A 
 

i 
 
THE SILVER AGE 
 
The Author desires to thank the proprietors of The 
 
 Century, The Forum, The New York Tribune and the 
 
 Boston Evening Transcript, for permission to reprint here 
 
 the stories which appeared in their periodicals. 
 
THE SILVER AGE 
 
 AND OTHER DRAMATIC MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 TEMPLE SCOTT 
 
 Author of "The Pleasure of Reading? 
 "The Use of Leisure" etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 SCOTT & SELTZER 
 
 1919 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
 SCOTT & SELTZER 
 
 SCHLUtTEl PRINTING COMPANY. NEW YORK 
 
D. GEORGE DERY, ESQ. 
 Accomplished Gentleman and Wise Friend 
 
 I Dedicate This Book 
 
 In Acknowledgment of the High Pleasure 
 
 I Have Enjoyed in His Fraternal Companionship 
 
 I 
 
 484302 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE SILVER AGE . . . ,., t ., i 
 
 II. AN ODD VOLUME . . . . . 15 
 
 III. THE LADY AND THE SINGING-BIRD . 37 
 
 IV. " ANY VINDERS TO MEND ?" . . . 73 
 V. REB YANKEL . . . '. . 91 
 
 VI. NEW YORK AT TWILIGHT . . ...131 
 
 VII. FIFTH AVENUE AND THE BOULEVARD 
 
 ST. MICHEL . . . . .. 143 
 
 VIII. THE FAUBOURG SAINT BRON-NEX ^ 175 
 IX. AT THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN DISK . 191 
 
THE SILVER AGE 
 
Where silver mists the hill-tops cloak, 
 Where scents the air the wood-fire's smoke, 
 Where green and white in sunlight's shine 
 The red-roofed house gleams o'er the chine, 
 There 'neath the soundless sky's blue dome, 
 There is rest there is home. 
 
 Where hosts of pines 'gainst western sky 
 Uplift their serried spears on high, 
 And through their branches' fret of bars 
 Shine the kind eyes of evening stars, 
 Where glows the sunset's golden foam. 
 There is rest there is home. 
 
 The year's brave story, blue and gold, 
 By sun and cloud and greenwood told, 
 Enchants my heart and lifts my mind 
 To dreams of hope that I may find, 
 When spent of strength I no more roam, 
 There my rest there my home. 
 
 Companion dear on life's high road, 
 Who shared my pain and sorrow's load, 
 Unfettered from the world's demands, 
 Content we'll wait on love's commands, 
 Where silvered gleams the even's gloam, 
 Where is rest where is home. 
 
THE SILVER AGE 
 
 1 RECALL a day many years ago how many I 
 dare not count when the head master of the 
 school appointed me a monitor, with the special 
 duties of keeping an eye on the boys during recess 
 and reassembling them later for their class studies. 
 I remember that I was very proud of this accession 
 to office, and that I listened gravely to the dominie's 
 dignified words in which he emphasized the call I 
 had received as a step on the road to self-reliance 
 and manhood. I know I did not fully understand 
 all he said to me, but I promised to acquit myself 
 worthily. 
 
 The next morning, at the usual hour, I took my 
 allotted stand on the topmost of the stone steps 
 which led down to the playground, and watched my 
 schoolmates at their games of marbles, leap-frog, 
 peg-top and rounders; and as I watched them a 
 wave of utter despondency surged over me, and my 
 eyes filled with unbidden tears. I saw now, what I 
 had not before conceived, that my new dignity had 
 debarred me from my old splendid freedom, and 
 that I might never again take a part in this en- 
 chanting play that was being enacted before my 
 gaze. The sounds of laughter and free-lunged en- 
 joyment struck in me such a pang of melancholy 
 that for a time I felt convinced I would never again 
 know what it was to be happy as I once was. A 
 veritable hunger of desire seized me to run down 
 
' The Silver Age 
 
 the steps and fling myself into the vortex of the 
 merry life for which my whole soul went out in a 
 longing inexpressible. 
 
 But I remembered the master's admonition and 
 my promise, and I resolved not to give way. It 
 would be derogatory to my position now to mingle 
 with my inferiors; so I held back and tasted instead 
 the bitter waters which those drink who live on 
 high places while yet thirsting for the wine of the 
 spirit of common fellowship with their kind. I had 
 never before experienced such a feeling of utter 
 loneliness, and, for the first time, I realized, even 
 though my heart still clung to it, that my boyhood 
 had gone from me, and that I should no more be 
 careless and free. 
 
 The friends I had cherished, the companions who 
 had climbed the orchard's walls with me in reck- 
 less daring, the lads who fought by my side against 
 the rival school in many a snowball battle, these 
 could now be but acquaintances, whom I might 
 loftily and condescendingly accost, but with whom I 
 must no longer walk arm in arm. The ecstatic hours 
 I had spent with them over deeds of some belted 
 knight or pirate of the Spanish Main, whose re- 
 markable careers I had followed in the numbers of 
 a penny weekly, these hours were to be but as the 
 dreams of golden days forever vanished in the 
 mists of time. I must now eat my lunch in solitary 
 state, not daring to proffer a bite from my dried- 
 meat sandwich for a mouthful of another's juicy 
 apple. I must walk home alone, unaccompanied by 
 an admiring one who would share my hopes and 
 listen to my tales of prowess. The realization of 
 
The Silver Age 5 
 
 this sudden separation from my fellow beings came 
 to me as a shock, and it was many days ere I ac- 
 cepted the fact as inevitable. 
 
 Often did I sneak down from my pedestal and 
 surreptitiously steal a place in a game of marbles, 
 and in pretence of seeing "fair play" demonstrate 
 that my ancient skill was still with me. But the old 
 intoxicating spirit of the victory won was gone. It 
 had evaporated with the freedom that had been 
 denied me. I saw also that the boys took my en- 
 trance into their sacred circles as an intrusion. They 
 seemed to be not at all put out when I won, taking 
 it as a matter of course, and when I once played for 
 the usual stakes they paid up with unconcealed ill- 
 grace and not at all in the proper spirit of the 
 gambler who had lost a fair game fairly. I was 
 made to feel that I had taken a mean advantage 
 of them. But a few short days ago I was admired 
 as a master, and now well, now there was no 
 special merit in a monitor winning. Indeed, I soon 
 found there was grave danger in his losing. For 
 when I met my match, as I did on one unhappy 
 occasion, the tale of my defeat was twice told, and 
 for days after I was met with grinning, triumphant 
 faces. I had gained in rank, but I had lost my 
 original greatness. Sic transit gloria mundi. From 
 that time I kept my lonely seat high on the steps, 
 and watched the boys at play with a broken heart. 
 
 I am thinking of those by-gone days now as I sit 
 in my study with my open book lying unread on my 
 knees, listening to the gay chatter of my children in 
 the next room. I hear them discussing the new play 
 they are going to see with the young men who are 
 
6 The Silver Age 
 
 to accompany them, and whose evidently welcomed 
 raillery, which grates on my nerves, they are receiv- 
 ing with peals of laughter. My wife is sitting 
 opposite me, knitting socks for soldiers, but she 
 seems to be highly pleased with the silly chaffing, 
 for she is smiling as though the stupid noise augured 
 happy coming events. I become aware that my 
 book is not at all interesting, and I have an over- 
 whelming desire to rise from my seat and go into 
 the next room to share in the fun and add to the 
 laughter. I know no reason why I should be left 
 out here in the cold. I am not the old super- 
 numerary they must think I am. I'll just show 
 them that I still know how to play and be freely 
 happy even as the youngest and best of them. Then 
 I glance at the lady opposite and see the graceful 
 head with its new silvered beauty and, instinctively, 
 I pass my hand over the broad bald space on mine, 
 and I heave a sigh of melancholy resignation. Nay, 
 remain where you are, I say to myself, the god of 
 bounds is making his rounds your way, and has 
 signalled to you to make ready to take in sail. 
 Breathe silence, and let the dying rays of the sun 
 of your day wash its dusk with silver. Your flame 
 is but the spasmodic flickering of a spent candle. 
 
 And yet, 'tis but a few short years since these 
 happy girls were my happy playmates in the flowery 
 fields of pleasaunce, and my boon companions in 
 ambrosial evenings, when we drank lustily of the 
 juice of the ripe grapes we culled from the gardens 
 of literature. Alas, alas, I have been promoted 
 again, by the Master of all masters this time, and 
 I must needs find consolation in the cold isolation of 
 
The Silver Age 7 
 
 a new dignity, that of the oracle who is consulted on 
 rare occasions only, and for whom there is no place 
 in the play of life. Thus it is that I am again very 
 lonely. 
 
 But, by St. Athanasius, I do resent the intrusion 
 of these young men whose silly sallies are applauded 
 with such heartfelt laughter ! My far prof ounder 
 and far richer humor never met such hilarity of 
 greeting, nor was it ever countered by such brilliancy 
 of spontaneous persiflage. By what right do these 
 mincing fellows hunt on my preserves? Who are 
 they that they should presume to oust me from my 
 place in the lives of my children? How dare they 
 thus challenge my sovereignty and interfere in the 
 exercise of my natural privilege? 
 
 Ah, back to your musty tome, old man, and don't 
 be an ass! Let them alone to make their memories 
 of happy days, even as you made yours in your time, 
 and betake yourself to your own memories, for these 
 are all that are left to you now these and the 
 silvered beauty of the dear lady opposite, who is 
 still smiling at her fancies like the true philosopher 
 she is. Take example by her, be content to bask in 
 the sunlight of youth, and be thankful to the kind 
 fates that it is shining for you. 
 
 I turn the leaves of my book idly for a few 
 moments, but my thoughts give me no rest. 
 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 That were most precious to me. 
 
 The field of buttercups with its lush grass, green 
 and tender and yielding to the body as I lie with face 
 to the heaven's mystery of blue. A soft blowing air 
 
8 The Silver Age 
 
 from the south comes faintly scented with the brine 
 of the sea. It was here that I first knew the sweet 
 companionship of children just budding into an 
 awareness of life. Here the little ones would gather 
 the flowers and crown me with posies, or run 
 riotously after butterflies, themselves like winged 
 cherubs in their windblown skirts. Here they would 
 lie down beside me, rest their hot heads on my 
 breast and listen to the tales of Robinson Crusoe and 
 Aladdin's wonderful lamp. Here they would roll 
 me over and over down the brae to the hawthorn- 
 blowing hedge, the while the summer breezes carried 
 abroad the liquid notes of their gurgling delight. 
 And when we were all very tired from the day's 
 strenuous pleasures, the youngest would climb up 
 and sit astride my neck, and lay its little black head 
 on mine in sleep, while the others clung to my coat 
 and held my fingers tightly clasped with their warm, 
 moist hands, as we marched down the winding lane 
 to the cottage by the stream where mother stood 
 waiting with her heart in her eyes. I, too, have 
 been in Arcadia. 
 
 With the turning of the leaves of my book I turn 
 the seasons also, and I see a tiny, white-painted 
 wooden house in a cleft of the hills topped with 
 swaying black pines and redolent of the scent of 
 balsam. The place where this cottage stands is 
 seven days' voyage from the field of buttercups. 
 Here, on summer mornings would stand before me 
 a row of half-naked little brown elfins, while I held 
 the hose and played over them the cold water from 
 the upland well. How these leprechauns do dance 
 in the spray and send forth shrieks of unrestrained 
 
The Silver Age 9 
 
 glee as I pipe and pipe and pipe! Here on cool 
 autumnal evenings, when the lamps were lit and the 
 wood fire crackled fraternally, these same elves of 
 the hills, now clad in white nightgowns, would sit 
 on low stools round the hearth, while I read aloud 
 to their eager ears the pathetic tale of Little Dorrit's 
 devotion, or unrolled the splendid tapestry of "The 
 Cloister and the Hearth," or chanted the wonderful 
 deeds of the Count of Monte Cristo and the en- 
 trancing career of the immortal D'Artagnan. What 
 a breathless stillness held the room on these glowing 
 nights ! I see again the mystery of wonder and awe 
 with which the big, brown eyes ranged around me 
 are filled; the parted lips in faces transfigured in the 
 light of the visions conjured up by their young 
 imaginations; the nervous clasping and unclasping 
 of little hands from sympathy with suffering and 
 trials and victory borne with heroic dignity. And 
 when the reading was over for the night, what 
 sighs of relief from their overcharged bosoms ! 
 
 It seems to me now, as the sounds of these sighs 
 reverberate in my memory, that they were the 
 beating of invisible wings of angelic thoughts sent 
 flying from the impassioned minds of these little 
 acolytes serving at the high altar of romance. How 
 I wish now I had gathered them and stored them 
 in my heart to give them visible shapes in the days 
 to come when I could speak with them on a fairer 
 level of understanding! But a wiser heart than 
 mine caught them, and from its store of silken 
 treasures she spun the threads that guided me later 
 through the labyrinthine corridors of these children's 
 souls. And I see her as she sat then, darning elfins' 
 
IO The Silver Age 
 
 stockings, and smiling in full appreciation at me, as 
 with back and shoulders bent and clustered with 
 drooping head, I mount the stairs to the uncom- 
 panioned way that leads all happy children to the 
 star-spangled skies of the Land of Nod. 
 
 I am still turning the leaves of my book, and 
 now there has come the realization of our dreams of 
 a home of our own among those same pine-crested 
 hills dreams we had told each other in the sweet 
 intimacies of family confidences. It is a red-roofed 
 house, white and green in the clear sunlight, and 
 within it a spacious living-room walled in yellow 
 stained cedar and outlined with great brown beams 
 of spruce and hemlock. At one end is the broad 
 and deep red-bricked hearth with its chimney rising 
 through a gallery to the roof. A fat, resinous log 
 of native pine tongues its flaming and inviting fra- 
 ternity. In wide cushioned armchairs and on a 
 high-backed oaken settle, sit young women, graceful 
 as fawns, self-assured in a tranquil dignity, yet still 
 tender and responsive to the impress of loving hands 
 or the call of parental appeal. The talk is no 
 longer a monologue; father takes somewhat a back 
 seat now, for these ladies have minds and speech 
 of their own. They play with bubble fancies blown 
 from pipes in which are flowing the living waters of 
 their sparkling humor. Ah, dear me, what a com- 
 pany we were then of mutual entertainers, around 
 the fireside or the dinner table! How we lifted our 
 voices in song to the glory of brave hearts of oak 
 and in praise of those good old times when Joan's 
 ale was new, my boys, when Joan's ale was new! 
 How we did strut our amateur mimic stage in 
 
The Silver Age II 
 
 impromptu burlesques which revealed so shrewd an 
 insight into human nature, yet took account of the 
 sweetness of human hearts! How we would dance 
 to the dronings of a decrepit gramophone which 
 rasped out a music only bearable by light hearts and 
 lighter feet! And I remember also steering care- 
 fully a somewhat portly lady with silvered hair 
 through those mazes of "The Blue Danube" we 
 had trodden years ago when time had been enamored 
 of her sylph-like form. "The old music rings yet in 
 my ancient ears." 
 
 Ah, that's the banging of the outer door! They 
 have gone to their play, and I am left to my book 
 and the gentle dame who sits opposite to me, knit- 
 ting socks for soldiers. I become aware that I am 
 fingering the leaves of the book and I look down, 
 but I see only black lines across white paper. It is 
 often thus now when, after I am released from my 
 wooden desk of drudgery, I sit at home reading, that 
 I suddenly see nothing but black lines upon white 
 paper. It must be that my eyes are growing dim 
 with age, or that my spectacles become moist from 
 the vapor in the room. But the old places at table 
 are vacant, the seats by the fireside are empty, and 
 the air of the home a solemn stillness holds, save for 
 the clicking of knitting needles or, occasionally, the 
 distant ring of laughter from the youngest, who is 
 entertaining and fascinating a guileless under- 
 graduate. Ah, me, I feel I have been dispossessed 
 of what was for me the riches of my life the 
 youth-preserving elixir which I nightly distilled from 
 the adventurous hearts and joyous faces of my 
 children, and which I drank for my earthly salva- 
 
12 The Silver Age 
 
 tion. I suppose I must grin and abide by it. Time 
 is merciless, and may not be moved by regrets or 
 the mere turning back of the hands on the face of 
 the clock. Yet dare I nourish a hope? Dare I be- 
 lieve that in my grandchildren I shall, if time be 
 kind, rejuvenate my life-clinging spirit? Surely, I 
 may; for these little ones who come fresh from the 
 heart of God have the true wisdom and the true 
 love, and they will know me as one of their com- 
 pany, and welcome me as going to the place they 
 have just left. "God's speech is on their stammering 
 tongue, and His compassion in their smile." 
 
 Still, it is not easy for me to realize that I am 
 no longer of an age interesting to youth; that I am 
 passe , a back number; that however much the spirit 
 in me is still willing, I have really lost the charm 
 that once held. Or is it that I am grown to second 
 childhood and evince its senile selfishness? Surely 
 not yet, not yet! For despite the broad bald patch 
 I still have hair enough on my head to make a 
 decent show of being in the ranks with the rest and 
 the best of them. And I do not ask for more than 
 my fair share even less would be welcome. I will 
 give as much and more than I receive, if only they 
 will give me the chance, if only they will ask of me. 
 But of what avail is this camouflage of carefully 
 brushed hair against the lynx eyes of the young! 
 And how shall I arm myself against youth's magical 
 instinct? I may fool my contemporaries, but I can- 
 not deceive these divinely gifted beings who have the 
 untainted scent of wild animals and their unerring 
 insight. At best my gaiety is but the Indian summer 
 of my life, and already the sap is ceasing to flow, 
 
The Silver Age 13 
 
 and the leaves are turning brown, ready for falling. 
 They are right my wisdom is but dullness, my 
 gambols are but an old man's folly, my leadership 
 but the natural circumspection of the creature whom 
 circumstance has bereft of courage. And youth 
 shall be neither dull nor prudent. Its supreme and 
 splendid virtues are the wildness and freedom of its 
 untarnished beauty, and the enthusiasm of its arro- 
 gant and daring heart. 
 
 I know I have, of late, shown disquieting symp- 
 toms. I have hesitated when entering with them 
 on their adventures the waters of the lake are cold, 
 and the hills are steep, I must confess. I shiver on 
 the brink and I pound somewhat heavily on the 
 road with my stick. At such times I have caught 
 their commiserating looks and have heard them 
 whispering to each other that they must go it a 
 little slowly with father; he gets tired soon. Bless 
 their dear eyes, I was tired sooner than they saw. 
 They do not come to me so often, as they were 
 wont, for my advice, for they have learned that it 
 does not chime in with their desires. I feel, also, 
 that I am beginning to be not so quick-witted as I 
 once was, and I lag behind them in the swift play 
 of their repartee. Of course, I would have been 
 de trop among the theatre-party to-night, a wet 
 blanket, a tertium quid, a well-meaning, dear old 
 
 man, but . Ah, there's the rub I There's always 
 
 that "but" when golden youth assays the silver age. 
 Surely, it is more restful and proper that I comport 
 myself with my peers ! 
 
 "My dear," I say to the lady knitting socks for 
 soldiers, "shall we go to the movies?" 
 
14 The Silver Age 
 
 "You silly boy!" the lady answers, "you are 
 always going to the movies now. What did you 
 do when there were no movies?" 
 "Ah, my dear, I had you then." 
 "And you have me now, have you not?" 
 "Not when you are knitting socks for soldiers." 
 The lady looks at me quizzingly for a moment, 
 then she lays aside her knitting and comes to me 
 with her golden smile. She puts her hands on my 
 shoulders tenderly and murmurs: 
 "You'll never grow old." 
 
AN ODD VOLUME 
 
 15 
 
AN ODD VOLUME 
 
 A GENERATION ago a visitor to any of the larger 
 towns of England could always find recreation 
 in the market-place on a Saturday evening, 
 when the square, lit up by hanging kerosene lamps 
 and flaring torches, would be filled with a good- 
 natured crowd of working men and women, bustling 
 and hustling to spend their week's wages on their 
 household needs. The place then re-echoed with the 
 leather-lunged appeals and raucous cries of the mer- 
 chants, who were all clamoring simultaneously to 
 attract attention and entice the visitor to a purchase. 
 On stalls, carts, wheelbarrows and even the bare 
 stones of the street, were displayed for sale every 
 conceivable kind of commodity, from "pig's trotters" 
 for the night's late supper, to a tarnished gilt volume 
 for the parlor table. The stall-keepers button- 
 holed the passer-by to advise him of the golden op- 
 portunity for a bargain; the barrow-man evinced a 
 persistent sympathy in the stranger's welfare, from 
 a like intent; and the crier in the street philan- 
 thropically offered his treasures for "a song." He 
 who hesitated was lost; for to give ear to the per- 
 suasive pleas of these wizards in eloquence, was to 
 become as clay in the hands of master-potters. The 
 experience of the moulding process, however, was 
 often worth the price of admission to this open-air 
 theatre, where the Human Comedy was played 
 
 17 
 
1 8 The Silver Age 
 
 naturally with a far more revealing power than even 
 the art of Balzac has delineated it. 
 
 I was a regular frequenter of these markets in my 
 days of nonage, though my interest lay neither under 
 the sheds nor on the barrows. I preferred to listen 
 to the orators of the pave, those wingless and 
 leaden-footed messengers of light, who brought their 
 merchandise in sacks on their backs, and who took 
 their stations under the stars, ready to stake both 
 fortune and life on their tongues' prowess. These, 
 as a rule, were booksellers, poor derelicts of the 
 fraternity who had been wrecked on the ocean of 
 life, and who had been cast on the rocks with just 
 enough means to pick up a meagre livelihood by 
 peddling literature. I first made their acquaintance 
 when the buying of a book was the only luxury my 
 pocket-money permitted me to enjoy; and as I recall 
 the many delightful hours I ha^ve spent, charmed 
 by these wandering spirits from the Realm of Gold, 
 I am once again a citizen of Arcadia, a child of 
 romance and dreams. 
 
 Among the many booksellers I have known, one 
 stands out in my memory as a genius in the busi- 
 ness. He belonged to that lower order of the trade 
 that sell books by the method known as "mock 
 auction," the method of which Dickens's Dr. Mari- 
 gold was so masterly an exponent. It was on a 
 memorable evening in the late autumn that I first 
 caught sight of a strangely clad figure come stump- 
 ing into the square, his back bent almost double from 
 the weight of a sack he was carrying, reminding me 
 of the picture of Atlas in my school geography. He 
 made a shuffling noise as he walked, and I noticed 
 
An Odd Volume 19 
 
 then that he was club-footed. When he had found 
 a suitable space, he deposited his load on the ground 
 and looked about him with a smiling face as he 
 polished his iron-rimmed spectacles with a soiled 
 bandanna handkerchief. Immediately a crowd be- 
 gan to gather about him and I followed with the 
 rest. After emptying the sack of its contents on the 
 stones, he motioned to us to form a wider circle 
 around him, remarking that he wished everyone of 
 us to see the rich treasures he had brought for our 
 mental delectation, our moral improvement, and our 
 spiritual enlightenment. The broad, good-humored 
 face looked at us benignly, its rubicund nose glow- 
 ing like a red lamp from a distant train, through a 
 mist of pale, sandy hair in which his massive head 
 was widely framed. His clothes, stained, greasy 
 and ill-fitting, seemed to be just hanging on his body 
 a nondescript figure of seeming power, yet pa- 
 thetic in a tattered dignity. But I forgot all about 
 his appearance when he held aloft one of the volumes, 
 and began to speak in a rich, resonant voice which 
 came from him like the note of an organ. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I am one of 
 those unfortunate beings, happily not very common 
 in this vale of tears, who are known as philosophers. 
 Ah, I see you do not understand me. Well, my 
 good friends and fellow sufferers, a philosopher is 
 a man who was born under an unlucky star; a man 
 doomed, therefore, to be disappointed; a man always 
 hoping and never realizing his hopes. If you ask 
 me why he should be so afflicted, I cannot answer. 
 It may be it is because of his tender heart which his 
 nature will not permit him to harden. That's the 
 
2O The Silver Age 
 
 cross he has to bear through life. Do you wonder 
 that such a man is doomed to disappointment? 
 What chance has any man with a kind heart in this 
 world? Ah, my dear friends, it's a great mistake 
 to try to do good to people. They will never be- 
 lieve you are sincere. Your most unselfish actions 
 are certain to be misinterpreted, and the more you 
 protest your honesty the more will you be suspected 
 of a secret purpose to get the better of others. The 
 philosopher, who is, of course, a simple-minded man, 
 cannot understand this. He is so simple-hearted 
 himself that he thinks everybody else is as honest as 
 he is, so that he is almost broken-hearted at the cruel 
 mockeries which greet him on every side. That's 
 the tragedy of every good man's life. You and I 
 know that only too well; and yet we cannot help 
 being what we are, can we? But it would not be 
 half so bad if we could find someone, if only once 
 in a great while, who really believed in us. It is in 
 the hope of finding that one man that the philosopher 
 goes about the world, with a lantern in his hand, so 
 to speak, seeking to satisfy the demands of his 
 nature, to be a friend and a benefactor. For twenty- 
 five years now I have been wandering in search of 
 someone to whom I could do good, and I am still 
 looking for him. That's what brings me here to- 
 day. And as I look around me and see your in- 
 telligent faces with the light of friendship shining 
 from your eyes, I am beginning to feel that my 
 hope will be realized at last, and that I shall have 
 the happiness of knowing that I have not lived in 
 vain. 
 
