780.92^ FI84m IRAF4 ^^OAi^AiK h^mimi L I E> RARY OF THL U N 1 VER.5 ITY or ILLINOIS Fl&4m MUm IISTQRICAL SURVEY i?»:S?l:ViM:it::il:i^ ACROSS THE LITTLE SPACE DEDICATED to Dorothy Miller Strong Mother of "Cara Mia" LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS URBANA Dr. Louis Falk (1903) Across the Little Space TKe Life Story of DR. LOUIS FALK as told to His Qreat'Grand'Daughter DOROTHY CARA STRONG Written hy his daughter Francesca Falk Miller (Mrs. Franklin Miller) 1933 The W. D. Bauman Company DAILY NEWS BUILDING CHICAGO ACROSS THE LITTLE SPACE Copyright, 1933 THE W. D. BAUMAN COMPANY Chicago, Illinois Printed in the IT. S. A. ^o Foreword THIS Story of a niusiciaii's life, written by his daughter, seems to me one of unusual beauty and charm. I confess I read the last chapter through tears. Francesca Falk Miller is a poet and when she uses words, she paints pictures with them. How faithful is the picture she has drawn of her German grandfather's household . . . the stern man whose fealty to Carl Schurz exiled him from his native land . . . the gentle grandmother, with the fine sons w^ho adored her ! Hoav delightful is the story of the young Louis Falk's student days in Germany . . . days when he walked thirty miles, in order to hear "Lohengrin" for the first time! It is a satisfying tale . . . early recognition for the great organist in Europe and America . . . joy in his work . complete happiness in his marriage to the beautiful woman who herself had so large a part in the musical life of Chicago, and who, through fifty years, was so devoted a wife, so congenial a companion. Mrs. Miller's story of her father's life, told to a little great- grand-child of the musician, is a distinct contribution to the history of Chicago, particularly from the standpoint of music. It is a book which any Chicagoan should enjoy. Herma Clark. I I 52896 CONTENTS PROLOGUE Chapters I. Exiled. II. My Childhood. III. Europe. IV. 1869-1871. V. The Great Fire. VI. 1871-1874. VII. Marriage. VIII. My Wife. IX. 1890-1900. X. Sunset and Evening Star Illustrations Dr. Louis Falk (Frontispiece). At the Age of Twelve. Dr. Florenz Ziegfeld. Mr. Falk in 1874. Cara Dayton Dickinson (Mrs. Falk). Mrs. Louis Falk as "Josephine" (Pinafore), The Falk Brothers, 1880. Programs Concert: Unity Church, 1871. Concei-t : 01c Bull, 1877. Opera: Pinafore, 1879. Oratorio: The Creation, 1891. Cover of Music 1873 IMMORTALITY And there shall come a day ... in Spring, When death and winter Loose their chill, white hold Quite suddenly. A day of sunlit air When winging birds return, And earth her gentle bosoms bare So that new, thirsty life May nurture there. That breathless hour . . . So filled with warm, soft miracles That faith is born anew. On such a day . . . I shall return to you ! You may not touch me . . . no, For you have thought of me as dead. But in the silence lift believing eyes Toward the dear infinity Of skies. And listen . . . With your very soul held still . . . For you will hear me on some little hill, Advancing with the coming of the year. Not far away . . . not dead . . . Not even gone. The day will suddenly be filled With immortality and song. And without stirring from your quiet place, Your love will welcome mine . Across the little space, And we will talk of every lovely thing . . . When I return ... in Spring! Francesca Falk Miller. (Mrs. Franklin Miller) PREFACE IF I had lived to see you born, Cara mia, this might never have been written. I would have been too busy admiring those deep blue eyes, which you inherited from your great-grandmother; that wee l)ud of a mouth curled so warmly when you smile, or your strong fine little body. But when you decided to come upon our grim old earth to live, I — your great-grandfather — had gone out into the fragrant mists that envelop and veil the strange bourne of eternity. For the mists are fragrant, Cara mia. Fragrant with memories of lieloved ones still on earth and the myriad unborn descendants yet to come. Fragrant with unspoken words and unheard melodies. That dear intimate fragrance of silence — silence deep and calm. You can never see me, Cara mia, until you too pass through those strange mists of silence. But that will be in long years to come, for you are not yet one year old. Your sweet days are reckoned by months not years. But you must know me and know me well, that you may under- stand this thing we call heredity. For into you has gone the blood of generations of ancestors. A bit here and there in your life's stream, from two lines of humanity, that blending in you, make you Avhat you are today — your little self. From someone you may have inherited religion or a love of the open spaces. From another a spark of wit, a dash of coquetry, a bit of common sense or a great deal of genius. And, God grant it — you may have fallen heir to someone's sense of humor. But from me — your great-grandfather — and from her who was the wife of my years on earth — your great-grandmother — may come a talent, or at least a love for music. For, oh my little one, music is the divinest of God's great gifts to the human race ! It can comfort, calm, and refresh. It can inspire, revive and create. It is the voice of eternity loaned to mortal souls for a little while. And so, Cara mia, I am going to tell you my own story — my life and music — and because I cannot write it myself from beyond these fragrant mists, your gi-andmother — my daughter — must do it for me. She loves you, little one, and she alone understands what it means to be born into a home consecrated to this divine art. This art of melody, of harmony, of symphonic beauty. This little biography will not only tell you of my life and my small contribution to music, but it will be a tale of early life in Chicago among the musicians and artists of that day. It will not be a child's story, Cara mia. You must wait until you are a grown girl to read it. But I have a conviction that you will always cherish the picture it unfolds— of your own people living in those "way back when" days of your city — your birthplace— vour century-old Chicago. 14 CHAPTER I Exiled Wintp:r came early to the little village of Uiiter Ostern near the city of Darmstadt in the year 1848, so long- ago. My mother has told me how the gardens were dead by October, even in Southern Germany. But the frost-kissed grapes were abun- dant and the harvests had been rich. The country-folk had stored their grain and made their wines and beer and were now turning to the happiest of seasons — Christmas. Soon they would ])e trimming the green tannenhauni and calling to their neighbors ''Die beaten Gliick-Wiinsche zum neuen yalire!" Happy hearts! Simple joys! And into this season I was born. My father, Cara mia, was a professor in the parochial school next to our church. He taught mathematics, organ, piano, and the theory of music. On Sundays he played the organ at the church service, but I regret to say, this effort on his part, never implanted religion very deeply in his care-free, stormy soul. We were Luther- ans, as were all our relatives and friends. Father's name was John Falk. He was an admirer of Carl Schurz, noted German Sociali'^t. He followed with staunch affection and loyalty every move of the great man, but this same constancy and devotion lost him his coun- try, as you will read of later in this chronicle. My mother was the daughter of the Biirgermeister. Her long but beautiful name was Wilhelmina Franceska Roesing. The Roes- ings were a proud, stern, and "highly respectable" family, and when the gentle young daughter fell in love with gruff, hot-headed John Falk, they raised hands, eyes and voices to heaven. Such a marriage w^ould be a calamity. Mina would be wedded beneath her social position. A poor professor? Pouf ! But ]\[ina had listened to romance — and all musicians are great lovers and sentimentalists. She had tuned her ear and heart to the fiery pleading of her ardent lover. They defied opposition — wore it down — until exasperated and wearied, the Roesings capitulated — and the marriage took place. 15 Ill 1846 their first child was born. He was named Theodore — Gift of God — and the gentle mother promised him in her heart to the ministry. This was a tradition in her family — that the first -liorn son should be given to God. Theodore therefore grew up with his mother's wish in mind. In 1848 — the cold winter mentioned — at an early hour of De- cember 11 — another son was born to Wilhelmina Franceska and John Falk, but this time, the delighted father promptly dedicated his sec- ond boy to music. And I was that son. When christened in our parish churcli, I took the names of the four Godfathers who stood sponsors for me — Ludwig, Rudolph, An- ton, Friedelin — but dropped three of these good Teuton appendages before I was out of Kindergarten One short name was good enough for father — one short name was all his son needed. I never kept even an initial, and after coining to America, dropped the German spelling for the English — and as Louis Falk, lived and died. ]\Iother was up for the Christmas festivities with young Theo- dore hanging to her full wide skirts in feverish excitement. But I — fourteen days old — lay in my clumsy wooden cradle and used my lungs lustily. Later I heard that there was extra celebration in my honor, for was I not almost a Christmas baby? And any excuse is enough for a German feast ! The marvelous kiichen baked with almonds ground into sweet white butter and fine sugar! The rich gingerbread figures cut into shapes of fat men and obese dogs and cats ! The quantities of saus- ages and black bread ! And oh, the gallons of foaming dark beer, that Germans love so Avell ! Was it not the l)irthday of the dear Christ Child? Was not Kris Kringel — j^atron saint of all children — good children — some- where near, with his pack bursting with toys and red mittens? AVas not the gentle Mutter safely through her delivery of another man- child — the red-headed little knahe named Ludwig? And was not Germany God's good place to dwell? Das Vaterland? And then suddenly, Cara mia, Germany was not so good to her sons — the sons who dared think for themselves. Carl Schurz was the target of Imperial disapproval. His sympathizers were thrown into military prison or banished. Schurz and thousands of German Socialists left for America — that land which already had gathered into her ample bosom all the crushed, broken and suppressed of Europe. And in adopting her as his foster-mother, Schurz served her faithfully until his life's end. Many of the Roesings had emigrated during those stormy days. Two of Mina's brothers were living in the States. She herself had grown fearful of constant suspicion and s]>ying. John, her husl)and, 16 was too free with his speech. She lived in daily dread of his arrest and perhai)S imprisonment. In 1850 a third son was born, and close upon the heels of this event, John Falk, who had spoken too force- fully in his class-room regarding the treatment of his friend Schurz, was arrested and held in prison with other prominent town-folk of Unter Ostern. Her distracted family helped Mina off to America — to that far- off city of Pittsburgh, where the brothers had located. Her husband was to follow when — and if — released. She was not allowed even to bid him "good-bye". That voyage, Cara mia, was not as we know a crossing today — no, nor as you will know of it Avhen you are grown to womanhood. It took over a month, with the old vessel buffeting the storms of the Atlantic with more force than sympathy for her passengers. The little mother, although surrounded by friends and other kindly Ger- man refugees, had a hard voyage. She, with her three baby sons — Theodore, Ludwig and now Rudolph — huddled on the mist-drenched, narrow deck and fought off sea-sickness, loneliness and a great fear. Only the w^arm, clinging bodies of her babies saved her from despair. But