Remembering Woolworth’s

by Karen Plunkett-Powell

  As Frank and his daughters reveled in all this luxury, Jennie Woolworth grew increasingly quiet and withdrawn. She was already slipping into a deep mental depression, her thoughts wavering back to the days of struggle, when she was working close with her darling husband and making herself useful. Now, with her daughters growing older, and her days spent surrounded by an endless stream of pampering nurses, servants, and every manner of seamstress and cook, Jennie was left with an empty nest and a lonely heart. She would never again return to the persona of that shy but happy girl Frank knew in Watertown. Frank was so busy that Jennie rarely saw him, even on holidays. He once told his managers that he had no intention of spending another Christmas Eve at home. He couldn’t bear to be away from the excitement and frenzy of the retail holiday season, when the bulk of his yearly profits came ringing through the cash registers. He also kept strict tabs on what his competitors were doing during the holidays and said that he wanted to be ready to “one-up them” if they started offering better bargains than his own five-and-dimes.

  It was in this lap of luxury and this arena of ruthless commerce that the F. W. Woolworth Co. family entered its final years with its spirited founder at the helm.

  A Tale Of Castles And Despair: Twilight Years, 1912–1919

  The final seven years of F. W. Woolworth’s life, from 1912 to 1919, were historically significant and productive, but they were also fraught with sadness. Woolworth built homes as big as castles, and purchased every conceivable comfort item he could find—but his bouts of depression struck with more intensity than ever before.

  Midway through this period, Woolworth’s health also started to decline, and he was feeling increasingly tired. Part of the reason was because his wife, Jennie, with whom he had so generously shared his bounty, was slowly but surely slipping away. With each passing day, the vacant stares of senility inexorably replaced her once shining blue eyes.

  On the domestic front, his daughters, Helena and Jessie, were busy with their own families. His lovesick daughter Edna was caught up in the emotional clutches of a philandering husband, broker Franklyn Hutton. Edna and Franklyn’s daughter, Barbara, born November, 1914, was being primed for the role she would day assume—that of one of the richest women in the world.

  Frank’s closest colleagues, Carson Peck and Seymour Knox, died within three weeks of each other in 1915, followed, one year later, by his high-ranking manager C. C. Griswold and then, by old William Moore.

  In spite of all this—or perhaps because of it—Woolworth was seized with a renewed desire to physically expand his empire. He’d experienced a similar mania at the turn of the century, when the Red-Fronts became noticeably larger and the first Woolworth skyscraper was erected in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. This time around, he set out to design an entire series of elaborate structures, not the least of which was a block-long row of stately townhouses in Manhattan, right on Millionaire’s Row; one for each of his daughters, and one for himself. Less looming, but more poignant, was his ornate mausoleum in New York’s Woodlawn Cemetery, where for $100,000 Frank commissioned his final resting place.

  Clearly, during the twilight of his years, the man the newspapers called the “Dime-store King” did not want to risk being forgotten. He wanted to make sure that his name would continue to reign in mercantile history.

  He had already expanded geographically, and had increased the square footage of his thousand or so Red-Fronts; the only place to go now was up. And so, Frank proceeded to build his ultimate testimony to commerce and to himself—the Woolworth Building of New York.

  Chapter Five

  Reaching for the Sky: The Great Woolworth Building

  “The Woolworth Building is a veritable fairy palace, such as we have all dreamed about in childhood—a dream now happily come true through the genius of two typical American conquerors of success in the world of business and the world of art.”

  —H. Addington Bruce, 1913

  On July 10, 1910, the New York Times was electric with excitement over news of an extra-ordinary skyscraper to be erected on the southwest corner of Broadway and Park Place in Manhattan. Frank W. Woolworth, the famed dime store magnate, had purchased the tract with the full intention of creating a building that would surpass any other in New York, perhaps in the world. Normally, the press begrudged its coverage of a man and a company who never used its pages for paid advertisement, but this story was too exciting to ignore. The electrified edifice was to be twenty stories high, with a tower thrusting up ten stories more. It was rumored the cost would be an unheard of five million dollars.

