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| American Architect & Building News, January 24, 1885 (copyright expired) |
In 1884 Edward Clark’s lavish apartment building, The
Dakota, was opened on the west side of Central Park. Designed by Henry Janeway Hardenberg, it was one
of the gutsy gambles being taken by operators that wealthy New Yorkers would accept multi-family
buildings. Developers like Clark
outfitted the rambling apartments like horizontal, private homes. The venture worked.
That same year wealthy merchant Samuel Verplanck Hoffman’s
Hoffman Arms was completed at the northeast corner of Madison Avenue and 59th
Street. Designed by Charles W. Romeyn
& Co., its brick bulk sat on a rough-cut brownstone base. Ten floors tall, it was banded by wide terra
cotta and stone courses. Bulging cast
iron bays provided dimension and captured breezes for the sprawling apartments
within. Queen Anne elements—dormers and
spandrels filled with terra cotta tiles; tall, flat chimneys and an assortment;
of peaks and angles—gave the upper floors interest.
The completed structure cost Hoffman a staggering $450,000—in
the neighborhood of $11.25 million in 2016.
There were 32 apartments--four each on the upper floors. They included the necessities of high-end
Victorian living—library, parlor, dining room, servant’s bedroom, and reception
room. Servants had their own elevators,
one on either end of the building which brought them unobtrusively to the service
areas of each apartment.
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| A typical plan of the upper floors. American Architect & Building News, January 24, 1885 (copyright expired) |
The Hoffman Arms was completed by the end of January 1884
and the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide was quick to denounce its
architectural quality. In fact, the
publication was so scathing in its assessment it would not mention the
architects by name. On January 26 an
article noted that the building “bears on a placard the names of its
architects, to show that they think it a creditable work. Being of a different opinion, and, we trust,
of a benevolent disposition, we suppress the names.”
The Record & Guide protested mostly about the array of
materials used. Its critic was greatly offended, for instance, by the cast iron bays. The journal was unrelenting, saying “he has
bestrewn the frames of the windows with promiscuous boltheads, big and little,
which look like so many blisters, and this eruption of metallic pustules, which
would have a meaning on a boiler, is continued to the top, forming a sort of
varioloid decoration, which is not at all attractive in itself, but which
serves to bring out much more strongly the absurdity of the imitation of
masonry in the lower part.”
Despite the blistering attack, the Hoffman Arms filled with
wealthy residents who could afford the $2,100 annual rent; a little over $5,000
per month today. They also enjoyed the amenities
of the first floor, like the restaurant run by Rebecca Spooner, the barber
shop, and the Hoffman Arms Pharmacy, operated by Dr. A. P. Dudley.
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| A stereopticon slide shows an open carriage waiting at the front entrance. |
Like those living in the Dakota, most residents of the
Hoffman Arms used the building’s name rather than its address. And so when Frances N. Schurig died on July
30, 1890 The Evening World noted simply that “Mrs. Schurig was a woman of
fashion and refinement, and for the past two years has lived at the Hoffman
Arms.”
Her death was mysterious. Her husband, Dr. Edmund Schurig, lived in Dresden,
Germany. She had met him there several
years earlier and they married. It was her second marriage. She was the widow of George Cammann and had two children. Oddly enough, she returned to America and he
remained abroad. “Dr. Schurig never
lived with his wife at the Hoffman Arms, and this fact has given rise to the
rumor that there had been an estrangement between them,” said The World on
August 1, 1890.
By now Frances’s son, George Cammann, was grown and a
partner in a brokerage firm. Her
daughter, 18 years old, shared the Hoffman Arms apartment, and the two of them
regularly rode horses in Central Park.
The World said she “was noted for her wonderful abilities as an
equestrienne.”
Frances Schurig and her daughter enjoyed the lifestyles of
extremely wealthy New Yorkers. They
summered at fashionable resorts and Frances had sizable Manhattan real estate
holdings. The manager of the Hoffman
Arms described her as “the gentlest of gentlewomen, beautiful and educated, and,
despite her haughtiness, amiable, and of an exceedingly cheerful demeanor.”