sturdy German hearts are strong and courage runs high in Teuton blood. Mina weathered the storms, the homesickness, and the crazed fear that threatened to creep over her spirit with crushing intensity — the fear that she might never see husband or parents again. Many another Avoman would have lost her reason, but not Wilhelmina Franceska Roesing, daughter of the Biirgermeister, and mother of three German sons. But at last it was over, and following a very rough trip througli the coal mining country of Pennsylvania, she reached her brother's new home. I wish you might liave seen those three little boys, my Cara ! Such round red faces, with staring eyes under their mops of tow- colored or red hair. Such baggy little pants over fat legs. Such funny quilted hoods and home-knitted mufflers and mittens. Dutchy, you say, Cara mia? Oh, very! The home of the Roesings in Pittsburgh was so new and strange. Fine graceful furniture, far more impractical than those huge pieces left behind in the German village. Nottingham curtains, stiff' with Pittsburgh smoke. Brussels carpet, with great crimson roses woven into a green field. A wonderful lamp hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, that could be pulled down in order to light, then shoved up mysteriously. Theodore tried to climb it once, play- ing monkey, and was promptly spanked for the venture. Mina loved the color and newness of her brother's home. She thrilled to the noise and .swiftness of life in the busy American city. It was only a few months until the father and husband followed 17 his little family to the Western Continent, and then — her happiness nearly complete — she accepted this adopted land for her own. Mina never saw her parents again, for the Falks never left American shores for the country of their birth. By this time Germans had come to the United States by the thousands. The " Forty-eight ers" they were called. They poured over the states of the Central West, settling upon the rich farm- lands of Wisconsin, Illinois and Missouri. Some went even as far south as Texas, where they built their homes and laid out their fields after the manner of the old country. And to this day, Cara mia, they so remain, in all their quaint style and sturdiness. After four years in Pittsburgh, we moved to Kochester, New York, and very briefly, let us skim over those early years of child- hood, in that city. AVe lived in a small frame house, directly facing a side street, so that when the family sat on their front porch on summer evenings, they could look for a long distance down this street and watch sedate horses, drawing surreys, hacks, and low phaetons, jog placidly along. As a very small boy I often wondered what would happen if some old nag were to refuse to turn either left or right, and continue right on, through our front yard and up onto our wide, low porch. But of course it never happened — much to my disappointment. Very little is clear of those early days, save school, church, and skating on the wide sweep of the Genesee River. I lived simj^ly and normally as any little boy would do. But as I grew older, two in- cidents stood out in my memory, remaining with me all these long adult years. My first was a battle with parental authority. My father was a firm believer in the rod, without which the child would be spoiled. Only in this case the rod was a small leather strap. He also had a fiery temper, which only my dear mother could control. She stood between father and sons with some success, but always with mixed emotions, until the hour of her death. Her wide full skirt was sanctuary to her brood. The church where my father played the organ and in whose day- school he was a professor, was a tall, solemn building with a narrow spire. Under this spire hung the old church bell and from this belfry, reached by a wooden ladder, one could look down upon the congregation. And — if one happened to be a small boy of eight or nine years — could drop pebbles slyly down upon i-everently bowed heads, ducking back into the shadow of the ])ells i)rotection. My brother Theo and I had braved the dizzy height many times for the joy of hearing the stones plop on unsuspecting craniunis bent in prayer and the faint little shrieks that followed. One morning, while indulging in this pleasant pastime, we 18 happened to glance out from the ])elfry and saw our father standing like the Judgment Day on the sidewalk below us, with the strap swinging from his strong right hand. ^lother, white-faced and plead- ing, stood by his side. We pondered a moment together, then decided that it was far more to our advantage to creep out upon the sloping roof than to remain near the ladder. It was a perilous decision and I could hear my frantic mother imploring us to go back. One false move and the art of music and the Lutheran ministry would have lost two of their devotees. Theodore weakened first and called down to his mother. "Have father promise not to whip us and we'll come down!" There followed a family conference, but father was obdurate. I purposely slid a few inches and mother screamed. "Promise them, John!" she wailed, "They'll be killed!" Father considered. I really believe he was weighing the pros and cons between a maimed child and a bad one. Finally mother won — or thought she had — and called to us, "Come down, JiehclienI Father Avon't touch you!" We crept slowly backward, like two fat crabs, until our feet touched the belfry window. From there it was only a matter of a few seconds before we reached the ground and were in our mother's arms. Father whipped us, of course. He never intended it otherwise. But mother never knew, and we were too loyal to tell her. The other incident left a deeper impression; in fact it drew my brother and me so closely together, that in after years we were in- separably bound like David and Jonathan. Both lived to pass "three score and ten" and with the years our love and loyalty remained a firm and beautiful thing. We had gone swimming in a "hole" with other boys — a thing forbidden at home, as neither could swim a stroke. But pride and shame before our companions made us dare family wrath and deep waters. Before I realized it I was out beyond my depth. Theo turned in time to see this, and gentle soul that he was, plunged in after me and sank at once. When we both came struggling to the surface, he grabbed me and hung on. Again we sank together, but three of the other boys rescued us. This ended my swimming for- ever, for it created a fear of deep water that unfortunately I was never able to overcome. As I grew older, more was expected of me. I attended school under my strict father, read my Bible daily at my mother's request. devoured all the books I could lay my hands on, and practiced my music long hours on our huge square piano. I was not popular at school, Cara mia, for I teased the small girls by pulling their ])l()nd 19 pig-tails, and blushed with embarrassment before the older ones. I was carrot-headed and had freckles as thick as dandelions in our front yard. Only when absorbed in my music, did I lose self-con- sciousness. Theodore, on the other hand, was the pet of all mother's friends and of every girl at school. He was quiet, studious, artistic and a great lover of beauty. Only to please our mother did he follow his studies for the ministry, for had he been given the choice, a pre- paratory school of art and later a trip to the famous galleries of Europe, would have been his preference. But we were boys of another generation, Cara mia. We were directed, led and taught to obey. We never dared dream of disobedience. Even at our meals, where we were forced to eat all that was put upon our plates, we patiently submitted. Mother told me in later years, how she dis- covered — while house-cleaning her huge I'ound dining-room talkie in the spring — a little dried-up row of old bits of carrots and turnips, that her boys simply could not choke down. We had slipped them on a convenient ledge, when father's face was turned. But let it not appear, my Cara, that I am criticising that great strong spirit that was my father. To him I owed much — my al^ility to bear hardship and handicap — to persevere until the end of human existence. And I know he understood me as possibly no one else in my family did. Serious work began with me when I was offered the position of organist at the North Street Baptist Church at the age of eleven. It hardly seems possible, Cara mia, that a little boy dared accept such an offer, but of course my proud father said yes, so yes it had to be. I remained at that church until we moved from the city. I wish I could describe my pride in that first position as organist of a large church. It was a wonder that I was not spoiled, but father saw to that. He understood the growing mind so well, and would not let me dwell on my work too much, but kept me humble befoi'e my elders. It had been ten years since a bewildered mother and her three little boys stepped from the slow vessel that had rocked her across the Atlantic onto a new continent. Four times she had gone down into that dim valley, that lies between birth and death, and brought back a new morsel of humanity. Two little sisters — frail like herself, who lived only a little while — and two sons. John, named for his father, and Florenz. And now the family turned their steps West- ward, as so many of their race had done, and in 1860 settled in Chicago — there to establish the home that has lived even to your day, my little one. Into the musical annals of this city ; into its Historical Society ; even into its beautiful cemeteries — Rosehill and Graceland — have gone memories that I am hoping will l)ecome precious to you 20 and to your children — oh, little flower, growing in another genera- tion from mine. And so the exiles came to the city by the Lake — (the city we love best) — and with thankful, loyal hearts, called it Home! 21 Louis Falk At the Age of Twelve CHAPTER II My Childhood TOWNSEND Street in 1860 was a charming avenue of small houses, green lawns and a varied collection of shade trees. Today, my Cara, it is in the heart of Little Italy, and the intersection of the two thoroughfares, where my brothers and I played '"tag" after school, is now called "Death Corner" — because of the many killings in the deplorable gang- wars of 1927 to 1933. "Where mother's flowers grew, no doubt some bootlegger came to his end, and the echo of the "plud-plud" of horses hoofs on wooden block pavements is drowned entirely now by rushing automobiles. But when father moved from Rochester to Chicago, Townsend Street seemed grand to our young eyes. Only a short walk to La Salle Street, where St. Paul's Evangelical Lutheran Chu]-ch and School stood, and only a block or so farther to Lincoln Park — then a cemetery — at the North boundary of the city. There, in the shadows of prim old grave-stones, we played at "ghosts" — a game that sent alternating thrills of adventure and chills of apprehension down our boyish spines. Another glorious play-ground was on North State — the ruins of an old brewery. This gave us a setting for German castles and feuds. The blue waters of Lake Michigan lay only a few blocks to the East, but in 1860 it had practically never been discovered. Where Oak Street beach now gathers its thousands of bathers onto its golden bosom, then rose mounds of sand and hummocks of coarse grass, while over this desolation hung the stale smell of dead fish tossed up onto the beach. Only when the Lady Elgin sank off the shore of lower Wisconsin, did the lake register upon our minds. It immedi- ately became a power, a mystery and a menace. We much preferred the prairies beyond the western l)Ounds of the city, that were so sunny and where wild strawl)errics abounded. Or the far-distant slopes of the old Chicago river's Nortli l)ank, dotted with arbutus and early violets. 