t was the night of December 30, 1902. I was thirteen years of age. We had retired, . . . when we heard the fire alarm. We dressed, and ran to the fire, which was less than a mile from our home. When we arrived at the site, the fire was mostly to the rear of the building on the Washington Street side, where the press room was located. The art department was on the first floor Main Street front, where my father and several other artists worked. In the picture, the two first floor windows, and the door at the left of the building, were in the North wall of the art department. The artists were: My father, William W. Robinson, Fred Robert, Harry Goodrich, Harry Lewis and Iver Tenny, son of Elder Tenny. Fred Robert was a little Frenchman, barely five feet tall. He is shown in the picture, facing the fire with his left hand on the artists' table. He was my father's close friend and confidant.
When we arrived at the scene of the fire, and before the flames had reached the front of the building, we went into the building and carried out all that we could of the contents of the art department, . . . until it became too hot and too dangerous to continue. Then my father sat down on a piece of salvaged furniture and proceeded to make a fast pencil sketch of the scene, as viewed from McCamly Park, directly across what was then Main Street. He had to work fast because the fire scene was changing from second to second.
After the fire had destroyed the building we went home, and my father proceeded to render the fire scene in black and white watercolor. He loaned it to the daily newspaper, The Morning Enquirer, so they could make a photo engraving of it for printing a reproduction of the original in the morning newpaper.
Looking, as I am now, at the copy you sent me, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia. So many, many memories of people and events of that long ago time; . . . I believe we enjoyed living then, more than we do now. We had less; no telephones, no electric lights, no phonographs, no radio or television, and no automobiles, but we did enjoy and appreciate what we had, more, I believe, than people who have all those things, and many more, today. During Summer vacations I used to quite often spend a half day with my father in the Review and Herald Studio. Before photo engraving was invented, the artist engraved the pictures on teakwood blocks, from which the pictures were printed in the books and periodicals. I can remember well, how my father looked, bent over his table, looking through a mounted magnifying glass, carving away on a teakwood block, which he was twisting and turning on a leather pad as the carving of the picture required. I remember Harry Lewis, dressed in a white robe, standing on a table while modeling Jesus for the other artists to make preliminary sketches for a picture called the accencion [sic]. Lewis was the only member of the staff wearing a beard. I remember Iver Tenny, who was a deaf mute, taking a pencil in each hand, and drawing a picture of a cockfight, drawing the two roosters simultaneously, one with each hand.
The two sons of Mrs. Ellen White, Willie and Edson, were, I believe, members of the Review and Herald Editorial Staff. They were quite often seen in the Art Studio in consultation with my father and the other artists concerning the creation of illustrations for the various books and periodicals to be printed there. It never seemed quite proper, calling a man Willie, who was in every respect, the personification of dignity. He wore a huge black beard, and to me, it always seemed disrespectful to address him as Willie. The other son, Edson, was not as dignified as his brother. He sported a moustache and goatee and always had a cheerful word or even a joke or two for anyone he met.
Mrs. White spoke several times in the Old Tabernacle during my boyhood in Battle Creek. . . .
Several days have passed since I started this letter. I don't write many letters any more because it takes such a long time to write just one. I must write slowly, and must rest every now and then. This one could be my last one to you, so I am writing quite a long one, in an endeavor to tell all I can think of, that might be of interest to you, because, after all--you are my brother's daughter, as well as my father's granddaughter.
Just now, I recall an amusing incident which occurred at the corner of old Main Street (now Michigan Avenue) and Washington Street, directly in front of the old Review & Herald building. At that corner the street car tracks made a ninety degree turn from Main Street into Washington Street. My father and his collegues in the Studio were witnesses to the incident.
Those were the days of the high-wheel bicycles, one large and one small wheel. It was aboard one of these, that Doctor John Harvey Kellogg came riding down Washington Street toward Main Street, where he attempted to make the ninety degree turn, the same as did the street car tracks. But alas and alac [sic], his small wheel tangled with the car track at the turn, and he was thrown in a most undignified manner to the dusty street. That was just too much for his ego and self-esteem, so he rose up, dusted himself and proceeded on foot back up Washington Street toward the Sanitarium, leaving the errant bicycle lying flat on its side in the middle of the street. It has been said, that he never mounted that bicycle again.
Six days have passed since I started to write this letter. This is seven o'clock on the morning of March 20. . . .
I am glad, Jean, that you have the picture of the Review & Herald fire, which was painted by your grandfather. His full name was William Webster Robinson, and his autograph and sir name [sic] appears in the lower left hand corner of the picture, together with the date on which the fire occurred, as well as the date upon which he painted the picture, both of which were on the same date, December 30, 1902. I think there could be a no more appropriate place for the picture than where it is, and I am sure you will take good care of it always. With love to you and Bernard from your old uncle,
Karl Aksel Robinson
