The Lost Helmcke & Von Glahn Grocery - 182 Spring Street

 

image via the Landmarks Preservation Commission

Around 1824, three three-and-a-half story houses were erected at the southwest corner of Thompson and Spring Streets.  Clad in red brick and trimmed in brownstone, their Federal architecture featured tall dormers at the peaked attic level.  The corner house-and-store, at 162 Spring (renumbered 182 in 1847), had a nearly-windowless facade on Thompson Street.  The single centered openings at each floor culminated in a high, arched window in the gable, below dramatic joined chimneys.

The store in 162 Spring Street was home to the shop of Blavet & Boyce, chairmakers, in 1827.  It was replaced by John Read's locksmith business by 1836, and in 1840 James Gibson's bakery occupied the space.  He remained here until about 1850.

In February 1845, all three houses were sold at auction.  Included with 162 Spring Street was the wooden stable in the rear yard.  The announcement mentioned, "The house is 19 feet 10 inches in width, by 25 feet 11 inches in depth; the stable is 23 feet 6 inches by 13 feet 3 inches, more or less."

In 1851, the family of Henry Helmcke lived in the upper portion while he and partner Christopher Vonglahn ran the Helmcke & Von Glahn grocery store downstairs.  (Why Vonglahn used a space in his surname professionally is puzzling.)

Henry Helmcke was no longer associated with the store in 1859 and the family of Christopher Vonglahn now occupied the upper floors.  Unlike the Helmckes, Christopher and his wife, Gesine Margarethe, took in boarders--all of them Germans.  In 1858, they included William Stadtler, who ran a saloon at 178 Spring Street; Henry L. Schrader, a cabinetmaker; Gustav Hoeltje, who was a crimper (i.e., a navy recruiter); and tailor Frederick Breitwieser.

On September 12, 1859, Christopher and Gesine had a son, Christopher Henry.  The little boy died four years later, on November 22 and his funeral was held in the house the following afternoon.

The couple had a second son, John, on September 22, 1864.  In a tragic case of deja vu, the boy died at the age of five on September 30, 1869.  Once again, a funeral was held in the parlor.

Christopher Vonglahn rented the building from Ann Marshall for years, and operated his grocery store here at least through 1880.  Ann Marshall conveyed the property to her daughters, Caroline E. Marshall and Mary L. Van Ness as a gift in February 1886.  It was around this time that James E. Rosasco took over the grocery store.

Among the upstairs tenants in 1891 was Frank Jenkins, a partner in the embroidery firm Jenkins Brothers.  He was invited to join "a party of pleasure seekers," as worded by The Sun, on the 46-foot yacht, the Amelia, owned by Dr. William Bahn.  The newspaper called the craft, "handsomely finished and furnished."  The party left on the morning of June 14 for an excursion to Nyack.

After their day trip and dinner at Nyack, the Amelia headed back at 5:00.  The Sun reported that the return trip "was made with light and more or less unfavorable winds, and it was nearly 1 A.M. when the Amelia found herself off 111th street."  Frank Jenkins and another passenger had gone below to sleep.  It was a fatal decision.

A tugboat, not seeing the luxury yacht, crashed into it.  "The bow of the tug struck the Amelia amidships, cutting her nearly in two.  She sank almost instantly, leaving her passengers struggling in the water."  All those who had been on deck were rescued, but Jenkins and 16-year-old William Bahn, Jr. were drowned.

By the turn of the century, Caroline Marshall had sole ownership of the building, which was deemed unsafe on March 13, 1903.   Two weeks later, The Bureau of Buildings took over the title, citing "violation of Building Laws."  Caroline apparently did the required repairs and regained the title before the end of the year.  James E. Rosasco was still operating the store, and his license "to sell and deliver milk" was renewed that year.

Caroline Marshall also owned 184 Spring Street, next door.  She made significant updates in May 1911 when she hired architects Harrison & Sackheim to install "toilets, partitions [and] skylights" to the two buildings at a cost of $2,000 (about $66,200 in 2024 terms).

Since the 1880s, Caroline Marshall had lived in the Barrett House on Broadway and 43rd Street (renamed the Hotel Wallick in 1910).  She died there in 1915, The New York Times headlining an article on April 24, "Miss Marshall Hid Cash / Executors Find Envelope Containing $50,000 in Money."  The stashed cash alone would equal about $1.56 million today.  Her will listed significant real estate holdings, and The Times reported that her brother Edmund "is given the property at 182 Spring Street."

Edmund Marshall quickly sold the property to Angelo Frasinetto.  On April 7, 1917, the Record & Guide reported that he had hired architect George J. Casazza to replace it with "a 3-story brick and stone store and lodge room building."  For some reason, the plans were scrapped.  In April 1920 architect Frank E. Vitalo submitted plans for a "3-story tenement" which, too, were never realized.  

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

The following year, the properties at 182 and 184 Spring Street were demolished for a two-story Arts & Crafts style structure designed by Louis A. Sheinart.  It survived until 2020 when it was demolished for a mixed-use building.

many thanks to Jeff Charles Goolsby for suggesting this post

The Henry E. Price House - 138 Sullivan Street

Something happened to the house at No. 138 Sullivan Street around 1840.   Brick-faced residences had first begun appearing along the block between Prince and Houston Streets only around 14 years earlier; so it may have been fire that necessitated Charles Stewart to build a replacement.

The former house would have been Federal in style, with dormers piercing the peaked roof.  Stewart's, however, took on the newly emerging Greek Revival style.  The slightly pitched roof sat above a full-height third floor.  The openings were trimmed in understated brownstone lintels and sills.  The entrance, however, was transitional.  More in line with its Federal-style neighbors, there was no stone enframement around the entrance.  On the other hand, the simple, squared pilasters flanking the door reflected the more somber Greek Revival.

Despite serious abuse, the Greek Revival elements of the entrance can be seen.  A Federal-style doorway would have been flanked by more effusive fluted columns.

Most houses of the period had small buildings in the rear lot--either a stable for those who could afford a horse, or a small house or shop.  These were accessed by a horse walk--a narrow pathway between houses.  The oval window to the left of the entrance suggests a horse walk may have originally tunneled to the rear, beside the stoop.

No. 138 became home to Henry E. Price family by the 1850s.  It appears that one bedroom was leased.  In 1855 William P. Howe listed the house as his address.  A saddler by trade, he also volunteered with the Niagara Engine Company No. 4.  That fire house was a few blocks away on Mercer Street.

The young Price may have been a member of the Municipal police at the time.  In 1857 Republican reformers abolished the force, creating instead the Metropolitan Police force that covered Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island and Westchester County.  A sharp rift developed between the immigrant officers and those of Anglo-Dutch roots; the former refusing to give up their positions while the latter adapted to the transition.

The dispute led to two police forces which came together in violent riots.  Chaos resulted and while the police fought one another in at least two high profile skirmishes, criminals ran rampant.  The situation was finally put to rest on July 3, 1857 when the courts enforced the Metropolitan Police jurisdiction.  On November 24 Henry E. Price was "reported on favorably" by the Committee on Applications and Removals, which was charged with staffing the new department.

By the summer of 1859 J. Whitelaw was boarding with the Prices.  Out of a job, he placed an advertisement in The New York Herald on July 13.  "Wanted--by a young man, who has a thorough knowledge of the wholesale drug business, a situation in a wholesale house; is willing to make himself generally useful, and can give satisfactory reference as to capability and character."

Christmas Day that year was anything but jolly.  Price's mother-in-law, Mary Ann Short, had died on Friday, December 23 at just 43 years old.  Her funeral was held in the Sullivan Street house at 1:30 on Christmas afternoon.

Exactly two months later, on February 23, Price's father, Ellis, died.  His funeral, too, was held in the house the following Sunday afternoon.

The Prices left Sullivan Street in the early 1860s.  Their moving may have been the reason for the advertisement that appeared in The New York Herald on July 14, 1863.  "Wanted--By a respectable girl, a situation in a private family, as waitress or chambermaid and fine washer."