23 At Pastor Hartman's school — still under my father's tutelage — I continued my education. Many of the older German-Americans in Chicago today, remember attending that seat of learning in early childhood. It was an institution of note throughout the Middle West. Later the parish moved to its present location on Fullerton Avenue, and is still known as "Old St. Pauls". My piano and organ lessons were now augmented l)y violin and composition. I never cared much for the fiddle, nor especially for ])iano, but an organ gave me an immensity of feeling, which could not 1)6 ])ut into words. It seemed so lofty in x^urpose ; so noble in structure ; so glorious in power. Many an afternoon, Theo and I would steal into the empty church — he to sit on the pul])it in our pastor's great carved chair, dreaming no doubt of his ministry to come, while I with legs barely reaching the huge wooden ])edals, would struggle with the various ''stops" and keyboards, improvising blissfully. Once my father crept in, and sitting in the silent dark- ness of the church, paid me the honor of remaining until my childish concert was over. But I was not allowed to drop the other musical instruments. The piano, which seemed like pale sugar cookies beside the plum- pudding tones of my favorite pipe organ, was the A. B. C. of my education, and although I was never proficient at the violin, it never- theless became part of my daily routine. One incident, however, soon ended my fiddling performances for all time. J\Iany small boys sell magazines or run errands to eke out their allowances, but I played my violin in the small orchestra at Mc- Vicker's Theatre (the first of the three theatres bearing that name) and because of my youth — I was only thirteen — and the size of the salary I earned, I became the envy of every boy on the North side. A few of the larger and older chaps took it upon themselves to threaten me, demanding that I give up my job. For quite a while I stuck it out, scurrying to the stage-entrance in the wake of the cellist, who happened to be a man of large pro- portions. But one night they caught me as I was leaving the theatre to go home, and the bully of the gang struck at me with a base-ball bat. The blow, grazing my hat and landing on my nose, broke the bridge and almost blinded me. The ])ain and shock knocked me un- conscious. This, Cara mia, ended my theatre engagement. Father lost no time in reporting the assault and I believe the bully Avas punished in proportion to his crime, but that did not help matters with my nose, which carried a rather flattened bridge to the end of my days. My professional career was now fully launched. I was organist at the age of fourteen at tlie Holy Name Cathedral — a position T held until I left for my studies abroad. Mother hesitated before she allowed her boy to enter a religious atmosphere so far removed from 24 her own faith, but father, caring nothing for any one l^elicf when it, came to music, allowed me to accept, and as he always got his way, I entered upon one of the happiest engagements of my youth. And may I add here, Cara mia, that the last church I entered, upon the Palm Sunday only a few weeks before I passed into these silent spaces, was dear, old Holy Name Cathedral. I also had many concert engagements, for at that time there were very few children "virtuosi" and my small fame spread. One appearance was with Tom Thumb, famous dwarf of the last cen- tury. If you could have seen me on that concert stage, carrying "Mr. Thumb" in my arms onto the platform, in order to accentuate the size of a pigmy in relation to a lad of my years, you would have smiled. My father was becoming inordinately proud of my accom- plishments. It was — "Mein sohn Loo'ee" — day and night. But I was never in danger of becoming spoiled, for the more he praised the harder he made me study. Thorny is the path of a musician's early youth. In my fourteenth year the greatest sorrow of my boyhood came into my life, blotting out all ambition and joy for the time. My gentle mother died. In my grief and bewilderment I clung to Theo- dore. He became my only comfort in those first hard days of loss. That he undoubtedly suffered far more than the other children never entered my head. He was the oldest of the little family of five boys and to him we all turned. Father, always stern, seemed to close his heai-t completely. Stoical, silent and strict as ever, during those early months of his bereavement, he repelled instead of inviting our mutual condolences, and we would no more have thought of going to him for sympathy, than to one of the cold stone statues dotting the lawns of Lincoln Pai'k. A distant relative now came to live with us, as John and Florenze were still small tots. She must have been a good house- keeper, or father would not have kept her. Our home routine con- tinued as usual, but what this admirable relation looked like or what she said and did, never registered. She simply made no impression whatever. Only through love, Cara mia, can our companions enter into that realm known as memory. They buried our mother in Clraceland, that beautiful cemetery of the young growing city. It is still beautiful, with its wooded paths and old walls. Many of the graves from Linclon Park were being transferred to Graceland, as the older burying-ground was being completely surrounded now by the rapidly spreading city. Soon it l)ecame the ])ublic ])ark, that it has i-emained unto this day, with no reminder of its former character save the white mausoleum of the Couch family, and the huge stone that covers the historical grave of David Kennison, hero of the Revolution and the War of 1812. 25 Theo and I went often to Graeeland. We took the ear on North Clark Street to the end of the line, then tramped the rest of the way on foot. We usually made the trip on Saturday, taking our lunch with us. Sitting in the long grass beside the country road, that is now Irving Park Boulevard, we whispered together of our mother. With a wholesome boyish viewpoint of such things, we talked of life and death and the eternity that was to come. We had not reached the doubtor's age and our faith was that of a little child. Theodore reverently renewed his pledge given to our mother to become a minister, while I, not wishing to be outdone, i)lanned to write a great requiem to her memory. There is a little faded picture of my mother, Cara mia, in an old red plush album. Study it carefully. Below that severely parted hair, lay a brow calm and serene from her deep religious convictions and her mother-love. And under the old-fashioned folds of her funny plaid silk gown, beat the gentle heart that quieted all too soon. Old photographs give amusement to many, but I think they are touch- ingly beautiful. Styles so quickly change that it is not worth while to ridicule their eccentricities. It is character that remains un- changed and lasting through the passing of time. The months that followed were uneventful. Study, small duties to perform, time for reading, hours of practice, concerts and church, simi)le meals and early bedtime. Fatlier, a great disciplinarian, Avas also a wise, kind mentor. In after years, I realized that to him we owed our health and good habits. Our l)odies were sti'ong and our minds clean and wholesome. But before two years had passed, another change came into our home. My father married again, and the map of our lives was decidedly altered. This new wife — Louisa Sandway — was really a very fine woman and indeed fortunate were the younger children in having so good and kind a step-mother. She was capable, strong, wise and kind- hearted and made my father an excellent wife. But Theo, Rudy and I — the sons who had crossed the Atlantic in those far-off years — recognized only one mother — the mother who had brought us to this new country, had placed our baby feet on the path of life and who had left us only so recently. (She of tlie lovely name and lovelier spirit.) And remembering her with such deep affection, we could not give to this new wife as much love as did the other little sons; especially John, who was drawn to her by kindness and understand- ing. Later he told me of his eai-liest memories of this new mother (for I was away in Euro])e so mucli of the time). He can remember her feeding returning Wisconsin soldiers cami)ing in the street in front of oui' home, and of her being constantly at work, sewing or cooking, for the needy in those dreadful days after the war. 26 Two little sons were born into this new home — only to die in infancy — and two daughters. It was strange that only the sons of Wilhclmina lived, and only the daughters of Louisa. Bertha was born in Chieago before tlie fire and the last cliild, Louise, after they had moved to Ohio (where both are living today). But this family history must he hv'iQi, my Cara, so we will leave it here and continue to speaiv further of my work. The services of a great Catholic Church take many hours of an organist's time, and I was only a young lad after all. From fourteen to sixteen were two of the busiest years of my life. I was teaching both hai'mony and organ, with a few piano lessons on the side, and I i)ut in at least five hours practice a day. If ever I found a little spare time for composition, it was in mj- room at night, but I was usually too sleepy to do much along this line. And besides, I was never intended for a great composer. The organ-sonatas, fugues, songs and cantatas that I wrote during my sixty-five years of music, were not many. Mine w'as the active life of instructor and performer. We had moved from the rapidly changing and disintegrating neighborhood of Townsend Street to the shady thoroughfare known as Oak Street. Our white-painted frame house stood on the very lot the Opera Club graces at the present time. The little park between Clark and Dearborn Streets became the new playground for my younger brothers — a quiet square, so different from today. Unity Church, with its tall spire, stood across from our rear lawn, while down the street a popular Congregational edifice vied with its neigh- bor each Sunday for the greater congregation. This New England church boasted of a bit of Plymouth Eock sunk into its corner-stone, and father teased the boys until they w^ere frantic at not being able to discover its whereabouts. We were always rather chagrined over the fact that St. Pauls had no historic pebble. On the conier of Clark and (then) Whitney Street, stood the big square house belonging to the Ogden family. On the whole, it Avas ciuite an interesting neighborhood, my Cara, with the horse-cars jogging up Clark Street toward Lincoln Park and to the left the noble old homes along Chestnut, Rush and Pine (now ^lichigan Avenue). To the south we could see the spires of the Catholic Cathedral, while still further on, rose the .stubby turret of St. James, where a famous altar was later dedicated to the soldiers of the Civil War. But I must go back and speak of that war, Cara mia. especially its end. We boys talked and played at war every spare moment. Little John and Florenz were always the Johnny Rebs, while Rudolph and I were Yankees. The great difference in our ages lost the rebels every skirmish — but they never gave up. 27 Father's sympathies were with the Northerners. He gloried in the triumphs of his friend and hero, Carl Sehurz, and regretted out- wardly with loud voice that he was too old and his sons too young to serve their adopted country. Inwardly, I think he gave tlianks that we were still under drafting age. When Abraham Lincoln was shot, Chicago became a bedlam of angry, stunned and hopeless people. And when that silent, beloved body was borne back to its native State, men and women wept openly and unashamed in the city streets. Before the burial at Springfield, the body lay in state in tlie old City Hall, and every boy in our neighborhood fought to sing in the choir that was