  In fact, the completed Woolworth Building far surmounted that original twenty-story projection, topping out at sixty stories from sidewalk to observation tower, with not one ceiling under eleven feet high, and many of them twenty feet. The final cost was almost three times the original estimate, due to the fact that every possible safety feature was awarded equal consideration with architectural beauty.

  The skyscraper took thirty-six months to build, leaving ample time for public anticipation to mount as well. As opening day approached, press releases were issued in rapid succession, proclaiming that Frank Woolworth’s new command center would be the tallest building in the world. Consequently, on Thursday evening, April 24, 1913, thousands of onlookers crowded around 233 Broadway and nearby City Hall Park, waiting for … well, they weren’t exactly certain what they were waiting for, but the papers had assured them it would be a night to remember. It was rumored that Frank Woolworth had grand plans for the christening of his steel-and-terra-cotta Skyline Queen.

  Woolworth Building Fact Box

  FINANCIER: F. W. Woolworth, $13.5 million

  ARCHITECT—Cass Gilbert

  OFFICIAL DEDICATION: April 24, 1913

  HEIGHT FROM SIDEWALK: 792 feet

  STORIES: 60

  WEIGHT: 206 million pounds

  FLOOR AREA: 15 acres

  EXTERIOR WINDOWS: 3,000

  HIGH-SPEED ELEVATORS: 30

  TONS OF STEEL: 24,000

  ELECTRIC WIRING: 87 miles

  MARBLE WAINSCOTING: 12 miles

  NICKNAMES: Cathedral of Commerce & Skyline Queen

  TALLEST SKYSCRAPER IN THE WORLD: 1913–1930

  Most of the spectators were staring upward, where even on that dark spring night, they could see a magnificent gothic spire glistening almost 800 feet above the sidewalk. The building’s gargoyles had been hand-chiseled by skilled craftsman; the decorative Italian marble quarried in the Isle of Skyros. The looming exterior side walls were painted white, but highlighted with soft shades of ecru, light olive, and mauve, resulting in an ethereal patina. It looked more like a fifteenth-century church than a twentieth-century corporation headquarters. One could understand why, before the night was over, Dr. S. Parkes Cadman would dub it, “The Cathedral of Commerce.”

  Inside the building, eight hundred eminent men who had assembled in the mezzanine for a cocktail reception were led through Tiffany-bedecked elevators for a high-speed ride upstairs. Under the direction of Frank’s public relations chief, Hugh McAtamney, the twenty-seventh floor had been transformed into a gala banquet hall, to honor the building’s architect, Cass Gilbert. Within the hour, the guests would be feasting on cotuit oysters, roast squab, and vintage Cordon Rouge; but first, they would partake of Wooley’s latest spectacle.

  Gradually, the lights were lowered, until the banquet hall, and the entire building, were plunged into darkness. Behind the scenes a Western Union telegraph was simultaneously dispatched to Washington, D.C., signaling that it was time. At precisely 7:30 P.M., President Woodrow Wilson pressed a button in the White House connected by wire with the building in distant New York. Seconds later, 80,000 brilliant electric lights flashed throughout the skyscraper, illuminating the tip of the observation tower to the depths of the subbasement. The hushed twenty-seventh floor suddenly exploded with activity. A hidden orchestra emerged from behind a curtain to play the National Anthem, followed by “The Woolworth March.” Eight
hundred dignitaries leaped to their feet, some rushing to the windows, white linen handkerchiefs waving in tribute to architect, builder, and financier.

  “Outside the skyscraper,” reported the New York American, “waiting thousands in New York and its suburbs saw, flashing in outlines of fire, the greatest mountain of steel and stone ever erected by man—the gigantic Woolworth Building.” The crowd gasped, and then let loose with a rousing cheer. Many of them were members of the working class, living without benefit of modern electricity, and not one among them had witnessed a marvel as magnificent. Somewhere in the throng, an oft-repeated exchange was overheard by a reporter: “How did he do it?” one charwoman asked another. “’Twas easy,” replied the second, “with your dime, and mine.” One of Frank’s esteemed guests reportedly speculated that Frank’s deceased father, John, also looked down from the heavens and echoed one of his oft-repeated comments: “It’s nice, Frank, you always did like to lay it on thick.”

