National Police Gazette

Encyclopedic in breadth but compact enough for the vest pocket of a 19th-century gentleman on the go, the book was an insider’s guide to Manhattan, easily picked up at the newsstand before a night on the town, much the way tourists and local residents now consult a guidebook when they are in the mood for a memorable restaurant or meal.

Only this palm-sized book, published in 1870 and long hidden away at the New-York Historical Society, did not confine its anonymous critique to the quality of wines or the ambience of the 150 establishments listed between its covers. Rather, it defined its role as delivering “insight into the character and doings of people whose deeds are carefully screened from public view.”

Marilynn K. Yee/The New York Times

Vest Pocket Guide to Brothels Only 4-3/4-inches tall, this detailed guide to New York City brothels in 1870 hints at what people did before they had tools like the Internet to help navigate an unfamiliar urban scene. Document: The Brothel Directory

Map: Dens of Iniquity

Especially fragile, the book is usually kept under lock and key. At the request of The New York Times, however, the historical society took it out for a spin this month so readers could experience one of the more colorful and detailed guides ever produced on the ins and outs of New York City’s brothels.

Readers of the book, “The Gentleman’s Directory,” learned that “an hour cannot be spent more pleasantly” than at Harry Hill’s place on 25 East Houston Street. And they learned that Ada Blashfield of 55 West Houston Street had “8 to 10 boarders both blondes and brunettes,” playing host to “some of our first citizens.” The book also divulged that Mrs. Wright’s place at 61 Elizabeth Street had “everything that makes time pass agreeably,” and that Miss Jennie Creagh had spared “neither expense nor labor” at 17 Amity Street, a onetime Manhattan address, to conjure a “palace of beauty forever” out of French mirrors, rosewood furniture and fine bedding.

All of those listings and more can be viewed here. Just as historians might someday parse Zagat dining guides to see how our generation ate and lived, “The Gentleman’s Directory” provides this generation with a glimpse of the simultaneously libertine and puritanical city that came before it. Prostitution was illegal, but brothels were rampant in the decades after the Civil War, operating under the noses of the police and census takers. And proprietors were not shy about using newfangled marketing techniques to stand out and gain a share of the market.

Timothy J. Gilfoyle, a professor of history at Loyola University, put the number of brothels in Manhattan in 1870 close to 500 in his 1992 book “City of Eros: New York City, Prostitution, and the Commercialization of Sex, 1790-1920”. While “The Gentleman’s Directory” did not survey every brothel, it managed to include more than 150 establishments — 23 on West 27th Street alone — in the book’s 55 pages of commentary and advertisements. Readers, who take the time to view this map of all known locations, might almost come to pity the researchers who knocked on all those doors, collecting information and sampling the wares. Coincidentally or not, all nine brothels that advertised in the book were found to be “first-class.”

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Readers were warned on Page 5 that they would not learn where Central Park or the Croton Aqueduct were from the book’s contents. What they would find, the book stated, were facts about New York hospitality “which could not be procured elsewhere.”

The mission, its author (or authors) wrote with a wink, was to tell people where not to go.

“Not that we imagine the reader will ever desire to visit these houses,” the text stated. “Certainly not.”

“We point out the location of these places in order that the reader may know how to avoid them,” the book insisted, “and that he may not select one of them for his boarding house when he comes to the city.” It compared itself to the buoy that “warns the inexperienced mariner to sheer off, lest he should be wrecked on a dangerous and unknown coast.”

It apparently took effort for businesses in this line of work to displease, and only a dozen or so landed reviews harsh enough to scare people away. Mme. Pauline Beck of 69 Elizabeth Street came close, running “a noisy and untidy den of assignation, visited only by the lowest class of people” while the landlady at 105 West 27th Street was said to be “as sour as her wine.” The book was equally withering about Hattie Taylor’s house at 111 Spring Street, which it contended drew a sketchy crowd of “roughs and rowdies and gentlemen who turn their shirts wrong-side out when the other side is dirty.”

At least 50 businesses got rave reviews. Sportsmen were advised to check out 25 Houston Street. Nervous types could rest easy at 128 West 27th Street, where a doctor was on stand-by. Those with a fetish for furnishings could call on 108 West 27th Street for a peek at the frescoes. And anyone craving good conversation might have enjoyed seeing the “seven beautiful young lady scholars” of the “Ladies Seminary” on 123 West 27th Street put to the test.

