Thursday, March 16, 6:30 pm
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(Continued from November 23, 2011)
Every incoming New York City mayor takes the reins of a different beast than that of his predecessor. As state legislator and canal supporter Walter Bowne prepared to take over from William Paulding at the end of 1829 the city was in its usual state of flux. Street names were changing, usually piecemeal - part of Herring Street became Bleecker, part of Arden became Morton, part of Reason Street (named for Thomas Paine's ”The Age of Reason”) became Barrow.
Structures were springing up on streets old and new. On the north side of the new Washington Square, construction began on architect Martin Thompson's row of Greek Revival townhouses. Thompson, by the way, along with Ithiel Town and Andrew J. Davis, all with offices in the Merchants Exchange building, constituted the entire architectural profession in the city. Over on Macdougal Street, between West 3rd and 4th streets, a row of townhouses in the older Federal style was being built for a real estate investor, a man in his early seventies who'd had few other careers before this - vice-president of the United States for one - man named Aaron Burr. It was a healthy market. Buildings on the better, older streets brought good prices. A two-story house and lot at 17 Broadway, sold for $19,000. The Bowling Green Post Office sits on the site in our own time. But, begin looking over on nearby Hanover Square today and you could find a 625 square foot two-room apartment for a mere $299,000. Plus a $900 per month maintenance fee. Adaptive reuse is not a new concept in our own time. Over near City Hall, the New Gaol building, built in 1755, was converted in 1829 into a hall of records.
All the changes were not architectural and geographical. Among the new institutions springing up were two banks - the National Bank in the City of New York, and the Seamen's Bank for Savings in the City of New York (they didn't believe in short, punchy names back then). The New York City Temperance Society was founded as was the Workingmen's Party of New York. The latter would only last two years, replaced two years later by the General Trades Union, a confederation of the city's smaller labor organizations, which by 1836 would conduct nearly 40 work stoppages. Fire was always a major concern in this city with only a primitive water system. Since 1816 firefighters had been exempted from military and jury duty after serving in their departments for ten years. 1829 saw the required term lowered to seven years; in 1847 it would be reduced to five.
Two newspapers were founded to help New Yorkers keep track of all these changes. Mordecai M Noah, who we met in 1827 founding the Niagara frontier Jewish state of Ararat, was here now, and founded the Morning Courier and New-York Enquirer, which would later merge with the New York World. He signed on editor James Gordon Bennett. Senior, that is. Junior would make an even bigger name for himself here, in the business later on. The Morning Herald and the Evening Journal also joined the city's media mix. (Make that medium mix).
Many foreign sections of the city's papers probably carried the recent news of a fellow countryman of James Stuart's by the name of William Hare and his friend William Burke. We'll check out their connection with 1829 New York next time.
© 2005 David Minor / Eagles Byte
Dec 14, 2002
In 1882 a visitor in his late twenties stood with his head tilted back, near the northwest corner of Chicago's Grant Park, and surveyed the narrow structure thrusting skyward. A bemused sneer crept into his voice (it hadn't usually too far to travel) and he proclaimed it a "castellated monstrosity with pepper boxes stuck all over it." Oscar Fingall O'Flahertie Wilde had rendered his judgment. Perhaps the Irish visitor, author of the children's classic The Selfish Giant, might have found the structure of greater interest had he know of its reputed ghost. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.
Chicago had been jacked up out of the mud. Much of the fill used was gained by deepening the Chicago River, thus distancing citizens even further from the muck. Engineer Ellis Chesbrough had managed to make the drains empty properly, but the problem of waste disposal still remained. The city's water commissioners went for the cheapest solution (surprise, surprise) - just dump the raw sewage into the river. Much cheaper than dumping it into the lake, digging a sewage canal to flow the sludge to the Illinois River, or even, what sounds more like a 20th Century "green" plan, to pump it into reservoirs and turn it into manure. So off the odoriferous mess went, into Lake Michigan. Except for the portion that the city drew off of to provide its drinking water. And for making ice when the stockyards came along later on and added to the melange.
River water stank and could kill you, but off where the sun rose every morning was this huge lake. If you could get out past the floating slop hugging the shore you could find all the clean water you needed. In March of 1864, despite all those who said he couldn't pull it off, Chesbrough set out to bring potable (if not pure) water to thirsty citizens (nearly 110,000 of them in 1860). The first task was to build and sink a "crib" of iron and timber, two miles from shore, containing an iron cylinder that would be sunk 33 feet to the lake bottom and bore through another 31 feet into the lake bed. The upper portion was filled with stone ballast. Then other gangs of laborers and mules began tunneling toward the city, beneath the lake bed's surface. When they had finished Chicago had a two-mile long iron soda straw, five feet in diameter, lying on its side beneath its lake bed, one end at the crib out in the lake, the other end near Grant Park.
The final step was to build a pumphouse at the park end. Architect William W. Boyington designed a mock-Gothic structure to be built out of Joliet limestone. When completed it was topped by the 154-foot stone tower that so bemused Mr. Wilde. It contained a three-foot diameter iron pipe which, when partially filled with water, would act as a governor, modulating the water flow into the pumping station. Completed in 1869, Wilde's "monstrosity" and the building at its foot would be the only structures standing two years later when the O'Leary family stable - it i said - launched the Great Chicago Fire. Which brings us to our ghost.
Based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, the legend has it that one municipal employee stayed behind when everyone else fled the lethal heat. In the manner of Nellie Swinging From the Bell and Casey at the Throttle, this anonymous hero kept the pumps running until the last minute, for firemen that had already lost their battle, then did the only thing possible and hanged himself before the flames reached him. A number of tourists down through the years swear they've seen a hanging figure through an upper window. Guess you'll have to go and look for yourself.
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© 2002 David Minor / Eagles Byte