In 1890 Frances and her daughter closed their apartments and were
summering in the Catskills. Frances
surprised the Hoffman Arms staff when she suddenly appeared, alone, the last
week of July. She did not stay long,
leaving on Monday morning July 28 for Bridgehampton, Long Island and John Hull’s
Hotel. Before leaving she mentioned to
one of the staff that she was planning a trip to Europe in March or April.
But the Evening World reported on August 1, “Early Wednesday
morning she appeared on the veranda of the hotel, a perfect picture, as
usual. She was arrayed in a correct
fitting costume selected with rare taste.”
Frances Schurig walked to the beach and after strolling for
some distance, she was seen by several men “too far off to interfere,” placing
her hat and cloak on the sand. She then
walked into the roaring surf. The
Evening World described her suicide in florid Victorian prose.
“Then when out of reach and earshot this regal woman, fully
and richly appareled, walked boldly and even defiantly into the ocean’s trough
where the breakers roared their loudest.
Thus she went to her death, facing the creamy-crested surf with a calm
deliberation that bespoke courage uncanny and weird.”
The New York Times reported “Twelve hours afterward the
waves tossed her body back onto the beach within a few rods of the spot where
she entered the water.” The Evening
World was gruesomely poetic in writing “Beautiful, haughty and queenly Mrs.
Francs N. Schurig calmly walked to her death in the seething breakers at
Bridgehampton, L. I., and to-day her rigid body lies in a receiving vault
awaiting burial.”
The suicide was indeed a mystery. The Times noted “Those who might explain her
act will not speak. From all outward appearances
she enjoyed all that makes life enjoyable.
She had beauty, health, riches, and two children.”
Also living in the building around the time of Frances
Schurig’s death was nationally-known spiritualist Dr. Eugene Crowell. The author of books like The Spirit World: Its Inhabitants, Nature and Philosophy, he had
been the leader of the political Know Nothing Party.
Like certain present-day politicians, the party was concerned
over the influx of immigrants, especially Irish Catholics. The party feared that the nation was being
overtaken by the German and Irish who were controlled by the Vatican. Its membership was limited to Protestant males;
but when differences over the issue of slavery fragmented the group, it
disintegrated.
Crowell’s prominence was such that when his health failed,
The Rock Island [Illinois] Argus reported on October 14, 1894 “Dr. Eugene
Crowell is critically ill at his residence in the Hoffman Arms…and his death is
expected at any hour.” The newspaper
noted that “Dr. Crowell has been for years the mainstay of the believers in
Spiritualism in this country” but it hastened to add “He was, during the
earlier period of his life, a materialist.”
Just over a week later, on October 29, 1894, Crowell died in his
apartment at the age of 78.
Within a month the family of David Tweedie moved from 50th
Street into the Hoffman Arms. Once their
apartment was in order, newspapers noted that Mrs. Tweedie and her daughter “are
at home on Wednesdays December 5 and 12.”
Elizabeth Ann Walker Tweedie was
well-to-do in her own right. She was the
granddaughter of Phlip Thomas, the first President of the Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad and her father was Treasurer of the Illinois Central Railroad. The family would stay here for many years.
“At homes,” teas, dinners and receptions were the norm in
the Hoffman Arms. On February 14, 1896,
for instance, The New York Times reported that “Mrs. Orlando B. Johnson, who
has a handsome suite of apartments in the Hoffman Arms…received informally last
evening…There were a large number of callers and some very delightful music.”
Perhaps the apartment building’s most notable resident at the
turn of the century was General Rafael Uribe, the Colombian revolutionary
leader. His secretary, Raoul Perez, and
Dr. A. J. Restrepo, “ardent Liberal,” as described by The Times, also had apartments
in the Hoffman Arms.
Rumors began circulating in July 1901 when General Uribe
suddenly disappeared from New York. On
July 23 The Times ran the suggestive headline “Gen. Uribe Preparing to Seize
Panama?” and furthered rumors by printing “it is said that he slipped away from
New York about three weeks ago, and is now actively engaged in preparing a
filibustering expedition for the purpose of taking Panama.”