 "My friends, I am here to do you the best service 
 
An Odd Volume 21 
 
 any man can do to another. You may not think so, 
 but it's the most solemn truth I ever uttered in my 
 life. You shake your heads and smile? Well, I 
 don't blame you. I've heard others talk as I am 
 talking, and I know how little it amounts to. I 
 have drunk the bitter waters of patronage, and 
 tasted the ashes in the Dead Sea fruit of philan- 
 thropy. But my way of doing good is not the 
 parson's way, nor the charity society's way, nor the 
 missionary's way. These people when they do any- 
 thing for you, make you feel small and mean, as 
 though you were of no account, as if they were 
 everything and you nothing but objects for pity. 
 That's not doing good; that's doing worse than 
 bad. My way is just the opposite to their way. 
 When I do you good, I make you feel big, and as 
 deserving as I am myself." Here he smiled archly 
 at us with a humorous twinkle glinting through his 
 spectacles. 
 
 "Does it do you any good to go to church? No! 
 Why? Because it's no use going to church with an 
 empty mind. Does it do you any good to receive 
 charity? No! Why? Because it makes you feel 
 cheap and weakens your power for work. Does it 
 do you any good to give your pennies to save 
 niggers' souls? No! Why? Because you've got 
 souls of your own to save first. Now I do you 
 good by selling you books. You look surprised. 
 You don't see what good there can be in buying a 
 book? Well, if you'll kindly give me your attention, 
 I'll explain. A good book will fill your minds with 
 high thoughts, so that you can go to church and 
 meet your God with understanding; a good book 
 
22 The Silver Age 
 
 will inspire you with courage, so that you may have 
 the heart to be as God intended you to be brave, 
 and free, and equal with the best; a good book will 
 put a spirit of hope into your breasts, so that you 
 will believe in the dignity of your manhood, and 
 live up to it. That's what books will do for you, 
 and that's the kind of good I do by selling them to 
 you. Do you look for a friend? Can you find a 
 kinder, a wiser or a truer friend than a good book? 
 Arc you lonely and long for some one to talk to? 
 Can you have a more sincere or a more elevating 
 conversation than with a good book? Books never 
 get tired of you, and if you get tired of them, you 
 can put them aside without hurting their feelings. 
 They are always calm and in good temper and 
 ready to serve you. They don't scold or find fault 
 with you or make you angry or make you feel 
 ashamed of your ignorance. They will laugh with 
 you and cry with you. They bring the smiles of in- 
 nocence and the sighs of hope and the tears of 
 sympathy. They make you forget your troubles and 
 lift you on the wings of delight. In sorrow they 
 are a comfort, and in joy a companion. And, what 
 is perhaps more satisfying than anything else, they 
 treat you like a gentleman. With a good book by 
 the fireside, you are in the best society, as good, aye, 
 and better, as the noblest and richest in the land. 
 And all this kindness, ladies and gentlemen, all this 
 enjoyment and instruction, costs you what? Only 
 a few pence. Why, you'd give your heads to have 
 the King of England talk to you for five minutes 
 in a friendly chat, and yet here, for a shilling, you 
 can have the Kings of Thought Shakespeare and 
 
An Odd Volume 23 
 
 Milton, Cervantes and Johnson talk to you by the 
 hour, or for as long as you like, at your own con- 
 venience and pleasure. Did I say a shilling? Why 
 what have we here?" With a fine gesture he 
 opened the book he held in his hand. "A-ah! Now 
 this is something worth while ! Here is an old and 
 tried and trusty friend." He patted the worn calf- 
 binding with affectionate strokes, as he turned to us 
 a countenance beaming with anticipatory delight. 
 "Listen to this: 'If a man does not make new 
 acquaintances as he advances through life, he will 
 soon find himself alone. A man, sir, should keep 
 his friendship in constant repair.' There's wisdom 
 for you! Keep your friendship in constant repair 
 and you'll find a hand stretched out to help you, a 
 smile ready to greet you, a heart eager to comfort 
 you. The man who wrote those words was one of 
 the wisest Englishmen who ever lived. He knew 
 what life meant, for he had suffered and had often 
 known what it was to go hungry, as you and I have 
 known. But he never lost heart. Through all his 
 trials and troubles he lived, as all true-born English- 
 men should live, with courage and a noble determina- 
 tion to be true to the best he knew. And the time 
 came when he was recognized as a great man, when 
 even the King of England was glad to receive and 
 shake the hand of the man who had compiled the 
 first great dictionary of the English language. That 
 man, ladies and gentlemen, was Dr. Samuel John- 
 son, and this book is the story of his life, written 
 by James Boswell, a gentleman of Scotland, who 
 worshipped the very ground Johnson walked on. 
 Did I say a shilling? I did; but I see from your 
 
24 The Silver Age 
 
 pleading faces, my good friends, that you want this 
 book, and as I haven't the heart to ask you more 
 than you can afford to pay, I'll make it ninepence. 
 Ninepence, ladies and gentlemen, for the life of a 
 great Englishman! Ah, I see you know my tender 
 nature. Well, my dear fellow-sufferers in this bleak 
 Aceldama of sorrow, you have touched my sym- 
 pathies. I know what it is to want a good thing 
 and not have the price, so I'll put it at sixpence, 
 though I am making you a present of the book at 
 that figure. Sixpence for a book of the wisest ad- 
 vice ever written for human beings ! Why, the bind- 
 ing alone cost ten times the money! Don't let me 
 go away disappointed ! Surely, there's one man in 
 this assembly worthy the name. Ah, my little man, 
 thank you, I congratulate you on your purchase. 
 You'll never regret spending this sixpence ; and you'll 
 live to thank me for introducing you to this master- 
 piece of literature." 
 
 I passed him my sixpence with a trembling hand 
 and eagerly seized the precious tome. I had been 
 so wrought up by the bookseller's moving address 
 that I could not refrain from opening the book, 
 then and there, to taste and see for myself the 
 splendid feast he had conjured up in my mind. My 
 first glance fell on the title-page, and there to my 
 puzzled astonishment, I read the words, "Volume 
 the Second." For a moment I was in doubt, but 
 the last page confirmed my incipient fear, for I saw 
 there printed in large letters, "End of Volume 
 Two." 
 
 "Here," I cried excitedly to the bookseller, who 
 was already launched in the exordium of a second 
 
An Odd Volume 25 
 
 oration, "this is only the second volume; where's the 
 rest?" 
 
 The red-nosed Diogenes stopped in his discourse 
 and looked at me for a moment in speechless sur- 
 prise. Such an interruption was evidently quite un- 
 expected, coming as it did from a mere boy. But 
 he recovered himself easily, however, and smiling 
 amiably, he said in a voice charged with tender ad- 
 miration, "You're an unusually bright lad and I'm 
 glad to know you." He came a step forward to me 
 and said in a gentle voice, "The second volume, my 
 boy, though you may not know it, is the best of the 
 set. The other volumes are not a patch on that 
 one. A complete set would cost you ten shillings, 
 at least, in that edition; but here, for sixpence, 
 you've got the cream of the work. Still, I don't 
 want you to go away thinking I've imposed on you, 
 and as you are a deserving lad, as well as an in- 
 telligent one, I'll make you a present of another 
 book to make up for it. Here's the first volume of 
 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' with beautiful steel en- 
 gravings. It's the best volume of the best story 
 ever written in any language. If you don't like it 
 after you've read it, come back here next Saturday 
 and I'll exchange it for something else. There, gen- 
 tlemen," he said, turning to his audience with a 
 finely impressive air, "there's a boy after my own 
 heart. I'd be proud to be the father of such a son. 
 He'll grow up to be a great man, mark my words. 
 I daresay he'll write a book himself, some day." 
 And the gracious enchanter patted my shoulder and 
 resumed his second address, as if nothing unusual 
 had occurred. 
 
26 The Silver Age 
 
 I did not quite see that I was any the better ad- 
 vantaged by being given an odd volume of another 
 work to match the odd volume I had bought, but 
 a natural shyness prevented me from arguing the 
 point in public, especially with so erudite and ac- 
 complished a master, and I was also greatly ill at 
 ease at being made the object of so much attention; 
 besides, he was already deep in an exposition of the 
 beauties of Fielding's "Tom Jones." So I said no 
 more, but, waiting to be unobserved, I edged out of 
 the crowd quietly and ran off home with my two 
 books, which I kept for many years as souvenirs of 
 my early adventures in book-collecting. 
 
 This was not my only meeting with the gay de- 
 ceiver, though I was ever afterwards very careful not 
 to spend any more of my meagre allowance on his 
 wares. I found out, later, that his sacks of books 
 contained nothing but odd volumes. Only once did 
 I see him sell a complete work, and that was a 
 soiled copy of a "Keepsake" from which the plates 
 were missing. Still, the man had cast the spell of 
 his charm over me, and his voice was music in my 
 ears. I do not know what it is that draws one 
 to a dealer in old books, but it is a curious fact 
 that he has a power of attraction that no other 
 man of business holds. It may be that this power 
 is born of our own interest in him. Our innocent 
 feelings and desires which are nursed by association 
 with books we, perhaps, unconsciously credit the 
 bookseller as also possessing, and so we come to 
 look upon him, not as a cold man of business, but 
 as a kindred and sympathetic spirit. Be this as it 
 may, the man belongs to a class of his own. He is 
 
An Odd Volume 27 
 
 dyed with a sweet melancholy, as if the spirits 
 of the disappointed and forgotten authors whose 
 unsold books fill the shelves of his shop, had gradu- 
 ally passed into him and saturated his nature. He 
 looks out on the world as if it were a passing show, 
 for which he has, at best, but a kindly tolerance or 
 a gracious condescension. He gives the impres- 
 sion that he lives in a far more interesting and 
 desirable world. He is not discontented, rarely dis- 
 turbed, and seemingly utterly indifferent as to 
 whether or not he sells some of his books for 
 which, indeed, he has conceived an affection as pas- 
 sionate as that of the bibliophile's. The Kingdom 
 of the Mind must, surely, be a beautiful place 
 in which to live, even if the checks we draw on 
 the banks there are not accepted by our landlords 
 here. 
 
 I am thinking of the booksellers of a generation 
 ago. Those of the present day are of a different 
 genus, and I can weave no romances nor indulge 
 in fancies about them, for I confess, they are 
 beyond my ken. Time was when I thought they 
 also were as innocent as doves, but I have since 
 found them to be wiser than serpents. No, it is to 
 the booksellers of my youthful days that my heart 
 goes out in an affection deep as it is exalting. It 
 may be that my loyalty to my old loves is born of 
 the bargains I once fished out of their boxes and 
 stalls, bargains rarely found now ; but I am sure 
 this is not the true reason for my self-impobed 
 exile from the land of books. I would still be 
 willing to walk many miles to meet another such 
 Diogenes as my old acquaintance of the odd 
 
28 The Silver Age 
 
 volumes, or my friend of sacred memory, Eli 
 Sholes, that rare mind and chastened spirit who 
 initiated me into the mysteries of the higher de- 
 grees of the Masonry of literature. Gladly would 
 I present to the New York Public Library, that 
 rare "Olor Iscanus," I bought for sixpence; or 
 that Walton's "Lives" with old Izaak's autograph 
 on the title-page, I bought for threepence; or that 
 Suckling's "Fragmenta Aurea" of 1646, I picked 
 up for a shilling; or that original quarto of 
 Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," with the leaf 
 of "Errata," I acquired for a crown, if I could 
 live again those recreating hours of pure aspira- 
 tions I experienced in listening to that orator of 
 the market-place, or that wise expositor of Shakes- 
 peare and Swift, the dealer in rare books. But, 
 alas, those flowers of our human kind are passed 
 away with the snows of yesteryear I 
 
 As I have stated, Diogenes drew me to him, 
 and as regularly as Saturday came round I would 
 be in the square waiting for him. Sometimes he 
 failed to turn up, and then I was very disap- 
 pointed. He explained such absences on his return, 
 by smilingly informing us that he had other 
 parishes to minister to, which would starve with- 
 out the intellectual food he brought them. On 
 one occasion he told us that he had been in retreat 
 purifying his soul; and the pathetic smile which 
 accompanied his words still lingers in my memory. 
 His talk, as I recall it now, was the most de- 
 lightful of conversations, enlivened by many a 
 merry tale of broad humor which always appealed 
 strongly to his audiences. He knew, or at least 
 
An Odd Volume 29 
 
 it appeared so to me, the lives of all the great 
 men who had written books or played important 
 parts in the world's history: and his disquisitions 
 on their merits were embroidered with the gold 
 thread of a shrewd judgment. He described situa- 
 tions with so fine a skill that I would marvel at 
 the scenes he conjured up in my imagination. It 
 was always with something of a shock that I 
 heard him call out the price of a book and ask 
 for a buyer, so completely had he enthralled me. 
 Over Shakespeare and Milton he would wax elo- 
 quent indeed. He recited from "Paradise Lost" 
 in a voice resonant with the rhythmic music of the 
 splendid processional of the lines. It was from 
 him that I first heard Hamlet's soliloquy, and he 
 rendered it with dramatic gestures in a musing in- 
 tonation of voice that were fulfilled of reflective 
 thought. Neither Henry Irving nor Forbes-Rob- 
 ertson, with all the accompaniments of their scen- 
 ery and costume, affected me since, as did then 
 this unkempt bookseller, declaiming in the foul- 
 smelling air of that noisy, crowded thoroughfare. 
 
 In time, he and I came to know each other bet- 
 ter. When he would catch sight of me in the 
 front row of the circle of his listeners, he would 
 smile kindly, and then bend his discourse to me, 
 seeming to find inspiration in the rapt attention I 
 gave him. Frequently, after he had succeeded in 
 disposing of a book for the price he originally 
 asked for it, he would come up and whisper to me 
 to keep an eye on his stock while he retired for 
 a few minutes. I noticed when he returned that 
 his nose glowed a deeper red, and, occasionally, his 
 
30 The Silver Age 
 
 gait would be far from steady. But the interlude 
 seemed to have fired his imagination to a higher 
 pitch, for he would resume with a power of appeal 
 that never failed to bring increased patronage, 
 and, sometimes, left him, as he put it, "sold out." 
 Then he would fold his sack, and with a parting 
 sally and a promise to be back another day, he 
 would stump off and disappear in the blackness 
 of the night. 
 
 As I watched the bent figure shuffling away I 
 could not help speculating as to where he went to 
 rest. Was it to a home where children were wait- 
 ing expectantly for their father? Did they look 
 for his coming as I did, to be charmed and de- 
 lighted by the magic of his speech and the music 
 of his embracing voice? Several times I followed 
 him out of boyish curiosity, but I always lost him 
 in a dark court, where he vanished through the 
 doorway of a saloon. Once, I waited for him 
 to come out, but the sight that met my eyes in 
 the gloom was so distressing that my courage failed 
 me, and I ran pantingly home, haunted all the 
 way by a face that still visits me in disturbing 
 dreams. That was my last pilgrimage to the 
 market-place. 
 
 Several years later, as I was sitting in the back 
 of Sholes's shop, discussing with him George 
 Meredith's "The Egoist," we heard a heavy 
 stumping on the boarded floor, as of one walking 
 with difficulty. I looked up, and to my amaze- 
 ment, saw the spectacled face of my old friend of 
 the odd volumes. Sholes rose quickly and met 
 him half way. 
 
An Odd Volume 31 
 
 "Well, Ollie," I heard him inquire, "are you 
 any better?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Sholes, I regret to say this rheuma- 
 tism is killing me by inches. I rarely sleep at 
 nights. I'm afraid there'll be nothing for it but 
 the workhouse hospital. I called to know if you've 
 anything for me to-day." 
 
 "There's a pile in that corner I've been keep- 
 ing for you for weeks. Where have you been?" 
 
 "Oh, the usual place, in solitude where we 
 are least alone." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "I'm ashamed to confess it. But what else is 
 there left for me?" 
 
 "I know how you feel, Ollie, but are you sure 
 you couldn't make a final effort? I'll help you 
 gladly to start a stall. That's better than the 
 open air, with your rheumatism." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Sholes, you're very kind as you 
 always have been. But I know my own weak- 
 ness. Unhappily I am one of those that must 'live 
 in the wild anarchy of drink.' I couldn't be tied 
 to a stall. I must go on at the old game until 
 death comes with his friendly care." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you know yourself best." 
 
 Sholes helped him to fill his sack, and I watched 
 the figure stumping ?way, bent beneath the double 
 weight of his books and afflictions. 
 
 "Who is that man?" I asked Sholes. 
 
 "Ah, that's a tragedy," he answered. "If you 
 want to hear a genius go and listen to him. The 
 booksellers of the town make him gifts of their 
 
32 The Silver Age 
 
 odd volumes and he makes his living by selling 
 them in the public markets." 
 
 I then told of my own experience of the man 
 which amused Sholes exceedingly. 
 
 "Well, Ollie was right; you never regretted 
 your purchase. Now there's a man who sets me 
 speculating on the mystery of the human soul. We 
 call him Ollie, which is friendly for Oliver, for 
 we all love the man despite his failing his sur- 
 name had better remain in oblivion. He has been 
 everybody's friend and his own worst enemy. I 
 knew him many years ago as the head master of 
 one of the grammar schools founded by Edward 
 VI, in a small provincial town. He was then 
 highly esteemed throughout the country. A ripe 
 scholar, both in the Classics and in English, he 
 had also a power of conversation and a charm of 
 address, which opened to him the doors of the 
 best houses. As a teller of tales I have never 
 heard his equal. He had a remarkable memory 
 on which he drew for quotations and apt allusions, 
 that served to add grace to the thoughts he framed 
 in the choicest language, and spoke in a voice of 
 most appealing quality. Did you hear him quote 
 from Ben Jonson, Byron and Coleridge, in the 
 few sentences he spoke to me just now? His 
 range of reading must be immense. These gifts, 
 were unhappily his undoing. He grew inordi- 
 nately vain of his powers and the impression he 
 made, and began to think himself everybody's 
 superior. The good living in the homes of the 
 wealthy, and the tastes he acquired there, sapped 
 his moral fibre. Drink became a passion with 
 
An Odd Volume 33 
 
 him, and in time he grew intolerable even to his 
 most forbearing friends. Then the descent was 
 only too easy. He lost the mastership of the 
 school and ruined his home which had been the 
 pride of a noble-hearted sister, who died of grief 
 at his degradation. After that he became a fre- 
 quenter of the bar-parlors of inns, where he con- 
 tinued to hold forth to farmers, commercial trav- 
 ellers and even common rustics. He charmed 
 these as he had charmed the others, for a time, 
 and they fed his vanity and his craving for drink. 
 But at last even they grew tired of his drunken 
 assertiveness, and he was left to wander from place 
 to place, making a living by peddling books. I 
 have often thought of Ollie and his shattered life. 
 His kind of vanity is a terrible disease. I can 
 understand a pride in one's mental powers. That 
 keeps alive a man's faith in himself, and is often 
 very necessary for him to achieve success. Socrates 
 and Shakespeare must have been such egoists, 
 Samuel Johnson was another, Victor Hugo another, 
 But to be vain of those powers which demand the 
 body as a medium, that must debase if carried to 
 anything like an extreme. Ollie was an actor in 
 everything he did. His fine voice, his mobile 
 features, his humorous, expressive eyes, his im- 
 pressive manner and noble speech, all these were 
 cultivated and employed for the sake of the ap- 
 plause which fed his vanity, and the genius was 
 lost in the mummer. Ollie then was doomed to 
 futility, to be a mere entertainer at a feast. Even 
 now, open-eyed and repentant as he is, if you were 
 to give him a good dinner and a bottle of wine, 
 
34 The Silver Age 
 
 as, I regret to say, I have occasionally done for 
 my own amusement, the fellow will strut an imag- 
 inary stage as though he were the whole play. 
 It's a fatal gift, this of the body's attributes, when 
 the mind does not control them. I remember a 
 famous minister of religion highly endowed as a 
 preacher, say, after he had deeply moved his 
 congregation with one of his noble sermons: 'Did 
 you see them cry and wipe their eyes? Oh, I 
 can do with them what I like !' There spoke the 
 vain actor, not the proud bearer of a spiritual 
 message. Vanity may be a charming weakness in 
 women, but in men it's a disease, a sort of moral 
 elephantiasis, when the virtues run to seed and are 
 permitted to grow to vices again. Few who ven- 
 ture on this sea of self-esteem ever reach a haven 
 of salvation who do not steer their course by the 
 pole-star of the guiding soul. Had Socrates been 
 as handsome as Alcibiades I question if Plato 
 would have written the Phaedo or the Apology. 
 'The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
 make instruments to plague us.' The fire we 
 have caught from heaven to light our soul's way, 
 more often burns up our hearts, or we use it to 
 forge the chains which bind us to the rock of our 
 baser passions." 
 
 A month later I had occasion to call on Sholes 
 on a matter of business, and was surprised to find 
 him wearing a high silk hat with a broad black 
 band. "You are just in time," he said, "I am 
 going to poor Ollie's funeral. He died the other 
 day and the booksellers have asked me to say a 
 few words at his grave. Will you come?" 
 
An Odd Volume 35 
 
 I went willingly, and when we arrived at the 
 cemetery we found about a dozen members of 
 the local trade already waiting for us. After 
 the clergyman had read the last sentences of the 
 beautiful Church of England service for the dead, 
 and the coffined body had been consigned to its 
 final home, Sholes spoke: 
 
 "My friends," he said in his soft, mellow 
 voice, "he whom we have just laid to rest was a 
 rare man, though one of many failings. But his 
 troubling heart will trouble him no more. We, 
 who are here to do him this our last service of 
 respect, may never forget the fine qualities of 
 character which were his shining gifts and which 
 he so bountifully poured out for our enjoyment. 
 He was ever ready to do a kindness where reward 
 was impossible, and always willing to give of the 
 best he had to give. And his best was a rare 
 thing. I knew our friend in those years when he 
 was honored by his peers and welcomed by those in 
 high places as an equal. Had you known him 
 then you would understand my feelings now, as I 
 stand here by his grave, and speed him to God 
 who will forgive him all because He knows all. 
 With his death falls from him all that was gross 
 and impure, and there remain, living in our 
 memories while life shall last, the brilliant scholar, 
 the delightful companion, the charming gentleman, 
 the large-hearted friend, whom we were proud to 
 help in his need, and whose like we shall never 
 meet again. In thinking of him thus we shall 
 bear his spirit company along the uncompanioned 
 
36 The Silver Age 
 
 way he now treads, and speak for him before the 
 Judgment Seat. This it is our privilege as well as 
 our duty to do, and in doing it we shall strengthen 
 and fortify ourselves with the best that was of 
 our friend." 
 
THE LADY AND THE 
 SINGING-BIRD 
 
 37 
 
THE LADY AND THE SINGING-BIRD 
 
 ELI SHOLES sat at the far end of his little 
 book-shop, feet on fender before a blazing 
 coal fire, reading the morning's newspaper. 
 The day was dull and misty, of the kind that is so 
 frequent in the late autumn on the west coast of 
 England. Puffs of heavy white vapor, dimming 
 the yellow gas jets, were being blown into the shop 
 by a damp, salt breeze that chilled as it blew; but 
 Sholes sat, cigar in mouth, puffing and reading 
 contentedly, regardless of the weather and seem- 
 ingly oblivious of either time or tide. 
 
 On such mornings, customers, as Sholes knew, 
 were rare visitants to this shop in the narrow bye- 
 street. There was nothing to do then but to 
 await fortune's favors with a tranquil mind. A 
 long, pale, bearded face with a stern, square fore- 
 head, and dark, searching eyes were the chief 
 features about a head that was set firmly on a 
 solid neck. The figure as it reclined in the wooden 
 arm-chair, seemed sparse; the hands were white 
 and of almost feminine mould. He might have 
 been forty years old, though a number of gray streaks 
 in the straight, thick hair of head and beard, would 
 indicate a more advanced age. The mouth was 
 firm but with a pleasant curve to the lips which 
 were plainly visible in spite of the beard. A 
 thoughtful, sad face, but with a spiritual sadness. 
 
 The sound of quick footsteps caused him to raise 
 his head in its direction. 
 
 39 
 
40 The Silver Age 
 
 "Hello! Randall!" he cried, rising quickly, "I 
 am glad to see you! How are you? You haven't 
 been round for some days. What have you been 
 doing?" 
 
 "Oh, the same old grind. We've had a lot of 
 extra work lately; I'm sick of the damned office. 
 I can't stand that old skinflint of a money-grubber 
 I'm with much longer." 
 
 The speaker was a young man of a remarkably 
 handsome face with curly, brown hair surrounding 
 his head and spilling from under his hat. The 
 features would have been faultless, but for a ridicu- 
 lously small mouth like that of a pert and selfish 
 girl. He stood gracefully, the youth of him 
 seeming to radiate light through the fogged gloom 
 of the shop. 
 
 "What's he been up to now?" 
 
 "Nothing special. It's just the nature of the 
 beast that gets on my nerves. But let him go to 
 the devil. I didn't come to talk about him. I 
 came to talk about something else. Are you 
 busy?" 
 
 "Busy, on a day like this! You ought to know 
 the book-business better by this time than to ask 
 that question. No, I'm not busy. Sit down and 
 tell me what it is. Another book to sell? All 
 right, let's look at it." 
 
 "No, Sholes, it's not money this time, though 
 I could do with it. I may ask you to buy my 
 Lamb manuscript; it's worth more than the ten 
 quid I once offered it to you for. No it's not 
 money." Randall's blanched face expressed trou- 
 ble in every feature. 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 41 
 
 "What is it, then?" Sholes's impassive face took 
 on an almost inquisitive look. 
 
 "Well I'm rather in a fix, and I've come 
 round to see if you can help me out of it." 
 
 "O-oh! What is it? Father found you kissing 
 a servant girl?" 
 
 "You are always joking me about girls." 
 
 For a moment he forgot his anxiety, and the 
 little mouth smiled its fullness of vanity with a 
 self-satisfied curve of the lips; but the look in the 
 hazel eyes was a troubled one. 
 
 "Well, if it's not money and it's not a girl, 
 what is it?" 
 
