The two heiress sisters who in 1890 funded a Yorkville school for needy kids

In 1686, Philip Jacob Rhinelander, a German-born French Huguenot escaping religious persecution in Europe, immigrated to New York.

A century later, his descendants comprised one of the richest families in Gotham. The Rhinelanders made their money as shipbuilders, sugar importers, and stewards of a vast real estate empire across Manhattan, states the Friends of the Upper East Side Historic Districts.

The Rhinelander Sugar House once on William Street, Rhinelander Row and Rhinelander Gardens in Greenwich Village, the Hardenburgh-Rhinelander Historic District on East 89th Street—all are named for 18th and 19th century family members from this old-money clan.

But there’s another landmark in Manhattan that still bears the Rhinelander name: the Rhinelander Industrial School at 350 East 88th Street.

These days, the school is a ghostly shell between First and Second Avenues, its stepped gables and terra cotta “R” on the front facade (below) behind construction scaffolding.

But within its brick walls (now sadly covered in stucco) holds the story of two Rhinelander family heiresses and the gift they gave to needy children in what was then a poor immigrant neighborhood.

The sisters, Julia and Serena Rhinelander (in the above illustration), were born into a wealthy household at 477 Broadway in 1824 and 1829. In 1840, their father, William C. Rhinelander, moved the family to two adjoining houses that formed one mansion at Fifth Avenue and Washington Square North—at the time a fashionable enclave for Manhattan’s most elite.

In time, Julia and Serena’s sister and brother left the family mansion; their parents passed on. But the sisters, who never married, continued to live in the house at 14 Washington Square.

As heirs to a reported $50 million fortune, they didn’t have to work. Instead, they traveled, they attended social events, and they devoted themselves to philanthropy.

One of the philanthropic measures they decided to take on was the funding of a school that would be owned and operated by the Children’s Aid Society. The Society, launched in 1853 by Reverend Charles Loring Brace, began opening schools across New York City in the 1880s and 1890s where poor children could take regular classes while also learning a trade.

Wealthy New Yorkers donated the funds to build these schools. Julia and Serena decided they would as well, and they also donated a plot of Rhinelander family land on East 88th Street where the school would be located.

Unfortunately, Julia Rhinelander never lived to see the school completed; she died in 1890 while vacationing in France. Serena, now alone in the family mansion (below, the house on the corner), did see the Rhinelander Industrial School open in May 1891.

Designed by Calvert Vaux (the architect behind many of the Society’s schools and homes for kids), the facility was described as a “beautiful building” by the New York Times, who noted that it had space for about 300 children, including a “kindergarten, sewing, and cooking schools.”

The school thrived as Yorkville’s population boomed. “By 1902, the Rhinelander Industrial School was serving 477 children, only up through age 12 because ”the children go to work at the age of 13,” according to the annual report of that year,” wrote Christopher Gray in the New York Times in 1989.

“Boys were taught manual trades and girls were taught cooking to provide household economy to those who needed it most,” added Gray.

Serena Rhinelander died in 1914 in her mansion at 14 Washington Square, after a lifetime of donating liberally to churches and charities in her “quiet and unostentatious way” according to her obituary in the New-York Tribune.

Meanwhile, the school changed with the times throughout the 20th century. The building was remodeled in the 1950s, noted Gray, gaining its stucco facade.

It’s unclear how long classes were held and what subjects were taught. Yorkville by the late 20th century was no longer an immigrant neighborhood, and industrial schools that taught sewing and cooking had outlived their usefulness.

In 1989, the school was renamed the Rhinelander Children’s Center. As of 2014, the Children’s Aid Society was trying to sell the building to raise money for a new facility in the Bronx. Considering that the former industrial school is behind scaffolding, it appears to have been sold.

What does the next chapter hold for this relic of Gilded Age benevolence? Perhaps the school is undergoing redevelopment—or waiting for the wrecking ball.

