The Masterful 1889 West-Park Presbyterian Church

photo by Alice Lum

In 1854 when the 15-member 84^th Street Presbyterian Church first opened its doors on the corner of 84^thStreet and West End Avenue, the Upper West Side, then still called Bloomingdale, was still only scantily developed.  The small wooden chapel used by the congregation was for the time sufficient; yet the relentless northward march of New York City was not all that far away.

As the 1880s approached Central Park was completed and the elevated train made its appearance along Ninth Avenue (later renamed Columbus Avenue).  The district saw the beginnings of rapid development. Initially the upheaval caused by the development in the neighborhood had a negative impact on the church.  As Broadway (then “the Boulevard”) and other major arteries were cut through, some long-time residents were uprooted.  But the little church clung on.

When Anson Phelps Atterbury was hired as pastor in 1879, things would begin to turn around.  Atterbury was a member of the socially and financially powerful Phelps-Dodge family which made its fortune in mining.   Atterbury’s presence in the pulpit coupled with the steadily-increasing population within the next few years eventually made the little chapel insufficient.  On May 30, 1883 the New-York Tribune reported that “D. Willis James has sold to the Eighty-fourth Street Presbyterian Church property on the northeast corner of Tenth-ave. and Eighty-sixth-st., which comprises about five city lots.”  The church paid James $30,000 for the large plot—about $600,000 in today’s dollars.

Architect Leopold Eidlitz was hired to design the new church.  Not only had Eidlitz been responsible for the original wooden building; he had by now established a firm reputation for himself with works like his magnificent Temple Emanu-El on Fifth Avenue and St. Peter’s Church in the Bronx.  For the still-small congregation Eidlitz produced a small brick chapel in the Victorian Gothic style on one side of the building site.

On November 10, 1884 The New York Times reported on the completed structure.  “The edifice is a brick structure, 35 by 85 feet in dimensions.  The congregation room is up stairs, and the pews are finished in oak.  The walls are terra cotta and bronze.  The lower room is used for the Sabbath school, and it is finished in cherry.”

The New York Times recalled the difficulties the little congregation had endured.  “The church had a hard struggle for existence by reason of the fact that the Bloomingdale neighborhood was largely depopulated by the laying out of new streets, the Boulevard and the Riverside Drive, but it held its own and began to prosper with the ministration of the present Pastor, who was ordained five years ago.”

Now, however, the church was thriving.  The building was entirely paid for before the doors were opened.  Five ministers were present during the dedicatory service on November 10 and in his sermon the Rev. Dr. Charles S. Robinson reminded the congregation that the building was less important than the souls of those who worshiped within it.  He likened the structure to a lighthouse and told the story of a keeper who was reprimanded for tending the lights rather than trying to save the lighthouse during a great storm.  “The Government put me here to save ships, not the lighthouse,” was his response.

Robinson took the opportunity to gently chastise the congregation about giving sparingly to the church.  The Times quoted him “The interest on the value of a sealskin sacque is $36 a year, but no woman will give that amount for pew rent.”

The building was used for other gatherings as well.  Three months later, on February 12, 1885 General Alexander S. Webb, President of the College of the City of New York, presented an illustrated lecture on “Gettysburg;” a subject still remembered by many of the neighborhood residents.

That the church never intended that Eidlitz’s brick structure be its permanent home was evidenced in testimony made on April 9, 1887 in the State Supreme Court.  There was some untidy business going on after William E. Stokes, a relative of Anson Phelps Atterbury, sued the church and the Phelps Mission.  Court papers said “That the said 84^thStreet Presbyterian Church now professes to be the owner of four lots of ground on the north-east corner of 86^th Street and 10^th Avenue, upon which there is now erected a chapel; that it has no regular church edifice or building whatever, but uses the said chapel for the purposes of church service until a church shall be erected…”

Two years after that description, the congregation deemed itself ready for a “regular church edifice.”  Architect Henry Kilburn received the commission to design a large main church building.  He was given the direction of incorporating the existing chapel into the design.  When he was finished there was no hint of Eidlitz’s Victorian Gothic structure hidden in his own Romanesque Revival design.