  April 24, 1913, was certainly a glorious night for Frank Winfield Woolworth. Ever since he was a boy in Great Bend, building houses out of colored rocks, he’d longed for his own palace, one stamped with his name to assure his memory would live on forever. It had taken six decades, but the Merchant Prince finally had his own kingdom. Let Wall Street snigger about his “Cheap John” business. Let those snooty Vanderbilts slight his family from party lists. Let his arch-competitor Kresge try to match him store for store. Frank Woolworth had proven, once and for all, that an enterprising American from humble beginnings, could turn pennies into billions. He had the tallest, most beautiful, and safest skyscraper in the world to prove it. And the twenty-eighth president of the United States had helped him celebrate his achievement.

  Best of all, this Cathedral of Commerce was all his—lock, stock, and gargoyles. The ever resourceful Frank had paid a hot 13.5 million for his steel kingdom—all in cash.

  The Story Of The Skyline Queen

  The size and beauty of the building made F. W. Woolworth an internationally known personality. The story of how the Skyline Queen came to be is another example of Frank’s penchant for dreaming big, and then working day and night to make his dream a reality.

  When Woolworth was first seized with the mania to reach for the sky, his business life was humming along, devoid of any major calamity, save an occasional wage strike by his counter girls. His five-and-ten syndicate had been publicly incorporated four years before and was running as smooth as a top. His inner circle, along with a stream of stenographers and errand boys, were comfortably housed in elaborate offices at 280 Broadway in the Stewart Building. The company even had a new private phone number—“WORTH 3557”—there were to be no shared party lines for the great F. W. Woolworth.

  Frank was reaching his zenith professionally, but his personal life was another matter. He was feeling restless and anxious, even amidst the luxurious surroundings of his Fifth Avenue home and his quaint Asbury Park summer cottage. His wife was slipping farther and farther into her own world, offering him little comfort or rational conversation. Frank worried constantly about his beloved Edna, who had wed that pompous upstart, stockbroker Franklyn Hutton (brother of E. F. Hutton), a man Frank was certain would break his daughter’s heart. Health-wise, Frank was shaky at best. He was on the wrong side of fifty, overfed, overweight, and underexercised. He sensed that his time was limited and he needed a big project to keep his mind off such somber thoughts.

  In 1909, Woolworth had purchased a plot of land in lower Broadway, on the corner of Park Place, a stone’s throw from the F. W. Woolworth Company’s offices. He’d been tracking the activity on that corner, and felt it had great commercial potential. The question was, what exactly should he do with it? He had already erected four multistoried Woolworth Buildings, including one in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and one in Trenton, New Jersey—but he longed for something more imposing. Perhaps the site on Broadway, across from historic city hall, and a short trolley ride from buzzing Wall Street, was the place to assure his posterity. After some intensive thinking, he decided to erect yet another Woolworth Building, more beautiful than its predecessors. Although his body was weakening, Frank retained his boyish zeal for enterprise. This new brainstorm fueled his energy.

  This pre-American Revolution map of New York shows the site of the Woolworth Building was once designated as the “King’s Farm.” The site of the Woolworth Building is rich with history. In Dutch Colonial days, its fertile ground was owned by the powerful West India Company, who fenced it off for cattle-grazing and private farming. Later on, after the Dutch succumbed to British and the British to the American colonists, the site of the future Woolworth Building hosted the polatial home of Philip Hone, mayor of New York in 1826, who’d “brazenly” entertained the literary likes of Daniel Webster and James Fenimore Cooper. Along surrounding streets, New York’s first theater district featured vaudeville, plays, and musical reviews.

