THE ELEGANT EIGHTIES &te#ma, \Ha*fc LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN IN MEMORY OF STEWART S. HOWE JOURNALISM CLASS OF 1928 STEWART S. HOWE FOUNDATION 813 C5484e C0D.2 I oH.S Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/eleganteightieswOOclar J he Kjhq&ni tjfqhfks '" g O C i » H M. ■— ' "-1 ^< c ~ " ^N B - y^>j B o ° EL ^ §- " a c . - c I— I C W B ^ o si <^ o oro After the program, as we drank tea, I asked her about her mother, Mrs. Emanuel Frank, and she told me her story. Mr. and Mrs. Emanuel Frank came over from Germany in a sailing vessel in the early Fifties, with their ten children. Mr. Frank had been a teacher in the old country, but wanted to enter business life here and his brother-in-law, Michael Reese, set him up in business, where he was prospering, when a tragedy took him from his family. He was about to cross the river at the Randolph Street bridge, and was waiting for it to swing back into place, when he lost his footing and fell into the water. Though he was an expert swimmer, he had no chance for his life, for he was stunned by the fall, as his head struck a log. When his body was taken from the river, he was found to be lifeless. What a situation for the mother of a large family . . . alone in a strange country, with such responsibilities! But she was equal to it and has reared her family wisely. All are now grown and taking their part in the life of the city. Still living at an advanced age, she is now very well off, having come into a handsome fortune by the death of her brother, Michael Reese. So her story has ended happily. I have been looking over the new books at Jansen, McClurg and Company's book store. Have you read Helen Hunt Jackson's Ramona, dealing with our injustice to the Indian? I bought that today, and also Fresh Fields, by that delightful new nature writer, John Burroughs, and the Reverend E. P. Roe's latest, Nature's Serial Story. I enjoyed his Barriers Burned Away, which dealt with the Chicago Fire, finding it interesting principally because I had lived through it all. So I continue to read him, even though this new book is "pretty thin," as Will says. I have come upstairs to finish this letter, as Will has a caller. I spent a little time with them, but came upstairs when I felt they wanted to talk business. The caller, Mr. P. J. Healy, is a lovely man, head of one of our great music stores. He told us tonight a fact about his family which interested me. I have heard that a child born of mature parents is likely to be a male and almost certain to be gifted. So when he told me that he was the youngest of thirteen children and that his father was seventy-five years old, when this 123 Benjamin of the flock made his appearance, I felt the theory was borne out. He was born in Ireland, coming to America with his parents as a boy of ten. Will says he is beloved as few employers are. It is good to see success go hand in hand with gentleness and kindness to employes. Will says he's like his own pianos . . . grand, square and upright. He told us how popular their Sunday school song-book, "The Signet Ring," has been, chiefly because of one song in it, "The Sweet Bye-and-Bye." I was glad to hear this, because the composer, Mr. Webster, was in sore straits before Mr. Healy took his book. Edition after edition has been exhausted and everyone sings and whistles "There's a Land That Is Fairer Than Day." Another song the firm published that has had a phenomenal sale is: "When You And I Were Young, Maggie." I love that dear old song. The Healys are devout Roman Catholics, members of St. Jarlath's Church on the West Side. Now, the front door has closed, and I hear Will shaking down the coals in the parlor grate. I have written too long a letter and will close. Lovingly yours, Martha Freeman Esmond 124 FOOTNOTES 1884 Charles George Gordon, known as "Chinese" Gordon, (1833- 1885) was just beginning in 1884 his mission in Khartum which was to end so tragically a year later. "Mr. Hertzberg',' Ringer's chief bookbinder, established his own busi- ness and today the Monastery Hill bindery is known for its fine work. Reginald de Koven, (1 861 -1920) was one of the first Americans to write light opera music. His "Robin Hood" with its melodious airs, was played successfully year after year. Jessie Bartlett Davis's singing of "O Promise Me" introduced into the score, was also famous for years. Another de Koven composition often heard is his setting of Kipling's "Recessional!' Yes, my sisters. Legislators were protecting the gentler sex from contact with the rude world in 1884! Mrs. Emanuel Mandel lives (1940) in Highland Park, Illinois. Her many benefactions have made her name familiar to thousands who do not know her personally. She became a member of the Chicago Woman's Club in the Nineties and a room in the club's building on Eleventh Street bears her name. The Emanuel and Babette Mandel Memorial at Michael Reese Hospital is her gift. The Reverend E. P Roe was the favorite author of the schoolgirl of the Eighties, and his books were read behind those convenient large geographies now no more to be seen in the schoolroom. 12 ASIDE Is it fancy, or was the speech of the Eighties, in the Middle West particularly good? True, Victorian affectation still persisted. A leg was not a leg, but a "lower limb!' Similarly, a lady did not sweat. The Dean of Women in an Ohio college was instructing her young ladies about this time: "Your attention, please. Remember, a horse sweats; a gentleman perspires; a lady gets in a glow!' Silly euphemisms, these would be called by moderns . . . the use of pleasing terms for ugly ones. But are dysphemisms . . . ugly terms for pleasing ones . . . less affected? "Lousy!' for example, is a word doubtless originally employed for its shocking effect on one's elders. Used too oft, familiarity has lessened the shock, and it is now only tiresome. But it is still an ugly word, and entirely inappropriate. The people of the Eighties were spared that. "Guts" another dysphemism of today, was a word which would never have been heard in that decade of elegance. Pronunciation was more nearly correct in the Eighties. I am aware that usage is the criterion for the dictionary-makers, but there are some words so outrageously mispronounced by the ignor- ant that no one who loves the English language can pretend to accept them. Can anyone who knows the spelling of the word column feel aught but agony when it is pronounced "col-yume"? As well call autumn "aut-yume" The "n" at the end of the word should stand as a signal for the correct pronunciation. Elocution was seriously taught in high schools, and if there was too much emphasis on gesture and dramatic effect, still something of good came from it. Girls learned to project the voice properly. Boys, declaiming the speeches of Wendell Phillips, Daniel Webster, 126 Patrick Henry, learned to speak distinctly, to arouse the interest of an audience. I often fancy I can select in a group to-day those who were trained by graduates of the Cumnock School of Oratory in Evanston. But it must be admitted that the speech of the Eighties lacked many words which are known to children today. Our vocabulary has been enriched in sixty years by terms which have come into the language as contributions from the realms of science and invention; from change of manners and customs; from the World Wars. It would take much time and great scholarship to set down all the words common today which were unknown to people of the Eighties, but a superficial glance at the changes in our way of life disclose . . . alphabetically arranged . . . some of them. Automobile, aeroplane, aviation . . . Beautician (a coined word recognized by all), bridge (as a game) . . . Carburetor, camouflage, cafeteria (Grandma seldom ate at any place but a private house) . . . Dud (used to mean failure) . . . Escalator . . . Fascism . . . G-men, gangster, garage . . . Hangar, hot-dog . . . Insulin (which dates from 1922), inferiority complex, I.Q. . . . Jazz, jitterbug, jitters, jalopy . . . Mortician, microphone, movies . . . News-reel, Nazi, night-club . . . Ooomph . . . Permanent (as a noun) . . . Quintuplets (O, yes, I know the word must have been in the dictionary, but it might just as well have been left out until five little Canadian girls were born whose lives have interested the whole world ) . . . Rayon, radio . . . Stream-line, step-ins, static . . . Television . . . U-boat . . . Vitamins, vacuum-cleaners . . . Washing- machines (practical) . . . X-ray (dating from 1895) . . . Zipper. 12J Chicago, January 25, 1885 Dear Julia: A cold winter night. Will and I are at Martha's again, in charge of Baby Esmond. It is the nurse's afternoon out and we offered to stay, while Sandy and Martha attend a wedding, or, rather two weddings, for after the Lyon-Conger ceremony and re- ception, they go on to the William M. Derbys, where Gerty Derby is being married to Robert Walker. This young couple will go to Montana to live, where the groom has a large ranch. I ran in to see the presents of Emily Lyon yesterday and she told me, in showing them, that she thought the candle-sticks you sent her were quite the loveliest things she had received. The Lyons are important people and entertain Eastern magnates frequently, so the bride received grand gifts from New York, too. Your taste, you see! This is a busy city. Is New York crazy over progressive euchre? Everyone is playing it here, and I've had no less than four invita- tions for afternoon parties this week. I've declined them all, as I have made it a rule not to play except in the evening. I don't like to give too much time to cards. I prefer receptions, where one gets to see more of one's friends. Tuesday is calling day on the South Side and I'm going to receptions at the homes of Mrs. T B. Blackstone, Mrs. P. D. Armour, and Mrs. J. K. Botsford, where Mrs. Botsford and Mrs. Caryl Young are entertaining together. 128 I must tell you of the lovely fan Martha put at my plate at dinner . . . white satin, decorated with a copy of a Watteau miniature, painted exquisitely in water-colors. There's nothing like holding a beautiful fan, I think, to put one at ease, in company. Martha is thinking of getting a dog for Baby Esmond to play with. Pugs are the fashion of the moment here, as I suppose is the case in New York, for a friend of Martha's has just come back from your city with one. They are rather ugly, I think. Will calls it a stupid brute, and I can't say I'm impressed with its charms, though the owner calls him "Prince Charming." The dog wears, when on parade, a bright-blue cloth coat, lined with red, a yellow leather harness decorated with sleigh-bells, and a large blue ribbon on his left shoulder. As his mistress walks him down Michigan Avenue, she is as much observed as she could wish, for not many ladies own dogs in Chicago. If you know of a reliable dog-fancier, I should be much obliged if you would send me his address. Will and I may give Baby the dog for a surprise. Now I must stop and write a letter of condolence to the family of Dr. William Barry, who died last week. Will is a director of the Chicago Historical Society and has always felt warmly attached to Dr. Barry, who was founder and for many years librarian and secretary of the Society. He rendered invaluable service in interesting Chicago citizens in the past. We have been so busy making history here that we should never have thought of setting it down, I suppose, if Dr. Barry hadn't urged it upon us. Good Night and much love, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, March y, 1885 Dear Julia: Chicago friends, returning from the inauguration of President Cleveland, have given us glowing accounts of the festivi- ties. I had supposed there would be little display, for we are hearing constantly of the beauties of Jeffersonian simplicity, but I confess I 129 like some pomp and circumstance at a time when the man chosen by the people of the United States as their Chief Executive is en- tering upon his duties. So I am nothing loath to hear and read of it. Every detail of the gown Mary Leiter wore at the inaugural ball has been talked over by her friends here, for though the Leiters are no longer residents of Chicago, we still think of them as fellow- citizens. Somehow, I imagine they will never return to Chicago. Mrs. Leiter is ambitious for her daughters and Washington is a better place than Chicago to find the husbands she would like for them. The lovely Mary Leiter, from childhood, has seemed to realize that her destiny was to make a brilliant marriage and has gone steadily forward to her goal. The Leiter fortune will smooth the path and I presume she will go abroad, be presented at court and find a suitable title. I can imagine her appraising each coronet offered her and reaching out her beautiful white hand for the one that symbolizes the highest rank. For one, I shall be glad to see her reach that goal, for she is eminently fitted for court life and will reflect credit on her country. I should like to have seen her at the inaugural ball, in a black silk gown, embroidered in scarlet and gold. The ball dress of Miss Rose Cleveland, the president's sister, must have been beautiful, too, white grosgrain silk, draped with point lace and with a bertha of the same lace. She will have much re- sponsibility, being First Lady for her bachelor brother. The one bright spot for Will in the Washington news last week was that the bill placing General Grant on the retired list and giving him an annual pension of $13,500 was signed by President Arthur, his last official act. Do you suppose it is true that Grant has an incurable malady? Sandy heard a New York physician who is in town today say that. It is pathetic to think of the great soldier toiling over an uncongenial task . . . writing his memoirs, whose sale, he hopes, will provide for his family, after he is gone. Martha is in the parlor waiting for Sandy, who is to call for her in a few minutes. She has been playing old melodies and the sound floats sweetly out to the library where Will and I are sitting. Martha isn't a great musician and she has quite given up practicing since 130 Baby Esmond came, but I love to hear her play, for she has some- thing in her touch which I can't find just the word for, though "sympathy" is perhaps as good as anything. I find her playing of old ballads highly satisfactory. Just now she is singing Claribel's "I Cannot Sing The Old Songs," and I've had to use my handkerchief, as I listen, thinking of the songs dear mother sang to me when I was a child. I cannot sing the old songs I sang long years ago; For heart and voice would fail me And foolish tears would flow; For bygone hours come o'er my heart With each familiar strain; I cannot sing the old songs Or dream those dreams again. And now Martha has dropped into "Sweet Belle Mahone," which has always seemed to me heart-breaking, not because of its words, but because I first heard it when Will was desperately ill, and we feared he would never be well again. As I hung over him one summer evening, someone next door was singing: Soon beyond the harbor bar Will my boat be sailing far. And I wanted to sail with my beloved to that far haven, so that I remember bursting into tears and rushing from the room when the last words came: Wait for me at Heaven's gate, Sweet Belle Mahone. The songs of yesterday were all sad, with a lover weeping over the grave of a lost one, or a child being borne to the skies by an angel-band . . . "Rosalie, The Prairie Flower" is an example of that. Will says there was good reason for such songs, since many strong young men and beautiful young girls died of fever which came from poor sanitation in cities and country places alike, while cholera claimed countless victims in the Fifties. How thankful we should 1 3 1 be that physicians recognize and successfully treat many diseases which were fatal in less enlightened times! Consumption is still a great scourge. There seems no help for that. There is the front door-bell . . . Sandy coming, I presume. We all send love. Yours as ever, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, April 15, 1885 Dear Julia: This afternoon Will asked, with a twinkle in his eye, if I'd like to "drive out on the prairie." I was delighted to go with him, of course. He was going to deliver some papers to Captain D. E Bremner, a warm personal friend, as well as a client. The two were stationed together during the war, in a Tennessee camp, and have never forgotten the association. Will calls Captain Bremner the bravest of the brave and often tells of his feat in carrying the flag of the Nineteenth Illinois to the top of Mission Ridge . . . the first Union flag to be set there during that terrible battle. Afterward Captain Bremner found fourteen bullet-holes in his clothing, but he was unharmed. I hadn't been over on West Twelfth Street for years and had a vague notion that it was "out in the country." What was my surprise to find it a populous section of the city. It is simply amazing how our city is growing. When I expressed astonishment, Captain Bremner said: "It is Father Damen's work. He built Holy Family Church out here on the prairie and the people followed." He invited us to go over to see the church, projected and built by the beloved missionary pastor, whose name I had often heard, though I had never met him. Cathedral-like in its hugeness and dignity, the church is most impressive. Captain Bremner took us down the long aisle to see the fine copy of Murillo's "Holy Family," which hangs above the altar. The original is in the National Gallery in London. We admired the beautiful carving of the communion rail, done by a man named Louis Wisner. Thousands of people kneel 122 at this rail during the various services on Sunday. It is a stupendous task to minister to the needs of so many. The sacristan, Brother Mulkerins, a young man lately come from Ireland, took us about the church, pointing out many objects of interest. One of these was the triangular candelabrum, in which seven lights are kept constantly burning in gratitude for the preserva- tion of the building during the Fire of 1871. He told us many stories of Father Damen, his great hero. One of these was so amusing that I must set it down for you. The priest had great need for ten dollars, to help a poor family. He went to the home of a well-to-do parishioner who had a farm near Canal Street. This farmer was liberal, but his wife was thrifty and she was the one who had the funds in charge, as Father Damen well knew. He began: "I need ten dollars for a starving family, Mrs. X." "I am sorry to hear they are starving," replied Mrs. X., "but you know how hard money is to come by just now. There isn't a penny in the house." "It is indeed hard to get money. Do I not know it? But, my good woman, if you will go upstairs now, and look in the stocking in the left-hand corner of the upper bureau drawer, you will find ten dollars. Take it out and give it to me for that poor family." Mrs. X., speechless at Father Damen's supernatural powers, ran up, got the money and pushed it into his hands. In answer to questions as to how he knew where the money was, Father Damen always answered: "O, I guessed it." Perhaps the farmer, more liberal than his wife, had disclosed the hiding-place of the money. At any rate, he won his point. Often he would ask the housewife for a bit of "sugar" from the sugar-bowl on the mantel. Most poor families kept their savings in a sugar-bowl on the mantel. Such was their confidence in him, they let him help himself. As we talked with Brother Mulkerins in the sacristy, he said, with shining face: "Though Father Damen is no longer in charge of the parish, he is visiting in Chicago and I think he will be coming in soon. We are preparing for his golden jubilee . . . celebrating the fiftieth aniversary of his entrance into the Society of Jesus. Ah! That J 33 will be a grand occasion! It will take place here in Holy Family Church." As he finished speaking, a voice behind him said: "What? Have I deserved a jubilee for lasting fifty years as a religious? Have you never heard that a jubilee is a hosanna over a good stomach?" And into the sacristy came Father Damen himself. As he ap- proached I understood why people gave him their money when he asked it. He is dignified, but not pompous. His smile is contagious and his voice, which from the pulpit thunders the terrors of hell to evil-doers, now, in private conversation, was soft and full of charm. A shepherd of his flock, truly. But I have written you too long a letter. You will be tired of reading it. Much love, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, May 9, 1885 Dear Julia: This morning Will looked somewhat anxiously at me during breakfast, and as he put on his overcoat preparatory to leaving for his office, he said, with an attempt to be casual, "Why don't you inspect the Pullman Building apartments at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street if you have time today? I think you are looking pale. Do you think our long stairs are too much for you?" Of course, I laughed at that, for I am a healthy person, but he went on soberly: "If you want to live in an apartment, I'm willing." I knew at once that he had been reading some newspaper article on "Your Wife— Are You Killing Her?" the inference being that unless provided with an elevator immediately the American house- wife would fill an untimely grave. However, as I had been wanting to visit this wonderful new building, I assented eagerly, rang for Michael to order the brougham, and got Martha Junior to accom- pany me. The new building is occupied partly by the Pullman Company, whose offices take up three floors, while the remainder of the place is given over to residents. It is modeled on the new flat buildings that have recently gone up in New York . . . the Granada, for instance, where I know some of your friends now live. The great height of the Pullman Building . . . eight stories . . . offers a variety of suites, and being so new and luxurious, the new apartment building is attracting fashionable people. It has many advantages, among them an uninterrupted view of the lake, and a cafe on the top floor, where one can dine on the cook's day out. The entrance to the offices is on Adams Street, while the residents use that on Michigan Avenue. Heavy curtains separate the part of the hallway given over to business from that used by the apartment dwellers. Martha and I marveled at the handsome appointments. A re- ception room near the Michigan Avenue door has a fine Turkish rug on the floor, while a large oil painting, "The Land of the Mid- night Sun," which Mr. Pullman brought from Europe, has a con- spicuous place on the wall. I admired a mirror with heavy Florentine frame, too. While we were sitting in this reception room waiting for the agent to show us about, the two young architects, Irving and Allen Pond, answered many of our questions about the building, telling us of some of the people who are living there. S. S. Beman, architect of the building, is a tenant, and has his office under the same roof ... an ideal arrangement. The Pond brothers, too, are living there, and are so delighted with the location they say they never want to go elsewhere. Irving Pond had a great deal to do with the plans, as he is head draftsman for Mr. Beman. He designed the marble stairway in the Adams Street entrance. He and his brother have great taste, and I value their opinion, of course. Mr. and Mrs. La Verne W. Noyes are tenants. Mr. Noyes is a manufacturer of windmills, and is already a wealthy man, and Mrs. Noyes is a cultivated, lovely woman. Frank Marsh, a friend of Sandy's, moved in before the plaster was dry, and says he enjoys it immensely. Then there is another tenant, the eccentric millionaire, Captain De Lamar, who looks more like a farmer than a capitalist. We were told by the agent that when he '35 applied for an apartment, the renting clerk looked on him coldly, he was so unlike the others who were inspecting them. When asked for references, he replied: "See the First National Bank. I've just deposited fifteen million dollars there. Sold part of my Idaho mines to an English syndicate, and not the best part, either." Mr. Beman came in while we were visiting with the Pond brothers and the conversation turned to the town of Pullman, out on the shores of Lake Calumet, which he invited us to visit. It is well worth seeing, I know. Mr. Beman said that he had suggested the name Pullman for the new town, but Mr. Pullman thought this would hardly be modest. "Suppose" said the sleeping-car magnate, "that we coin a word by taking the first syllable of my name, and the last syllable of yours," and so the town was called "Pullman." "But," said the architect, laughing at Mr. Pullman's joke, "I seem to be getting little glory out of my share of the name." We left the Pullman Building feeling that it would be delightful in many ways to live there, but I know Will would be homesick for a house, and I believe I like it best, myself. I think we shall remain on Rush Street for the present. There is much building going on in Chicago, especially along Michigan Avenue and I saw a hand- some house in process of erection today . . . the home of Gerhard Foreman on Twenty-ninth Street. It is to have two bathrooms on the second floor. I am having a dressmaker in the house for some remodeling. Do you find the new high, heavily boned collars rather trying? My head aches every time I wear one. Sandy says they are an invention of the Evil One. We have been spending the evening at Martha's and as usual, half a dozen young people drifted in after dinner, and there was much singing around the piano. The young men bellowed the choruses of popular songs till I thought the other residents of the Ontario apartment building would complain. "Some Day" and "In The Gloaming" were sung with much feeling— they are really not bad— but "Only A Pansy Blossom" which seems to be sweeping the country, is so banal I was tired enough of it before they turned to 136 something else. This favorite has not, I presume, invaded your maiden household, but wherever young people are gathered to- gether, you hear the sentimental words: Only a pansy blossom, only a withered flower — Yet to me far dearer than all on earth's fair bower; Bringing me back the June-time of a summer long ago, The fairest sunniest summer that I shall ever know. When we sat down to refreshments we fell to talking of the immense fortunes some of these popular songs have made for their composers. "Some Day" and "In The Gloaming" have each sold, it is said, more than 500,000 copies. "Sweet Genevieve," "Call Me Back Again" and "The Spanish Cavalier" are others that have made a great deal of money for their composers. "Put Me In My Little Bed" is a song which netted its writer $24,000, so some of the company said. "Wait Till The Clouds Roll By, Jennie" brought two young New Yorkers $18,000, according to one of the callers. Frank Howard, who wrote "When The Robins Nest Again" made $8,000 from that effort. "Scotch Lassie, Jeanne" is the latest favorite, its sales having passed the million mark. Will suggests as a title for a new song, "Just Wait A Little Longer, Darling, Till I Get A Raise." Some titles are so involved that this is not the worst that could be devised. The chorus (pre- faced by the phrase dear to the heart of the song writer: "Unto her he did say") is: Just wait a little longer, darling, till I get a raise; To marry till you've got the means, it surely never pays; The butcher's unpaid bill would leave me in a horrid daze; Just wait a little longer, darling, till I get a raise. Just about as full of meaning as most of the popular ditties! Some of the young men added to it, and Martha improvised an air, drawing freely on the songs they had been singing, and I think we shall hear it in our neighborhood for some time. ] 37 Will thinks the blackface minstrels are the ones who are responsible for popularizing popular melodies. They bring out a chanty ballad, and by repetition can make it go with an audience, even if it isn't a masterpiece of composition and poesy. The little soubrette, Lotta, has had a hand, too, in popularizing songs, and many have her name and picture on the frontispiece and are dedi- cated to her. Do you like the new styles in architecture? We drove out to Lake View yesterday, and I saw some unique frame houses apparently modeled on the summer cottages one sees at the seashore. I saw one in Newport a year ago. They don't seem so out of place at the sea- shore, but I don't like them in a city. The architectural inspiration seems not to be Early American, Venetian, Roman or English. Will termed one new home "the creation of a disordered brain." Wooden rosettes on the side porch; a front window shaped like a horseshoe, and surrounded by red and green stained glass; and a "drunk and disorderly" gable ( again quoting Will ) were features. On the north side of the house was a protuberance which suggested nothing so much as a dog kennel. I can't think its novelty atones for its bad taste. I much prefer our brownstone front on Rush Street. Even if it is old, it has dignity. No more tonight. Much love from your old friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, July u, 1885 Dear Julia: After a lovely time at Lake Geneva, we are at home again. I am glad, for I don't like to get far away from Martha now. She is expecting the stork at any time. We are hoping for a girl, of course, and as I've told you, it will be Julia, if our prayers are answered. Baby Esmond is growing so you would hardly know him. Martha keeps well, and is cheerful, as usual. She wants me to tell you a story about Emma, her good cook, to whom she is devoted. Emma confided to Martha that last Sunday she had a strange feeling in church ... as if the sermon was doing 138 her no good. She searched her conscience for some "open fault or secret sin," as the hymn goes, but only a vague unrest persisted. When she undressed that night, she understood. As many girls do, she had used a newspaper to pad out her bustle, which had grown thin from constant wear. She thought she was using the Christian Union, but it turned out to have been the Police Gazette. The Gazette is Michael's favorite reading matter. He had left it on the kitchen table by mistake, and Emma had picked it up as she started upstairs to dress for church. Will says the Police Gazette is poor material for a "dress improver," since it is well known not to be uplifting. We attended yesterday the wedding of Miss Blanche MacLeish, daughter of Andrew MacLeish, a member of the firm of Carson Pirie & Co., to young C. K. G. Billings, son of A. M. Billings, president of the West Side Gas Company. Mr. MacLeish is a widower with three children. He is one of our ablest business men, and like most Scotchmen, deeply religious. He is prominent in the work of his denomination, the Baptist, teaching a Bible class in the Fourth Baptist Church, and is active in the Young Men's Christian Associa- tion, too. The family home is at 645 West Adams Street, a delightful residence section. The parlors were decorated with flowers, the alcove where the bridal party stood being simply banked with roses, lilies and orange blossoms. Dr. George C. Lorimer performed the ceremony, assisted by Dr. J. S. Kennard of the Fourth Baptist Church. There were many expensive gifts, but I really liked the bronze "Psyche" we sent as well as anything we saw. The groom's father gave the young people a completely furnished house at 470 Wash- ington Boulevard. One of our horses is lame and Michael thought it best not to drive him, so we took one of the new conveyances ... a hansom cab, and felt highly fashionable. Heads were turned to gaze at us as we drove smartly along to the West Side. The newspapers have been discussing the question whether it is proper for a lady to be seen alone in a hansom. I heard a somewhat over-refined young lady say her mamma wouldn't let her drive in one, because it is, or should be, distasteful to a person of any delicacy of feeling to be so '39 conspicuous. But after all, as I tell Will, women make their own social laws now, and if we decide that it is proper to ride in hansoms, it will not be long before the custom is accepted by the world. July 12—1 didn't mail this last night, and will add a few lines. During the evening Martha developed some symptoms that troubled us, and Sandy, so calm and collected when he is attending a patient outside his own family, is quite nervous when any one of us is ill. But I have heard this of other doctors. He asked Dr. Ernst Schmidt to come in to see Martha, and I could just see how relieved he was to have this great Chicago phy- sician there. Dr. Schmidt is a comforting sort of person, and we were all glad to see him. His German thoroughness and his training in the best hospitals of Europe give one great confidence in him. Dr. Schmidt reassured Sandy, told him that Martha was pro- gressing nicely, and commended Sandy's treatment of the case, so we breathe more freely tonight. He walked over to Rush Street with us, and sat smoking with Will in the library awhile before going to his home. The two men enjoyed reminiscing about Civil War days, and Dr. Schmidt told us of some strange cases he had seen during his service in the Union Army when he was a surgeon in a Missouri regiment. What an eventful life he has had . . . this man of fifty-five! He was born in Bavaria, he told us, in 1830, and so was only a youth of eighteen when the German Revolution broke out, but he took part in it with the zeal of youth. He studied in the Universities of Zurich, Heidelberg and Wurzburg, graduating from Wurzburg in 1852. Then he took a post-graduate course in medicine in Vienna and Prague, after which he was appointed an assistant surgeon in the hospital of the University of Wurzburg. So you see what a training he has had, and why his opinion has such weight with us. When he came to Chicago in 1857, he told us, he found many of his German friends here, and organized the German Medical Society. After three years here he received an appointment at Humboldt Medical College in St. Louis, but in a few months the Civil War came on and he entered the Union Army as a surgeon. 