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| ISBN-13: | 9781940842080 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Museyon |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2016 |
| Series: | Chronicles Series |
| Edition description: | Second Edition, Second edition |
| Pages: | 308 |
| Sales rank: | 675,668 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d) |
GEORGE WASHINGTON SLEPT HERE
WHEN NEW YORK WAS THE CAPITAL OF AMERICA
1789
America didn't gain its freedom from the British crown until October 19, 1781, when Lord Charles Cornwallis finally surrendered to George Washington's army after a five-day siege at Yorktown, Virginia. At that moment, almost all of New York City's landowners and merchants were British Loyalists patriotic to King George III. Roughly 15,000 of those Loyalists fled Manhattan, leaving their property behind, when American troops finally reoccupied the city on November 25, 1783. For decades, New Yorkers celebrated this date as Evacuation Day.
Of course, New York was a different place back then: The entire city consisted of a few hundred acres around Wall Street. Brooklyn was a far-off county, and properties as near as Gramercy Park were considered country estates.
City Streets
Pearl Street, originally known as Mother-of-Pearl Street due to all the iridescent shells embedded in its soil, follows an irregular path today because it once wound its way around the foot of a large hill. As Manhattan's population grew during the 1700s, new land was retrieved from the East River by leveling those hills, literally creating a street from the water: Water Street. By the mid-1780s, enough land had been moved in front of Water Street to pave yet another road along the waterfront, called Front Street.
The powerful DeLancey family controlled a massive parcel of that land, and maintained their loyalties to the king; James DeLancey was appointed New York's Chief Justice, to the displeasure of many New York colonists, while his father Etienne DeLancey, an enormously successful merchant, maintained the spacious family residence on Pearl Street at Broad Street. Before the defeat of Yorktown, the U.S. Congress declared all properties held by the British crown and its Loyalists to be forfeited. When Cornwallis surrendered, those lands were confiscated and sold. The obstinate DeLanceys, who had relied on a British victory to save their real estate dynasty, fell from power dramatically, forfeiting all the land from the Bowery to the East River, from Houston Street down toDivision Street. Over a mile of waterfront property was sold to fifteen leading families (the Roosevelts, Livingstons, and Beekmans among them), while the remaining parcels — each the size of one block — were sold to another 175 purchasers. As the British were driven from New York, the city's streets were promptly renamed: Crown Street became Liberty Street, King Street became Pine Street, Queen Street became Cedar Street. All that remains of the DeLanceys' reigning clout is a street with their name on the Lower East Side that even the triumphant colonists were too sentimental to change.
Washington Sleeps in New York
Thanks to its central location, the DeLanceys' home was converted into the Queen's Head Tavern in 1763, later renamed Fraunces Tavern for its proprietor Samuel Fraunces. (Restored by the Sons of the Revolution, it now stands as a public landmark at 54 Pearl Street.) It was here that General George Washington chose to bid farewell to his troops on December 4, 1783, before returning to Mount Vernon, his family home on the Potomac.
However, in 1785, the U.S. Congress moved to New York. City Hall, as the classically designed building on the corner of Wall Street at Broad Street was then known, became Federal Hall, serving as the first home of the U.S. Congress following the ratification of the Constitution. It was on the balcony of the original Federal Hall, overlooking Wall Street, that the first President of the United States delivered the first Inauguration Address on April 30, 1789, an emotional event marked by thunderous ovations from an enormous crowd.
With New York then the nation's capital, George Washington became one of Manhattan's most celebrated residents. But the leader of the nation's new government needed a home in the capital city. Samuel Osgood, whom Washington appointed to be the first Postmaster General, rented out his house at 3 Cherry Street to be the first Presidential Mansion, for 900 pounds a year. It was instantly known as The Palace, although the building was only three stories high. Not far from today's City Hall, the building was demolished to become the western foundation of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Its use as the Presidential Mansion was problematic, for Washington's stature was quite literal. Standing well over six feet tall, he was among the tallest men in America. The modest construction on the East River had ceilings that were too low, and it was, in the opinion of many New Yorkers, a location too far "out of town" to befit America's first president. So Washington moved. The second Executive Mansion was the McComb house at 39 Broadway, close to Federal Hall, a more fashionable Manhattan address. One year later, the U.S. Congress relocated to Philadelphia and George Washington left New York, never to return.
Mass confusion defined New York City in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War. Loyalists raced out, soldiers returned home, and shrewd Americans seized confiscated properties at bargain prices. Locating friends and relatives was a daunting task. Churches and taverns were the main places to share news and post notices, and the most likely places to locate acquaintances.
At the Merchants' Coffee House (Wall Street at Water Street), where dice and backgammon were played amidst the celebrations of General Washington's victorious troops, a radical idea was hatched: a registry. All New Yorkers were encouraged to list their names and addresses, permanent or temporary, which allowed returning friends and relatives to find them. Everyone in New York, it seems, made their way to the Merchants' Coffee House to participate in the inaugural registration process. After assembling data for three years, the city's first directory was published in 1786. (A year earlier, Philadelphia published a similar directory — the first in the New World.)