James Forrest Taylor was assistant engineer in Engine Company No. 13.  In 1869 he and his wife, Mary, had a son, James, Jr.  Taylor .  Like the Prices, they rented a room.  In 1864 and 1865 their tenant was Addie N. C. Gale.  She taught in Primary School No. 25 at No. 545 Greenwich Street.

On January 29, 1876 the Taylors' seven-year old son died.  His funeral was held the following Sunday.   It would not be the last tragedy that year.   Apparently renting from the Taylors was the Prendt family.  On June 20 The New York Times reported "An inquest was held yesterday by Coroner Croker in the case of Henry S. Prendt, a boy, of No. 138 Sullivan street, who, while playing on a float at the foot of Charlton street, fell overboard and was drowned."  The jury ruled the death an accidental drowning.

Their son's devastating death may have prompted the Taylors to leave the Sullivan Street house.  By 1878 it was owned by Daniel Coffey, another police officer.   The Coffey family would retain possession of No. 138 Sullivan Street for decades.

Coffey was also well-known in political circles and in 1871 served as president of the Seventh Ward Hickory Club.  In 1878 son Charles E. Coffey was enrolled in the "Mechanical Course" at New York City College.  As their predecessors had done, the Coffey family rented a furnished rooms.   In 1878 a boarder named Blohm was looking for a job as a grocery clerk.

In 1881 a German furrier named Willegas boarded with the Coffeys.  Before he left Heidelberg, he had promised an co-worker, Henrich Zapke, he would help find him work once he was established.  The 35-year old Zapke had understandable reasons to leave Germany.

He had owned his own fur business and things had initially gone well.  Then, six months after he was married his bride died.  According to Mrs. Coffey later, "After her death he was unfortunate in business, and came to this country almost penniless to work at his trade."

In October 1881 he arrived in New York and, he too, rented a furnished room in the Coffey house.  Just as he promised Willegas landed Zapke a position with the fur store of Duncan, Ashe & Jaekel on Broadway.  But business slowed in the middle of December and Zapke lost his job.

His streak of bad luck, possibly coupled with the holidays, was apparently too much to bear.  On Christmas Day Zapke visited Willegas in his room and appeared "to be in his usual health and spirits," according to a newspaper.  But the following day he did not come out of his room.

Willegas peered through the window into his room and saw him hanging from a clothes rack.  A policeman was summoned, who found that the door was locked on the inside and a towel had been placed over the doorknob so no one could peer inside.

The New York Times reported "The door was broken in and Zapke was found quite dead."  With unnecessary detail the article said "His body was stiff, and decomposition had already begun, indicating that he had committed suicide during the previous night."

The dejected man's suicide had was not entirely due to finances.  His life's savings of $90 in cash was in his room (more than $2,100 today) along with a silver watch and chain.

Daniel Coffey retired from the Police Department on March 4, 1886, receiving a pension of $600 a year.  He augmented that income, about $15,600 today, with real estate investments in the neighborhood.  By the time of his retirement he had moved his family down the street to one of his properties, No. 84 Sullivan Street.   He retained possession of No. 138, operating it as a rooming house.  And it was about this time that he converted the basement to a store.

The changing times were reflected in one tenant's want ad in April 1892.  William Brosher wrote "Experienced young man wishes a situation as elevator runner."  And at the time of Brosher's ad, the Sullivan Street neighborhood was seeing a different type of change as it filled more and more with Italian immigrants.

The little house in the rear yard was rented to fruit seller Gaestono Ricchi and his wife, Maria, in 1893.  Maria's brother, Giuseppi Lendini and his wife lived a block away at No. 117 South Fifth Avenue (later renamed West Broadway).   What started out as a Sunday family dinner on July 2 ended in bloodshed.

According to The Sun the following day, "After dinner the men got drunk.  Ricci [sic] slapped his wife's face.  Lendini, as her brother, objected, and was told to mind his own business."  With Italian honor at stake, the confrontation escalated.

Lendini asserted "that he would allow no one to abuse his sister, whereupon Ricci [sic] knocked her down.  Then he turned to her brother and said: 'What are you going to do about it?'"

Lendini knocked his brother-in-law to the floor.  But when Ricchi got to his feet, he had a stiletto in his hand, which he stabbed into Lendini's left hand and head.  The wounded man responded by pulling out a revolver.

Ricchi ran into the yard as Lendini followed, firing the gun.  "Lendini, dripping with blood from his wounds, kept firing at Ricci [sic] and succeeded in hitting him three times," reported The Sun.  Lendini's wife, in the meantime, had run to the Prince Street police station for help.  By the time Patrolmen Kelly and Baker arrived, according to the newspaper, 400 to 500 neighbors were milling around in front of the house.

The New York Times report on the incident was brazenly stereotypical.  "Calabrians recreated yesterday afternoon in Camorra fashion in the basement of the rear house at 138 Sullivan Street, and two men were wounded.  As usual they kept their own counsel.  A vendetta murder may be the outcome."

The Sun reported that Ricchi's wounds were comparatively slight.  But, it said, "Lendina was taken to St. Vincent's Hospital with a hole in his lung, and is likely to die."  The Times was more casual, callously reporting "Honors were about even."

Daniel Coffey owned No. 138 Sullivan Street as late as 1912 when he took out a $10,000 mortgage on the property.  The names of his tenants in the pre-World War I years reflected the neighborhood now known as Little Italy:  Capazeli, Dalto, Motta and Longobardi among them.

Throughout the remainder of the 20th century renters came and went with little attention.  When the house was sold at auction in January 1920 it was described as a "three-story brick tenement and store."

But as the century drew to a close, the Sullivan Street neighborhood saw change once again.  Bordering the trendy Soho district to the south, it was home to the Autism Women's Network in 2012.  Today Arthouse NYC, self-described as "NYC's favorite pop-up concierge for art galleries...and just about anything imaginable," calls No. 138 home; while the basement level until recently housed GLLAM (Gallery La La Artisan Market).

Through it all the house that Charles Stewart erected around 1841 retains its early residential appearance on a much-changed block of Sullivan Street.

photographs by the author

From Lodging House to Sushi - 113 Thompson St

Erected in 1833, the Second Associate Presbyterian Church sat at the corner of Prince and Thompson Streets.  The congregation sold an unused lot behind the church to Henry S. Richards in 1842.  He set to work constructing a brick-faced house on the 19-foot wide plot.

Richards was well-to-do and cultured, a member of the American Art-Union, for instance.  His new project was purely an investment.  As the three-story Greek Revival style house neared completion in 1843 he advertised it for rent.

The first tenant of the 14-room house seems to have been James C. Hoe, a partner with his father in the construction firm of William Hoe & Son.   James was living here in 1849 when his father died.  He took his brother Richard into the business, renaming it Richard & James C. Hoe.

On July 29, 1849 James lost his pocketbook in the neighborhood.  He pinpointed the loss at being either on Varick or Charlton Street, about two blocks away from the house.   The pocketbook contained some cash, but it also held a check for $100 and a contract for lumber.  Hoe advertised that "The finder, by returning it to J. C. Hoe...will be satisfactorily and liberally rewarded."

Richard died in 1856, passing ownership of No. 113 Thompson Street to his son, James N. Richards.  In 1859 the family living here, possibly still the Hoes, advertised for a servant.  The upscale tenor of the residents was reflected in the mention of "fine clothing."   The pay offered would be equal to about $60 per week today.

WANTED-An American girl, who is a good cook and capable of washing and ironing fine clothing.  Apply at 113 Thompson st.  Wages $8 per month.  None but Americans need apply; colored person preferred.

By 1863 rooms were being rented in the house.  (James Hoe and his brother later moved into matching mansions at Nos. 325 and 327 West 14th Street.)  On July 28, 1863 an advertisement offered "A Lady or Gentleman, or two ladies with quiet habits, can be accommodated with neatly furnished rooms--board for ladies only."

The wording made it clear that disreputable women would not be tolerated and that men could find their meals elsewhere.

The house remained in the Richards family, owned by Robert G. Richards by the end of the decade.  The first years after the end of the Civil War saw the neighborhood change.  New York City's black population had been centered around Minetta Lane, roughly two blocks to the north.  Now freed slaves came north, expanding that district's borders.  Thompson Street filled with African American residents as well as indigent immigrants from Europe.