140 Since 1864 he has been in Chicago and is held in high esteem as one of our leading medical men. For years he has been on the staff of the Alexian Brothers Hospital, and he organized the staff of Michael Reese Hospital. Will told me after he left what a fine classical scholar the doctor is . . . that he is fluent in Latin conversation, and that translating Aeschylus is just child's play to him. His young son Otto is a doctor, too, and Sandy thinks he is much like his father. Now I'll stop for tonight, but won't close my letter, for I want to tell you how Martha seems in the morning. General Grant is fighting bravely for his life at Mount McGreg- or. A losing battle, I fear. Love from Martha Freeman Esmond Postcript. Noon next day. . . . Will is just starting for the tele- graph office to tell you our good news. Little Julie Boyd Macleod came to town at three o'clock this morning. We are so thankful that all is well with Martha and the baby. Chicago, July 23, 1885 Dear Julia: Will has just left the house with B. E Ayer, one of his close friends, counsel for the Illinois Central railway. They are to join other members of the Chicago Bar at the office of Judge Walter Q. Gresham, where action will be taken on the death of General Grant. The tolling of the firebells, sixty-three strokes, one for each year of his eventful life, gave us the news of the passing of the great soldier. It saddened us, of course, to know that he was no more, but I suppose we should rejoice, rather, that the months of suffering, during which he toiled away at his self-appointed task, the writing of his memoirs, are over. I have just been reading in the newspaper, which came a few minutes ago, an account of his last days at Mount McGregor, and have realized afresh his gallantry. What courage, what humility he J 41 displayed, when he wrote for his physician to read, since he could no longer speak, for the progress of the disease in his throat: "If it is within God's Providence that I should go now, I am ready to obey His call without a murmur. I am thankful to have been spared thus long, because it has enabled me to complete, practically, the work in which I took such an interest. It has been an inestimable blessing to me to hear the kind expressions toward me from all parts of the country . . . from Confederates and National troops alike." How fine was the action of the Fifth Maryland National Guard regiment, in camp at Atlantic City! They telegraphed Mrs. Grant offering their services as a guard of honor if the body of the general passed through that state. They are wearing mourning badges and their colors and drums are to be draped in mourning for thirty days. This, though the regiment is largely officered by men who served in the Confederate Army. It reminds one of the truth of the lines: The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring. Later— I was interrupted, and it is now evening. Will and I are sit- ting in the library, speaking in low voices, as if some one of our own family were dead, as we talk of General Grant's life and death. We have just read an anecdote told by Senator Ingalls. He says that when Grant was President, a number of senators and General Sheridan were gathered at the White House for dinner. As they smoked their after-dinner cigars they were speaking of the age when life was sweetest, and each told what period he would like to live over again. Some turned back to boyhood; others to early manhood; while to still others the present was most satisfactory. "And you, General," said one of the guests. "What part of your life would you like to live over again?" General Grant was silent for a minute or two. All expected when he spoke it would be to express a wish to relive those days when he had been prosperous and great, but he lifted his head, and said in a tone which left no doubt of his sincerity: "All of it. I should like to live all of my life again. There isn't a part I should like to leave out." Senator Ingalls comments on the 142 impression this remark made on him, saying: "Every one of the rest of us had left out some particular time of hardship and discour- agement. Not one was brave enough to face that time again. Yet probably not one of us had had such hard times, and so much of real adversity to begin with. General Grant was the only man smoking his after-dinner cigar that evening who had the courage to want to live his whole life over again." And now I must close. Will has just brought the paper to me, tears on his cheeks . . . and you know how seldom he is moved . . . to ask me to read him a message from the New Orleans Times- Dispatch. It is so beautiful, I want to copy it for you: "Vanquished by his arms, in his chivalric kindness we were doubly vanquished at Appomattox. Every soldier heart in this wide land will pray God this morning that the generous measure he meted to his foe in time of victory may be remembered and meted again to Ulysses S. Grant, in this his hour of defeat and judgment." As I look over at my husband I see his hand shading his face, and know he is reliving in memory, his army days . . . seeing tattered flags borne across a blood-stained battlefield: hearing the strains of "We'll Rally 'Round the Flag" as the hard-fought struggle ends in victory. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, December 3, 1885 Dear Julia: How I wish you were here to help Will and me decide on a painting we want to give Martha and Sandy for Christ- mas! I know you keep up on art matters better than I do. Perhaps you will advise us at a distance. You see, when Martha moves into her new home on Dearborn Street she will need a handsome picture for the parlor wall, and we want to give her something that will be exactly right. Will is leaving it all to me . . . just like a man! I wish Sandy and Martha would express an opinion— they insist they will be satisfied with what we select. '43 It is a great deal to ask, but if you will tell me what you think about some of the pictures we have seen, it would be a wonderful help. I am sending you a catalogue of an art dealer, which describes the pictures fully, and I know you will have seen some of them in New York. Martha speaks with such awe of the collection in your New York house, that whatever you suggest, she will be prepared to adore, I know. Having in mind the purchase of this picture, we were glad of the Calumet Club's art exhibit, which opened this week, where we can see a number of fine works of art grouped together. Many of these were loaned by Chicagoans, and I really feel proud of what the display showed of the taste of our friends. A. A. Munger loaned "The Trumpeter," by de Neuville, which has led us to consider buying one of this artist's works. From Mrs. P. D. Armour's home came "The Knitting School," by Zimmerman, a lovely thing. Bouguereau's "The Little Knitter" is beautiful, too. The soulful eyes of the girl, the exquisite tint of the flesh, the red lips . . . are so alluring. But this was not for sale. I have marked the two Bouguereaus, however, in the catalogue, and as they are illustrated, you will be able to decide on the one you would want if you were buying. The flesh in the figures painted by this great French artist is wonderful, and we are told there is no one living today who is a better draughtsman. Will thinks the figures are almost too life-like, and made us laugh when he entered the room where they were hanging, for he pretended to be embarrassed and murmured: "I beg your pardon, ladies, I shall be happy to retire for a few moments, if you would like to dress." Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Ross have a fine Bouguereau which they bought abroad, and I think it lends distinction to their drawing-room. You will notice I have marked a painting by Schreyer, whose horses Will loves; one by Verboeckhoven ... I suppose no one paints sheep so well; and one by Meyer von Bremen . . . that mother and child picture. I shall appreciate so much your honest opinion of these. The Calumet Club owns some fine paintings, most of them 144 hung in the reading room. We saw last night portraits of Edson Keith, General Anson Stager, and General Grant; also a Healy, given by Mr. E. B. McCagg and called "The Peacemakers." In it are the figures of Lincoln, Grant, Sherman and Porter. So thronged was the club last evening it was hard to see the exhibit well. I shall go again. Mr. and Mrs. Byron L. Smith asked for you. So did Mrs. William A. Giles. Others I saw were the Otises, who wished to be remembered to you, and two nice bachelors, Fred Tuttle and George Murison, whose perfect manners you recall, Mr. and Mrs. Eben Lane, and William T Baker, who owns many handsome pictures himself. Our good Michael has been gravely ill, with an approach to pneumonia. I am glad to report today that he is quite on the road to recovery, though we still don't allow him to drive in this cold weather. James, a British substitute, occupies the box when I fare forth. I am quite meek before him, for his great dignity keeps me in my place, but Michael's Irish tongue reduces him to the ranks, the maids tell me. Descending to the kitchen this morning to talk to the cook about dinner, I heard loud voices. James was present and Michael was sitting by the cook-stove, receiving the daily report on the state of the horses' health. James had evidently referred to his former employer, Lord Wilshire, for Michael was speaking of that august gentleman in scathing terms. His eloquence was overpowering. We, the Esmonds, were shown to be descended from a super race, before whom Lord Wilshire would be glad to bow the knee if he should ever meet us. Mr. Esmond, Michael informed James, could wear "one of them dirthy wigs, as is done in English courtrooms, if he wanted to, but he was too much of a gintleman." As to Martha Junior, Michael had to say, she was so far superior to the haughty Wilshire beauties, that those damsels would be abashed and slink from her presence in shame, if it were ever their good fortune to enter the room in which she was sitting! James was walking out of the kitchen with what dignity he could muster when I came in, and Michael, completely satisfied with himself, was in full possession of the field. Good old Michael! Defender of the Esmonds! I have at last yielded to the persuasions of Mrs. J. K. Botsford, MS one of the dearest and most efficient of my older friends, and allowed myself to be elected a member of the board of managers of the Chicago Orphan Asylum. I have felt for a long time that I ought to be of more service to the community and this work appeals to me, done, as it is, in the spirit of the Saviour, whose birthday we celebrate this week, and who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me." I attended my first session a few days ago, and was much gratified by the committee reports. We viewed the beautiful new rooms lately added to the fine building at 2228 Michigan Avenue ... an addition given by Mrs. Mancel Talcott. I have long admired her and shall be glad if my membership brings me closer to her. Her name was Mary Otis before her marriage and she is a graduate of Mrs. Willard's famous school in Troy, N. Y She came with her parents to Chicago in 1838, she told me, settling in Park Ridge, where, soon after, she married Mr. Talcott. He was a poor boy and walked from Detroit to Chicago, in 1834, but u P on his death, he was reckoned one of Chicago's wealthiest citizens. Mr. Talcott helped found the First National Bank, and was president of the Stockyards Bank. Mrs. Talcott continues his benevo- lences, and I noticed in the paper not long ago that she had given to her church— the Second Universalist— a lot at the corner of Warren Avenue and Robey Street, valued at $10,000. She is specially interested in the orphan asylum and gives each of the children a pair of shoes once a year. The orphan asylum was called into being by the ravages of cholera, which took such awful toll of lives in Chicago in the late forties. Many children were left without parents, and in 1849 the sympathies of good people were stirred by their plight. Mrs. J. H. Kinzie, of our famous Chicago pioneer family, was the first president of our board of managers; Mr. William H. Brown, of whom you have often heard, was the first president of the board of trustees. Mrs. Charles Follansbee, Mrs. Botsford, Mrs. Jerome Beecher and other women used to tuck the children in their beds in those first days, they tell me. Mrs. Tuthill King was an early president, and such people as the Eldridge Keiths, George S. Bowen, Mrs. Godfrey McDonald, Mrs. Gilbert Wheeler, Miss Mary Wells, Mrs. Henry 146 Fuller, Mrs. Bennett B. Botsford, John Cterar, William A. Fuller, and Mrs. H. M. Wilmarth, have given largely of time and effort and money. Mrs. Norman Gassette is president of the board of managers this year ... an able woman . . . and W. C. D. Grannis heads the board of trustees. Mrs. Stocking, the matron of the home, is such a treasure. All the other institutions in the city envy us, for she could hardly be replaced. Wisely and gently she deals with the children in all their troubles and trials. I was surprised to learn that during the thirty-six years of the asylum's existence nearly four thousand little ones have enjoyed its protection. I'm sure I shall love this work. I wonder if I wrote you about the wedding of Jeanette Plamon- don, daughter of the A. Plamondons, to Dr. John B. Murphy, a brilliant young doctor. The marriage was held in St. Patrick's Church on the West Side, followed by a luncheon and reception at the home of the bride's parents on Throop Street. Sandy and Martha took me under their wing for the occasion, as Will was busy in court and couldn't attend. Many doctors were present, as the groom has hosts of friends in the profession. He is a Rush Medical graduate and has studied in Vienna. Indeed he worked so hard over there that he was taken ill and was sent back home by the Vienna doctors, to die. But he recovered and now looks the picture of health. He was born on a Wisconsin farm, and has the fine physique that country life is apt to give. He was recently called into consultation at Sandy's request, on a case which was quite baffling, and Sandy says he never saw such skill and coolness in so young a man. He and Dr. Murphy are warm friends, and have long discussions on the question of operations. Dr. Murphy advocates operating for some diseases which the older men feel are to be treated medically. Sandy says he believes we will all come round to Dr. Murphy's opinion soon. The bride, a beautiful young woman, bright and happy of face, is most efficient, I hear, and will prove a fine helpmeet to him. I suppose you are busy preparing for Christmas, as we are here. Much love, Martha Freeman Esmond H7 FOOTNOTES 1885 Progressive euchre was the game of the hour in 1885. Fashions in dogs change, and the pug has "gone out!' Where do unfashionable animals retire to? Beautiful Mary Leiter became Lady Curzon, and when her husband was appointed Viceroy and Governor-General of India, she bore her part with dignity and grace. Damen Avenue is named for the beloved priest of Holy Family Church. The Pullman Building still stands at the south-west corner of Mich- igan Avenue and Adams Street, but it is used entirely for business purposes. The Chicago Orphan Asylum, in accordance with modern practice, no longer houses its proteges in a large building, but places them in homes where foster-mothers care for them, thus offering the children as nearly as possible the conditions of a normal home. Dr. John. B. Murphy has been described as the surgical genius of his generation. He was among the first to investigate and treat peritonitis following appendicitis. 148 ASIDE Penmanship was still held in high regard, in the Eighties. The teacher who could draw an eagle swooping down from his eyrie, a bird on her nest, or a swan gliding along on the water, was pretty certain to land the position of instructor in District Number One, that red brick school a mile out of town, where they paid as high as fifty dollars a month ... to a man. Two swans, facing each other, under a scroll inscribed "excelsior" (though why swans should have endorsed such a motto is a mystery) made a noble showing. John D. Williams, author of Packard and Williams' Gems of Penmanship, was widely known in Pennsylvania for his pen draw- ing. In New York Daniel T. Ames, who called himself a "chiro- graphic artist" had had a large influence on style in writing. So large did penmanship loom in the public interest, that the Penman's Art Journal, trade paper of those who wrought designs with the steel pen, had a healthy circulation. True, most of the students of the art of "chirography" would have little occasion to use the ornamental flourishing in the ordin- ary pursuits of life, but it was felt that its practice gave command of the hand and arm in writing and demonstrated to the student what proficiency was possible in this branch of learning. But to boys and girls of the Mid- West, the names of Williams and Ames were unknown. The only name that counted in this section was "Spencerian!' They did not know, most of them, that the name was derived from Spencer, the man who taught what he called a new system of writing. At Geneva, Ohio, Piatt R. Spencer erected a log-house as a seminary for his writing-classes and to this log school-house came pupils from all over the country. In time, this building, known as "Jericho" acquired a national reputation, his students going forth to teach his system and bring more pupils to its originator. Mr. Spencer advocated little shading, but he combined the 149 beautiful and the practical, striking a golden mean between angu- lar writing, which could be done rapidly, and what was known as the "round hand" which was remarkable for legibility. Though Spencer died in Geneva in 1864, his system persisted for many years. Put out by Ivison, Blakeman & Taylor, his copy- books were popular in the Eighties and had a decided effect on the writing of men and women of today. It is interesting to note that Spencer's children followed in their father's footsteps. In the Eighties, Robert C. Spencer, the eldest, was at the head of a business school in Milwaukee; Henry C. con- ducted a commercial school in Washington, D. C; Piatt R. Jr., was at the head of a similar institution in Cleveland, Ohio; Harvey A., similarly placed in Dallas, Texas, and Lyman P., in Washington, devoted their entire time to promoting the Spencerian system and superintending its publications. Two daughters, before marriage, had been teachers of penmanship, and one, married to Junius R. Sloan, lived on West Adams Street, a fashionable thoroughfare in the Chicago of the Eighties. With such help from a large and devoted family, no father could fail to prosper. As I write the word "Spencerian" the Chicago of 1940 fades away and I am seated at a small desk in the "Union School" of a down-state Illinois town, trying to obey Mr. Spencer's instructions for the "Fore-Arm Movement!' The odor of damp woolen clothes, being dried out by someone who stands over the hot-air register, rises to my nostrils, mingled with the chalky smell that comes from a velvet eraser being lightly dusted near me, as, with my tongue held firmly between my teeth, I seek to "rest the forearm and whole hand upon the large, fleshy part of the arm just forward of the elbow, and upon the nails of the third and fourth fingers!' Tense and eager, (despite Mr. Spencer's positive assertion that "in this movement the fingers and thumb are in a passive condi- tion 7 ) I valiantly move my Number Two Spencerian steel pen along the lines, striving to remember that small t, d, p, and q are semi- extended letters, while h, k, 1, b, j, y, g, z, and f, are extended or "loop letters!' i 5 o I see again the blotted result of my copy of Goldsmith's lines, so beautifully executed by Mr. Spencer above: As some tall cliff, that Hits its awful form, Swells horn the vale, and midway leaves the stoim, Though round its bieast the wiling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. »5 J Chicago, January 3, 1886 Dear Julia: I wrote you a few days ago but I do want to tell you about the brilliant Mikado ball at the home of the Marshall Fields on Prairie Avenue, near Eighteenth Street. The party wasn't really for older people like ourselves, but Mrs. Field asked a number of us at the last minute to come and see the fun and we were glad to accept. Have you met Mrs. Field at any time when you have been visiting us? I can't remember. She was Miss Nannie Scott of Ironton, Ohio, before her marriage. It has been the custom of Mrs. Field to give her children a Christmas party at holiday time, but as the young son of the house, Marshall Jr., had reached the age of seventeen, she decided to celebrate in a more grown-up fashion. Accordingly she conceived the idea of a Mikado ball, and I must say it was carried out in the most dazzling manner. Naturally everything was Japanese in character, and there was a bewildering array of decorations from the Land of the Rising Sun. The front door was closed and guests came in at the side entrance. The front entrance, seen from the inside, was hidden by a large copy of the landscape background of the second act of "The Mikado" as presented at the Fifth Avenue Theater in New York. On one side of the large front hall was erected a miniature pagoda, occupied by the orchestra. . . . Johnny Hand's of course. 152 His is the most perfect music for dancing. At one end of the hall, beneath an immense parasol, stood two large Japanese flower trees in full bloom, made by a Japanese artist. Flowers from this tree were distributed as favors. Marshall Jr. had as guests about two hundred young people of his own age. Ethel, who is twelve, had invited about the same num- ber. Every one of the guests was in full costume from wigs to sandals. Their cheeks and lips had been made redder by the application of vermilion. ( Some of them looked so pretty with this additional color that I'm afraid they will want to rouge regularly, as the French ladies do. I do trust this will not be the case. Don't you think rouge is dreadful? It makes any girl or woman look . . . well, I won't write what I think it makes her look like.) The music to which they danced was that of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas . . . "Pinafore" . . . "Patience" . . . "Pirates of Pen- zance" . . . "Iolanthe" and of course, "The Mikado," and snatches of the songs from the operas were flying through the air, the most popular one being: Three little maids from school are we, Vert as school girls well can be, Filled to the brim with girlish glee, Three little maids from school. Nearly every family of prominence in the city was represented, especially the Prairie Avenue set. There were the Hibbard connec- tions, the Pullman children, Spencer and Catherine Eddy, the Keiths, the Otises, the Hendersons, Helen Birch, and so on. I thought Ginevra Fuller, Lillian Drake, Bessie Allen, Florence Higinbotham and Alice Keith were rather the most attractive of the girls. Isn't it remarkable how successful the opera, "The Mikado," has been? Gilbert and Sullivan are such marvelous partners. The latter's music just fits Gilbert's enchanting, nonsensical rhymes. Strange isn't it, that Sir Arthur Sullivan, who wrote such spiritual music as "The Lost Chord," could also write the graceful charming strains of the comic operas which have brought such a fortune to him and '53 Gilbert? He has written many of our best hymns, too, including the world's greatest marching hymn "Onward Christian Soldiers." Will has been wanting for some time to hear Dr. Emil G. Hirsch, the brilliant young rabbi who occupies the pulpit of Sinai Temple at Twenty-first Street and Indiana Avenue; so today, as our own minister was absent from the city, we attended service at Sinai. It is a liberal congregation and seemed somewhat like the Unitarian Church, I thought, as I heard the sermon. Its membership is com- posed of the wealthiest and most progressive Hebrews in Chicago, I decided, as I looked about and saw the Mandels, the Kuppen- heimers, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Frank, E. B. Felsenthal, the Roths- childs, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Solomon and Mr. and Mrs. Henry Meyer. A good many Gentiles attend service there, I have heard, at- tracted by the eloquence and logic of the young preacher. The temple is a handsome graystone building of massive pro- portions. The interior gives an impression of Moorish design, and the color scheme embraces many shades of red. The colors gave occupation to a pretty little girl who sat near me, for wearying of the sermon, she swung her plump legs and fell to counting the various shades from pinkish tan to crushed strawberry, which she found on the walls. Dr. Hirsch has a sympathetic voice, which though soft and melodious, carries well, and I think everyone in the audience of a thousand must have heard him distinctly. The service, unfamiliar to me, was quite moving, especially the kadish ... or prayers com- memorative of the dead. I understand these prayers are offered the first Sunday of the year, while the relatives of those who have passed away during the twelve-month stand in their places in the pews. Another feature of the service which struck us forcibly was the promptness with which an appeal for funds was met. Will looked at his watch when Dr. Hirsch began his explanation . . . one could hardly call it solicitation . . . and again when the contribution was carried to the pulpit, and found that in fifteen minutes $5,300 had been subscribed for a relief fund. The sermon on "Prayer and Ritual," was informing and absorb- ing. Dr. Hirsch defined the word synagogue as "the house of coming ^4 together," which he thought a richer expression than temple or church. Of the Jewish prayer-book, he said that it was an epitome of Jewish feeling and history ... a history of suffering unparalleled and not ended even today. After the service, my young friend, Mrs. Emanuel Mandel, introduced us to Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch, and we had an interesting chat with them, for both have a fund of stories. Mrs. Hirsch, com- menting on her husband's constant lecturing, told us that recently he saw his own picture in a drug store window advertising a lecture in a neighboring hall. An electric light on the outside threw on the rabbi's pictured face in the window the shadow of the druggist's slogan, "Open Day and Night," which he thought was quite appropriate. Dr. Hirsch himself told of meeting a traveling salesman on a Pullman car, who mistook him for a fellow "drummer." "What house do you travel for?" he asked. "Sinai, of Chicago," was the rabbi's reply. "What's your line?" "Notions," said Dr. Hirsch. Someone said of Dr. Hirsch recently that he was the Jew's apostle to the Gentile ... a good expression, I thought. He cer- tainly gave us this morning an appreciation of Judaism which I had never had before. With much love, I am, yours as ever, Martha Freeman Esmond January 18, 1886 Dear Julia: Republicans of Chicago, who were almost crushed by their defeat in the Presidential election more than a year ago, are beginning to bestir themselves preparatory to a test of local strength. Will says they must emulate the chieftain in the old Scottish ballad: "Fight on, my men", Sir Dougall cried; "I'm a little hurt but not yet slain; I'll just lie down and bleed awhile, Then I'll get up and fight again'.' '55 Will has been closeted this evening in the dining-room with John M. Smyth, a West Side business and political leader. They are going over long lists of names, preparatory to sending out letters. I spent a half-hour with them, when I took in coffee and doughnuts, which they welcomed as a diversion after the harassing problem of getting the wherewithal for campaign expenses. Mr. Smyth gives liberally himself and so do Will and a few others, but they are anxious to have the rank and file of the party contribute, so they will feel deeper interest. The rank and file keep their hands carefully out of their pockets just now, feeling terribly discouraged. I always enjoy talking with Will's friends and found Mr. Smyth particularly interesting. His speech is direct, with a tang that is characteristic of every self-made man, if he feels at home in his environment. His voice is that of a cultivated man, with just a trace of an accent suggesting the Emerald Isle. I love his devotion to Chicago. His life is a romance, for he was born at sea, off the Newfound- land coast, while his parents were on their way to America from County Mayo, Ireland. They stayed awhile in Montreal, then came to Chicago to settle permanently. The father, Michael Smyth, a rather superior man, I have heard, had been a school-teacher and surveyor in the old country, and soon was elected clerk of the school board here. He became a member of the volunteer fire department of those days and from exposure at one of the fires, took cold, which resulted in his death. The wife was left with four boys, John, the eldest, only thirteen years of age. But he felt it his duty to look out for his mother. It always touches me to think of a boy of that age having such responsibilities thrust upon him, but it creates character, according to the Scripture: "It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth." The little boy of thirteen went to work as a printer's devil in the composing room of a Chicago newspaper, and for a time was office-boy for Joseph Medill, to whom he is devoted. Then he became circulation manager of the Inter-Ocean, at that time called the Republican. Will says he made a great success of this work. i S 6 "1 wonder you didn't stick to the newspaper business. You ought to have founded a paper yourself," said Will tonight, as they munched doughnuts. "That takes money," laughed Mr. Smyth, "and I didn't have too much of that. I wanted to get into business for myself, so when I had saved two hundred and fifty dollars, I formed a partnership with Tom Mitchell, who had a like amount and we opened a furniture store on West Madison Street ... a little hole in the wall, so to speak." "How old were you?" I asked, for he is now only forty. "Twenty-four," chuckled Mr. Smyth, "but I thought I was a big businessman. It sobers you to be carrying a responsibility like that." We listened eagerly, as he told how, in a year's time, he was able to buy out his partner and enlarge the business until it outgrew the original quarters and he had to build the establishment where he now sells furniture to all the great West Side. Will says it's a wonder he has any money at all, for he is so generous, but I believe he is rated as a millionaire. He believes people, in the main, are hon- est, and he gives credit to struggling young people whom most mer- chants would not carry on their books. "He never tells you his troubles," says Will, "but the moment you see him, you want to pour out your own to him." As an alderman, he has had to listen to people's woes, I suppose, and he expects to do it, but he is naturally sympathetic and kind. His priest at St. Patrick's told Will Mr. Smyth had charged him never to allow anyone in the parish to suffer, but always to apply to him. Such men make you believe in the essential goodness of human nature. Now I hear the departing footsteps of Will's caller and Will is coming into the library for a last cigar. He will want to visit, I know, so I'll close. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond l S7 Chicago, March 13, 1886 Dear Julia: Do you get tired planning meals for your household? This spring I seem to have the greatest difficulty getting the right viands for my family. Will's appetite isn't good and I have to think of delicacies for him ... to get up meals that are a little out of the ordinary, to tempt his palate. Yet he often leaves food untouched on his plate. So I was glad yesterday to find a list of menus in a morning paper and to use one today for breakfast. It was: OATMEAL FRICASSEE OF CHICKEN BOILED EGGS BAKED POTATOES ROLLS GRIDDLE CAKES COFFEE Will ate the chicken pretty well and took most of his dish of oatmeal, and a few griddle cakes, but wouldn't eat even a bite of his baked potato. I must have him see Sandy this week for an examina- tion. What do you think of Mrs. James Brown Potter's reciting ' 'Osier Joe" at the Whitney's reception in Washington? I imagine you feel as I do that a fallen woman is not a proper subject for a poem to be read aloud in a company of both men and women. Washington society is coming in for a good deal of criticism, isn't it?