hurriedly trained for the solemn service. I was sixteen now, with a voice that had developed into a light high tenor, and knowing the choirmasters at ])oth Holy Name and St. James, it was no trick to be counted in their groups. That I sang in that memorable service with other awed and reverent youths, was one of the proudest events of my life. Can you see it, Cara mia ? White dresses on the little girls; black ties on the boys; muffled drums and solemn choruses; the beautiful strains of the funeral march ; white faces and tears ; flags drooping at half-mast, and vast crowds of heart-broken patriots. While in the midst of it all, the long, pathetic casket, holding the mortal remains of America's mar- tyred President. He seemed so alone, lying there, in his little oasis of everlasting sleep. But looking out over the great throng, I realized that he could never be quite alone, for love would accompany him wherever he fared. "Alone? Within the tomb of everlasting sleep. Where lullabies of wind and river sweep Above his quiet rest, While life goes on . . . resistless as the sea . . . Sweeping the years aside eternally? Alone . . . that martyred dead with folded hands? No, not alone . . . beside thee . . . millions strong . . . A Nation stands!" But changes were coming fast, my Cara. Even wars fade rapidly into dim, sad memories and brother soon clasps the hand of brother, forgetting all quarrels. Father, although an exile himself, decided that only in his native country — das Vaterland — should his son complete his education. Germany stood in the eyes of the world the greatest music center of Europe. There one could study with the masters of that day and remain as long as one wished. For in those times, students did not make the crossing for a few months of hurried study. It was a matter of years. 28 We were not wealthy, but father had saved what he could with this in mind. Theodore was to enter a Divinity School at the same time, but the expense would be much less. Many evenings were spent around our library table with pencil, paper, and no little argument, the younger boys looking on Avith awe. Our church at last came to the rescue. A purse had been raised for their parishoner's ambitious son, and this with what father had saved, was enough to keep me in Germany four years. Those were exciting days, my Cara. Music to be selected for my audition, simple clothing to be purchased, everything carefully ])acked (the entire family assisting) and the last tearful goodbyes and ''auf wiederseJiens" said. Then the long, last instructions from father carefully noted — grand old man that he was! I often won- dered how he felt to see his son returning to that beloved Vatcrland, to whose shores he, himself, was never allowed to return. On November 9, 1865. a "Grand Farewell Concert" was given me at Bryan Hall. It seemed that all musical Chicago was on hand to bid me bon voyage. Friends from the Holy Name ; Pastor Joseph Hartman and his entire Lutheran congregation ; neighbors, fellow- students, and even strangers who had heard me play, packed to over- flow that old concert hall. And so I was sent on my way ! Oh, the utter desolation and homesickness that swept over me as the train chugged over the rich prairies of Indiana and Ohio. The four j-ears seemed a life time! En route I visited my mother's relatives in Pittsburgh. They had heard of my musical progress and I was feted royall}^ A few days later I stood on the dock with mingled feelings of pride and sorrow, and sailed from the very pier where fourteen years before, I had landed on foreign soil, a fat "Dutchy" little boy, clinging to my mother's hand — a hand now stilled forever. From that moment, Cara mia, I became a man. Gone were hours of boyish play — I was entering on real adventure. Far to the West were my own loved ones, but from now on, I must travel the path alone. Of course I was wild to go ! I would see my birthplace. I would hear the great orchestras and opera companies of Europe. Germany meant music. It was the land of Beethoven and Goethe. I would feast my soul ! But as the New York harbor slowly faded from sight, a great revelation swept over me, and my heart gave a Avild leap in my breast. Thank God I was to return some day ! Nothing could wean me away. I was not German in my soul. I loved this adopted country of mine, where my dear ones lived and where my beloved mother slept. America ! That was it — America ! I had become one of her sons ! 29 CHAPTER III Europe IT WAS late summer when I arrived in Hesse Darmstadt. The fields were lush from long hours of hot sunshine and ])aths of early dew. Between long rows of grain, blue corn-tiowers lifted azure heads. Here and there red poppies lent a splash of color rivaling the setting sun. The air was aromatic. Unter Ostend, spreading over the low hillside, looked quaint and very foreign to me as I walked up the steep village street. The rough stone houses and shops built against the curb impressed me with a sense of friendliness. Doors were widely open and upon every deep window-ledge fuchsias bloomed. The entire atmosphere of the town, Cara mia, breathed a gentle, huml)le hospitality. At one of the smaller cottages I paused with deep emotion. They had told me at the Kajfeehaus that here I would find Frau ]\Iaul, who had been the nurse attending my mother when her first three sons were born, and I was very anxious to see her. She had been a young woman when we left Germany — possibly thirty-six or thirty-seven — so that now she would be in her fifties. 'Sly dear mother had been greatly attached to her, often telling us of her many virtues. A small boy, answering my knock, told me that die Tante was in her garden down the hillside and directed me how to find the spot. The residents of the village had their gardens quite a distance from their homes, each family owning a small plot of ground which was planted with vegetables, flowers, and shrubs, according to the choice and taste of the owner. These gardens adjoined, giving variety and naturally a friendly rivalry every season. In the early evening neighbors would stroll doAvn the steep narrow streets leading to their garten-platz to gather the vegetables for the next day, to pluck a few weeds from the flower-beds, and of course to gossip. Frau ^laul did not see me approach. She was bending over her lettuce bed pulling off stray withered leaves. But when I spoke her name she rose al)ru])tly, turned and studied my face witli kindly 30 shrewd eyes. In silence we stood facing one another, then suddenly she cried with joy, ''I cannot he wrong! You are one of Mina R5esing's sons!" And flinging lier arms wide, she welcomed me home. There were Nightingales singing in the hedge behind us as we sat on the little wooden bench in that garden ... so gorgeous an evensong as to make the heart skip a beat. In our Southern States, Cara mia, one hears the mocking-bird's golden voice, but they, like other feathered folk, sing with the day and sunshine. But it takes the twilight, the early stars, or the crescent moon to inspire the nightingale, and coming at such an hour, his limpid, sweet notes create an impression of a symphony that is near to being angelic. Far into the evening we talked. I told Frau Maul of America, of our new life and of my own musical progress. We wept together over my mother's death. When at last I left her at the door of her stone cottage, she kissed me, saying: "If you are not happy with your own kin, my Louis, come back to your old nurse!" My visit to my mother's old home was a shock and bitter dis- appointment. The displeasure of her parents was so clearly and heartlessly shown. That mother had married my father was bad enough. That America had claimed nearly all their children was still worse. But that IMina had died in that far-off, alien country was the blow that had crushed their spirit and aifection. I was a Falk — ya woM, it was stamped on my face ! I was a musician like my father — lieher Gott, what a tragedy! They received me coldly, haughtily, and with cruel indifference. I tried to find one spark of the gentleness and love that my mother possessed, but it was not there. They were still wealthy, respected, and as proud as they had been in their youthful years, but they had not grown old with grace and they were hopelessly old-fashioned. We talked auto- matically for awhile and then I was ceremoniously ushered out. "That night, Cara mia, I slept under my nurse's humble roof, deep in one of her hand-plucked duck-feather beds, sheltered and content in the warmth of her faithful love. I never saw my grand- parents again ! From Darmstadt I went direct to Cassel, there to present my letters of introduction and play before the great master, Dr. Wilhelm Volckmar of Homberg. That he accepted me as a pupil was gratify- ing, for there were many who enviously sought the honor, but the master could not give time to all. For two years I studied with Dr. Volckmar, and as it was only a matter of a short ride to Darmstadt and Heidelberg, some of the brief vacations I could afford, were spent in or around these pic- turesque old cities. 31 Heidelberg Avith its University Avas ever a source of wonder and joy. I knew one chap from Chicago who was a student there, and he took me into the ''inner circle" of that life, that has thrilled students the world over. Being timid of physical hurt, caused no doubt by the super- sensitiveness of my hands, I never understood the custom of duelling among the students. Now this is all past, but in those days it was impossible to walk the streets of Heidelberg without seeing young men with faces ci-iss-crossed with scars from these honor duels. The more scars, Cara mia, the more the student strutted. I roamed for hours among the old university buildings and over wooded paths of the campus. The ancient i)lace seemed alive with long-dead students. The atmosi)here was charged with the past ; with echoes of love and life that once had been the pulse-beat of the famous old place of education. The country of Hesse-Cassel was the noble, finished ])roduction of Central Germany. Winding rivei-s cut the green hills. Charm- ing villages nestled in a riot of gardens. Clrapes ripened on the slopes, perfuming the air. Everywhere one felt that settled, orderly completeness, as well as the beauty. In such environment must Beethoven, Schubert and Haydn have put out their best effoi'ts. From such beauty must the poetry of Heine and Goethe have sprung. Was it any wonder, my little one, that my soul nearly burst with youthful ambition? And my dreams came true, for Dr. Volckmar promised that before I left Germany, he would arrange a concei't tour of the principal cities for me, and he honora])ly kept his Avord. From Cassel, two years later, I went to Leipzig, where I enrolled in practically every musical study known. This sounds far more terrifying than it was, for in the German conservatories of that day, one paid a stated price to enter and could take all the studies one wished. So, realizing the value of my limited funds, I decided to waste nothing. I even went back to violin lessons, and — whisj^er it gently behind one of your pink little baby hands — vocal lessons as well. Today a first-rate teacher would not have taken me. My instructors at the Leipzig Conservatory were famous men of their day. Richter, Hauptman, and David, masters of their art. And foremost among them was Carl Reinecke, at that time Conductor of the Gcivandhaus concerts at Leipzig. Great teachers ! Able to do Avonders Avith an embryo musician. But stern and relentless taskmasters. From the day of matricula- tion every hour Avas spent in either lesson periods or long grinding practice. I roomed Avith a chap who was specializing in piano, and who became one of the really famous pianists of Europe and America. But when I knew him best he was simply "Barney" to me, and just as penurious as I was