The church had, by now, been renamed the Park Presbyterian Church.  Its new structure, completed in June 1890, was a massive medieval-looking pile of ruddy-colored sandstone.  Hefty arches and rugged stonework supported gables and towers—a delight of asymmetrically-placed openings and angles.  Anchoring it all was a monumental corner tower culminating in a bell-shaped cap.

photo by Alice Lum

The little church of 15 congregants had come a long way in half a century.  The new building had seats for 900 worshipers.  The first service in the building, a month before official completion, was conducted with appropriate flourish.

The American Architect and Building News published this photograph of the entrance doors on July 25, 1891 (copyright expired)

The church, mostly through the efforts of Atterbury, was at the forefront of social reform and activism.  He was an insightful author, writing books like “Islam in Africa: its Effects—Religious, Ethical, and Social—Upon the People of the Country,” and had little patience for intolerance and racism.   In the 1880s New York City was overtaken by a rampant prejudice again the Chinese, often referred to as “Mongolians.”   A reporter from the New York Sun in 1880 wrote “The lower end of Mott Street is an unsavory locality, disagreeably close to the associations of vice, crime, and poverty by reason of which the Chinese are unjustly but naturally compelled by mere proximity to bear a worse reputation than they deserve.”

photo by Carolyn Scott

Atterbury responded to the “worse reputation than they deserve” by overtly campaigning for Chinese worshipers. 

On March 13, 1911 readers of The Evening World got the news that the West Presbyterian Church on 42^nd Street was to “give way to a modern skyscraper.”   The newspaper said “The ‘Millionaire’s Gate to Heaven’ will be closed when the famous West Presbyterian Church, which has counted among its parishioners Russell Sage, Jay Gould, J. Hood Wright, Alfred H. Smith, E. Francis Hyde, Seth Thomas, H. M. Flagler, Robert Jaffray and a score of other wealthy men, representing $750,000,000, to which fact is due its irreverent title, shuts its doors.”

photo by Alice Lum

With no church edifice, the congregation made plans to merge with Park Presbyterian.  Three months later, on June 11, the merger was complete and The New York Times reported that “The new organization will now be known as the West-Park Presbyterian Church, worshipping at the old Park Church.” 

Later, The Sun heaved a sigh of relief when it was able tell readers “When the West Presbyterian Church moved up to the West Side and joined with the Park Presbyterian the choir remained intact.”   The newspaper reported on the high-class choir which included soprano Bertha Kinzel, who had recently sung with the Boston Symphony Orchestra “and with nearly all the oratorio societies of the East;” and singers from the Metropolitan Opera and other illustrious organizations.

photo by Carolyn Scott

Throughout the 20^th century West-Park Church would continue Anson Phelps Atterbury’s tradition of responsible activism—standing up for-civil rights, nuclear disarmament, same sex marriage and gay rights, and criticizing the Vietnam conflict.  When the AIDS epidemic hit New York City, it was the original site of God’s Love We Deliver, the organization established to deliver meals to AIDS patients.

photo by Alice Lum

Around 2008 the magnificent Romanesque Revival building, considered by many to be the best example of the style in a religious building in the city, was threatened.   It was not outside developers who wanted the building demolished—it was the congregation.   The structure, nearly a century and a quarter old, was suffering.  The congregation’s solution for the seeping water and peeling paint was to convert part of the building to apartments.  The drafty and uncomfortable sanctuary was abandoned.

While the church poked around at building and renovation plans, the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission stepped in.  Against the wishes of the church, the building was designated a New York City landmark in 2010; effectively squelching any conversion plans.   Little by little the church began repairs—starting with a new boiler so congregants no longer had to wear coats during services.

Close inspection shows that the sandstone is severely disintegrating in places, like the weather-worn belfry columns -- photo by Alice Lum

In keeping with West-Park’s long tradition of activism, Rev. Robert Brashear offered the building to around 60 Occupy Wall Street protestors as a place to sleep late in 2011.  The minister soon found out that not all good deeds go rewarded when, during the first week, his computer disappeared.

The Occupiers promised Rev. Brashear to reimburse him for the stolen computer; but his compassion was strained further a few weeks later when, in January 2012, the bronze lid of the baptismal font was stolen.  Brashear told the group that he did not believe in collective punishment, but he did believe in collective responsibility.

The group was ousted from the church; although the pastor stressed that he still supported the protest.

photo by Alice Lum

Henry Kilburn’s masterful and rugged West-Park Church is little changed after more than a century standing sentinel at 86^th Street and Amsterdam Avenue—a masterpiece of Romanesque Revival architecture.

many thanks to reader Carolyn Scott for suggesting this post

The Tweed Courthouse -- City Hall Park

photo by Alice Lum

In the decade prior to the Civil War the County of New York made do with a small brownstone building erected in 1852.  Only six years later a movement was underway to erect a substantial courthouse.  Public stocks were sold to garner the funds.

