaving one-by-one as the demolition of the Drexel Building neared.  The New York Times reminisced about the venerable structure.  “There is an air of quiet comfort and gentility about the old building which is not found in any of the newer Wall Street offices.”  The writer mentioned Gus, the janitor, who had been away from work only twice in thirty years—once for a sprained ankle and once for appendicitis.  The newspaper said he “feels as though the world was coming down about his ears, for when the wreckers take down the building they will also demolish his home under the roof.”

The Drexel Building would wear the trappings of mourning one more time before its demolition.  On April 1, 1913 a sign was hung on the main entrance, “Closed on account of the death of Mr. J. P. Morgan.”  The 75-year old banker whose personal fortune was estimated at between $75 and $150 million had died in his sleep while traveling abroad. 

Within two months the magnificent marble Drexel Building would be no more.  On June 14 The New York Times wrote “In a few days the most valuable piece of real estate in the United States will be nothing but a vacant lot, surrounded by a board fence.”

The new J. P. Morgan & Co. Building, designed by Towbridge & Livingston, was completed in 1914.  Other than the Morgan name the rather stark, squat structure had nothing in common with its predecessor. 

The 1914 Morgan building survives today -- from the collection of the New York Public Library

The 1901 New York Yacht Club

The New York Yacht Club had been around for nearly half a century in November of 1898 and, until then, was happily esconced in a series of unpretentious clubhouses.  As the century came to a close, however, yachting had become the pastime of the wealthy and a more suitable headquarters was required.  From the Club's rooms on the second floor of a Madison Avenue townhouse, J. Pierpont Morgan started the ball rolling for a new location.

He announced that he would donate three lots on West 44th Street for the new building.  In return for giving the land Morgan demanded to choose the committee that would select the winning design:  himself.  The guidelines for the architects were published on November 5 with a 30-day deadline for completed designs.  The new clubhouse must have a Model Room adequate to exhibit the Club's extensive collection as well as doubling as a meeting room for 300 people.  A Library was required that could archive 15,000 books and a Chart Room was necessary where members could map out their cruises.

Morgan settled on the submission by the firm of Whitney Warren and Charles Wetmore -- their first important commission.  Whitney Warren produced the drawings and his ideas were unique at best.  He wanted to reflect the nautical foundation on which the Club was built.  His 5-story limestone structure is exhuberant Beaux Arts, overflowing with maritime themes.  The Club, he explained, has a mission of furthering "naval architecture from the amateur point of view."  And that he did.

Especially noticeable from the street are the three major windows fronting 44th Street.  Mimicking the sterns of the Dutch galleons that first came to New York, they spill stone waves over the window ledge.

A large terrace on the fourth floor, covered by a heavy wooden pergola, looks enticing from street level.

 Inside Warren let go of any inhibitions.  His Model Room sits directly behind the great galleon windows, is 100 feet deep, over two stories high and rests under an enormous and colorful stained glass ceiling.  Free-standing sea monsters add support to the great marble fireplace, the centerpiece of which is a painted yachting scene.  A balcony in the style of a galleon railing circles the room.

The Architectural Review, upon the Club's opening in 1901, was not pleased.  It called the robust fireplace "a riot of swags and spinach, icicles and exotic vegation."  It was not, said the editors, "legitimate architectural design."

Courtesty Office of Metropolitan History

A bit kinder, The New York Times in 1906 said "...except for the absence of motion, one might fancy oneself at sea."

The Grill Room took the theme and ran with it.  Heavy oak timbers and cast iron bolts are intended to replicate the space below decks in a vintage sailing vessel.  Here, at the turn of the century, the most notable names in New York finance and commerce ate and discussed sailing and business.

Despite Commodore Morgan's assertion about yachting that "If you have to ask how much it costs, you can't afford it," the building had to be paid for.  Therefore the annual dues were doubled from $25 to $50.

To my mind, the New York Yacht Club is one of the most unusual and visually pleasing buildings in Midtown Manhattan.

Contemporary interior photographs through the generous coutesy of A. Walter Dufresne

Madison Avenue circa 1910. I love this shot.

I found this shot yesterday to show the De Lamar mansion (far left) looming over the J. P. Morgan residence (in the middle of the photograph) among the wonderful photos in the New York Public Library collection.  The more I studied the photo the more I fell in love with it.

Last night I emailed my friend Paul the shot, knowing he understands my peculiar obsession with everyday social history, especially in New York.  Shots like this intrigue me because they are, quite literally, an instant in time frozen for us to see.

There on the corner of 36th Street and Madison Avenue are two little neighborhood girls -- girls living a quite privileged existence at home with private teachers and nurses and maids  -- roller skating past the mansion that in a few years J.P. Morgan would raze to build his private library.  A century ago those little girls enjoyed a spring day under a small tree in blossom without a care in the world, captured forever by the camera.

Notice that all the draperies are pulled in the three great houses.  Sunlight was known to be the greatest threat to the rich fabrics and carpets in those parlors and bedrooms.  So to preserve their fine upholstery, wall coverings and linens, the interiors of the New York mansions were always dim and, I would think, gloomy.  Only on Christmas Day would the wealthy Manhattanites pull open their draperies and illuminate the interiors so passing common folk could get a once-a-year peek inside the great homes.

Paul has the idea that the woman and man on the sidewalk between the two brownstones are having a not-so-happy exchange.  Hard for me to tell.  But I especially love the Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit on the boy running north towards 37th Street.  If you thought those fashions were only in the movies, think again!

There is a quiet, slow pace to the photo.  Here a commercial covered cart shares the block with the high-class carriage complete with liveried coachmen in silk top hats.  It was a time before automobiles and one-way streets and traffic.

And when I study that photograph, I wonder what Mrs. Morgan was doing inside that residence when the camera clicked.  Was Alice De Lamar at home in her French chateau on 37th Street?  And where was the man with the parcel going so quickly?

A very common moment, captured forever, making it extremely uncommon and precious.