— what with its decollete gowns and Sunday receptions. I was brought up strictly, as you know, in the matter of Sunday-keeping, and we never had company on that day ... at least company that was invited for pleasure. Of course we often had family gatherings. That sentence would make Will laugh at me, but you know what I mean. Will is reading a book by Bill Nye, the humorist, and has just interrupted to share a page with me. Will thinks this Western jester is truly amusing . . . that he doesn't have to try so hard as do many allegedly funny writers. The page Will read to me is one containing a letter Bill Nye wrote to the postmaster general on being appointed postmaster at Laramie, Wyoming. It is said that this made the humorist's fame. 158 Under the date of August 9, 1882, he writes: My dear General: I have received by telegraph the news of my nomination by the President, and my confirmation by the Senate as postmaster at Laramie, and wish to extend my thanks for the same. I have ordered an entirely new set of boxes and a postoffice outfit, including new corrugated cuspidors for the lady clerks. I look upon the appointment as a great triumph of eternal truth over error and wrong. It is one of the epochs, I may say, of the nation's march toward political purity and perfection. I do not know when I have noticed any stride in the affairs of state which so thoroughly im- pressed me with its wisdom. Now that we are co-workers in the same department, 1 trust you will not feel shy or backward in consulting me at any time relative to matters concerning postoffice affairs. Isn't it ridiculous? He closes thus: With profoundest regard, and a hearty indorsement of the policy of the President and Senate, whatever it may be, I remain, Sincerely yours, Bill Nye, p.m. I don't believe he was postmaster at all, though I think he held some other offices in Laramie. Will saw Bill Nye once, at the Grand Pacific Hotel, and says he is tall and gaunt, and though in his thirties, is bald and solemn looking which makes him funnier than ordinary people. I'd like to hear him speak. Sandy and Martha are formally installed in their new home on Dearborn Avenue, near Chicago Avenue. Last evening they gave a housewarming for a small company of friends, and it seemed to me it was a really lovely occasion. They wanted to have a little ceremonial, indicating that the house was to be not so much their castle as a place where friends should come often for diversion, pleasant converse and comfort. Sandy and Martha are both so hospitable the new house will be full of company always, I know. '59 They had expected to have Dr. Stryker, their minister, preside at this simple ceremony, but he was called out of town suddenly. Sandy, being a Scotchman, feels that a function is not complete without a dominie, preferably Presbyterian, so he telegraphed young Rev. James G. K. McClure of Lake Forest, who was so obliging as to come in. He is much beloved and we often hear him preach out in that lovely suburb when we visit there in summer. I think you would have liked his simple, genuine way of reciting some verses from Deuteronomy as he began his short talk. You know that interesting chapter, in which the children of Israel are blessed. "Blessed shalt thou be in the city and blessed shalt thou be in the field. "Blessed shall be thy basket and thy store. "Blessed shalt thou be when thou comest in and blessed shalt thou be when thou goest out." Not in a preachy way but like a gentle priest instructing his people, Mr. McClure pronounced these blessings, reminding us that they were expressly conditioned on our walking in the paths of righteousness. He makes goodness attractive, as it should be. Then, the guests gathering close about the fireplace, Sandy took a wax taper, handed him by Martha, and lighted the fire, which had been carefully laid ready. He had first bidden all present to come often and warm themselves at this hearth, and as he concluded his little speech and stooped to apply the taper, there was a hush such as often falls on a group when the miracle of light begins to manifest itself. We all drew soft breaths, watching the tiny flame curl about the kindling. It's not far from the sublime to the ridiculous. Standing in silence, we heard the front door open, and then a loud, if somewhat thick, voice: "Will you tell Doc Macleod to come right over to Simpson's on Clark Street? He'll understand. My wife, she told the doc this afternoon that she'd probably be needin' him tonight." So frightfully distinct. Not a guest, I'm sure, missed the implica- tion . . . that the Simpsons' already large family, which is being cared for by the Relief and Aid Society, was about to be augmented. The Simpsons always honor Sandy by choosing him to usher 160 the newcomer into the world, and as Will says, the infants invariably arrive by the midnight express. Dear Mrs. George Dunlap was a guest this evening. The Dun- laps live at the northwest corner of Dearborn and Oak Streets and have been so agreeable about the Macleods' coming into the neigh- borhood. She was a daughter of Mayor Rice, and is one of five charming sisters. Do write soon, dear Julia. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, May 22, 1886 Dear Julia: Will has been reading aloud to me one of Petroleum V. Nasby's humorous articles on the Socialist question, inspired, probably, by all the disturbances and strikes we've been having lately. I believe it was printed originally in a Toledo newspaper, for which Nasby (David Ross Locke) is a special writer, but it was copied in our Chicago papers. Will thought it hit off the disturbers of the peace pretty well. It began: "I hate a capitalist, no matter how he becum one. I hate the meen-spirited retch wich will work ten or more hours a day, deprivin hisself of beer and terbaccer and keerds and hoss-racin and sich, savin penny by penny. My hatred of railroads is intens. It commenst with the fust time I wuz dropped off the hind platform of a train fer not payin fare and hez increased with every repitishun of the offense. I lothe the railroad monopolist." The article ended: "A grindin' monopolist is any man wich hez anything. Whenever a man hez saved anything, he becums a cap- italist and ez capitalists is dangerous to labor, he shood be maid to divide it up. Property is a crime." These "Nasby" letters have made a fortune for David Ross Locke, it is said. They began in 1861 and first attacked slavery by the back- handed method of praising it. "Praise" from Petroleum V. Nasby, illiterate, hypocritical, cowardly creature that Locke made him, was enough to undo almost any institution. 161 Will reads him with gusto and thinks him the most powerful satirist of our times. Of course I can't enjoy him, as the more politically-minded do, but Will reminds me that Lincoln was one of his greatest admirers and often used to hold up state business in order to read callers "the latest from Nasby." Charles Sumner once quoted Lincoln as saying of the humorist: "For the genius to write these things, I would give up my office." Nasby is now crusading against the liquor dealers and Will says is "burning them to a crisp." Italian opera has engaged our attention this week in Chicago. Will took a box for the series and we have given several dinners, taking our guests to the Chicago Opera House afterward. One eve- ning we entertained General and Mrs. A. C. McClurg, who are invited everywhere, for they add much to a party by their conver- sation. Mrs. McClurg is a beautiful woman and the General's soldierly bearing and snow-white hair would make him a con- spicuous figure in any gathering. Philadelphia-born, he was educated in Pittsburgh and in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. His inclination was to the law, he told us this evening, but his health failing, he abandoned that profession and came to Chicago in 1859, in search of health and work. He easily found a position as a junior clerk in the prosperous book-store of S. C. Griggs and Company and soon rose to a more responsible post. In 1861, when the war broke out, he enlisted as a private in a company which was offered to the government, but, the state's quota being full, it was not accepted, so the young patriots went back to civil life. A little later, another company was formed, called the "Crosby Guards" and the young book-seller entered this as a private. This company became a part of the Eighty-eighth Illinois Volunteer In- fantry and Mr. McClurg was almost immediately made a Captain, his ability being evident. Will asked the General this evening if he hadn't sometimes wished he had accepted General Sheridan's in- vitation to become a member of his staff, but the General said he felt his duty lay with the company with which he had entered the service. Will and General McClurg compared notes about their experi- 162 ences, which were similar, for, as you remember, Will's wound which caused his being invalided home, was caused by a shot which killed his faithful horse, Commodore. General McClurg, said Will as we talked at dinner, had had two horses shot under him, at the Battle of Mission Ridge, though he himself was not injured. General McClurg told us tonight that he considered entering the regular army after the war closed, for General Thomas and General Sherman both urged it. "But," he said, smiling, "I had seen enough of carnage, and the thought of selling books peacefully in Chicago made a strong appeal." "You have never regretted your decision, I am sure," I said, look- ing at lovely Mrs. McClurg across the table. "Never," he answered. I am glad, for Chicago's sake, that he came back here. He be- came a partner in the Griggs firm, and when that was dissolved, in the firm of Jansen, McClurg and Company, prospering as he de- serves. No firm has a higher standing than the one he heads . . . A. C. McClurg & Co. Another evening our chief guest was the beautiful Mrs. Abby Farwell Ferry, daughter of our friends, Mr. and Mrs. John V. Farwell. I've known Abby since she was a child and love and admire her infinitely. She tells a story capitally and tonight regaled us with an ac- count of the evening when she called on the famous opera singer, Clara Louise Kellogg, who was a cousin of her uncle-by-marriage, Charles Kellogg. Abby and her cousin Charles were invited to call on Miss Kellogg at the Tremont House and the twelve-year-olds repaired to that famous hostelry at the appointed hour, eight p.m., with beating hearts. They found Miss Kellogg surrounded by musical trophies and souvenirs, many of these being photographs presented by royalty, who thus expressed their admiration for the diva. Her mother was with her and also Max Strakosch, her manager. I can imagine how Abby's beauty fascinated the singer. "Have you attended the opera?" asked Miss Kellogg kindly. "No," replied Abby primly. "Papa doesn't allow me to go to the opera or theater, because it is wrong." 163 Miss Kellogg laughed, "Well, you shall hear a little opera to- night" and seating herself at the piano, she sang aria after aria to her youthful audience. Last of all, she took up her guitar and gave them "The Last Rose Of Summer." Before the children left, she asked Abby if she sang. "Just gospel songs," replied Abby gravely. Miss Kellogg invited her to sing one and Abby obliged with: "Holy Angels In Your Flight," the lullaby she sang to her small brother each night. Madame Minna Hauk took the part of Mignon tonight. It was a charming performance— you would have enjoyed it. Write soon to your old friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, June 15, 1886 Dear Julia: Have I written you about the Union League Club's reception in honor of the opening of its new building? I don't believe I have. This is one of Will's clubs and he has been so excited about its new home that we've talked of nothing else, it seems to me, the last six months. It stands at Jackson Boulevard and Fourth Avenue, a location which Will thought at first would prove too far out, though he is reconciled to it now. Unlike the Chicago Club, to which Will also belongs and which doesn't allow ladies to enter its portals, the Union League Club is hospitable to our sex, and the ladies can eat there, if accompanied by members, which is nice, I think. I feel quite cross at the Chicago Club for its exclusiveness. J. McGregor Adams is President of the Union League Club this year. W L. B. Jenney is architect of the new building and is receiving congratulations for his work. Supper was served in the private dining-rooms, as the main dining-room on the fifth floor was used for dancing. We exclaimed over the handsome silver and china, which can't be duplicated, as they were especially designed for the club. Everyone was there, of course. Addie Hibbard Gregory, looking lovely in a lemon-colored 164 mull, sent her love to you; Mrs. Byron L. Smith, in a handsome brown silk, was gracious to all; Mrs. John B. Mayo, wife of a promi- nent jeweler, was a superb figure in silks and diamonds; Mrs. A. C. Bartlett looked lovely in a wine-color velvet, which she wore with a straw bonnet trimmed with a diamond arrow; Mrs. General Mulligan, widow of the famous leader of the Irish Brigade, was with us a good part of the evening. Nice young bachelors present were Charles and George Holt and Harry G. Selfridge, the latter now quite prominent in Marshall Field's. All three young men are good catches and I saw many pretty girls smiling at them. The Union League Club's first headquarters were in the Sherman House. Later they had rooms in the Honore Block. Now they have acquired this handsome building which should last a hundred years, Will says. It cost $170,000 and the furniture is valued at $45,000. You ask what I think of the Salvation Army, so much talked of everywhere. Well it is not just to my taste, but I don't feel so prejudiced against it as I did at first, a family living in a squalid tenement three blocks west of us having given me an object lesson in its efficacy. Will is so much impressed he says he thinks he'll join the Army. They used to come to the back door, this poor family, begging food and clothing, the wife rarely to be seen without a bruised face, the result of her drunken husband's beatings. The children were ragged and unkempt. I visited their wretched abode several times, taking clothing so that the little ones could attend Sunday school without feeling ashamed. Alas! Soon they were absent from their places and investigation by our church visitor revealed that the father had pawned the children's new clothing for drink. I was in despair about the situation, when the Salvation Army got hold of the father and you should see the difference after six weeks. He has taken the total abstinence pledge and is working at odd jobs in the neighborhood, making a living for his family. Michael being laid up with a bruised hand last week, we hired this re-born man to wash the front steps and do other work that Michael ordinarily does. Assiduously he polished windows, scoured i6 5 steps and scrubbed floors, for he is a good workman. To be sure, he embarrassed us a bit when callers came, if he happened to be out in front, for he wears a cap on which is the legend: "Are You A Saved Sinner?" While we all confess our sins at church each Sunday, owning that we have done the things that we ought not to have done and that there is no health in us, it's a different matter when we are confronted with a question like this on the street. Then he sings the strangest songs, as he scrubs the walks. Will is so amused by him, he won't let me ask him to desist. The devil seems to be fair game in all the Salvation Army songs and our worker sings many songs about the adversary, who is very real to him. Here is one: The devil and me, we can't agree; I hate him and he hates me; He had me once but he let me go He wants me again, but I don't mean to go. Though we may not relish the manner in which its members work, I must say, after our experience, that it is doing a wonderful amount of good. General William Booth, founder of the organiza- tion, maintains that he doesn't want to draw from the churches, but seeks only those lost sheep who wouldn't enter dignified houses of worship. Will says many employers tell him their workmen have straightened up under its influence. So Will has sent a contribution by our workman and says he intends to give a yearly donation, in honor of what the Army has done for this one family. Martha Junior has just come in and sends her love. And I am, your loving, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, August 12, 1886 Dear Julia: I have just returned from an afternoon of calling, my visits being made on the West Side. I went more especially to call on my friend Mrs. Cheney, whose father, Mr. Philo Carpenter, 166 has just died. Somehow I felt as if an epoch had closed when I heard of his passing, for he was a Chicago pioneer, closely associ- ated with all the city's activities from the beginning. The story of his arrival here is like a novel. In Troy, New York, he had heard of Fort Dearborn and the opportunities this new country presented. His imagination was fired and he bought a stock of drugs, for he had been working in the drug-store of a relative. This stock he sent on to the Promised Land before his own departure. In the spring of 1832, he took the train to Schenectady. From there, he went to Buffalo by canal-boat. Here he embarked on a small steamer for Detroit, then traveled to Niles, Michigan, by covered wagon. From Niles, he floated down the St. Joseph River to St. Joseph, on a small lighter belonging to Mr. Hiram Wheeler. The regular sailing-vessel that made trips from St. Joseph to Fort Dearborn had been laid up, because of the cholera raging here, so that Mr. Carpenter and Mr. George W. Snow . . . father, you remember, of Mrs. R. N. Isham . . . who was on his way here, too, bargained with two Indians to take them around the lakes in a canoe. Now, wasn't that an adventure? Only men with active minds and great physical endurance would have undertaken it. I looked it up on the map, one day, when Mr. Carpenter told us about this event- ful trip, and was amazed at his wanderings. In 1832 ... as I've heard him tell many times . . . the village contained only two hundred people, exclusive of the Fort. The troops here, commanded by General Scott, were suffering terribly with cholera, and Mr. Carpenter was warmly welcomed, you may be sure, when it was known that he possessed a stock of medicines. He nursed the sick and used up his drugs so rapidly that he soon had to send for more. A flourishing drug business was the result. In eight years he moved to a larger building on Lake Street, which was then beginning to be the shopping center of the city. Soon after this, however, he sold out and thereafter his business was looking after his extensive real estate holdings. Will has been making for me a sketch of the first real estate possessions of Mr. Carpenter, and it is impressive, for the land he bought from the government at a dollar and a quarter an acre is 16 J now bounded by Halsted, Kinzie, Madison and Elizabeth Streets and at a valuation of J 125 a front foot, is worth about four million dollars today. All this is now a part of the great West Side and its resi- dents think of themselves as living almost down town. Mr. Carpenter had other valuable holdings, but the financial crash of 1837 almost ruined him, for he had endorsed many notes for friends, a poor practice, more prevalent then than it is now, I believe. When it became necessary to pay these claims, he made no effort to evade them. As money couldn't be had, he spread out a full schedule of his real estate and allowed two disinterested men to select from any part of it what they thought fair. Will recalls that they took 960 acres of land down-state; four- and-a-half blocks in Carpenter's Addition to Chicago (West Side); half a block in the school section; three lots on Washington Street near the present site of the Chamber of Commerce; and a house and lot, his La Salle Street homestead . . . property soon afterward appraised at more than a million dollars ... all for a debt of $8,500. He faithfully carried out the agreement, though he knew the award was excessive. That's what the Scripture means, I think, in the verse: "He that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not." Would that we had more super-honest men in the world like Philo Carpenter! He helped build the First Presbyterian Church, organized in Fort Dearborn, but, being an ardent Abolitionist, he felt the Pres- byterians weren't strong enough in their opposition to slavery, so he withdrew from that denomination and organized the First Con- gregational Church. Dear old man! Chicago will miss him. I send you a picture that you may see what a noble face he had. Much love as always, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, October 30, 1886 Dear Julia: Will and a dinner guest, Francis A. Hoffmann, are sitting over their coffee and cigars in the dining-room. I have en- 168 joyed hearing their table-talk, but now they are on economic ques- tions and I find myself in deep water trying to follow, so I have excused myself and come into the library to write to you. Mr. Hoffmann is a German-American newspaperman, now of Wisconsin, though his earlier life was passed in Chicago and its vicinity, where he has been clergyman, political leader, banker, teacher, lawyer ... a bewildering array of occupations, in all of which he has been a leader. He and Will have much in common, as both had much to do with the Republican party, in its first years. Thus they have had a great time this evening, exchanging stories of Lincoln and Douglas and Civil War days. Now they are discuss- ing farming, for Mr. Hoffmann has become a writer for the farm papers . . . German language publications . . . under the name of "Hans Buschbauer." His broad knowledge and ripe experience, to- gether with his kindly nature, make him a most agreeable com- panion and Will was delighted to encounter him at the Grand Pacific Hotel today and bring him home to dinner. A story of the early days of the Free Soil movement which Will drew from him at table concerned a great meeting of German- Americans in February, 1854, held to protest against Douglas' accept- ance of the amendment to repeal the Missouri Compromise. The opposition forces tried to break up the meeting by cutting off the gas with which the hall was lighted. In the sudden darkness which ensued and which always makes an audience panicky, the trumpet voice of Mr. Hoffmann was heard: "When I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be my light"; "The Lord shall enlighten my darkness" and other verses, of which there are so many in the Bible. Meantime, some quick-witted person had found out where the gas had been turned off and had restored the lights, upon which the ready ex-clergyman called out: "He hath called you out of dark- ness into his marvelous light." Mr. Hoffmann's early training as a Lutheran preacher had enabled him to think of just the right texts for the occasion and had brought order out of what might have been a serious panic. How great an advantage speakers have who know their Bible well! There's a text for almost any situation that may arise. 169 It was at this same mass-meeting that Mr. Hoffmann spoke in German to his audience, telling them how he had been a Democrat for fourteen years, had had an admiration amounting almost to adoration for Stephen A. Douglas, but how he felt he must leave him because he could not think Douglas' stand on the slavery question right. It was an eloquent speech, says Will, and every German- American who heard it on that memorable night went away dedi- cated to the anti-slavery cause. Indeed, it was because of their steadfastness that Lincoln was elected. So the men said tonight. Mr. Hoffmann told us that the German farmers of Cook and Du Page Counties present on that night never have wavered in their devotion to Republican doctrines. As Lieutenant Governor, when Richard Yates was Governor of Illinois, Mr. Hoffman was one on whom Lincoln depended during the war. After it was over, he founded a bank in Chicago and still later helped the Illinois Central to settle German immigrants in downstate Illinois. There are still towns with such names as Sigel, Augsburg, Strasburg and Teutopolis, which attest his success in bring- ing these thrifty people to our state. About ten years ago, he decided to quit his busy career here and go to the country. He bought a large tract of land in the Rock River Valley near Jefferson, Wisconsin, where he has lived quietly ever since. Will says his place, Riverside Farm, is beautiful. He loves horticulture and has some fine specimens of trees and shrubs there. A most useful man to his country! Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond ijo rv^sf Parlor in home of Frederick B. Turtle, 2022 Michigan Avenue. Little change has been made in this room since the Eighties Parlor in Mrs. Stiles Burton's home, 229 Michigan Avenue (old number). Above the sofa hangs a Healy portrait of Mrs. Ira Holmes, daughter of Mrs. Burton and mother of Burton Holmes. Note the easel with portrait, characteristic of the period Moses D. Wells, pioneer shoe manufacturer, with his two small daughters, Frances (later Mrs. Howard Van Doren Shaw) and Martha (later Mrs. Charles T. Atkinson) Mrs. Robert Sanderson McCormick (Katherine Medill) with her two young sons, Medill and Robert Mooney (coachman) and Mark (footman), who served many years in the Arthur }. Caton household. Nothing could exceed the correctness of the really correct coachman and footman FOOTNOTES 1886 Prairie Avenue, down at heel today, was Chicago's most fashionable street in the Eighties. No descendant of Marshall Field lives in our city now. Sinai Congregation's great temple now stands at 4622 South Parkway. Great changes have taken place in the eating habits of Americans since the Eighties, when a man was thought to be ailing if he couldn't down a hearty breakfast in which meat had a place. "'Osier Joe" which has small merit from a literary standpoint, was made famous by Mrs. James Brown Potter, when she recited it at the William C. Whitney home in Washington. "Bill Nye" whose real name was Edgar Wilson Nye ( 1850- 1896) was popular as a humorous lecturer and writer. One of his favorite forms of humor was an open letter to a king, prince or other highly placed person. Davis Ross Locke, ("Petroleum V Nasby") journalist and political satirist, made the name of the Toledo Blade famous all over America. In the Sixties, he attacked slavery. After the Civil War, he turned his attention to Socialism and the liquor traffic. The present Union League Club building superseded the one built in 1886. Carpenter Street on the West Side is named for Philo Carpenter, Chicago's first druggist. VJl ASIDE No political party in the Eighties would have dared place in nomination for the presidency a cigarette smoker. The cigarette was not only regarded as detrimental to the health of the user . . . it was called a "coffin-nail". . . but its use branded the smoker as a sissy. A president might smoke . . . General Grant was addicted to black cigars . . . but at least he smoked in a manly fashion. But tobacco was regarded by women as a great evil. They did not allow any such term as "My Lady Nicotine" but spoke of it as a "filthy weed" and John, if sufficiently enamored of Angeline, promised to give up the habit, before she would say Yes. All the rules for Success in Life printed in newspapers and books included abstinence from tobacco, as well as from intoxicating liquors. A favorite recitation for little boys in school or in temper- ance meetings was one in which little Robert Reid earnestly stated his intention of never using tobacco. Etiquette books warned gentlemen not to smoke in the presence of ladies. Dont advised: "Don't smoke in the street, unless in un- frequented avenues. . . . Wherever you do indulge in a cigar, don't puff smoke into the face of anyone, man or woman!' Decoium had this to say on the subject: "As to smoking, it certainly is not gentlemanly to smoke while walking with ladies, but modern notions on the tobacco question are growing very lax, and when by the seaside or in the country, or in any but fashionable quarters, if your fair companion does not object to a cigar, never a pipe, you will not compromise yourself very much by smoking one!' Chewing tobacco was still prevalent in the Eighties. Civil War veterans were likely to be addicted to this habit, acquired in the army. That it was quite generally practiced is shown by a quotation from Max O'Rell, French journalist and lecturer, who visited America in 1888, and writes, in Jonathan and His Continent: 1J2 "The most indispensable, it appears, the most conspicuous, at any rate, piece of furniture in America is the spittoon. All rooms are provided with this prime necessity. You find one beside your seat in the trains, under your table in the restaurants; it is impos- sible to escape the sight of the ugly utensil. . . . The Americans, used to these targets from the tenderest age, are marvelously adept at the use of them; they never miss their aim. I saw some striking feats of marksmanship, but perhaps the best of all at the Capitol in Washington. "The Supreme Court of Judicature was sitting. As I entered, an advocate was launching thunders of eloquence. All at once, he stopped, looked at a spittoon which stood two yards off, aimed at it and . . . Kerron— craahk— ptu! right in the bull's eye. Then on he went with his harangue. I looked to see the seven judges applaud and cry Bravo! Not a murmur. The incident passed completely unnoticed. Probably there was not a man in the hall who could not say to himself: 'There's nothing in that. I could do as much! ' Dickens had inveighed against the spitting of Americans, but that was in an earlier day, when there was less culture presumably in the nation. 173 Chicago, January 16, 1887 Dear Julia: Will is discussing real estate with Mr. Charles Ker- foot and some other gentlemen who have dropped in this evening. I hear large figures being mentioned, as they tell of this sale or that, for there seems to be what is called a "spurt" in real estate values lately. Real estate is Chicago's small talk. It always has been. It isn't only the men who are in the business of buying and selling this commodity who love to chat about it, but doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs . . . people of all sorts take to it, as a duck to water. But the great topic of discussion is the reported sale by L. Z. Leiter to Marshall Field of his undivided half-interest in the block in which the store stands. At the Chicago Club, Will says, the report was that $600,000 was the price paid for this half-interest, but he says it's all guess-work. The lot in question has a frontage on State Street of one hundred and sixty feet, while the depth . . . the Wash- ington Street side ... is one hundred and fifty feet. Mr. W. D. Kerfoot, one of our pioneer real estate men, who is one of the group in the parlor, estimates the value of the land . . . its State Street frontage being the yardstick ... at $480,000, or $3,000 a front foot. When you think that it is just fifty years since Chicago became a city y such figures sound like fairy tales. Too late, I wish we owned downtown property, but Will has disposed of all he had. l 74 You remember I told you of the approaching reception to be given by the Charles B. Farwells? Will and I, Martha and Sandy, attended this beautiful party last night and enjoyed it to the full. The new home of the Farwells at 99 East Pearson Street, their great reputation for hospitality and the fact that the festivity marked the debut of their daughter Grace brought together a great crowd. Mr. Farwell has just been nominated by the legislature of Illinois to succeed Senator John A. Logan, who died while you were visiting in Chicago, you remember. It is a great honor to Mr. Farwell and congratulations were showered on him last evening. The great red-brick mansion was decorated with plants and cut flowers, and the fashionable gowns and lovely ladies made the scene like a story-book ball. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Field asked for you. So did my dear neighbor, Mrs. Willie McCormick. Mrs. Wirt Dexter, whose wit always makes her the center of a lively group, looked lovely in white satin. Do you recall meeting Mr. and Mrs. Charles Henrotin? They were at the party. So were the young Edward Blairs, Mr. and Mrs. Henry A. Blair, Colonel and Mrs. C. R. Corbin, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Foltz, Mr. and Mrs. Henry J. Willing and Mr. Wayne Chatfield. Another fashionable party we attended lately was given at Kinsley's by young Carter H. Harrison, Jr. and his sister, Lina, who entertained at a german. Will and I didn't remain all evening, as the german figures are a little too complicated for people of our age, but we danced a few square dances to Johnny Hand's music and waltzed once. Sandy and Martha stayed till the end. Sandy doesn't often attend parties, but he and Carter Harrison are good friends and he made an exception. I have just been spending the afternoon at Martha's and heard a funny saying of little Esmond's. Last Sunday, at Sunday school, his teacher asked all the children in the class to raise their hands if they wanted to go to Heaven. Rather a silly question, I admit, but these young volunteer teachers say almost anything to fill up the time. Esmond's hand didn't go up with the others and the teacher asked him why. "I would like to go," he explained in his careful English, "but 175 I'll have to be excused, because my Grandma's going to call for me and take me to her house for dinner." He evidently thought an excursion trip was being arranged at once for a trip to Heaven. His remarks often remind me of little Lord Fauntleroy. His golden curls and polite manners are quite like that young hero's. Will can't bear to have me say that, for he feels the little Fauntleroy was entirely too good for his health. Will wants Martha to cut Esmond's curls. But I hope she won't do that yet. He is too cunning with them. Much love, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, March 8, i88y Dear Julia: How sad the death of Henry Ward Beecher is! So sudden! He was, of course, an old man . . . seventy-four . . . but he had been so active and energetic, I had not thought of him as near- ing the end of his life. America has lost one of her great men. We have been talking of him today ... of his boldness and independence of thought, defying tradition, if necessary, and blazing fresh paths through our political and economic problems. It was an extraordinary power he exerted over the minds of his fellow-men. Wasn't his very presence stimulating? Sitting two rows behind him at a lecture here in Chicago, not long ago, I was conscious that an unusual person must be before me, though I couldn't see him well, because of the people in the row in front. Then suddenly a messenger came to ask him to come to the platform and as he stood to follow the one who had spoken to him, I noticed his fine head, with long gray hair. People applauded as he made his way to the front. I am glad now to remember that enthusiastic welcome. The scandal . . . Theodore Tilton's divorce suit, in which Mr. Beecher was named as co-respondent . . . brought criticism on him and cast a cloud over his life. I was indignant when I read in the morning paper that a group of clergymen in Chicago had refused to send a tele- 176 gram of sympathy to his family. But another body of ministers . . . the Methodists, and may their tribe increase! . . . did send such a telegram. So did President Cleveland. Of course, he should have done so, as Mr. Beecher, you remember, went back on the Republican party in 1884 and spoke on behalf of Cleveland. I hear that his famous sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe, is so ill she hasn't been told of his death. They were much attached to one another. What a family that was! All were liberals. All contributed much to their country. We had apple pie for luncheon today and Will said he remem- bered something Mr. Beecher had written in praise of that typically New England dish. He hunted until he found it ... in Eyes and Ears. I had to smile, as we read, thinking it would have been more seemly, perhaps, to have recalled some noble passage in his sermons, or one of his impassioned addresses on the abolition of slavery. But this is delicious. See if you don't think so. Some people think anything will do for pies. But the best for eating is the best for cooking. . . . Who would put into a pie any apple but the Spitzenburgh that had that? Off with their jackets! Fill the great wooden bowl with the sound rogues! After enumerating the various forms of apple pie, he proceeds: // will accept almost every flavor of every spice. And yet nothing is so fatal to the rare and higher graces of apple pie as inconsiderate and vulgar spicing. It is not meant to be a mere vehicle for the exhibition of these spices in their own natures. It is a glorious unity in which sugar gives up its nature as sugar, and butter ceases to be butter and each fiavorsome spice gladly evanishes from its own full nature, that all of them, by a common death, may rise into the new life of an apple pie. Not that apple is longer apple! It, too, is transformed, and the final pie, though born of apple, sugar, butter, nutmeg, cinnamon, and lemon, is like none of these, but the com- pound ideal of them all, refined, purified and by fire fixed in blissful perfection. i 77 Isn't that good? Will calls it a perfect description of the great American dessert. Mr. Beecher goes on to say that the life of an apple pie is brief. Its span is but twelve hours. // reaches its highest state about one hour after it comes from the oven and just before its natural heat has departed, and after it is one day old it is thenceforward but the ghastly corpse of an apple pie. All of which is gospel truth. And now, dear friend, 1 must close. Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, July 16, i88y Dear Julia: Will came home this evening with the news that the Newberry Library is soon to be built and probably very near us. The talk is that it may be erected on the land where the old New- berry residence stood, before the Fire, that is, in the block bounded by Rush, Erie, Pine and Ontario Streets. Pine, you know, is the street just east of Rush. The ruins of the Newberry house are still to be seen there. It's a strange story . . . that of the Newberry family. They are all gone now and so a large share of Mr. Newberry's great fortune will go to found a library in Chicago. Walter Newberry came to Chicago in 1833, a young man of twenty-nine, seeking his fortune. He immediately invested in real estate, seeming to sense the great future of the struggling village. He prospered as a commission merchant, helped found the Merchants' Loan and Trust Company Bank and amassed great wealth. One would never have supposed he'd lack an heir, for he begat six children. Four of these, sons, died in infancy. Two beautiful daughters lived to womanhood and were with their mother in Paris when the father sailed to join them. He died on board ship in 1868. In 1874, one of these lovely girls, Mary Louise, died in France, and 178 the remaining one, Julia, passed away in Rome. Three years ago the mother died, and thus half of his estate, according to his will, comes to Chicago for a library. Mr. E. W. Blatchford told Will about the plans today, and, having known the Newberrys, we are much interested. Mr. Blatch- ford is one of our most respected citizens, and a trustee of the new institution. The board will have more than two millions to use, says Mr. Blatchford, and they don't intend to make the mistake made in Philadelphia. If you remember, Dr. Rush left a million dollars for a library there. About three-quarters of this fund was put into the building, allowing little for running it. The Astor Library in New York has had similar trouble, says Mr. Blatchford. The Librarian of the Newberry has just been announced . . . Dr. William E Poole . . . our beloved and honored Librarian of the Chicago Public Library for more than fourteen years. We are proud of him, for he is internationally known, having participated in library meetings in England, as well as all over America. A born librarian is Dr. Poole. He was doing remarkable work at Yale when he was just a sophomore, acting as librarian for the Brothers In Unity, a college organization. It was while he was doing this work that he started an index on material that would be useful to Yale students in their exercises and debates. Then, seeing how valuable this was, he made a more comprehensive one, expanding it to cover the entire con- tents of the periodical collection in the library of the Brothers In Unity. Forty years ago, or thereabouts, this was published by Putnam and was the forerunner of Poole's Index To Periodical Literature, a most valuable guide which I have had occasion to use in our Chicago Library, when I had a club paper to prepare. Dr. Poole's articles on historical subjects have appeared in lead- ing magazines and always command respect, for he is an acknowl- edged authority on such subjects. I especially liked one he wrote for the North American Review, in which he proved that Cotton Mather and the New England clergy contemporaneous with him were not concerned with the witchcraft persecutions. I always resent the unkind assumption that ministers of the 179 Gospel in New England were cold-blooded persecutors of those who disagreed with them. But people do enjoy believing anything to the discredit of Christianity, I find, and I'm so glad when such an able defender as Dr. Poole arises, to break a lance in its defense. We think of going to Saratoga in August. Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, October 6, i88y Dear Julia: Well, the visit of President and Mrs. Cleveland to Chicago is over. A grand occasion it was, and I'm ever so glad to have been a witness to some of the festivities. This evening, counting up the Presidents I've seen, I find there have been four who've risen on my hori2on, each with his First Lady accompanying him. We met Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln at the home of the William H. Browns in i860, just after the election. General Grant and his wife visited here on their return from their world tour in 1879. President and Mrs. Hayes were here during that administration, and now the Clevelands. Of these first ladies, the most beautiful were Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Cleveland. Which is the more lovely and gracious of the two? Many were comparing them today, but all agreed that both had much charm, tact and poise. Perhaps this is more to the credit of Mrs. Cleveland, since she is so young. We had tickets for the reviewing stand erected on the site of the new Auditorium Theater at Michigan Avenue and Congress Street, and like most Chicago women, for some time I had been looking forward to seeing Mrs. Cleveland at close range. Un- fortunately she was not feeling well, and had to leave the party and go at once to her rooms at the Palmer House where they were staying. The President made a pleasant impression on us. He is not handsome, but he speaks well. In his speech, which was short, he referred to the magical growth of Chicago, saying he was of the 180 same mind as the Queen of Sheba when she assured King Solomon that "the half had not been told her." He added that he had been told that when Chicago was incorporated as a town in 1833, there were only thirteen voters, and one of these voted against incorpora- tion. "We do not know," said President Cleveland, "what actuated that vote, but if the man who cast it were here today I believe he would be heartily ashamed of it." Everyone applauded the sentiment, thinking of the growth of the city, and especially of the great opera house which is to rise on the very spot where we were sitting, on Michigan Avenue, where Indians padded along on moccasined feet less than sixty years ago. Mr. Ferdinand Peck was seated near us, and we whispered our congratulations on his splendid success in getting subscriptions to erect this building. I was pleased that we were invited by Mrs. Potter Palmer to meet Mrs. Cleveland at the Palmer House before she went down with the President to receive the crowd that pressed in at the public re- ception after luncheon. We were permitted to see the presidential suite at the hotel. It was especially thoughtful of Mrs. Palmer to include me, since Will is a Republican and can't claim any favors on the ground of having helped to elect the chief magistrate. The Egyptian Room is used by the President to receive his guests who come upstairs. Mrs. Cleveland has a boudoir, and there is a dining- room for the party. The bedroom is done in terra cotta, trimmed with gilt, while the curtains of the bed are olive green plush, lined with amber colored silk, a beautiful combination. At this afternoon reception Mrs. Cleveland wore a demi-train robe of blue figured silk, made over a blue grosgrain silk skirt, plaited all around. Her bodice had bishop sleeves of dotted mull, and from under the lace edging on her skirt peeped her little brown slippers. In the evening, when she and the President received eight thousand people at the Columbia Theater, the First Lady was gowned in an apple-green plush dress, with a V-shaped corsage, long sleeves and a train. In her hair she wore a tiara and a diamond pin. Around her white throat hung the diamond necklace the President gave her on their wedding day. Mrs. John A. Roche, wife of the mayor, wore a rich gray brocade, with satin petticoat, the bodice being finished 181 with an Elizabethan ruff at the back of the neck. Always beautifully dressed, Mrs. Palmer outdid herself on this occasion, I thought. Her superb black plush gown, trimmed with apple-green, was exquisite. Mrs. Edward Foreman, who assisted in receiving, wore a handsome costume of gray velvet and silk, with long ecru gloves. Mrs. A. E Seeberger, whose husband was in charge of arrangements, and her daughter Dora, a handsome girl, looked especially lovely. We met and greeted many old friends . . . the Frederick W. Crosbys, Noble B. Judahs, W. J. Chalmerses (Joan Pinkerton), J. B. Clows, Lyman Bairds, Dr. E. R Goodwin, and Dr. P S. Henson, both brilliant preachers, Judge Grant Goodrich, the Philip Dyren- forths, George B. Carpenters, S. H. Kerfoots, and Bishop and Mrs. Cheney. We've been attending the theater all week sedulously. Perhaps it isn't right to give so much time to amusement, but a wealth of entertainment has been spread before us, and we've had to partake while it was offered. The joint appearance of Booth and Barrett has been of great interest to us, giving, as it has done, a chance to com- pare these two great actors on the same stage. Booth, of course, is the greater of the two. He plays "Brutus" in Julius Caesar quietly, as one almost unconscious of the presence of the audience. His art seems so effortless. When he said: "Remember March! The Ides of March remember!" it caused a shiver. His voice is so resonant, so haunting. Booth's eyebrows are wonderfully expressive . . . perhaps a trivial thing to notice, but he does use them so effectively. Lawrence Barrett is an excellent business man, a great asset to him, for few actors have much business ability, unfortunately. He has set Edwin Booth on his feet, financially, by managing him, I believe. At McVicker's Theater we have seen Joe Jefferson in The Cricket on the Hearth. We always try to see him when he is here, for one never tires of his unique impersonations. His Caleb Plummer is a thing to be remembered forever. Another night we went to Hooley's Theater to see Rosina Vokes and Felix Morris. She is fresh, delightful, charming every moment. Everywhere you go people are quoting her cockney phrase: ' 'is 'eart was true to Poll." Ridiculous, isn't it, how a silly little phrase 182 like that will catch the public's fancy, and then die out as suddenly as it came into being? Will has gone to see Haverley's Minstrels, an entertainment he never will miss. I was only too glad to remain quietly at home. We are looking forward to your visit and hope nothing will happen to prevent your coming. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, October 23, i88j Dear Julia: We do feel so unhappy that your Chicago visit was cut short by your aunt's illness. Of course, you could have done nothing but go to her at once, but we are inconsolable about having had you for such a brief time. I'm glad Martha Junior's reception took place right after you came, so that a good number of our friends had a chance to see you. A number of people called on me today, asking when you could come for dinner or luncheon, and I had to tell them the sad news that you had gone back to New York. Well, there is always another time. Yesterday afternoon Will and I attended the exercises at which the statue of Lincoln, provided by Eli Bates' will, was unveiled. The sculptor, Augustus St. Gaudens, has been engaged on it for more than three years, and it is a grand piece of work. The location, too, is excellent. Perhaps you recall that I pointed it out to you one day when we were driving in Lincoln Park. The figure of Lincoln faces south, at the head of Dearborn Avenue, and, as it's on the main roadway through the park, it can't fail to be seen by those who enter. It is eleven feet, eleven inches in height, and, the pedestal being comparatively low, the details of the features may be seen readily. Lincoln is shown in an easy, natural position, his left hand grasping the lapel of his coat, the right hand held carelessly behind him. His head is bent slightly forward, as if he were considering the words he is speaking. He looks indeed like the Abraham Lincoln Will and I met at the reception given by the William H. Browns, on Michigan 183 Avenue, in i860. The chair of state, from which he apparently has just risen, has lion claws for feet, and the back is inscribed with the motto: E Pluribus Unum. Mr. St. Gaudens is very young to have done this great work, just thirty-five, I was told today. We were invited to sit at the foot of the monument, with a group which included Ex-Governor Beveridge, E. Nelson Blake, Mr. and Mrs. Peter Grosscup, Murry Nelson, Mr. and Mrs. Potter Palmer, Judge and Mrs. R. S. Tuthill, Judge Gary, Judge Magruder, Judge T A. Moran, Judge Lyman Trumbull, the Rev. Dr. H. W. Thomas and Robert T Lincoln. As soon as the last-named had arived, with his round-faced young son, Abraham Lincoln, the exercises began. Mayor Roche introduced Thomas E Withrow, who told of the life of Eli Bates, philanthropist, the man who left $40,000 for the monument. I never had known Mr. Bates personally, and was glad that Mr. Withrow gave the story of his early struggles. He was born in Massachusetts in deep poverty, and was afflicted with a disease which made necessary the amputation of one leg, at the age of sixteen. Such an operation was a much greater test of the fortitude of a patient than it would be today, when we have anaesthetics to deaden pain. The suffering boy showed such courage that he attracted the attention of Dr. Peabody, Unitarian minister of Springfield, Massachusetts, who took young Bates into his own home until he was able to get an education, and began to teach in a country school, where he received twenty dollars a month. Later he was a lighthouse keeper in Milwaukee, at a salary of three hundred dollars a year. From his savings he bought a farm in Illinois, and, soon afterward, came to Chicago to be superintendent and bookkeeper for C. Mears, lumberman. At the age of forty-seven he was admitted to the firm. From these humble beginnings came the great fortune of $400,000 of which he disposed in his will twenty-seven years later. A good and generous man he was. As Mr. Withrow's remarks ended, young Abraham Lincoln stepped to the platform and pulled the flag that draped the statue. W C Goudy accepted it on behalf of the people, and then Leonard 184 Swett, who rode circuit with Lincoln for eleven years, made the grand address of the day, a speech that no one who heard it will forget. It has been a cold day and I'm sneezing. I fear I caught a cold sitting at the feet of Lincoln, but it was worth it. Now I'll take some quinine, and be off to bed. Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, November 8, i88y Dear Julia: Some friends of ours, Mr. and Mrs. J. H. McVicker, will be in New York next week, and if you are able to take the time, now that your aunt is better, it would please me if you would call on them. They are at the Murray Hill Hotel, and if you would leave your card, I know it would be a much appreciated courtesy. Mr. McVicker is a client of Will's and was calling here yester- day evening on business, which reminded me to mention this to you. Mrs. McVicker hasn't been well and that is the reason they are going East. I think they feel the change will do her good. Her illness isn't serious, and I think your call would be a delightful event in the life of an invalid. The McVickers are parents of the late Mrs. Edwin Booth ( Mary McVicker ) , herself an actress, as you probably know. You'll find Mr. McVicker a double of Henry Ward Beecher. At least some people think there is quite a resemblance . . . the same mass of white hair worn rather long, the same smoothly shaven face that reflects both humor and shrewdness. So I can see how people liken their appearance, though theirs have been such different walks in life. J. H. McVicker has been manager and owner of the theater which bears his name for thirty years, though he is a New Yorker by birth. His long experience in the theatrical world makes him an authority on matters pertaining to the stage, and we enjoyed talking with him on the past and present of the theater. He thinks the outlook for actors this season is especially good, the country being in a prosperous condition, and he's looking for- i8 5 ward to the appearance of Mrs. James Brown Potter here. She will be in Chicago for a week, and is expected to be a drawing card, for the papers are so full of her doings. I asked him the name of the play with which McVicker's Theater opened. I remembered the year, 1857, f° r lt was tne fi fSt tmie tnat Will an d I attended a play, after we were engaged, but the play itself had dropped entirely from my memory, partly, I suppose, because I was living in the clouds at the time. Mr. McVicker told us that it was a double bill . . . The Honey- moon and The Rough Diamond. Do you remember either of them? I don't. Reminiscing, he reminded us that there always was a farce, in those days, to conclude the entertainment, and he thinks it has been a mistake to drop the custom. "They were first rate schools for promising young actors," he said. "Many a great star won his laurels in farce." Of course we got to talking about the new Auditorium Theater, being built at Congress, Michigan and Wabash Avenues. I suspect Mr. McVicker's opinion is biased, but he seems to think the building is too large for opera . . . that no singer's voice can fill so large a hall. It is to seat six thousand people, you know. However, we are told that the acoustics are to be looked after with great care, so perhaps these forebodings will prove false. It will be an ideal place for political conventions, and Mr. McVicker says it will be finished in time for both parties to use it next summer. On the question of politics he and Will see eye to eye. Both think the Republican party, after a period of eclipse, will emerge and sweep the country. The wish may be father to the thought. I enclose a clipping telling of the extraordinary plea that mercy be shown to the doomed anarchists of the Haymarket riot, a plea which the Rev. J. Vila Blake, minister of the Third Unitarian Church, at Laflin and Monroe Streets, is to take to Governor Oglesby. Will and I discussed this petition tonight as we sat by the library fire. Is Mr. Blake right in pleading for the commutation of the sen- tences of these men who will be hanged unless the governor inter- feres? Mr. Blake admits freely that they inflamed the passions of the poor and suffering "and purposely spoke words to make wild hearts 186 GO o CJ rt — r-4 t-H rt &H r* ^■H o o — 3 CUD r- 1 c o > C^ < -M 3 "^ OS o -i-j u CJ o > i-H O o 1-1 r-( r O ■4-1 l—l rt o 4-J ^ ^ M-i O ■"3 cj SI <— Cu — l-H r- « > o o *— rj K* >~ -* ?► r. CJ ^"] o o e rt QJ O fa CO ■"CD CJ )-i C3 e y— o i— 1 •4-' •— rt i u —J O CJ M-l ^ -t-j GO <-] GO M-l T3 o C 8 1 ■ — CxJD £% S o U M 9 ■H < Mrs. William J. Chalmers (Joan Pinkerton) in her bridal gown, beside a picture of her mother, Mrs. Allan Pinkerton Mrs. George M. Pullman, about 1880 The J. J. Glcssncr house, only example in Chicago of the work of H. H. Richardson, still stands at the southwest corner of Prairie Avenue and Eighteenth Street The brownstonc mansion of George M. Pullman (now demolished) at the northeast corner of Prairie Avenue and Eighteenth Street. Its spacious rooms were the scene of much hospitality in the Eighties more wild," but he thinks they aren't criminals in the ordinary sense of the word, and he feels they should not suffer the extreme penalty of the law, because they were in part the product of hard social conditions. Granted that this is true, Will thinks that clemency would only encourage others to throw bombs, and that if their punishment were commuted to life imprisonment, they would soon be out again and agitating as before. Mr. Blake's view, you see, is that time should be allowed for public opinion to "ripen," and he closes by stating: "I make a plea, not only for these men, but for ourselves, that we may be saved from remorse and shame in the future." It is, at least, a beautifully worded address, the work of a humane man. One hundred members of his congregation signed it. Well, it's a difficult question, but I do think capital punishment should be abolished. I'm sure no one ever was deterred from evil by the thought of being hanged, while the knowledge that the verdict of guilty means capital punishment sometimes influences a jury to be lenient and to let the culprit go free because they dread making a mistake in voting for the death penalty. Jenny Lind is dead. The announcement brings back memories of the great moment in my young life when I heard her sing in New York in 1850. 1 was just a child, but from that moment she was my ideal of womanly grace and charm as well as my "queen of song." She was adored for her unspoiled nature as much as she was admired for her beautiful voice! Her success shows that sometimes a great artist is not recognized at first. You know her debut in Paris, though she was a protege of Meyerbeer's, was a failure. This was, I believe, the result of a green- room plot of jealous rivals. She said then she'd never sing in France again, and she kept her word. But Germany received her warmly when she sang there on the occasion of Queen Victoria's visit to Berlin. From Germany to England she went and then, under Barnum, she came to the United States. Do you remember with what mingled feelings we greeted the announcement that she was to retire from the stage, when she married her orchestra director, the eminent pianist, Otto Goldschmidt? It did seem too bad that she i8j couldn't continue her concert work. Some artists manage a husband and a career at one and the same time, but she was always old- fashioned. Perhaps she was wise. Wifehood and motherhood come first. But oh, it seems too bad to think of that voice used just for lullabys! Now, she will sing in Heaven's Hallelujah Chorus. It will be the grander for her presence. We heard Stoddard in his new lecture, "The Pyrenees," last week. I enjoy his travel talks so much Will grumbles that he should forbid my attending his lectures, for it makes me want to take my "wander- staff" in hand. Well, some day perhaps we shall be able to go to Europe. Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, November 24, i88y Dear Julia: Thanksgiving day is almost over and Will and I are sitting in a somewhat somnolent state in the library. Will has fallen into a light sleep as he lounges in his Sleepy Hollow chair by the fire, but when he breathes heavily it wakens him, and he rouses, looks apologetic, and coughs to cover his confusion. Our family— Martha, Sandy and the children— were here for dinner, and we brought home with us from church to share our turkey two strangers, young men who looked lonely. So there were eight at table to do justice to Selma's dinner. I had put three grains of corn at each place, remindful of the Pilgrims' hard fare before the ship came from England with supplies, and as Will said grace I thought his voice had a special fervor. Little Esmond is getting old enough now to want stories, and he listened eagerly as his grand- father talked of the Pilgrims and their adventures in New England. Of course, not all of this will be remembered, but I think it is well to begin early to impress on the children the character of their fore- bears who "sought a faith's pure shrine" in a new world. 188 We attended church today at Trinity Methodist, where union services were held, the churches uniting being the First and Second Presbyterian, Immanuel Baptist, Christ Episcopal (Reformed) and Plymouth Congregational. We were especially anxious to hear the brilliant young minister who has recently come to the latter church from Brown Memorial Presbyterian Church of Baltimore. This is the Rev. Frank W Gunsaulus. Tall, (he must be over six feet in height) and sturdily built, for he weighs almost two hundred pounds, the young preacher was a striking figure in the pulpit, and so elo- quent was he that he frequently was interrupted by applause, led by the ministers who sat on the platform. His theme was "Anarchism, Capital and Labor, and the Saloon," and his text was "The stars in their courses fought against Sisera." He interpreted these words of Deborah the prophetess to mean that the universe is organized for righteousness, and woe be to him who tries to intercept its progress. Rather should we be on the side of the fighting stars. Perhaps his most striking period was this (I'm not quoting verbatim, but think I can give his meaning) "The dice of the gods with which men and governments play are loaded with defeat for him who knows not the secret potencies lodged in every atom of the universe against Sisera." He thanked God that the stars in their courses fought against anarchism. This subject is in all minds, as you know, in Chicago. He told of reading banners carried in a procession by agitators: "The employing class are our worst enemies," and "Capitalists are fiends and robbers." He wondered if the American laboring man would allow those who care nothing for our religion and our flag and the homes of the laborers to lead him through blood and fire. But he paid his respects, too, to the selfishness which is at the bottom of many a colossal fortune. He felt that a church deserved no respect which cried: "Peace! Peace!" when there could be no peace until justice was first established. His many political allusions caused men to nudge each other during the sermon. Will says it was the best Thanksgiving sermon he ever heard. 189 Mr. Gunsaulus was educated at Ohio Wesleyan University, and ordained in the Methodist church, although he now is a Congrega- tional preacher. We are fortunate to have him in Chicago. Will has wakened and has decided to take a walk before going to bed. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond 190 FOOTNOTES 1887 The old red-brick house built by Senator Charles B. Farwell still stands as these words are written, opposite the water-tower. Miss Grace Farwell, debutante in 1887, became Mrs. Robert McGann. Henry Ward Beecher ( 1 813-1887) American Congregational minister, was the most popular and beloved clergyman of his time. In 1863 he delivered a series of speeches in England. Hated by the pro-slavery party, he was frequently heckled by mobs, but his tremendous vitality and eloquence made him the winner in such duels. In 1874, Theodore Tilton, a former associate, accused him of undue familiarity with Mrs. Tilton, and the scandal seriously affected his standing in the country, though his own church (Plymouth Congregational Church of Brooklyn) exon- erated him. He remained the minister of that church until his death. The Newberry Library did not build, after all, on the site of the old Newberry home, but rather chose the ground on which the Mahlon Ogden house had stood . . . the block bounded by Clark, Oak, and Dearborn Streets and Walton Place. It has specialized in the fields of literature, music and history, and its collection of about five hundred thousand books and manuscripts has given it an international reputation. William F. Poole (1 821 -1894) had a distinguished career as a li- brarian. The Boston Athenaeum, the Boston Mercantile Library, the Annapolis Naval Academy and the Cincinnati Public Library, as well as the Chicago Public Library, all bear the impress of his work. Dr. Poole lived in Evanston for many years. The beautiful St. Gaudens monument to Lincoln is one of Chicago's art treasures. Young Abraham Lincoln, who unveiled it, died at an early age. The Reverend Frank W Gunsaulus (1 856-1 921) was one of the outstanding religious and civic leaders of Chicago for thirty years. In 1899, he succeeded Dr. Newell Dwight Hillis as minister of Central Church, where for twenty years, his eloquent preaching drew great crowds. As president of Armour Institute, his influence was felt by thousands of young people. The Gunsaulus Room in the Art Institute is a memorial to him. 191 ASIDE 'Teacher, will you write in my album?" All over America, in city or country, in the Eighties, worried instructors of children in public schools were interrupted in their regular duties by this request. Little Myrtle Belle, frizzed hair hanging over her shoulders, held up a red plush album, with the word "Autographs" in metal script on the cover, and Teacher knew what was before her. She might not merely set down her name and the date. No, indeed. She was expected to inscribe in that book something original or else a selection from one of the bards. And her Spencerian script would better be as good as the best, too! Myrtle Belle's Papa was on the Board of Directors. He would have a look at it, Teacher knew! She racked her brain for the proper sentiment. Something bearing on the development of character was usually chosen, under the circumstances. Myrtle Belle would often read this over, hoping that some day she might be as good and beautiful and educated as the bustled and banged Miss Perkins, who had written the sentiment in her album. Longfellow's "Psalm of Life" was a life-saver to the harried teacher racking her brain for the right sentiment for an album. "Let us then be up and doing" was a pretty good stanza for slow but well-meaning Myrtle Belle, and the Director could find no fault with it. Less exalted individuals than Teacher might write "cute" verses or make sly allusions to matrimony. A popular contribution of the last-named sort was this: When far away by love you're carried And to some little fellow married, Remember me for Friendship's sake, And send me a piece of wedding-cake. 192 If you wished to be personal, you might say, using the name of the owner of the album for the first word: . . . is your name, And single is your station, Happy is the man Who makes the alteration. Another reference to romance was: In the stoims oi life. When you need an umbrella, May you have to uphold it A handsome young fellow. Boys in Myrtle Belle's class, being invited to contribute an autograph, more often than not, refused point-blank, wanting, all the time, to consent. If the book was left handy, they would write, when no one was looking, Compliments oi If a boy could do a bit of pen-drawing ... an eagle or swan or some other fowl ... he did not need to be asked twice. If he wanted to be "cute" he could use this: Remember me, when far, far off, Where the wood-chucks die of whooping-cough. If modesty was his cue, here was a good sentiment: Some write for pleasure, Some write for Fame, But I write simply To sign my name. To call attention to the fact that, beneath his tough exterior, lay a heart of gold, he could say: '93 Within the oyster-shell, unsought, The purest crystals hide; Trust me, you'll End a heart sincere Within the rough outside. Belle Mosher Mercer of Wyanet, Illinois, sends a somewhat ambigious sentiment, from an autograph album of her childhood: A wish for a friend is often given But my wish ioi you is a home in Heaven. Even the thoughtless and careless, those who never knew their Golden Text at Sunday school, felt it proper to use a verse in which Heaven was mentioned, or to make a Biblical allusion. From a down-state album comes this odd combination of a school song and a Bible verse: Jolly old Saint Nicholas, Lean your ear this way, Dont you tell a single soul What Ym going to say: "God Is Love" A joker, having seen the sentiment written by a girl friend, In Memory's casket, drop one pearl for me often wrote on the next page: In Memory's wood-box, drop one stick ioi me. And finally, on the coveted last page, a school-friend, male or female, loved to write the gloomy sentiment: Last in your album, Last in your thought; Last to be remembered And first to be forgot. 1 94 Chicago, January 25, 1888 Dear Julia: I have at last had my long-talked-of entertainments. I have been so indebted to everyone, I felt I must give a reception and wipe out the score. Will heard me speak of my social indebted- ness so often that he asked when there was to be a "meeting of the creditors," but really I was ashamed to accept any invitations in my insolvent state. Martha Junior entertained with me, which made it much easier, for, naturally she goes about a great deal and sees what others are doing and was able to offer suggestions. We decided on two enter- tainments the same day. For the afternoon reception we asked the ladies of my own age or thereabouts, while for the evening party we had the younger married set . . . Sandy's and Martha's friends. There were a few unmarried people, but mainly couples. In the afternoon Miss Annie Romeiss sang some lovely songs, Martha Junior accompanying her. Miss Romeiss is beautiful and has a lovely voice, and everyone seemed to enjoy the program. The days being short now, we drew down the window shades and lighted the gas. I had a new gown for the occasion, a Gobelin blue Henrietta cloth with a front of brocaded silk in a deeper shade. The sleeves are finished with a puff of lace. Martha wore a gown of pale, fawn colored brocaded silk, lined with cream satin. It opens over a petticoat of pink and gold. The '95 Marie Stuart collar was wired, to stand up about her neck. Her short sleeves showed her white arms, and she looked very sweet. We worried a good deal over the house, thinking it needed new furniture, but when the flowers were in place, and a white screen, brought over from Martha's, was adjusted so as to shut off a worn place in the wall hanging, it really looked well, I thought. White furniture is all the rage here now. They say Oscar Wilde's London house is a symphony in white. I can't endorse it as entirely practical in cities as dirty as London and Chicago. Our afternoon refreshments were sandwiches, tea, and coffee, ice cream and cake. The evening menu was more elaborate, with chicken mayonnaise, rolls, ice cream, cake and coffee. The punch bowl looked quite artistic, I thought. On a cube of ice in the center, Martha arranged a bunch of grapes, which made the liquid look most inviting. For entertainment we had readings by Mr. W. W Carnes, who has a dramatic school here in Chicago, and gives lessons in voice development to many professional men. He recited "The Dream of Eugene Aram" effectively, making the chills run up and down my back. I have heard that Henry Irving often recites this to groups of friends after the theater. "How The Old Hoss Won The Bet," "Cuddle Doon" and a selection from Nicholas Nickleby were other readings he gave, ending with some of James Whitcomb Riley's homely farm rhymes, which I enjoy. When this program was over, we put up a sheet between the front and back parlors, and Mr. Carnes read "The Modern and Mediaeval Ballad of Mary Jane and the Cow," while some of the company, hastily pressed into service, acted out the parts, passing and re-passing to throw their shadows on the sheet. Have you ever seen and heard this "ballad"? It is most amusing, beginning: // was a maiden beauteous, her name was Mary Jane; To teach the district school she walked each morning down the lane. One of the lady guests walked across the stage, behind the sheet, wearing a sailor hat of little Esmond's, ribbons dangling behind. 196 The cow, which plays quite a part in the ballad, was made of paste- board and shoved on the scene by a pair of willing masculine hands. It was quite ludicrous, and the company howled with laughter when Benjamin, the farmer lover, tore his hair, letting fall large bunches of coarse string to make the correct shadow on the screen. I need not have been afraid of dull moments. After the "ballad" was done, someone suggested charades, and that amused them until they gathered about the piano and sang "Good Night, Ladies." Many ladies have been giving "pink parties" (pink parties for pale people, Will calls them ) . Mrs. Vernon Booth gave an elegant "pink" reception Wednesday, at her home, 455 Elm Street ... a fashionable affair. Nearly three hundred ladies were present between the hours of three and six o'clock. The decorations were beautiful, mainly pink roses. Dear me! I remember when we used to drive way out south to a little village called Cleaverville, between Thirty- fifth and Thirty-ninth Streets, to the only florist in Chicago or suburbs. Wednesday roses were everywhere, huge masses of them. I saw some of the cards on the bouquets with the names of the senders . . . Mrs. John T Lester, Mrs. P D. Armour, Mrs. Robert T Lincoln and Mrs. Julian Rumsey. The centerpiece on the dining-room table was a mass of pink roses and feathery ferns, while pink rose petals were scattered over the cloth. The menu consisted of pink courses. There was a salad tinged with pink . . . the gelatin was tinted, I think . . . the punch was delicately colored, and the ice cream (with strawberries) and pink cake, still further carried out the idea. Mrs. Booth looked lovely in a crepe gown which opened over a brown and white petticoat. I wondered that she didn't wear pink, but concluded that she thought that might be a little too much of one color. Will has just brought his Chicago Club annual report to show me. I always enjoy looking it over and comparing it with our own Woman's Club report. Will points with pride to the statement: "There is no debt," and that is something of which to be proud, as the club had a bad fire last November. It was a good thing, in a way, for it led to much remodeling, and the installation of electric 197 lights ... a great improvement. Mr. N. K. Fairbank, handsome, genial, generous, is president, as he has been for some years. Well, my sheet is filled, and I don't think I have time to begin another. Much love from your devoted friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, February 8, 1888 Dear Julia: We have just returned from Mrs. Langtry's play, As In A Looking-Glass and have been sitting here before the fire, sipping hot chocolate, which Selma had ready for us, when we got home. I wonder what you would think of this play. It deals with a theme which wouldn't be discussed in polite circles. Why then should we listen to it from the stage? I really was almost ashamed to be there. Mrs. Langtry has improved since her last appearance here, and I suppose the play is well done, if one likes that sort of thing. Her fine gowns are worth seeing, and Maurice Barrymore, in the char- acter of the degraded scoundrel, is remarkable. I have to laugh at Will's description of Mrs. Langtry's death, in the play. Her husband finds out about her character and feels bad about it. He retires to the wings in order that she may have a chance to die decently. "She may have asked the druggist for chloral, but he must have given her 'Rough on Rats' by mistake, for after taking chloral you fall into a dreamy sleep, while the Langtry's yells and struggles clearly indicate rat poison." February Ninth— I stopped there and now will finish my letter. During the night a terrible tragedy occurred in Chicago . . . the murder of a rich West Side citizen, Mr. Amos J. Snell, of Washington Boulevard. Mr. Snell apparently was killed, while defending his property, for his safe was found to be rifled of papers. The Snell house, at the north-west corner of Ada and Washing- ton Streets, is one of the handsomest in Chicago, set in a large yard 198 filled with flowers during the summer. The neighborhood is an exclusive one, Dr. J. P Ross's home being opposite. The only others in the house last night were two of Mr. Snell's small grandchildren and the two maids, a German cook and a Nor- wegian housemaid. One of these girls heard a noise, evidently the struggle, but was too timid to go down and investigate, so the body of the slain millionaire lay in the hallway till morning, when the coachman found it. Mrs. Snell, his wife, was in Milwaukee on a visit at the time. I do hope the authorities will find and punish the murderer, for no one will feel safe unless criminals are apprehended. Mr. Snell was a real estate man, worth, it is said, about two millions. He had begun life humbly enough, a poor New York State boy, with little education. Coming West, he made his way to Chicago, then spent a year in Milwaukee, finally settling in a suburb here called Schaum- berg. He and his wife kept a small hotel and by dint of doing all the work, they became well-to-do. The foundation for his fortune was his contract to supply the new Northwestern Railroad with wood for fuel, coal not yet being used by the engines. When he moved to Chicago's West Side, he began to buy real estate, and owned between two and three hundred lots, mainly on that side of the city. He has three daughters and one son, Albert J. Snell, who lives at 18 Bishop Court. I am dressed and waiting for Michael to come around with the carriage to take me to the home of Mrs. A. J. McBean, a South Side resident who is giving a reception for some young Brazilian ladies who are visiting her. They are daughters of the Brazilian minister to the United States. The McBeans are a cultured and delightful *' Much love from your friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, March 3, 1888 Dear Julia: Lunching down town with Will is always a treat to me. Like a child, I enjoy the ebb and flow of life in a hotel dining- 199 room, and even though the food is no better than that at my own table, it thrills my palate. Will usually has luncheon at the Grand Pacific Hotel (he still uses the rural term "dinner," though I've tried to break him of it). This hotel has an atmosphere of its own, due perhaps to the memo- ries of famous people who have made it their headquarters, but more probably because of John B. Drake's genius for hotel-keeping. His fortune has been well earned. Today, as we walked into the dining-room at one o'clock, a large table near the entrance caught my eye. I saw by the tipped chairs that it was being reserved for a party and we had hardly seated ourselves when in came a thick-set, energetic looking man of about fifty-seven years, accompanied by a number of men, most of them his juniors. Waiters scurried to serve them and in a twinkling they were attacking their thick steaks as if the meal were a business problem to be solved immediately. I didn't have to be told that the stocky man leading the proces- sion was Mr. P D. Armour, meat packer, Board of Trade operator, and financier. Will told me that the men with him were department heads in the great Armour business. Catching Will's eye, Mr. Armour rose and made his way to our table, greeting us in his cordial, friendly way, and we had a few minutes' chat, while he waited for dessert. He said he found the dinner hour (he also uses the word "dinner") a good time to discuss business with his executives, some of whom have been in his employ for many years. I found it interesting to study this remarkable business man as he talked with Will. There's little gray in his mutton-chop whiskers, few crow's feet about his shrewd but kindly eyes. The responsibility of his enormous business doesn't seem to weigh him down. Perhaps this is because he knows how to delegate authority. The personifica- tion of the successful American business man, I'd call him. Though he's affable in manner, he doesn't waste words. "Doesn't waste anything else, either," laughed Will, as he told me later how they make use of every part of the slaughtered animal at the Stock Yards. 200 As Mr. Armour saw a large section of apple pie set down by his place at the table, he rose with a quick good-bye and went to finish his meal. "There's a man," said Will, "who could feed all the armies of Europe. He can't afford to waste time." We have heard that every hour of Mr. Armour's day is regulated according to schedule ... so much set apart for sleep; so much for work; so much for his family. He is said to arrive at his office at six forty-five every morning, not leaving until six at night. Sur- rounded by a great staff of executives and employes, he sits there, his hand on the world's pulse, to use Will's phrase. He has about six thousand employees, I believe Will says, and the buildings occu- pied by his enterprises extend over seventy-five acres. Like being a king, almost. Mrs. Armour is a lovely woman, much interested in Armour Mission, founded two years ago. The Armours have two sons, Philip D. Jr. and Ogden, a little older. The latter is said to show the same capacity for business that his father has. When you next come to Chicago, perhaps I shall summon up enough courage to take you out to the Stock Yards. I've never been there myself and have hardly felt you'd be willing to go, but many people say everyone should see this great industry which has made our country famous all over the world. Will says he'll go with us, if you'll go. Lovingly yours, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, April i, 1888 Dear Julia: The end of Easter Day. It came so late this year that one felt like putting off winter clothes and bursting forth in bright colors like the flowers. But I had no new gown to wear, for I have spent the past week in Washington with Will, who was called there by a legal matter. My poor dressmaker couldn't finish her 201 work without my presence for the fitting, so she must come next week and do what has been left undone. While Will was busy with his Washington client, I attended a woman suffrage meeting. You know the suffragists have been cele- brating in the Capitol the fortieth anniversary of their existence, and it was quite an opportunity to see and hear some of those who have been prominent in the cause. All one morning I sat in the theater where they met and listened to the words of the famous women who have battled for an unpopular cause and who now are beginning to see the fruits of their efforts. Men who have always contended that a sense of humor was left out of woman's make-up should have been present today. I never heard better stories, never saw brighter smiles. Susan B. Anthony was there, quite unruffled by the jokes about her age and her state of single blessedness. She convulsed her audience by her references to both these subjects, avoided like the plague by most women, and she quoted a remark Lucy Stone made forty years ago: "When a woman dies, there is nothing left of her but an inscription on a tombstone, stating that she was the relict of John Smith." Said the valiant Susan: "I resolved then that I'd never be anyone's relict." Elizabeth Cady Stanton, dignified and handsome, gave an admi- rable address, reviewing the work of the last forty years in the elevation of women. I hadn't realized before that so much had been accomplished toward woman's emancipation. Think of it! Women now have the absolute right to vote in two territories, and a qualified right in several states and municipalities. Mrs. Stanton aroused the women to great enthusiasm by pro- claiming that they must end war. Oh, what a great thing it would be if this could be brought about by women's efforts! Our own beloved Frances E. Willard of Evanston was called to the platform and spoke in her usual sweet and loving manner. Clara Barton of the Red Cross movement had a few sensible words to say and Frederick Douglass, Negro orator, now well along in years, spoke movingly. Then we heard the famous Pundita Ramabai of India, young, 2 02 well educated and a Christian. As a child, she was instructed in Sanscrit by her mother. She became a bride at 16, but was soon widowed, and now she is devoting her abilities to freeing her sisters from ignorance and degradation. All over America, Ramabai circles are being formed, their members pledging yearly sums to help on her work. Lovely Mrs. Grover Cleveland is a member of the Wash- ington circle, I am told. Illinois women present at the Washington meeting were proud of Miss Rena Michaels, Dean of Women's College of Northwestern University. She is a full-fledged professor, her subject being French. May Wright Sewall of Indianapolis was another bright light of the convention. Her talk on "Woman and the Higher Education" was masterly. Because Will dislikes having me take part in any movement that might bring me publicity, I cannot be an avowed member of the suffrage party, but, with the passing years, I am more and more convinced that their cause is just. This morning we attended church at Central Music Hall and found Professor Swing at his best. As usual there were many people of prominence present. Mrs. H. O. Stone was in her usual place, a lorgnette in her hand. Across the hall from the Stone box sat Mr. and Mrs. Potter Palmer. Mrs. Palmer's gown was exquisite, as usual ... a black silk, with a small cape about her shapely shoulders. Both dress and cape were trimmed with silver, almost the color of her beautiful hair. Stately Miss Medill, daughter of the editor of the TRIBUNE, wore a brown serge suit, evidently tailored in England, it was so severe. It was trimmed with silver braid and was one of the most striking costumes I saw. Silver trimming seems in high fashion this year. I saw young Mrs. Chauncey Keep, whose trousseau must have come from Paris, walking down Michigan Avenue after church with her tall handsome husband. Her black costume opened over a silver-cloth petticoat. I saw the same feature in a dress worn by Mrs. Charles L. Hutchinson, who emerged from the Second Presbyterian Church, only her gown was of apple-green cloth over a silver-embroidered petticoat. Pretty Lucy McCormick was tripping along Michigan Avenue 203 in an old-rose cloth trimmed with braid. Her wide hat was trimmed with white lilies and English violets and was tied under her chin with broad soft ribbons matching her dress. Samuel Jewett, son of the John N. Jewetts, was walking with her and seemed very atten- tive. I shouldn't wonder if that would be a match. Susie King, a Rush Street neighbor of ours who left Central Church as we did, accepted our invitation to drive down Michigan Avenue and see the Easter parade. She was wearing her winter suit, but had livened it up with violet-color gloves and a bouquet of violets. She is a most attractive girl with no end of beaux. Why she doesn't marry, I don't know. On our way north, we picked up Sandy and Martha, who had attended Grace Episcopal Church. Martha brought me a message from my dear Mrs. William Gold Hibbard, who was clad, she said, in sombre black, but whose dear face beamed so brightly that she looked more resplendent than anyone else. Mrs. Hibbard is one of God's saints. You will think my mind was on fashions rather than on the sermon, but I love to see bright colors on Easter Sunday, and I believe God must be pleased to see us in bright tints, as He created the flowers with their gay hues just for our pleasure. Colors affect me profoundly. I have a lilac tea gown in which I feel ecstatically happy and uplifted, while a dark brown dress which I chose for its wearing qualities plunges me into a deep depression! And now I will say good night. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, April 9, 1888 Dear Julia: I do wish I could talk with you face to face and get your opinion about a new carriage Will is planning to get this spring. You know clothes aren't the only things affected by fashion. There are styles in vehicles and each year brings something new. Yet, while one wants an improved style, one doesn't want to get anything that 204 will be in poor taste. I have always admired your equipages and I'd be happy to have your advice in this matter. Chicago men begin, I've noticed, about this time of year, to ask: "What shall I drive to the spring meeting at Washington Park?" and so there is now at Kimball's a grand exhibit of conveyances. Will and I spent the afternoon there and have seen so many that I feel dizzy and less sure what I want than before we looked. The salesman who waited on us says they have never had a more brilliant display. He thinks Chicago is ahead of the entire country in this show, and he doesn't except New York. Of course, that is not true. New York would certainly have finer carriages than ours. But as the Kimball man says, Chicagoans do spend freely and they like change. In Boston, they say, a rich man buys a carriage and expects it to last a lifetime. Not so, the Chicagoan! We saw at this fine carriage-maker's display a new "drag" or coach which Potter Palmer had ordered. Some people call this vehi- cle a "tally-ho," but I learn from Hobart Chatfield-Taylor that this is a misnomer. Then we saw the phaeton of the rich grocer, Thomas Murdoch; the stanhope of Yerkes, cable-car magnate; the mail phaeton of John Cudahy, the packer; a handsome cart belonging to William Chalmers; and new carriages just made for A. E. Bour- nique, the successful dancing-master of Chicago and W. H. Colvin, among others ... all most handsome. Henry Field, brother of Marshall, is getting two new vehicles, both of which we saw. One is a mail phaeton; the other is called a "curate's cart," something I never heard of before, but capable, said our salesman, of holding seven persons. I suppose curates have large families, or else a curate is thought to need a cart which will take all the old ladies out for a ride. Franklin MacVeagh is having a new cart built especially for him, but we felt it wasn't the kind we wanted. Mr. Nat Jones, who has made a great deal of money on the Board of Trade, is planning to create a sensation, it is said, by his new "Whitechapel turnout," as Will calls it. Marshall Field is having several carriages built. Just imagine having enough money to buy more than one carriage at a time. One of his orders is a pretty little road wagon for his daughter, Ethel. 205 This has a footman's seat behind. Its trimmings match exactly the decorations of the body and wheels. Still another carriage for Mr. Field is to be lighted by incandescent light bulbs, the battery being concealed beneath the driver's seat. Hobart Chatfield-Taylor is to come out this spring in a new coach. He would advise us, I know, but he is young and I fear he might want us to select something a little too advanced in fashion. What color upholstery would you advise? Of course, our old Michael would need a new livery, in case we depart from our familiar maroon. Don't give too much time to my problem, but I should appreciate your advice. I must stop now and run out and get some flowers for a young friend, Winnie Bird, who, as I saw in the society column of the morning paper, is to give a luncheon tomorrow for Louise Cham- berlin, at home from school at Rockford. Young girls are so thrilled at getting flowers, I like to remember them on a social occasion. Winnie Bird's father is organist at Plymouth Church. Yours as ever, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, May 6, 1888 Dear Julia: Spring always makes me happy and this has been a pleasant day. House cleaning is over and our Rush Street abode looks quite spick-and-span. In our back-yard, about the size of a pocket- handkerchief, iris plants have appeared. And . . . most notable sign of spring ... I took out our new carriage for the first time. Yes, we bought the vis-a-vis, as you advised, and I like it. They told us at Kimball's that it is an exact copy of a Vanderbilt carriage . . . just which Vanderbilt, I'm a little hazy about . . . and the simu- lated basket-work about the body of the vehicle is quite smart. I observed Michael's attempt to look unself-conscious, as other coachmen glanced out of the corners of their eyes at us. But he is so transparent that he might just as well have blown a trumpet 206 before our equipage and cried: "Here comes the new Esmond car- riage, purchased from C. P Kimball only this week!" One of my calls was at the Tuttle home, 2022 Michigan Avenue. Mr. Tuttle was an early hardware merchant, his successors being Hibbard, Spencer, Bartlett and Company. He retired from business some years ago, so the family has been free to travel much in Europe. Refined and delightful, Mrs. Tuttle is a woman I admire very much, and I was glad to find her in. When old residents get together, they are apt to recall their experiences in the Chicago Fire. This we did today and Mrs. Tuttle told me they were living on Michigan Avenue near Adams Street in 1 871, and were obliged to flee to the lake front, taking with them what they could. Not many of their possessions were saved, but fortunately two Healy portraits, a few other paintings, a chair or two and a table came safely through. They were somewhat the worse for wear, Mrs. Tuttle said, but they have been restored and look very well, I thought. Their son, Fred Tuttle, is one of our most eligible bachelors, a friend of Sandy's and Martha's, and is often at their home. This spring I have taken tickets for the lectures of Mrs. John B. Sherwood, who is speaking in five of the most beautiful houses in Chicago . . . those of Mrs. Potter Palmer, Mrs. H. H. Porter, Mrs. John J. Glessner, Mrs. Lyman J. Gage, and Mrs. C. M. Henderson. Of course, you have heard this arbiter elegantiarum many times in New York. In fact, I remember you said she chaperoned your cousin, Marie Van Valkenberg, when she went abroad. Never having seen Mrs. Sherwood, I was one of the hundred ladies who took tickets for her five lectures given here, the price being ten dollars for the five talks. Most of us were hoping she would talk on some phase of society, but only one of her lectures related to that subject. The committee sponsoring her guaranteed her the presence of one hun- dred ladies at ten dollars a ticket. Thus her five weeks here will bring her a thousand dollars, there being no expense for the place of meeting. She must be quite well off, as royalties continue to pile up on her etiquette books, which we all must read. 20J As I said, many of us were disappointed that she didn't choose subjects pertaining to etiquette, for I daresay we do some of the things she deplores . . . such as returning "At Homes" and putting "R.S.V.P." on the wrong card. I hope we use our finger-bowls prop- erly and refrain from breaking our bread into the soup. You'll notice a great improvement in our manners when next you visit Chicago. Much love, dear Julia. Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, June i, 1888 Dear Julia: I have just come in from a tea at the home of Mrs. B. F. Felix on North State Street. Hospitable to a fault, Mrs. Felix entertains beautifully and today she had gathered a particularly interesting group of ladies together, most of them literary lights. Mrs. Felix herself is an ardent student of Shakespeare and can promptly furnish a quotation from her favorite author for any occasion. As I looked about the room I saw a dozen guests who would have been able to talk with the most erudite Bostonian and convince him that Chicago isn't illiterate, as many Easterners believe. Mrs. H. M. Wllmarth, a member of the Chicago Woman's Club, was one of these. She is a friend of the Alcott family of Concord and Bronson Alcott always stayed at her home when he visited Chicago. She could have been a member of the Brook Farm community, so interested is she in philosophy. Fortnightly Club members flock to hear her thoughtful papers. Yet, with all her intellectuality, she is so gentle no one ever thinks of her as "strong-minded." Mrs. Charles Henrotin, another guest this afternoon at the Felix home, is deeply interested in philanthropic work. She some- times writes on social problems and writes forcefully. Another of her accomplishments is a knowledge of French. How I wish I could speak it as she does! A real authoress present, whose books have been published by 208 Jansen, McClurg and Company was Mrs. Caroline Fairfield Corbin. Have you ever read Rebecca? She wrote that. And two other books of hers which I know about are His Marriage Vow and Belle and the Boys. Mrs. Celia Parker Wooley is a favorite in intellectual circles. I confess she rather overawes me, but she is much in request for dinner parties, as she can discuss any subject. I don't know her well, but meet her at the Woman's Club. She is the author of a book published recently called Love and Theology. Mrs. Ellen M. Mitchell, who sat near me at Mrs. Felix's, speaks Italian with ease and when Adelaide Ristori was dined here, she was one of the few who were able to converse with the actress in her native tongue. Her husband is a brother of Maria Mitchell, the famous woman astronomer. Miss Elizabeth Kirkland, another person I saw there, is a sister of Major Joseph Kirkland, author of Zury, and is herself a writer. A history of France of which she is the author is used in many schools. The girls' school in Chicago of which she is the head is attended by the daughters of our first families. Mrs. Lydia Avery Coonley, a prominent Chicagoan who was present at the literary tea, is a gracious woman whose large wealth and high social position are used to help others. She writes excellent poetry and entertains visiting celebrities. One of her guests of recent weeks has been Mrs. Ormiston Chant, English suffragist. Last of all I must mention Mrs. Bishop Cheney, who, though in delicate health and busy in her husband's parish, has written many lovely things. Don't you agree with me that this is an unusual group of literary women to have met in one afternoon? Oh, I want to tell you that General McClurg told us lately that William Dean Howells' novels aren't selling as well as they used to. People seem to demand more action in their stories nowadays. In poetry, said General McClurg, James Whitcomb Riley is most popular. I was pleased at that, for Riley is so distinctly American, blazing a new trail in literature and not just copying English classical poets. Have you read Amelie Rives Chanter's The Quick or the Dead? 209 It has been so successful that I read a publisher had offered her $25,000 for her next novel, whatever it might be. But when I retailed that to General McClurg, he ridiculed the statement, saying no publisher would take such a chance, even though she is gifted and probably will do even better work in future than in the past. And now Will has come in and the dinner hour is almost here, though I shall have no appetite for it. That's the trouble with going out to tea. Your loving friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, June 30, 1888 Dear Julia: While Will is attending a committee meeting of the Union League Club, I am seated in the ladies' parlor of that august organization's building. Martha Junior has been with us here for lunch, but has now gone on her way to do some necessary shopping. A distinctive feature of the Union League Club is the presence of ladies within its portals. Will tells me that a good many members . . . grumpy old bachelors, I daresay . . . opposed allowing our sex to have meals here, but these objectors were overruled. They should be willing to let us come, since we help the commissary department to make money by lunching here. Many ladies use the club fre- quently. It's the only place downtown where we can sit about in privacy after luncheon, and we find it pleasant to relax and read the magazines and papers scattered invitingly about. The side entrance is reserved for us. As we enter, we are taken in charge by a maid. There is a nice restroom where we may use soap, towels, cologne, court plaster, hairpins and hatpins. Meals are served in the Ladies' Ordinary, or if you wish, you may engage a private room for a party. You may pay for your meal or you may have it charged to your husband's account. I have taken some pride in paying for my own meals out of my allowance. The club is managed well by a man named Glennie, who was 210 with the Chicago Club for some years. Mr. Glennie came in a few minutes ago and, seeing me sitting here, asked if I would like to see the suite where the beautiful Mrs. Cleveland was entertained for a few minutes when she visited Chicago with the President. On her way from the railway station she became faint, and Mayor Roche brought her in his carriage to the Union League Club, which is near by. A cup of tea soon restored her. As I've been sitting here, I have seen many prominent men arrive and leave. Mr. Uri Balcom has just departed. Mr. Balcom lives in a beautiful house at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Twenty-first Street, with a sort of park in the rear and rose gardens. There are mushroom beds, too, where this delicacy is raised for his table. And now, as I look out of the window, I see Charles T Yerkes, streetcar magnate, arriving in his fine carriage and stepping to the curb with the lithe grace of a cat. His garb is a cutaway suit. Will says he is always immaculately dressed and that his ties are "splen- diferous." I hardly think the Union League Club has assimilated him. Will says he bows formally to the other members when he meets them, but never stops for a friendly word. Perhaps he fears a snub. He is usually preoccupied with his own affairs, though he sometimes stops to confer with Mayor Roche. A strange man . . . Yerkes! One of the best loved members of the club, says Will, is Mr. H. N. Higinbotham, credit man in Marshall Field and Company's store. Genial and charitable, he opens his purse to anyone who seeks help. He has lately built a pretty little club house and lawn tennis court at Indiana Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street, where the young people of that choice neighborhood play the new game. Tennis seems to me rather a rough sport for young ladies, but I suppose I have old-fashioned ideas. Dear Mr. Elbridge Keith has just entered the club door. He is another much-liked member. The president of the club this year is Mr. Franklin Head, admired for his wit and literary taste. One more member I have seen entering is General McClurg, which reminds me to tell you of a conversation I had with him during the inter- 211 mission at a Thomas concert. He said that last winter a fashionable lady of Chicago came into the McClurg store and asked for a book on the opera. The obliging clerk inquired if there were any special one she wanted and she said she believed it was called The Libretto. Another customer asked for Dickens' Enoch Arden. General McClurg said the clerk was tactful enough to tell her it was out of print. Still another inquiry was for Longfellow's Lucilly. But here comes Will and I must get my impedimenta . . . fan, parasol, gloves and a light wrap . . . which the maid has been keep- ing for me. Michael is due now with the Victoria and we are to take a drive in Lincoln Park. %r , , Much love, Martha Freeman Esmond Dear Julia: Chkag0 > Augusl 6 ' l888 The death of General Sheridan affects us deeply here. We knew him very well, enjoyed his hospitality when he lived in Chicago and Will, of course, had for him that strong attachment which always exists between men who have fought for a common cause on the battlefield. General Sheridan . . . Martha Junior always called him "my General" . . . was a true gentleman if there ever was one, proving that this quality is found in those of humble origin quite as often as in those of high degree. I love to think of that simple home in Somerset, Ohio, where Philip Sheridan was born of poor parents, the father a laborer, the mother a vigorous, kindly, hard-working woman. I was glad to learn that his mother is still living, though advanced in years. Martha Junior came in just now, with a sad face, a newspaper in her hand. Her comment was: "I wonder if old Winchester and Rienzi won't be waiting to welcome my General' into Heaven. There were the four horses of the Apocalypse, you know, so there must be some horses there, and those two deserve Heaven, if any living creature ever did." And then she recited the last lines of Read's poem, "Sheridan's Ride": 212 This is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away. The expression used in the poem which describes the general riding down "with a terrible oath," has been, it is said, an annoyance to him. It created among those who didn't know him the impression that he was a profane man and during the war many parents wrote to him, earnestly begging him not to set a bad example to their sons, who admired him so much that they would emulate even his faults. "Well," said Will, as we sat at the breakfast table, talking of the dead hero, "there were times during the war when a man's ordinary vocabulary was inadequate to express his feelings and Sheridan probably did use 'language' on occasions, but he was not what I call a profane man." As for the "steed that carried Sheridan into the fight," I have heard the general himself say that there were two. He rode the black horse, Winchester, until just before the final attack, when he changed to the gray, Rienzi. The latter was burned in the Chicago Fire, of 1871. Winchester died in 1878 and by the taxidermist's art is now in the military institute on Governor's Island. It has been a lovely summer day, and we have spent the after- noon in the suburbs, at the home of John Turner, who has a farm of thirty acres in Lake View, where he raises vegetables and takes care of horses for Chicagoans who think he has a magic touch with animals. "Nat," one of the horses in our carriage team, recently devel- oped a lame foot, which didn't respond to Michael's treatment. So Will sent him to the Turner farm and this afternoon we drove out, having rented a substitute steed to use with the well member of the team. We found our invalid animal much improved. I remarked on his glossy coat and William Turner, youngest of John Turner's eight children, asked me for my handkerchief, which he passed over the horse's coat, returning it to me quite speckless, to show how well 213 he was groomed. We shall be able to bring "Nat" into town next week. "Long John" Wentworth appeared at the farm while we were there. He is a great crony of Mr. Turner's, for they arrived in Chicago the same day . . . October 25, 1836 . . . and both are interested in the raising of stock. They had great fun talking of the inconveniences they put up with in early days. John Turner is a Yorkshire Englishman with quite a broad accent. His hearty genial ways are those of a country squire and it is pleasant to see him surrounded by his sons and daughters. Success- ful in business before the Fire, Mr. Turner lost all he then possessed, except this farm. He retired there, wisely turning his attention to market gardening, at which he has made a small fortune. The flower garden was glowing with late summer blossoms . . . zinnias, marigolds, phlox and golden glow. Apples hung heavy on the boughs of the trees, and Concord grapes looked promising on their vines. Today many neighbors had been invited to pick apples and Mr. Turner had made the festival more joyous for the children by tying bananas on the boughs. With twinkling eyes, he would climb up and cut them off, telling the delighted youngsters, many of whom had not eaten this fruit before, that they could tell their children that they had seen bananas hanging on the trees in the Turner orchard. As we were leaving, Mr. Arthur Dixon dropped in to talk over church matters, for Mr. Turner was one of the founders and for several years treasurer of the First Methodist Church, in which Mr. Dixon is a pillar. Looking back, as we drove off toward town, Will said he'd like to spend Christmas in that small farmhouse, for it must be a place of English good cheer. And we both wished there were more men like John Turner in Chicago, honorable, intelligent, faithful to their religious duties. And now Will is calling and I must go. Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond 214 Chicago, November 2, 1888 Dear Julia: It seems to me I can't wait for this campaign to be finished so that our newspapers can print something besides diatribes directed at the two principal candidates. Aren't you tired of all the recrimination? Yesterday both the great parties held their final rallies here. The Republicans marched in the afternoon, the Democrats in the eve- ning. Will was anxious to compare the enthusiasm of the crowds, so we watched both parades. We took a room at the Grand Pacific Hotel for the afternoon, where we could see the adherents of Harrison and Morton as they passed in review. The streets were alive with spectators and Will estimated that there were upwards of 200,000 people along the line of march. The Board of Trade contingent excited cheers as its members marched along dressed in fine suits, silk hats and gloves and carry- ing canes. Before this fine-looking group a picture of Harrison was borne with the legend "No Vote For England's Candidate," referring to the unfortunate letter of Lord Sackville-West. The South Water Street delegation had an unusual display. Two wagons were driven along . . . the first beautifully decorated, and laden with turkeys, prairie chickens, eggs, cheese and many other kinds of food. This was labeled "Protection Bill of Fare." The second wagon represented the Free Trade menu and was drawn by a ewe-necked, rat-tailed nag, the load being sole leather and some dry bread. The surviving members of the first Illinois Tippecanoe Club, organi2ed in 1840, were received with marks of favor by the specta- tors. There were 350 men in this club, which is composed of those who had voted for William Henry Harrison, and their gray beards wagged in time with the marching songs as they shouted their determination to "put Ben Harrison in the White House, as they had put his grandad in." In the evening we sat on the steps of the William Blair house on Michigan Avenue near Harrison Street and saw the Democrats march. We got a bit discouraged at the sight of so many human 215 beings . . . more than we had seen in the afternoon, we thought. Miles and miles of marchers passed us, torches blazing, trans- parencies shrieking defiance at Republicans. We heard the yell: No, no, no! Don't be afraid. Tariff reform is not Free Trade. Another chant which was repeated by many marchers was: Grover, Grover! He'll hold over. Added to the glare of the calcium lights was the brilliance of the uniforms and the bandana handkerchiefs worn by the Democratic hosts. The Chicago Hussars, commanded by Thomas Lynch, Jr., made a striking picture astride their proudly stepping horses. Demo- cratic maidens must have had their hearts pierced by the fine figures in white uniforms bound with black, the monstrous black shakos they wore adding to their height. The Board of Trade Democrats chanted: A thousand and over Are marching for Grover. A picturesque group was the Railroad Men's Club carrying red lanterns. A Republican watcher shouted: "Red light means danger!" And a Democratic marcher retorted quickly: "Yes. Danger for Ben Harrison!" Another called: "No danger. It means the track is cleared for Grover!" Well, only four more days! November 8— Were you surprised at the result of the election? Will had been somewhat doubtful before returns were in. Now he says it takes a Harrison to defeat a candidate for a second term. The only two candidates for second terms, he points out, who have been beaten at the polls in the history of our country are Martin Van Buren, whose successful rival was William Henry Harrison, and Grover Cleveland, beaten by Benjamin Harrison. The Clevelands have been admirable in their conduct at this time, it seems to me. The President has shown great dignity in his defeat. The news of Governor Hill's having been elected in New York, while the state repudiated Cleveland, must have been hard to 2l6 bear, yet the President showed no bitterness. He might have charged Hill with treachery, but he dismissed the subject with a kind word for the New York governor, expressing entire faith in his loyalty. There are, of course, compensations for defeat. The Clevelands will now be able to live quietly and escape the criticism which is the lot of any White House family. I think Mrs. Harrison will be a most acceptable First Lady. She has had experience in the life of Washington which will be very helpful to her. I wonder what President Cleveland will do after March 4. Will wishes he would follow the example of John Quincy Adams, who, after his retirement from the presidency, entered the House of Representatives and gave the country the benefit of his ability and experience. But it must be hard for one who has been a Chief Executive to take a lower place. Chicago has been much shocked this week by a case of insanity in which the victim was a young married woman of 28 who was found to be an incessant smoker of cigarettes. Neither the county physician nor his assistant seems to attach any importance to the cigarette habit, saying that her smoking is a result, rather than the cause, of her insanity. I haven't had a chance to ask Sandy his opinion, but the layman's notion about it runs counter to that of the medical men. The case has roused much discussion as to what extent the vice has a hold on Chicago women. A lady told me today that her husband had been talking with a drug clerk who said we have no idea how many society women are addicted to the habit. They send to their favorite drug store for rice paper and tobacco as casually as they might order perfume. Sometimes a servant is entrusted with the errand, usually receiving a tip to insure secrecy. Then, with the cigarettes tucked away in pockets or hand bags, they meet in the parlor of a mutual friend and spend the afternoon in a jolly smoking party, the man said. Madame Modjeska, the Polish actress, and one or two other distinguished stars of the stage started the fad, said my acquaintance. And now that this poor insane woman's smoking has brought the matter to the attention of the public, there is much discussion of the habit. 217 I once knew an old lady in the country who smoked a pipe and who was dreadfully mortified if any one saw her enjoying this relaxation, but she is the only woman I ever knew personally who had the habit. I have an idea there is much less secret smoking going on than the drug clerk would have us believe. With ever so much love, I am Your old friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, November 23, 1888 Dear Julia: I have just finished tying my spouse's necktie, as we are going to the theater this evening, and he is in his "clawhammer" suit, as he contemptuously calls it. Fussed by his own splendor, his fingers are all thumbs and the tie wouldn't stay "put." He does me great credit, as he stands forth in his new evening habiliments . . . the coat of finest English cloth, cut long in the waist, as is the new mode; the collar, silk-faced to the button-holes; the white satin waist- coat in best "U-shape"; the trousers fashionably narrow. If we weren't invited to dinner beforehand, I should be inclined to give up going out, for I am so tired. Shall I never learn that I can't do so much as I did twenty years ago? Will had to look over some buildings in the down-town district for an out-of-town client, and I went with him, as I wanted to see some of the much-talked- about structures. Chicago changes so rapidly, it is hard to keep up with its prog- ress. The conservative East, for instance, would be surprised to learn that the Chamber of Commerce, after only a decade, has outlived its usefulness and is being re-modeled into an office block. Among the fine buildings we saw today, all put up after the Fire of 1871, are: the Sherman House, which cost $650,000; the Grand Pacific, a million-dollar building; and the Palmer House, which cost a million-and-a-half. We passed the new Board of Trade Building, $1,750,000; the Rookery, $1,250,000. Then we saw the 218 Chicago Opera House Block, the Home Insurance Building, the Rialto and the Phoenix Buildings . . . each costing a million. The famous Tacoma Building, the new skyscraper everyone is talking of, cost a million. There is some question as to whether the Tacoma is the first skyscraper or whether that title belongs to the Home Insurance Building, designed by Colonel W. L. B. Jenney, and put up in 1884. The architects of the Tacoma are Holabird and Roche. The discussed points are too fine for me, but both are fine buildings, "architectural milestones," Will calls them. There seems to have been a rather abrupt change in architec- tural style, in office buildings. Right after the Fire there was a craze for profuse ornamentation, so that Eastern architects spoke con- temptuously of the "Chicago style." We writhed under that, but it was probably deserved. This has now given way to a severe plainness of design. The Marshall Field wholesale building on Adams Street, built by the lamented Henry H. Richardson, is an example of what the initiated call, I believe, "Romanesque." The new Auditorium, in process of erection, whose architects are Adler and Sullivan, is somewhat after this type. What a pity Richardson died so early! I am glad we have three examples of his work in Chicago. Besides the Field building, there are two residences . . . that of Franklin MacVeagh on the Lake Shore Drive; and that of John J. Glessner, at Eighteenth Street and Prairie Avenue. To have a house by Richardson is a sign and symbol of wealth and taste . . . like the hall-mark on silver. I saw this afternoon a copy of the British Architect, widely read in England, which contains an illustration of the Studebaker Build- ing on Michigan Avenue, designed by S. S. Beman. The editor com- pares it favorably with the fussy architecture of London. Quite a feather in the cap of our Chicago architect! But speaking of feathers, here comes Will in his fine plumage and Selma has just entered the library door to announce that Michael is in front with the carriage. Much love, from your old friend, Martha Freeman Esmond 219 FOOTNOTES 1888 Those who remember the Eighties will recall the elocutionary selections mentioned in Martha's letter of January 25. Maurice Barrymore was father of the present-day Barrymores. The Amos J. Snell murder mystery was never solved. Many amateur detectives (for the word "fan" was not used in the Eighties) believed the real motive was not robbery. C. P Kimball made carriages for Chicago and the Mid-West, in horse-and-buggy days, and a carriage display at his ware-rooms, on Michigan Avenue near Twelfth Street, was as exciting as an automobile show today. Only one example of the architect Richardson's work remains in Chicago, the J. J. Glessner house, at the corner of Eighteenth Street and Prairie Avenue. Thomas Buchanan Read, painter and poet (1822- 1872) painted a picture of the historic ride of General Sheridan, but the poem is better known than the picture. Read never achieved greatness with his brush, but some of his poems are still remembered. "Drifting" a poem about the Bay of Naples, is one of his best known. John Turner, whose farm of thirty acres is now a part of Lake View district of Chicago, died in 1892. His son, William E. Turner, still lives in the quaint little farm-house, now numbered 1854 Addison Street, built before the Fire of 1871, and since that time, always occupied by some member of the family. The chimes which ring from the First Methodist Church tower at Clark and Washington Streets were pre- sented in 1934 by William E. Turner as a memorial to his father. 220 ASIDE Fussiness was a characteristic of the Eighties. Indeed, "Elaborate" is a more exact alliterative for the decade than "Elegant" for never was there a period when the lily was painted or refined gold gilded more frequently. The parlor (for the word "living-room" did not come into use until after the turn of the century) was a-flutter with draperies. The windows were hung with heavy lambrequins (if one could afford them); and draperies, hanging from a gilt cornice, were heavily braided. Hand-made lace edged the heavy net under-curtains, if one had plenty of money. But, even if one had little of this world's goods everything must be draped. Chairs had ribbons or silk sashes tied on them. Mantels were draped with lambrequins of felt or plush, embroidered in chenille. Goldenrod and daisies formed a good design. On each picture- frame hung a silk "drape" which added to the artistic atmosphere of the apartment. In calling attention to a wood-cut of a boudoir in a New York suburban residence, the editor of Hill's Album of Biography and Ait says: "This is a beautiful room, made so because taste and wealth have evidently been combined in its adornment. Examination will show, however, that artistic knowledge in arrangement is the cause of its chief beauty. Thus, in any house, while more or less of money may be necessary to decoration, the interior may be made beautiful out of scraps and articles that would otherwise go to waste!' In this connection suggestions are made for using odds and ends. A waste-basket may easily be made from wires obtained at a hardware store. Or, as an alternative, a few pieces of wood may be used, sixteen or eighteen inches high and fastened together by barrel-hoops. This foundation may be trimmed with cords and tassels. A round cheese-box is recommended for the foundation for a comfortable footstool, of which there should be one or two in each room, says the editor. 221 Another suggestion is the purchase of a number of boxes at a shoestore. "Five, six or eight of these will make, when nailed to- gether, a convenient cupboard. This can be papered with scraps of wall-paper and border" says the editor, "and with a curtain of com- mon calico will be an ornament to the room!' Many women with skillful fingers did make little tables of spools which they accumulated by saving or begging them from friends. These small tables were stained or painted white, and with a red ribbon tied on one leg, such a piece of furniture was thought a handsome addition to the room. Not too steady on its legs, was this spool-table, but at least you had made something out of nothing. On the parlor center-table, which had to be substantial, was a wool cover, usually of dark-red or green, with a plush border. Some- times this border was ornamented with a Greek design in gold thread. A lamp stood on the center-table, for, even if the room was lighted by gas, it needed a lower light, for reading. Beside the lamp was the plush photograph album, with cabinet photographs of all the family. In some of these there were places for the old carte-de- visite size, and a few of these might be found. Sometimes a picture of Tom Thumb, or Queen Victoria or President Garfield might linger among the family likenesses. In addition to the photograph album there were always gift- books. Gift-books came in with the Eighties, and were, as the name implies, made to be given away. No one on earth would ever have thought of buying one to keep. It might be said of them, in Scrip- tural language, "It is more blessed to give than to receive!' Yet they were well-made, bound in mustard-color or olive-green cloth, the titles stamped in gold, with much gold ornamentation. Tennyson's "Maud"; Longfellow's "Evangeline" or "The Court- ship of Miles Standish"; Owen Meredith's "Lucille" . . . these were the ones most often found on center- tables. From "Lucille" one quoted the only lines that seemed at all interesting . . . the ones beginning: We may live without poetry, music or art 222 and ending with But civilized man cannot live without cooks. That was the one virtue of gift-books . . . they started conversa- tion, for the caller usually remembered some line in one of the poems and the hostess said: "Yes, it is beautiful. Isn't it?" Furniture was Eastlake in design, if one had the money for the newest thing. You had probably read Mr. Eastlake's book, Hints On Household Taste, the Bible of young couples going to house- keeping about this time. Charles Locke Eastlake, R.I.B.A., founder of the Eastlake style . . . now so dead that few persons born after 1900 have so much as heard the name . . . had some good ideas. He wished to bring back the honest workmanship of the earlier British craftsman. He liked the Gothic and his designs were high and pointed. But when his book came to America and American manufacturers began to copy his designs, they did it in machine work. Modifications of his ideas made American furniture of the Eighties quite terrible, and if Charles Locke Eastlake had seen the crimes committed in his name, he must have wished he had never put pencil to paper. Yes, it was an ugly period, so far as decoration was concerned. Yet, remembering the dining-table cleared, with a hanging-lamp burning brightly above; a plate of red apples and a dish of pop- corn handy; one of the family reading Mark Twain or Edward Eggleston or the children's magazines, Saint Nicholas or Youth's Companion; while the others sewed, it seems a time to look back on with tenderness. 223 Dear Julia: Chka *°> Unuar ? * l8S( > The great charity ball of 1889 is over. $12,000 has been raised for charity; half a million spent on clothing worn at the ball, it is said. That is only an estimate, of course, but I know that most of the beautiful gowns must have cost at least two hun- dred dollars apiece, not to mention the jewels bought for the occasion. What do you think of charity benefits, anyway? My conscience hurts me when I pay out two hundred dollars in order to earn ten dollars for the poor. I suggested today, after it was all over, as Will points out, that we might better have refrained from getting out our fine feathers, stayed at home, and given the money to the poor. But Will suggests that there's another side to the question. Merchants, milliners, jewelers, liverymen, florists, all those who have profited by the ball, are sure it is an excellent thing. As Michael drove up to the door of the Second Regiment armory, where the ball was held, I watched the carriage ahead of us in the procession, recognizing it as that of Mrs. George M. Pullman. Beneath her party wrap as she stepped daintily to the carpet spread on the sidewalk beneath the awning, I saw her lovely gown of green Ottoman silk trimmed with dark green velvet. With her were Mrs. Robert Patterson, (a Medill before her marriage) and Mrs. H. O. Stone, one of our best-known society women. Mrs. Stone wore a white striped silk gown. 224 As we alighted from our carriage, young Mrs. William J. Chalmers waved a greeting from the brougham just behind us. Both Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers are fine looking, and the latter's gown, white moire silk, trimmed with silver brocade, was particularly lovely on her tall elegant figure. A pretty conceit of her dressmaker's was a cluster of ostrich feathers at the waistline. I never saw them worn in that way before. Mrs. Eugene S. Pike's dress was very handsome, a moss green velvet; and Mrs. Andrew McNally's gray costume was set off by a pink fan. It was a representative Chicago audience, what with the decora- tive Carter H. Harrison family, always the center of an admiring group, the McCormicks, Keiths, Farwells, Ryersons, Blairs, Fields, Armours, Drakes, Cranes, Hutchinsons, Wallers and the Byron Smiths. All the polite world was there, you see. Except Sandy and Martha! A doctor can't take much time for frivolity and they had been at the Bachelors and Benedicts' ball on New Year's eve at Kinsley's. They felt the "B. & B." party was much more fun and profess not to mind missing the larger affair. Reginald de Koven and Hobart Chatfield-Taylor had much to do with the gaiety of the smaller ball, and planned the details. After supper, Martha was telling me, seventeen eligibles were suddenly missing, but just on the stroke of twelve they all returned, each bearing a transparency which, when the bearers fell into line, became part of a greeting: "A Happy New Year, 1889." After this pretty interlude, the cotillion was finished with the couples holding garlands of holly and mistletoe bound together with scarlet ribbons. As a finish to the pageantry two colored waiters appeared dressed as old time butlers, bearing enormous silver trays on which blazed prodigious plum puddings. Each dancer cut a piece of the pudding with a wooden knife, and after it had been eaten danced a figure with a guest whose knife handle matched his or hers. Little Esmond and Julie had their share of holiday festivities, too, coming home from Mrs. Michael Cudahy's children's party loaded with gifts. We are so glad to hear that you are coming next week to make 225 us a visit. Everyone in the household has begun to make prepara- tions for the happy event. You'll laugh when I tell you that Michael came to the library door this morning after breakfast, cap in hand, and turning this article of apparel round and round, as is his wont when embarrassed, he blurted out that he thought we ought to have a new harness, what with the lady from New York coming to visit us. He almost shed tears as he told Will that the silver plate of the harness was so worn off that his efforts at polishing it were in vain. "Can't it be replated?" asked Will, who thinks it poor policy to yield at once to Michael's requests. Michael rolled his eyes heavenward. "Sure, Mr. Esmond," he began in pleading tones, "the likes of this family cudn't be bothered with replatin' harness, whin the McCormicks, an' Medills an' Blairs all have had new harness this fall. Besides," he went on in a plaintive tone, "the leather in the lines is that worn, I'm afther thinkin' it'll break in two in me hands when the harses jump around this cold weather." Will yielded at this point, as I'm sure he intended to all along, and today we have visited the harness shop of Carl Heinemann on Wells Street, near North Avenue. Michael had already indicated to Mr. Heinemann what he would like, if Mr. Esmond would agree. I was quite fascinated by the workshop of Mr. Heinemann, where eight men were bent over their various benches and tables. We were shown the harness being made for various and sundry of our best families and were duly impressed by that destined for the backs of Archbishop Feehan's steeds and those of William H. Bush, Hemp- stead Washburne, Joseph Theurer, wealthy brewer, Dr. Nicholas Senn, one of our great surgeons and E W. Stanley, a cranberry- marsh king. Mr. Heinemann told us with pride of all the business men who patronized him— Wienhoeber, the florist, Piper, the baker, and Busse Coal Company among others. He didn't need to tell us all this, for Will has dealt with him for years and knows his careful German workmanship. He is one of the best harness-makers in the city, Michael thinks. I watched the workmen taking their small stitches, using two 226 threads, which they pulled through from opposite sides, and won- dered if I could do such neat work on fine linen as they do with their stout needles on leather. Above the shop lives the Heinemann family, and one of the boys, George, who works in the shop, told us that when they were burned out in the fire of 1871 it was quite a blow, but two days later the lumber was on the ground for rebuilding on the same site. Such was the spirit of our citizens . . . never discouraged, always full of energy! No wonder Chicago has grown so magically. But there; I'm doing what Will says all Chicagoans do, boasting of our city, when I just meant to tell you that we shall meet you at the train with Michael holding the newest of Pittsburgh, oak-tanned leather reins over our bays, and such shiny silver plating that your New York eyes will be dazzled. The letter "E" is engraved on the silver ornaments of the collars and on two other ornaments. And all for the sum of $275. It really is cheap for such beautiful work. I inquired the price for single harness, for we think a little of getting a small coupe for my use in making calls. Single harness can be had for $135. I really don't know if we ought to think of another carriage, but we shall see. And now, dear Julia, looking forward eagerly to your coming, / am, devotedly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, February 6, 1889 Dear Julia: Reception follows reception here in Chicago. Yester- day I attended a very elegant gathering at the home of Mrs. William A. Pinkerton, at 196 South Ashland Avenue. The table arrangements and the flowers were especially beautiful, the entire mantel in the south parlor being banked with red and white tulips, surrounded by ferns and smilax. In the other parlor rare flowers were placed here and there. The prevailing color in the dining-room was red, fairy lamps above the table casting a subdued light on handsome linen and silver. 