The public was offered Court-House Stock to raise funds -- the New-York Daily Trubune, February 16, 1865 (copyright expired)

Commissioners quickly realized that the original 1858 estimate of $250,000 for the building was inadequate.  They raised the budget to $1 million the following year—more in the neighborhood of $27 million today.  In the meantime William M. Tweed was garnering increased political power. 

In 1857 Tweed became a member of the Board of Supervisors, the county’s chief legislative body.  By the time ground was broken for the County Court House the day after Christmas in 1861, Tweed and his “ring” would wield unfettered control. 

When the cornerstone was laid the names of two architects were placed inside.  Thomas Little, of Thomas Little & Son, apparently drew up the initial plans in 1859; but on August 30, 1861 the Board of Supervisors determined “to employ a suitable architect.”  John Kellum’s name would accompany Little’s in the small box within the cornerstone.

Kellum was reaching the apex of his career and the County Courthouse would be a monumental accomplishment.   Constructed of white marble, it took its inspiration greatly from the United States Capitol building as well at the 1735 Mansion House in England.  A sketch in 1868 shows the structure capped with an imposing dome; creating a striking similarity to the Capitol.  In 1869 New York Illustrated mentioned “when completed, the building will be surmounted by a large dome, giving a general resemblance to the main portico of the Capitol at Washington.”

In 1868 Valentine's Manual published a sketch of the proposed building with its never-executed dome -- copyright expired

The Civil War caused a temporary halt in construction, but by 1865 the exterior was essentially completed and work had begun on the interiors.  By the time the Court of Appeals moved into the unfinished structure in March 1867, the rampant graft and corruption of the Tweed Ring was already being noticed.

In 1866 Supervisor Smith Ely, Jr. raised a red flag, saying “grossly extravagant and improper expenditures have been made by the persons having charge of the building of the new courthouse, in reference to the purchase of iron, marble and brick, and in the payment of various persons for services.”  In fact, Tweed and his cronies were paying highly inflated prices and taking 20 percent of the billing costs for themselves.

On September 9, 1871 cranes are in place as the building continues to rise -- Harper's Weekly, (copyright expired)

On October 2, 1871 the New-York Tribune printed a scathing report that said in part “There certainly never were more barefaced or bolder robberies perpetrated under any government than have been committed under ‘Ring’ rule in this City…Over ten millions of dollars has been paid in two years and a half simply for decorating and furnishingthe County Court-House, Wm. M. Tweed’s new office on Broadway, and the Mayor’s Office.”

Just over three months earlier, John Kellum died, never to see his monumental civic building completed.  The task of completing the court house was passed to Leopold Eidlitz in 1875.  Eidlitz was not interested in sympathetically melding his designs with Kellum’s.   Instead his southern wing was a Victorian take on medieval styles.

 

A postcard captured Eidlitz's incongruous southern wing -- copyright expired

In the meantime, in what was a case of supreme irony, William M. Tweed appeared in what would soon be popularly termed the Tweed Court House on November 19, 1873.  He had been arrested on October 27, 1871 and within the year was convicted on 204 counts.

Eidlitz’s disregard for Kellum’s classic design raised the wrath of some architectural critics.  On April 29, 1877 The New York Times criticized “it is also charged that the new style of architecture is wholly out of keeping with the rest of the building and that while it might be well enough in a fashionable church on Fifth Avenue, or a highly decorated lager beer brewery at Yorkville, it is cheap and tawdry in comparison with the elaborate finishing and classic exterior of the present structure.”

Top:  The ornate, cast iron staircase reflected Kellum's Italianate design.
Bottom:  Eidlitz added his touch with medieval details.  photos from the Library of Congress

After two decades of construction the New York County Courthouse was finally—essentially, anyway—completed in 1881.  Despite the exorbitant costs New York had a sumptuous civic structure; but the stain of the Tweed scandal blinded the public to its beauty and would threaten its existence for over a century to come.