 "It's a a woman!" His lids shut down, and 
 his long fingers fumbled about the rim of his hat. 
 The muscles of his face were strained. 
 
 "A ah!" The exclamation breathed itself out 
 long-drawn and hard. "Sit down on this stool, 
 and tell me all about it. Don't talk too loud 
 that imp of Satan, William, behind the counter, 
 has a donkey's ears on his red head. Who is she?" 
 
 "No one you know." 
 
 "Married or unmarried?" 
 
 "Married." 
 
 "The devil!" Sholes leaned back scratching his 
 bearded chin. "But I'm not surprised. You'd 
 tempt St. Theresa herself, you young faun.. 
 What's she like? I mean, what does she look 
 like?" 
 
 "She's very beautiful." 
 
 "Hm! I suppose she's your inspiration. I 
 might have known there was something behind 
 those last sonnets you brought me. How long 
 have you known her?" 
 
42 The Silver Age 
 
 "I met her first about a year ago." 
 
 "A ah!" 
 
 "We've been very intimate." 
 
 "O oh !" 
 
 "And the husband suspects something. He's 
 told her he doesn't want me to come to the house 
 any more." 
 
 "I don't blame him. Why not take him at his 
 word and keep away?" 
 
 "I can't and she won't let me." 
 
 "Whew! Then you are not anxious to keep it 
 up?" 
 
 The young fellow hung his head as if in shame. 
 He shifted his feet and fumbled with the pockets 
 of his waistcoat. Then, looking up with a furtive, 
 sly glance as of a child afraid of a scolding and 
 yet anxious to know how severe it would be, he 
 saw that Sholes's face had suddenly become hard 
 and cold. Quickly, he changed his expression, and 
 in a pleading voice, said: 
 
 "I'm in an awfully uncomfortable position, 
 Sholes. I am, indeed. And I am very fond of 
 her." Sholes turned his head away to hide the 
 sneer he was unable to repress. "I am indeed," 
 the young man reiterated. "I would do anything 
 to make her happy. Only he's such a commonplace 
 Philistine of a fellow that he doesn't understand. 
 He might be very nasty." 
 
 "Hasn't he a right to be nasty? You seem to 
 think that every woman you are 'really very fond 
 of,' as you obligingly put it, ought to be highly 
 complimented by your attentions; and that you are 
 doing her husband a favor! Don't you realize 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 43 
 
 what you are doing? Don't you understand that 
 you are transgressing the one sacred law of our 
 social existence? You say, you'd do anything to 
 make her happy. What right have you to say 
 that?" 
 
 "By the right of love." 
 
 "Love! And you talked just now of being very 
 fond of her! Damn it, man, you make me very 
 impatient with you." 
 
 "You are not fair to me, Sholes. I'm pre- 
 pared to stand by what IVe done. Fm ready to 
 marry her." 
 
 "Pshaw!" 
 
 "Now, don't be impatient; let me say what I 
 want to say. I'm ready to do anything; but I 
 don't know what to do for the best. I came for 
 your advice. I thought you would, out of friend- 
 ship, tell me the wisest course to take." 
 
 "My dear boy, it's impossible for an outsider 
 like me to tell you what you ought to do. I 
 don't know all the conditions, nor all the facts. I 
 don't know him and I don't know her. You must 
 find your own way out of this wretched imbroglio. 
 The trouble is, that you yourself complicate the 
 situation." 
 
 "I! How?" 
 
 "Yes, you, by your vanity." 
 
 Randall's face turned a vivid scarlet. He looked 
 up indignant and confused. He was about to ut- 
 ter a remonstrance, when Sholes put up his hand. 
 
 "I know what you are going to say, but I'm 
 right just the same. This is your first experience 
 of a serious nature, if I'm not mistaken, and you 
 
44 The Silver Age 
 
 are frightened at the thought of the consequences. 
 At the same time you are thinking what a hell of 
 a fine fellow you are. I can see it in your face. 
 You are thinking yourself the hero of a real ro- 
 mance. Well, I'm not going to feed your vanity, if 
 that's what you've come for. It would do you good 
 if the man gave you a sound drubbing and whipped 
 the offending Adam out of you. But I don't 
 suppose it will come to that. The man only sus- 
 pects and does not know, since he has asked his 
 wife to forbid you the house. The best advice 
 I can give you is to go away and forget her, if 
 your vanity will let you. The woman will, I've 
 no doubt, get over the affair." 
 
 "You are very unjust to me, Sholes." The 
 bookseller smiled enigmatically. Randall caught 
 the smile. "Yes, Sholes, you are. I've given her 
 the best there was in me to give." 
 
 "Pish! Don't talk that rubbish to me. You've 
 given her only what you liked to give her, and 
 what any man likes to give is rarely his best. 
 YouVe just been having a good time. It may be a 
 more serious matter with her. In that case she'll 
 find you out, now that a separation is imminent. 
 If she won't let you go, it's because she wants to 
 be assured of her faith in you. And you can't 
 satisfy her because you've got all you wanted. 
 She may fear that, too, because she's given you 
 everything. You've given her nothing, except 
 kisses and the poems she gave you the soul to 
 
 write." 
 
 Randall looked at the bookseller in astonish- 
 ment. The man had read him like an open book, 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 45 
 
 and had painted a faithful impressionistic picture 
 of the very scene he had last had with her. How 
 could he know it? 
 
 U I cannot deny," he said to the bookseller, 
 "what you say. You humble me; but I'm not as 
 bad as you make me out to be. I could not have 
 been to her what I have been, if I'd been as 
 mean as you say I am. And you can't know what 
 I've been to her." 
 
 "Randall, I'm much older than you are, which 
 means that I, too, have lived a life. I don't want 
 to talk to you about myself that would be a 
 waste of time. You say that you are not as bad 
 as I make you out to be. My dear, boy we're all 
 worse than others make us out to be and a little 
 better. Just now your worse side is showing itself. 
 You are young and good looking, and you cannot 
 resist the temptation to give free play to yourself. 
 You are a power youth and beauty are nature's 
 most powerful forces and you have in addition 
 the gift of song. You are an artist, which means 
 that you are always ready to use anything and 
 anybody. Do you know of any compound more 
 dangerous to the peace of our middle-class society 
 than this of yours? I don't." 
 
 Sholes saw Randall's face overspreading with an 
 almost beatific expression of self-complacency. He 
 took no notice, seemingly, and went on: 
 
 "You are just the very fellow to flutter the 
 dovecote of a half-cultured Suburbia. Ah! I 
 thought I'd make you squirm. You'd be a great 
 success among the women of New York, if what 
 I know of that place is true. Just now you are 
 
46 The Silver Age 
 
 piping your woodnotes wild in a very devil of 
 mischief-making spirit. I suppose you really can't 
 help doing it, and you must go on to the sweet or 
 bitter end. Let's hope it won't be very bitter. It 
 won't be to you; but it may be to those who are 
 snared by your pretty face and your siren's voice." 
 
 "Why should the end not be sweet? Isn't love 
 the only thing in life worth living for?" 
 
 "Love ! Ah, my boy, what do you know of love 
 yet? You are only feeling the prickings of the 
 little god. Read your sonnets ten years hence 
 and then you'll realize how little you knew of 
 love. You're not interested in cultivating an 
 orchard, you're too busy eating the ripe fruits of 
 other people's orchards. I don't say you are 
 utterly depraved in doing this. Nature wastes a 
 great deal in the spring time to produce her 
 autumnal harvests. But some one must pay the 
 price for a dissipation of energy. If you don't, 
 and I don't think you will, then your married 
 woman must. Whatever you've been to her it 
 must end in unhappiness. No one can come be- 
 tween a husband and wife with impunity. But she 
 has had her joy, and that may help her to bear 
 her agony. Unfortunately a woman suffers more 
 under our social laws than a man. When she 
 transgresses she is made to bear the man's as well 
 as her own burden of punishment. Forget your- 
 self, and think of her. Leave her to her husband. 
 She'll suffer; but such suffering is as nothing in 
 comparison with what she will be compelled to 
 endure if you remain." 
 
 "And yet you tell me I am selfish! Would I 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 47 
 
 not be utterly selfish to go away and leave her to 
 suffer alone?" 
 
 Sholes smiled whimsically. 
 
 "She'll suffer more with you now. The fire in 
 you for her is gone out. Your fear tells me that. 
 It is quenched utterly. You don't deceive me, 
 and you won't deceive her. She'll see soon enough 
 that she is sitting at a cold hearth. No, there's 
 nothing for it but to leave her. It's a miserable 
 business, at best; but it will be better for her and 
 better for you." 
 
 "How better for me?" 
 
 "You see, you think of yourself, first. I hope 
 it will be better for you. I hope that the separa- 
 tion may hurt you enough to make you suffer. The 
 more you suffer, the more the artist in you will 
 use that experience for creative work, and you may 
 then perhaps, accomplish something worthy. That's 
 nature's way. As for her, well she must bear it 
 as best she can; but if she's the woman you think 
 she is, the suffering will make a better woman of 
 her. I can say no more." 
 
 "Is there no other way?" 
 
 "There's always another way; but I'm showing 
 you the best way." 
 
 "He has written me a letter." 
 
 "Who? her husband?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why didn't you speak of it before?" 
 
 "I intended you to see it. It was the letter 
 that made me come to you this morning. Here 
 it is, read it." 
 
48 The Silver Age 
 
 Sholes slowly unfolded the paper and read the 
 signature first. He looked up surprised. 
 
 "John Whately! He's a customer of mine." 
 Randall made no reply. The bookseller read the 
 letter through slowly and with great care. When 
 he had finished it, he turned to Randall and said 
 quickly : 
 
 "A fine letter, written by a gentleman. The 
 writer of that letter is no fool, and knows more 
 than you give him credit for. Have you answered 
 it?" 
 
 "No, I didn't know what to say. It took the 
 wind out of my sails. It made me feel so small." 
 
 "Fm glad of that. It's a letter not easy to 
 answer. You must let me think it over until to- 
 night. Come back after closing hours and we'll 
 talk it over. You might bring that Lamb manu- 
 script with you. I'd like to look at it again. In 
 the meantime, I'll keep the letter, if you'll allow 
 me, until then." 
 
 "Certainly; I'll be here at six." 
 
 "Good. I'm going out to my lunch now. 
 William! William! where is that imp of Satan? 
 Oh, here you are! William, I'll be back in an 
 hour or so. Keep a sharp eye on the shop, do 
 you hear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And watch any parson that may come in 
 particularly if he wears a big overcoat." 
 
 "Yes, sir"; the boy's voice was like a distant 
 fog-horn in sound. 
 
 Sholes lifted the top of the desk and dropped 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 49 
 
 the letter inside it. The boy stood eyeing him 
 with a grin on his heavy, freckled face. 
 
 Randall and the bookseller had no sooner 
 passed out than the boy ducked his red head be- 
 neath the desk. In a moment he had emerged 
 with a large orange and an apple in his hands. 
 Then curling himself up in the chair, he took a 
 book from under his jacket and, munching an 
 apple, was absorbed in reading. 
 
 A loud scratching beneath the desk caused him 
 to turn his head. His eye caught sight of a 
 couple of mice nibbling at some apple pips near the 
 fender. Raising his book he took slow aim and 
 shot it at them. A crash, a scutter, and the boy 
 was on the floor after his book which now lay 
 shorn of one of its covers. Rising with the book 
 in his hand he struck his head a smart bump 
 against the desk. With an ugly scowl, he stood 
 looking at the offending piece of furniture, rub- 
 bing his sore scalp. "Golly, that was a nasty 
 one," he muttered, giving the desk a kick. Sud- 
 denly he stopped rubbing. 
 
 "Golly, I wonder what's in that letter." Sholes's 
 act came back to his memory. 
 
 Opening the flap, he ducked his head in and 
 emerged with the letter in his hand. He wasted 
 no time in unfolding it. His eye caught the signa- 
 ure, and he stared at it, open-mouthed. 
 
 "Oh, crikey, if it ain't from old Cocky Four 
 Eyes; my old master. And it's to Mr. Randall!" 
 He placed his book on the desk and, leaning 
 against the mantelpiece set himself to decipher the 
 somewhat old-fashioned script. 
 
50 The Silver Age 
 
 "Is Mr. Sholes in?" A voice, bell-like in qual- 
 ity, pierced the misty air and the boy jumped back 
 as if struck. He looked up with open mouth and 
 fearful face and saw a beautiful lady smiling gra- 
 ciously near him. In the fright which had seized 
 him he had dropped the letter. 
 
 u ls Mr. Sholes in?" the musical voice repeated. 
 
 u No, ma'am.'* The boy had managed to find 
 his breath. 
 
 "Will he be long away?" 
 
 "No, ma'am he's gone out to his lunch." He 
 stood staring at the pretty face as if unable or un- 
 willing to move. 
 
 "Then I will wait. May I sit here?" 
 
 The boy nodded mechanically, still gazing at 
 her and now with openly admiring eyes. He saw 
 what was to him a richly dressed woman, small, 
 very pretty, with large, alluring brown eyes. An 
 older person would have been drawn by the ten- 
 der and sweet expression in the eyes and round the 
 child-like full lips. She smiled at the boy standing 
 before her drinking in the vision, and the smile 
 sent a delightful quiver through him. He grinned 
 back, and then drew in his lips with a sucking 
 sound. Her face grew cold immediately while a 
 faint look of repulsion came into her eyes. She 
 turned her head aside. The boy still stood staring 
 with his fists clenched. Suddenly he stiffened. The 
 sound of coming steps made him turn, and he dis- 
 appeared in the foggy passage to attend to the 
 customer. 
 
 Left alone, she shuddered slightly, and allowed 
 her eyes to wander round the fireside. Bending 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 51 
 
 forward to warm her gloved hands at the fire she 
 saw the letter lying near the fender. She looked at 
 it for a moment, and then the muscles in her face 
 tightened. She had recognized her husband's 
 writing. Stooping she took the letter up and saw 
 that it was addressed to Mr. Randall. Without 
 the slightest hesitation she read it through deliber- 
 ately and carefully. She sat there, letter in hand, 
 immovable for some seconds, then with a low 
 moan fell back as if struck by a blow. When she 
 opened her eyes again she became aware that 
 someone was pushing her shoulders. With a pain- 
 ful effort she turned her head and saw the fear- 
 stricken face of the red-headed boy near her in 
 agony of suspense. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am did you faint?" he rumbled in his 
 thick voice. "You did frighten me." 
 
 She smiled wanly. U A little water, please," she 
 whispered. The boy went but returned quickly 
 with a dripping glass. She took it, trembling, and 
 sipped slowly. She remembered now. The letter ! 
 Where was it? She looked beggingly at the boy. 
 
 "The letter?" she breathed. 
 
 "I've put it back in the desk," the boy answered. 
 
 She nodded with a contented little sigh. "Thank 
 you," she said gently, holding out the glass to the 
 boy, "I'm much better." The boy turned, glass in 
 hand, when a shadow blotted out the faint day- 
 light which came in through the shop's door. Hur- 
 riedly he placed the glass on a shelf. 
 
 "Here's Mr. Sholes, ma'am," he whispered 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Now then, William," Sholes's voice came from 
 
52 The Silver Age 
 
 the distance, "run and get your dinner, and be back 
 in an hour, do you hear?" 
 
 u Yes, sir," the boy roared out. Seizing his 
 book and stuffing it beneath his jacket, he van- 
 ished behind the counter. 
 
 Sholes strode up, hat in hand, and placed it on 
 its accustomed shelf. Turning to the fireplace to 
 sit down he stopped short at the sight of the 
 woman sitting there. She had been watching him, 
 so that their eyes met. She smiled. 
 
 "Mr. Sholes, I believe." 
 
 The bookseller bowed slightly and awkwardly. 
 He faced her, leaning against the desk. The gas- 
 light falling upon her showed him the appealing 
 expression on the white, tired face, the sweet and 
 plaintive curves of the sensitive mouth, and the 
 eyes deer-like in their timidity of outlook. His 
 pulse beat more quickly. He knew instinctively 
 that this was the woman whose fate he had been 
 called upon by Randall to decide. A wave of 
 pity for her welled up in him, though his face was 
 as impassive as ever. 
 
 "Can I be of any service to you?" he asked 
 gently. 
 
 "I expected to meet Mr. Randall here. I am 
 Mrs. Whately. My husband, I think is a customer 
 of yours." Her voice had regained its silver 
 tones, but they rang mournfully in his ears, like 
 the faint sound of distant sledge-bells. 
 
 "I know your husband very well. We have 
 had many a pleasant chat together, here. He is 
 a fine scholar." 
 
 Her eyes softened and the deepening smile 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 53 
 
 brought charming dimples to the colorless, satin- 
 like cheeks. 
 
 "Mr. Randall was here this morning. He left 
 me an hour ago, to go home." 
 
 A shadow emphasized the sad expression on the 
 girlish face. Sholes noted it and noted also the 
 trembling of the lower lip. 
 
 "I am very anxious to see him to-day. I had 
 an appointment with him this morning, but as he 
 failed to keep it, I began to be afraid something 
 
 had happened to him. He never " She broke 
 
 off suddenly, her face crimsoning. 
 
 "He is quite well; a little worried, perhaps. " 
 
 The delicate suede-gloved hands in the silken 
 lap of her dress clasped and unclasped. Sholes 
 turned and lifted up the flap of the desk. Good! 
 The letter was still there. He closed the desk 
 softly. She had seen his act and, forgetting that 
 he could not be aware of her knowledge of his 
 possession of the letter, she became filled with 
 mingled fear and indignation. She made an effort 
 to rise, but, suddenly remembering, she sank 
 heavily back overcome by her emotion. Sholes 
 turned at the sound and saw her distress. 
 
 "You are ill, Mrs. Whately! Can I do any- 
 thing ?" 
 
 "I'm rather tired that is all. Thank you, no. 
 But I'm afraid I am interrupting you in your 
 business." 
 
 The remark, though quite casually made, served 
 as a happy interpretation of his act of opening the 
 desk. 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
54 The Silver Age 
 
 "Then may I sit awhile? It is very restful here 
 by your quaint fireside." 
 
 u By all means. I am grateful for company. A 
 bookseller's days are often very dull." 
 
 She smiled, and the smile touched Sholes by its 
 sweet pathos. 
 
 "You are very kind," she said, and added, "Yes, 
 I suppose not many people 'shop' for books. But 
 you must have frequent visits from collectors like 
 my husband or Mr. Randall?" 
 
 "Yes, but their visits are angel's visits." A 
 short pause followed which she broke. 
 
 "Mr. Sholes, may I ask you a question?" 
 
 Sholes looked startled for a moment, but added: 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "What do you think of Mr. Randall?" 
 
 The question was so unexpected that it hit him 
 like a blow. He recovered himself, however, 
 quickly, and with easy nonchalance, said smiling: 
 
 "Randall! Oh, he is a pretty boy only a 
 boy. He's interesting though, very, but the world 
 is a long way in front of him." 
 
 "You are not very enthusiastic. His friends 
 think he is a genius. Have you read his poems? 
 Some people think they are as good as Keats." 
 
 "I wouldn't go so far as that. There's no 
 doubt he has unusual talent; but his poems show 
 plainly he has had no experience of life. He's 
 too young." The woman blushed and looked 
 down. 
 
 "He's precocious," continued Sholes, "but pre- 
 cocity is not often an indication of genius. For one 
 Keats or Burns there are a thousand Macaulays, 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 55 
 
 and Macaulay, remarkably precocious as he was, 
 was anything but a genius." 
 
 "But Mr. Randall isn't a bit like Macaulay, Mr. 
 Sholes. Macaulay was a commonplace English- 
 man. Mr. Randall is a poet, with all a poet's 
 artistic temperament." 
 
 Sholes was convinced that she had come for a 
 purpose, and that Randall was that purpose. It 
 might, however, be possible, he thought, to bring 
 Randall to his senses, through her. At any rate, 
 the effort was worth making. 
 
 "It's the commonplace Englishman, madam, 
 who made English what she is. Poets are not 
 nation makers. As for their artistic temperament, 
 we must be careful how we treat it. If we are to 
 take them at their word, all young men with artis- 
 tic temperaments are geniuses the woods are full 
 of them." 
 
 "Are you not rather hard on Mr. Randall?" 
 
 "I was not thinking of him particularly. But 
 since you single him out I will say of him what I 
 say of them all he must convince the world be- 
 fore he asks it to accept him as one of the elect. 
 He must conquer it by his work, and he can only 
 do that by being left to live his life his own way. 
 If he's got the right stuff in him, it will come out. 
 It's a mistake a very great mistake to coddle 
 genius to rate it too highly at the first indication 
 of talent." 
 
 "The world doesn't err in that respect. What 
 would become of the genius if nobody appreciated 
 him? He'd starve, body and soul." 
 
 "That's true; but it's better he should starve 
 
56 The Silver Age 
 
 better for him, and better for the world. That 
 is part of his training; the experience ripens him." 
 
 "Would you then condemn him to suffering ?" 
 
 "No; but I would make sure first that he was 
 worth saving. If I were to open my house to all 
 who write sonnets and wear long hair, I'd have to 
 sleep in my backyard myself." 
 
 She smiled. "How can you be sure?" she 
 asked. "Is it not better to help and encourage than 
 to deny and dishearten, even if one makes mis- 
 takes?" 
 
 "If you are willing to take the consequences, 
 yes; but the genius is a very reckless fellow he 
 will break your heart and think he has mended it 
 by writing a lyric." 
 
 "Do you include Mr. Randall in that class?" 
 she asked in a strained, anxious voice. 
 
 "I do, for in addition to his pretty gift of verse- 
 making he has the pretty gift of good looks. That's 
 a dangerous combination in a young man. He is a 
 veritable menace to the public peace and the 
 private peace, also," he added slowly. 
 
 Sholes watched her shiver under the blow of 
 his remark. He was sorry he had struck so hard, 
 now that he saw how deeply it affected her. Poor 
 girl! Evidently Randall had sung his songs to 
 her and she had been converted as well as flat- 
 tered. No doubt, she thought herself walking the 
 sunlit heights with him another Laura to this 
 English Petrarch. 
 
 "You must have been unfortunate in those you 
 met, to speak as you do." She spoke with a gen- 
 tle sadness of tone. 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 57 
 
 "I have not met many; but I do know that the 
 artistic temperament, as we call it, is too often but 
 a fine cloak in which to hide a very ragged spirit. 
 At best it's a vagrant spirit. It is a wind that 
 bloweth where it listeth. I have found that it 
 thrives best under discipline. He's a poor friend 
 to genius that would force it with the heat of 
 flattery and adulation." 
 
 4 'But, surely, Mr. Sholes, you don't think Mr. 
 Randall is of the class of ragged spirits, as you 
 call them?" 
 
 "No, I don't; but he has their temperament, 
 and the temperament is an anti-social one. It's 
 selfish and reckless of what it does so long as it 
 gains its own ends. Besides, we make a mistake 
 when we think we are helping it by sympathy. I 
 have known much unhappiness follow from that 
 course, and I have come to the conclusion it is 
 really our duty to be hard with such men." 
 
 "Then you think that sympathy and apprecia- 
 tion would harm Mr. Randall?" 
 
 "I do. I believe in him; but just because of 
 that I must be very critical of what he does. I 
 should not be his friend, otherwise." She nodded 
 understandingly. 
 
 "I am glad you have so high an opinion of him. 
 It must be a great help to have you for a friend." 
 
 Sholes smiled. He was satisfied he had gained 
 an advantage. "I am afraid," he said, "he some- 
 times finds me trying." 
 
 "Oh, but I know he values your friendship 
 very highly. He has often spoken to me of you 
 and of your goodness to him." 
 
58 The Silver Age 
 
 "Well, I'm rather interested in seeing him 
 develop." 
 
 "I am interested in him, too, Mr. Sholes. In- 
 deed, it was partly on that account that I took the 
 liberty of coming here. I hope you won't misun- 
 derstand me." 
 
 Her face had taken on a charming, petitioning 
 look. He melted before its sweet pleading. 
 
 "I am glad to learn that. Your interest in him 
 cannot be otherwise than helpful. But you will 
 have to step carefully. A woman's interest in a 
 young man's future is apt to enervate him/ 
 Pardon me, for speaking so plainly." 
 
 Her face was a blown pink rose. She looked 
 down at her hands and saw their fingers twisting help- 
 lessly. Realizing that she was betraying herself she 
 summoned all her strength and, clasping her fingers 
 tightly, she looked up smilingly and said, as steadily 
 as she could : 
 
 "You are quite right. It is difficult to know 
 what is best to do. You are very wise, Mr. 
 Sholes, and very kind. I I wish we had met 
 earlier." She paused out of lack of breath from 
 the stress of emotion. Then recovering herself 
 quickly, she added, "I might have been of greater 
 help to him than I have been. It is not easy, as 
 you know, to judge, where one's sympathies are 
 engaged." 
 
 Sholes saw the pure soul of the sorrow-laden 
 woman in her eyes. The sight so affected him 
 that he dug his finger-nails into the wooden desk. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Whately," his voice was en- 
 riched with his emotion, "it is always difficult to 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 59 
 
 be wise where one's affections are engaged." She 
 noted the new word. "That is my difficulty with 
 Randall. I want him to succeed, because I feel 
 sure he will do big things, and the world has need 
 of men who can do big things. But the man des- 
 tined to greatness, must fight his fight alone." 
 
 "You think, then, he should go out into the 
 world, and take his chance." 
 
 "Exactly. Indeed, that is what I have been 
 urging him to do this very morning, but he is 
 unwilling to take the leap." 
 
 Her gentle eyes glowed as from an inward fire. 
 Sholes saw the glow and it sent a hope springing 
 in his breast. Surely that glow was the dawn of 
 Randall's day of freedom. He waited anxiously 
 for her answer. When it came it confirmed him. 
 
