The Sullivan, Randolph & Budd Bldg - 80-82 White Street

Carpet dealer Elias S. Higgins plunged full force into the flurry of new construction that swept New York City after the Civil War.   In 1867 he began work on the Grand Hotel on Broadway at 31st Street, designed by Henry Engelbert.   The architect would design the even larger, more impressive Broadway Central Hotel for Higgins in 1871.

It was not a hotel that the two men worked together on in 1867 at Nos. 80-82 White Street, but an elegant loft and store building.   Faced in white marble above a cast iron storefront, the six-story building was completed in 1868.   The Italianate-style facade would have been typical of the scores of buildings going up in the district were it not for Englebert's neo-Grec detailing.  The architectural style had only just begun appearing in America and the elements--like the stylized capitals of the pilasters--took the design to the cutting edge.

By March 1868 the new building had became home to Sullivan, Randolph & Budd, importers of "woolens and goods for men's wear."  At the time it claimed to be the oldest textile house in the United States.  Founded around 1834 as Wilson G. Hunt & Co., the name was changed in 1864 when long-time employees Naham Sullivan, Peter F. Randolph and William A. Budd took over.

The firm had barely moved in when the 1868 guide History of New York City; From the Discovery to the Present Day described the "handsome marble structure."  "The building...is six stories high, with a splendid lofty basement, fitted up in the most complete and admirable manner.  A powerful steam-dummy performs the work of hoisting and lowering from basement to roof."

The firm's offices were on the first floor ("very tastefully arranged") as well as the sales room.  "The other principal floors are devoted to a complete stock of foreign and domestic fabrics, together with a full assortment of trimmings, etc., while in the top floor is stowed a large surplus."

Not mentioned in the article was Meinhard Bros. & Co., wholesale clothing merchants.  Based in Georgia, the company sub-leased an office in the White Street building.

from the Historical Record of the City of Savannah, 1869 (copyright expired)

Sullivan, Randolph & Budd was well-known for its durable uniform fabrics.  The firm supplied goods to West Point and other military schools, as well as the city's Municipal Police Department and other police organizations throughout the country.

But behind the scenes, there seems to have been discord among the management.  Shortly after taking over No. 80-82 White Street, the firm was changed to Sullivan, Budd & Co., then in 1871 to N. Sullivan & Co.  One by one Naham Sullivan's partners had dropped out.

After Sullivan & Co. moved to No. 329 Broadway around 1873 the White Street building became home to several smaller firms.  One of them, possibly Meinhard Bros., did not identify itself in an advertisement that appeared in The New York Herald on October 26 that year.  The wholesaler was offering excess stock to individual, private customers off the street:

Clothing at Your Own Use at wholesale prices, at 80 and 82 White street, up stairs, first building east of Broadway.  You can buy for the next 60 days, from our large and beautiful stock of Clothing, single Garments for your own use, and save you from 25 to 50 per cent.  Fashionable styles, equal to custom work.

An interesting tenant by 1875 was the Bureau of Indian Affairs.  The White Street office was in charge of filling the annual supply list necessary for the Indian missions and reservations throughout the West.  On April 28, 1875 The New York Herald reported "Commissioner Edward P. Smith, of the Indian Department, held his annual reception yesterday, at No. 82 White street.  It was largely attended, and the visitors walked up and down and stood in groups discussing the prospects of the coming season, while the Commissioner read out the bids on which they proposed to supply the wants of 'Poor Lo.'" (Poor Lo! was the term commonly used for the group of missions.)

There were approximately 300 bidders whom the article identified as mostly from the West and "were nearly entirely composed of Indian contractors."  The men placed bids for contracts on everything from shoes and blankets to beef.

Also in the building at the time was dry goods merchant Charles M. Aikman & Co.  The firm was the target of inveterate thieves George Callahan, alias "the Countryman," and Charles Murphy, alias "Cheek," on the night of April 24, 1876.  The men were members of a gang of burglars wanted for a string break ins.  This time, however, they were spotted when they rushed down Courtlandt Alley with $500 worth of lace curtains and piano covers from Charles M. Aikman & Co.

The eyewitness account helped lead to the arrest of the pair along with their cohorts, John David, John Roche, alias "Casino," and James Stapleton, alias "Buck."  For the White Street burglary, Callahan and Murphy were held on $2,000 bail each--more than $47,000 today.

On February 19, 1880 a massive fire consumed the building at Nos. 384 and 386 Broadway, at the corner of White Street.  As the inferno spread to No. 388 firemen broke into No. 80-82 White Street and directed hoses "from the roof and windows," according to The New York Times.  Two fire fighters died fighting the blaze and the Broadway buildings were destroyed.

Even the gap provided by Courtlandt Alley could not prevent damage to the White Street structure.  The following month The Record & Guide reported that Higgins had hired architect William H. Holmes to repair the fire damage.