The new County Courthouse attracted a peculiar crowd of loiterers and eccentrics.  On June 20, 1886 the New-York Tribune noted “The queer people seen and the queer things they say in the new County Court House that Tweed built are worthy of being chronicled…There were broken-down politicians, old and used-up officials, persons willing to show strangers the Court House for a small consideration, others ready to assist those who wanted to become naturalized and others too lazy to do anything.”

The stark difference in Eidlitz's architectural style was harshly criticized -- photo by Alice Lum

On April 11, 1888 the building was used for the wedding of Julia Clarkson, “the pretty daughter of Edward Clarkson, janitor of the building, to Edward J. Reynolds, a well-known builder.”  The Sun reported that “Boss Tweed’s twenty-million-dollar Court House was the theatre of an unusual scene last evening.  Three of the solumn court rooms were converted into a spacious banquet hall and ball room to accommodate a wedding party.”

“An orchestra was stationed in front of the Judge’s bench in the equity division, and dainty feet marked time to its music on floors that had hitherto echoed only to the ponderous tread of men of affairs,” said the newspaper.

Before long, however, it would be talk of demolishing the building that took up newspaper space.  On September 13, 1893 The New York Times reported on the 130 architectural plans that had been received in a competition for a new City Hall.  Along with it came a movement to demolish the courthouse.

It seemed only Controller Myers saw the qualities of the building.  The newspaper said “He thought that the Court House had come in for more than its just share of abuse.  The building cost, with furniture, over $14,000,000, and despite the fact that much of this enormous outlay was squandered, it is nevertheless an imposing structure.”

The courthouse survived; but just seven years later it was in danger again.  Officials pressed to clear City Hall Park of all buildings other than the venerable City Hall.  The New York Times chimed in saying on March 13, 1901, “that especially the Tweed Court House, as an ugly monument of fraud and municipal disgrace, should be razed as soon as accommodation can be had elsewhere for the uses it now very imperfectly and inconveniently subserves.”

A reader wrote to the editor of the newspaper in response.  “No building in New York is so generally disliked as the Court House, and honest men long for the day when the space it has polluted shall be restored to the much-abused City Hall Park.”

The debate was still hot in July 1902 when it was suggested that $2 million could refurbish the old building.  “And as to spending two millions on the Tweed Court House, which is a stench in the moral olfactories of all New Yorkers, and which has nothing architecturally valuable, excepting the incongruous addition which puts it to an open shame, that was a very improvident judicial expression of dissatisfaction with quarters which are undoubtedly dissatisfying which led certain revered Justices of the Supreme Court to commit themselves to it,” railed The New York Times on July 19.

Two years later plans for the new courthouse had advanced no further; and the Tweed Courthouse was falling into disrepair.  On September 13, 1904 The Sun noted “the old Tweed court house [is] daily falling into a more dilapidated condition, despite constant patching and attempts at improved ventilation, with the rain pouring through its cracked walls and wornout roofs whenever there is a storm.”

More and more it became evident that the neglected building was no longer adequate for the growing county courts system.  Nevertheless the Board of Estimates continued to drag its feet regarding a new structure.  In July 1911 The Times was still supporting the idea of removing all buildings from City Hall Park other than the magnificent Federal style City Hall.  It bluntly wrote “The Tweed Court House must go.”

Astoundingly, despite what was nearly universal support to destroy the County Courthouse, it survived.  When, in 1915, a proposal was suggested to enlarge it, its fervent nemesis The New York Times reacted.  “It is proposed…to enlarge the Tweed Court House, which is unsightly and uncomfortable and a disgrace to the city.”

The new New York County Courthouse nearby on Centre Street was finally completed until 1927.  With the courts gone, the old Tweed building seemed destined for destruction.  Yet it survived, being used for the City Court until its next major threat—Mayor Fiorella La Guardia’s thrust to clean up the city for the 1939 World’s Fair.  Among his first priorities was the restoration of City Hall Park.

“Mayor La Guardia is eager to complete the work on the park in time for the World’s Fair, so that visitors may have a vista of City Hall from historic St. Paul’s Chapel at Vesey Street,” explained The Times on May 21, 1938.  “Mayor La Guardia is also eager to have the old Tweed court house in the park behind the City Hall razed and administration officials have been trying to find new quarters for the City Court now located there.”

But the old courthouse hung on.  A year later Parks Commissioner Robert Moses was still seeking appropriations to raze the building.  “The only blot on the landscape which will remain at the end of 1940 if these funds are appropriated will be the so-called ‘Tweed’ Court House,” he beamed on September 18, 1939.