Richards placed an ad in The New York Herald on December 18, 1869 offering "To Let--with possession, the handsome three story high stoop brick House, 113 Thompson street, near Prince.  Will let to a respectable colored family."  A few weeks later, in January 1870, he re-ran the advertisement, adding "will let very low to responsible tenant."

Richards's tenants were not a black family, as he apparently expected, but that of 36-year old Polish-born physician Jacob Rosenzweig.  With him in the house was his 33-year old wife, Leonora, their 13 year old daughter Rosa, and sons George and Seymour, 7 and 2 years old.   1870 census records reveal that they rented a room to a 19-year old "English-woman."

Rosenzweig's reason for leaving Thompson Street in 1871, in favor of basement rooms at No. 687 Second Avenue, may have been connected with a grisly affair involving a patient, Alice Augusta Bowlsby.   The pretty seamstress from Patterson, New Jersey was considered "virtuous" by friends.  But her virtue was compromised by Walter Conklin, son a wealthy silk mill operator.

Late in August a steamer trunk was delivered to the baggage room at the Hudson River train depot.  It sat unclaimed until a baggage agent noticed a putrid stench.  When police pried it open, they found the naked corpse of Alice Bowlsby.  One journalist described the rotting body in idealistic Victorian prose, "A tangled mass of the most beautiful golden hair fell in waves over her shoulders, which must have been white as Parian marble, and eyes of blue, that even death's horrors cannot pale."

Less poetic was the Cornoner's report, which noted her "lower parts" were "swollen," and that a placenta was discovered.  It was a sure sign that Bowlsby was the victim of a botched abortion.  But perhaps most disturbing was the conclusion that she had been stuffed in the trunk still alive.

Rosenzweig's arrest was depicted in the 1871 pamphlet "The Great 'Trunk Mystery of New York City'" (copyright expired)

Detectives pieced together the evidence, which pointed to the doctor whom The New York Times called on September 3, "the monster Rosenzweig."

The house changed hands among the Richards family again in 1873, when Robert transferred title to Edward C. Richards.  Edward did some remodeling then advertised it for rent on January 18 1874, noting "all modern improvements and in complete order; painted, papered, &c."

With apparently no takers for the entire house, Richards then offered floor-through suites.  In May he advertised five rooms in the parlor level, three rooms on the second floor and five on the third.  But the Thompson Street neighborhood continued to decline.  By 1885 the once respectable house was being leased by Thomas Taylor, who operated it as a lodging house, the lowest form of accommodations.

Unlike rooming houses (which were a step below a boarding house), lodging houses offered no amenities.  Instead, for a much cheaper fee the lodgers received an over-night bed with (hopefully) fresh sheets.  Patrons of lodging houses were commonly low-class petty thieves or alcoholics.

On December 22, 1885 Thomas Taylor was attacked and robbed by three of his lodgers.  One, James McGrath, was arrested.  He was sentenced to 10 years in Sing Sing on February 16, 1886.

Another lodger, Thomas Digney, was briefly a suspect in a murder investigation the following month.   Just over a block to the south, at No. 162 Spring Street, was Edward J. Hernon's saloon.  Around 8:30 on the morning of March 9, his bartender, Thomas John Molloy, stumbled onto the street, a whiskey glass still in his hand, crying "Murder! Murder!"   Passersby carried him back into the saloon, where he died of a pistol shot in the heart.

There were only a few patrons in the bar at the time, one of which was Digney.   Another threw suspicion on him.  The New York Times reported "Thomas Digney, a tramp truck driver, who lodged at No. 113 Thompson-street, was pressing around the dead man and tying up his jaw and legs."  George W. Raynor told detectives he "considered his action suspicious," and when he questioned him, Digney replied "If you're so smart, why don't you get me arrested?"  He did.

After being questioned at the Prince Street station house, Digney was released.

The house accommodated 40 lodgers per night in 1886.  The men paid between 10 and 15 cents for their beds.  The highest rate would be around $4 today.   The often pitiable lives of the lodgers was exemplified in a single line entry in the Coronor's Book on New Year's Day, 1888:  "Unknown man, age forty years, died suddenly at the lodging-house, 113 Thompson street at 8.15 P. M."

The end of the line for the lodging house came in 1893 when the Episcopal City Mission Society paid $15,170.09 for the house and property.  Architects Harney & Purdy were hired to convert it to the Mission of St. Barnabas's Chapel, including a kindergarten.   The congregation of St. Ambrose Church used the meeting space.

By the turn of the century the kindergarten was being operated by the West Side Italian Settlement.  On December 19, 1902 the New-York Daily Tribune warned its readers that the "sixty-five little tots that five mornings in the week fill the big, bare hall at No. 113 Thompson-st." were in danger of being forgotten by Santa Claus, yet again.

Many of the children spoke no English and some barely understood the holiday.  The newspaper explained "There are almost all nationalities represented, but the Italian predominates, and the bright cards and worsted in the 'busy play' are a source of never ending delight to these color loving tots."

The reporter interviewed Annie Tomasso, who said that last Christmas her father had promised her a dolly, "but he went to sleep on the floor all day and forgot."   A teacher told of finding five-year old Freddie in the corner of his family's one-room apartment eating "bread and jelly."  She knew his mother could barely afford bread, and when she said "Jelly, why, how very nice," he admitted "I'm just makin' believe it's jelly."

The article was a thinly-veiled plea for donations of toys for the underprivileged kindergartners.  "But despite the assurance to little Annie Tomasso that Santa Claus would 'surely not forget,' the 'overflow' teacher fears that unless some proxy Santa Clauses with big hearts and helping hands find time to do the the Christmas Saint's bidding in the next week, it will be a pathetically poor little remembrance that comes the way of the 'overflow' folk in Thompson-st."

The ploy worked.  On January 5, 1903 a letter from teacher S. Elvira Hodges appeared in the Tribune, thanking contributors.   She ended it saying "Little Annie is now the happy possessor of a doll and Freddie eats 'really, truly jelly' on his bread."

The following year real estate operators Pepe Brother and D. Gallo sold the building for $15,000.  Charles Friedman commissioned architects Bernstein & Bernstein to renovate it to a store and tenement.  A cast iron storefront was installed, distinctive metal pediments were added to the second floor windows and a classically-inspired swag frieze below the cornice.

Crime and poverty were still problems in the area in the first decades of the 20th century.  The store space was a saloon during the World War I years.  It was the scene of violence on December 5, 1918.  The Evening World reported "Murder--By five patrons in a saloon and eating place at No. 113 Thompson Street, a 3 P.M., in which Giuseppe Luso, of No. 180 Prince Street, fell dead, shot through the heart.  No arrests reported."

The name of the victim reflected the increasing Italian population; and by the Depression No. 113 Thompson Street sat firmly within New York's Little Italy.  In 1938 the building was purchased by Allesandro Rinaldi.   The saloon was no longer and the lives of the hard-working, blue collar Italian residents drew little attention for the next few decades.

But the neighborhood would see change once again by the last quarter of the century.  Sitting on the edge of the Soho artists' district, No. 113 was suddenly trendy by the spring of 1977.  Writing in The New York Times on April 22, Anna Quindlen said "Further west, at 113 Thompson Street, is the OG dining room, which should be singled out for an outstanding contribution to the weekend streetscene--a pushcart full of chocolate chip cookies that is habitually parked on the corner of Prince street and West Broadway."  That restaurant was replaced in 1982 with Omen-Azen, which features "casual Kyoto-style Japanese cuisine."

Through it all, No. 113 Thompson Street retains its charming 1904 appearance--a delightful slice of Little Italy at the turn of the last century.

photographs by the author

The John C. Hashegan House - 186 Prince Street

In 1826 the newly-formed real estate development firm of Mills & Ryerson purchased the land at the corner of Prince and Sullivan Streets.  They erected four houses--two facing Prince and two on Sullivan Street--but oddly enough left the corner plot empty.