At the time Charles A. Gerlach had been manager of the Hoffman
Arms for years. A few months after Uribe’s
disappearance, Gerlach noticed things were missing from his apartment. Soon other residences complained of stolen
items, the total value amounting to several thousand dollars. Gerland called in the police and the mystery
was solved when the janitor’s rooms were searched.
The janitor and his wife were arrested when “In the rooms of
the woman they found many of the stolen articles, and then traced a large
packing case of booty to a house in Second-ave.” The New-York Tribune reported on February 27,
the day after the arrest, that “The things stolen consisted of gowns,
silverware and jewelry. One of the
sufferers was Mrs. Eastman, a sister of Mrs. Carter Harrison, of Chicago.”
Scandal visited the Hoffman Arms the following year. Mrs. E. Spencer Hall and her daughter “had
their own carriage and an apparently unlimited income,” according to The
Evening World on March 17, 1903. “The
daughter is a pupil at an exclusive school for your girls.”
In the meantime, millionaire James Heman Snow, an executive
with Standard Oil Company, lived at No. 324 West 77th Street with
his wife. And so his death in the
apartment of Mrs. E. Spencer Hall on the night of March 26, 1903, raised questions. And it ignited a flurry of
attempts to head off gossip. That didn’t
work.
At first no one was allowed up to the Hall apartment, “the
clerk even refusing such permission to a policeman,” reported The Times the
following morning. Reporters were given
a misleading name for the deceased, the middle initial being substituted as “L”
to throw off their investigation.
Reporters camped out in the lobby and at around 1:30 in the
morning a man named Cole arrived in a cab.
“He hurried into the house and through the corridors and up the
elevator, asking to be taken to the rooms where Mr. Snow had died. He alone was permitted to go.”
It was later discovered that the mysterious man was Edward
F. Cole, a nephew of the dead millionaire, who lived on Riverside Drive. The story, of course, finally leaked out and
newspapers excitedly reported on the scandalous death. Charles Gerlach did not help the family’s nor
Mrs. Hall’s attempts to explain away the circumstances.
“Mr. Gerlach says that Mr. Snow was a frequent caller and
that he was known to Lucile Spencer Hall, the daughter of Mrs. Hall, as ‘uncle,’”
reported The Evening World on March 27.
Mrs. Snow, described by The World as “a devout Catholic” who
“has a private chapel in her magnificent home,” pretended outrage at the
assumptions of the press. She insisted
that she and her husband had gone to the Hall apartment for dinner and were
playing cards when he collapsed from a heart condition. It was she, she said, who had called a
doctor.
But The World noted “So far as Mr. Gerlach knows, Mrs. Snow
was never in the Hoffman Arms and he says she certainly was not there last
night with her husband.” Dr. Di Zerega, who responded to the apartment
and found Snow already dead did not help the cover-up either. “Dr. Di Zerega said that he had not heard
that Mrs. Snow was in the apartments of Mrs. Hall with her husband.”
Such attempts to avoid scandal and negative publicity among
society were, as now, commonplace. It
was the case three years later when the night clerk telephoned the Presbyterian
Hospital on March 29, 1906 saying “I want you to come here and get Mrs. Emily
Bloodgood. We can’t handle her.”
When the ambulance arrived, two men carried the 56-year old
socialite out, wrapped in blankets. The
Evening World said she “was connected with some of the most prominent families
in New York.” It added “Mrs. Bloodgood
is an enthusiastic patron of the arts, and her collection of old masters is
valued at thousands of dollars.”
Her elevated social status did not prevent the newspaper
from running the scurrilous headline “Mrs. Bloodgood Found Drugged—Removed from
Fashionable Hoffman Arms, Hysterical; Morphine is Blamed.”
Emily Bloodgood had become hysterical and Hoffman Arms staff
said “It was next to impossible to control her.” Before family members could do damage
control, The World reported “At the hospital it was said that Mrs. Bloodgood
was not only suffering from hysteria and alcoholism, but that she was possibly
poisoned by an overdose of morphine.”