Nearly half a century of attempts to destroy the monumental court house had proved fruitless when in the spring of 1942 Chambers and Lafayette Streets were widened as part of an improvement plan for City Hall Park.  In describing the necessary removal of the entrance stairs on April 9, 1942, The New York Times used what was perhaps its first positive adjective since the building had been completed.

“Workmen of the WPA were busy yesterday demolishing the imposing but long unused flight of steps leading from Chambers Street to the rotunda of the old County Court House…familiarly known as the Tweed Court House.”

The widening of Chambers Street resulting in the chopping off of the grand entrance stairs -- photo Library of Congress

But the threat to its survival was not over yet.  In 1948 the City Planning Board discussed the development of the Manhattan Civic Center.  The Times said on June 25 “it envisages also the demolition of the old Tweed Court House and consequent improvement of City Hall Park.”

Yet once again, the court house dodged the bullet.

One might have guessed that by the 1970s the Tweed Courthouse was finally safe.  But almost immediately upon taking office in 1974 Mayor Abraham Beame set out to demolish it.  The Times said on July 7 that year “Its demolition, never announced publicly, was an early, almost instant administrative decision.  It was simply the ultimate extension of the conventional wisdom that the building is nothing but a shoddy piece of graft.”

Architectural critic Ada Louise Huxtable called it “a substantial and stylish building” with “impressive interiors.”  She flatly pointed out “In spite of its obvious qualifications, the Courthouse is not a designated landmark.  It has been so universally repudiated for its unsavory associations that it is probably too hot a political potato for the Landmarks Commission.”

Against all odds the imposing yet maligned structure survived its final threat.  In 1984 the Landmarks Preservation Commission designated the Tweed Courthouse a New York City Landmark.  In 1999 a full-scale, two-year restoration was initiated.  The $85 million project not only uncovered layers of paint inside, but recarved missing or damaged marble elements of the façade.  The entire marble cornice was reconstructed—requiring 120 blocks of stone, some weighing 9,600 pounds. 

photo by Alice Lum

In what was perhaps the most noticeable part of the restoration, the grand entrance steps were rebuilt.  Inside, an octagonal stained and etched glass skylight--52-foot wide—was refashioned to replace the original, lost decades earlier. 

Today the future of the monumental courthouse that brought down the infamous Boss Tweed is secure.  Its elegant design and historical value are finally appreciated after more than a century and a half.

The Lost 1868 Temple Emanu-El -- 5th Avenue and 43rd Street

Although Spanish and Portuguese Sephardic Jews first arrived in New York in 1654, the great influx of German Jews would not begin for a century and a half.   In 1845 thirty-three German immigrants founded the Temple Emanu-El in a second story loft on the Lower East Side.

In the two decades between 1835 and 1855 around 250,000 European Jews immigrated into the United States, many of them settling on the Lower East Side and establishing what became known as Kleindeutschland, or “Little Germany.”  The tiny congregation exploded as more and more German immigrants were attracted by familiar services in their native language.

By 1865, after moving twice already, the congregation purchased land on the northeast corner of Fifth Avenue and 43^rd Street.   The avenue was still sparsely developed this far uptown; however only seven blocks north the grand white marble St. Patrick’s Cathedral was rising and ten blocks to the south the brownstone mansions of William and John Jacob Astor announced that society was on the way.

If the congregation meant to rival the soaring Gothic structure of St. Patrick’s, it succeeded.    Architects Henry Fernbach and Leopold Eidlitz worked together in designing the structure.    Fernbach was, reportedly, the first Jewish architect in the country and had been here only 12 years when he received the commission.

Synagogue architecture presented a problem for mid-19^th century designers.  Gothic Revival had already become associated with Christian churches and Greek Revival temple designs had nothing to do with the historical context of the Jewish religion.  Moorish motifs, on the other hand, reflected the pre-Inquisition period when Jews enjoyed relative freedom in Spain.

The cornerstone was laid on October 31, 1866 with an anticipated construction period of two years.  On schedule, the dedication of the $600,000 structure was held on September 12, 1868.

The completed temple was not only exotic, it was immense – the largest synagogue in the United States, capable of holding 2,000 worshipers.   One hundred and four feet wide, it stretched back along 43^rd Street 184 feet.  “The Dictionary of Architecture” later called the style “Saracenic,” while the New York Times was more accurate: “The style of the building may be named as Moorish; but like most modern structures, whether in good taste or not, it will exhibit the features of several styles of architecture.”