It was not until around 1830 that Henry Hopper began construction of a Federal-style house on the lot.  Two-and-a-half stories tall, it was faced in red Flemish bond brick and trimmed in brownstone.  The attic floor would have had tall dormers and a short stone stoop would have risen to the entrance.

If Henry Hopper, who made his living as a cartman, ever lived in the house it is unclear how long.  But by the first years of the 1840s it was home to the Hallenbeck family.

Hallenbeck was involved in a disturbing incident on June 26, 1841.  The New-York Tribune reported three days later "As Mr. Hallenbeck, who resides at 129 Sullivan street, was returning to the city on Saturday evening last, on the Bloomingdale road [known as Broadway today], about 5 miles from the city, he accidentally run over a child, which was lying in the road."

Hallenbeck stopped and "paid every attention to the little sufferer."   The little girl, Mary McGillen, belong to a local Irish immigrant family.  Rather surprisingly to modern readers, although Hallenbck supposed that the child "could not survive long," he left after deciding she was being well taken care of.

On Monday morning he went to the Coroner's office and told his story.  He was surprised to hear that the accident had not been reported to the Coroner, since he was certain the girl had to be dead by now.  An investigation showed that Alderman Bradhurst had already held an inquest, without the Coroner's presence.  The conclusion was that "The jury found that she came to her death by being run over by a carriage, unknown to this jury."

The reporter for the New-York Tribune was irate--apparently to the point of destroying his grammar skills.  "Had Ald. Bradhurst taken the trouble to make the necessary inquires who the gentleman was that run over the child, or had he even sent for the Coroner himself, the public would have had before them the whole of the particular in relation to this affair, as the Coroner or his deputy was at his office, and could have been found at any moment."

Before 1850 John Christopher Hashagen and his family moved into the house.  He transformed the parlor floor for his grocery store and extended the building to the rear.

Hashagen was born in Hanover, Germany on August 31, 1814 and was married to the former Friederike Charlotte Meredith.  The couple had five children, including Caroline who was born in the house in 1850.  The family lived above the store.

The extension was apparently used for the meetings of Hashagen's club.  On July 15, 1851 The New York Herald announced "The Old Tops of the Eighth ward will go on their next annual chowder excursion, to Sheep's Head Bay, on next Wednesday, the 16th of July.  They will start at 4  o'clock, A. M., from their headquarters, John C. Hashagen's, corner of Prince and Sullivan streets, with Kipp & Brown's splendid six horse stage."

The use of the stage made the chowder excursion doubly pleasurable for the men.  Coaching in the mid-19th century was a fashionable pastime for upscale groups.  The Herald added that "N. B. Reuben drives."

It would appear that a relative or friend of the Hashagen family from their homeland was staying here in the spring of 1854.  An advertisement in The New York Herald on March 10 read "A respectable young girl, lately arrived from Germany, wishes to obtain a situation in a genteel American or German family.  She would like to go as chambermaid of seamstress.  Has a good knowledge of the French language.  Satisfactory references as to respectability."

A similar advertisement appeared 11 years later.  On November 14, 1865 the same newspaper ran the ad "Wanted--By a respectable German girl, a situation as waitress or chambermaid in a private family."  The girl used the address of the side entrance leading upstairs, No. 186 Prince Street.


The following year Hashagen raised the attic level to a full third floor; and in 1869 added a fourth floor and an up-to-date Italianate cornice.  Interestingly, in both renovations the Federal-style paneled lentils were reproduced, providing an architectural cohesiveness.

In 1870 Caroline, who was known as Carrie, married John A. Meredith.   Carried was 19 years old and her groom was 28.  Tragedy visited the young couple on July, 18, 1873 when their one-year old son, Walter Hashagen Meredith, died "of cholera infantum."  The now-rare disease attacked young children, most often in congested neighborhoods and during periods of high heat and humidity.

The heart-breaking funeral of the toddler was held in the Hashagen's Prince Street house the following Sunday afternoon.

John Hashagen's business apparently flourished.  In 1876 he rented space in H. F. Kahrens's stable on No. 209 Sullivan Street for his horses.  The $1,019 lease would equate to more than $23,000 today.  The need for a team of horses, most likely for delivery purpose, might reflected Hashagen's change in businesses.   By 1882 he was listed as "furniture" rather than the grocery business.

On August 3, 1880 a society journalist for The New York Times gushed on about a new and fashionable resort, Richfield Springs, New York.  The writer insisted that there "shoddyism" was unknown.  "The 20 or more hotels and boarding-houses have accommodations for between 2,000 and 3,000 strangers, and they are all full to overflowing, mainly with New-Yorkers," she said.  "A striking feature of the attendance is the high social standing of the visitors."

John and Friederike Hashagen had come far from the day they stepped off the steamer from Germany.  Among the guests at the Park Place Hotel, where "the ladies dress richly but sensibly" were the Hashagens.

The couple's elevated status no doubt contributed to their leaving the Prince Street building they had called home for three decades.  In 1883 J. Kroeger paid $75 for his excise license, allowing him to transform John Hashagen's former grocery store into a saloon.

The building was owned by J. Rennan in 1886, when he constructed a "two-story brick storage" building a block away at the corner of Prince Street and South Fifth Avenue (later renamed West Broadway).

As the neighborhood filled with immigrants by the turn of the century, No. 186 Prince Street became a rooming house.  The tenant list was made up of mostly Italian surnames, like that of Paola Alfieri who died in her room on February 19, 1903 at the age of 64.

Unfortunately, while the majority of the new Italian-Americans were hard-working, blue collar citizens; their reputations were stained by the violence and criminal activities of others.  In the first years of the 20th century violent anarchist groups like La Mano Nera (or the Black Hand) and syndicates like the Mafia and Comorra wielded power and terror throughout most of the century.

On June 24, 1927 at around 4:00 in the afternoon, a five-alarm fire raged in the Bishop Warehouse Company Building on Greenwich Street.  The New York Times reported that it "tied up traffic and darkened the financial district with heavy clouds of black smoke, causing a million dollar loss."

Investigators soon determined that it was deliberately set "to conceal the theft of a huge quantities of drugs and liquors."  Federal agents tracked the gangsters to No. 186 Prince Street.  Twenty-eight year old Alexander Psaki and 30-year old John Courmalis were arrested and held on $50,000 bail each.

Assistant U. S. District Attorney Carl E. Newton maintained "the men had been members of a gang which had taken goods from the warehouse which would probably amount to a million dollars."  This, he said, was just the last in a long string of "systematic thefts."

The one constant in New York City neighborhoods is change.  In the second half of the century the Little Italy neighborhood took on the influence of the now-trendy Soho district.

Writing in The New York Times on February 11, 1965 Philip H. Dougherty reported on the city's discotheques, of which there were currently 15.  "A proper discotheque, as it was introduced in France," he explained, is a dark, intimate boite de nuit where the music is supplied by hi-fi stereophonic sound systems tended by a disk jockey.

And residents of No. 186 Prince Street had come up with a clever way to capitalize on the craze.  Dougherty described Killer Joe Piro as "by appointment, dancing master to the jet set."  He partnered with disk jockey, Slim Hyatt, "a tall, 35-year-old, thin-faced and soft-spoken Panamanian" and a group called the Porpoise--all living in the Prince Street building--to turn any "home club or hotel into a discotheque."

Dougherty referred to their partnership as "discotheque-to-take-out."  For $50 an hour they would supply the turntables, speakers, and records.  By the time of the article the Williams Club had used the group's services three times.  Its manager said "The people just didn't want to go home."

The Soho-like atmosphere seemed assured when the Prince Street Gallery opened in October 1974.  But it eventually moved on.  The ground floor space where John Hashagen sold groceries, J. Kroeger ran his saloon, and contemporary art was sold is now a corner newsstand where neighbor can purchase their Lotto tickets.