 "I will add my persuasions to your urgings, Mr. 
 Sholes, it may be that two can do where one 
 failed." 
 
 "If you do, then I shall have no doubt at all of 
 his future." 
 
 She rose slowly, and extending her hand, said: 
 
 "You have been very kind to allow me to take 
 up so much of your time. I am very grateful to 
 you. Won't you call on us some evening? My 
 husband, I am sure, will be pleased." 
 
 "Thank you; I may take you at your word." 
 
 "Do. Good-afternoon." 
 
 "Good-afternoon." He held her hand a brief 
 second. "I shall be honored whenever you call 
 again." 
 
 She smiled wearily, and turning away her pa- 
 thetically sad eyes, stepped slowly out. 
 
60 The Silver Age 
 
 A murky blackness had taken the place of the 
 brief, misty daylight. Sholes lit a couple of gas 
 jets and peered behind the counter for the boy. 
 "William," he called, "damn that red-headed 
 Caliban! I suppose he won't be back now. Gone 
 down to the docks, as usual. Well, I'm glad he 
 didn't come back." Returning to the fireside he 
 opened the desk, took out the letter and read it 
 once more. 
 
 "An unusual letter, but a fine spirit all through 
 it," he muttered as he placed it in his coat pocket. 
 He stood with foot on fender and head bent star- 
 ing at the fire, absorbed in reflections over the 
 day's strange happenings. Poor woman, poor 
 woman ! There was not a doubt of him in her 
 mind. Sholes continued to stare at the fire utterly 
 unconscious of either time or place. Memory had 
 come back to him. He saw himself a young 
 man again, walking the hedge-lined lanes with a 
 woman. The old, old story. He had somehow lived 
 through his own agonies. What puppets young 
 men are in the grip of this passion of love ! What 
 fools we are to think we can harness the mightiest 
 of nature's forces in the ribbons of ordinary con- 
 vention and drive the car of life with them! He 
 shivered. Yes, he must make Randall clear out. 
 He must not remain to ruin that great-hearted 
 woman's life, and ruin his own, too. He would 
 press him to the last stand. With a sigh he 
 raised his head and passed his hands through the 
 thick hair. The sound of footsteps caused him to 
 turn towards the entrance to the shop; he stood 
 waiting. 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 61 
 
 "Here I am Sholes prompt to the minute." 
 
 Sholes looked at Randall as though he didn't 
 see him. A momentary feeling of revulsion had 
 seized him as he caught sight of the small, selfish 
 smiling mouth; but he quickly repressed it. With 
 a heavy step forward he greeted the young man. 
 
 "I'm very glad you've come," he said, his bari- 
 tone voice deepened to its lower tones, u put some 
 coals on the fire while I turn out the lights and 
 lock up." 
 
 A few minutes later, Randall and the book- 
 seller sat facing each other at the fireside. The 
 single gas jet above the mantelpiece flared darkly 
 yellow in the thick misty atmosphere of the foggy 
 evening in which the forms of the two men were 
 enfolded. Sholes lit a cigar and puffed at it slowly. 
 
 "Did you bring the Lamb manuscript?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, here it is." 
 
 "Good." He examined it carefully, fingering 
 each leaf. "I'll give you the ten pounds for it, 
 though it's more than I can afford to tie up just 
 now, if you'll do what I'm going to ask you to do." 
 
 "What's that?" inquired Randall curiously. 
 
 "Pack up your traps, and go up to London 
 to-night." 
 
 "London! To-night! Good God, man, I can't 
 do that. I can't leave the office at a moment's notice 
 without an explanation." 
 
 "Write the explanation say anything you like, 
 you've threatened to leave before. I've thought 
 over your situation and the only way out of it I 
 can see is to do what I advise." 
 
 "I I can't leave her that way." 
 
62 The Silver Age 
 
 "It's the only way you will leave her. You go 
 to London to-night and start your life again or, I 
 wash my hands of the matter, and decline to buy 
 the manuscript. You've read his letter. Here it 
 is. Read it again. That man practically begs 
 your clemency. Can you refuse him?" 
 
 Randall smirked as he shifted uneasily. The 
 vanity in the man was irrepressible. With a 
 graceful side-turn of his head which would have 
 been repulsive had it not been so evidently natural, 
 he looked at Sholes shyly and said: 
 
 "My clemency, as you call it would not help 
 him. She is not the woman he thinks she is. She 
 can't live his life; she has a life of her own to 
 live now." 
 
 "Then let her live it. Do you want to show her 
 how to live it? Are you prepared for the conse- 
 quences?" 
 
 "I don't know. I can't say. I'm very much 
 attached to her." 
 
 "Attached be hanged! Do you love her so that 
 your life is a blank without her? No, of course, 
 you don't. It's your damnable vanity that won't 
 let you give her up. I wish to God you did love 
 her; there might be some hope for you then." 
 
 Sholes's face was marble in its white sternness. 
 The sentimental frills fell away from Randall like 
 blown thistledown. He sat straight up, looking 
 like a bleak stalk. 
 
 "You are unjust to me, Sholes. I don't deserve 
 all you say. I want to do what will give her least 
 unhappiness. I would do anything to help her. 
 And yet there is my own future also." 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 63 
 
 "What I advise is best for her and best for 
 your own future." 
 
 "She will break her heart, if I leave her." 
 
 "So you think; but she's more likely to break 
 her husband's heart, if I read that letter aright. 
 And she'll break you without intending to do it." 
 
 Randall shook his head with a sad smile. "You 
 don't know her," he said; "she has a beautiful nature 
 and would sacrifice her life for me." 
 
 "I see I must be frank with you. Do you care 
 to listen?" 
 
 Randall nodded a timid and anxious assent. 
 The bookseller threw the stump of his cigar into 
 the fender, and settled himself back firmly in his 
 chair. 
 
 "I am of the firm opinion that you are cut out 
 for the career of letters. There's the making of 
 a writer in you. You have imagination and fancy 
 and the art of expression. You have style also. 
 It would be a pity were you to squander your gifts. 
 But what are you doing with them, cooped up in 
 this stupid provincial town? And what are 
 you doing with yourself tied to a woman's 
 apron-strings and to a married woman's? Can't 
 you see that you are frittering away the best 
 time of your life? Get away from this town and 
 this woman. London's your field. This town 
 won't miss you, and the woman will not long re- 
 member you. Oh, don't smile; she'll get over 
 you. And when she does, she'll be the better for 
 having known you, if she is the woman you say 
 she is. If she's not you'd drag her down to hell, 
 if you stay. This letter of her husband's leaves 
 
64 The Silver Age 
 
 you no alternative except to take her or to leave 
 her. If you take her, you must support her and 
 you can't support yourself. What your lives to- 
 gether will then be I leave you to imagine. If you 
 leave her, you will at least do the one decent thing 
 kft to you to do for her husband; and as for her, 
 well, she will suffer, but she will grow through the 
 suffering to be a nobler woman and, perhaps a 
 truer wife. As for you, yourself, youVe had the 
 experience, and it may or may not make a man 
 of you. I hope it will. Nay, I am sure it will. 
 You have the poet's soul in you, and the trial may 
 deepen your nature so that it may take upon itself 
 the mystery of things, as Shakespeare so wonder- 
 fully expressed it." Sholes paused and look stead- 
 ily at Randall. "Am I to buy the manuscript on 
 my terms?" he asked, faintly smiling, "or is it to 
 be the Divorce Court?" The last words he shot at 
 him with forward-bending head. 
 
 Randall was overcome. He put his hands up 
 before his face and sat bent, the very picture of 
 misery. 
 
 "Come, come my lad," and Sholes leaned over 
 to pat his shoulder, "take the ten pounds. It'll be 
 the saving of your life." 
 
 Randall raised a tired, drawn, white face. Sholes 
 saw the mouth tremble, and felt a father's pity for 
 the boy as he held the bank-notes toward him. 
 
 The young man put them aside with a despair- 
 ing gesture. 
 
 "I can't. I don't know what to think. Give 
 me a week to decide. There's so much to do 
 before I could go, in any case." 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 65 
 
 "No it must be now or never. There's noth- 
 ing to do that you can't do better after you get to 
 London. I'm pressing you, I know; but I've been 
 through this mill myself. I lost my chance through 
 just such waiting in a false hope." 
 
 The last words were spoken in so broken and 
 sad a voice that Randall even was moved to for- 
 get himself. He looked at the bookseller's face 
 and thought he saw a rift opening darkly in its 
 mask; but the rift must have been a seeming for 
 the next moment the face appeared calm and pas- 
 sionless as ever. It was not Sholes's face, but the 
 magical tones of his voice that had stirred Ran- 
 dall's heart-strings and sent them vibrating to a 
 new music. Sholes saw that he had gained a decided 
 advantage. He determined to make his final attack. 
 
 "She was here this afternon," he remarked, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Here!" Randall jumped up from his seat with 
 the exclamation. "What did she want? Oh, I 
 know, she came to see if I were here." Then he 
 remembered that Sholes had never met her before. 
 "But how did you know it was she?" he asked, 
 suddenly 
 
 "Did you not give me her husband's letter? She 
 introduced herself by name. She expected to meet 
 you here, she said." 
 
 "Yes, but I could not see her until I had settled 
 about that letter. Did you have any talk with 
 her? Isn't she beautiful?" 
 
 "Yes, she is very charming. We chatted to- 
 gether for quite some time. You see, I was inter- 
 ested in meeting her." 
 
66 The Silver Age 
 
 "What do you think of her? I've often wished 
 you could meet her." 
 
 "She's very pretty and engaging; but nothing 
 unusual nothing to rave about." 
 
 Sholes grit his teeth as he spoke the denying 
 words, and offered a prayer of pardon to her in 
 his heart. 
 
 "Ah, you don't know her. She has a fine mind, 
 and a beautiful nature. And she's an excellent 
 judge of poetry." 
 
 "I suppose you mean of your poetry. I'm not 
 surprised. She has had the advantage of your 
 private tuition. Now don't fly off at a tangent. I 
 must have my joke. But, seriously, she's a sick 
 woman. She'll welcome a respite from your heated 
 attentions. You've put on her more than she can 
 bear, and the strain is breaking her." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that you have taken her out of her 
 element. You've made her climb with you to an 
 atmosphere that is painful for her to breathe. She's 
 tired tired of poetry, tired of living with you on 
 the heights, tired of everything, of you, even." 
 
 "How do you know that? Did she say so?" 
 
 Sholes smiled. 
 
 "She didn't have to say it. It was written all 
 over her face. For God's sake, man, leave her 
 alone, if you want her to live at all. She's not of 
 your class. Thank Heaven, there are some women 
 left in the world who do not belong to it. Yes, 
 I mean what I say, and I say it without intending 
 to hurt your feelings. The women of your class 
 must be barren. This woman is made for mother- 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 67 
 
 hood and the suckling of children. She belongs 
 to a home, not a conservatory. She's one of the 
 builders of peoples, not a pretty grisette to tie a 
 poet's silken scarf. You've made her eat your 
 apples of Hesperides, and they are Dead Sea fruit 
 to her. Be content to let her dream of you. Her 
 dreams will do her more good than your reality. 
 Go to-night, and she will forget you in a week, 
 unless " and the words fell from Sholes's lips 
 unpremeditatedly "unless the child she is carry- 
 ing within her is yours." 
 
 Randall fell heavily into the chair and bent 
 double. His act struck Sholes like an earthquake. 
 He had spoken at random, though he had diag- 
 nosed the woman's illness. The ground seemed 
 to open suddenly beneath his feet. The shock split, 
 for Sholes, the rock of the young man's stubborn- 
 ness and, as he stared at the bowed form, he 
 seemed to see the waters of his life gushing forth 
 and drowning him. It was this, then, that had 
 held him back! The subterranean lake lay re- 
 vealed now. He could see clearly all around it. 
 He even heard the sucking sounds of the black, 
 viscous waves at they lap-lap-lapped the slimy 
 shores. Oh the pity of it; the pity of it! 
 
 For many minutes Sholes sat and stared, think- 
 ing, thinking. Finally, he shook himself out of 
 his stupor and, placing his hand on Randall's 
 shoulder, said in a quiet, sad voice: 
 
 '"You should have told me this before." 
 
 "I was afraid to at first," came up brokenly, 
 "but I intended you should know before we parted 
 to-night." 
 
68 The Silver Age 
 
 "I wish I had known it when she was here 
 to-day. You must be up and away to-night 
 now, more than ever. Do you hear are? To- 
 night." 
 
 "And you still urge me to go?" The words 
 reached him muffled. 
 
 "Yes! It's your life against hers. She has lived 
 hers yours is yet to be lived. Take it in your 
 own hands like a man, or both your lives will be 
 blasted. You can't help her by remaining. Nay, 
 you'll make it harder for her to bear. Rouse 
 yourself, man!" 
 
 "I'll feel like a cur, Sholes, like a dirty dog." 
 
 "It'll do you good to feel it; but a living 
 cur is worth a hundred dead lions. If you've the 
 stuff of a man in you at all, the waters of this 
 misery will wash the cur in you clean. Don't, for 
 her sake, sentimentalize the situation. Grit your 
 teeth be hard and do the seeming coward's act. 
 She'll thank you for it, later, and when you've suc- 
 ceeded she'll be the first to rejoice in your success. 
 Write her from London a short letter, but don't 
 pity her whatever you do, or you'll both dissolve in 
 ineffectual tears. Leave her to fight her own life. 
 The child will help her more than you ever could. 
 It may be her salvation." 
 
 "God! God! What have I done?" 
 
 "What's the use of thinking over that now. You 
 can't undo it, can you?" 
 
 "No, I wish to Heaven I could. I'd give my 
 life to help her to save her from the misery of it 
 all." 
 
 "Give it then. There is only one way to give 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 69 
 
 your life for hers by dedicating it to your art. 
 Let her be your inspiration the glory of your 
 labors. Sing your love for her into your poems, 
 and let her realize it let her feel that she has 
 not sacrificed herself for nothing. She has given 
 you all she could give. Treasure her gift in the 
 soil of your heart, so that it may grow into the fruit 
 of your art and be a nourishing blessing to others. 
 The woman in her will take joy in that, and it will 
 make her feel that her broken life has not been 
 broken in vain." 
 
 "Your medicine, Sholes, is very bitter to the 
 taste. And yet, I don't know what else to do." 
 
 "The ills of weakness cannot be cured, they can 
 only be endured by bitter repentance and mighty 
 effort. It's easy to slip down the incline but it's 
 very hard to climb up again. Come, take the 
 money. I'll meet you at the railway station to see 
 you off by the midnight train. Will you be 
 there?" 
 
 "You have convinced me there is no alternative." 
 Randall looked up at his friend, and his face showed 
 aged with its dark-rimmed eyes and drawn mouth. 
 "But I can't go to-night. I must see her before I 
 go. I had a note from her just before I left 
 home, in which she begs me to see her early to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 Sholes's face lit up as with a smile of triumph, 
 but the smile quickly disappeared. 
 
 "Write her instead." 
 
 "But she says she has something very impor- 
 tant to say to me." 
 
 "I know what she would say to you." 
 
70 The Silver Age 
 
 "You know?" 
 
 "Yes she will ask you to do what I am asking 
 of you to go away." 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 Sholes smiled. "She told me," he said, quietly. 
 
 Randall looked at the bookseller in blank aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 "She told you that she wished me to leave Mere- 
 ston?" he repeated slowly. 
 
 Sholes continued to smile and nodded. 
 
 "Come, my boy, don't misjudge her"; he seized 
 Randall's coat by its two lapels and shook him. 
 Then, looking straight into the young man's eyes, 
 he raised his rich voice to a solemn note: 
 
 "If you believe in my friendship for you, you 
 must surely believe in her self-sacrificing love." 
 
 The words were almost chanted; they sank into 
 Randall who bowed his head, so that it almost lay 
 on Sholes's breast. Slowly he raised his hands and 
 taking hold of both Sholes's he pressed them 
 hard. In a broken voice, he cried: 
 
 "I am not worth it, dear friend, I am not worth 
 it." The bookseller's face shone with gladness. 
 
 "You will be, my lad. I am certain of that. 
 Send us both an early copy of your first book. It 
 will tell us more than a thousand letters. But we 
 must be going now, if you are to get ready for 
 your journey. Here's the money." 
 
 Randall shivered and pocketing the notes, turned 
 groping to the door. Sholes dropped the manu- 
 script into the desk, put out the light, and the 
 two passed out into the black, foggy night. 
 
The Lady and the Singing-bird 71 
 
 "I'll be at the station at 11.45." Sholes's words 
 were borne on a wreath of steaming breath. 
 
 "I'll be there," Randall mournfully steamed 
 back. 
 
 Two long black patches separated in different 
 directions and were dissolved in the fog. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning in the late spring fol- 
 lowing Randall's departure for London. Sholes 
 sat in his accustomed seat in the shop, smoking his 
 post-prandial cigar, and reading the newspaper. Near 
 the door, and hidden by the counter, crouched Caliban 
 William, reading. A nearer view would have shown 
 that his face was cleaner, his hair better trimmed and 
 his clothes more presentable than of old. He seemed 
 to be enjoying the book Kingsley's "Westward 
 Ho." and the eager expression on his features im- 
 parted a quaint charm to their ungainliness. 
 
 "Postman!" A figure darkened the entrance. 
 The boy jumped up alertly and received a small 
 package. Stepping softly, he made his way to 
 where the bookseller sat. He placed the parcel 
 on the desk, and was about to draw Sholes's at- 
 tention to it, when a cry broke from the book- 
 seller's lips. The boy slipped away quickly and 
 noiselessly; he had seen that set, white face before, 
 and it boded no good. 
 
 Sholes was sitting, staring at the paper in his 
 hand, as if paralyzed. Presently he laid the sheet 
 on his knees, and bowed his head on his breast. 
 
 "So so that's the end," he sighed, "God keep 
 her! God keep her!" The mask-like face was 
 drawn and twisted. A tear slipped down the 
 
72 The Silver Age 
 
 cheek and was lost in the beard. He took the 
 paper up again and fixed his eyes on a corner of 
 the page : 
 
 "April 23rd at Oxberry, Alison Whately, aged 
 25 years, beloved wife of John Whately, in child- 
 birth." 
 
 u After life's fitful fever, she sleeps well," he 
 muttered. 
 
 He rose from his seat and, leaving the paper 
 lying on it, turned to lean against the desk, when 
 his eye caught sight of the parcel. Mechanically, 
 he cut the string which bound it and, removing the 
 brown paper wrapper, took out a book. With 
 the instinct born of his trade, he turned to the 
 title-page : 
 
 "A Life for a Life: A Sonnet Sequence. By 
 Stuart Randall." He turned the leaves idly. 
 
 "I wonder if it's worth the price," he mur- 
 mured. 
 
"ANY VINDERS TO MEND?" 
 
 73 
 
A grassy bank, a shading tree, 
 
 A rippling brook that murmurs low, 
 
 With just a sigh as of the sea 
 The wind breathes where the rushes grow. 
 
 A golden mist by sunlight spread 
 
 Of which I build my castles fair, 
 Green whisp'ring leaves above my head 
 
 Which messages from heaven bear. 
 
 Here I lie my heart enchanted; 
 
 Yet question why the needs of man 
 Bar the aims of those God granted 
 
 Souls to aspire His ways to plan. 
 
 All our strivings through the- ages 
 Since first Lord Jesus loved and taught, 
 
 Still finds us delving for mere wages, 
 In economic prisons caught. 
 
 Grass and trees and murmuring streams 
 And airs washed golden by the sun, 
 
 Are now but stuff for poets' dreams, 
 To labor lost, and rarely won. 
 
 Yet gold of sun and song of brook 
 Have magic gifts our days to dower, 
 
 Which never gods from anvils struck, 
 And ever wait our spirits' hour. 
 
 74 
 
"ANY VINDERS TO MEND?" 
 
 THE street-criers of cities are rarely heard 
 now, even in London, where the airs of the 
 various seasons were once musical with their 
 calls. "Trade's unfeeling train" has usurped the 
 land and dispossessed these picturesque swains of 
 their ancient rights and privileges, and the warblers 
 have long since migrated to where blow kinder 
 airs. I suppose the modern newspaper, with its 
 tradesmen's advertisements, is a better guide and 
 helper than was the itinerant cobbler or the travel- 
 ing tinker; yet I cannot help feeling a regret that 
 these peripatetic peddlers no longer play their part 
 in the dramas of life. 
 
 I recall these acquaintances of my boyhood as I 
 sit listening to the bells that are chiming in the 
 new year, because it was on the eve of a new year 
 that I first met one of these criers of the streets 
 whose beneficent influence on my life is still an 
 abiding force. I remember as though it were but 
 yesterday that cold December afternoon, as I sat 
 by the window watching the snowflakes falling, 
 hearing a voice in the street cry: "Any vinders to 
 mend? Any vinders to me-end?" I peered into 
 the greying dusk, and saw a man standing in the 
 middle of the road, his head raised, his hands held 
 funnel-wise to his mouth. On his back was 
 strapped a wooden crate loaded with squares of 
 glass. My mother bade me call the man in to 
 
 75 
 
76 The Silver Age 
 
 repair one of the panes in a kitchen window 
 which had long needed a glazier's attention. 
 
 The poor fellow was stiff from the cold and 
 seemed very grateful for the permission granted 
 him to warm his hands over the fire. He ex- 
 cused himself for the odor that came from his 
 clothes, which, he explained, was due to the oil 
 in the putty with which they were smeared. I 
 noticed that his features were remarkably dis- 
 tinguished, unlike those of any Jew I had seen 
 before. The nose was straight, with finely chis- 
 eled nostrils, and the face clean shaven except 
 for a short, bushy mustache that gave him 
 something of a foreign military air. He had 
 taken off his greasy cap on entering the room, 
 and I was struck by the beautiful white forehead 
 which shone below the closely cropped grisly 
 hair in the gas-light. I was deeply interested to 
 see him at work, especially when he began to 
 cut the glass to size with a small instrument he 
 called a diamond. 
 
 "Are you a Jew?" I asked with a boy's im- 
 pertinence, as he stood softening the putty before 
 the fire. He nodded his head, with an amused 
 look. 
 
 "Were you born in Palestine?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "No," he said; "I was born in Warsaw." He 
 pronounced it "Varshaw." 
 
 "Where is that?" 
 
 "In Poland. It is the capital of that coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Do you like being a glazier?" 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 77 
 
 "I must like it. I have to earn a living." 
 
 "Were you a glazier in Varshaw?" 
 
 I have never forgotten the look he gave me. In- 
 stinctively, I realized, though I was only a boy, 
 that I had made a mistake. 
 
 "My little lad," he said sternly, "you seem to be 
 a nice boy, but I will take the liberty to say to you 
 that it is not to be a gentleman to be too inquisi- 
 tive. In Poland we are gentlemen." 
 
 He spoke with difficulty and with a strong for- 
 eign accent. I hung my head in shame at his words. 
 
 "You are a good boy," he said in a changed voice, 
 and patted me with his putty-smeared hand. "It 
 is the part of a gentleman to ask pardon when he 
 has done wrong i and I see you are sorry. We are 
 friends again, are we not?" 
 
 Smiling, I looked up at him, and he nodded his 
 head, satisfied, as he turned to finish his task. My 
 mother came in to pay him, and she asked if he 
 would drink a cup of tea to keep him warm on his 
 way home. He looked at her for a moment as if to 
 search for her motive, and then he bowed politely. 
 It would give him great pleasure, he said, to accept 
 her hospitality; "but in my country," he explained, 
 "we drink tea a la Russe, in a glass, with lemon and 
 lump sugar, and I still keep to the custom here." 
 He drank not one, but several glasses, and enjoyed 
 the steaming brew hugely. I tried to drink a glass 
 with him, but I had difficulty in keeping the sugar 
 in my mouth unmelted. This amused him greatly 
 and afforded him the opportunity to give a lesson 
 in this form of tea-drinking. Thus began my 
 friendship with Leon Wiener, the Polish exile, a 
 
78 The Silver Age 
 
 friendship which, though it is ended in the body, 
 will continue in the spirit as long as I live. On 
 leaving he begged I would visit him in his humble 
 lodging, so that he might have the pleasure of re- 
 turning the hospitality he had enjoyed in my home. 
 I promised eagerly, and I still possess the piece of 
 paper, greased with putty, with his pencilled address 
 on it. 
 
 Very humble indeed was the third-story attic in 
 which I found him one Saturday afternoon in Janu- 
 ary; but the room was spotlessly clean, and the little 
 fire-grate flamed very invitingly. On a table near 
 the hearth stood a gleaming brass samovar steaming 
 merrily. He did the duties of host in a manner at 
 once so dignified and kindly that I felt I was a 
 person of importance being entertained at a feast. 
 He was quite changed in his appearance. In place 
 of the tired, greasy workman I had previously met, 
 I now saw a neatly dressed gentleman of distinction 
 who might have passed for an army officer in mufti. 
 Tea served, he began by inquiring about my studies, 
 and when I told him I had just graduated into the 
 higher classes, he said: 
 
 "You must learn French. That is the one lan- 
 guage which a gentleman must know. The French 
 are the only people in the world who know how to 
 live. English-speaking people cannot understand 
 them, because they take life too seriously and think 
 the French are frivolous. But they are far from 
 being frivolous; they are just happy as children are 
 happy. They have been taught by suffering that 
 happiness is all that life means. They are happy 
 also because they are brave, for all brave people are 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 79 
 
 glad to be alive. This is the first lesson you must 
 learn my boy, because God made you that you 
 should be glad He made you. A great Jewish phil- 
 osopher, Baruch Spinosa, said, 'A free man fears 
 nothing less than death,' and the French will teach 
 you the meaning of that splendid thought. Ah, if 
 I had not been born a Pole, I would have thanked 
 God to be born a Frenchman, to have nursed my 
 soul at the breast of France, that daughter of His- 
 tory bred in Romance ! But we Poles are very like 
 Frenchmen. We like to eat good food, to drink fine 
 wines, to dance our mazurkas, to fight against 
 oppression and tyranny, to love our women, and to 
 honor our parents. It will always be well with the 
 land where the children reverence their fathers and 
 mothers. Your mother is a gracious lady. Never 
 forget that, and the memory of her will be as a 
 guiding star to you in the journey of your life." 
 He paused, and took a long drink. 
 