[Fourth image: NYC Department of Records & Information Services; fifth image: NYPL Digital Collections;

An 1850s red schoolhouse hiding in the middle of the Flower District

Imagine being a school-age kid in the New York City of the 1850s. If you were wealthy, your education would be in the hands of private tutors. When you became older, private academies or finishing schools completed your education. You may have even gone to college, perhaps, if you were male.

If you were not rich, you could attend a local free school (or one of the “colored schools” set aside for African American children in the segregated city) until you were old enough to pursue a trade or profession.

Of course, you might not go to school at all—even a minimal amount of schooling was not compulsory until the state passed a law in 1874.

But if getting a basic education was your goal, 1853 would have been a pivotal year. That’s when the New York City Board of Education merged with an older school association called the Public School Society. The invigorated Board began replacing outdated public school buildings with modern facilities to better serve the children of the booming city, whose population was hovering around 600,000.

One of these new schoolhouses still survives. Appropriately painted red and long since empty of students, it sits on the commercial stretch of West 28th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, one of the last vestiges of the Flower District (top photo).

As buildings go, it’s quite a beauty. “One of the three oldest public school buildings in Manhattan, its Italianate design is characteristic of the period, with a symmetrical facade featuring a slightly projecting central section with shallow pediment,” noted the Historic Districts Council of what was called School 48 in Ward 20.

What would it have been like to attend this school on wide-open, almost bucolic West 28th Street in the 1850s? The illustration above (undated, but likely produced soon after the school opened) helps us imagine it.

Newspaper archives fill in the blanks. The New York Times covered the opening ceremonies on January 30, 1856. It was a day heavy with city dignitaries and Ward 20 officials, but the Times took note of the grounds and facilities as well: a playground, library room, teachers’ reception room, and a couple of rooms “for the janitor’s family.”

A girls’ department contained eight classrooms; the boys’ department had six, all of which had bookcases and closets. The classrooms were lit by gas. “A full corps of teachers” was tasked with educating about 750 students. The “beautiful building,” as the Times deemed it, cost $55,000 to build.

Graduation was held every year and even made it into the newspapers. To help wounded Civil War soldiers, schoolkids helped raise funds and donated it to the Ladies’ Home for Sick and Wounded Soldiers on Lexington Avenue and East 51st Street.

In the 1880s, Ward School 48 became Grammar School 48, an all-girls public school in the much more populated Chelsea neighborhood.

The Sixth Avenue corner of the block became home to an elevated train station, lending a rougher edge to the area. (The third photo was taken from the el station; the school can be seen on the left.)

After the turn of the 20th century, Grammar School 48 no longer served as a school, yet the lovely schoolhouse remained mostly intact and untouched (fourth photo, from 1940).

Today, flower companies occupy the converted commercial spaces on the ground floor. Between the truck traffic and the honking of horns, it’s not hard to imagine the school when it rang with the shouts and laughter of young children.

[Second image: NYPL; third image: MCNY F2013.126.19; fourth image: NYC Department of Records & Information Services]

The wise owls adorning the facade of a 1906 West Side high school

The delightful building housing John Jay College of Criminal Justice, on Tenth Avenue between 58th and 59th Streets, is a confection of gables, parapets, pitched roofs, and terra cotta ornamentation.

But it’s the owls adorning a quiet side entrance facing West 58th Street, above, that give away what this Flemish Renaissance building was originally used for.

Built in 1906, this was DeWitt Clinton High School—an all-boys institution considered to be the largest high school in the nation at the time. (DeWitt Clinton would relocate to the Bronx to an even bigger campus two decades later.)

The H-shaped design (below, in a 2008 photo) is one of the hallmarks of New York City public school buildings constructed in this era, and so are the owls.

These symbols of wisdom can be found on many city school buildings dating back to the turn of the 20th century—when education became a Progressive-era ideal and Gotham embarked on a massive school-building juggernaut.

What makes these owls unique are the fledglings beneath them. Perhaps they symbolize the youngsters walking through these school doors and the knowledge imparted to them in an era when high school was not mandatory, and any boy attending secondary school was probably there to learn.