According to the first directory, nearly every block had a tavern. Of the 3,340 buildings in New York City, 330 held licenses permitting the sale of liquor. A tavern license cost 30 shillings (New York's currency was measured by pounds and shillings well into the nineteenth century), from which the Mayor and City Clerk each kept six shillings; the rest went to the city's treasury.
Very few original residential buildings still stand. Instantly recognizable by their pointed roofs, a row of early houses from 1796 was moved and restored on Harrison Street at Greenwich Street, where they exist now as privately owned residences with modern interiors. The exteriors of these landmark townhouses, however, are cherished examples of New York's earliest residential architecture.
CHAPTER 2DRUNK ON WATER
AARON BURR'S PROFITABLE GAMBLE
1799–1842
"Don't drink the water!" had to be one of the perpetual cries from the Dutch settlers who founded New Amsterdam. In fact, those Dutch settlers were so parched during their first summer that they almost gave up and moved away. Things didn't improve quickly: For nearly 200 years, New York's water was so putrid even horses wouldn't drink it, and drunkenness couldn't be reprimanded since so many people had to mix spirits with their water just to swallow it.
Meanwhile, the solid bedrock that provides remarkable support for today's skyscrapers made drilling practically impossible for seventeenth-century settlers with primitive tools. The water they tapped underground was usually rainwater that seeped through the soil, contaminated along the way by all manners of impurities, and collected in depressions above the granite hulk that defines the island of Manhattan. One of the preferred pumps for drinking water was located just outside the walls of Trinity Church, where rainwater was distributed after passing through hundreds of decomposing corpses in Trinity's graveyard.
The only decent, potable water came from a spring on what is now Park Row, between Baxter and Mulberry streets. A pump was placed over this spring and water for tea was sold to those who could afford it. Ornamental grounds were laid out around the pump, which became known as the Tea-Water Pump Garden, one of Manhattan's first parks. The well was four feet in diameter and twenty feet deep. The Tea-Water Pump was operated by an enormous handle that only the burliest men could manipulate. Its water cost three pence for 130 gallons at the pump, or one cent per gallon delivered to your door. "Tea Water Men" drove around Manhattan, selling water from heavy casks.
Corruption was inevitable. Tea Water was the only drinkable water in town, but was controlled by a group of thugs who made outrageous profits and whose wagons, waiting their turn to pass under the pump, blocked traffic for a mile in all directions. Something had to be done about the water situation.
In the fifteen years following the Revolutionary War, many individuals approached the Common Council with proposals to improve the water supply, but not until 2,000 New Yorkers died in an outbreak of yellow fever did the Council finally take action. They approved an idea presented by the unscrupulous politician Aaron Burr. He proposed the installation of wooden pipes leading from the pond adjacent to the Tea-Water Pump, which would provide running water to subscribers for $20 per year, an astronomical sum at the time.
Burr then maneuvered a bill through the State Legislature that granted a charter to The Manhattan Company, his private waterworks. It also included a cunning provision: The water company could use its "surplus capital in any manner not inconsistent with the constitution and laws of this State." On April 11, 1799, with Aaron Burr as Chairman of the Board, The Manhattan Company entered the waterworks business. A mere four months later, The Manhattan Company took their "surplus capital" and opened a bank. With capital stock of $2 million, the bank began operations at 40 Wall Street. Years later, The Manhattan Company became Chase Manhattan (currently JPMorgan Chase), the second largest retail bank in America during the twenty-first century.
Like a growing organism, New York City pushed its roots down into the earth: Thousands of logs were bored, laborers dug up the streets of Lower Manhattan, and new wooden pipes were buried five feet underground, two feet from the curb. With the main artery running down Broadway, The Manhattan Company laid six miles of wooden plumbing in its first year, providing water to 400 families. While the bank prospered, the waterworks were a constant nuisance.
Without meters, subscribers could run the water all they wanted. Non-subscribing friends were invited to take their fill from those who felt they paid too dearly for the poor-tasting water. Merchants gave it away for free to their steady customers. The wooden pipes proved to be impractical, as they were constantly lodged with debris. Subscribers often went for weeks without water, while The Manhattan Company tore up the streets to locate a clogged pipe and clear it, causing endless traffic jams. (Yes, Manhattan even had traffic jams in 1800.)
The Manhattan Company eventually laid twenty-five miles of wooden pipes, supplying water to 2,000 families, far short of its original plan. Although they tried, the company couldn't sell or lease its water rights without also losing its banking privileges. For forty more years, The Manhattan Company half-heartedly provided water to New Yorkers, while its bank flourished. Most New Yorkers chose to collect rainwater in backyard cisterns for free.
In 1832, contaminated water spread cholera, killing 3,500 New Yorkers. Finally admitting that Manhattan's wells and ponds were hopelessly polluted, the Common Council asked the voters to approve a dam on the Croton River in Westchester County, which would provide fresh water via an aqueduct into Manhattan. When the vote won on April 16, 1835, The Manhattan Company was off the hook, able to concentrate exclusively on banking.