 "Have you ever heard of Pushkin? No, of 
 course not. How could you? Well, Pushkin is 
 our great Slav poet, who has written the most beau- 
 tiful songs in praise of women and home and 
 country. I wish you could understand the language, 
 for I would recite some of his poems to you. Then 
 there is Turgenieff, the Russian novelist, and Sienkie- 
 wicz, Poland's great writer of historical romances, 
 and Krasinski, the historian of Poland. Some day 
 you will read their books, but Pushkin can never be 
 translated; never. His songs are like the droppings 
 of honeycombs on a bright summer's day. Will 
 you have another glass of tea? It will do you no 
 harm, and it is a great pleasure to me to have you 
 
8o The Silver Age 
 
 here to talk to. You have unloosed the streams of 
 a memory that circumstance has held frozen for 
 many years. It is like being at home again. Ah, 
 I see you would like to know more of me and my 
 country, not so? I know you are inquisitive. Ha! 
 ha I ha 1 Pardon, that I remind you of your faux 
 pas. But it is different now. Nu; so you shall 
 listen while an old man talks." 
 
 Then he told me a strange tale of a revolution, of 
 fighting in the cause of Poland's freedom from 
 Russian oppression, of defeat, and of his flight for 
 his life. He had possessed a great estate, and he 
 dwelt lovingly on its beauties and the happiness he 
 had known there; but all had been lost, and he was 
 now an exile. He spoke of his travels, of the peo- 
 ple he had met, of the trials he had suffered, of his 
 hopes of the future. He told it all very simply 
 and only after many questionings from me. I 
 learned then the details of his escape over the 
 frozen snows in long sleigh-rides on frosty nights, 
 with the bells tinkling round the horses' necks. I 
 seemed to be listening to a romance as I sat by the 
 fireside sipping my lemon tea, trying to realize 
 those wonderful happenings in a world of which I 
 could form no idea. 
 
 "It is all gone, and will never be again," he said 
 with a plaintive note in his voice, and a smile. "I 
 am only a glazier now. I can say with Leonardo 
 da Vinci, 'While I thought I was learning how to 
 live, I have been learning how to die/ But I should 
 do it all over again for Poland's sake." His face 
 took on a rapt expression as he raised his eyes to 
 the skylight window in the low ceiling. The next 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 81 
 
 moment, however, he was himself again. "Let us 
 drink a toast!" He stood up, and placing one hand 
 on his hip, he lifted his glass high, "To the mem- 
 ory of Kosciuszko!" I repeated the words after 
 him, though I knew not what they meant. 
 
 "Who was Kosciuszko?" I asked, with a smile. 
 
 "Ah, I forgot you were only a boy. I will tell 
 you about him another day. Will you not honor me 
 with your company next Saturday? You shall hear 
 all about Kosciuszko then." 
 
 I promised to come. 
 
 "Good; and now it is time for you to go back to 
 your dear mother. Tell her that I have enjoyed 
 your society exceedingly. That is my message to 
 her, and she will understand. Au revoir, then, my 
 young friend. I can see we shall be great how do 
 you call it? chums. Is not that the right word? 
 But remember." and he held up a warning finger, 
 "never tell a lie, and always wear clean linen." 
 
 As I walked away I could not help speculating as 
 to what he could mean by advising me about my 
 linen. I was sure it was clean, for I had changed 
 only that morning. I asked my mother about it 
 when I got home, and she smiled. 
 
 "I expect," she said, "the people he meets now 
 are not very particular in that matter. But ask him 
 to explain on your next visit." 
 
 The following Saturday, when we were seated 
 by the fireside with the samovar between us, I put 
 my question, and told him the explanation my 
 mother had given. 
 
 "Your mother grows in my estimation the more 
 I know of her," he said, laughing. "She is quite 
 
82 The Silver Age 
 
 right. The world I live in now is very different 
 from the world I once knew. Clean linen is the 
 one luxury left me by which I keep my mind in tune 
 with the dignity of my heart. We may not be able 
 always to afford fine clothes, but we can always 
 afford clean linen, even if we have to wash it our- 
 selves, and clean linen is a sign of good breeding. 
 And now to Kosciuszko, shall we ?" 
 
 It was not until years later that I understood 
 fully what he told me then of Poland's patriot and 
 Poland's struggle for independence. His narra- 
 tive was so interspersed with long explanations of 
 events entirely unfamiliar to me, and he named such 
 strange-sounding names, that I was very little the 
 wiser as to the true inwardness of the whole busi- 
 ness. But I carried away with me, none the less, an 
 exalted sense of the rare nobility of a human life, 
 of its unselfish devotion to a pure ideal, of the 
 charm and loveableness of a great character. And 
 I am sure now that this was all that my friend in- 
 tended I should feel. He hoped, he said, that I, 
 too, would keep the lamp of liberty burning when 
 I should have learned how to trim its wick. 
 
 I visited him frequently for two or three years, 
 during the whole of which time he was both my 
 mentor and friend. He helped me with my studies, 
 enriching the meager information of my school- 
 books with commentaries and narratives that seemed 
 to come from him as from an inexhaustible fountain. 
 I am not able to recall many of the details of these 
 conversations, but the memory of them arouses in 
 me now the same sensations as of a new enlighten- 
 ment I then experienced after each visit I paid 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 83 
 
 him. He rarely touched on religion. Only once do 
 I remember his making a reference to it, when I 
 showed him a prettily bound New Testament in 
 French that a relative had sent me on my sixteenth 
 birthday. He held the little volume tenderly as he 
 turned its leaves for some moments in silence. 
 
 "Ah," he said musingly, u that book makes me 
 proud of being a Jew. Study it well, for there are 
 truths in it which will not be understood for many 
 generations to come." Then, as he handed the book 
 back to me, he added: "They say he claimed to be 
 the Messiah, but that is not true. There is only 
 one Messiah, and he is always with us in our own 
 hearts." 
 
 A year later I went up to college, so that my 
 meetings with Leon Wiener were necessarily 
 broken off. We saw each other, however, during 
 my vacations, when he continued to be the same 
 dear friend I had always found him; very eager to 
 know all about my work, very curious as to what I 
 was reading, asking many questions as to the young 
 men I was meeting, the friendships I was making, 
 and the tutors under whom I was studying. He 
 urged me over and over again to pay special atten- 
 tion to the study of history and economics, two 
 subjects, he said solemnly, to which I could not 
 give too much time. One of my last meetings with 
 him was on the evening of the attempted assassina- 
 tion of Emperor Nicholas II of Russia. I found 
 him in a state of unusual excitement, walking up 
 and down his garret, gesticulating, and cracking his 
 finger- joints. 
 
 "A thousand pities! a thousand pities!" he kept 
 
84 The Silver Age 
 
 exclaiming. "I have told Stepniak and Krapotkin 
 again and again that this is the wrong way, that 
 this is the one way to bring the cause to ruins 
 about us. They tried it with Alexander the 
 Second, and nothing came of it, and now they are 
 at it again. O Russia, Russia, thou hast too much 
 heart and too little head!" 
 
 "How is it possible," I asked, "for the Russian 
 people to throw off the Romanoff yoke and success- 
 fully maintain a democracy when the great mass 
 of them have just been released from serfdom? 
 Liberty must become a national religion, so to speak, 
 before it can be established in institutions." 
 
 "You are right; but that is not the vital ques- 
 tion for Russia. You speak as a theorist and a 
 student; but the situation in Russia must be dealt 
 with by those who know the actual conditions there. 
 Ask rather, How is it possible for the Russian peo- 
 ple to throw off the yoke of Prussia? There lies 
 the problem, and it is a hard one to solve; because 
 the leaders of Russian enlightenment, who have 
 been educated by German socialists, do not see the 
 deep Machiavellian policy which is behind the 
 German Government's relations with Russia. They 
 think that the German socialists mean to carry out 
 all they teach and preach; they do not realize that 
 these socialists can and will do nothing, because 
 they have been born and trained in the school of 
 Prussian militarism. They do not see that Ger- 
 many has a yoke of her own, the heaviest and most 
 debilitating of all yokes, that of a military autoc- 
 racy, to throw off before the socialists can do 
 anything. They do know that the Russian reigning 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 85 
 
 family has been thoroughly Germanized, the 
 process began with Catharine the Great, but they 
 do not know that Russia's bureaucracy and Russia's 
 commercial and industrial enterprises are all in the 
 hands of Germans, and therefore subject to Prus- 
 sia's will. Study the life of the Empress Catharine, 
 and you will have revealed to you the real nature 
 of the Prussian dynastic family. She was the ram- 
 pant, unbridled Teuton. That's the stuff that rules 
 Germany to-day. Look at the treatment given the 
 Jews in Russia. That is not of the spirit of the 
 genuine Russian, who is a gentleman and bears a 
 kind heart. It is the outcome of that Judenhetze 
 which sprang from Germany. The Russian people 
 must and will achieve freedom some day, but it 
 will be only when they realize that they have been 
 fooled by Prussian intrigue. And when Russia 
 obtains her freedom, Poland will also be a nation 
 once again. I know the Prussian only too well; my 
 name betrays the taint of his blood. I have lived 
 with him and seen the true nature that he covers 
 with his bluff and smiling exterior, and it is bestial. 
 He wears fine clothes, but the linen next his skin is 
 dirty, and his heart is false. I will not live to see 
 the day, but you will, and mark my words, Europe 
 will then lie stricken to death because of his insa- 
 tiable passion for power and his ruthlessness to 
 obtain it. Napoleon regretted he had not destroyed 
 the nation, and the world will echo his regret. But 
 why do I talk? I have lived my life, and there is 
 nothing left for me now but to mend broken 
 windows." 
 
 Tan Wiener," I said, "you have mended the 
 
86 The Silver Age 
 
 windows of minds as well as of houses. Let us 
 forget this sad business in a glass of tea. The spirit 
 of Kosciuszko still lives and will never die." 
 
 "You are right, my dear friend, and I thank you 
 for reminding me of that great soul. It is good 
 for the heart to keep it warm with love." 
 
 I left him with his promise to go for a walk 
 with me into the country. That country ramble 
 stands out in my memory as one of the events of 
 my life. The day was warm and blue and golden, 
 the very air seemed spangled with sunlight, and 
 the lanes were leafy aisles filled with the incense of 
 flowers. 
 
 "Ah, how much we miss who live in cities !" he 
 exclaimed, as he stopped by a bunch of honey- 
 suckles on a hedge. "It is many years since I 
 have breathed the life-giving airs of the open fields 
 and heard the songs of happy birds. We who are 
 compelled to live by the labor of our hands are 
 rarely permitted to look up and around; we can 
 only look down for the next mouthful of grass, like 
 the oxen in the meadows. Still, our hearts have 
 their eyes also, and we can look up with them. Our 
 cities are barren places, and would be unbearable 
 if we did not look with our hearts to find the brave 
 and aspiring souls who keep on loving and hoping 
 while they are working, and, who, like these flowers 
 of the fields, fill the dreary wastes of the streets 
 with the perfume of their natures. They are God's 
 human flowers, and they are growing even in the 
 slums and Ghettos. My friend, never give way to 
 the temptation to become a cynic; for that way lie 
 misery and death. God's way is the way of life 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 87 
 
 through love and the joy that comes from the dig- 
 nity of simple being. Here" and he spread his 
 arms abroad "here is God's way, where you see 
 flowers blooming, birds singing, trees and grass 
 growing to ripeness, and you and I walking in con- 
 sciousness of the beauty and the loving-kindness of 
 it all. It will be likewise in cities some day, but 
 that day will come the sooner if we, who live in 
 them now, will bear a friendly hand and open the 
 treasure-houses of our divinely gifted minds to all 
 in the spirit of comradeship. That is the meaning 
 of liberty, as it is of the brotherhood of man, about 
 which so many have said so much. You will par- 
 don an old man for talking to himself aloud, but 
 this beauty has made me a little sad. It is so full 
 of life, and I am no longer what I was. That 
 inn in the distance looks inviting; shall we rest 
 there and drink a glass of tea?" 
 
 I lay awake that night filled with the emotions 
 my friend had aroused in me. It seemed as if 
 I had been walking and talking with a visitor from 
 another world, who had stayed just long enough 
 to bless me, and had then departed never to return. I 
 had long since given up speculating about him, 
 for I knew that to do that was to lose his charm 
 and to deny myself the enjoyment of the rare 
 fruits of thought with which he bountifully fed 
 my mind. I accepted him as I did the day's sun- 
 light or the changes of the seasons, so that he 
 became a part of my life. His companionship was 
 a benediction, and his speech a magic music that 
 lifted me on the mounting pinions of its thought. 
 What was it in our economic system that con- 
 
88 The Silver Age 
 
 demned such a man to walk the stony ways merely 
 to keep soul and body together? 
 
 The next morning I went up to college, and did 
 not see my friend until the Christmas vacation. 
 When I called on him again I thought he was 
 looking greatly aged. His face was pinched and 
 grey, and his clothes hung loosely about him. But 
 he had lost nothing of his debonair gaiety, and he 
 still drank his lemon tea as though it were the 
 rarest of vintages. We spent some unforgettable 
 evenings together when the old spirit in him flamed 
 as brightly as ever. He had moved to a cheaper 
 lodging, for he found he was no longer able to ply 
 his trade in bad weather. The shining samovar 
 steamed as brightly as ever, and if the fire in the 
 tiny grate did not flame as brightly as it once did, 
 he made up for it by the fire in his eyes when he 
 warmed to his thoughts. I had brought him a box 
 of choice Havanas as a Christmas gift, and his 
 enjoyment of the aroma, as he blew the smoke 
 appreciatingly from his lips, brought up a lasting 
 vision of him at that moment in his own home in 
 Poland. 
 
 A week later, when I paid my last visit before 
 going up to college for my final examinations, I 
 was shocked to find him in bed, suffering from an 
 injured back. Some boys had thrown stones at 
 him as he was crying his trade, and he had slipped 
 on the icy pavement. One of the staples of the 
 crate he carried had dug itself between his shoul- 
 der-blades, and he had to be borne home on a 
 stretcher. I was heartbroken to see him, and t 
 cried aloud in anger at the wretched boys. 
 
"Any Finders to Mend?" 89 
 
 "No, no, my friend," he said, smiling through 
 his pain, "do not be angry with them; they did 
 not know what they were doing. This is not the 
 first time such an accident has happened to me. I 
 shall be better soon. Ah, dear friend, I am truly 
 glad to see you." 
 
 He did not get better soon. I engaged a nurse 
 to wait on him, and saw that he had the best 
 medical aid; but it was all of no avail. He suffered 
 greatly for ten days, and then one night, when 
 I was sitting on the bed by his side, he opened 
 his eyes and looked at me with his old beautiful 
 smile. 
 
 "This is the end, dear friend," he whispered, 
 laying a thin, wasted hand on mine. "You will 
 not forget me?" 
 
 I bent over and kissed him on his trembling 
 lips, when, still smiling, he gave a faint sigh, and 
 I knew that my friend had at last found rest. 
 
 The bells have long since ceased chiming the 
 New Year's advent, and soon the world will awake 
 to resume the march of life. We shall work and 
 love and hope as we did in the past year, and 
 perhaps, with stouter hearts, because of the high 
 cause to which our spirits have been consecrated in 
 the year just gone. Yet is our new enterprise of 
 the same nature as were all the noble enthusiasms 
 of the past, which have heartened us to climb to 
 the Pisgah height from which we now view the 
 promised land of democracy. Of great adventures 
 in such causes history tells a splendid tale; but there 
 were many of that noble company whose names 
 were writ in water who deserve a tablet to their 
 
90 The Silver Age 
 
 memory. Among such I count this street-crier. I 
 know not if glaziers still walk the street crying, 
 "Any vinders to mend?" but I do know that 
 should I hear that cry again, my dear friend 
 would come back to me, and I should "ope a case- 
 ment wide to let the warm love in"; for in my 
 house of life, at least, he had mended all its 
 windows with the love of the Master. 
 
REB YANKEL 
 
REB YANKEL 
 
 IN the district of London known as Whitechapel, 
 and near to that highway of the Ghetto which 
 goes by the name of Houndsditch, there is a 
 bye-street dear to memory as Petticoat Lane. Half 
 a century ago it was the Ghetto's market. On 
 Sunday mornings it was a place for fairs, with 
 the noise of a veritable pandemonium of business. 
 It was anything but a clean place, but as many 
 decent, law-abiding, God-fearing citizens abided 
 in its purlieus then as do now, since it has been 
 cleaned by the Health Board of London. Flanked 
 on each side by ricketty, brick houses and insignifi- 
 cant little shops, the sidewalks were taken up by 
 stalls and barrows loaded with fruits, meats, old 
 clothes, cheap haberdashery, tin pots and pans, and 
 the numberless other articles necessary for human 
 consumption in an enlightened metropolitan com- 
 munity. On wet days its cobblestones and pave- 
 ments were slushy, slippery and greasy, and on all 
 days the street exuded the sweat of dirt. From 
 many of the shops came the pungent odors of fried 
 fish, fried liver, boiling sausages and sauerkraut, 
 pickled cucumbers in large glass dishes, salted 
 herrings in wooden barrels, and caraway-seeded 
 bread. Men, women and children, clad in bizarre 
 costumes in which the Oriental taste still asserted 
 itself, passed and repassed in continuous streams. 
 Occasionally the long flowing robes of a visitor 
 
 93 
 
94 The Silver Age 
 
 from Jerusalem could be seen as the Jerushalmin 
 strode in dignity with fez-covered head in the 
 middle of the roadway. Here, a solemn Israelite 
 with hands crossed in the sleeves of an ample 
 kaftan and a yarmelke or skull-cap on his head, 
 and the two long locks on each side of his face 
 stepped, solemnly, bent as if brooding on other 
 than mere earthly things. There, an ample dame 
 in a rich cashmere shawl and black-haired wig 
 elbowed her way with feminine insistence and the 
 self-assertion born of worldly riches. At night 
 the place flared with the lights from gas jets, 
 candles and torch-like kerosene lamps hanging 
 from window sashes and barrows, all contributing 
 their quota of odors to the palpitating air. For 
 a few, bleak black hours only was there anything 
 like silence, and even then belated home-goers 
 would hear the snorings of the weary strugglers 
 for life through the upper windows of the houses 
 and shops. 
 
 Petticoat Lane bent its way round and spread 
 itself out as a meagre square which received the 
 streams of life from three other bye-ways. Run- 
 ning eastward, out of this square, was a short, 
 squat, flagged cul de sac ending in a soot-blackened 
 brick wall, known as New Street. A retired 
 parallelogram of earth-space, New Street was the 
 playground for some dozens of olive-skinned, 
 brown-eyed tatterdemalions in scanty clothing and 
 in bare feet mostly. The inmates of the houses 
 were shopkeepers, superior peddlers and professional 
 gentlemen, all of the Jewish faith. The pro- 
 fessional gentlemen taught there and directed the 
 
Reb Yankel 95 
 
 steps of the Children of Israel who lived there 
 and elsewhere. One Mohel, two Chazonim, and 
 one Rabbi, occupied between them three of the 
 twenty stunted residences. At night their homes 
 alone showed, until a late hour, glowing blind- 
 drawn windows, inviting a learned friend, or tell- 
 ing of the passionate purpose of a student of the 
 Talmud whose sing-song chanting sounded mourn- 
 fully into the street. 
 
 Yet was New Street a haven of rest. On sum- 
 mer evenings, its roof of leaden sky changed oft- 
 times into a bluish canopy tinged with crimson and 
 gold and spangled, here and there, with faint 
 twinkling stars. On Sabbaths and Festival days 
 it was lined with cheerful, gaily dressed women 
 seated on chairs, when the weather was fine, or 
 chatting in hallways when it was inclement. Sing- 
 ing and chanting and laughter could be heard 
 from every window and doorway. Children 
 played or quarreled. Children are always in plenty 
 in a Ghetto. Now and then a male figure would 
 rush out of a doorway in response to a shrieking 
 request from a broad, full-bosomed woman, and 
 run to grab a grubby imp in tattered knickers out 
 of the clutches of a grubbier imp. Sometimes a 
 tiny damsel would fly to her mother, her face 
 grimy with knuckle-dried tears, to complain stri- 
 dently of some insult or ill-treatment. Here a 
 small group played at marbles or cherry stones in 
 the gutter; there another group at hop-scotch or 
 leap frog. On such evenings New Street was 
 the children's paradise. 
 
 "Michele! Michele!" The call came from a 
 
96 The Silver Age 
 
 small, frail old woman in a blue cotton print 
 gown and bandanna-covered head, standing in the 
 doorway of one of the houses. She was beckon- 
 ing excitedly with brown, shriveled hand to a 
 curly-headed five year old lad, who on hearing his 
 name had looked up at her with his big, brown 
 serious eyes. He was in the act of shooting a 
 marble. "Michele! Dein Zaida darft dir!" The 
 boy bent his head again and shot his marble. The 
 little woman rushed forward and seizing him by the 
 hand attempted to drag him away from his play- 
 mates. The boy resisted and held himself back 
 sulkily. 
 
 "Why don't you come when I call you?" she 
 asked angrily in Yiddish. "Didn't I tell you 
 your grandfather wants you?" And the little 
 woman's lips tightened while the nostrils of her 
 aquiline nose trembled and dilated. 
 
 "I'm playing, grandmother," the lad replied 
 stubbornly. "Let me play a little longer, and I'll 
 come afterwards." 
 
 "No, you must come now. Come!" And she 
 began to drag him along with her. The boy 
 started to cry; but the old lady took no notice of 
 his tears. "Be a good boy," she pleaded a little 
 softeningly. "You haven't learned your piece 
 from the Gemara to-day, and grandfather is 
 waiting for you." 
 
 "I don't like to learn pieces from the Gemara" 
 the lad wailed softly, "I'd rather play at marbles." 
 
 "Nu! Nu! Nuf Sei a gutes kind und die Malo- 
 chim willen dir etvos schenkenf" 
 
Reb Yankel 97 
 
 "What will the angels give me if I learn my 
 piece?" asked the boy brightening. 
 
 "You'll see!" 
 
 The two entered the dark hallway and turned 
 to the left into a room on the ground floor the 
 window of which faced the street. By the window 
 was a table, covered with a white damask cloth, 
 at which sat an old white-bearded man with a 
 large brown-leaved folio spread open before him. 
 Rabbi Jacob Spero, or Reb Yankel, as he was 
 affectionately called and known throughout the 
 Ghetto, turned expectantly as the boy showed 
 himself in the room, and holding out his arms, cried : 
 "Ach! mem Michele!" The voice in which the 
 words were uttered trembled with affectionate 
 emotion. The boy was drawn against himself. 
 He ran toward his grandfather and climbing on 
 to the broad knees threw his arms round the old 
 man's neck. The two embraced each other silently 
 the elder kissing the younger's cheeks, lips, and 
 eyes, murmuring the while endearing phrases of 
 comfort and love in Yiddish, in Hebrew and in 
 broken English. 
 
 "Let's bring the table into the middle of the 
 room," said the little woman, "Michele can sit 
 more comfortably then," and she looked mean- 
 ingly at her husband. 
 
 Reb Yankel smiled and nodded at her over the 
 boy's reclining head. Aloud he said: "Yes, 
 Freyda, put the table in the middle of the room." 
 Rising, he lifted the boy tenderly, placed him on 
 his feet, and moved the table so that the rusty 
 iron gas chandelier suspended from the ceiling 
 
98 The Silver Age 
 
 was directly over it. The window affording but a 
 poor light by which to read in the dim interior, 
 Reb Yankel lit the gas and covered the jet with a 
 green shade. Placing a high-seated child's chair 
 by the table he lifted the boy into it and moved 
 the open book towards him. Then, smoothing out 
 the pages he patted the boy's head. 
 
 "To-day, Michele, we will read a little in the 
 treatise, Berachoth. Begin!" He turned to the 
 fireplace in which burned a meagre coal fire, and 
 leaning his back against the mantelpiece, pushed 
 his gold-rimmed spectacles on to his high and 
 massive brow, and placed his hands beneath the 
 tails of his worn and shining frock-coat. A mag- 
 nificent leonine head on broad shoulders stood out 
 in relief against the shadowed wall a head Rem- 
 brandt would have gone miles to paint. With its 
 dark olive skin, its long flowing silky white beard, 
 its mobile lips and eager coal-black eyes, it was as 
 the head of some good, wise man from the 
 East. Yarmelke-covered it almost touched the 
 smoke-browned ceiling, so tall was he. He wanted 
 but the robes of office, and the place, to be the 
 high priest of some ancient oracle. He preferred, 
 surely, to be Eli waiting on the little God-given 
 Samuel before him. 
 
 The boy's head was bent in the yellow light 
 over the leaves of the folio, his little forefinger 
 moving slowly along the lines of the black squares 
 of the Hebrew characters, as he chanted the words 
 aloud and gave their meaning in Yiddish. The 
 little sharp-featured and now smiling grand- 
 mother was standing in the doorway as if tasting 
 
Reb Yankel 99 
 
 the fine bouquet of the beautiful scene. Her eyes 
 were shining with delighted appreciation. She 
 was thinking what a great and learned man their 
 Michele would be one day a famous Rabbi a 
 Gaonf Raising her head to her husband she saw 
 him nodding at her with a meaningful look in his 
 eyes, and nodding in response, she turned, and 
 closed the door behind her, leaving master and 
 pupil to themselves and their holy task. 
 