[Third image: Wikipedia]

The West Side school perched on top of a massive rock pile

Not many cities have a type of rock named after them, but Manhattan has Manhattan schist—an ancient bedrock formed roughly 450 million years ago.

Manhattan schist generally lies underground, providing the ideal strong foundation for the skyscrapers clustered in Lower Manhattan and Midtown, where the schist is closer to ground level and better able to anchor massive buildings.

But some schist lies above ground in the form of giant amazing rock outcroppings. Case in point: this high pile of gray, grainy schist on West 123rd Street east of Amsterdam Avenue in Morningside Heights.

Even in New York City, which from its very beginnings flattened and filled in the natural topography to fulfill real estate needs and dreams, schist like this was tough to deal with. For most of the 19th century, the pile was the site of blockhouse number 4–one of several small stone forts built to hold munitions if needed to defend Gotham during the War of 1812, per Harlem + Bespoke.

By the end of the 19th century, the schist and the unused blockhouse were part of Morningside Park. This steep, schist-filled green space became a park in part because Parks commissioner Andrew Haswell Green thought it would be “very expensive” and “very inconvenient” to extend the Manhattan street grid to such a rocky area, according to NYC Parks.

123rd Street looking east from Amsterdam: the remains of the 1812 Blockhouse are on top of the rocks

In the 1960s, however, the city was casting about for a site to build a new elementary school in or around Harlem. “The state legislature and mayor supported the construction of a school on the north part of Morningside Park, where the ruins of Blockhouse 4 were,” states the website for the Margaret Douglas School, also known as PS 36.

Construction of the school began in 1965, the ruins of the blockhouse were bulldozed away, and a new elementary school rose on this prehistoric heap of Manhattan schist.

The school is still in use, a Brutalist-style building stacked on top of the massive rocks with the help of concrete risers. It’s not far from another Manhattan schist outcropping: the enormous rat rock on West 114th Street, which was apparently too expensive to dynamite away and remains wedged between two apartment buildings.

[Third image: MCNY, F2011.22.1574]

 

A 1905 Brooklyn school building so lovely, it’s on a postcard

New York City was once so proud of the new schools that went up across all five boroughs during the school-building frenzy at the turn of the 20th century, several schools made it onto postcards.

That pride extended to trade schools as well. This red brick French Renaissance beauty on Park Slope’s Seventh Avenue between Fourth and Fifth Streets opened in 1905 as Brooklyn Manual Training, or Manual Training High School. (Note the streetcar tracks!)

That first year, 1,900 boys and girls took academic courses as well as classes in dressmaking, mechanical drawing, printing, joinery, blacksmithing, or other trades. Night classes were offered for working students; 900 enrolled in night school in 1905.

I’m not sure when Manual Training ceased to exist. But the handsome building is still at its original site—renamed the John Jay Educational Campus, which seems to be subdivided into several schools.

[Image: NYPL Digital Collections]

An NYU building sparks the city’s first organized labor riot in 1834

When New York University was founded in 1831, “the ‘University of the City of New-York’ (as NYU was originally known) was envisioned from the start as something new: an academic institution metropolitan in character, democratic in spirit, and responsive to the demands of a bustling commercial culture,” states the school’s website.

Yet the construction of NYU’s first building—a stately Gothic Revival structure on the east side of Washington Square (above in 1850)—touched off a labor riot and is considered to be New York’s first organized labor demonstration.

It all started in 1834, when officials in charge of the new NYU building decided to turn to the recently opened state prison at Sing Sing, 30 miles up the Hudson River, as a source of cheap stone and labor.

“While the University was building, the contractors, for economy’s sake, chose to purchase the marble at Sing-Sing, and employ the state prisoners to cut and hew it before bringing it to the city,” wrote William Leete Stone in 1872′s History of New York City.

Of course, this didn’t sit well with members of the city’s Stone Cutters’ Guild. “Believing themselves aggrieved, they held meetings, paraded the city with incendiary placards, and even went so far as to attack the houses of several worthy citizens,” Stone continued.