22J Among the friends I saw at Mrs. Pinkerton's was Mrs. E. Nelson Blake. Her husband has twice been president of the Board of Trade and they are among our first citizens, members of the Second Baptist Church. He has been urged to run for mayor on the Republican ticket, but it would be difficult to win over Carter Harrison. Young Bessie Ross, called "a pocket edition of Venus," was another person I saw at the Pinkerton's. From Ashland Avenue I went to a reception on the South Side. The day was cold and I didn't like to keep Michael out, but my dear Mrs. Cheney remembered to call me up and tell me to have Michael drive into their stable nearby, the reception being at the home of Mrs. G. C. Campbell, 2826 Michigan Avenue. Our hostess received in a handsome black silk, draped with tulle. The South Side was out in force. There was Mrs. Allison V. Armour, daughter of the David Kelleys, one of Chicago's belles; Mrs. Henry A. Blair, who tells dialect stories so admirably as to keep me in giggles whenever I'm with her; Mrs. Chauncey J. Blair, her beautiful sister-in-law; Mrs. John B. Drake, and her daughter, Helen, who is her shadow; Mrs. LeGrand Smith, dainty and exquisite in her man- ners; Mrs. Charles ReQua, blonde beauty, recently married to a son of one of our first families; Mrs. M. D. Wells and Mrs. N. K. Fairbank. It was really a beautiful party. Meanwhile Will had been at the Marquette Club, which has recently taken the E. B. Washburne house for its home. Judge Leonard Swett entertained the members last evening with remi- niscences of Abraham Lincoln. Mr. Swett and Lincoln had ridden circuit together and the talk was very personal and thus most interesting. We are to see Mary Anderson tomorrow night in A Winter's Tale, at McVicker's Theater. She has played to packed houses here. One wonders what is the secret of her great popularity. There are other actresses as talented, I suppose. Will says it is because of her wonderful character, which seems to permeate all she does. Chicago people love the theater. Just now The Silver Slipper is playing to crowds; Erminie is equally popular, and Hoyt's A Brass Monkey is having great success. 228 Dr. and Mrs. Clinton Locke called the evening you left, having understood you were staying another day. They were sorry to miss you. Dr. Locke repeated with much gusto the story you told of your own rector who is such a diner-out that a witty parishioner said of him that he sometimes read from the prayer book: "To thee, cherubim and terrapin continually do cry." I am sorry that you weren't here for a pretty debutante recep- tion yesterday, that of Miss Delphine Gillette, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Gillette, at their residence on Michigan Avenue, a little south of Mrs. Blackstone's home. This young member of society looked very girlish and charming in her white silk gown and carry- ing a bouquet of white roses and maidenhair fern. She has red hair and the pretty complexion that goes with it. Her mother's gown was handsome . . . light green Ottoman silk draped with duchesse lace. Another lovely affair of the week was a breakfast given by Mrs. George H. Laflin of 1614 Michigan Avenue in honor of Miss Knowland of New York, sister of Mrs. Louis E. Laflin. Being now in the sere and yellow leaf, I was not asked, but Martha Junior was there, and says it was delightful, with the nicest of young marrieds present . . . Mrs. Samuel R. Jewett, Mrs. E. P Whitehead (Grace Laflin), Mrs. Louis E. Laflin, Mrs. J. R. Walker, Mrs. Edward Shumway, and other dear young women. Some of them you know, others you have met. Will has just come in with news of the death of Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria-Hungary. The official announcement is that he died of apoplexy, but there are many rumors that it was not a natural death. He had gone to his shooting lodge in Mayer ling with some of the members of the court, and it seems singular that he was not more closely guarded. One story is that he was given the alternative of suicide or a duel, a brother officer having discovered an affair between his (the officer's) wife, and the crown prince. It is well known that he was not happy with Stephanie, whom he married eight years ago, so there may be some truth in the rumor of suicide. He is said to have been serious and studious, and he was, you know, the author of two or three books. Only thirty-one years 229 old! What will happen in Austria now? He has only one child, a daughter of six years. With much love, yours ever, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, March y, 1889 Dear Julia: At home from our Washington trip, I am sitting by our comfortable fireside, recalling the interesting time Will and I had at the inauguration of a new President. You doubtless have read of the crowd which stood in the rain, patiently waiting for the parade which followed the ceremony of taking the oath of office. Soaked to the skin as most of the watchers must have been, they were good natured as they were pushed about by other bystanders. They would not go away without a sight of the man they had engaged to run the country for the next four years. The gaudy cotton decorations flapped forlornly in the breeze. The colors had run into one another and were indefinite and be- draggled, so the avenue was not an inspiring sight. Nevertheless, they would wait. I always like parades, so I was just as thrilled as anyone to see it from a window of our hotel, but the ball was the most brilliant part of the day. The word "ball" of course does not mean that people dance. Will and I didn't make the attempt; the crowds were so great there would have been little use. We promenaded to the strains of the Beck orchestra from Philadelphia, an organization, I believe, well known in the East. I am told that many bands and orchestras con- tended for the honor of playing at the ball, including our own much admired Thomas orchestra, but I suppose the one nearest Washing- ton could make the best terms since there wasn't the expense of a long railroad trip to be included. I understand the orchestra was paid one thousand seven hundred dollars for the evening's work. As I already have said, few tried to dance. What everyone really goes to the ball for is to see and be seen. President Harrison, serious- minded Presbyterian elder as he is, does not dance, and ex-President 230 Cleveland, a Presbyterian, too, now I come to think of it, who does dance, wasn't at the ball. All eyes were on the gowns worn by the ladies of the President's family. The new First Lady wore a gray silk, woven in America, prob- ably the most elaborate attempt at silk manufacture in this country. The court train was of brocade and on each side of the front breadths there were panels of apricot-colored silk, veiled with cream lace. The bodice was cut V-shaped. Mrs. McKee, daughter of the President, wore a pearl satin, bro- caded in a goldenrod design. Mrs. Morton, wife of the Vice-Presi- dent, chose for her ball gown a superb cream satin, brocaded in a Scotch thistle design. The front, which was of plain cream satin, was beaded in gold, crystal and silver. I noticed particularly Mrs. Mor- ton's coiffure. The hair was combed high, and she wore a yellow rose at the top of the knot. Have you read the inaugural address? Will likes the tone of it. He thinks it forthright and indicative of a vigorous administration. The cabinet, too, Will approves highly. Some will object to James G. Blaine as Secretary of State, for he has political enemies, but he is one of the great men of the Repub- lican party and can't be ignored. Will believes Blaine will justify his friends' confidence in him. We Westerners are pleased that Jere- miah Rusk of Wisconsin is to be Secretary of Agriculture, an office which grows increasingly important. I saw our beloved Mrs. Charles B. Farwell in Washington, where she is a recognized social leader. Her husband, Senator Farwell, is very popular in the Capitol, having been, I'm told, a favorite of President Cleveland, who often consulted him on political matters. "Le rot est mort" speaking of President Cleveland. People's faces are turned to the rising sun and even Democrats said little about their defeated chief, knowing there is an undercurrent of hostility in his own party. There has been great interest in Chicago concerning the will of Charles J. Hull, recently probated, by which Miss Helen Culver, a cousin of Mr. Hull, is declared sole heir and executor. The estate is said to be worth more than a million dollars. The dead man, a 27,1 childless widower, had only nephews and nieces to inherit his great fortune. Miss Culver, who lived in his home, and to whom he left all his estate, has an interesting face. I do not know her, for she has gone very little into society because of her devotion to the work of manag- ing her cousin's property, but I saw her once, more than twenty-five years ago. She was at the railroad station, I remember, starting to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, during the war, to nurse the wounded. I was struck at the time by her gentle and dignified bearing, and her air of complete self-command. When she first came to Chicago from New York State, she was a teacher in the Scammon School on the West Side, but on the death of Mrs. Hull in i860, she went to live in her cousin's Halsted Street house to be mother to his children, a boy and a girl. Both these children died in their youth, the son stricken by cholera, which is not so frequently heard of nowadays. A somewhat eccentric man, Mr. Hull had peculiar notions about some of his real estate. He fancied that his most valuable property was on Polk and Jefferson Streets, for he was certain that Polk Street would one day be the chief highway to the West Side. Will says it's now clear that he was mistaken about that. Jackson Street seems to have supremacy there. A great city is like a fickle woman— it takes its own way, no matter how others may be affected by its caprices. The property will be a grave responsibility to Miss Culver, but she has had charge of it for many years and is accustomed to the burden. In the early seventies Mr. Hull bought large tracts of land in the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. There Negroes were en- couraged to buy lots and build homes. In connection with this real estate business, they opened in their office a night school for colored people. More than three hundred persons attended this private school, learning to read and write. Will recalls that he saw a state- ment in a Savannah paper that more Negroes than whites owned homes in that city, this being the result of the efforts of Mr. Hull and Miss Culver. It is rather a touching picture, that of a cultivated and gentle woman working hard all day in a business office, and by night 232 teaching humble Negroes to read and write. How she must love mankind! She is said to have been the first woman to be commissioned a notary public in the state of Illinois and legal documents which reduce me— wife of a lawyer— to a state of frenzy, are as simple as A B C to her. Mr. Hull was a strong advocate of temperance. He never allowed any of his buildings to be used for the sale of liquor and when he leased unimproved property there was always a provision that no saloon should be built on it. He didn't believe in giving to organized charity, declaring that it only encouraged pauperism, yet he made many generous gifts to educational enterprises. His greatest interest was in prison reform and he spent part of every Sunday at the Bridewell where he talked with the inmates. Believing penal institutions should become train- ing schools, he studied the situation wherever business took him, becoming, they say, quite an authority on the subject. I hear the front door bell, so will close— Lovingly, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, March 22, 1889 Dear Julia: I have just received notice of my election to mem- bership in the Fortnightly Club and shall attend my first meeting on Thursday. Miss May Allport and Mrs. William Blair were my sponsors and with such women endorsing me the path was made smooth. The ordeal of election to the Fortnightly has always been severe. The woman who is ambitious to enter that charmed circle must be able to pass through much investigation. Her name is pre- sented by two members, who fill out blanks vouching for the intel- lectual attainments, social position and probable usefulness of the applicant. The deliberations of the officers and directors are shrouded 2 B in mystery, but it is known that each candidate's character and her endowments of every kind are carefully scrutinized. Wasn't it in Athens that shells were used in voting and one vote against a citizen banished him for a time? Thus, in the Fort- nightly, a dissenting vote blights the aspirations of a would-be mem- ber. I really shivered when I knew my name had gone in and I might be refused membership. If it is difficult to become a mere member, you may believe that to be president of the Fortnightly is to have reached a summit of social and literary eminence that is almost unbelievable. Mrs. Kate Newell Doggett, who founded the club in 1873, was * ts presi- dent for seven years, but since her time the term of the presiding officer has been limited to two years. Mrs. Franklin MacVeagh is at present occupying the office. The Fortnightly rooms are on the top floor of the Art Institute Building, at Van Buren Street and Michigan Avenue. The main room is spacious, lighted by wide windows which are shaded by silken draperies, a softened light falling on the rich furniture and decorations. A handsome Persian rug covers the hardwood floor and quaint highbacked chairs are scattered about. Fine pictures adorn the walls and a cheerful fire burns on the hearth. Many remarkable women are found in the ranks of the Fort- nightly. Mrs. MacVeagh, whom you met at our house, is a person of fine presence and presides at the meetings with grace and dignity. She's an earnest student and I have heard it said that she never allows anything to interfere with her four hours of study each day. Miss Ellen Mitchell is a Shakespearean scholar and represented the club at Sorosis in New York last week. The Fortnightly is one of the few clubs recognized by Sorosis. Dr. Sarah Hackett Stevenson is an honored member of the club, by reason of her professional standing, as well as her literary talent. This year the Fortnightly devoted much time to the study of Shakespeare and Dr. Stevenson wrote a brilliant paper on the subject, "The Abnormal in Shake- speare." It is said that members of the medical profession have asked to have this paper in their files, such is the deep study it showed. 2 34 General Alexander Caldwell McClurg Mrs. Arthur J. Caton, costumed as Cleopatra, in 1887. On the death of her first husband Mrs. Caton married Marshall Field J* l&Ffc Archbishop John Ireland, one of the noblest servants of the Roman Catholic Church Lovely Florence Pullman, later Mrs. Frank O. Lowden Mrs. Charles Hamill is renowned for her executive ability. Mrs. Reginald de Koven is prominent in social life, but finds time to write for the magazines. Miss Harriet Monroe is a poet and a student of the poet Shelley. Mrs. Potter Palmer, Mrs. Wirt Dexter, and Mrs. Marshall Field are conspicuous in society. Mrs. Dexter made the acquaintance of the poet Browning when she was abroad a few years ago and she quotes his poetry most aptly. Miss May Allport and Mrs. Regina Watson manage the beautiful musicales which the club occasionally gives. The annual May Day luncheon is an event I'm looking forward to, for I am told this is an especially lovely occasion. The rooms are always decorated by Mrs. Annie S. Baldwin and her sister, Mrs. Mott. When you come to Chicago next time, you must attend a meeting of the club with me. The all-important question of dress is vexing my righteous soul just now. There's such a radical change in style this spring that one simply can't wear a made-over gown. At least, my dressmaker refuses to try to alter my last year's walking-dress so that I can use it, the decline and modification of the bustle making a new costume imperative. She is using in the gown she is making a very, VERY small pad. It is barely noticeable and is worn only to support the pointed ends of the basque, a redingote model. With this dress I shall wear matching shoes, which I am having made to order by Sauer, our best shoemaker. The bottom part of the shoes is of patent leather, while the top is of light cloth like the dress. I think they were quite reasonable in price, only nine dollars. I have much shopping for the dressmaker this morning, so I will say farewell, for the moment. Lovingly yours, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, May 15, 1889 Dear Julia: Sandy and Martha and the children have been here for Sunday dinner. Little Esmond can read simple stories quite well 2 3S now and often brings a book with him. Today it was Blueberrying, by Jacob Abbott. I was glad to see that the child liked it, for though it is the fashion to laugh at the "Rollo" books, with their quaint woodcuts, Jacob Abbott is still, to my mind, one of the best writers for children. If only his small hero had a different name! "Rollo" is quite "sissified," I have to admit. When little Esmond read his grandfather the story of the bird "Mosette," drawn out of the water by Rollo and Jonas . . . that hired man without fear and without reproach ... I felt a real interest in the answer Rollo's father gave, as to whether it is right to kill a grasshopper in order to feed a bird. "The grasshopper has as good a right to his life as the bird. Hasn't he, Father?" Thus quoth Rollo. I shouldn't have known how to answer that poser. It is a question which might engage the mind of a philosopher. I looked over at Will, who was watching Esmond's small finger moving along the page, stopping occasionally as he encountered an unfamiliar word. Will was interested, too, and answered my look, raising his eyebrows comically, as if to say: "How will Rollo's pa get around that one?" Esmond went right on reading. He felt no anxiety on the sub- ject. He knew Rollo's father had all the answers and would settle the question, once and for all. "Not exactly," said his father. "A bird is an animal of much higher grade than a grasshopper and is probably much more sensible of pain and pleasure, and his life is of more value, just as a man is a much higher animal than a bird. It would be right to kill a bird to save a man's life. So it would be right to destroy a grasshopper or worm to save a robin." Rollo's father never evaded an issue. He gave some kind of answer, and his reasoning seems good to me. The story ends, how- ever, in the children's giving the bird the pulp of the blueberries they had picked. Some people think Abbott's books are priggish, but they don't seem so to me. I reserve that epithet for "Elsie Dinsmore," a per- fectly insufferable heroine. It is quite remarkable that Jacob Abbott, who had been pro- 236 fessor of mathematics and natural philosophy at Amherst, should have won his greatest fame with stories for children. Yet such a thing is not unheard of, for Lewis Carroll, a mathematical lecturer at Christ College, Oxford, is remembered solely for Alice in Won- derland and Through the Looking Glass. Mr. Abbott didn't think of himself as a great author, probably, but as an educator; he wrote these stories to inculcate character. His school in Boston must have been a wonderful institution, though I have never known anyone who attended it. He threw away the old methods of discipline and appealed to the honor of the pupils, making the school largely self-governing. The Abbott family has had a wide influence in American education. The chief topic of conversation in Chicago this week has been the divorce suit of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Carter. The beautiful, red- haired Mrs. Carter . . . who was a Miss Dudley of Kentucky . . . hopes, it is said, to go on the stage, when the suit is over. She has been taking lessons from Kyrle Bellew, the actor. Her husband, Leslie Carter, is highly esteemed here and most of the people I have talked with sympathize with him. The Carters have always been highly esteemed here. They are staunch church people, possessing the highest principles. It is very sad for all concerned. Evening— At that point Will asked me to make some calls with him and we set forth, but we stayed so long at the hospitable home of the Roswell B. Masons that we didn't get any more visits made. Delightful people are Mr. and Mrs. Mason! Now in the sunset of life, they are as interesting to us as the younger people on whom we had intended to call. Mr. Mason's has been a life of achievement. Born in New York State, he told us whimsically he had his best schooling on the Erie Canal, where he drove a team, delivering stone to some of the locks for his father, who had taken a contract for this work. Here he met the assistant engineer of the Erie Canal, who offered him a position as rod man for a surveying party. During the winters, he studied in Utica, concentrating on courses helpful in civil engineering. At 32, he was chief engineer of the Hoosatonic Railroad; at 40, chief engineer of the New York and New Haven. I imagine your 2 37 father, who had so many railroad connections, must have known him. His greatest engineering feat was the building of the Illinois Central railway, which brought him to the West, uniting his future to that of Chicago, which he was to watch as it developed from a straggling town of 40,000 inhabitants to the world's largest railroad center. "Illinois in 1850," said Mr. Mason, stroking his long white beard, "was a vast fertile prairie awaiting the plow, but its roads . . . merely trails . . . were almost impassable and commerce necessarily was carried on by means of its waterways. I think it's safe to say that the coming of the Illinois Central railway was the most important industrial event that had taken place up to that time." Both Will and Mrs. Mason recalled that it was due to Stephen A. Douglas that the bill was put through Congress granting land to the railroad and enabling it to build at that time. "Where was your first Chicago home?" I asked lovely-looking Mrs. Mason, who, like many women of her age, wears a white lace cap. "The Tremont House," she said, "which then stood at the corner of Lake and Dearborn Streets. It was new and very elegant, having been built only a year or two before we arrived. But we soon moved out into the country, Michigan Avenue and Twelfth Street, for our family was growing rapidly." We both laughed, recalling that no one now would call that part of the city a country retreat. The Masons are a large clan. Eight years ago Mr. and Mrs. Mason celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary with thirty- seven descendants . . . children and grandchildren . . . present. In many important activities, Mr. Mason has had a part. He founded the Western Society of Engineers, has been a trustee of the University of Illinois, President of the Board of Trustees of the Presbyterian Theological Seminary and an elder of the Fourth Presbyterian Church. But I always think of him as Mayor of Chicago at the time of the great Fire of 1871. The responsibilities of that office then were such as to show the stuff he was made of and those of us who lived 238 through that terrible period know how he met every emergency like a hero. There were unscrupulous politicians who wanted to get control of the money which began to pour into our afflicted city from all over the world. Mayor Mason frustrated these greedy political thieves by putting the work of relief into the hands of the Relief and Aid Society, an established organization which had the confidence of the public. General Sheridan supported him in this, and the disgrace of misappropriation of funds for the needy was averted. Well, I always get around to the Fire when I reminisce, don't I? I'll spare you more. Lovingly yours, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, May 22, 1889 Dear Julia: I am sitting at home alone tonight as Will is off at a minstrel show with a number of men from the Union League Club who, like Will, wouldn't miss Billy Emerson, the singer, for anything in the world. Billy Emerson hasn't been here for some time, and his return is being made the occasion for much celebration. Since 1870 he has lived in San Francisco. Many a fortune he's made and lost, for he can't resist the lure of the race track. He is getting five hundred dollars a week at Hooley's now, so he will have plenty to gamble with. The men in Will's party are looking forward tonight to hearing again the famous old song, "The Big Sunflower." I wonder if you ever heard the words of this ballad. I have always known the refrain, but hadn't the slightest idea what the verses were. Will sang it all for me tonight before he left for the theater, and I set them down to put in my scrap book for I think when a song lives more than twenty years it may be said to be a part of our American life. I will copy one verse for you. If you want the others I'll be glad to send them. 239 There is a charm I can't explain About a girl I've seen; My heart beats fast as she goes past In a dark dress trimmed with green. Her eyes are bright as stars at night, So lovely and so shy, And the folks all stop and look around Whenever she goes by. REFRAIN And I feel just as happy as a big sunflower That nods and bends in the breezes, And my heart is as light as the wind that blows The leaves from off the treeses. Billy Emerson began his career in Washington, D. C, with a man named Sweeney, who had a minstrel troupe. His first stage work, he told Will yesterday, was that of a ballad singer and jig dancer. He is the embodiment of grace and has a .voice that an opera singer might envy. In his early days the typical minstrel was dressed up to represent a plantation hand, in overalls, which were drawn up under his arms, a wide "laydown" collar, and big heavy boots. In this attire Billy Emerson sang such songs as "Rip-tearing Johnny," "Nicodemus Johnson" and "Josephus Orange Blossom." It was Dan Emmett, the man who wrote "Dixie," who evolved the idea of Negro minstrels, by the way. Billy Emerson improved on the old style, and brought out the natty singer of blackface songs we know today. I was interested to hear that Emmett is living in Chicago in a humble cottage on Butterfield Avenue near Twenty-fifth Street. He is so old that he can't do much work, but he has been supporting himself by peddling milk. He has written hundreds of songs . . . words and music . . . but has always been quite indifferent about preserving them. He sold "Dixie" for three hundred dollars. If he 240 had kept the copyright he might have been a rich man, for it has been printed many times. He wrote "Dan Tucker" and "Jordan Is a Hard Road." He is a natural musician. Too bad that his talent hasn't brought him a liveli- hood at least. I am looking forward to seeing Tommy Russell as "Little Lord Fauntleroy" tomorrow night. Mrs. Burnett is making, they say, from eight hundred to two thousand dollars a week from this play, which has been so successful. Martha wants to dress Esmond in a Fauntleroy suit, but Sandy won't have it. They are picturesque but not boyish looking. This has been a beautiful spring day. I have taken a long drive out to Wabash Avenue, near Twenty-ninth Street, where I called on the young daughter of a client of Will's at school at St. Xavier's Academy. I had often driven past this beautiful building, and wished I might see the interior, so I welcomed the opportunity. Will's client, a wealthy lumberman from Wisconsin, has placed his motherless child here, and asked me to show her any kindness possible. As I stepped across the threshold of the school I felt a peace and satisfaction that was pleasant. Is there anything cleaner than a Catholic institution? Of course, in a community life there are many willing hands to do even menial work, so everything is shining . . . floors, furniture, ornaments. In the reception room I found a beau- tiful portrait of Bishop Duggan, which was painted by our great artist, Healy. Mother Mary Genevieve, the superior of the Sisters of Mercy here, came forward to meet me ... a remarkable woman. Born in Canada, of French-Acadian parents, she reminded me of Longfel- low's description of Evangeline: When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. But though she has the face of a saint, she is very practical, and they say her business ability is of the highest order. She has managed 241 to bring the school through financial difficulties in quite a remark- able way. She told me today, how, in early days, she was put to it to pay the bills for her large family. One day a creditor called, saying he must have his money, as he had a family to support. "How many children have you, sir?" she asked him. "Two," he replied gruffly. "But I have seventy-five," she answered, whereupon he took his hat and left. The work of the Sisters of Mercy falls in many lines. When they came to Chicago in 1846 ... a little band of five . . . one could hardly have expected that their numbers would have grown as they have grown. A convent known as St. Xavier's Academy was built in 1847 on Wabash Avenue, near Madison Street, next to old St. Mary's Church. The sisters living here took charge of three Sunday schools ... St. Mary's, St. Patrick's ( on the West Side ) and the Holy Name ( North Side ) . They walked three miles on Sundays to the West and North Sides, as there were no street cars then and they were too poor to hire a conveyance. Caring for cholera patients in the days when that dreadful disease took heavy toll, they won the respect of those not of their own faith, and Dr. Edmund Andrews, one of our good physicians, helped them establish Mercy Hospital, now a very large institution. But to go back to St. Xavier's Academy. I found the young girl on whom I called very well and happy, with pleasant companions about her. Two of them, Louise and Elizabeth Blish, I had met be- fore, nice, refined girls. Others she brought up to introduce to me were: Gertrude Brooke, a charming person, with dark expressive eyes; and girls with the names of Cudahy, Kinzie, Hudson, Synon, Barry and Grace ... all well-known Catholic families. Just before I left, stately Sister Isabel came in to greet me, and I remembered that she is a sister of our art dealer, Mr. O'Brien. A woman of great magnetism, she teaches the graduating class and is admired and revered. I am glad to feel so satisfied about the happiness and well-being of the little girl we are interested in there. Many people feel a con- vent school banishes happiness from a child's world by its strictness, but from now on I shall never agree to that. Indeed I think I should 242 like a child of mine to have such excellent training in morals and manners as the beautiful Sisters of Mercy are giving at St. Xavier's. With love, Your old friend, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, September 10, 1889 Dear Julia: Artistic endeavor is at high tide in the Macleod house. Martha Junior is painting stone jars and jugs at a great rate, this being the latest fad here. When I called this afternoon, finding it was the nurse's day out, I decided a grandmother was needed to help entertain the children. It was a pleasant task. Little Esmond, now five years old, and Baby Julie, three, are very interesting. Martha loves fussing with fancy work, and this afternoon was "gentling the condition" of a vinegar jug by painting on its side a winter scene, consisting of four pine trees and a tumble-down cottage with snow on the roof. In the foreground stands a female figure clad in a scarlet cape. The jug really is quite pretty, if of no particular use. As I left Martha's, I encountered Mrs. Richard I. Field, who lives at 250 Dearborn Avenue, and in her cordial way, she took my hand and drew me into her pleasant home, which she was just about to enter. We found Mr. Field sitting in the back parlor, the evening paper in his hand and their two handsome young sons with him. Mr. Field is a member of the woolen importing firm of Field, Benedict and Company, one of the oldest in the city, established in 1849. Mrs. Field was, before her marriage, a Miss Carpenter, a sister of George B. Carpenter, whose firm manufactures marine supplies here. The Field family had lived on this same site for a good many years, but were driven out by the fire of 1871. Like many other Chicago families, they moved to the suburbs, settling at Crystal Lake until they could rebuild. The three-story-and-basement house 2 43 in which they now live is an exact reproduction of the one which was destroyed, save for a mansard roof. On the walls of this fine house are many steel engravings. I don't know enough about en- gravings to say how valuable they are, but I have a fondness for them and think they give dignity to a room. Not many are seen now, the preference being for paintings, or in less opulent homes, for chromos. Mrs. Field looked very sweet this afternoon in a new fall gown of fawn-color wool trimmed in rose silk bands. The underskirt was plaited ( or do you spell that pleated? ) all around and the overskirt was draped in graceful fashion, the back ending in a point near the hem. I had thought bustles were on the wane, but Godey's Lady Book shows them as rampant as ever. Mrs. Field says her dressmaker insisted on making hers very large. I came away from the Field home with a recipe for a pudding. Couched in verse, it is rather quaint, if not easily followed, and I think you'll enjoy seeing it, even if you never use it. Mrs. Field said it had just been given her and she hadn't tried it. It is called: eve's pudding // you want a good pudding, mind what you're taught; Take eggs, six in number, when bought for a groat; The fruit with which Eve her husband did cozen, Well pared and well chopped, at least half a dozen; Six ounces of bread, (let Moll eat the crust And crumble the rest as fine as the dust); Six ounces of currants from the stem you must sort Lest you break all your teeth and spoil all the sport; Six ounces of sugar won't make it too sweet; Some salt and some nutmeg will make it complete; Three hours let it boil, without any flutter, But Adam won't like it without wine and butter. Two days later— This letter has been in my desk, as I didn't find time to finish it. Sunday is a more quiet day and I shall add a few lines. Will and I stole away from our own church this morning and drove down to the Immanuel Baptist Church, on Michigan Avenue near Twenty-third Street, expecting to hear the eloquent Dr. George 2 44 C. Lorimer, who, we felt sure, would entertain us by his dramatic actions in the pulpit, for he is a man who does the most surprising things. An actor at the time he was converted in Louisville, Ken- tucky, he decided to leave the stage and enter the ministry. In this profession he has been a great success, but he still "treads the boards" even on Sunday and he recently astonished his congregation by taking an American flag out of his pocket and waving it, at the conclusion of a patriotic sermon. What was our disappointment not to find the actor-minister in his pulpit today! Instead, it was occupied by a much less theatrical preacher, Dr. Thomas W. Goodspeed, whom we know and like very much. We forgot the flag-waving Lorimer, when Dr. Goodspeed rose up and, announcing as his text: "David encouraged himself in the Lord his God," began a simple exposition of his theme, com- paring the difficulties of the present day with those of the Psalmist. By the time the sermon was half over, Will whispered that he was just as well pleased that Dr. Lorimer wasn't there. This was a good deal to say, when, as it turned out, the discourse was full of the problem the Baptists are facing . . . that of raising money for a new educational institution to be built somewhere in Chicago, perhaps Morgan Park. Raising money is a thankless task and Dr. Goodspeed has been at it for several years, almost unaided, trying to meet conditions on which other large gifts have been made. From Mr. E. Nelson Blake of the Second Baptist Church, he has received twenty thousand dollars, which is a grand start. But the panic has prevented addi- tions to this. Dr. Goodspeed is the kind of man who refuses to be discouraged, so he continues his campaign. He feels deeply the closing of the old Chicago University on Cottage Grove Avenue. His young sons were in its preparatory department when it closed and Dr. Goodspeed himself was a member of its first graduating class, so his interest is understandable. Without much encourage- ment from man, he has encouraged himself in the Lord. His face was serene, his voice cheerful, as he told of the forma- tion of the new American Baptist Education Society and the calling of a young minister, Fred T. Gates, to be its secretary. 