Hashagen's 1850s storefront was long ago obliterated; but the upper floors are little changed since his last alteration in 1869.

photographs by the author

Elegance Preserved - No. 116 Sullivan Street

In the first decades of the 19th century the sprawling farms and country estates in the proximity of Greenwich Village were seeing the first signs of development.  Aaron Burr had barely fled his elegant Richmond Hill estate in 1804 before John Jacob Astor acquired the land and laid out streets and building plots.  Even more far-sighted, the Bayard family had hired Theodore Goerck to create a plan of streets and plots in 1788.  Their East and West Farms, divided by the Great George Road (later part of Broadway), abutted the Richmond Hill property to the east.

Among the streets on the Bayard farm was Sullivan Street, named for Brigadier General John Sullivan whose acclaimed military abilities during the Revolution were still fresh in New Yorkers' minds.   The block between Prince and Spring Streets would not see serious development until the early 1830s.

In 1832 wealthy bookbinder Charles Starr joined the flurry of speculative development in the area when he erected a row of seven upscale homes on the west side of the block.  Starr's confidence that the neighborhood would become exclusive was reflected in his own home within the row at No. 110 Sullivan Street.  It's expansive 32-foot width equaled that of the homes of Manhattan's wealthiest citizens.

Like that residence, No. 116 exhibited expensive architectural details.  Faced in red Flemish bond brick, its openings were trimmed in brownstone.  Two and a half stories tall, its pitched roof was covered in slate shingled and pierced with dormers.  It was on the entrance, however, that Starr's architect lavished his attention.

Sitting above a four-step stone stoop, the doorway sat within an arched brownstone surround broken by two paneled blocks and a wedge-shaped keystone.  An overlight, no doubt once filled with a lacy leaded fan, was recessed within a fully-paneled soffit.  Below, separating the fluted Ionic columns flanking the door and the half-columns that disappeared into the stone frame, were exceptionally elegant sidelights.  Skillful wood carvers fashioned the frames of the three oval openings to simulate fabric curtains, pulled open and held with rings.

John Nerrick and his wife, Hannah, lived at No. 116 in 1843.  Apparently, despite his handsome home and lifestyle, Nerrick was in financial straits.  That year he borrowed $20 from his brother-in-law, David Devoe, a shady character described by The New York Herald as "so well known as an offender."  His troubles would soon be far more serious than financial problems.

On the night of May 24, 1843 the tailor store of William H. Lightbody, at the corner of Mercer and Houston Streets was broken into.  Clothing  (listed as "2 coats, 3 pairs of pantaloons, 3 vests, 1 boot, etc., worth upward of $45) was stolen.  The goods would be worth a little more than $1,500 today.

Most of the stolen property was later discovered in a trunk in Newark, New Jersey, where witnesses said it was left by Devoe.  When Devoe was arrested, he was wearing one pair of the stolen pantaloons, and the key to the trunk was found in his pocket.  Also in his pockets were pawn tickets for more of the clothing and counterfeit bills.  It seemed like an open-and-shut case.

But at Devoe's trial, on December 20, the finger of suspicion pointed to John Nerrick, instead.  The New-York Daily Tribune reported "For defence it was proved that the trunk containing the recovered clothing was brought to 116 Sullivan street and taken to Newark by John Nerrick, who put it into Devoe's possession for a loan of $20."

Called as a witness was Hannah Nerrick, whose uneasy testimony would decide the fates of her husband and her brother.   She told the jury that her husband had, indeed, given the trunk to Devoe as security for the loan.   Those in the courtroom were possibly shocked when she then declared that Devoe was sick at New Providence, New Jersey, at the time of the burglary.  He could not have committed the crime.

Although David Devoe was quickly determined not guilty; he was held prisoner on another indictment against him.   John Nerrick was sent to the Philadelphia State Prison.

Financial problems followed the next occupant of No. 116.  In January 1859 the unnamed owner had died and his wife was struggling financially.  She tried renting rooms, placing an advertisement that read "A suit of handsome furnished rooms to let--With or without board; also board for one or two persons, where all the comforts of a home will be found, with a widow lady, without children."

Renting out rooms was apparently not enough.  Four months later, on April 26, strangers filed through the house as A. J. Bleecker, Son & Co. sold all its furnishings at auction.

The owner in 1870 had purchased the house for investment purposes.  When he advertised it for lease in April that year, it was described as having "two basements, two parlors, extension and rooms up stairs; splendid yard."  The rent was "cheap to a responsible tenant."

Two years later the house was remodeled to a full four floors capped by a handsome bracketed cornice.  By now the neighborhood had noticeably changed.   Wealthy homeowners had moved away as the area filled with immigrants and blacks.  The boarders in the house next door, at No. 114, in the 1870s seem to have been all black, for example.

The working class boarders in No. 116 in 1876 included E. Sloat, who advertised in March "Wanted--A small second hand drilling machine."

The house was offered for sale in 1878 and the owner seems to have been eager to dispose of it.  His ad on February 11 offered "For sale at a bargain."

The last decade of the 19th century continued to see hard-working tenants; while the basement level was being used commercially.  Frederick Streicer, a porter, lived here; as did Henry C. Shaefer who ran a grocery store at No. 11 West Houston Street.  Joseph Riper listed the address for his gold leaf business in 1893.  He employed 3 men in his shop that year.  They worked 60 hours per week, plus 10 hours on Saturdays.

By the turn of the century the population in the neighborhood was almost entirely Italian.  Brothers John, Louis and David Cella began buying up Sullivan Street property in 1898.  That year they purchased No. 114; in 1907 Louis and John acquired No. 111; and John purchased No. 116 soon thereafter.

In 1910 John Cella made slight improvements for his tenants, adding sinks and new windows.  The renovations cost him $200, or around $5,200 in today's dollars.  His brothers had sold their shares of the house next door, where he and his family lived, by 1910.  In 1913 No. 114 was appraised at $16,000; and No. 116 was appraised at $17,000.  Despite the somewhat gritty personality of the neighborhood, the property value of No. 116 was equal to about $425,000 today.

The Cellas continued to update their rooming house in 1917 when "water closets" were added.  Until now tenants would have made do with a privy in the rear yard.

Throughout the subsequent decades Italian Americans continued to rent rooms here.  In the late 1930s and early 1940s, for instance, James V. Piselli lived in the house.  His name was annually included on the Government's list of Community Party members.

In 1963 renovations were completed that resulted in a duplex apartment in the basement and first floor, and two apartments on each of the upper stories.  Through some small miracle, as Sullivan Street filled with tenement buildings and apartment houses, No. 116 with its incredible entranceway survived mostly intact since its 1872 alteration to four floors.

photographs by the author

photographs by the author

The Much Abused Lorrain Freeman House - 198 Prince St

A strong imagination is required to envision the original two-story structure that housed a well-to-do family.

In the 18th century the Bayard family's country estate abutted that of Major Abraham Mortimer, just south of Greenwich Village.   In the early years after the Revolution, the inevitability of development was clear and the Bayard family prepared by hiring Theodore Goerck in 1788 to map out prospective streets and building plots on their land.

Rather surprisingly, given that the British had been ousted from New York only five years earlier, among the streets Goerck laid out was one named Prince Street.   Actual development on the Bayard estate did not begin until the 1820s.  Around 1831 wealthy iron merchant Lorrain Freeman began construction of his brick-faced home at No. 198 Prince Street.

The completed 20-foot wide house straddled the Federal and the newer Greek Revival styles.  Described by The New York Herald as a "two story attic and basement brick house," it would have sprouted one or two dormers from the peaked attic level, expected in the Federal style.  The doorway featured Federal style Ionic columns, sidelights and a transom.  The iron stoop railings, however, were more in line with Greek Revival.  The upscale tone of the house was reflected in the marble stoop and trim.

Freeman had married Elizabeth Barron Mundy in 1829.  The bride was 21 and the groom just 19. Their first child, Sarah Elizabeth, was born on February 8, 1831, around the time construction began on the Prince Street house.  She would be the first of eight children.

In 1842 Freeman suffered a financial "embarrassment."  On November 25 the New-York Daily Tribune reported on his bankruptcy.  He managed to recover, however, and by 1858 was a director of the Metropolitan Insurance Company and at the time of his death in September 1875 his estate was valued at $320,000--more than $7 million today.