On March 29 her son pooh-poohed the notion that his mother
was an abuser. “It came out yesterday
that Mrs. Emily Bloodgood, who was taken from the Hoffman Arms to Bellevue
Hospital on Wednesday night after dining with her son, H. L. Bloodgood of the
Racquet and Tennis Club, was hysterical from the pain an ulcerated tooth gave
her.”
The toothache explanation closed the discussion.
More than a dozen years after moving into the Hoffman Arms,
Elizabeth Tweedie died in her apartment on Saturday, July 7, 1906 at the age of
70. She had been ill for some time. Davie Tweedie and their unmarried daughter would
remain in the apartment for years to come.
In January 1907 the Hoffman family sold the building to
Charles Gerlach. An advertisement the
following year offered “Apartments from 5 to 20 rooms, with Kitchen or
Restaurant Service.” The ad hinted that
not just anyone off the street was welcome. “Select
Patronage.” Gerlach listed the most
expensive apartment available at $4,000 a year—more than $8,800 per month in
today’s dollars.
The lifestyle of the moneyed women in the Hoffman Arms was
evidenced in 1914 when Club Women of New York listed members’ interests. Resident Mrs. Nathalie McClean listed suffrage and
study; Miss Tweedie was interested in “women’s chess;” Mrs George P. Ludlum
noted her clubs, Continental Chap and Daughters of the American Revolution;
while Mrs. Anna G. Du Bois, apparently upset with the conditions in Europe,
simple listed “Peace.”
Other residents in the first years of the decade included
Louis Herman August Zerega di Zerega, one of the founders of the New York
Cotton Exchange. He lived here with his
wife, daughter and son-in-law and at least two maids. An sufferer of acute asthma, he accidentally
fell from his rear window on July 26, 1910 while attempting to get air. The New-York Tribune, with an unusual lack of
tact wrote “He was still in his pajamas yesterday morning at 10:45 o’clock when
his body hurled through the air to the pavement of the little yard, splitting
his skull.”
Colonel G. Creighton Webb was the brother of Dr. William
Seward Webb; who was married to Eliza Osgood Vanderbilt, daughter of William H.
Vanderbilt. And Colonel John Bogart was
a nationally-renowned civil engineer who not only helped Olmsted and Vaux in
the construction and landscape development of Central Park; but had constructed
bridges, railroad terminals and harbors in South America, Buffalo, and Toronto. One of their longest-term neighbors, David
Tweedie, died in his apartment on Thursday, March 2, 1916 at the age of
82.
The jazzy 1920s brought a change to Manhattan apartment life. Sleek-lined Art Deco buildings with the most modern of conveniences rose along Park
Avenue and across from Central Park. On the day after Christmas
in 1928 builders and operators Klein & Jackson announced they had purchased
the entire Madison Avenue blockfront between 59th and 60th
Streets. The Times noted “The
fifty-ninth Street corner is occupied by Hoffman Arms…one of the oldest housing
landmarks of its type in New York.”
Klein & Jackson laid plans for a “commercial structure
of forty or more stories.” But the
following year, after the buildings were vacated and demolition was scheduled,
the Stock Market crashed. On February
16, 1930 The New York Times explained “It has now been decided to postpone work
for a year…The Hoffman Arms, therefore, is now divested of tenants, many of
whom had been there for years and has three of four vacant stores.”
The Great Depression, of course, lasted well over a year. Finally in 1933 Klein & Jackson announced
its greatly scaled-down plans.
Anticipating the repeal of Prohibition, according to The New York Times
on March 23, Klein & Jackson’s “structure of artistic design adaptable in
part for a high-class restaurant and beer garden, is about to replace a
well-known landmark.”
The ambitious 40-story project of 1928 was dramatically
reduced. “The building destined to
replace these structures will be two stories in height and occupy the entire
plot.”
The sleek Art Moderne building was completed in 1934. The entire block-long ground floor was a
restaurant, and offices took up the second story. It survived only 13 years, replaced by an
8-story office building designed by Harrison & Abramovitz in 1957. Exactly three decades later Fox & Fowle
designed a 19-story tower to sit atop it.
And the Hoffman Arms slipped from memory.
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| photo by Beyond My Ken |