In the mid-1880's Wm. Topping & Co. operated its auction house from the address.  The firm sold off over-stocked goods or the residue from bankrupt firms, as well as real estate parcels.

A notable tenant in the 1890's was the carpet retailer Morris & McKay.   Its extensive line included not only carpeting, but "oil cloths, rags, mats, etc."  Mostly forgotten today, decorative oil cloth mats mimicked rugs and were placed beneath tables for easy clean-up and to protect expensive carpeting.

The Evening World, October 13, 1894 (copyright expired)

In July 1900 Eugene Higgins hired architect William H. Birkmire to update the aging structure.  New plumbing was installed, and "general alterations" done.  The upgrades cost the equivalent of more than $450,000 today.

They were enough to lure an important tenant by 1903, the Rhode Island-based Clark O. N. Thread company.  The quality maker constantly battled counterfeiters, as was reported on April 30, 1904 in The Sun.  The article noted "Last winter persons in the trade brought to the Clark offices at 82 White street reports that the Clark thread was being sold in the West in large quantities at prices very much below the market quotations.  An investigation showed that the Clark trade mark stamp had been counterfeited."

The following year Spool Cotton moved in, taking over the New York City operation for Clark O. N. T. Thread.  The company would remain here for several years representing Clark.

In 1911 it participated in a educational project in high schools nationwide.  The Annual Report of the Minnesota State High School Board that year explained "Not a few schools are acquiring illustrative material for their industrial department" and provided a list "of educational exhibits, which may be obtained free of charge by making courteous application to the addresses given below."  Included was Spool Cotton, which offered examples of "spool cotton and needles."

A major change came in 1913 when Jenkins Bros. leased the entire building.   Makers of plumbing valves, the firm was nationally recognized.  Their main plant was located in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

The House Beautiful, October 1920 (copyright expired)

The dependability and quality of the Jenkins projects was best evidenced when the firm was contracted to produce the valves for United States naval ships during World War II.  Following a worker walk-out in 1944, an Executive Order from the White House directed "that all employees were instructed to report for work immediately."

Wartime ads differed greatly from the domestic setting of 20 years earlier.  This one may have had a message to the plant's employees as well.

The Government went a step further.   On April 13 that year an order from the War Department read "Sec. of the Navy authorized to take possession of and operate the plants and facilities of Jenkins Bros, Inc."

Following the war Jenkins Bros. returned to business as usual.  In the spring of 1949, after more than three decades at No. 80-82 White Street, it signed a lease in the new building at No. 100 Park Avenue.  On May 18 The New York Times announced that the White Street building "was sold by the heirs of Eugene Higgins."  The buyer, it said, "plans to occupy the building when it is vacated by Jenkins Bros."

For decades the General Hardware Manufacturing Company occupied the building.  By 1992 the Tribeca renaissance had reached White Street and Art In General, a non-profit exhibition space, leased space in the building.

A substantial renovation and restoration began in 2016 to transform No. 80-82 White Street to retail space, offices, and an apartment.   Still owned by General Hardware, now General Tools, the firm announced it was vacating the premises.  It had commissioned the firm FSI Architecture to do the work.

In May 2017 Artists Space, a non-profit gallery, announced it would be moving to the renovated building.

photographs by the author

The Tweed Courthouse -- City Hall Park

photo by Alice Lum

In the decade prior to the Civil War the County of New York made do with a small brownstone building erected in 1852.  Only six years later a movement was underway to erect a substantial courthouse.  Public stocks were sold to garner the funds.

The public was offered Court-House Stock to raise funds -- the New-York Daily Trubune, February 16, 1865 (copyright expired)

Commissioners quickly realized that the original 1858 estimate of $250,000 for the building was inadequate.  They raised the budget to $1 million the following year—more in the neighborhood of $27 million today.  In the meantime William M. Tweed was garnering increased political power. 

In 1857 Tweed became a member of the Board of Supervisors, the county’s chief legislative body.  By the time ground was broken for the County Court House the day after Christmas in 1861, Tweed and his “ring” would wield unfettered control. 

When the cornerstone was laid the names of two architects were placed inside.  Thomas Little, of Thomas Little & Son, apparently drew up the initial plans in 1859; but on August 30, 1861 the Board of Supervisors determined “to employ a suitable architect.”  John Kellum’s name would accompany Little’s in the small box within the cornerstone.

Kellum was reaching the apex of his career and the County Courthouse would be a monumental accomplishment.   Constructed of white marble, it took its inspiration greatly from the United States Capitol building as well at the 1735 Mansion House in England.  A sketch in 1868 shows the structure capped with an imposing dome; creating a striking similarity to the Capitol.  In 1869 New York Illustrated mentioned “when completed, the building will be surmounted by a large dome, giving a general resemblance to the main portico of the Capitol at Washington.”