obliged to be. 32 We liad found a peyision in a modest home for a few pfennig and where we were allowed to cook(?) our own meals. In reality we did very little housekeeping. Coffee and a sweet roll was our break- fast ; a couple of crackers our lunch. The main meal was eaten at one of the cheaper Hofbraus in the college town and consisted of a thick soup, black bread, cheese and of course, beer. We walked an allotted three miles each day to keep fit, either in the early dawn or in the twilight. For another pfennig or two the landlady did our washing and often darned our socks or sewed on buttons. Every cent we saved from our limited income, went into an old cracked stein on our cupboard shelf. This Avas a fund to be used only for concerts and opera, and then, spent judiciously. I have often wondered, my little one, if those who pay great prices to sit in lordly boxes enjoy the music one-tenth as much as that earnest student up in his top-most seat of the cheapest balcony, especially if he has gone without a few meals to secure it. For to many, the hunger for good music will win over the hunger for food. Men never yet have lived happily by bread alone. Our little room at the pension, Cara mia, was fearfully and wonderfully arranged. Two cots, each with a gay "pieced" quilt for a spread, faced each other across the room, with a common table between them for our candle. At the other end, next to our one wide- silled window, stood a chiffonier, which we shared. I say "shared" in great truth, for in the matter of ties, handkerchiefs, socks, et cetera, it was always the first man to the bureau drawer. Unusual, but simple when it came to haste in the dark, winter, morning hours. In the center of the room was a long ink-stained desk, where we did our lessons in composition and harmony. There were initials carved on that old flat desk, Cara mia. Initials of students long since gone out into the world and perhaps into the silence. And I too carved "L. F." in crooked letters, which Barney promptly baptized in ink. My daily organ practice was done on the top floor of one of the older college buildings. On the lower floors lived the families of professors connected with the school. Every day, from two until five, I would be found on the old organ bench with a huge pile of music beside me, shutting out eveiything but my all-absorbing work; giving myself over to the luxury of solitude. However, one cannot shut out sound; it penetrates even thick walls. Below this lofty practice-room lived an old harmony teacher whom we affectionately called "Largo" — as his girth and shape of waist-line was a fearfully amusing affair. He invariably wore a faded red lounging-gown and a black silk skull-cap, and smoked a long pipe that emitted a vile odor. He was clever, stern, and prone to giving sound advice. He must have listened to all that went on around the building, for nothing escaped his old eyes and ears. 33 Simply let me pull out an extra loud "stop" in the old organ, or give the pedals crescendo, and my door would immediately open to admit 7nein her)' — rank pipe and all — who would cross the room, silently puffing, select the stop that disturbed him, push it in care- fully, turn and leave the room without one w'ord to me. In fact, he never seemed to notice that I was present. Of course, within a few moments the stop was pulled out again, and I continued with my ])ractice. But alas for German argument I Once more the door would open, the old man would enter and the entire performance be repeated. Had I rebelled or even cjuestioned his authority, it would have meant trouble for me in the school. I tried, however, to win him over. I continued with the stops that offended, but it brought about the same result. The old fellow simply corrected what he thought was my mistake and went out silently. At last I gave up to his inexhaustible patience and left the organ as he wished it to be. ]\Iy chum and I made few personal friends. l)ut were always ready to join the crowd of .students at the Ilofhrau. We couldn't afford much beer in those days, but if one was very careful to keep his stein-lid down when the waiter came around, our companions never really knew whether they were being refilled or not. AVe ate the free pretzels and toasted everyone from the Kaiser down to the student's boot-black on the corner, with a rousing "liocli!" On Saturday evening there was always a dance, but never l^eing at ease with the girl students or village belles, and a wretched dancer in the bargain, I seldom cared to attend. On Sunday everyone had to go to church, but this was never a hard.ship because of the organ music and the famous choir. It was to the opera and symphony orchestras, however, that my heart was continually turning. I never forgot, Cara mia, how I heard Wagner's immortal Loliengrin! It was an experience that comes but once in a lifetime. The performance was given in Dresden, in that beautiful city's Opera House. This seemed as far away to us as heaven. By rail it was out of the question, but by a little mail boat from Torgau it was within the limitation of our purse. However, Torgau was about fifteen miles from Leipzig, and this being before the days of the automobile or even good wagon roads, except between the larger cities, we had but one choice — we walked. It was easy to miss one day at our classes, for tlie Ilerr Professor encouraged just such enthusiasm as we were showing. Not daring to stop along the road for lunch, we partook of a heartier breakfast than usual, taking a few crackers and slice of cheese in our pockets to munch while we tramped. We had to cover the fifteen miles before the afternoon boat. 34 It was a clear, cool October day. Little clouds raced across the blue of the sky, throwing .shadows on the dust of the road beneath our feet. The grapes in the vineyards we passed were waiting the first cold kiss of frost, so had not been gathered. Somewhere in a cottage a woman sang to her child. Life seemed .so full of joy and love and fulfillment. We reached the steamer in time, and with a sigh of relief sank down on her deck stools to enjoy the scenery along the Elbe. We did not mind the uncomfortable, rather dirty little boat, so wrapped were we in the dark forests and sudden patches of colorful fields or gardens on the river's bank. Several towns slid by and then at last — Dresden. I shall not try to describe my first impression of that charming city on the Elbe. Only to say, that never in later years, did such awe and ecstacy possess me. I could not speak from very joy and wonder over all I saw. So, my Cara, is youth's reaction at eighteen ! ' After the opera was over, we took a still dingier and smaller l)oat that ran only after midnight to carry freight. But Barney and I were so filled with the beauty and glory of Wagner, that w^e never saw the deck at all. We only looked at the stars over our heads, as we lay stretched out on the benches, trying to rest a bit before our long walk back to Leipzig. Neither of us could .sleep. We were still hearing that immortal prelude. From Torgau we walked the long fifteen miles again. All through the rest of the night and the grey hours of dawn we trudged, that we might not miss another day at our classes. And at nine o'clock, we staggered in to the halls of the conservatory, without even the time for our breakfast coffee. Tired? I fell a.sleep in class, Cara mia, half-way through a counterpoint example. Only the sharp click of a pencil on my ear woke me up. But when I explained to my irate professor w^hat had caused this unusual drowsiness he became delightfully sympathetic and sent me home for a two-hour recess in whicli to take a brief nap and snatch a bit of lunch. But oh, that Wagner evening in Dresden, my little one ! Some- day you too will under.stand the great power of the master; will sympathize wdtli the woes of Elsa and Elizabeth ; will thrill to the fatal "Twilight" that fell upon the ancient gods, and will weep with tragic I.solde. Can you not see us that long-ago night in Dres- den? Bending over in our high gallery seats to watch the great audience far below us? They resembled a garden of variegated bloom — all color, light and perfume. Gay parties in the circle of curtained boxes. Soldier, Diplomat, Royalty. From our high perch the or- chestra resembled a mound of black swarming insects, with glisten- ing antenne, that were the brass instruments. The artists on the stage seemed like little pigmies in a puppet show. But oh, the music! That glorious roll of sound sweeping from the pit and .surg- 35 ing up into the very dome of the opera house. I closed my eyes dizzy with ecstacy. Wagner! Creator of musical drama! Past master of human emotion tuned to the rhythm of great orchestration ! Interpreter of life, love and death ! So passed the months. So ran the years. It seemed but the flight of a dream before my four years of study were over and it was time for me to go home. I was now nearly twenty-one. I had lost my freckles and most of my awkwardness. I grew taller, thinner, and more of a blonde than a red-head. My new German clothes were baggy and poorly fitted, while my shoes were bought for durability and not for style. But my liands were entirely satisfactory, Cara mia, for they were supple and the fingers long. They could reach from one organ manual to another with ease, and never fumbled over intricate passages. If I ever had so much as a scratch on my fingers, I would actually suffer. They had a sensitiveness beyond the average. A dancer's soul lies in his rapid feet; a singer's in his throat. My soul lay in my long, nervous, supple fingers. By the time I reached my graduation, I had absorbed the German musician's life completely — it is a wonder that I ever went back to the States. Four years in the musical center of the world does something to you. You become a part of its very existence. But home lay across the wide ocean — home, father, and my young brothers. Yes, and the dear people of Chicago who had helped to give all this to me, and who were eagerly awaiting my return. Only one person in all Germany came to see me graduate from the Leipzig Conservatory, Cara mia — Frau Maul, my dear old nurse. Having her there seemed like my own mother's blessing. My grand- parents had passed out of my life, I did not miss them very much, I admit. Only when love comes unasked is it desired. Let them have their j^ride, their family coat of arms — which is a very lovely thing for you to cherish, my little one — their lineage from old Falkenburg baronic days, and their wealth, thought I. They could not vision all the richness of life that I possessed through my music — in my long, thin fingers. A signet ring of the Von Falkenburgs came to America, Cara mia, but as a second son I never owned it. What became of it, I never knew. The voyage home seemed slow and almost endless, for once on my way, I was wild with impatience to be home. I was proud of my successful concert-tour. I had warm letters from famous in- structors, great sheafs of autographed music, a bag full of presents for my dear ones, a large blue ring on my first ( !) finger, and — shades of Teutonic influence — a large blonde moustache on my upper lip ! And so I returned to Chicago ! 