  At first, Frank thought a twelve- or fifteen-story building would suffice, but he soon changed his mind. He’d need at least twenty stories to top the gold-domed Pulitzer Building and the Singer Building, also nearby, which clocked in at 612 feet above the sidewalk. If he managed to outdo those two, he’d have the tallest building in lower Manhattan, but would still be faced with formidable competition. The 700-foot high Metropolitan Tower loomed in solitary splendor over the midtown skyline. As of 1909, it had been crowned the tallest skyscraper in the world. Its majestic architecture and four-sided clock had earned international acclaim through photographs, postcards, and magazine articles. This irked Frank. He didn’t want to be known as the man who built the second highest skyscraper in the world. He wanted to construct a skyscraper unparalleled on earth; a majestic headquarters that would allow him to bask in comfort and accolades before—as his preacher used to say—the Lord called him home. The steel gauntlet was tossed. He decided that his building would be taller than 700 feet and at least 40 stories high.

  To achieve this goal, Woolworth needed more land. Under his instructions, realty broker Edward J. Hogan gobbled up a stream of connected downtown properties. Soon, Woolworth owned the entire block front on lower Broadway between Barclay and Park Place, with a frontage of 105 feet on Broadway alone.

  The land was rich in history and had been in use steadily since Manhattan Island had been purchased from the Indians. By the time Frank acquired this tract, the stately mansions of prior decades had succumbed to genteel decay, and most of them had been converted into storefronts. Even though the neighborhood was run down, Frank had to pay the Mercantile Bank $750,000 for just one of the small plots on 237 Broadway. He felt it was worth it, though. Projections indicated that New York would soon be the greatest commercial city in the world, with lower and midtown Manhattan connected by great avenues guaranteed to bring in a steady stream of natives and tourists to see his skyscraper. One day, Woolworth vowed, his own steel-and-mortar zenith would be honored in twentieth-century chronicles.

  The Architect, The Builder, And The Bankroll

  By New Year’s Eve 1910, Frank was legal owner of the land required. Now he needed an architect and a builder to help create his masterpiece. Woolworth’s architect of choice was Cass Gilbert, a man known for his astounding designs, including the Minnesota State Capitol and the New York Beaux Arts Customs House. Frank knew that Gilbert had a reputation for doing wondrous things with stone; his powers of design were unequaled in infusing mass with delicate beauty. He was a true gentleman, even of temper and meticulous of task. Cass Gilbert agreed to take on the job, with the understanding that Woolworth’s skyscraper would top the Metropolitan Tower.

  Cass Gilbert, architect.

  Over the next six months, Frank concentrated on organizing the rest of his team. One of his biggest concerns was assuming the role of landlord for a sixty-story skyscraper; an edifice that large would require hundreds of commercial tenants. Taking the bull by the horns, Frank invited a young banker friend, Lewis Pierson, to a lunch-hour powwow. Frank had known Pierson fo
r years, well before the latter had risen to the presidency of the National Exchange. Pierson had since engineered the exchange’s 1906 merger with the Irving National Bank, of which Frank himself was an influential director. Over a table at the Hard-ware Club, which was groaning with the weight of rich and sumptuous foods (most of which his doctor had advised him not to eat), Woolworth asked Lewis if he thought the Irving National Exchange would be interested in leasing a floor or two in his new building. Lewis replied affirmatively. Frank was elated; he had his first tenant, one so prestigious it was guaranteed to lure in more of the same quality. But this was really just the beginning, for with each passing day, Woolworth’s dreams became more elaborate.

  Woolworth required a builder of unquestionable reliability to pull off the gargantuan task he was planning. After spirited bidding, the construction contract was awarded to Louis Horowitz, president of the Thompson-Starret Company. The pieces were finally in place. He had Cass Gilbert as architect; the Foundation Company as escavators; Gunvald Aus, the steel engineer, to erect the superstructure; Irving National Bank as first tenant; and Frank J. Hogan, the rental agent, to fill up the rest of the floors—barring of course, those reserved for F. W. Woolworth Co.’s executive headquarters.