For many years—more than anyone could recall—it had been a sleepy little village out in the country. But then the rich folks arrived.
They came on Sundays at first: wealthy citizens from the nearest big city, riding their horses into the countryside with picnic baskets in tow, making a day of it. The villagers scarcely knew what to think, peering from their cottage windows to observe the likes of Cornelius Vanderbilt strolling down a country lane.
When the townsfolk caught on that their town was, indeed, catching on, they began catering to their metropolitan visitors. There arose Tommy McGuire’s Clubhouse, the place to stop after a refreshing day in the country air, and Brassie’s Tunnel, a pub that had been carved right out of a huge rock.
The big-city aristocracy responded warmly to this rural hospitality. They cherished the seclusion of the countryside—a place where they could enjoy polite company, far from the overstimulation of their own bustling burg. And so, that little village up north became the ultimate place to get away from it all.
But this is the rest of the story.
After a while, the grateful affluent decided that weekends were not enough. Why not enjoy the charm and the solitude every day, all year long? And so, the rich folks began buying, and building, and moving in. Thus, a suburb was born.
Soon, rows of trees, colorful gardens, and magnificent homes were everywhere. New residents were always careful to explain to strangers that they lived in that elite community. As one put it, “It was our way of avoiding contact with such uncouth citizens as might be found downtown.”
Of course, the big city itself continued to prosper and to grow. In fact, it eventually grew all the way out to the once-secluded village. The city now reached the very edge of the suburb. Yet, while the community was no longer separated from the city by an expansive countryside, it still remained ultimately exclusive—the choicest residential section of the entire metropolitan area.
One newspaper referred to the community as “a great city in itself.” One monthly magazine called it “the center of fashion, wealth, culture, and intelligence.” It became known far and wide as a residential haven “for people of taste and wealth.”
So, schools and churches sprang up there—elegant ones. And apartment houses—fancy ones, lots of them. So many, in fact, that despite the desirable location, there were not enough tenants to fill them. It was overzealous speculation that spoiled the elegant dream.
Today, you’d never guess that Commodore Vanderbilt once ran his horses there. You’d never guess that VIPs like John C. Frémont and Schuyler Colfax had to fight to prove they owned land there. You’d never imagine that it was once a place to get away from it all.
Yet there was a day when wealthy and influential New Yorkers outbid one another for the privilege to say, “I live in Harlem.”
And now you know the rest of the story.
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