36 CHAPTER IV 18694871 I was scarcely prepared for the changes that awaited me in Chicago upon my return. The city had grown so rapidly in the four years of my absence. And not alone in size, but in l)eauty and dignity as well. The quiet avenues were bordered with shade trees and neat little front yards all exactly alike. Houses were varied from "Queen Annes" to "Brown Stone Fronts" with sidewalks that also differed with the level of the lot, raising some and lowering others, so that one had a feeling of going up and down little hills — which after all was not so bad, Cara mia, in a very flat country. The business section — never dreamed of as "The Loop" in those days — had changed so rapidly and so materially during my absence, that I felt almost a stranger in my own home town. A fine new hotel had sprung up on Randolph Street, and two large department stores. Over the block or asphalt pavements of the main residential streets, sedate phaetons, dignified surreys or rakish tetering cabs passed in endless procession, drawn by horses of every rank and condition from smart, shining "spans" to a single, plodding, old family nag. Now and then a gentle Shetland pony would join the others, my little one, to be the envy of every child that saw it pass. Michigan Avenue had grown beyond its boundary at 12th Street, as had Wabash Avenue with its "elegant" homes and "noble" churches. They reached far (?) out into the new "South Side" — in fact beyond the "twenties." In 1864 the Illinois Central's last local stop was the 16th Street Station, from the steps of which, one could look far over the sandy prairies to a distant Convent, where I had trudged twice a week, crossing a stile at Avhat is now 22nd Street, to give lessons in harmony to young pupils whose families were connected with the Holy Name parish, where I was organist. I picked up more burrs on these walks, Cara mia, than you will probably see in your entire life-time. There will be so many books for you to read of early Chicago, and so many lovely old prints to admire, that I need not take the 2,7 time to si)(^ak ol' nil this. As n school '/]v\ you iiuist «:o to The Chicago Histoi'ieal Society where you will find more of interest than I could ever give to you. l>ut of that early, intimate musical life, that will 1)0 so soon forgotten, I can tell you much, for it was the very food upon which my soul was fed. After the few weeks I allowed myself to visit relatives and friends, I entered into the business for which I had been so thor- oughly trained. Pupils came in astonishing numbers to me, as well as concert engagements. I was offered the position of organist in Unity Church on the corner of North Dearborn and *Whitney Streets, where Dr. Robert Collyer was the minister. As he had founded the church after his exit from the Methodist faith and because of its spectacular growth and popularity of its preacher, my Lutheran lelatives rebelled at my serving so new and strange a religion. I really believe, Cara mia, that they feared for the salvation of my immortal soul. And I am sure they thought the jolly minister would some day grow horns. But as I was now of an age where I could take care of my own soul and run my own affairs, I accepted the offer gladly and became a staunch admirer and friend of the famous and popular Dr. Collyer. I remained at Unity Church until the great fire of '71, revelling in that noble old pipe-organ and the spacious aisles of the fine old church. During that last spring I gave weekly organ recitals, drawing flattering crowds from all parts of the city, at which popular vocal and violin artists of that day assisted. I was now beginning to acquire the reputation of an excep- tionally good organist — an honor which I fervently hope I deserved ! There were many reasons for this. I was newly returned from Eui'ope, Avhere I had made a concert tour with no small success. I could teach the "pipe organ" — as it was called — with understand- ing, as well as the many difficult branches of musical theory. And above all this — I loved my work. JMay I humbly quote, my Cara, f]'om one of Chicago's well-known newspapers'? "Mr. Falk was one of the first to make organ concerts popular in Chicago and the Middle-west. He has probably given more of this sort of entertainment than any living musician in this country. His playing is characterized by great brilliancy, combined with the utmost ease in manual ])edal dexterity. In the matter of producing beautiful and novel effects in combinations of stops, his rei)utation is the highest." I only write of this, Cara mia, for you to know" and treasui-e as l)art of your own inheritance. For remember, my dear child, that no one stands alone on the heights ; there are many others who share honors. No one person receives all of God's great blessings, for He has a way of disti'ibuting His gifts. * Walton Place. 38 f ^ AT ?| {Corner of y. Dearborn Jc Whitney Sts. ) Buoiixij, May 7, 1871, at 3 1-2 O'clock P. M. IVlFl.|L.QUrjS FALKr Organist. PAi?T ll. /. Grand l'olu//tary, yfelj MR. LOUIS FALK. o Air, "With jiioics Hearts", rr^,,yt^f ^- Tiect. d: Air, "Arm Arm ye Sraye" , ^""^^^ (Judas .Ma(;ca'ia(;us. ^ MR. THOMAS GOODWILLIE. 3. Andante, 'Secthoren MR. LOUIS FALK. A. "'^uth and Aaomi", Toplijf MISS CARRIE GOLDSTICKER. PA:R.? tli. ,5 O/f'crtoirc, ) Satiste ^' Trover, \ ' ^arisre MR. LOUIS FALK. (j\ Airjrom " Za jFaroritc'' , 'Donizetti MISS G. GOLDSTICKER. 7 • Overture, Aubcr MR. LOUIS FALK. f ^ jjr^si CoMiTTi & LoEUR, Job Printers, fi4 Randolph St. Program Concert: Unity Church, 1871 LIBRARY imiVERSITY OF ILUNOIS URBANA And now I come to my life-long friend — probal)ly the one closest to me in my sixty years of music in Chicago. I refer to Di-. Florenz Ziegfeld, founder of the Chicago Musical College and patron of all the arts. Dr. Ziegfeld was born in Jever, Grand Duchy of Oldenburg, Germany. His father had occupied an official position at Court and his son had received an unusually fine education. His title of ''Doctor" was a medical degree, but he never practiced this pro- fession, preferring music to all else. He was a fine pianist and became quite a famous teacher of that instrument. He was also a Lutheran and a Mason. In 1867 Dr. Ziegfeld had started a school known as the Academy of Music, the headquarters of which was in the Ziegfeld home on Wabash Avenue. But this did not grow into the great institution he had anticipated. He wanted a conservatory of musical learning that would conform with the ideals of Europe. Surely the time was ripe for a greater venture, so upon my return to Chicago he called a meeting of his teachers and a few close friends to hear his extensive plans and join him in enlarging the school already begun. Can you go back with me, Cara mia, to that high-ceilinged room known as "the back parlor" in the Ziegfeld home! Can you visual- ize the tall windows with tasseled drapes of red plush? The great book-cases and huge desk? The center gas-lamp with ornate crystals hung in garlands around a painted china shade? And the gallery of old-world portraits on the papered walls? We sat around the marble-topped table — m.en like W. L. Tomlins and John Root — listening to the brusque voice so filled with fervor and determination that it swept us all into a vortex of enthusiasm. And before we parted that night, the famous old school — still in existence — was begun. The Chicago Musical College, with Dr. Flor- enz Ziegfeld as its President. For nearly two years we continued to have the headquarters in the Ziegfeld home — both parlors being in daily use. My organ lessons were given in the church where I played, but all instruction in musical theory and composition was given at the house. I would often teach a harmony lesson to the accompaniment of baby feet, as Flo. Jr. and Carl played in the bedrooms above. The other children were not then born. In the spring of 1871 we took the school to the Crosby Opera House and were there when the city burned that next October. But in less than three weeks following this great disaster, we opened our doors once more at 800 Wabash, where we remained until we took quarters in the fashionable Central Music Hall, famous center for the greatest concerts this city has ever known. Dr. Ziegfeld crossed to Europe every summer during the vacation of the school, bringing back some of the most famous instructors of 41 the old world. In tho^e early days he added to the Faculty names like August Hyllested, Scandinavian pianist; L. Gaston Gottschalk, brother of the composer ; Dudley Buck, who later went to Brooklyn ; Emil Liebling and later S. E. Jacobsohn, who had been concertmeister with the Thomas Orchestra in the east in 1872. In the year 1887 the president's oldest son, Florenz, Jr. — then a young man in his early twenties — became the treasurer of the school, where he remained until the stage called him to become one of the world's greatest producers. In 1897 the College moved to a beautiful new building of its own on Michigan Avenue. From then it grew in size and fame until it stood at the top of the list of great American schools of music. During those days following the World's Fair, many other famous teachers came into the faculty. Bernard Listemann, great violinist from Boston; Arthur Friedheim and Hans von Schiller, celebrated pianists; William Castle and Mrs. 0. L. Fox, heading the vocal de- partment, and later Edward Moore, Herman Devries, Adolph Miihl- mann, Adolph Brune, Felix Borowski and Rudolph Ganz. And some of the names of the pupils, who graduated from this great school . . . Gena Branscombe, Arthur Rech, Clare Osborne Reed, Leon Marx, Arthur Hand and many, many others; some to found new schools, and others to take their talent onto the concert stage. But I am far ahead of my story, Cara mia, and you will weary of all this detail. I must return to 1871 and to the beginning of another famous institution, which sprang into life from the ashes of a burned city — The Apollo Club. Your great-grandfather was one of the charter members, Cara mia, and also the accompanist for the concerts. Silas G. Pratt was president and George Upton conductor, Avhile in the fine chorus were many of the greatest singers of that day. Later W. L. Tomlins took the baton, holding the position of conductor for over twenty-five years. During the first season the club brought to the city the Theodore Thomas Orchestra for four concerts, and — (quote) "from these concerts dates the history of orchestra in Chicago." In 1921 The Apollo Club celebrated its golden anniversary with five remaining charter members as guests of honor, Philo Otis, Charles C. Curtiss, Dr. E. H. Pratt, Warren C. Coffin and myself. It was a strange experience, my Cara, to be seated in Orchestra Hall listen- ing to new voices and new musicians playing the accompaniments, in an atmosphere charged with memories fifty years old. Even Harrison M. Wild, who conducted in later years, was absent. Only five old men, reminiscent o])ularitv with overv passing \ ' f " " -^' ■' Dk. Florknz Ziegfki,d LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS URBANA year. Theodore Thomas, Dr. Ziegfeld and I were three old German pals. Many a night we sat over our steins of beer and discussed the future of music in Chicago. A memorial is placed opposite Orchestra Hall on Michigan Avenue, in honor of that great con- ductor, and when you are older, Cara mia, stand before it in silence for a moment, remembering that men like Thomas can never, never die. The orchestra still exists under the leadership of another of my dear friends, Frederick Stock, being called in these days The Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It is one of the city's greatest assets and God grant that the people of Chicago will never let this famous institu- tion go, my Cara, for with the laying down of those instruments, will also go Chicago's divine heritage of music. Have I given you a bit of history — not too dry I trust — of the start of these three great institutions of music in Chicago? I hope so, my little one. For although the later years may prove more interesting, the start is always deep-rooted and strong — as a tree, that first must grasp the soil, so that it may in some future day, put on the foliage and fruit of fulfillment and beauty. Which brings us to the great fire of '71 — an event so tremendous, that my entire family life, my work and my interests, changed with unbelievable swiftness — overnight ! Il€$%£>li 45 CHAPTER V The Great Fire CHICAGO is so well versed in the great tragedy that took