 For several minutes the boy's fluent chant filled 
 the room. Reb Yankel, his eyes now closed, stood 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, rocking his body 
 in time to the music of the lad's voice, while from 
 his mouth came an accompanying low obligate of 
 the words of the treatise as he followed his pupil's 
 reading from memory. He knew the Gemara by 
 rote. He had studied it and dissected its text and 
 commentaries all his life long. There was not a 
 word that held not for him some lovely charm, 
 or was not fraught with some secret meaning. He 
 was one of the few Talmudic scholars to whom 
 even very learned men came for a settlement on 
 some nice point of textual criticism. Had he not 
 taught the Talmud even to Dr. Nathan Adler, the 
 chief Rabbi, himself! 
 
 The boy's chanting ceased. His finger stopped 
 at a word. It was evident he was at a loss for its 
 meaning. Reb Yankel opened his eyes and smiled. 
 The boy kept on looking at the word, repeating it 
 murmuringly to himself as if trying to sense out 
 what it meant. Finally, he gave it up and, lifting 
 his finger from the page, he raised his head showing 
 a tired face and appealing eyes. 
 
100 The Silver Age 
 
 "I am so tired, grandfather; can't I play now?" 
 
 "Just a little piece more, my dear child, just a 
 little more. Now, where's the word? Ah, that's 
 right; that's right!" The boy had repeated the 
 translation the old man had supplied him with. 
 Reb Yankel had come forward and was bending 
 over the volume, his hand resting lovingly on the 
 boy's shoulder and his white head touching caress- 
 ingly the curly brown one. He chanted a sentence 
 gently, the boy responding, with courage born of 
 affection, in cheery unison. Suddenly the young 
 voice paused. Something had dropped with a loud 
 flop right on to the page of the opened folio, and 
 lay there within a few inches of the boy's nose. The 
 lad was astounded. 
 
 "Look! Look! Grandfather!" he cried, pointing 
 excitedly to a bright, glittering, new half-crown. 
 
 "That is for thee, Michele; take it. The angels 
 have sent it to thee for learning the Gemara" 
 
 "For me, grandfather!" exclaimed the child in- 
 credulously. 
 
 Reb Yankel nodded, smiling. The boy seized 
 the coin and held it tightly in his little fist. He 
 looked at it several times as if doubting his senses. 
 His face became now transfigured with an expres- 
 sion of awed enthusiasm. In suppressed excitement 
 he whispered to the old man: 
 
 "Are the angels listening, grandfather?" 
 
 "Surely, my child, surely! The angels are 
 always listening to what we do and say. They 
 write down in a book what we have done, and 
 what we think even, and show it to God. That is 
 how God judges us." 
 
Reb Yankel ; /. : :;r-| 
 
 "Shall I learn some more?" asked the lad softly. 
 
 The chanting began afresh and had continued 
 for barely three minutes before another coin fell on 
 the book, and another new half-crown went into 
 the little fist to companion the one already there. 
 The boy's excitement grew. Eagerly he chanted in 
 response to the old man's lead. The words meant 
 nothing to him; but his remarkable memory stored 
 them like a sponge does water. Again and again, 
 and yet again the coins continued to drop until six 
 had fallen, and the child's hand could hardly hold 
 them all. 
 
 4 'Now we have finished for to-day. You have 
 done well," and the old man, moving the volume 
 aside, kissed the lad full on his lips. 
 
 "It is time for Maariv, Michele. Let us wash 
 our hands." 
 
 Reb Yankel passed through a doorway at the far 
 end of the room, and came back with a basin of 
 water and a towel. The two laved their hands 
 perfunctorily and dried them. The old man then 
 went back to the kitchen taking basin and towel 
 with him. 
 
 Day had, by this time, faded into a dusky twi- 
 light glowing with the sun's golden setting some- 
 where far away from this walled-in corner of the 
 Ghetto. Through the muslin-curtained window no 
 sky was visible, only a shade-saturated ruddy glow. 
 The noises in the street had ceased. The lights 
 from candles and lamps threw shadows on the 
 blind-drawn windows of the neighboring houses, 
 their glow accenuating the oncoming of night. The 
 lamplighter had just lit the street lamp, which 
 
HV* The Silver Age 
 
 sent its light into the living-room of Reb Yankel's 
 house. The bell of the muffin man was heard in 
 the distance as he made his regular evening round. 
 The end of the day was come. 
 
 Reb Yankel returned from the kitchen and, lift- 
 ing the boy from his high chair where he sat 
 clutching his heaven-sent treasure of coins, set 
 him down by the window. The two stood to- 
 gether, side by side, with faces turned upward and 
 eastward, silent for several moments, in the grey 
 darkness. Then was heard the low chant of the 
 evening prayer. The boy knew it by rote and 
 piped in soprano unison to the deep bass of Reb 
 Yankel's sonorous tones. Thus they stood and 
 prayed the towering white-bearded velvet-capped 
 man and the tiny curly-headed lad at his side 
 high priest and acolyte in the service of the living 
 God. 
 
 They thus stood and prayed, their bodies rocking 
 and swaying now in quick and now in slow time, 
 for some five or six minutes. Then both simul- 
 taneously took two short paces backward, raised 
 themselves on the balls of their feet, came down 
 on their heels, took two short paces forward, again 
 raised themselves and again came down on their 
 heels. Then a profound bow to the east, and the 
 evening prayer was over. 
 
 On turning to the light they saw the door silently 
 open and the tiny, beady-eyed grandmother enter, 
 her face aglow with excitement her lips wreathed 
 in a smile of triumph. 
 
 "Nu, have you learnt your piece from the 
 Gemara" she asked the boy. 
 
Reb Yankel 103 
 
 "Oh, grandmother, look what the angels sent 
 me!" The lad's face was a vision of beatific de- 
 light, as he held out his hands with the half- 
 crowns glittering in the palms. 
 
 "Nu, Michele, what did I tell you? Did I not 
 say to you the angels would give you something? 
 Now, you see!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, you did say it. I'm going to buy a 
 big gun like Mendel der Soldat has, and I'll have 
 such a grand time with the boys. We'll play at 
 soldiers !" 
 
 "Ah, but you must not tell the boys how you 
 got the money. They won't understand if you say 
 the angels sent it to you, they don't learn the 
 Gemara like you do." 
 
 Reb Yankel had been looking on smiling. "We 
 will go together to Cheapside, on the top of the 
 big omnibus. And we'll look in at the windows 
 of the fine big shops, and I'll lift you on my shoul- 
 der and you'll see the wonderful clock with the two 
 big iron men striking twelve." 
 
 "Oh, grandfather, I do want to see that clock. 
 It must be a wonderful clock!" 
 
 "Well, we will go to-morrow morning. And now, 
 Freyda, let us have our supper. We have already 
 said Maariv." 
 
 The frugal meal, soon prepared and partaken of, 
 was followed by the prayer of thanksgiving, after 
 which the boy was permitted to play with his 
 half-crowns on the hearthrug before the fire while 
 the grandmother busied herself in the kitchen with 
 the dishes, and Reb Yankel sat down to write a 
 letter. Her duties finished, the little woman re- 
 
104 The Silver Age 
 
 turned and took her place on a stool near the fire- 
 place with her knitting. For a time nothing was 
 heard but the clicking of the knitting needles, the 
 clinking of the coins and the scratching of the 
 quill pen. Then the clinking and the clicking 
 ceased. The little woman rose silently and tip- 
 toed over to her husband. 
 
 "Er schloft," she whispered to him, pointing to 
 the boy who had fallen asleep on the rug with the 
 coins tightly clenched in his little fists. 
 
 Reb Yankel laid his pen in the long neck of the 
 ink-bottle, rose, and stooping over the sleeping 
 form, gently extracted the coins from the lad's 
 hands and handed them to his wife Then ten- 
 derly lifting the boy he held him in his arms as 
 he waited for his wife to light a candle. 
 
 Up a flight of creaking stairs which led from 
 the outer dark hall the two trod softly until they 
 reached the back-room the only bedroom in the 
 house other than their own. Here the boy was 
 undressed and then gently laid and carefully cov- 
 ered in a small wooden bed. The angel-sent coins 
 were embedded in a pillow by the side of the 
 sleeping lad. The grandmother stood on one side 
 holding aloft the lighted candle which shed a 
 misty glow over the pillowed head with its mass 
 of short brown curls falling away from a broad 
 square forehead. On the other side the tall black 
 figure of the grandfather, his white-bearded head 
 raised upward and his eyes closed in the act of a 
 prayer. His lips were silently shaping the words 
 which called on the God of Israel to keep watch 
 and ward over his beloved who was to be dedicated 
 
Reb Yankel 105 
 
 to the service of Jehovah. "He that dwelleth in 
 the shelter of the Most High abideth under the 
 shadow of the Almighty." 
 
 "Now, my dear, go and rest in thy bed." The 
 old couple were in the living-room again. "I must 
 finish my letter to Reb Jerusha Jerushalmin." 
 
 A pained expression came into the wife's eyes 
 and over her yellow, wizened face. She shivered 
 at the word Jerushalmin, and was about to make an 
 angry reply when Reb Yankel took her head be- 
 tween his hands and, stooping, kissed her on the 
 forehead : 
 
 "Nu, Nu, Nu" he murmured soothingly. "Sei a 
 gutes kind. Go to bed, my dear one, and do not 
 forget to put the carpet over the hole in the floor 
 of our bedroom, so that Michele shall not see the 
 opening in the ceiling there." 
 
 II 
 
 REB YANKEL sat in his armchair by the window 
 of his living-room, reading. The hour was late 
 long past midnight and the oil in the glass reser- 
 voir of the lamp showed three parts consumed. 
 The light from the shaded lamp shone full on the 
 pages of the folio, leaving the rest of the room 
 deep in shadows. On the wall behind him hung 
 an old engraving, in a yellow bird's-eye maple 
 frame, of a view of the Kocil Maarovi, or western 
 wall of the Temple of Jerusalem, the last remains 
 of that city's ancient glory. The picture showed 
 
io6 The Silver Ag 
 
 a number of talith-covered worshippers praying be- 
 fore the ruin. A coal-fire flamed brightly in the 
 grate, for the early October night was sharp and 
 frosty, and a smoke-blackened tin coffee-pot stood 
 on the hob. 
 
 Reb Yankcl's reading suddenly ceased; he 
 leaned forward in a listening attitude. Shuffling 
 steps echoed in the court without and became more 
 distinct as they approached the house. The sound 
 ceased, and then three sharp taps on the window 
 pane broke the stillness. Immediately Reb Yankel 
 raised his hand, so that the light from the lamp 
 threw its shadow on the muslin curtain, and 
 bending the thumb against the palm held the four 
 fingers straight up close together. A minute later 
 the door of the room opened and there entered a 
 tall, black-bearded man wearing a red fez on his 
 head. He stood there for a moment, with flowing 
 dark green robe depending from his shoulders and 
 almost covering his thick-soled sandals. Reb Yankel 
 rose hurriedly and extending his right hand, said: 
 
 "Sholem Alaichem, Reb Jerusha." 
 
 "Alaichem Sholem, Reb Yankel," came back in 
 deep sonorous tones as the two clasped hands in 
 a tight grip. 
 
 "It is a cold night. Sit down by the fire, Reb 
 Jerusha." Reb Yankel spoke, not in Yiddish but 
 in Hebrew. The visitor took a chair and began 
 warming and rubbing his hands near the flames. 
 
 "Thou didst receive my letter, then?" asked Reb 
 Yankel. 
 
 The visitor nodded, and a light shone from his 
 eyes through the deep shadow in which he sat. The 
 
Reb Yankel 107 
 
 flames from the fire were reflected from his eyeballs 
 and burnished the copper-colored skin of his face 
 giving the head a demon-like appearance. 
 
 "Nu?" asked Red Yankel. 
 
 "Thy wife, sleepeth she?" 
 
 Reb Yankel nodded. The visitor spoke more 
 freely. 
 
 "Thy friends are awaiting thee in Jerusalem. I 
 told them of thy desire to come and live with us, 
 and they rejoiced exceeding at the news. We are 
 not wealthy, and the Turk oppresseth us, taxing us 
 heavily, but what we have we will gladly share 
 with thee. The land hath sore need of such as 
 thou, Reb Yankel." 
 
 "Nay, I will not be a charge on thee and thy 
 brethren. Are there many young people young 
 men and women, I mean abiding there?" 
 
 "Some ten or twelve score, all laboring indus- 
 triously." 
 
 "That is well. Are they content to abide there?" 
 
 "That is my fear. The hard conditions under 
 which they live are making them restive. They 
 left comfortable homes, attracted by the glamour of 
 Eretz Yisrael. They have been disappointed by the 
 reality. It is not easy, therefore, to keep the flame 
 of enthusiasm burning in their breasts. We need 
 a leader, Reb Yankel, one who will inspire us 
 with living words of hope and encourage us by his 
 example." 
 
 "I am too old for that service, Reb Jerusha; but 
 I may find you such a leader. Are there schools 
 there in which I may teach?" The old man asked 
 the question eagerly. 
 
'io8 The Silver Age 
 
 "There is a good Beth Hamidresh; but the schol- 
 ars are few, for the country is not peopled with 
 many of our faith. Of late years, however, some 
 dozen families have come from Russia to settle 
 there, but they find it hard to subsist. The land 
 is barren for lack of water and the means to culti- 
 vate it. Three of the families have returned to 
 Russia." 
 
 u And yet it was once a land flowing with milk and 
 honey!" exclaimed Reb Yankel in tearful tones. 
 "How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of 
 people!" he quoted. "She that was great among 
 the nations and priceless among the provinces, how 
 is she become tributary!" The old man's voice 
 took on the wail of a dirge-like chant, and died 
 away with the last word. 
 
 "She sleepeth sore in the night," responded the 
 Jerushalmin, sobbing in the same tone, "and her 
 tears are on her cheeks! Among all her lovers she 
 hath none to comfort her! All her friends have 
 dealt treacherously with her, they are become her 
 
 enemies." 
 
 "Nay, not so, Reb Jerusha. She has us. We 
 will bring back her ancient glory. We will rebuild 
 the Temple, and Zion's hills shall once again re- 
 sound with the music of the psaltery and tabor 
 and the singing of psalms. Hear, thou ! I have 
 a grandson, a rare lad. A brain ! And a soul, 
 ah, sugar-sweet! I am teaching him and instruct- 
 ing him in the ways of righteousness. I will make 
 a home for him in Jerusalem. I will send for him 
 and he shall follow me and carry on our holy 
 work. He shall marry thy daughter, Rebecca, Reb 
 
Reb Yankel 109 
 
 Jerusha, and they will bear many children for 
 Zion's sake." 
 
 The old man's face radiated in the enthusiasm 
 aroused in him by his own words. He raised his 
 arms upward, the palms outspread! "Hear O 
 Israel, the Lord our God the Lord is One." With 
 the utterance of the last word Reb Yankel's eyes 
 shut tightly and his fists clenched. 
 
 "I am content, Reb Yankel, but we are poor 
 very poor." 
 
 "I have enough to last for awhile. I have been 
 saving for many years for this blessed time. My 
 wife shall follow me, later, when our home is ready. 
 She will bring my Michele with her. And I can 
 earn a little enough, perhaps, for our simple 
 wants by teaching. I have taught many already." 
 
 "When dost thou meditate to depart? I ask, 
 because in twenty days from now I return with the 
 five Jerushalmin whom our brethren sent here to 
 collect money for the support of the Shool and the 
 Beth Hamidresh. And it would rejoice us to have 
 thy company on our journey." 
 
 "I know of whom thou speakest. I have met 
 them. It may be that I will accompany thee and 
 them." 
 
 "What is there to withhold thee?" 
 
 "A family matter. My youngest daughter is 
 causing me great distress of heart. She desires to 
 marry a man who is a shame to our religion and 
 
 our race." 
 
 "I mourn with thee, Reb Yankel." The Jerusha- 
 lmin spoke with evident deep feeling. "I have 
 known that sorrow also." 
 
Ho The Silver Age 
 
 "He goeth not in the ways of our people, and 
 doth not keep holy the Sabbath day. He is un- 
 clean and runneth after strange women. That I 
 should live to see this thing! The child will bring 
 my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. And I have 
 loved her so dearly." The old man bent his head 
 on his hand to hide the tears that forced themselves 
 from his eyelids. 
 
 "Hast thou tried her with another?" asked Rabbi 
 Jerusha. 
 
 "I have. A handsome, fine young man; of good 
 family and good means, who is most willing to 
 make her his wife. But she will not even speak 
 with him. The other has bewitched her. I can- 
 not understand it, and he is not worthy to tie the 
 shoe lace of the one I have brought her. I shall 
 try again to persuade her. If she listen to me, I 
 must wait until the wedding is over. If her heart 
 be still hardened against me and she persists, I 
 will go to Jerusalem with thee and thy friends. 
 Here is my hand upon it." 
 
 The two hands closed together in a tight clasp. 
 
 "I shall expect thee then, for I doubt she will 
 be moved. Thou knowest the ways of women when 
 once they have set their hearts on a man." 
 
 Reb Yankel smiled plaintively at his friend's 
 words. 
 
 "The Lord our God will be good to me," he 
 said; "my life is in His hands." 
 
 The Jerushalmin bowed his head. Raising it he 
 stretched out his hand. "I must go," he said; "the 
 hour is late, and I have far to travel. Peace be 
 with thee." 
 
Reb Yankel in 
 
 "And with thee be peace," was the reply. 
 
 Reb Yankel accompanied Reb Jerusha to the 
 door and bolted it after him. The shuffling steps 
 died away in the distance as the old man reentered 
 the room and sat down again before his book. He 
 looked very worn and tired. Resting his forehead 
 on both hands he stared blankly at the open page. 
 The lamp's wick began to sputter and crackle; the 
 oil in the reservoir had given out, leaving the room 
 in darkness except for the flickering light from the 
 fire-grate. Utter silence held the room in a black 
 embrace. Reb Yankel continued to sit, bowed over 
 his book, the outline of his form barely distinguish- 
 able in the fiful glimmers. He sat thus for a 
 seeming long time; then the sound of feet walking 
 came from the room overhead; a scraping of chairs 
 and the creak of a door opening, and then the 
 patter of slippers. Reb Yankel still sat bowed over 
 his book. 
 
 A coal dropped into the red bed of the fire and 
 a bright, fresh flame flared. The light revealed a 
 little pale-faced woman in the doorway. She had 
 thrown a wrapper hastily over her form, and a 
 small shawl was tied over her head beneath her 
 chin. The pupils of her eyes were dilated from 
 fear and the muscles of her face quivered. The 
 flame went out again and darkness filled the room. 
 
 "Yankel! Yankel! Art thou here?" The words 
 came in tense whispers. The old man still sat 
 bowed over his book. 
 
 "Yankele ! Yankele !" The voice rose to a cry. Reb 
 Yankel looked up startled. He rose hurriedly and 
 
112 The Silver Age 
 
 going to the door caught the little woman by the 
 hand. 
 
 "What are you doing here, Freyda?" he cried. 
 "Why are you not in bed?" 
 
 "Ai t Yankel, I was awakened by some one walk- 
 ing in the street and found you were not with me. 
 I waited some time, then I became frightened, and 
 so I came to see what was keeping you." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, you are shivering. Come inside 
 and sit by the fire. It is a very cold night Wait, 
 I will light the candles." He led her to a seat 
 by the fireplace and stirred the coals into a bright 
 flame. Then striking a match from a box on the 
 mantelpiece he lit three candles in an old silver 
 seven-branched candelabra on a table opposite the 
 window. Their flames sent a cheering comfort 
 through the room. The old man drew a chair near 
 the fire and sat with one arm round the little woman's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Why do you sit up, Yankel? I am always 
 speaking to you about it, and you never heed my 
 words." 
 
 "I cannot sleep of late, Freyda. My heart is 
 heavy about our daughter. She knows not the evil 
 she is storing up for herself in the future." 
 
 "What good will your worry do? She will go 
 her own way, now that she is no longer dependent 
 on us. Forgive her, and do not harden thy heart 
 against her. Where a woman's heart is there is 
 her life." 
 
 "I know it; I know it. And yet I must speak. 
 For I see a vision before me of evil coming to her. 
 She will know years of sorrow and suffering with the 
 
Reb Yankel 113 
 
 man she has chosen. He is evil in his heart and 
 evil in his life." 
 
 "Thou art not thyself, Yankel, to-night. Who 
 was it that passed along the street just now? Did 
 one come to see you?" 
 
 "Yes, Reb Jerusha." 
 
 "The Jerushalmin !" The word left her lips in 
 a scream. "I felt it! I felt it! Al! How I 
 hate him! A cholera on him! He is taking you 
 from me! You will leave me and our Michele; 
 and I'll never see you again. We shall lie buried, 
 our graves seas apart." 
 
 The little woman began to rock herself to and 
 fro, beating her breast with her clenched hand. 
 Tears were streaming from her eyes and her breath 
 came and went in hysterical sobs. 
 
 "My dear one, my dear one!" the old man 
 murmured brokenly, caressing her head with his 
 hand, "Do not distress thyself needlessly. The 
 Lord our God and the God of our fathers will not 
 forget us. He is our shepherd and will bring us to 
 lie down in green pastures, and lead us beside still 
 
 waters." 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know God is good. But leave 
 me not alone, Yankele, leave me not alone; I can 
 trust in the Almighty better when you are with 
 
 me." 
 
 "It will be but for a short time. I cannot stay 
 and witness this shame our daughter is bringing on 
 my head. Moreover, I hear a voice calling me, by 
 night and by day. Zion needs me. The people 
 there await me. I go first, but you will follow. I 
 shall but prepare a place for you you and Michele. 
 
114 The Silver Age 
 
 Then shall you two come out to me together, and 
 we shall live the rest of our days in joyfulness. And 
 our grandson shall grow up in the fear of the Lord, 
 a learned rabbi and a leader in Israel." 
 
 "Why can you not do this in England?" She 
 looked up at her husband with piteous pleading in 
 her tear-filled eyes. 
 
 "England! What can a poor man like me do 
 in England? Here I am as one crying in the 
 wilderness. Here, it is money, money, money! 
 In this land nothing can be done without money; 
 and I have no money. How will our Michele 
 grow up in the midst of these Philistines, in this 
 land where the word of the Torah counts as a pea 
 in comparison with the gold sovereign? See how 
 the other children of Israel are growing up. What 
 are they? Swindlers and ignorant boors! Even 
 the rabbis are hypocrites and speak false things for 
 money. Learning and piety are of no value here. 
 The people have given themselves up to seeking after 
 vain things. They bow down before the Golden 
 Calf, and have forgotten the God of their fathers." 
 
 "Can you better it by going away to Eretz 
 Yisrael? There is no land of Israel now. It is 
 become a wilderness. Here we have been happy 
 together and brought our children up in decency. 
 We still have them and our friends also." 
 
 "Children! Friends! Some children do not care 
 if they bring us to shame. And our friends, where 
 are they? Will they feed us when we are hungry? 
 Yes, if we are willing to beg charity of them. W T ill 
 they give us a place to rest our heads, if we are in 
 want? Yes, if we bow down before them. But I 
 
Reb Yankel 115 
 
 will not beg from any man, nor will I bend the 
 knee to him. When I beg and bow down it is to 
 God alone." 
 
 "You have never wanted bread and a roof since 
 we lived here, and we have never begged. Why 
 should you fear now?" 
 
 "We are no longer young, Freyda. There is no 
 room in this country for old people. The younger 
 generation is pushing us to the wall. Even our 
 own children set us at naught. A people whose 
 children no longer honor their fathers and their 
 mothers is a people destined to destruction. And 
 I fear for our own people. The time is come, 
 Freyda, for some one to make a move Zionward. 
 Why should not I be that one? If Zion be not 
 re-established then will the religion of the Jews 
 die out in the world. Palestine and Judaism are 
 the strands of one golden rope binding us to the 
 living God. Without our faith, the land is a wil- 
 derness; with our faith, it will once more be a land 
 flowing with milk and honey. Without Palestine, 
 the children of Israel are wanderers over the face 
 of the earth; mocked at and despised wherever 
 they go; hated and persecuted as a landless people 
 and as having no part in the affairs of the world. 
 With Palestine the Jew will regain the dignity of 
 his nationality; he will take his rightful place 
 among the nations; he will be the soldier in the 
 army of the Lord of Hosts, the standard bearer 
 of Truth and Faith. This is what he was, and 
 that he will become again. We are a peculiar 
 people; chosen by God from among all nations of 
 the earth to declare Him and to establish His cove- 
 
ii6 The Silver Age 
 
 nant. We must become a nation again in order 
 that the word of the living God shall be acknowl- 
 edged and righteousness reign on earth." 
 
 Reb Yankel's eyes were glowing and beads of 
 perspiration stood out on his forehead. He was 
 breathing heavily from his self-aroused enthusiasm. 
 "Ach, Yankele, Yankele," gently answered his 
 wife, "you are a beautiful dreamer, and you have 
 a beautiful soul. God will reward you in His 
 own good time. But, meanwhile, what is to be- 
 come of me and the child? How are we to live 
 if you go away to Jerusalem?" 
 
 "I have seen to that. I shall leave enough 
 money to keep you comfortably until I send for 
 you. It will take but a few months, and I shall 
 have everything ready. Reb Jerusha tells me I 
 shall be able to teach there, and there is money 
 coming in to keep up the Beth Hamidresh. So we 
 shall not want. We shall have a little garden to 
 grow things in; and you can keep some hens and 
 a cow, just like it was in Russia. You remember, 
 FreyJa, eh?" 
 