Harper's Weekly published an etching of the new temple in 1868 -- copyright expired

The architects used several colors of brick and “Ohio and Newark stone.”  Minaret-type towers that soared 140 feet skyward, a broad dramatic set of steps leading to five arched openings, painted glass and tiled roofs at various heights blended together to form an Arabian fantasy.

The interior was equally breathtaking.  The soaring space rose to the equivalent of five stories with supporting pillars over 60 feet high.  Moorish arches were carved and stenciled.  Every inch of ceiling and walls was decorated.  The woodwork was of black walnut and white oak and “the seats upholstered in the best manner, the aisles richly carpeted and the floors of the portico and vestibule…tessellated,” reported The Times.

Rows of 14-foot candelabra line the aisles beneath a stenciled ceiling -- Harper's Weekly 1888 (copyright expired)

In the basement were a lecture room and Sabbath school rooms that could accommodate 400 to 500 children, robing rooms and other “auxiliary rooms.”

A large police presence was necessary to control the crowd prior to the opening of the new temple.  Tickets had been issued days ahead—“just enough to fill every seat in the edifice”—and, according to The Times, “the anxiety to secure them was very great.”

And then, an hour and a half before the service was to begin at 4:00 pm, the people were let in.   “When the doors were opened,” said The Times, “there was a crushing and crowding in which ladies’ crinoline and gentlemen’s hats suffered severely…when all the seats were filled the doors were closed, and the policemen stood before them and permitted no more to enter.”

The newspaper called the building “magnificent,” and the New York Daily Tribune said it “is beyond doubt the most elegant Jewish house of worship in America.”

By 1870 mansions had begun cropping up across the avenue -- photo NYPL Collection

It was a progressive-thinking congregation and nine months later the doors were thrown open to music lovers of any religious persuasion for a concert on the impressive pipe organ which The Times maintained was “one of the largest (if not the largest) and finest organs ever built in this country.”  The immense organ stretched the entire length of the choir gallery, boasting nearly 4,500 pipes.  The exposed pipes were gilded and polychromed.  The newspaper reported that “The Temple was filled with the elite of the City and amateurs of music, all of whom enjoyed a rich treat of harmony…The Temple organ will doubtless be one of the many attractions in future for all who have music in their souls, whether citizens or strangers.”

The progressive nature of the congregation raised eyebrows when in 1879 it was proposed to initiate Sunday services for those members who could not make Sabbath services due to work obligations.  A few weeks after the proposal was put on the table, The Times remarked that it “created a profound impression in Hebrew circles, and may possibly prove the starting-point of a bitter controversy.”

Temple Emanu-El around 1890 -- photo NYPL Collection

That same year the German language services were abolished in favor of English and perhaps the greatest shock of all came when the popular Unitarian minister Rev. Dr. Henry W. Bellows was invited to preach the sermon for Thanksgiving services.

“Such an event was believed to be without precedent in the religious world,” said The Times, “and there was no little curiosity to see how the celebrated divine would comport himself under the extraordinary circumstances.”  The temple was filled to standing room for what was undoubtedly one of the first mixed-faith services in American history.

The wealth and prestige of Temple Emanu-El was, perhaps, reflected in the $10,000 salary Rabbi Dr. Gustave Gottheil was earning in 1880—about $200,000 by today’s standards.

By 1924 the temple was diminished by commercial structures -- photo NYPL Collection

The congregation continued to grow and prosper into the 20^th century.  But as it did, the area changed.  The neighborhood of marble and brownstone mansions was, by the 1920s, filling with tall commercial buildings.  Like the millionaires who had abandoned the surrounding palaces, the decision was made to move congregation further uptown.

On January 6, 1926 Benjamin Winter purchased the property then resold it two weeks later to William B. Ward for $6.5 million—the highest price ever paid on Manhattan.  Ward said “I bought the northeast corner of Forty-third Street and Fifth Avenue believing it was one of the finest corners on Fifth Avenue available for improvement with a high class commercial structure.”

The last of the stone arches await demolition -- photo NYPL Collection

Within two years the exotic Moorish spires of Temple Emanu-El would reign over Fifth Avenue and 43^rd Street no more.  In its place would rise the Lefcourt National Building, an Art Deco inspired skyscraper that remains today.