245 "Mr. Gates says," Dr. Goodspeed leaned down over the pulpit, to make his words more impressive, "that the founding of a university here in Chicago is an immediate and imperative denominational necessity." Not being Baptists, we don't know how many persons in his congregation are able to take up the cause in a large way. We saw Mr. George C. Walker, millionaire real estate dealer, whose Blue Island Land and Building Company laid out Morgan Park, listening intently. Perhaps he will heed this plea. As we stopped to speak with Dr. Goodspeed after the sermon, he shook hands with us most heartily and we understood why he is so beloved. He has a magnetic personality and his wife, a Dearborn Seminary graduate, is a true helpmate to him. She has always been the organist in her husband's church, and now that he has no settled pastorate, she occupies the same post in the Morgan Park Baptist Church. I had never met her before, but was much attracted to her. Will promised a small amount to the fund for the new institu- tion and Dr. Goodspeed acted as if he had given a million dollars. "I'm sure the sum needed will be reached," he said. "I am in com- munication with Mr. John D. Rockefeller, whose name you know, of course. He is a Baptist and is generously disposed toward our project. I told him when he had given a liberal subscription to our seminary that we should not come back, for we felt he had done his part. But he replied: 1 wish you to come back. I consider it a favor when men show me how to do good with my money.' " Not many rich men feel so. And now the fall evening is closing down. Selma is out and I must light the gas and pull down the shades. Much love, Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, November i$, 1889 Dear Julia: John Crerar's will has just been made public, and what a grand soul is revealed by it! Made in much detail, the will is 246 long, for he had great riches to dispose of, more than three and a half million dollars. Evidently it was the result of long deliberation and it was made when he was in good health two years ago. To relatives and friends of his mother, to whom he seems to have been deeply attached, he left bequests, and Chicago friends have been remembered handsomely. His friend and partner, J. McGregor Adams, receives $50,000; his minister, Dr. S. J. McPherson, $20,000; and his old friend, T B. Blackstone, $5,000. Of course Mr. Blackstone is a rich man, and doesn't need it, but Mr. Crerar asks him to use the sum to get some memorial of their life-long friendship. In addi- tion to these personal gifts, religious, charitable and educational institutions are given liberal amounts. I was glad to see that the Second Presbyterian Church is to have a hundred thousand dollars, "so long as it preserves and maintains the principles of the Presbyterian faith." In addition it is given a hundred thousand dollars for its mission schools. For a colossal statue of Abraham Lincoln a hundred thousand dollars is left. And finally the remainder of the estate is to go for the erection, maintenance and endowment of a free public library. "I desire," reads the section concerning this bequest, "that the books and periodicals be selected with a view to create and sustain a healthy moral and Christian sentiment in the community, and that all nastiness and immorality be excluded. I do not mean by this that there shall be nothing but hymn books and sermons, but I mean that dirty French novels and all skeptical trash and works of questionable moral tone shall never be found in this library. I want its atmosphere that of Christian refinement and its aim and object the building up of character, and I rest content that the friends I have named will carry out my wishes in those particulars." I had to smile, reading his stricture on French novels. He spoke to me once in the same strain, deploring the reading by young people of books which were far from uplifting. The men who are to execute his wishes in regard to the library are Norman Williams, Huntington W. Jackson, Marshall Field, E. W. Blatchford, T B. Blackstone, Robert T Lincoln, Henry W. Bishop, Albert Keep, Edson Keith, S. J. McPherson, John M. Clark 2 47 and George A. Armour. They were all personal friends of Mr. Crerar and will feel honored, I know, that he chose them for members of the first board of directors of the library. Touching, I think, was his mention of his mother in his will: "I ask that I may be buried by the side of my honored mother in Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn, New York, in the family lot. I desire a plain headstone similar to that which marks my mother's grave to be raised over my head." McGregor Adams said to Will today of Mr. Crerar: "He was a generous high-souled man . . . one whose friendship was to be prized and to be proud of. For twenty-five years we were business partners and during that long period we never had a dispute. Though he was outspoken in his views, he expressed them cour- teously, so that he never offended." Martha Junior has just been in with Baby Julie to show me the darling's new coat for winter. She is four years old now, and in the new garment which comes almost to her feet, she looks quite tall. She talks a great deal and when shown your photograph . . . that one taken in Newport . . . she murmurs: "Dooly's Aunt Dooly." She slapped little Esmond when he claimed you. Original sin creeps out even in those of tender years. Later . . . Will surprised and pleased me this evening by asking if I'd go to hear D. L. Moody, who is conducting meetings in Chicago. We were much impressed by his simple sermon, but I really think Will enjoyed the music most. It was conducted by D. B. Towner, instead of Ira D. Sankey, whose name is so associated with that of Mr. Moody that we had expected to hear him. However, Towner is very good, we thought. As I joined in singing the many "catchy" gospel songs I thought of the many singers I have heard in Chicago. Preachers are soon forgotten, but those who sing can never pass from memory. Tower- ing head and shoulders above them all was Philip P Bliss, whose voice George E Root called the finest in the world. Mr. Root said his range was from lower B flat to high A flat. I recall how he affected the crowds by his singing of his own song, Almost Per- suaded, and how little children caroled his Jesus Loves Me. 248 Full of music from boyhood, he began writing songs before he knew anything about harmony or the theory of music. Quantities of music came from his pen— mainly Sunday school songs, and he became prominent through his little book, Gospel Hymns and Sacred Songs, which attracted the attention of Mr. Moody, who found a publisher for the collection. Mr. Bliss received $12,000 for it, enough, he felt, to take care of his family all their lives, so he resolved to devote his time to religious work. He died a hero in the Ashtabula railroad wreck in 1876. He could have saved himself, but went back to rescue his wife and children, and perished with them in the flames. He was associated with Major D. W. Whittle, brother- in-law of Mr. Moody, who has written many songs too. Walking home from the meeting, Will and I talked of the men who have written and sung the lively songs that are on every tongue these days. There are many singers who are almost worshipped by the crowds. E. O. Excell probably ranks next to Sankey in popularity. He came to Chicago eight years ago and had a hard struggle to introduce his collection of songs. No one seemed interested. But Sam Jones, the southern revivalist, heard him, engaged him for a week, and was so pleased with his singing that the engagement was made permanent. Now Excell receives a salary of two hundred dollars a month, it is said, besides about $25,000 from the sale of his book. D. B. Towner, traveling with Mr. Moody, is not equal to Sankey, but his baritone voice is good and he has written many songs which have reached a sale of hundreds of thousands of copies. George C. Stebbins, one of the younger men, is another popular singer, as is James McGranahan, and of course, William B. Bradbury, writer of music for gospel songs mustn't be forgotten. Sweet Hour of Prayer is his, the music I mean. The words were written by a man named Walford, and I don't care for them much, especially the last verse, which ends : This robe of flesh I'll drop and rise To seize the everlasting prize; And shout, while passing through the air, Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer. H9 Does a disembodied spirit shout while passing through the air? And why bid farewell to prayer, anyway? The only woman who has attained much fame as a singer at revival meetings is Mrs. M. E. Wilson, a sister of Philip P Bliss. She travels about with her husband and her pure, sweet voice is said to be very effective. She has written a number of hymns. A new singer destined, many think, to become prominent in the field of gospel singing is Peter P. Bilhorn, a former blacksmith, con- verted at a Moody meeting. One of his songs is I Will Sing of My Redeemer. Now as I write, I can see Will starting to put the latch on the front door, which means he thinks it's bed time, so I must bring this Good night, and God bless you, dear friend. Martha Freeman Esmond Chicago, December 10, 1889 Dear Julia: A round of receptions has kept us busy here in Chicago this week. It seems to be quite an accepted custom for young ladies to "come out" in society. It gives a chance for the older friends of the parents to meet the young people, and is a good idea, I think. The Pullman sisters, Florence and Harriet, had a beautiful party at the brownstone residence at the corner of Eighteenth Street and Prairie Avenue. I suppose there were nearly a thousand people there during the afternoon and evening. The elder, Florence, tall and stately, resembles her father. The younger, Harriet, is more vivacious, plays the piano well— indeed both are quite musical— and has a good voice. Both carry themselves with great dignity. The Prairie Avenue set was present, and among those who helped receive were neighbors, Mrs. Marshall Field, Mrs. Walter Q. Gresham, Mrs. W. W Kimball, and Mrs. John M. Clark. I saw also the Misses Florence and Grace Henderson, who are popular girls in society. Another beautiful reception for two debutantes was that given by Mrs. Dr. Temple S. Hoyne, in honor of Miss Maude Hoyne, her 250 Phillip D. Armour, packer, whose name is commemorated in Armour Institute «^*^fc fgBmRRMnS& Lucy McCormick (later Mrs. Samuel R. Jewett) Edwin Booth of "the noble brow, the honest eyes, the sweetly patient face!' The American tragedian was founder and first president of the Players' Club, New York Joseph Jefferson, American comedian. His best-known roles were Bob Acres in The Rivals and Rip van Winkle daughter, and Frances McDermid. The entertainment lasted from four to nine o'clock in the evening, the afternoon being chiefly for the ladies, the evening for the young men. The Hoyne home, 1833 Indiana Avenue, is a handsome one and it looked especially lovely decorated with flowers. The supper room was almost literally filled with La France roses. To proceed with the reception list, I must speak of the beautiful party given by the Misses Cudahy, daughters of Michael Cudahy, who lives at 3138 Michigan Avenue. Will and I declined, as we don't dance the new cotillion, but Sandy and Martha went and said they had a lovely time. The Cudahy sisters must have made a pretty picture in their pastel-shade dresses, two pink and one lilac. The Auditorium opening is over and I'm still unreconciled to your not being here, for it was the greatest social event ever known in these parts. I wore a heliotrope silk, trimmed in velvet, em- broidered in an apple blossom design. Made by Weeks, a new man- dressmaker on Michigan Avenue, it is quite the finest gown I have ever had. I feel extravagant but Will had just concluded an im- portant legal case for an Eastern client and received a good fee, so he told me to spend as much as I wanted to on a gown for this great occasion. As those of us going to the opening left our carriages at the Congress Street entrance, we had to pass through a great crowd of sight-seers, who, unable to get into the hall themselves, had gathered to watch for President Harrison, Vice President Morton, Patti and other notables as they entered. From this crowd we heard frank com- ments on our toilettes, not all of these being entirely favorable, I'm obliged to state. I heard one shrill feminine voice say, "Ain't 'er dress silly?" I can't think she was referring to my Weeks creation, but I'm haunted by a doubt. I hope it was a comment on a gown in front of me, overtrimmed with ostrich feathers, but I shall never know. Looking about us when we had taken our seats in row K center —the best location in the house, I think— we exclaimed at the splendor of the surroundings. Adler and Sullivan, great Chicago architects, have built for us a noble structure, its exterior of dark gray stone, its interior of marble, ivory-painted woodwork, and gold adornment. 2 S 1 One can scarcely realize the capacity of the great hall, so sym- metrical is it in line. We were told that there are more than four thousand seats numbered, and space for three thousand additional persons. "Original" is the word I should use for the Auditorium, I think. The exterior is quite Romanesque, suggesting the architect Richardson; but the interior with its ornamentation is ethereal, like a piece of music or a spring day. Indeed the words Sullivan had lettered on the wall are: "O soft, melodious Springtime, first-born of life and love." Dankmer Adler is the balance wheel for Sullivan, his partner. Together they form a fine combination. Healy and Millet were the decorators, and they have entered into the spirit of the architects, so that the result is exquisitely harmonious. One of the novelties is the shape of the ceiling, which widens from the stage, so that it acts as a sort of sounding board. The acoustics are perfect. The murals are lovely. Beneath an allegorical painting on the proscenium are the words: "The utterance of life is a song, the symphony of nature." The program was inspiring. Patti, her hair dyed Titian red, so that she looks quite different from the brunette we have always known, sang and was applauded to the echo. Time has left its mark on her once lovely voice, but she is still Patti, and we loved hearing her. The gifted Clarence Eddy presided at the new pipe organ, and W. L. Tomlins had his splendid chorus on the stage, the augmented Apollo club singing Frederick Grant Gleason's setting of Harriet Monroe's words. John S. Runnells, eloquent lawyer, spoke, as did President Harrison and Governor Fifer. Ferdinand Peck, originator of the scheme to build the Auditorium, was loudly cheered as he gave a pleasing little talk. Gowns were gorgeous. Mrs. Potter Palmer wore Eiffel red crepe and carried a fan of point lace. Mrs. Reginald de Koven was hand- some in scarlet satin, and with her was her still more beautiful sister, Rose Farwell, whose engagement to Hobart Chatfield-Taylor has just been announced. They are a fine-looking couple. Mrs. Emanuel Mandel, always well dressed, wore plum-color silk trimmed with oriental embroidery. Mrs. McKee, President Harrison's daugh- ter, was in mauve. Mme. Nordica, in Mrs. Henry Abbey's box, was 2$2 conspicuous in cherry silk. Mrs. H. O. Stone's sables were the height of elegance. Will says that, beautiful as our new Auditorium is, it may, within fifty years, be supplanted by an even finer building, for modern improvements are being brought forth constantly, and the world demands the best. I suppose this is true. I have seen many changes myself since 1854. They have been for the better, in the main, so I shall not vex my soul with fear of what may come. If only, with all our outward changes we may keep an ideal before us, a city wherein dwelleth righteousness, its physical form will not matter so much. I often repeat to myself, as I see Chicago's changes, Oliver Wendell Holmes' beautiful verse: Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! It is the end of the Eighties— a glorious decade in Chicago. Your Friend of the Eighties, as of the Fifties, Martha Freeman Esmond 2 53 FOOTNOTES 1889 George W Heinemann, son of the harness-maker mentioned in Martha's letter, still has a harness shop at 16 15 North Wells Street, though the frame building is moved back and a brick building stands in front. The most important change in the neighborhood is that high-spirited steeds no longer stand before the door waiting for new harness. In his shop today. Mr. Heinemann makes dog-harness, belts and small leather novelties. Miss Delphine Gillette became Mrs. William Shippen Jenks. Helen Culver spent the money left her by her cousin with wisdom and generosity. Soon after Mr. Hull's death, Miss Jane Addams saw the old family home, long abandoned by Mr. Hull for a residence on Ash- land Boulevard, and took it for a settlement house. Miss Culver became interested in the work and it is largely through her bounty that Hull House and the block surrounding it became the property of the settle- ment. The name Hull is now known around the world, because of Chicago's famous settlement. In 1895, Miss Culver gave more than a million dollars to the Uni- versity of Chicago for buildings to house the biological laboratories. She died in 1925. St. Xavier College, the oldest private school in Chicago, stands to- day in Xavier Park, at Forty-ninth Street and Cottage Grove Avenue. Among the girls mentioned in Martha's letter about this school, Louise Blish is now Mrs. George M. McBean; Elizabeth Blish is a retired school principal, and Gertrude Brooke has become Sister Mary Angele of the St. Xavier Community. 2 54 A LETTER FROM JULIA BOYD OF NEW YORK TO MARTHA FREEMAN ESMOND OF CHICAGO New York, N. Y One A.M.. January First, 1890 Dear Martha: I am thinking of you, as I sit by the fire in my library, with Eighteen Ninety just knocking at the door. Simmons, my old English butler, a perfect nuisance, who tyr- annizes over me, feeling that he inherited me from my father, has just come to the door, eyed me reproachfully, and gone away. I purposely didn't speak to him, knowing he wanted a chance to protest against my sitting up so late. He had already been told that I should not need him and that he might retire, so I'm not re- sponsible for his being up. I have told Cecile, too, that I can get to bed without her assistance, and I hope she has gone to her room. But they both regard me as their ward and linger about, each trying to outdo the other in devotion, if their annoying attitude can be dig- nified by such a noble word. Often I long to be rid of this great mausoleum of a house and go to live in a cottage, where I could do the work myself, with perhaps one maid; could walk abroad without taking a superfluous person with me. Superfluous service is what I seem to have the most of! Why do I need two men on the box of my carriage? The answer my fashionable friends would give is that the footman is on hand to open the carriage door and to carry my card to the door of the friend 2 SS on whom I'm calling. But why can't I open my own carriage door? Why should I be spared the trifling labor involved in mounting steps fruitlessly, in case my friend is out? Why do I need a French maid? I could do for myself the things she does for me. My Dutch ancestresses would feel contempt for me, I am sure, if they could know the futility of my days, with someone at hand to save me any unnecessary motions. The truth seems to be that I employ Cecile because all the women who live in this block have French maids. She is a cachet of wealth and social standing, that is all. I am not conscious of any special comfort, as a result of her presence, but she stands for a certain way of life. Yes. Cecile is . . . Simmons is, too, for that matter ... a symbol. Your life in Chicago, with your husband to lean upon; your daughter so happily married and living near you; your grand- children running in daily to see you; seems so infinitely more desir- able. Chicago seems to me, from what you write and what I have observed in my visits there, so much freer than New York, so much less conventional. I look back upon our simple life in Pittsfield, when we were at school in Maplewood Seminary, as the happiest period of my exist- ence. We had little money to spend, discipline was strict, but those were golden days. Ah, well! The Eighties . . . which have died in the night . . . have brought much of material progress to America, and I suppose we should be thankful for this. Electricity for lighting our houses has been the greatest boon, I think. Did I tell you I have had it installed in my home recently? It is enormously convenient. In art, there has been much of importance. Winslow Homer, some of whose work I have in my gallery, would be an honor to any age, and Crane and Frost are illustrators of whom we may be proud. It has been a golden age of literature, too, with Mark Twain weaving his magic spell over the Mississippi River; Bret Harte bringing the laughter and pathos of the California mining-camps to us; Helen Hunt Jackson arousing our sympathy for the American Indian in her Ramona; Sarah Orne Jewett painting delicate pictures 256 of the New England she loves; George W. Cable recording Old Creole Days; Joel Chandler Harris bringing us the folk-stories of the lovable Southern Negro in his Uncle Remus tales. But our social life seems to me unworthy of America's great past and as I read the columns of our New York papers, I am aghast. Idleness has become fashionable among our young men. The sole aim of our wealthy families seems to be to spend vast sums of money for the purpose of being talked about. I have read of a dinner on horseback, where a favorite steed was fed on flowers and champagne; of a lavish banquet to a small dog wearing a diamond collar valued at $15,000; of a dinner where the cigarettes were wrapped in hundred-dollar bills; still another, where a fine black pearl was placed in an oyster at each diner's plate; while, as a climax to all this folly and wickedness, a dinner has been given, at which monkeys sat in chairs beside the guests. Doesn't it sound like what we read of Rome, as it hastened to decay? But just as I am almost ready to despair of our country, in its shoddiness and bad taste, I am reminded of fresh currents of thought which bring hope to those who feel disgust for all this. The Neighborhood Guild in New York, founded four years ago and drawing its inspiration from Toynbee Hall, of London; your own Hull House, where Miss Jane Addams has begun to work out her dreams; Professor Graham Taylor, of Hartford, Connecticut, whose writings have lately come to my attention— all these are evidence that some, at least, have come to see that we are our brother's keeper and must accept responsibility for his welfare. Learning of the terrible housing conditions in New York, I have resolved to do one thing this year. This is, to build an apartment house in which poor families may live decently, at a reasonable rent. My banker tries to dissuade me from it, saying I am laying up trouble for myself and that it will be a "bad investment." But I shall not consider it bad, even if I lose money on the venture. It will pay dividends in satisfaction that I have helped a few people to comfort and a more sanitary mode of life. I find comfort, too, in the Chautauqua movement, which has 2 57 had such a growth the past ten years. I like it because it combines religious teaching with secular education. It started, perhaps you know, as a Sunday school teachers' conference for a few weeks at Chautauqua, New York. Now, Chautauqua Reading Circles are found in almost every town in the country. I am told there are 30,000 of these circles in America. All honor to Bishop Vincent, who conceived the idea, and to those who have joined in this great movement! As I muse on these hopeful signs of the times, I feel that I could answer the call of Professor Vida Scudder of Wellesley College, for a "New Franciscanism," to help bridge the chasm be- tween the classes. It seems to me I can say, when Simmons looks in again: "I don't need you any more. I have never needed you. I am leaving this house for a simple life, free of butlers and French maids and superfluous service of all kinds. You will all be provided for by annuities, but I mean to be a free woman from this time forth." And now, dear friend of years agone, I really must go upstairs. The fire is dying and the hour is late. Your cater-cousin, Julia Boyd Upstairs— Later. P. S. Just as I was about to slip this letter in the envelope, Simmons entered the library, ostensibly to poke the fire, but really to inquire if he should turn the lights out. Did I recite my lofty declaration of independence? No, Martha, I didn't. Rising with what dignity I could muster, I said: "I am ready to retire now, Simmons. You may put out the lights. Thank you for waiting up." 258 M mnce Suiscfiiiefis Laurance H. Armour Mrs. Ogden Armour Asa Bacon Shreve C. Badger Mrs. Warner Baird Mrs. George H. Barbour Frederic Clay Bartlett Jr. Edwin Belden Mrs. Albert J. Beveridge Mrs. Henry A. Blair Mrs. Paul Blatchford Miss Annie Sara Bock D. F. Bremner Mrs. Walter S. Brewster Mrs. John Buckingham Ralph Budd Mrs. Charles Clinton Buell O. N. Caldwell Mrs. H. H. Clark Leona L. Clark Roger A. Clark Duncan L. Clinch Mr. and Mrs. Dana Corbin Mrs. Ambrose Cramer Sr. Mrs. Leone Fisher Creek Mrs. Paul Crissey Joseph M. Cudahy Mrs. D. Mark Cummings William A. Dasho Charles G. Dawes Henry M. Dawes Thomas F. Delaney M. R. Dial Allan C. Dixon Mrs. James H. Douglas Mrs. Wm. A. Douglass Mrs. Scott Durand Mrs. Warren C. Durkes Mrs. W F. Dummer Mrs. Merle Francis Eshbaugh Fred C. Evers Mrs. Dexter Fairbank Mrs. Marvin A. Farr Phyllis Fergus William Foulks Frank A. Fucik James R. Getz Miss Anne H. Giles William J. Goodman Miss Grace Graham Dr. Olga F. Gustafson Mrs. Bertha S. Hale Arthur B. Hall Corwith Hamill Mrs. Ernest A. Hamill H. L. Hamilton Mrs. Paul Hamlin Mrs. R. F. Hatfield Miss Lucy Hayes Doctor Lola L. Hays Grace S. Heron Angus Hibbard Harriette E. Hills Walter M. Hill Mrs. Freeman Hinckley Olive Raynor Hoit Mrs. Grant Houston C. A. Howe Jane R Hubbell O. N. Hutchinson Mrs. Win, Shippen Jenks Miss Helen S. Jones Frank M. Keith Herbert V Kohler Captain F. X. Koltes Ethel G. Kratz Mrs. Louis E. Laflin Charles A. Laurance Mrs. Joseph Leiter Mrs. Harold E. Leopold Mrs. Anna Levy Mrs. Emile Levy Oscar N. Lindahl Georgia Lingafelt Mrs. Howard Linn Mrs. Frank Granger Logan Mrs. Andrew MacLeish Mrs. Kenneth MacKenzie Dr. George Martin McBean John T. McCutcheon Mrs. Emanuel Mandel Mrs. Robert Mandel Albert C. Mann Mrs. John E Marsh Mrs. Michael L. Mason Mrs. Levy Mayer Mrs. Leeds Mitchell Mrs. William S. Monroe Mrs. G. G. Moseley Richard A. Napier Maurice H. Needham George W Overton Mrs. Allen R. Owen Colonel William Nelson Pelouze Mrs. Herbert F. Perkins Pearl Power Mrs. Marjorie Caton Pyle Mrs. Charles H. Randle Mrs. F. H. Rawson D. M. Ray Miss Lydia G. Robinson Hugo H. Rosen f els Mrs. Wm. Miller Ross Joseph T. Ryerson Mrs. V C. Sanborn Dr. & Mrs. Harry H. Sandoz Miss M. M. Sarver Muriel Schelm Mrs. Otto G. Schmidt Mrs. O. L. Schmidt A. T. Seaholm Mrs. Austin Selz Oscar Serlin Nellie M. Shea Fred A. Sims Edna C. Smith Edward Byron Smith Harold Byron Smith Mrs. Jennie Pickett Smith L. D. Smith Mrs. R. J. Soukup Albert A. Sprague Mrs. Mason B. Starring Patricia Stevens Mrs. Philip B. Stewart Mrs. John Stuart Mrs. Gustavus F. Swift Mrs. D. M. Swobe William Targ Mrs. S. G. Taylor Mrs. John W Thomas Marie Bryant Trieglaff Mr. William E. Turner Frederick B. Tuttle Mrs. Melvin Veeder Mrs. George Voevodsky Mrs. Edward C. Waller Charles C. Walker Mrs. Lansing B. Warner Hempstead Washburne Mrs. J. M. Watkins Mrs. Charles H. Weeden John Willy Mrs. Claiborne A. Wilson Mrs. B. Botsford Young Herbert P Zimmerman PRINTER S NOTE The Garamond and Electra type faces in this volume were Linotype-composed and printed on Victorian wove paper by the Norman Press. Decora- tion by Paul Hazelrigg. Illustrations reproduced by the Advance Lithographing Company. Bound by the John E Cuneo Company. Designed by Norman W Forgue and completed under his supervision at Chicago, during the month of February, 1941 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA THE°El1gANT EIGHTIES. WHEN CHICAGO WAS Y 3 0112 025323970