Julius Talks to Calvin

Back in the era of good Queen Victoria, there was really only one place to live in Chicago--and that was on the South Side. New York had its brownstone fronts and Fifth Avenue chateaux, but Chicago had only its sprawling gingerbread Gothic and its Prairie Avenue. Sooty railroads, industry, and worst of all, the "black belt" began to creep up to the gingerbread creations. Society surrendered. It began an exodus to the North Side --to Lake Shore Drive, Astor Street, Sheridan Road, Lake Forest. Not so, Julius Rosenwald--he would stand by the South Side. He did not object to the Negroes; he was their friend; he had given millions for their advancement. Mr. Rosenwald is no idle dreamer. He is a profoundly respected business man (Sears, Roebuck & Co.), one of its most generous philanthropists. He has always been a force of purity in Chicago's grim politics. Last week he closed the door of his home on Ellis Ave., climbed into his limousine with his daughter Julia, was whisked down to the railroad station. He was off to see President Coolidge. Before the train pulled out, he gave a statement to the press. Illinois Republicans, who had thought he was going to talk to the President about business, read their newspapers that afternoon and wondered. Mr. Rosenwald had said, and would undoubtedly say again to Mr. Coolidge:

"Some Republican Senators of force and influence, I am informed, have expressed the belief that Colonel Smith, if elected United States Senator by Illinois voters, will not have the slightest chance of being seated. "What should Republicans of Illinois do in this emergency? Clearly they cannot afford -- the National Republican Party cannot afford -- to permit Colonel Smith's perverted ambition to lose a seat in the Sen ate to the party and to the National Administration. "If Colonel Smith doesn't accept the inevitable and resign, the Republican voters should place in the field as a protest candidate a strong, clean Republican on an Administration anticorruption platform. Personally, I should be happy to support such a candidate." In New London, Conn., Col. Frank L. Smith, recuperating from an illness, read his papers, said curtly: "I do not feel called upon to answer Julius Rosenwald or any other individual." Meanwhile, Mr. Rosenwald arrived at White Pine Camp, became slightly ill, postponed his session with the President for a day. Finally they conversed. The press waited greedily for a Presidential statement. Would Mr. Coolidge urge Colonel Smith to withdraw, and do nothing about Mr. Vare of Pennsylvania? Whom would he urge Illinois Republicans to put on the ticket ? Mr. Rosenwald left for home. He said nothing, the President said nothing. In Chicago, people talked about their two most notable Jews: Julius Rosenwald, who had given millions of dollars to the Young Men's Christian Association, to the University of Chicago, to the founding of an industrial museum; and Samuel Insull, whose particular philanthropic hobby was Senatorial candidates. Suddenly, above all the howls of public utility scandal, came a voice, seldom heard in political squabbles, which said: "Insull is all right. He has done a lot for Chicago, and he can do whatever he wants with his own money."

The voice belonged to Cornelius Kingsley Garrison Billings, who had been president of the Peoples' Gas Light & Coke Co. before Samuel Insull. It is not surprising that Mr. Billings had a slightly different opinion than Mr. Rosenwald. The two men are as unlike as their homes. Julius clings to a ghost of the old South Side; Cornelius stayed in Chicago long enough to be a director of the World's Columbian Exposition, then went away to build palaces on Manhattan, to sail yachts into Constantinople, to breed horses in Virginia.

Mr. Billings' business is investments, his life is sports. He would rather be the owner, breeder and driver of the fastest trotting horses than have the power and riches of a Croesus. As a sportsman, he is strictly an amateur. None of his horses have ever raced for money; in fact, at his own racetrack in Memphis he prohibits all betting. It cost him a million dollars to produce Lou Dillon and her record, but he was glad.

On the highest point of land on the island of Manhattan stands Tyron Hall, once the Louis XIV palace of Mr. Billings, so large that it is really a country estate in the city. In 1917 he sold it to John D. Rockefeller Jr., who gave it to the city as a museum.