In August, Mayor Cornelius Van Wyck Lawrence called in the National Guard to quell the tradesmen, or “disperse the malcontents,” as Stone put it. The stone cutters also passed resolutions “condemning the ‘state prison monopoly,'” wrote Sara Trigoboth at NYUlocal.

The Stone Cutters’ Guild Riot, as it became known, ended when “the university gave in and peace was restored,” wrote Gerard R. Wolfe in New York: A Guide to the Metropolis. The NYU building opened in 1835, but was demolished in 1894. (A piece of the building remains on West Fourth Street as a memorial.)

Wolfe dubbed it “the first demonstration of organized labor in New York City.” The labor movement would only grow in strength through the 19th century, and New York was the site of the first Labor Day Parade in the nation in 1882.

[Top image: Wikipedia; second image: NYPL; third image: New-York Historical Society]

How NYC taught school during a lethal outbreak

School districts all over the country are facing a dilemma right now. Should they hold classes in school buildings—or keep schools closed, as they have been since the coronavirus pandemic began, and continue teaching kids at home via digital classes?

In the early 1900s, New York school and health officials faced a similar dilemma. So they came up with a novel way to teach kids safely under the threat of a lethal infection: they built outdoor and open-air classrooms on rooftops, in schoolyards, and even on ferryboats (above, 1908).

Pioneered in Germany in the early 1900s, fresh-air classrooms, as they were also known, were adopted by some New York City schools to prevent the spread of tuberculosis in the city’s crowded, airless school buildings.

Tuberculosis may not have been a full-fledged pandemic in New York at the time. But the “white plague,” also known as the “captain of the men of death,” was Gotham’s leading killer in 1900.

A cure for TB wasn’t developed until the 1940s. In the 1900s and 1910s, treatment meant fresh air and sunlight. Prevention efforts included public health campaigns against spitting and building apartments and hospitals that allowed for better ventilation and light.

A school for kids stricken with TB opened on a ferry docked at the East River (top photo) in 1908. Four more ferries and the Vanderbilt Clinic on 16th Street were also converted into classrooms, with students gathered around on chairs and a teacher leading lessons, according to the 1918 book, Open-Air Schools.

Thanks to their success, public health officials began thinking about using the same strategy to prevent infections in kids who might be predisposed to the disease because of their home environment or their own physical health. They also proposed that so-called “normal” pupils would benefit as well.

So in 1909, the city set aside $6500 for the construction of open-air classrooms, according to the New York Times on October 30 of that year.

An elementary school on Carmine Street began holding “open-window” classes, as did a grade school in Chelsea. In these and other public schools, “there is no supplementary feeding, no rest period, and no extra clothes provided,” Open-Air Schools explained. “The children wear their street wraps in cold weather.”

[At right: A student in an outdoor class on the Lower East Side, 1910]

Horace Mann, the private school then located in Morningside Heights, also launched open-air classes. The school built open classrooms on the roof, with windowed walls on three sides of each room. “Indoor toilet rooms are provided and also an indoor room where children may go to get warm if necessary.”

Kindergartners were not spared from the open-air school idea (above). Young kids at Brooklyn’s Friends School were taught on the roof. “As yet the children are wearing their own coats and wraps, but later in the season we expect to have sitting-out bags…only in the really cold weather are the blankets to wrap up the smaller children used,” a November 5, 1911 Brooklyn Daily Eagle article stated, quoting a teacher.

In the coldest weather, some schools provided students with a new garment called a “parka,” or “fuzzy Eskimo suit,” as one Brooklyn school described them in a 1933 Brooklyn Times Union article (photo above).

Other cities across the country launched their own outdoor or open-air classrooms, including Chicago, Cleveland, and Boston.

The open-air school movement seems to have died down by the 1930s though, perhaps because TB wasn’t quite as feared, and a new scourge—polio—began causing panic, especially in the summertime when public pools opened.