In 1868 Valentine's Manual published a sketch of the proposed building with its never-executed dome -- copyright expired

The Civil War caused a temporary halt in construction, but by 1865 the exterior was essentially completed and work had begun on the interiors.  By the time the Court of Appeals moved into the unfinished structure in March 1867, the rampant graft and corruption of the Tweed Ring was already being noticed.

In 1866 Supervisor Smith Ely, Jr. raised a red flag, saying “grossly extravagant and improper expenditures have been made by the persons having charge of the building of the new courthouse, in reference to the purchase of iron, marble and brick, and in the payment of various persons for services.”  In fact, Tweed and his cronies were paying highly inflated prices and taking 20 percent of the billing costs for themselves.

On September 9, 1871 cranes are in place as the building continues to rise -- Harper's Weekly, (copyright expired)

On October 2, 1871 the New-York Tribune printed a scathing report that said in part “There certainly never were more barefaced or bolder robberies perpetrated under any government than have been committed under ‘Ring’ rule in this City…Over ten millions of dollars has been paid in two years and a half simply for decorating and furnishing the County Court-House, Wm. M. Tweed’s new office on Broadway, and the Mayor’s Office.”

Just over three months earlier, John Kellum died, never to see his monumental civic building completed.  The task of completing the court house was passed to Leopold Eidlitz in 1875.  Eidlitz was not interested in sympathetically melding his designs with Kellum’s.   Instead his southern wing was a Victorian take on medieval styles.

 

A postcard captured Eidlitz's incongruous southern wing -- copyright expired

In the meantime, in what was a case of supreme irony, William M. Tweed appeared in what would soon be popularly termed the Tweed Court House on November 19, 1873.  He had been arrested on October 27, 1871 and within the year was convicted on 204 counts.

Eidlitz’s disregard for Kellum’s classic design raised the wrath of some architectural critics.  On April 29, 1877 The New York Times criticized “it is also charged that the new style of architecture is wholly out of keeping with the rest of the building and that while it might be well enough in a fashionable church on Fifth Avenue, or a highly decorated lager beer brewery at Yorkville, it is cheap and tawdry in comparison with the elaborate finishing and classic exterior of the present structure.”

Top:  The ornate, cast iron staircase reflected Kellum's Italianate design.
Bottom:  Eidlitz added his touch with medieval details.  photos from the Library of Congress

After two decades of construction the New York County Courthouse was finally—essentially, anyway—completed in 1881.  Despite the exorbitant costs New York had a sumptuous civic structure; but the stain of the Tweed scandal blinded the public to its beauty and would threaten its existence for over a century to come.

The new County Courthouse attracted a peculiar crowd of loiterers and eccentrics.  On June 20, 1886 the New-York Tribune noted “The queer people seen and the queer things they say in the new County Court House that Tweed built are worthy of being chronicled…There were broken-down politicians, old and used-up officials, persons willing to show strangers the Court House for a small consideration, others ready to assist those who wanted to become naturalized and others too lazy to do anything.”

The stark difference in Eidlitz's architectural style was harshly criticized -- photo by Alice Lum

On April 11, 1888 the building was used for the wedding of Julia Clarkson, “the pretty daughter of Edward Clarkson, janitor of the building, to Edward J. Reynolds, a well-known builder.”  The Sun reported that “Boss Tweed’s twenty-million-dollar Court House was the theatre of an unusual scene last evening.  Three of the solemn court rooms were converted into a spacious banquet hall and ball room to accommodate a wedding party.”

“An orchestra was stationed in front of the Judge’s bench in the equity division, and dainty feet marked time to its music on floors that had hitherto echoed only to the ponderous tread of men of affairs,” said the newspaper.

Before long, however, there would be talk of demolishing the building that took up newspaper space.  On September 13, 1893 The New York Times reported on the 130 architectural plans that had been received in a competition for a new City Hall.  Along with it came a movement to demolish the courthouse.

It seemed only Controller Myers saw the qualities of the building.  The newspaper said “He thought that the Court House had come in for more than its just share of abuse.  The building cost, with furniture, over $14,000,000, and despite the fact that much of this enormous outlay was squandered, it is nevertheless an imposing structure.”

The courthouse survived; but just seven years later it was in danger again.  Officials pressed to clear City Hall Park of all buildings other than the venerable City Hall.  The New York Times chimed in saying on March 13, 1901, “that especially the Tweed Court House, as an ugly monument of fraud and municipal disgrace, should be razed as soon as accommodation can be had elsewhere for the uses it now very imperfectly and inconveniently subserves.”

A reader wrote to the editor of the newspaper in response.  “No building in New York is so generally disliked as the Court House, and honest men long for the day when the space it has polluted shall be restored to the much-abused City Hall Park.”