 The frail old woman sighed, laid her head 
 against her husband's breast and held his hands, 
 caressing them with her own worn and calloused 
 housewife's palms. 
 
 "It will be pleasant, very pleasant, Yankele," she 
 murmured drowsily. "Men were born for labor 
 and women for suffering. Let it be then as thou 
 sayest, and God's will be done." 
 
 The silver dawn of the October morning spread 
 itself slowly through the shadows of the room. It 
 
Reb Yankel 117 
 
 dissolved the darkness within as by a magical chem- 
 istry, and precipitated the figures of Reb Yankel 
 and his wife asleep, sitting in their chairs. One 
 arm of the old man was round his wife's shoulders, 
 and the hand of the other lay clasped in both of 
 hers as she sat with her head on his breast. The 
 candles had long since burnt out; the fire had died 
 down to ?. few ash-coated embers. Stronger and 
 stronger grew the daylight until a red shaft from 
 the sun itself, reflected from some window without, 
 shot into the room and burnished the picture of 
 the Temple ruins hanging on the wall, from which 
 it was again reflected full on to the smiling face of 
 Reb Yankel dreaming of a golden-gated Jerusalem. 
 
 "Grandfather! Grandmother!" The door flew 
 open and Michael in a white night-shirt, rushed 
 bare-foot into the room. He stopped suddenly, 
 and gazed in open-eyed wonder at the two sleep- 
 ing figures before the fire-grate. Then he became 
 frightened. The scene was bewildering in its 
 strangeness. "Grandfather ! Grandmother!" he 
 cried again in a shrill, piercing voice. The two 
 awoke with a start. Reb Yankel was the first to 
 realize the situation. He rose quickly, shook him- 
 self, rubbed his eyes, and then with a rich, happy 
 laugh, ran forward and caught the boy in his 
 arms. 
 
 "What are you doing up so early, you little 
 rascal, eh?" he asked chuckling. 
 
 "But, Michele!" cried the old woman, "how 
 did you get out of your room? I locked you in 
 last night." 
 
Ii8 The Silver Age 
 
 The boy smiled at her over his grandfather's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I knocked so hard at the door to make you 
 hear me, and you didn't come. And I shouted out 
 loud and nobody heard me. I was frightened to be 
 locked in ; so I opened the window and jumped 
 down into the backyard." 
 
 "May the dear God help us! And didn't you 
 break your legs?" The grandmother began feel- 
 ing his limbs with eager searching hands. "Yankel, 
 put him down and see if he is able to walk." 
 
 "I'm all right, grandmother, only my knee hurts 
 a little, that's all." 
 
 "Did you ever hear of such a thing?" 
 
 "Ah, my child," said the old man cuddling the 
 lad against his breast, "it is a miracle thou wast 
 not killed. It is a sign that thou wilt live to be 
 a great man. But do not do it again, it is a very 
 dangerous thing to do. Come, let us wash our- 
 selves and say our prayers, while thy grandmother 
 gets the breakfast ready." 
 
 Ill 
 
 IT was the night of full moon in the month of 
 Heshvan, the night preceding the morning on which 
 Reb Yankel was to take ship for Jerusalem. The 
 living-room in the house in New Street was lit up 
 with the lights from the wax candles in the silver 
 candelabra. In the room were seated Reb Yankel, 
 his wife with the boy, Michael, in her lap, and 
 six swarthy faced, dark-bearded Orientals in flow- 
 ing robes of various colors, some of whom wore 
 
Reb Yankel 119 
 
 the red fez alone and others a small white tur- 
 ban encircling the fez. The remains of a meal, 
 hastily gathered together and placed aside, lay on a 
 table by the wall nearest the entrance door. A fire 
 blazed brightly in the grate and threw its orange- 
 red glow over the empty space of wooden flooring in 
 the centre of the room. On the table near the 
 window stood a highly polished brass samovar, and 
 a number of glass tumblers partly filled with tea 
 and slices of lemon. Two of the Jerushalmin held 
 tumblers filled with the beverage in their hands, 
 and were sipping it through a piece of loaf-sugar in 
 the mouth, cooling the liquid with their blowing 
 breaths before each sip. 
 
 A general conversation was in progress; voices 
 crossed in every direction, now loud, now low; now 
 in earnest tones, now in waves of laughter. Faces 
 flushed and eyes glowed in the candle-light. In 
 one corner two were in the midst of an excited 
 discussion, emphasizing their arguments with vehe- 
 ment gesticulations and jerkings of beards. The 
 grandmother sat silent on a low three-legged stool 
 in the far corner of the fireside, her grandson, whom 
 she embraced tightly, on her knees. Her face 
 showed corpse-like and drawn in the dusky yellow 
 light; her lips were shut close, creasing in numerous 
 tiny wrinkles the skin about her mouth. She kept 
 glancing anxiously like a frightened sparrow, from 
 one to the other of the strangely clad men, and 
 from them to her husband who sat in his accus- 
 tomed seat by the window in earnest converse with 
 Rabbi Jerusha. His overcoat was thrown over 
 the back of his chair, and his tall silk hat lay on the 
 
120 The Silver Age 
 
 table before him. The child on the old woman's 
 knees was trying hard to keep his eyes from 
 closing. Occasionally his head would fall forward 
 with the weight of sleep, and then his grandmother 
 would lift him in a more comfortable upright 
 position and murmur to him, "Not yet, Michele; 
 just a little while longer." 
 
 An ancient, yellow-faced, circular shaped clock, 
 with chain and weights, whirred hoarsely and began 
 striking the hour on a cracked bell. It struck ten 
 times. As the last stroke died away the conversa- 
 tion ceased, and a silence filled the room. Reb 
 Yankel rose and crossed over to where his wife 
 was sitting. He bent toward her and, stroking 
 affectionately her white kerchiefed head, he said in 
 a low voice: "Give me the child, Freyda." 
 
 The old woman lifted the boy and handed him 
 to her husband. Reb Yankel fixed him comfortably 
 in the crook of his left arm and stepped into the 
 middle of the room. Immediately the six long- 
 robed, fez-capped Orientals rose and formed a 
 wide circle about him. 
 
 A strange, weird picture they made the tall 
 old man in black with his white beard flowing 
 down his breast; the little white, night-gowned child 
 held aloft in his arms; the six dark-skinned, black- 
 bearded Jerushalmin, in their long robes, the bent 
 witch-like figure of the old woman on her stool 
 by the fireside; and all in the chiaroscuro of the 
 candle-light, their shadows on the walls and ceil- 
 ing, blotting out what light had lately been re- 
 flected from them. In the silence and semi-dark- 
 ness the scene might have been taken for some 
 
Reb Yankel 121 
 
 ritual of Orphic mystery among the Eleusinian 
 rocks. 
 
 Suddenly, as though with one voice, came from 
 all the words in Hebrew: 
 
 "Hear, O Israel: the Lord Our God, The 
 Lord is One! 
 
 So loud was the sound that it filled the room and 
 sent the candle flames flickering spasmodically. 
 The lad had lifted up his voice with the rest. 
 
 "And thou shall love the Lord thy God with 
 all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with 
 all thy might." 
 
 Again the room echoed and reechoed, and again 
 could be heard the piping notes of the child re- 
 peating the words of the prayer. Then followed 
 a low murmur of praying from all, and then a 
 silence. The silence was broken by the boy's sing- 
 ing. He was chanting the ninety-first psalm: 
 
 "He that dwelleth in the shelter of the 
 Most High, abideth under the shadow of the 
 Almighty. I say of the Lord, He is my refuge 
 and my fortress, my God in whom I trust. 
 For He shall deliver thee from the snare of the 
 fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He 
 shall cover thee with His pinions, and under 
 his wings shall thou take refuge; His truth 
 shall be a shield and a buckler. . . . " 
 
 The child's voice had barely ceased when the full- 
 toned chorus from the seven elders took up the third 
 psalm in slow, solemn time. Its conclusion found 
 
122 The Silver Age 
 
 the boy fast asleep, his head fallen on his grand- 
 father's shoulders. 
 
 "Stand in awe and sin not: Commune with 
 your own heart upon your bed, and be stilL 
 Selahf" 
 
 Three times were these words repeated, and each 
 time with deeper feeling, and in more reverent 
 tones. 
 
 In the silence which followed, the six visitors 
 stood waiting, their hands clasped before them and 
 their eyes fixed on Reb Yankel. The old man 
 stood for a moment as if hesitating, then with de- 
 termination, he took a step to one side and an open- 
 ing was made for him in the circle. He went up to 
 his wife and laid the sleeping lad tenderly in her 
 lap. Standing by her side, he placed his hand upon 
 her head and blessed her with silent moving lips. 
 The old woman had bent her face over the sleeping 
 child and was weeping quiet, heart-breaking tears. 
 The Jerushalmin gathered in a semi-circle round 
 the husband and wife and began chanting softly the 
 prayer for those who are about to set out on a 
 journey praying to be directed in peace and to be 
 delivered from enemy, ambush and hurt. It was 
 opened in the subdued tones of hope; but it ended 
 in glad notes of assurance. 
 
 "/ will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from 
 whence cometh my help. . . . The Lord shall 
 preserve thy going out and thy coming in from 
 this time forth, and even for evermore" 
 
Reb Yankel 123 
 
 These last words concluded the solemn service. 
 The six robed figures moved silently apart and 
 gathered together near the doorway, their faces 
 turned with sympathetic looks to the group at the 
 fireside. The candles had burnt low, and were 
 flickering fitfully in their sockets. The figures in 
 the doorway seemed like ghoulish apparitions wait- 
 ing for their victim. The little grandmother 
 shivered. Reb Jerusha stepped forward and handed 
 Reb Yankel his hat and overcoat. The old man 
 took them from him the tears streaming from his 
 eyes. He motioned to his friend to go, and made 
 him understand by a gesture that he would follow 
 later. Reb Jerusha moved to the old woman, placed 
 his hand on her head and breathed a prayer. Then 
 he hurriedly crossed the room and passed out 
 through the doorway. One by one each of the 
 others came forward and repeated Jerusha's action 
 and blessing until all had passed out into the night. 
 The sound of departing steps broke the stillness of 
 the midnight air, echoed for a few moments in the 
 court without, then all was again still. 
 
 The bell from the clock of Houndsditch Church 
 boomed out the first hour of the new day as a bent 
 figure in a tall hat left Reb Yankel's house and 
 staggered down the moonlit street. 
 
124 The Silver Age 
 
 IV 
 
 It was the evening of the Sabbath in late March 
 when the east wind blows bitingly in London and 
 brings with it occasional flurries of soot-stained 
 snow-flakes, an evening when street passengers take 
 care to wrap themselves in heavy garments and home- 
 stayers sit close to the fireside. In the house in New 
 Street the grate was well filled with blazing coals 
 which sent a comforting glow over the living-room. 
 Everything in it was clean and orderly, as was 
 proper for the Sabbath day. The candles which 
 had been lit and blessed flamed cheerily on the 
 mantelpiece; the meal had been eaten, the prayer of 
 thanksgiving said, and the dishes removed into the 
 kitchen. White damask cloths covered the two 
 tables, and a white counterpane lay tightly drawn 
 over a truckle-bed in a corner of the room, near the 
 fireplace. Before the fire sat grandmother Freyda, 
 spectacles on nose, laboriously spelling out some 
 sentimental moral tale in Yiddish in a cumbrous 
 quarto on her knees. At the table near the window, 
 Michael sat reading the psalms aloud by the light 
 of a single candle. 
 
 Five months had passed since Reb Yankel had 
 sailed for Palestine. His daughter had married 
 the man of her choice; and when the wedding took 
 place Reb Yankel was nearing Alexandria. Two 
 letters from him had been delivered at the house in 
 New Street, in both of which he promised a speedy 
 reunion. But the letters were fuller of Michele, and 
 his plans for the boy's future, and of his delight at 
 
Reb Yankel 125 
 
 being in the Holy Land, than of the definite infor- 
 mation for which his wife was eager. The last 
 letter was now nine weeks old, and the little woman 
 had become exceedingly anxious and disquieted. 
 The money Reb Yankel had left with her was almost 
 entirely spent, and she had been compelled to write 
 to him of her need. In the meantime, she safe- 
 guarded herself by renting the two bedrooms up- 
 stairs, and she and the boy slept in the living-room. 
 The truckle-bed was her couch, and little Michael 
 slept on two chairs placed against the wall. Michael's 
 mother had also received word of her mother's 
 anxiety, and had replied, saying she would be in 
 London in a few days to look after them both 
 until the gcod news should come from Jerusalem. 
 She might arrive any day. 
 
 The postman's loud rat-tat resounded in the nar- 
 row hallway and startled the two sitting in the 
 room. 
 
 "Quick, Michele, run and see! It may be a 
 letter from grandfather." She closed her book ex- 
 citedly and stood waiting, her hand pressed against 
 her side. The boy returned, shouting gleefully: 
 
 "Grandmother! It is a letter from grandfather. 
 I know by the stamp." 
 
 The old woman took the sealed envelope in her 
 trembling hands and examined the writing on it by 
 the light of the candles. The address was written 
 in angular, foreign-looking English script. As she 
 knew not how to read English, the writing told her 
 nothing. But the hand-writing was different from 
 that which she remembered seeing on the other 
 letters which she had received. 
 
126 The Silver Age 
 
 "For who did the postman say this letter was?" 
 she asked the boy. 
 
 "For Mrs. Freyda Spero." 
 
 "Go, quick then, and ask the Gentile woman in 
 Petticoat Lane to be so kind and open it." 
 
 The boy took the letter and ran out of the room. 
 As the Sabbath had been ushered in hours since, she 
 could not, of course, tear the paper of the en- 
 velope herself. 
 
 It was ten minutes before the lad returned with 
 the envelope opened. He handed it to his grand- 
 mother. She sat down where the boy had been 
 sitting at his psalms, and took out the letter. Two 
 five-pound Bank of England notes fluttered on to 
 the tablecloth from between its folds. She took 
 these with a smile and carefully inserted them in the 
 bosom of her gown. To this day it is a matter for 
 wonder among the family that the Gentile woman 
 in Petticoat Lane, who had opened the envelope, 
 hdd not kept the money. There must be good Gen- 
 tiles in the world as well as good Jews. 
 
 Like most Jewish women of her time Freyda 
 Spero had received little or no education in Hebrew. 
 What she knew she had picked up for herself 
 mostly, in the student's atmosphere of her house. 
 She could read well enough the printed Hebrew 
 characters, but the script used in writing was always 
 a very difficult matter for her to decipher. And, 
 indeed, this is not to be wondered at, for some 
 scripts would tax even the expert eye of a palaeo- 
 grapher to make out. The document, though 
 written in the Hebrew cursive characters, was in 
 Yiddish. She paused for a long time at the open- 
 
Reb Yankel 127 
 
 ing words. She could not, try as she would, make 
 them read, "My dearest Freyda." The words kept 
 persistently shaping themselves as u My dear Frau 
 Spero." However, she let that pass, and went on 
 to the next words. The more she worked at them 
 the more puzzled she grew. How these flourishes 
 did bother one ! Still, she kept bravely on. She 
 turned her head first to left and then to right, as if 
 she thought that by looking at them sideways the 
 words might suddenly reveal themselves in familiar, 
 understandable guise, as a whole. But no, she could 
 make nothing out of the jumble. And yet she had 
 not experienced this difficulty with the previous 
 letters from Yankel. The handwriting was not his, 
 of that she was finally convinced. A look of fear 
 came into her eyes. Was anything the matter with 
 him? Was he sick and unable to write? She 
 pressed her hand to her bosom. A crinkling sound 
 responded to the pressure. Ah, the money ! She 
 smiled. That certainly was Yankel's ! He must 
 have gone somewhere and asked some friend to 
 write the letter. She returned to her task, but after 
 several vain attempts she finally gave it up in 
 despair, and laid the letter on the table. As she 
 did so, she felt a little hand on her arm, and, look- 
 ing down, saw her grandson watching her smilingly. 
 
 "Michele! Why, of course. You can read it. 
 What an old fool I am ! Here, my dear child, read 
 it for me aloud, and read it nicely, so that I can 
 understand every word." 
 
 Dear, simple soul! It was not long before she 
 did, indeed, understand every word of that fateful 
 letter, as each fell hesitatingly but clearly from the 
 
128 The Silver Age 
 
 lips of her little Michele. The letter had been 
 written by Reb Jerusha and not by Reb Yankel. 
 Reb Yankel would write no more loving letters to 
 his beloved Freyda. Reb Yankel would dream no 
 more beautiful dreams of a reconstituted and re- 
 peopled Land of Israel. Reb Yankel's great soul 
 would see no more visions of a new and glorified 
 Temple in Jerusalem. Reb Yankel would hope and 
 labor no longer for little Michele and his future as 
 a leader in Israel. Reb Yankel was dead 
 dead of a malarial fever, caught while praying at a 
 late hour by the ruins of that western wall of the 
 Temple. 
 
 The boy finished the letter as he had begun it, 
 in a steady, even voice. To him the news meant 
 nothing. "A little child that lightly draws its 
 breath; what should it know of death"? The boy 
 looked up and saw that his grandmother had fallen 
 back, and was lying limp and seemingly asleep. The 
 look on the old, parchment-like face frightened him. 
 He began to cry. 
 
 "Grandmother! Grandmother! What's the mat- 
 ter? You look so ill!" He seized her cold, clammy 
 hands and began shaking them. Getting no response 
 he clambered on to her knees, put his arms round 
 her neck, placed his warm cheek against her chilled, 
 sunken one, and sobbed as if his little heart were 
 bursting. 
 
 "Grandmother! Grandmother! Wake up! Why 
 are you sleeping?" The warmth from the child's 
 body and his salt tears on her lips, revived her from 
 the faint which had seized her. She opened her 
 eyes slowly and looked around. Feeling the boy's 
 
Reb Yankel 129 
 
 weight on her breast, she put her arm gently round 
 him and raised herself to a sitting position. 
 
 "Michele," she whispered, u thou art here, near 
 me, art thou not? Do not go away. I am not 
 well. I would lie down awhile." 
 
 The boy loosened her arms from about him and 
 slipped down from her knees. Leaning on him 
 heavily the old woman managed painfully to find 
 her feet and shuffled to the bed. She laid herself 
 down with a deep sigh of relief, still holding the 
 lad's hand. 
 
 "Yankele, mein Yankele," she sobbed brokenly, 
 here face buried in the pillow, "my fears have come 
 to pass. We shall lie buried, our graves seas apart. " 
 
 Presently her moaning and sobbing subsided, the 
 frail body proving too weak for her sorrow. 
 
 "Lie next to me, Michele," she murmured, "it is 
 good to have you here, by my side." 
 
 The boy climbed into the bed and stretched him- 
 self by the old woman's side. They lay thus to- 
 gether, each embracing the other, for long hours, 
 numbered by the wheezing clock. The flames from 
 the candles flickered out, and left the room in the 
 dim glow of the fire-light and the faint glare of the 
 street lamp's flame through the curtained window. 
 Above them, on the wall, the clock's pendulum 
 swung its tick-tick, tick-tick, relentlessly, as if royally 
 indifferent to the throbbings of the tired heart lying 
 there in the shadows. From the distant busy streets 
 came the hum of the city's night life preparing for 
 its daily breathing-spell. Noises from the shutting 
 of doors and latching of windows broke in. Then 
 utter silence, with only the pendulum's tick-tick, 
 
130 The Silver Age 
 
 tick-tick, now seemingly louder and more relentless. 
 
 "Art thou asleep, Michele," came a loud whisper 
 in the dark. 
 
 "Nearly, grandmother." The boy's voice was 
 drowsily heavy. 
 
 "Canst thou sing me something?" 
 
 "Yes, grandmother. What shall I sing for you?" 
 
 "Sing Yigdal. Sing it in the tune thy grandfather 
 loved." Her voice was barely audible. 
 
 Out of the darkness, to the tune Christians have 
 adopted for one of their hymns, came in clear pip- 
 ing soprano notes the words of that grand morning 
 call: "Magnified and praised be the living God." 
 
 Long before the boy had finished his singing the 
 old woman was sleeping a restful, heart-healing 
 sleep. Soon the boy also slumbered. Thus they 
 lay, side by side, while the clock's pendulum relent- 
 lessly tick-ticked the hours of night away. 
 
 When the Sabbath morning broke, soft and balmy 
 with the first touches of a reawakened spring, little 
 Michael's grandmother had gone to meet Reb 
 Yankel in a New Jerusalem. 
 
NEW YORK AT TWILIGHT 
 
 131 
 
NEW YORK AT TWILIGHT 
 
 A METROPOLITAN city is a wonderful 
 thing. It would seem as if, in creating it, 
 we had enlisted into our service elemental 
 forces the secrets of which were unknown to us; for 
 out of the combination has arisen not only the visible 
 city of our purpose, but another invisible living 
 thing. Something unforseen, something undreamed 
 of has come into life; something that never was be- 
 fore even in our minds, and yet now that it is, some- 
 thing that somehow is ourselves in intangible form. 
 It is not the constructed, towering thing of bricks 
 and mortar and steel, but a mysterious, impalpable 
 permeating entity which the day's golden sunlight 
 precipitates and sublimates into a kind of gladsome, 
 personal impulsive energy; which takes a dream- 
 like form of mystical beauty at twilight, as it comes 
 out embodied and couchant, from the half-lights, 
 and which reveals in reeling revelry its will-killing, 
 heart-breaking, irresistible beauty at night. 
 
 In our self-forgetting labors we build better than 
 we know. In making homes we make sanctuaries 
 as well as resting-places. In building a city we pre- 
 cipitate the communal instinct along with the 
 separate avenues and streets, and this communal in- 
 stinct becomes a living entity in itself that somehow 
 or other stands for each of us as well as for all of 
 us. Of the city of stone and steel we know it as a 
 more or less satisfying embodiment of our architec- 
 tural art, and as a place in which we can eat, sleep 
 
 133 
 
134 The Silver Age 
 
 and be happy, at times, and at other times be alone, 
 hungry, and agonizedly awake. This is the city we 
 intended to build. But that other thing, the thing 
 that sprang up unpurposed, the city of our secret 
 selves, that which we might call the spirit of the 
 city, of that we can only know as we live. How 
 came it into being? What happened? 
 
 That happened which always will happen when 
 the creative impulse in us shapes our dreams and 
 desires and gives them forms separate from our- 
 selves the forms take on the divine qualities of 
 their creators. In the poem or the painting it is 
 his divine self that the poet or the painter embodies. 
 A city is of a like character, and it is the real selves 
 in us which float unseen about it and give the city 
 its individuality. 
 
 The city, however, differs in a very important 
 essential from other works of art. The picture once 
 painted or the poem sung, it stands henceforth by 
 itself; the artist can do no more for it. It must live 
 or die without further help from him. But the city 
 is never thus entirely separated from us, its builders. 
 It remains tied to us by the invisible chords of our 
 nourishing passions. It grows with us or it dies with 
 us. It is thus in a more real and personal sense a 
 part of us as we are of it. It becomes then the 
 reflex of the lives and aspirations of the people who 
 dwell in it. So that a city its streets, its highways, 
 its buildings, its public places, as well as its business 
 and life is an embodiment of ourselves. It is this 
 living spirit that may hearten and inspire us; that 
 may delight and enchant us; and that may also break 
 and destroy us. 
 
New York at Twilight 135 
 
 I may never forget my first impression of New 
 York when I sailed up its bay and saw, in the dis- 
 tance, the raised torch in the uplifted hand of the 
 figure rising from the waters as Liberty. I caught 
 my breath in an exultant aspiration. The wide, blue 
 dome of the sky, so near to me through the crystal- 
 clear atmosphere, seemed to bend toward me as if 
 to welcome my hope. I sported in the sensation. But 
 for a little while only. Beyond the statue rose solid 
 parallelograms of upright, gigantic blocks, pierced 
 with countless holes that looked like the barred win- 
 dows of prison cells. The blocks towered dark, 
 frowning and inhospitably repelling. A vague fear 
 came over me. I felt as if I were about to enter 
 through the gates of a mighty fortified place where 
 my hope would be smothered and where the blue 
 dome would be visible only as a patch, from the 
 bottom of some deep canon. 
 
 It was the evening of what had been a glorious 
 day in early May when I landed. I was too be- 
 wildered to have any clear impression of the place. 
 I was rushed, almost against my will, along the 
 overhead iron rails, to the sound of the clanging of 
 bells and the booming of laden cars, to my lodging 
 for the night. I felt as if I had been flung into a 
 maelstrom. It was as if I were one of thousands 
 who were all being catapulted at some invisible tar- 
 get by some mighty hand that had taken us in its 
 grasp. I finally found myself, panting and mentally 
 scattered, in the vestibule of a hotel. An hour later 
 I stole out to find my sky. I found it at last by the 
 aid of some stars. It was no longer bending over 
 me. It had removed itself far, far away, and I 
 
136 The Silver Age 
 
 could see but an oblong section of it stretching flat 
 and spangled over the tops of gigantic buildings. 
 Only toward the hills of Jersey did I see it again, 
 and there it glowed and burned and shot rainbow 
 colors of such fulsome beauty that hope fluttered 
 once more. I made little attempt to wander far. I 
 was bruised and ill. I lay down that the silent night 
 might heal me. The silent night never came. The 
 clanging and clashing and dull, distant booming kept 
 me awake until the dawn began stealing into my 
 room. Then only the sounds ceased, but for a 
 moment, and in the interval I lost consciousness. 
 