One of the stranger entries was 127 West 26th Street, run by a Madame Buemont. “There is a report of a bear being kept in the cellar but for what reason may be inferred,’’ the book reported.

Modern roués, of course, have tools like the Internet. But in 1870, the closest anyone could come to getting a road map to the nearest den of iniquity was the police blotter or perhaps the federal census. (Though it was hardly the norm to be so blunt, census workers in 1870 knew enough about the goings-on at 114 West 26th Street and 116 West 26th Street to twice write “House of Prostitution” in the column asking about residents’ “occupation, profession or trade.”)

Books like “The Gentleman’s Directory,” filled the information gap, and because only a few survived, Dr. Gilfoyle suspected that patrons had gotten rid of their copies before heading home.

Marilynn K. Yee/The New York Times

Picking up “The Gentleman’s Directory” in a gloved hand, Alan Balicki, the historical society’s senior conservator, pointed to its thumbed pages as proof that the little book got around. He also indicated telltale signs of hurried assembly: runny inks, pages that appear askew, breaks in the borders. “This is not a fine printing,’’ he said. “This is for information.”

A similarly themed book at the society is the “Directory to the Seraglios,” pictured on the right. Compiled by the pseudonymous “Free Loveyer” in 1859 and stitched together haphazardly, the earlier book promised coverage of New York, and “all the principal cities in the union.” Philadelphia had 57 listings, about half as many as New York. Washington landed seven, and Boston six; Ogdensburgh, N.Y. was apparently one of the cities that had to make do with a one-woman welcome committee.

As a comparison of the two guidebooks made clear, stepping out with an out-of-date directory had its perils. According to the 1859 book, gentlemen “wishing to enjoy the comforts of connubial feeling with their wives intended” were well-served at 83 Crosby Street in Manhattan. Eleven years later, “The Gentleman’s Directory,” pronounced the same spot, possibly under new management, “small potatoes.”

The earlier book recommends several addresses on Greene Street, while the later directory warned readers to steer clear of the street, calling it a “complete sink of iniquity.”

Though a few guides of this type circulated in New York in the decades before “The Gentleman’s Directory,” Dr. Gilfoyle said he tought this was the first to solicit advertising.

Marilynn K. Yee/The New York Times

Safe sex was delicately broached in the last page of the book in an ad that advised anyone needing “French imported male safes,” otherwise known as condoms, to see Dr. Charles Manches any time until 9 p.m. Another, possibly in-house, advertiser was John F. Murray of 57 West Houston Street, offering additional copies of the directory for $1 or copies of “Dr. Groves’s Marriage Guide” for 50 cents. Take your pick.

The low-rise buildings that housed these quaint “temples of love” have mostly vanished.

City Room thought it had spotted one still standing at 105 West 27th Street, the place whose landlady was “as sour as her wine.” But PropertyShark suggests on its Web site that the sooty-looking, four-story building only went up a century ago.

There is also no trace of an opulent three-story brownstone that once ruled West 25th Street and catered to an aristocratic crowd. Ten years ago, a hulking residential building, known as Chelsea Towers, took over much of the block.

Dr. Gilfoyle, who used police records, guidebooks and news clippings to plot the location of 5,000 known brothels for his book, said the oldest brothel he found still rooted to its spot was at 105 Mercer Street. A squat brick building with a fan-shaped window over the door, it got only the briefest mention in the 1859 book and was not cited in the 1870 work.

Marilynn K. Yee/The New York Times

Jeremy Spear, the home’s previous owner, agreed it was the real deal. He said he did extensive research at the New-York Historical Society after buying it and was surprised, but pleased, to learn that what started as a seamstresses’ home in 1819 was later converted to a brothel. “There’s a certain grit in New York City history, and people love to hear that everything wasn’t all rose-smelling,’’ he said. “It is part of the city’s fabric.”

Readers familiar with the fate of other places in the book are invited to send their findings to City Room in the space below.

Alain Delaquérière contributed reporting.

Follow Alison Leigh Cowan and On the Records (@cowannyt) on Twitter.