In 1847 the Square was formally opened and soon after society began to migrate there.  That was during the mayoralty of James Harper.  From 1853 until the end of the Civil War it was the social centre of the city.  “Among those who lived in this vicinity,” says “Fifth Avenue,” “were Leonard W. Jerome, and his elder brother, Addison G. Jerome, who, with William R. Travers, were social leaders and prominent Wall Street brokers; James Stokes, who, in 1851, built at No. 37 Madison Square, East, the first residence on Madison Square, and whose wife was a daughter of Anson G. Phelps; John David Wolfe, whose daughter, Catherine Lorillard Wolfe, gave her magnificent art collection to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Frank Work, William and John O’Brien, Henry M. Schieffelin, James L. Schieffelin, Samuel B. Schieffelin, Benjamin H. Field, Peter Ronalds, and William Lane.”

Elsewhere is told of the glories of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, of the part it played as one of the Hosts of the Avenue, of its share in the great days, of its Amen Corner, and of the distinguished men like General W.T.  Sherman, former Senator Platt, and the actor, William J. Florence, who for years made it their home.  A quarter of a century ago the entrance to the hotel was the starting point, every Thanksgiving Day noon, for many gaily decorated coaches bound for the old Manhattan Field.  In earlier days the destination had been Berkeley Oval at Williamsbridge, or the old Polo Grounds at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Fifth and Sixth Avenues.  Draped down to the wheels with bunting of dark blue or of orange and black the tally-hos drew up before the portico and were soon topped with eager, ardent youth.  As they were whirled away up the Avenue there broke out upon the autumn air the sharp “Brek-a Coex-Coex-Coex” of Yale, or the sky-rocket of Princeton.  The return was marked by high elation or deep depression according as the Fates had decided on the chalk-lined turf.  For the collection of sundry wagers the victors hurried into the near-by Hoffman House, where the presiding genius and stakeholder, Billy Edwards, divided attention with the paintings of fauns and nymphs that adorned the walls.  That youth of yesteryear has come to grizzled hair.  There are crow’s feet about the eyes, and the world is one of vastly changed values, and the game at which the heart is throbbing is a more poignant one than that which involved touchdowns and goals from the field and desperate stands on the two-yard line.  But it is the same old-time spirit, that then expressed itself in the call, “Hold them, Yale,” or “Hold them for Old Nassau!” that, passed on to succeeding generations, is grimly awaiting the shock on the plains of Picardy.