New Yorkers ratified a closed-masonry aqueduct spanning forty-five miles. It led into a fifteen-million-gallon receiving reservoir at 86th Street (now Central Park), which in turn filled the distributing reservoir at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street (where the New York Public Library is located today). The project cost $12 million and required six years of labor and 165 miles of plumbing to be laid under the streets of Manhattan. At dawn on June 22, 1842, the valve was opened and Croton River water began to fill the aqueduct. In Manhattan, people waited all day, having no idea of how long it would take for the water to reach them. Twenty-two hours later, at three o'clock the next morning, a cheer arose that lasted until the rushing water drowned it out.
On July 4, 1842, the Croton Distributing Reservoir at 42nd Street officially opened its tanks. Water gushed into the Reservoir while New Yorkers celebrated their fabulous new amenity. The celebrations culminated when the aqueduct finally opened on October 14: church bells rang all day, 100 cannon blasts signaled the beginning of a five-mile parade and water spouted from fountains, hydrants and hoses. Firemen marched in the streets to the cheers of neighbors; President John Tyler also attended the festivities, along with former Presidents Martin Van Buren and John Quincy Adams. A fountain in City Hall Park gushed fifty feet high. Not only did New York finally have all the water it needed, it even had enough to waste.
New York was changed forever as crystal clear water roared through the conduits. New Yorkers were soon using thirty million gallons a day.
Townhouse construction blossomed as residents gave up their Greenwich Village cisterns for new homes with running water in developing neighborhoods such as Murray Hill, Turtle Bay, and Gramercy Park. Some folks landed on the east side, some headed west. For over a century, those neighborhoods developed the profiles that their proud residents cherish today. You know, it's in the water.
CHAPTER 3EARLY BOHEMIA
THE ROOTS OF GREENWICH VILLAGE
1822–1871
In 1789, when New York was America's capital, President George Washington lived in a house near today's Brooklyn Bridge, a short distance from Federal Hall, the hub of urban America. New York City was just a collection of narrow streets in today's Financial District. And where did Vice President John Adams live? In the suburbs! More precisely, John Adams lived in Greenwich Village.
Since the house stood on higher ground than the busy streets near Federal Hall, our fiery vice president, remembered as one of America's first activists, commuted on horseback to "the city" two miles away over gently rolling hills. As Adams' wife Abigail wrote: "In front of the house, the noble Hudson rolls his majestic waves." The Hudson River lapped up on a narrow sandy beach called Hudson Street, where the Adams children swam and fished. Minetta Brook emptied into a swamp between Charlton and Houston streets. It was a pastoral scene of fields and woodlands — but not for long.
Because of its high ground, Greenwich Village was considered a healthful area for summer homes, away from the noise and filth around Wall Street. When cholera, smallpox, and yellow fever turned "all streets below City Hall" into an "infected district" in 1822, thousands of New Yorkers evacuated to Greenwich Village to avoid the plague. The Village limits soon expanded as hills were flattened to accommodate transit, creating new streets to the west, and filling in the marshes to the east.
Adams' mansion, known as Richmond Hill, later became the home of Senator Aaron Burr. The humiliation that followed the tragic duel in which Burr killed Alexander Hamilton was a profitable opportunity for John Jacob Astor, the early real estate investor. To appease Burr's creditors, Astor foreclosed on the famous mansion, moved it to a flatter area down the street, then turned it into a tavern and a resort, later a series of theaters. Pastoral Greenwich Village was beginning to get raucous.
On nearby 3rd and 4th streets, French immigrants opened the saloons of "Frenchtown." Meanwhile, black girls danced in next-to-nothing at the Black and Tan Concert Hall on Bleecker Street and Scotch Ann's was a brothel where whores were young men with painted faces and women's names.
Cozy cafés tucked away on winding streets attracted scores of writers, poets, actors, and intellectuals, who called themselves "bohemians" as they sought to maintain the lifestyles they once enjoyed in Paris. Walt Whitman patronized Pfaff's, his favorite beer hall at Broadway and Bleecker Street, where enthusiasts clustered to hear him read and speak. Essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who advocated anti-slavery and Transcendentalism among other new ideas, sniffed that the boisterous environment was strictly for "noisy and rowdy firemen." (Firemen were low-paid workers who shoveled coal to keep furnaces ablaze, not New York's Bravest, who fight fires.) Nonetheless, it was soon fashionable for denizens of other neighborhoods to venture to Greenwich Village for an evening of observing the bohemians with their curious behavior and colorful dress.
Excerpted from Chronicles of Old New York by James Roman. Copyright © 2016 James Roman. Excerpted by permission of Museyon Inc..
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Dear Literary Lady, I’ve grown weary of New York City over the years, but I’m trapped here because of work, family, and other obligations. What can I read to help me get over my disenchantment with where I live? I want to love the City again and stop being miserable here. –T.C., New York, NY […]