The family had left Prince Street long before Freeman's death.  Transferred first to Charles Whitmore Smith in 1836, No. 198 became home in 1863 to Jeremiah Duane.  A deputy sheriff, Duane and his wife had lived on the second floor of an apartment building at the corner of 46th Street and Third Avenue.  An office was in the building's storefront.  They lost their home in the riots earlier that year.

For three violent days in July New York City was terrorized by what became known as the Draft Riots.   To augment troops fighting the Civil War, a new law had been enacted to draft men into the army.  But corrupt practitioners focused on the working class—primarily Irish immigrants—while the wealthy bought their way out of service.  What started as a protest against the draft quickly disintegrated into a bloody riot with mobs ransacking homes and businesses, murdering innocent blacks, and beating random civilians caught on the streets.

The day before the draft a man stopped Mrs. Duane and asked her "as to the modes of ingress and egress to and from the [apartment] house," according to The New York Times a week later.  He told her he "intended to throw a keg of powder into the office and blow the whole affair up."

The newspaper reported "She remonstrated with him, and told him that her family and a number of families resided there, which drew from him the advice that she 'had better move out as it would soon be too hot to hold any of them.'"  The unnamed man warned her that, because the first floor held the office of Provost-Marshal Jenkins, the building was certain to be attacked.

True to the his word, the building, filled with innocent families, was set on fire on Monday, June 15.  While the mob gleefully shouted on the streets, the residents scrambled to escape.  The Times wrote "Mr. Duane was enabled to save an armful of his wife's clothing, besides which he rescued not a thing from the flames.  His family fortunately escaped in the early part of the fray, but he saved his life only after great peril."

Duane filed a claim with the City on August 6, 1863 for $4,703.46 in lost personal property.  He earned $134 per month at the time, equal to about $31,000 a year today.

It appears that the Duane family, which included Thomas Duane, augmented its income by renting a room in the Prince Street house.  In 1865 John R. Russell, a "school officer," listed his address here.   Nevertheless, they were financially comfortable enough to afford a servant.  On January 2, 1866 an advertisement appeared in The New York Herald seeking "A girl to do general housework in a very small family; she must be a good plain cook and washer and ironer."

The Duane family remained in the Prince Street house until April 1868, when it was purchased by police captain John Jourdan and his wife for $13,000--just under a quarter of a million in today's dollars.

Jourdan was well known throughout the city as a crack detective.  His reputation would later earn him comparison to the fictional Sherlock Holmes.  Born to poor immigrant Irish parents on January 6, 1831, he started his education in the public schools.  But, as explained by The New York Times later, "his parents' circumstances compelled him to begin life early on his own account."

Still in his teens, he got "irregular employment" with the various newspaper offices as a folder.  Then, on May 11, 1853 at the age of 22, he joined the Police Department as a patrolman.  He almost immediately displayed his detective skills.

Having been on the force for just over a year, the foot patrolman recovered $20,000 worth of jewelry stolen from Ball & Black, then tracked down $15,000 in silks stolen from another firm.  He was quickly promoted to detective.  The Times wrote "So well had he become known as a sharp detective and courageous officer, that the Board of Commissioners made him a Sergeant on the 24th of April, 1860."  His next promotion, to Captain, came on January 31, 1863.

Jourdan's reputation spread among both the criminal and law-abiding elements.  "Merchants and others found him always ready and eager to take up a case, no matter how hopeless, and his detective acumen was of such a high order that he rarely failed to clear the most mysterious or puzzling case.  He became so well acquainted with the criminal classes of this and other cities of the Union that it seemed easy for him to pick out the man who had committed the offense given him to investigate.  Burglars and other desperate thieves came to fear him."

In 1870 the Board of Police said of Jourdan "His capacity as a detective officer was not surpassed, and probably not equaled, by that of any other member of the force"  illustration from Our Police Protectors, by Augustine E. Costello, 1885 (copyright expired)

Two years after purchasing No. 198, on April 11, 1870, Jourdan was promoted to Superintendent.  Three months later the gruesome murder of millionaire Benjamin Nathan was committed in his West 23rd Street mansion.  The mystery would be the one that Jourdan could not solve, and it was widely blamed as causing his death.


On October 10, 1870 The Times reported "We regret to say that Mr. John Jourdan, the Superintendent of the Police Department of this City, is in a dying condition at his residence, No. 198 Prince-street, and he is not expected to live many hours."  It added "his ambition to repress existing evils in the Department led him to overtask his strength, and the occurrence of the Nathan murder greatly added to his anxiety and work.  For nearly an entire month after that terribly-mysterious crime Mr. Jourdan scarcely slept or rested, in his extraordinary efforts to secure an elucidation of the mystery that yet surrounds that assassination."

The journalist concluded "This, added to the great strain on his mental faculties, brought on a severe prostration, and he was compelled to desist and place himself under the care of physicians.  Even then he persisted in keeping cognizance of the business of the Department, and it was only within a week that he failed to leave his house for his office-chair."

The night before The Times article the Prince Street house was besieged with concerned friends and relatives.  Police Commissioners Bosworth, Brennan, Manierre and Smith; Captains Kelso, Walsh and Kennedy, Judge Dowling and Warden Stacom were among those visiting the dying man.

He died at 11:45 on October 10.  The following day the newspapers reported on his death with flowery prose.  The New York Times wrote "The last scene in the life of John Jourdan, late Superintendent of Police, occurred...when quietly, without a struggle, and as if sinking into a gentle slumber, he breathed his last."

The New York Herald said "He fell a victim to his energetic and faithful devotion to his duty, his demise being, no doubt, accelerated by the anxiety which a nature of great sensibility experienced in discharging the many functions attaching to the office."

Jourdan's impressive funeral in St. Patrick's Cathedral was in keeping with his reputation.  A solemn high mass was celebrated and the police force formed what The Times called "an imposing display."

The newspaper noted "The deceased leaves a widow, but no children, and also leaves a large fortune, a portion of which he acquired by inheritance and the remained by honest industry in his profession."

Jourdan's widow was joined in the house by a few close relatives; but she would not stay on for long.  Less than two months after the funeral, at around 2:00 on the morning of Friday December 2, burglars broke into the house while the occupants slept.

The Times reported "Although the house was apparently thoroughly ransacked none of the inmates were awakened by the operations of the marauders, who escaped with a quantity of silver-ware valued at $60.  The burglars are supposed to be professionals, but as yet the Police have obtained no clue to them or the stolen property."

It was most likely not the lost silver, worth about $1,120 today, but the terrifying break-in that most unnerved Mrs. Jourdan.   Four months later, on April 27, 1871, she sold the house at auction.

The house was purchased by Herman F. Bleck who owned a nearby saloon.   He and his wife, Augusta, were married on April 27, 1873.  A week later he attempted to sell the business, offering "a corner wine and lager beer saloon at a bargain, in the Fifteenth ward, near Broadway; good location; three years leased; a rare chance; must be sold; satisfactory reasons for selling.  Inquire at 198 Prince street."

The "satisfactory reasons" Bleck had for needing to sell the business may have been his domestic problems.  According to Augusta, just four days after the wedding he "committed adultery with a woman" in the Prince Street house. 

The couple seem to have patched things up and Herman continued to run the saloon until January 1875 when he leased it to Charles Rivinius.   His wandering ways, however, did not stop and in 1879 Augusta had had enough.  She filed for divorce, charging that at least twice in 1874 he had entertained "a woman or women" in the Prince Street house, and had committed adultery with a woman named Clara Davis at Paige's Hotel on the corner of Spring and West Streets and "at other places in the city of New York" in 1878 and 1879.

Bleck was unapologetic.  His answer to her complaint said she was "fully informed" of his dalliances and "afterwards freely cohabited with him, and condoned any act of adultery which he may have committed, and forgave him therefor, and that ever since such condonation he has been a faithful husband to the plaintiff, and has constantly treated her with conjugal kindness."

By the time of the puzzling divorce hearing Bleck had sold the Prince Street house to Henry Pull.  He commissioned architects Frederick Graul & Co. to renovate the structure in January 1876.  The plans described the work as "raised two stories, interior alterations."  The $3,500 worth of changes made the 1831 house nearly unrecognizable.