Could New York City kids (and their teachers) handle open-air or outdoor classes today? Interestingly, according to the newspaper sources used in this post, parents did not have a problem with the open-air policy.

[Top photo: LOC; second photo: LOC; third photo: MCNY, 90.13.4.66; fourth photo: MCNY 90.13.4.68; fifth photo: MCNY 90.13.2.36; sixth photo: LOC; seventh photo: Brooklyn Times Union; eighth photo: LOC]

The pioneering clinic of NYC’s first ‘lady doctor’

Elizabeth Blackwell wasn’t just New York City’s first female medical doctor—she was the first woman to practice medicine in the entire country.

But mid-19th century Gotham is where she decided to open a pioneering dispensary and then an infirmary, and the growing city benefited enormously.

Born in England in 1821 and raised in Cincinnati, Blackwell first became a teacher. She felt a strong calling toward medicine, however, especially after she watched a female friend die of a cancer of the reproductive organs.

“If I could have been treated by a lady doctor, my worst sufferings would have been spared me,” the friend told her, an anecdote Blackwell included in her 1895 autobiography.

In 1847, she applied to 20 medical colleges, all of which denied her admission.

Of course, the idea of a “lady doctor” was ridiculous at the time. A woman couldn’t be a doctor because studying anatomy—specifically of the reproductive system—could upset her morals, wrote Leo Trachtenburg in an article about Blackwell in City Journal in 2000.

Finally, one school did agree to take her: Geneva Medical College in upstate New York. (At left, an illustration of Blackwell in anatomy class.)

After postgraduate studies in Paris, she settled in New York City—which was then a city of elites, a merchant class, and an ever-growing population of poor people, including many who came to the city during the first wave of Irish and German immigration.

Blackwell opened an office at 44 University Place and put an ad in the New-York Tribune (above), but she had few patients, as people were not interested in receiving medical care from a woman, with some being hostile. “My pecuniary situation was a constant source of anxiety,” she recalled in her autobiography. She also admitted to being deeply lonely.

The 1850s proved to be a turning point for Blackwell.

“Her career instead took the direction it was to have for the rest of her life: the promotion of hygiene and preventive medicine among both lay persons and professionals and the promotion of medical education and opportunities for women physicians,” states a National Institutes of Medicine page.

Reaching out to wealthy and notable New Yorkers for financial backing, she opened a dispensary on East Seventh Street near Tompkins Square Park in 1853.

Unlike other dispensaries in the city that served all poor residents in a given ward, this one exclusively treated the women and children of the 11th Ward.

Back then, the ward was populated by German immigrants, many hungry and desperately ill. “The design of this institution is to give to poor women an opportunity of consulting physicians of their own sex,” she wrote.

In 1856, Blackwell—along with her newly minted physician sister, Emily Blackwell, and another female doctor opened The New York Infirmary for Women and Children at 64 Bleecker Street. (A plaque, below left, marks the site today.)

It would be the first female-run hospital in the city. A house once occupied by members of the Roosevelt family was renovated and outfitted with a maternity center and surgical ward.

“In addition to the usual departments of hospital and dispensary practice, which included the visiting of poor patients at their own homes, we established a sanitary visitor,” wrote Blackwell. This would be “one of our assistant physicians, whose special duty it was to give simple, practical instruction to poor mothers on the management of infants and the preservation of the health of their families.”

Considering the conditions many families lived in—shut off in dark, unventilated tenements where disease easily spread and infants didn’t often make it to their first birthday—this information was vital.

“Blackwell aimed to use the Infirmary not only to treat needy patients but also to train women doctors and nurses, so that other women could follow in her path more easily,” wrote Trachtenberg. “The Women’s Medical College of the New York Infirmary officially opened at 126 Second Avenue in November 1868.”

While Blackwell’s infirmary continued to operate and fulfill its mission of treating women and children and training women for medical professions, Blackwell herself left New York in the 1860s. She spent the rest of her life in England, famous for her medical lectures and books.