place ill the early part of its history — "the fire of 71" — that it ■would be quite ridiculous for me to attempt a word picture, when so many canvases have already been painted. But to give you my personal experience, Cara mia, during those terrible hours of the disaster that befell our city in the 38th year of her life, might color it more indelibly in your memory. We were still living on Oak Street and I was still the organist of Unity Church. Peace and contentment had followed the chaos and agony of the Civil War. The city had grown rapidly and waxed prosperous. It was so new, so very happy, so proud — and then came October ninth, that you now know as ''Chicago Day." I cannot remember how the first warning of danger was brought to me — whether I was with my family at the time, with. Dr. Collyer, or at m}^ organ — but I can remember all that followed very clearly. There was a sudden something in the air — a great murmur, that resembled nothing more than the distant low voice of a mighty surf beating against a rocky coast ; a murmur that grew with every second that pa.ssed, so loud and so near, that I went out into the street to listen. The air was hot and smelled acrid, even though a strong wind swept it along. To the west I could see a huge cloud — a pall — hang- ing like a grey veil over the city, and as I listened, the advancing murmur became a roar. Many other people were on the side-walks, while drivers had stopped their frightened horses to watch the unusual scene. There were no telephones in those days, my Cara, and of course no radios, We waited in restless groups talking together in frightened helpless- ness, speculating on the terror that was so rapidly pressing down upon us through the blackness of the night. Then suddenly it came. Red and orange shot through the grey ; smoke turned to flames ; the hot air stung at our throats and brought tears to our eyes. Some woman screamed. Another shouted "Chi- cago is burning up!" Panic was upon us. A terror that was born 46 of stark human fear. And then came that great rush of thousands of feet as men and women thought of their loved ones and their own safety. Some kept their heads ; others fought ; some were injured. I ran to my home with a great fear pounding in my heart. I found the family aroused and dressing frantically in whatever they could lay their hands on. My step-mother delayed so long in getting her little family out, that she left the place clad only in a "wrapper" — as the tea-gown of that day was humbly called. My brother John carried two bird-cages housing the pet canaries. I later heard that the bottom fell out of one of these, allowing the poor frightened bird to escape and to perish in the smoke, but the other cage held and that historical canary lived another three years. The mother and younger children fled to the North, hoping to reach the shelter of Lincoln Park. But the fire was all around them and the Avooden pavement blocks were burning in places, so that they were obliged to turn back to the near-by Washington Square, where other of our neighbors were huddled. Here my brother Rudolph built a lean-to of boards for a covering and there the members of my family watched the catastrophe about them with horror and actual acute suffering. For there was no hope of escape just then. There they had to remain until churches and houses were gutted and nothing but grey ashes covered the place that once they called home. Food there was none. One of the boys milked some cows they found roaming in the streets, while another rescued preserves from out of a cellar after the rest of the house had been destroyed. This last was too sweet, and caused great discomfort. The cry was for water, as the smoke was making people frantic with thirst. Everyone had red, blood-shot eyes and swollen tongues. Children cried constantly in mother's arms. Families were separated and many old people died from exposure and lack of care. Cattle, horses, dogs, cats, roamed the streets together, driven by a great common fear and suffering. The old Ogden house stood in a block-square lot covering Whit- ney, Oak, Clark and Dearborn. Great elms surrounded it. As the fire crept nearer, several men of the family and neighbors whose own homes were gone, tried to save it. The caretaker brought blankets wrung out in cistern water, which were laid on the already smoking roof, while others beat at the walls with wet sacks. But as the hours passed and the people huddled in the square were actually suffering from thirst, men threatened to fire the Ogden home deliberately if the precious water was not given the pul)lic instead of being used on the house. It was out of an old cistern, Cara mia, and smelled to the skies, l)ut oh, how good that water tasted to our parched throats ! We drank it gratefully and my brothei's slept a little, cuddled together in the lean-to with their mother. 47 Meanwhile, father had thought of his one great treasure in the home. It was strange, my little one, that although the fire was all about us that awful night, our house did not burn until the next day. So when it was apparent that we would have time to return to it, father decided to rescue our piano. What follows may seem strange in your day, Cara mia, but in '71 it was the exception — not the rule — to own such a fine instru- ment as ours. It was a Hallett and Davis concert Grand, a very large and beautiful piano made especially for Mr. Davis' daughter. Twice it had been moved from our home to the Crosby Opera House for concert performances at the earnest solicitation of W. W. Kimball, local representative for Hallett and Davis. Our parlor, as it was called in those days, was a very long room — some seventy feet, divided by an arch — and covered with a Brussels carpet. The piano was turned on its side and after the carpet was ripped up and placed down the outside stairs, the great instrument was allowed to slide down onto the side-walk. There it was carried — or half-dragged — to the corner of Dearborn and Oak Streets, with its rear leg facing a large brick house, where it was covered with the carpet. Yet the terrific heat from that burning house was intense enough to scorch the leg. I anticipate your question, Cara mia. Yes, dear, the piano was saved — probably the only one on the North-side to come through the fire — but my father's hand was sadly crippled from the strain of lifting the great instrument, for in some way the ligaments were badly torn and he was never able to straighten those two fingers again. Which ended his organ playing. There was a terrific gale blowing all that night and the smoke and heat were almost unbearable. John dug a hole by a tree in order to breathe in some moisture from Mother Earth, l)ut he was not successful, as the ground was dry and powdery. There had been no rain for many weeks. And so for two nights and two days, my family were out in the fire-swept area, battling pitiful discomforts, and seeing their home destroyed before their very eyes. I was not with them that second day. Father and I remained together at least until afternoon. I recall helping many neighbors save a few pitiful belongings, in cases where the flames had not yet reached their homes. The brick house near which our piano stood, burned last, but was earliest vacated. I remember it well ; beauti- fully furnished with large pier-glass mirrors reaching the floor. In- side its walls I found temporary coolness and fresher air. ]\Ieanwhile I had remembered Dr. Collyer. I rushed to his home next to the church, and found him busily carrying his books across the little lawn into the church study. He looked up at me with a brave, cheery smile. 48 "This big stone building will stand, Louis," — he said reassur- ingly, "even if the roof should burn." And so we worked together in that stifling heat, carrying arni- fuls of books exquisitely bound and many famous pictures, in to the cooler shelter of the old stone church. My own music, too, was transferred from home to what we thought was safety. Music that I had purchased so proudly in Leipzig; music autographed by my famous teachers abroad. But alas for man's judgment and effort against a power of destruction ! LTnity Church burned to a skeleton of stones and greying ashes before the sun rose the next morning. Gone were the books that Dr. Collyer prized so highly! Gone, my cherished music. Gone, my beloved organ ! Gone was my home on Oak Street, with the many intimate associations that are part and parcel of family life. And gone was the greatest part of my city — for Chicago was literally burned upon the pyre of its own foundations that day and night of October — and I stood w^eeping, unashamed, as I saw her perish before me! But my family needed food and I knew of a friend who would help us if I could reach him. This in mind, I turned hopefully to- ward the south, crossing the bridge at Rush Street with the milling, sweeping, wailing mass of humanity. Thousands Avere separated from their loved ones. Men were carrying other men's children to keep them from being crushed under foot. Here and there came a hoi*se and wagon loaded with furniture and personal belongings, but in most cases the frantic carried their own goods in their arms, or threw it away altogether. An artist living at that time painted a great picture of the fire, that he labelled "Rush Street Bridge." In it he pictured his many friends, as they crossed from the North to the South sides over the old bridge that morning. On this canvas, Cara mia, he painted your great-grandfather, crowded in with the mass of men and women about half-way over the span. This picture hung in the old Relic House on North Clark Street for many years, but when they tore that famous building down, the picture passed WlLjt/u_ into private hands unknown to me. Of course the artist did not see \jji^ J" me on the bridge, my Cara, but he needed faces well-known to give . ,, -y his painting realism and to create interest in his work. It took me two hours and a half to reach the "West side and almost four to return, but I carried food for my family — the first they had eaten in twenty-four hours. I had bread and sausages, given to me by my good friend on Madison Street. What a pleasure to see my younger brothers eat, and to know that we were at least alive after our terrible experience ! All this time my eldest brother Theodore was living in Daven- port, Iowa, where he and a cousin were running a newspaper. In years since, I have often smiled over this, as the paper was a Demo- 49 cratic organ, while my entire family were staunch Republicans. Pos- sibly that is why the enterprise failed. The morning of the second day (Tuesday) mother was taken over to the West side in safety. The night before had been bitterly cold and with nature's strange irony it had rained. After fire had rav- ished a city, relief came too late ! But now that the pavements were cooling they could take their time in crossing to a safe part of town. Theodore had come into Chicago, frantically trying to locate us. Tuesday night he returned to Davenport with John and baby Florenz, to care for them until our parents were settled in a home once more. But I was not with my family when they left Washington Square. In some way we became separated that last night. AVith others, I found my.self on the Lake front, carried there no doul)t by the rush of the pushing crowds. You wonder, Cara mia, why we did not all try to make the shores of the lake, where fresh water might have been had? The pavements were burning remember, and we Avere cut off on all sides. Besides, to reach the shore in those da^^s meant walking over weeds and uneven sands. It seemed very far away. That second night I slept on the beach with thousands of other homeless Chicagoans. The sand seemed soft to my tired body and I fell asleep immediately from utter exhaustion and despair. Moving crowds of people