Now four stories high, it boasted updated metal lintels and a bracketed cast metal cornice.  A storefront with a metal cornice and hood was installed in the basement level.

The storefront is remarkably little changed.

In February 1880 John Leibold purchased what was now described as a "four-story brick store and dwelling" for $11,500; or around $275,000 today.   The title was put in the name of his wife, Margaretha.  The couple, who owned several properties in the neighborhood, did not occupy the building.  Instead they lived nearby at No. 123 Prince Street.

Three years after purchasing the building, in September 1883, the Leibolds hired architect A. Grauf to do substantial improvements.  The $3,000 in "front and interior alterations" nearly equaled the cost of the additional two stories.  The interior alterations would have either increased the number of roomers that could be housed, or possibly improved their accommodations.

At the time the basement store was occupied by a tailor shop.  In October that year it was leased by the City as an election polling site.

The store soon became the wine shop of George Ferina.  He ran his store here for years, until tragedy struck on April 1, 1899.  He was crossing the railroad tracks at Aldene, New Jersey that night when he was truck and killed by a fast moving east-bound freight train.

The Prince Street neighborhood was part of Little Italy by now.  In April 1907 Antonio Calandrelo purchased No. 198 for $16,250.    The following year he hired architect Charles M. Straub to, once again, update the building, described as a store and tenement.  The improvements included new walls, fire escapes, toilets, and skylights. 

Calendrelo and his wife, Maria, retained possession until 1925 when it became property of Anthony Epifania.  The Epifania family lived in the building.  John A. Epifania served as a election inspector in 1927.

Tax photographs from the 1940s show that some of the original detailing, like the entrance with its columns and transom, survived.  But the subsequent decades of the 20th century would not be kind to the old structure.

Today a coat of cream-colored paint applied in the second half of the century is flaking off.  Hints of the Federal style entrance remain; however the columns have been lost and a gruesome box-like structure covers what had been the transom.  Quite amazingly, the metal-hooded storefront survives.

Most of the marble stoop treads survive.  The railings, decorated with Greek anthemions, originally terminated at their rolled down ends.  The newels, salvaged from an 1890s fence or railing, were added in the 20th century.

Passersby glancing at the top step today see a rubber garbage can where New York's most famous detective once entered his home.

photographs by the author

Full Circle -- The James S. Rossant House, 114 Sullivan Street

The entrance to No. 114 originally mirrored the exquisite doorway to the right.

In 1832 wealthy bookbinder and real estate developer Charles Starr completed construction of a string of seven upscale homes on Sullivan Street, between Prince and Spring Streets.  Starr was obviously confident that the new neighborhood would flourish; for he moved into one of his new homes.

Like its neighbors, No. 114 was faced in Flemish-bond red brick and trimmed in brownstone.  Its especially elegant Federal-style doorway reflected the financial status of the original family.   Three bays wide, it rose two stories to a peaked, slate-shingled roof with dormers.

It is unclear who the original family in No. 114 was; but by 1853 they were gone.  The house was being operated as an rather upscale boarding house.  An advertisement in December that year offered "Front parlor and bedroom; also bedrooms on third floor." The ad was quick to note "But few boarders in the house."

Among the boarders that year was Professor Marti, a Spanish instructor at Columbia College.  The enterprising educator teamed with an American-born teacher and opened a private academy.  In October 1853 he announced the new arrangement through an advertisement titled "Attention Spaniards."  The notice said in part, "As the true pronunciation of the English language can only be learned from a native teacher, this arrangement cannot fail to afford the very best opportunity for learning, not only to read and white, but also to speak the language with fluency."  Tuition was $4 per month "in advance."

By March 1854 the singer Mrs. Milner was boarding in No. 114.  The owner was apparently understanding, for she was allowed to receive pupils in the house.  Her advertisements throughout the spring that year described "Vocal and Instrumental Instruction--A lady of much experience in teaching, singing and music on the piano, is desirous of meeting with a few more pupils to take lessons in the above either at her own residence or otherwise."

Mrs. Milner's stay here was apparently not long before she went on tour.  In 1857 a newspaper noted that she was giving "successful concerts" at the Parodi Theatre in Baltimore.

But the Sullivan Street neighborhood was undergoing noticeable change by now.  Immigrants were pouring into the area and a few blocks to the north the Minetta Street section had become the center of the city's black population.

A shockingly brazen robbery took place in the house in October 1854 when a boarder, James Bertholf, lay down to grab a nap.  He was startled awake when an intruder snatched his $150 diamond breast pin and ran out.  The New York Times explained the robber took it "from his bosom while asleep."

Police stopped a suspicious man on the street and, according to The New York Herald, "The accused when asked about the property ran off, was pursued and arrested on suspicion of having stolen the valuable."  He was described by the newspaper as "a colored man, named John R. Freeman."  The reporter was astonished at the boldness of the crime, saying the theft happened while Bertolf "lay asleep on a sofa at his own house."

Despite the changing neighborhood, the house was still quite respectable.  An advertisement in 1855 read "To let, a large unfurnished room in a small genteel family, with board...Also accommodation for a young lady with board."

And when two of the servant girls looked for different employment in April that year, their joint ad reflected the character of those boarding in the house.  "Wanted--Situations, by two young American girls; one as lady's maid and seamtress, understands doing up muslins and French fluting, or as chambermaid and sewer; the other as waiter and to assist in chamberwork."

The family of John W. Sageman moved in about this time.  A retired merchant, Sageman was a director in the Pacific Fire Insurance Co.  In 1857 his son, William, was 14 years old and studying in PS No. 40.  The Sagemans were still here in 1862 when the boy enrolled in the Introductory Class of the New York Free Academy.

That year James H. Taylor sought a single family to rent the house.  He described it as a "modern built two story and attic house...with all improvements of gas, water, &c; reasonable to a good tenant."

Whether Henry Hughes rented the entire house or not is unclear.  But he was living here in the fall of 1865 when he supplied bail for Samuel Thompson.   Thompson was arrested between 3 and 4:00 on the morning of September 23 in the crib joint of a man named Allen at No. 638 Broadway.   Police described Allen's place as "a resort for tipplers, thieves, gamesters and pimps, and that it is frequently the scene of brawls and thefts."  

No. 114 was still outfitted with costly furnishings like the tall pier mirrors which adorned the spaces between the front and back parlor-floor windows.  But that was all coming to and end.   On March 2, 1868 an advertisement appeared in The New York Herald.  "For Sale--two parlor looking glasses, large size, with velvet carpets."

The elegant private home turned boarding house now declined to a rooming house.  Its tenants were for the most part black.  One of them, Joseph Dillon, made his living as a truck driver; but he supplemented his income with burglary.

On March 1, 1879 the janitor of the Adelphi flats on 53rd Street was sitting in his apartment when he noticed two men on the roof the private houses across the street. The Sun reported "They crept around cautiously, and hid behind chimneys as if fearful of being observed."  Liscomb watched as they tried one, then another, and then a third rooftop scuttle before finding one unlocked.  They lowered a ladder into the opening and disappeared into the house.

The janitor rushed to No. 158 West 53rd where Mary S. Weatherspoon and her mother lived.  He asked "Have you any men repairing the roof?"  When he was told "no," he replied "Then they must be thieves."

A chaotic scene followed.  The Sun reported "Amid a chorus of screams Liscomb dashed upstairs.  The burglars had broken open two trunks, and were ransacking a trunk containing silver."  When they heard Liscomb's footsteps, they dropped their booty and scrambled up the ladder.  "An exciting chase over the roofs to Seventh avenue followed."

Joseph Dillon was the last of the crooks up the ladder and Liscomb caught him.  But Dillon "fought desperately" and called for his cohort to help him.  The pair overwhelmed Liscomb and dragged him to the end of the roof where they struggled to toss him over.  At that moment the feisty Mary Weatherspoon appeared and attacked Dillon.