The debate was still hot in July 1902 when it was suggested that $2 million could refurbish the old building.  “And as to spending two millions on the Tweed Court House, which is a stench in the moral olfactories of all New Yorkers, and which has nothing architecturally valuable, excepting the incongruous addition which puts it to an open shame, that was a very improvident judicial expression of dissatisfaction with quarters which are undoubtedly dissatisfying which led certain revered Justices of the Supreme Court to commit themselves to it,” railed The New York Times on July 19.

Two years later plans for the new courthouse had advanced no further; and the Tweed Courthouse was falling into disrepair.  On September 13, 1904 The Sun noted “the old Tweed court house [is] daily falling into a more dilapidated condition, despite constant patching and attempts at improved ventilation, with the rain pouring through its cracked walls and wornout roofs whenever there is a storm.”

More and more it became evident that the neglected building was no longer adequate for the growing county courts system.  Nevertheless the Board of Estimates continued to drag its feet regarding a new structure.  In July 1911 The Times was still supporting the idea of removing all buildings from City Hall Park other than the magnificent Federal style City Hall.  It bluntly wrote “The Tweed Court House must go.”

Astoundingly, despite what was nearly universal support to destroy the County Courthouse, it survived.  When, in 1915, a proposal was suggested to enlarge it, its fervent nemesis The New York Times reacted.  “It is proposed…to enlarge the Tweed Court House, which is unsightly and uncomfortable and a disgrace to the city.”

The new New York County Courthouse nearby on Centre Street was finally completed in 1927.  With the courts gone, the old Tweed building seemed destined for destruction.  Yet it survived, being used for the City Court until its next major threat—Mayor Fiorella La Guardia’s thrust to clean up the city for the 1939 World’s Fair.  Among his first priorities was the restoration of City Hall Park.

“Mayor La Guardia is eager to complete the work on the park in time for the World’s Fair, so that visitors may have a vista of City Hall from historic St. Paul’s Chapel at Vesey Street,” explained The Times on May 21, 1938.  “Mayor La Guardia is also eager to have the old Tweed court house in the park behind the City Hall razed and administration officials have been trying to find new quarters for the City Court now located there.”

But the old courthouse hung on.  A year later Parks Commissioner Robert Moses was still seeking appropriations to raze the building.  “The only blot on the landscape which will remain at the end of 1940 if these funds are appropriated will be the so-called ‘Tweed’ Court House,” he beamed on September 18, 1939.

Nearly half a century of attempts to destroy the monumental court house had proved fruitless when in the spring of 1942 Chambers and Lafayette Streets were widened as part of an improvement plan for City Hall Park.  In describing the necessary removal of the entrance stairs on April 9, 1942, The New York Times used what was perhaps its first positive adjective since the building had been completed.

“Workmen of the WPA were busy yesterday demolishing the imposing but long unused flight of steps leading from Chambers Street to the rotunda of the old County Court House…familiarly known as the Tweed Court House.”

The widening of Chambers Street resulting in the chopping off of the grand entrance stairs -- photo Library of Congress

But the threat to its survival was not over yet.  In 1948 the City Planning Board discussed the development of the Manhattan Civic Center.  The New York Times said on June 25 “it envisages also the demolition of the old Tweed Court House and consequent improvement of City Hall Park.”

Yet once again, the court house dodged the bullet.

One might have guessed that by the 1970's the Tweed Courthouse was finally safe.  But almost immediately upon taking office in 1974, Mayor Abraham Beame set out to demolish it.  The Times said on July 7 that year “Its demolition, never announced publicly, was an early, almost instant administrative decision.  It was simply the ultimate extension of the conventional wisdom that the building is nothing but a shoddy piece of graft.”

Architectural critic Ada Louise Huxtable called it “a substantial and stylish building” with “impressive interiors.”  She flatly pointed out “In spite of its obvious qualifications, the Courthouse is not a designated landmark.  It has been so universally repudiated for its unsavory associations that it is probably too hot a political potato for the Landmarks Commission.”

Against all odds the imposing yet maligned structure survived its final threat.  In 1984 the Landmarks Preservation Commission designated the Tweed Courthouse a New York City Landmark.  In 1999 a full-scale, two-year restoration was initiated.  The $85 million project not only uncovered layers of paint inside, but replaced missing or damaged marble elements of the façade.  The entire marble cornice was reconstructed—requiring 120 blocks of stone, some weighing 9,600 pounds. 

photo by Alice Lum

In what was perhaps the most noticeable part of the restoration, the grand entrance steps were rebuilt.  Inside, an octagonal stained and etched glass skylight--52-foot wide—was refashioned to replace the original, lost decades earlier. 

Today the future of the monumental courthouse that brought down the infamous Boss Tweed is secure.  Its elegant design and historical value are finally appreciated after more than a century and a half.