stumbled or stepped over me, but nothing dis- turbed me that night. My world had burned up and there was no need for me to awaken ! But with the late afternoon of the next day I opened my eyes wearily, wondering where I was and how I got there. Slowly the awful truth came home to me and I sat up at once and looked about. Everywhere people were sitting or lying on the sand. Some were in huddled groups; some alone like myself. Behind me to the west, the fire still burned, but the wind had died dow^n and the smoke was lifting. I figured that I was about opposite Washington Street and that the fire was checked in the northern part of the city. I won- dered how much of the town had escaped, and after talking to another man sitting near me, found that nearly all of the South-side had been saved. Little did I know, Cara mia, that your great-grandmother — safe in her aunt's home at Michigan and Polk Street — had driven down with her uncle that first morning to watch the conflagration from the safe ( ?) vantage point of Adams Street and the Lake. How little she knew that somewhere in that flaming furnace was the man who some day would be her husband and coinjianion for fifty long happy years. After I had watched the crowds for awhile, I realized that I was hungry. My neighbor directed me to a soup kitchen, where he 50 had already eaten. It was a long walk, past burned ])uildings and sunken streets, but at last I reached it and was served with strong ])lack coffee and slices of unbuttered bread. This iinproin])tu res- taurant was run by the good women of some little Mission church. Soup, coffee, bread, and milk for babies was all they offered, but it saved many lives that terrible week and gave new courage to many a broken spirit. Fi-esh water was a luxury, for the city's water-mains were destroyed. Men and women drank out of the lake and carried tlie water away in buckets. Milk and beer and even a diluted cheap wine commanded exorlntant prices. But fresh vcgetal)les and fruits were coming in from the farms, as well as eggs and meat from the markets, so that in a few days the business of feeding the city was well organized. People were kindly, courteous and sympathetic to one another, for a common disaster, my little one, brings out the best in human nature. One by one the members of my family drifted over to the West side, beyond the burned area near the river, to reunite at the home of my cousin. We slept all over the house and cleaned out the pantry in no time. But good cheer was in the air, for we were all together again and Chicago was already setting her face toward the future. It was impossible to crush her courageous spirit. Every- where little wooden signs sprung up, stating that here "so-and-so" would re-build. Business-firms, such as Lyon and Healy, incor- porated in 1856, churches, homes — building with new pride and determination. It was impossible to remain discouraged in the face of such faith. But father never recovered from his losses. It seemed as if he could not make a new start. Pastor Hartman's church and school had burned and was being re-built slowly. My brother Theodore was now married and Rudolph and I grown men able to take care of ourselves. So when the opportunity came, father accepted a position in Sandusky, Ohio, and left Chicago never to return. It was a sad departure, my Cara. I remember father packing the pitifully few belongings left from the tire; the brave mother with her little daughter clinging to her full skirts; and my two youngest brothers. But a new home was soon begun in the Ohio city, where father was utterly content to live until his death at a wonder- ful old age. Several times I visited in Sandusky, usually to give a big organ concert, and on these occasions my dear father and I would go quietly into some German cafe, where, over our steins of beer and our cheese sandwiches, we would go back to early days — in Chicago— in Germany — talking — talking — on our favorite theme — music. So the "Great Fire of '71" came and passed, bringing witli it the greatest changes of my life. 51 CHAPTER VI 1871 - 1874 UNION Park in 1871 was a green little square filled with splen- did old trees, many colorful flower-beds and a small patch of water, all of which was surrounded by a neat iron fence elaborately scrolled. It also boasted a modest-sized Zoo, filled with the smaller variety of wild animals. That my l)rother Florenz had his finger bitten viciously by a raccoon prevented us from ever forgetting the place, although I must admit he was teasing the ani- mal. There were many curving graveled paths in Union Park, where nurse-maids walked with their young charges by day and lovers strolled by night. It was the West side's popular park in the 70 's — for the land that became Garfield Park was far beyond the city limits at that time. Today, my Cara, the little square is only a breathing place in a great western area, cut through with wide boulevards, where a mad rush of automobiles hum day and night endlessly, and where the city's unemployed sit in pathetic rows on old green park benches. With the exodus of homeless citizens from the ])urned North side, the territory around the cross streets of Washington and Ash- land became the new center of fashionable Chicago for the following twenty-five years. Prominent families built or bought homes and joined the church and club life of that part of the city. Only the World's Fair in 1893 was able to swing the procession southward again and later to the north, from where the circle began. The Carter Harrison home stood at the corner of Jackson and Ashland surrounded by a large yard, where many a fashionable "lawn-party" was given. A block further north at the corner of Adams lived Allan Pinkerton, famous for his work during the Civil War in the Secret Service Department and the head of a great de- tective agency bearing his name. His ten children lived to hear their father's name echoed 'round the world and in Chicago today lives the most beloved of his family, Mrs. William J. Chalmers, who was "Joan" to us, in those early West side days. General Fitz Simonds was a neighbor of the Pinkertons, whose fine old house remained long 52 after the tide swung south. Dr. Ziegfeld, whose home had bunied in the doAvn-town section, lived just around the corner on Adams Street; a home that remained in the family and from which they refused to move even to this day; for dear old ''Madam" Ziegfeld only died this last year, in the 84th year of her age. On Washington Street other families had established themselves in fine new homes. The Arthur Farrars owned a square brick house filled with costly object d'art from all parts of the world. They drove a span of horses that was a joy to behold as they pranced down the street with other horse-drawn vehicles in that day before the automobile. But to the city-l)red children, their Jersey cow, kept in the wide stable behind the house, was the greatest sight in the neigh- borhood — next to a circus. Down the block w^ere other families of note, names still familiar on the lips of Chicagoans living at the present time. Two Clubs sprang up in this new center; the Illinois on Ash- land, and much later, the Ashland, on Washington near I^eavitt. The old Brown school on Warren and Wood Streets probal)ly housed more youngsters that became the prominent men and women of our city today, than any other l)uilding of learning. They still hold alumni reunions. But without doubt the churches were the social centers of that period, for in those days whole families attended and were frankly proud of the fact. The Church of the Epiphany stood at Ashland and Adams; a beautiful building facing west. Down at the bias intersection of Ogden Avenue w^as the Third Presbyterian with Dr. Witherow as pastor, while across Union Park rose the fancy twin tui-rets of Zion Temple, the Jewish Synagogue — of which I will speak later. But it is the Union Park Congregational Church at the inter- section of Ashland and Washington — still standing unchanged by the passing of the years — of which I wish to tell you, my Cara, for this dear old building was the center of my home life for over a quarter of a century. Almost immediately following the fire I was offered the position of organist at this church, which I gladly accepted and held for twenty-seven busy, long, years. Of course, Cara mia, the Chicago iMusical College went right on in spite of the great catastrophe, so that your great-grandfather did not have to make a new start as so many did. But in "Old Union Park" — as the church was affection- ately known in later years — I made lasting friendships that bound me closely to this locality; friendships only second to those in my musical world. It was there I met, loved, and married your great- grandmother ; there that our only daughter came into the home ; there my greatest success was attained. So altogether it was probably the happiest twenty-seven years of my life. The church's congregation has changed with the passing of time and rapid growth of the city, 53 but like an immortal guardian of the past, it rises sublime over the disintegration of the park it faces, with its one slender spire point- ing heavenward, as if calling to all men to witness the everlasting service to the needs of mankind and the faith of its forefathers. On October 3rd, 1872— one short year after the great fire — a fine Testimonial Concert was given for me at Union Park Congre- gational Church. This was a very popular type of concert in the latter part of the last century, and was considered a high mark of recognition and honor. Dr. Ziegfeld and all my college ''cronies" attended as well as the entire neighborhood, so that we had a packed church and splendid press notices. Dr. C. D. Helmer, formerly of Milwaukee, was the minister of Union Park. He was a great organizer and fine preacher, but better still, a gentle soul who lived his profession with sincerity and sim- plicity. He died all too soon and probably no other clergyman of this city was mourned by his congregation as was this beloved pastor. But I am running ahead of my story. My brother Theodore lived just around the corner from the church in a charming cottage. He had recently married Julia Dumser. Their home was filled Avith an atmosphere of contentment, love and simple living, and it was a constant joy that I was welcomed into the circle for it always reminded me of another home so long ago, with my own dear mother as the guardian spirit. Theo never let me feel crowded out, even when the babies began to come. They had seven fine children, Cara mia ; six boys and one girl. I have said that a promise to our mother had caused Theodore to study for the ministry, but not wholeheartedly. All his life his desire was to give all of his time to art, his favorite line being de- signing, illustrating, and the most delicate pen and ink illumining. Although he was an ordained pastor of the Lutheran faith, he fol- lowed his favorite vocation for over forty years, owning a most suc- cessful printing establishment — first on the West and later on the North side of the city. He put out the catalogues for the Chicago Musical College for manj^ years, also music of the local composers and most of the concert programs. All hand illumining he did himself. In 1873 the Inter-State Industrial Exposition was held in Chi- cago, in a building considered enormous at that time. (Length, 800 feet; width, 260, and oval dome 160 feet long.) I wrote the ''Grand Exposition March" for the occasion, dedicating it to "Potter Palmer Esq." — who was president of the exposition — and my brother Theo illustrated and published the work. (Twenty years later came the World's Fair, and after sixty years, A Century of Progress.) 54 'im :x#- car Clri^ < 1^ % 00 * ^ •M ^S 1 ^ n o |3 e 1-^ ^^ oT^ ^ g *-»-« !j-^ 3 - fe ^o eO " 1^^ o CO 1 fe f^' o X 1^ ■^ ta \^ p ca 6 - ^ ' 1^ -