The distraction was all Liscomb needed and he planted a fierce blow on the unknown burglar's face.  He ran down the ladder and out of the house, leaving Dillon on his own.  The Sun reported "Liscomb and Dillon continued fighting, and fought all the way to the Forty-seventh street police station, where the officers identified Dillon as an old offender."  The heroic janitor had been lucky.  Following his arrest Dillon growled "If that other fellow hadn't skipped, I'd have fixed you.  If I'd had a revolver I wouldn't have been in here now."

In 1881 New York City was struck with a terrifying epidemic of smallpox.  On January 20 The Sun reported "a month ago a ship load of Italians again brought the disease to us, and it is now more prevalent than we have known it for five years."

Within two months it arrived at No. 114 Sullivan Street. Then, on March 20 the patient's family reported on what the New-York Tribune called the "mysterious abduction of a smallpox patient from No. 114 Sullivan-st."  The patient had been bodily removed from the house.    Two days later the mystery was solved.  "It turned out that the Health Officers were the abductors," reported the newspaper.

In the meantime, the tenants continued to be on the wrong side of the law.  One was Edward Roberts, described by The Times on April 1, 1886 as "a young colored man" who worked as a janitor in the shoe store of John McGrandle at No. 463 Sixth Avenue.  Three years earlier McGrandle had been the victimized by a counterfeiter who passed him two fake $20 bills.  Perhaps as a reminder, he still carried the two phony bills in his wallet.  Or at least he thought he did.

On March 30 Roberts went into Mendelken & Buck's saloon on Sixth Avenue and 26th Street and had drinks amounting to 40 cents.  He paid the bartender, Henry Welsh, with a $20 bill and took his $19.60 change.  The Times reported "Soon after he left the place Welsh discovered that the bill was a counterfeit."

Following Roberts arrest, police visited McGrandle's shoe store and showed him the fake bill.  He recognized it as one of the two he carried in his coat, which was hanging in the rear of the store.  "When he went to look for it it was gone, and $55 in good money which he had in the same pocket."  In addition to the charge of passing counterfeit bill, Roberts now faced larceny charges preferred by his boss.

Moses J. Dillon may have been the father of Joseph Dillon.  But unlike Joseph, Moses made an honest living.  The New York Times described him as "a colored cook and caterer."  The 65-year old was still living here in the fall of 1888 when he was working at a barbecue at Morris Dock.  The Evening World reported on October 29 that while he was carving an ox "he was suddenly seen to fall to the ground.  He was dead when assistance reached him."  He had suffered a fatal heart attack and his body was brought back to the Sullivan Street house.  The New York Times was less sympathetic, running the rather unfeeling headline "His Last Barbecue."

The house was the scene of a political meeting on the night of August 1, 1892.  The Sun reported that "Delegates form the district organizations of the Afro-American Republican Association met last night at 114 Sullivan street to discuss ways and means for extending the association."  That newspaper reported only on the achievements of the group that night, saying "It was resolved to build up organizations in all the Assembly districts where the colored population is large enough."

The New York Times focused on another aspect, saying that only about 20 members were present.  "What they lacked in numbers they made up in wrangling, which lasted over four hours and ended in a row.  Two or three times fistic encounters were imminent and loud cried for 'Police' rang out."

Annie Runoss lived in the house on June 3, 1894 when she accused Maggie Murphy, "who said she had no permanent address," of stealing her diamond earrings.  According to Annie, Maggie had snatched the earrings from her on the street the previous Saturday night.  The alleged perpetrator was searched, but she did not have the earrings.

Annie's story was more than a bit suspicious.  The judge asked her what her diamonds were worth.  "Well, your Honor," she answered, "I don't know exactly what they would be worth these days, but they cost my husband $3.50 eight years ago."  Despite Annie's questionable story, Maggie Murphy was held on $1,000 bail.

By now the Sullivan Street neighborhood was filling with Italian immigrants who would soon displace its black residents.  On June 7, 1898 brothers David, John and Louis Cella purchased No. 114 from Mary A Goodspeed, who lived in Summit, New Jersey.  They paid $12,350--nearly $370,000 today.  It was described at the time of the sale as a "two-story brick dwelling."  It would not be for long.

The new owners raised the height to three full floors and remodeled the old lintels and sills to match the new ones.   The removal of the Federal entrance and its replacement with the brownstone surround we see today is included by some historians in the 1898 renovation.  But the Greek Revival style--out of fashion for nearly half a century--and the unnecessary expense to what was a rooming house suggests that updated doorway was more likely done when No. 114 was still an upscale private dwelling.

The Cello brothers purchased other houses along the street, including No. 116 and 111.   Jonathan and his family moved into No. 114 and it was here that one-year old Joseph, died on August 12, 1900.

Louis Cella sold his one-third part in 1902 and David sold his in 1910.  In the meantime,  Joseph and his wife Aurelia, had a serious problem with Lizzie Martin.  The 39-year old Irish women, who listed her occupation as "housekeeper," was either a roomer or employee in 1906.  Whichever, she was arrested "for setting fire to No. 114 Sullivan Street" that year.

The Cellas reared two sons in the house--Daniel and Louis--as they continued to rent rooms.  One of their tenants was Antonio Casini who had the dangerous job of extending the aqueduct shaft along Broadway in 1912. 

Antonio Casini was working at this construction site when disaster struck.  The General Worth monument, sitting in the small triangle between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, can be seen.  photograph from the collection of the Library of Congress.

On the afternoon of February 9 Casini and several other workers were 200 feet below the intersection of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street.  James Thomas had just drilled a hole in the bedrock and inserted a stick of dynamite when the charge prematurely exploded.

The Times reported that the blast "shook the earth so that tenants in near-by buildings ran into the street in terror.  James Thomas was was knocked unconscious and three other men were seriously hurt.  "Comrades carried them to the surface," reported the article, and then transported them to New York Hospital.  Casini was not expected to survive.

The post-World War I years saw the arrival in New York of Italian gangs like the Mafia and Costa Nostra.  Prohibition fueled their illegal activities and the lure of quick cash drew many young men from respectable families into lives of crime.

On May 20, 1922 a group of 11 officers intercepted two trucks in Jersey City.  Inside they found 6,750 bottles of whiskey worth $65,000.  The two drivers were arrested, one of them being Daniel Cella.  Both men protested their innocence, saying they believed they were hauling loads of meat.

Five years later both the Cella brothers were arrested and charged with "illegal handling of sacramental wine."    Daniel still listed his occupation as truckman, and Louis as a chauffeur.  They were both still living in the Sullivan Street house at the time.

How long the Cellas maintained ownership of No. 114 is unclear.   Nevertheless the tenant list continued to reflect the Little Italy neighborhood for decades.  In 1933, for instance, John J. Petrocelli called No. 114 home.  He was a voting inspector for the election district that year.

As gentrification swept over the neighborhood in the early 1970s esteemed architect and artist James Stephan Rossant and his wife, the former Collette Pallache, moved into the vintage house.  The upper floors were reconverted to a single family home and the basement level became a separate apartment. With them in the house were three daughter, Marinanne, Juliette, and Cecile, and a son, Thomas.

Among Rossant's work was the 1962 Butterfield House apartment building in Greenwich Village; and he developed the overall plan for Reston, Virginia.  Collette was a food critic and author.  Having an artist in the family was convenient and James illustrated several of Collette's cookbooks.

In 1972 Collette resigned her position as French instructor at Hofstra University and began teaching cooking to children in the Sullivan Street house.   The classes, called "Cooking with Collette," cost $60 for six biweekly classes.  Children between the ages of 9 and 15 learned to concoct French dishes like quiche Lorraine.

The couple's talents came together in two other projects.  In 1998 Collette consulted on the launch of Buddha Green, a Midtown restaurant featuring vegetarian "Buddhist" cuisine, and again for Dim Sum Go Go in 2000, a Chinatown eatery.  In both cases James helped design the restaurants.

With their children grown, the Rossants moved to France in 2002.  James died in 2009.  The house next became home to film star Sandra Bullock.

On a street lined mostly with late 19th century tenement houses, No. 114 Sullivan Street is a dignified reminder of a much different era.  Still a single family house, it has come full circle from the days of gilded pier mirrors and velvet carpeting.

photographs by the author