She died in 1910. The infirmary she launched before the Civil War moved to Stuyvesant Square (above right), where it remained for 90 years, according to Town & Village, before moving into a new building in the 1950s. After a series of mergers it became part of today’s New York Presbyterian Lower Manhattan Hospital.

[First image: Biography.com; second image: New-York Presbyterian; third image: New-York Tribune; fourth image: NYPL digital collection; fifth image: New-York Presbyterian; sixth image: King’s Handbook of New York City 1892 via Wikipedia; seventh image: readtheplaque.com; eighth image, Wikipedia]

Where is this rough rock wall in Central Park?

This is the story of an 1889 painting, a mysterious stone wall, and a religious institution that occupied part of today’s Central Park in the mid-19th century—before the park was even in the planning stages.

It starts with Impressionist painter William Merritt Chase. He was dubbed the “artistic interpreter” of Central Park and Prospect Park in an 1891 Harper’s Weekly article, owing to his many evocative landscapes of these and other city green spaces.

One Chase painting that stands out as darker and more mysterious than most of his park landscapes is this one (above) from 1889, “In the Park (a By-Path).”

A child under a watchful nanny wanders away from a park bench and follows a stone wall, “one of those sections of rough rock-work which give character to the many nooks and corners of the Park at the same time that they serve a useful end,” wrote Charles De Key in Harper’s Weekly.

Where was—or currently is—this “rough rock-work,” and what was its useful end?

According to various sources, this impressive stone wall is what remained of a convent and school called the Academy of Mount St. Vincent (above in 1861), the first institute of higher learning for women in New York.

Founded in 1847 by the Sisters of Charity, Mount St. Vincent had the misfortune of setting up shop East of Fifth Avenue at about today’s 105th Street, in what would become Central Park a decade later.

The school relocated in the 1850s to Riverdale, where it continues its educational mission today. The college buildings left behind in the park burned down in 1881.

That rough rock wall, apparently a retaining wall from one of the original buildings, still stands behind the Conservatory Garden not far from a stone that marks the former site of the college (above left).

I went looking for the wall in this hilly, rocky section of Central Park. The mosquitos and thick brush kept me from finding it.

Luckily some other intrepid New Yorkers did locate it, like Michael Minn, whose 2007 photograph of the retaining wall is above. It doesn’t look exactly like the wall in Chase’s painting—artistic license, or the effects of time?

The folks from Untapped Cities also have a photo of the wall from 2017.

[Second image: NYPL; fourth image: Copyright © Michael Minn]

An apartment house rises out of this 1893 school

In the late 19th century, New York City went on a public school building spree, constructing several handsome new schools across Manhattan to educate all children, but especially those of the poor and working classes.

One of these schools, completed in 1893, was a spectacular romanesque building that resembled the Dakota—trimmed with brownstone and brick and tricked out with arched windows and gabled roofs.

Public School 35 (above, in 1920) occupied the northwest corner of First Avenue and 51st Street (the former site of the 18th century Beekman mansion) for the next 70 years.

What was it like attending school here?

One New York Times letter writer summed it up this way in 1987: “My fellow-students, although by no means an assemblage of miniature angels, had been cautioned by hard-working parents to derive maximum benefits from the free education denied their European-born parents.”

By the 1960s, PS 35 was no longer. For the next few decades it was a mostly empty neighborhood eyesore. The old school even did a stint as a homeless shelter for women.

In the 2000s, however, this striking building took on a new role: as the lower-floor facade of a 20-story condo designed by Costas Kondylis.

The interior walls were knocked out and a modern apartment tower was built inside the facade. (Above, before the apartment building was started).

Don’t give too much credit to the developer, though, for preserving the facade. The school earned a spot on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980.

Presumably the facade of PS 93 couldn’t be totally leveled, so the sleek condo building now rises inside the school—a curious mix of old and new New York on a Turtle Bay block.

[Third photo: NYPL; Fourth photo: Turtle Bay Association]