Writers of human interest articles for the musical press, last week, had an assignment that warmed their cockles like Chianti. Steinway hall was being abandoned. After 59 years of brave nights, this place, where Charles Dickens, in a shaky voice, read from his notes; where Fritz Kreisler, a shaggy boy of 13, made his Manhattan debut; where sang Christine Nilsson, the Swedish Nightingale; this place of tarnished gilt and outworn elegance, smelling of twilight, was to be left to the bludgeonings of the real-estate auctioneer. The inextinguishable appeal of extinguished gallantry...
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