 It was some years before I really regained con- 
 sciousness. I had received a stunning blow from 
 some hidden fist that had sent me sprawling and 
 seeing lights in a mist. But I rose again a new man 
 with a new heart in me. Gradually my complacent 
 egotism became changed into an assertive determina- 
 tion. I began to realize that I was but one among 
 many others, and that we were all striving, work- 
 ing, pressing for life and power. I realized the 
 city's spirit by day as a beautiful, energizing being 
 filled with a passion for accomplishment, and with 
 a fierce desire for success. Her beauty was for the 
 young, the keen, the alert, for those who are im- 
 pelled and empowered by a master will. She called 
 on them with a heartening bugle voice to dare 
 bravely and do worthily. She pointed to the statue 
 resting on the waters of the bay with one hand, and 
 with the other to the flag waving silently from the 
 sunlit columns. In secret whisper and outward 
 gesture she said to them: "Make me grow also in 
 the beauty of their spirit as you have in the beauty 
 
New York at Twilight 137 
 
 of this landscape and sky, and I will serve you and 
 abide with you always." Listening, I understood, 
 and understanding, I labored. 
 
 When the day was about to close and* the work 
 was over, I saw the city's spirit at twilight. I 
 watched her then grow into being, and stood afar 
 off and caught her rising like an Aphrodite from the 
 sea of misty evenings and the glow of molten gold 
 that outvied the sunsets as it spread its illuminating 
 lines along the pavement of the great Avenue and 
 over the buildings of the seething Broadway. This 
 was the time of my fulfilment of joy. Spring and 
 summer, autumn and winter would find me waiting, 
 watching for her nightly rebirth, and always gazing 
 fascinated by her ever-changing, enchanting beauty. 
 
 I dared not face her at night. I had known the 
 spirit of London at such a time, and it was a terri- 
 fying thing. A stealthy vampire, it stole as a ghoul- 
 like shadow, with only its fascinating eyes and 
 scorching breath to tell me of its presence. And 
 London was the metropolis of a civilization two 
 millenniums old; a civilization that had had time 
 in which to grow in dignity, urbanity and courtesy. 
 What must New York, a city of yesterday, be like, 
 where not a day passes that does not demand and 
 receive its sacrifice of souls? 
 
 When I did see her at night, I knew another New 
 York. Her secret was revealed as I saw the strong, 
 the wise, the cunning, the mighty men of the day, 
 cleansed of the dust of toil, pouring out of their 
 homes into the great highways of the metropolis, 
 straining and stretching for an embrace, and giving 
 up all they had toiled for by day for a kiss from the 
 
138 The Silver Age 
 
 lips of this wondrous queen of the night. I saw a 
 bacchanal's and a satyr's dance to the music of a 
 siren's silvery scintillating laughter. It swept the 
 streets, filled the restaurants and echoed along the 
 corridors of brilliantly lit pleasure palaces. The 
 goddess of the day was metamorphosed into a reck- 
 less Bacchante. The city had given itself up to a 
 carnival. Towers and turrets, pinnacles and spires 
 were lost in a sky of inky blue above, while below 
 every foundation burned and glowed in a white 
 heat. The City of Endeavor had become the City 
 of Pleasure. When the dawn broke nothing re- 
 mained but a silence, wan and pale. The place was 
 like a whited sepulchre. 
 
 Not by night not yet by day do I find the city's 
 spirit fulfilled. Neither in maturity nor in barren 
 passion do we realize the beneficent, kindly and 
 human companion of the lady of our dreams. It 
 is at twilight that this being is really herself, and it 
 is then that we find ourselves in her reality. When 
 the day is melting into night, and the silvery air is 
 stilled with the stress of expectant revelations, our 
 Lady of Hope rises and beckons us homeward. She 
 is no longer the dictating deity of the day; she is 
 the Guardian Angel of the fireside, whispering to 
 us the deep secrets of abiding happiness. Her breath 
 is veils of unfolding and enfolding mystery wreath- 
 ing in many colors and transfiguring the city's archi- 
 tecture. Towering turrets are palaces of Aladdin; 
 the burning broad-based columns rise as clouds of 
 incense offered to the glory of accomplished labor 
 and the gods of the hearth. Cars, laden with men 
 and women, tired and newly eager, move in lines of 
 
New York at Twilight 139 
 
 light. The great square castles by the riverside 
 twinkle into a new life with their thousands of elec- 
 tric lamps, and what was before a solid mass is now 
 but a scarcely visible wraith. Brooklyn Bridge, the 
 graceful lady of the day who flies the river in one danc- 
 ing step, is now a dream of webs coruscating with 
 brilliant jewels. The spire of the Singer Building 
 is a black cloud pierced with luminous rifts and out- 
 lined in glowing beads. Up from the distant shining 
 pavement rise, in tier on tier of lights, the stories of 
 the Flatiron Building, in the ascending repetitions of 
 a passion fugue. To the east of it looms the spec- 
 tral giant of the Metropolitan Tower, its heart lit 
 up and its gilded head flaring with a beacon's light 
 over the misty sea of the city's murmuring pulsa- 
 tions. The great canon of Fifth Avenue canopied 
 with spangled deep ultramarine, sends along a living 
 stream of moving shadows, parti-colored, now white, 
 now purple, now black, a procession of spectral 
 forms climbing to the white horizon at the canon's 
 mouth, where St. Patrick's Cathedral sends its two 
 white prayers into heaven. The floating island of 
 Manhattan is become an enchanted fairyland, and 
 under the spell of its embracing beauty the tired 
 heart and wearied brain are refreshed and reani- 
 mated, eager to welcome the coming of the city's 
 night queen. 
 
 This is the time at almost any season of the year, 
 when I say to my friend from England, "Come, let 
 us take a walk up the Avenue." Then we stroll 
 with the procession, glancing in at hostelries, admir- 
 ing chateaux through wooded alleys of the park, be- 
 yond the fire-tipped heights of Morningside, to the 
 
140 The Silver Age 
 
 splendid esplanade bending and embracing the mag- 
 nificent river now changed into a broad sea of molten 
 gold. 
 
 "This is New York," I add, and my friend is 
 moved with wonder and awe. He looks in mute 
 astonishment at the towering faqades of the huge 
 blocks of homes transfigured now in the glow of 
 the dying sun's light and turns from them to the 
 shimmering river, and the black palisades of Jersey. 
 "What an achievement!" he exclaims. "This must 
 be the city of the Olympians." 
 
 "No," I answer, "not at all of Olympians, but of 
 men and women like ourselves. And they have 
 built it out of Hope, the Hope of the New World 
 that was born of the despair of the Old World." 
 
 We sit on the wide veranda of the Claremont 
 with the water clear below us. To the north the 
 river sweeps in a magnificent curve and ends in a 
 line of serried hills now utter black against the pure 
 white of the dying sun's light. To the south we 
 see the upright masses of buildings gleaming with 
 their lights and smoking in the vapor-laden at- 
 mosphere. The river itself shimmers and waves like 
 shining, molten brass. Tug-boats and ferry-boats, 
 barges and launches cut black lines into this living, 
 heaving liquid. Sounds come from every side; here, 
 the music from the orchestra within; there, the 
 warming megaphonic toots from the river craft; 
 behind, the dull booming of the city waking into a 
 new life, and among all these the silvery laughter 
 of women and the cries of joyous promenaders. It 
 is the time of blessedness. 
 
 There is in the hour of twilight a special appeal 
 
New York at Twilight 141 
 
 which is neither in the day nor in the night. It is 
 as if Nature were then unbending herself from her 
 imperious mood to talk with us in our own human 
 language. By day and by night she is herself in 
 all her stern majesty. We can but hope that what 
 we are then finding out about her is the truth of 
 her, for she herself remains unresponsive to our 
 calls, royally indifferent. But at twilight she is 
 another being. Her reality seems uncertain to the 
 eye and incomprehensible to the mind; but we feel 
 we know her. Not by the mind do we realize 
 this knowledge; it comes as a conviction. Emotions 
 arise in us, unbidden, as if in response to some whis- 
 pered appeal from without. We hear messages and 
 respond to them. We are in communion with an 
 invisible existence in a language not of human 
 invention, yet unforgettably intelligible. Everything 
 is speaking it, we with the others. Trees and hills, 
 river and road, field and sky, cloud and star, all are 
 talking to us and we to them. It is the hour of 
 reunion, and Nature invites us to communicate with 
 her. But her salon is neither the wide ocean, nor 
 the great prairie, nor the aisled forests, nor yet the 
 gardens or the cathedral closes; it is the mighty 
 metropolitan city built by human hands and mated 
 to God's landscape; the city in which the art of 
 man has been made a part of the landscape and 
 sky. For here all may meet and embrace Mother 
 Nature's living truth. She knows that during the 
 day and night we are too much taken up with our 
 ambitions and desires so that she steals away at 
 those times to the hills and forests, and is alone, 
 for we rarely visit her there. But as we are a 
 
142 The Silver Age 
 
 part of her, and as we alone can express her as 
 she longs to be expressed, she needs us. She comes, 
 therefore, but she takes us unawares, and the 
 twilight hour is the witching hour. Some day we 
 shall build our cities with this understanding of her, 
 and then they will be as inevitable as the everlasting 
 hills, and our life in them free and joyous. 
 
FIFTH AVENUE AND THE 
 BOULEVARD SAINT-MICHEL 
 
 143 
 
FIFTH AVENUE AND THE BOULEVARD 
 SAINT-MICHEL 
 
 "O, for one hour of youthful joy! 
 Give back ray twentieth spring." 
 
 HUS murmured to himself Michael Weaver 
 as he strolled aimlessly along the broad pave- 
 ment of New York's avenue-promenade, one 
 delightful blue and gold evening in April. The air 
 was like wine; the brilliant light reflected from 
 the white stone of the buildings, silver in its tone, 
 sharpened outlines and made silhouettes of the few 
 belated home-goers and strollers like himself; the 
 deep, rich ultramarine of the sky, already spangling 
 with the twilight stars, seemed like a silken canopy 
 of blue tightly stretched above the canon of the 
 street; and the atmosphere was laden as if with the 
 aromas of numberless anticipated enjoyments and 
 loves. Surely that scent came from Angele's hair? 
 Ah, dear little Angele! What was she doing 
 now? And that stray breeze, did it not bring with 
 it the odor of the markets of the Quartier when 
 the lilacs are out in Paris? Oh, the lilacs of Paris! 
 The tears welled up to his kindly brown eyes as 
 his heart cried the words. 
 
 Yes, eight years had gone by, and here he was 
 again in New York, lost in the loneliness of its 
 seething thoroughfares, a stranger in a land which, 
 though it had given him birth, was to him now 
 as a strange land. True, the light and the sky 
 were still lovely, the air was strength-giving; these, 
 
 145 
 
146 The Silver Age 
 
 too, were magnificent structures, showing a barbaric 
 daring in the architect-builders. But the people, 
 oh, the people! They were so cold, so indifferent, 
 so self-centred, so ignorant and careless of beauty! 
 Life was impossible among them. The place was 
 but a whited sepulchre for frustrated ambitions, 
 a graveyard of lost ideals. Look at Fifth Avenue, 
 and think of the Boul' Mich' ! He smiled in 
 supreme disdain. What a contrast! Idealism and 
 materialism light and darkness culture and ignor- 
 ance hope and despair joy and misery life and 
 death! Proper synonyms for the two places; and 
 he smiled again at the mental picture he made of 
 the table of words. 
 
 He had gone to Paris, when twenty years of 
 age, fired with an ambition to become a great 
 painter. He had entered into the life of the Latin 
 Quarter and had found himself at home in it. He 
 had grown there in knowledge of his art and in 
 dexterity of his craft. It had nursed his hopes and 
 deepened his joys. Life had been worth living. It 
 was good to be with friends, and it was a kindly 
 place, asking not too much for the privilege of its 
 citizenship. He had loved a little, and had found a 
 quiet, simple happiness in his love. But he could 
 not go on living there always. Even the Quarter 
 must, sooner or later, be paid in money for food 
 and rent; and his money had given out. Further- 
 more, he had acquitted himself master in his art, 
 and he had been told that he could get better prices 
 for his pictures in New York. And better prices 
 meant that he would the more quickly be able to 
 come back. He would leave the Boul' Mich', for 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 147 
 
 a short time, and try his luck on Fifth Avenue. But 
 he would come back; oh, yes, he would come back. 
 
 He hardly recognized New York as the same 
 city he had known as a boy. It was all so different 
 so much more imposing and so much more over- 
 whelming. The streets were changed, and the 
 people were not the same. He had been now nine 
 months in New York. He had walked the Avenue 
 until he knew by instinct every building on both 
 its sides from Madison Square to the Plaza. He 
 had carried his canvases from dealer to dealer, 
 and had been received and dismissed, sometimes 
 with polite, and sometimes with brusque, attentions. 
 The little money he had scraped together, over 
 and above his fare from Paris, he had lived on, 
 during these trying months, with painful husbandry, 
 at the rate of twenty cents a day. When almost 
 on the verge of starvation and despair, he had met 
 Finch, and Finch, the good angel, who had seen 
 his work with seeing eyes, had opened his doors to 
 him, and had befriended him in his time of sorest 
 need. This had been the one bright ray of God's 
 sunlight that had visited him in what was become 
 for him a City of Dreadful Night. 
 
 For nine months, he had tramped the streets, 
 looking eagerly and wistfully for a face that might 
 touch his gentle spirit with a human grace; but, 
 until quite lately, he had found not one. Every 
 face he had looked at was stern, and hard, and 
 cruel. If one smiled, the smile was arrogant or 
 self-complacent, or wooing for a service to be ob- 
 tained. If one laughed, it was at some obscene 
 jest, or because of a satisfaction at a successfully 
 
148 The Silver Age 
 
 achieved sharp practice. Things of beauty were 
 not bought for the joy they gave, but for the price 
 paid; and the higher the price, the more loudly 
 was it proclaimed with unctuous iteration. Culture 
 there was none. He had met many people of so- 
 called enlightenment; but he had found them super- 
 ficial and hollow. It was a veneer culture noth- 
 ing more. When he scratched it, never so lightly, 
 the common wood showed itself beneath. Oh, yes, 
 they were polite and pleasant, but the politeness and 
 pleasantness meant little. These were but baits to 
 catch the innocent fish. He was soon shown the 
 rough side when it was found that he was but a 
 poor devil of an artist who had nothing to give. 
 And how expensive it was merely to live 1 Food 
 and clothes and rent swallowed money literally 
 devoured it. What a price to pay for such a 
 privilege ! 
 
 It had been so different in Paris! Paris also 
 was beautiful, but beautiful in a very appealing 
 and a very intimate way. In Paris one could 
 always find a kindred spirit to whom one could 
 speak, if not heart to heart, then certainly with an 
 assurance of obtaining sympathy, and without the 
 blighting fear of ridicule and of being misunder- 
 stood. In New York the talk was all of money, 
 money, money, and business, and the stock-market, 
 and values. Values ! He smiled, unconsciously, as 
 he murmured the word of the art-world, thinking 
 of the difference in the meaning of the double 
 uses to which the word was put. In Paris, he 
 could drop in at a cabaret with the certainty of 
 meeting a brother in hope or a fellow in thought. 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 149 
 
 Here, the restaurants were for the rich only. There 
 were no restaurants for artists. How could there 
 be, where there were no artists? These so-called 
 artists were in business, not in Art. And where 
 should these go but to the places where business 
 men went? They were tradesmen, like the rest. 
 And even if he could afford them, the restaurants 
 and hotels were but desert-places for him. True, 
 he had met Arthur Finch in one of them; but Finch 
 was only one in five millions. He was kind and 
 good, and a fine fellow, but even Finch did not 
 know all that an artist felt in his innermost heart. 
 
 In Paris he had painted and had expressed 
 himself. If he had made little money, he had, at 
 any rate, found appreciation and encouragement. 
 
 Matisse knew he could beat him at his own game, 
 and Matisse was no small man even though he 
 had begun to prostitute his genius for gain. Matisse 
 had admired his work, and thought it remarkable, had 
 acknowledged his wonderful sense for color. Even 
 Cezanne had smiled his approval! Cezanne, the 
 Master ! Weaver stopped himself in his walk, arrested 
 by the mere sound of the august name. "C'est un 
 homme!" he murmured piously. Paris alone could 
 breed such a man ! In New York Cezanne would have 
 died in a season. Its hot-house atmosphere would 
 have shriveled his heart and dried up the fountains 
 of his inspiration. Oh, to be near him again; to 
 be back once more, if but in that poor attic an 
 cinquieme! Better a crust there than a feast at the 
 silvered table of the Dutch House, even with Finch 
 as host. Ah, yes, Finch had been very kind. He 
 had shown his paintings in the Gallery of the 
 
150 The Silver Age 
 
 Golden Disk; but it had done no good. The peo- 
 ple, poor ignorant things, the people had come, 
 had looked, and had left, thinking the man who had 
 painted them was mad. A single canvas had found 
 a purchaser, and he, probably had bought it out of 
 a feeling of charity and pity for the artist. 
 Mon Dleu! Mon Dieuf Is it right is it 
 right that the finest flowers of the human soul 
 should be nipped in the bud? Is it just that ras- 
 cality and ignorance should prevail, and the chi- 
 caner conquer? Is it fair that the ladder of fame 
 and success should be for mountebanks, and the 
 chariots of ease for charlatans? Was it impos- 
 sible for him to make even a little money by his 
 work? He feared it was. He did not know how 
 to be insincere, and to put on a false face with a 
 smile. It was not in his nature, either, to pander 
 to the degraded tastes of bloated plutocrats. He 
 could not do these things and be true to his art. 
 And yet he had been told that New York was the 
 art-market of the world. Rich Americans were 
 generous patrons of art. Patrons, indeed ! Patron- 
 izers, yes; but patrons! Faugh! 
 
 Others had succeeded because they knew the 
 ropes. They were better business men than they 
 were artists. They could play politics, and could 
 talk glibly at their exhibitions to the fine ladies who 
 came, and entertain the critics with luncheon and 
 cigars. The critics! He laughed bitterly as he 
 uttered the word. What did these penny-a-liners 
 know of art? They did little else than drool out, 
 parrot-like, their jargon of "artistry." And if they 
 did know, they wouldn't dare to write honestly for 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 151 
 
 fear of offending the editor. They were in the 
 swim, with the rest. It was all a game. The 
 artist toadied the dealer, the dealer toadied the 
 critic, the critic toadied the editor, and the editor 
 toadied the advertiser. 
 
 Thinking these thoughts, Weaver had arrived 
 at his lodging. Wearily he mounted the four 
 flights of dark, dingy, creaking stairs of a house 
 reeking of numberless indescribable odors, and laid 
 himself down on his hard bed. 
 
 The day following was a lordly day, glorious 
 with sunshine and clean air. It had rained a lit- 
 tle during the night, and the rain seemed to have 
 washed crystal clear the atmosphere of the mag- 
 nificent high-road as Weaver trod it on his way 
 to the Dutch House to meet Finch. He had been 
 up since four o'clock, working on a portrait a com- 
 mission Finch had obtained for him. He had done 
 a day's work with satisfaction to himself, and he 
 was glad. 
 
 Certainly, it was splendid, this gorgeous avenue, 
 with its endless perspective lost in the blue of its 
 narrowed horizon. The tall structures appeared to 
 him as broad columns of aspirations fire-offerings 
 of ambition to the Lord of Hosts. The pointed 
 spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral shot white hopes 
 into a sky of uplifting light. He straightened him- 
 self as he walked. He was feeling the mysterious 
 power which emanated from this wonderful mar- 
 riage of God's art with man's art. In an uncon- 
 scious expansion of himself through the subtle in- 
 fluence of this power, he thrilled in responsive 
 ecstasy. It was an experience he had rarely known 
 
152 The Silver Age 
 
 in Paris. It lifted him up and bore him gallantly 
 along, his face transfigured from the renewed ac- 
 cession of strength which the brave show and the 
 brave air imparted to him. 
 
 "Not in vain the distance beckons. Forward, Forward, let us range. 
 Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of 
 change." 
 
 Tennyson's lines, learnt by him at school, came back 
 to him. He chanted them aloud, again and again, 
 his steps keeping time to the rhythm, and thus 
 chanting, found himself arrived at his destination. 
 They were all there, sitting at a long table in the 
 centre of the spacious and high-ceilinged cafe. Finch, 
 with his great shock of grizzled hair, and brown 
 eyes glinting through pince-nez, was at the head; 
 and little podgy-faced Church, smiling as usual, at 
 the foot. Room was made for Weaver, who was 
 heartily welcomed, between the pale-faced and 
 kindly-eyed Zerxes, the caricaturist, and the light- 
 haired Nelson Hardy, the art critic, with his ag- 
 gressive jaws and sharp blue Norwegian eyes. John 
 Seaman, the water-color landscape painter, with his 
 thin, elongated nose and long, dark hair matted over 
 his forehead and almost hiding his eyes, sat oppo- 
 site him. Next to Seaman, Charles Cockayne, 
 critic and lecturer on art, leaned back portentously, 
 his rubicund face and shelf-like nether lip speaking 
 of complacent self-assurance. Or. Finch's right sat 
 Stuyvesant Marsh, quiet and yet eager, nervously 
 curling upward an evidently highly cherished blond 
 moustache. On his left was James Foote, the re- 
 viewer and humorist, his pleasant, full-cheeked coun- 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 153 
 
 tenance made child-like and inviting by a pair of 
 innocent, laughing, light blue eyes. Hewitt, the 
 photographer, was also there, as were Frangois 
 Aiterre, an amateur in the right sense of the word, 
 and Healey, a lawyer with a taste for polite letters. 
 
 So strange a conglomerate of contrasting indi- 
 vidualities surely never gathered at one time around 
 a table in the purlieus of the Latin Quarter ! And 
 yet, here were these sitting amiably in the most select 
 of hostelries in New York's most famous of ave- 
 nues. All claimed to be idealists, and each had his 
 own way of asserting his claim; and a pronounced 
 and uncompromising way it was, too. The table 
 was free for all expressions of opinions; and, it 
 must be said, expressions often came with reckless 
 directness. The truth is, they were all egoists, each 
 ready, at the first sip of the wine of success, to be- 
 come intoxicated with the glory of achievement, and 
 "make a fume out of the warder of the brain." 
 
 But Finch kept them in order. He was host and 
 dominie in one. He led the conversation and deftly 
 turned it into harmless byways if the discussion 
 threatened to become too animated and personal. 
 He scolded roundly if one proved too recalcitrant, 
 and praised when a remark was happily put. He 
 knew them all well. He had listened to their bitter 
 cries in private confession, and had helped when 
 help meant a self-realization and not a self-deteriora- 
 tion. He was acquainted with their griefs and had 
 knowledge of their sins. They were his children 
 wayward at times, childish at other times, but 
 earnest at heart, and sincere at all times. 
 
 Weaver looked around the table with a pleased 
 
154 The Silver Age 
 
 face. A comfortable sensation pervaded his body. 
 The pure air and the rich appointments appealed to 
 his love of cleanliness and order. He had seen 
 nothing like this on the Boul' Mich'. The napery 
 was spotless, and the silver shone dazzlingly in the 
 light from the great lustred electrolier above. Busy, 
 yet quiet and devotedly attentive waiters, hovered 
 about. One of them offered him, bowingly, the 
 menu-card for the day framed in silver. He took 
 it nervously, barely glancing at the long list of tempt- 
 ing dishes, and quietly whispered his order for roast- 
 beef and a baked potato. As he handed back the 
 card, he heard Finch's voice. 
 
 u How goes the work, Seaman? Have you done 
 anything since you came back?" 
 
 "A little; but I haven't had much time. I'm busy 
 getting ready for the show at your place." 
 
 "That's right. Next month we shall show the 
 Rodin drawings; but after that's over, it will be 
 your turn." 
 
 "I'll be ready by then. But, say, I've been work- 
 ing on that Flatiron building, and I think I've got 
 it, once for all. I've got it floating in the sky, 
 mounting into clouds of gray, and gold, and ultra- 
 marine. I never was so pleased with anything I 
 ever did before." 
 
 "Good for you, Seaman ! You can do it, if any- 
 one can," replied Finch warmly. 
 
 Weaver had been listening eagerly. Finch had 
 given him his chance, but nothing had come of it. 
 Perhaps Seaman might fare no better. He thought 
 it well to interpolate advice. 
 
 "I hope, Seaman, you'll not forget to put into 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 155 
 
 that Flatiron picture of yours the feeling of its 
 fourth-dimension quality the consciousness of a 
 great and overwhelming sense of space-magnitude in 
 all directions at one time." 
 
 u My dear Weaver," and Seaman permitted a 
 smile to steal over his thin face, "I know exactly 
 what you mean. I'll try all I can to put it into the 
 picture; but you know it's not easy to live up to 
 your standard." 
 
 "Oh, Weaver's got the fourth-dimension-quality 
 bee humming in his bonnet!" exclaimed Hardy, his 
 jaws chopping the words as he ejected them from 
 his mouth. 
 
 "You can say what you like, Hardy, about my 
 fourth-dimension-quality, but I don't expect an art- 
 critic to know art," and Weaver's eyes shot light. 
 
 "Now, don't let us get on that subject again," 
 cried Finch. "If Cockayne keeps his promise he'll 
 write an article on it. What I'm interested in now 
 is the Rodin show. And I tell you it'll be an eye- 
 opener. If the press took so much notice of the 
 Matisse exhibition, I wonder what they'll say when 
 they see the Rodins. Say, but we're waking them 
 up !" And Finch vented a gleeful laugh. 
 
 "Oh, the critics are all in with the dealers," 
 snapped Seaman. 
 
 "Yes," jerked out Hardy, thrusting his jaw for- 
 ward to emphasize his remark, "and the critics have 
 got to look out for the editors. Think of the ad- 
 vertisers! It isn't always the critics that are to 
 blame." 
 
 "Good for you, my boy!" exclaimed Church. 
 "What between the dealer and the editor it looks 
 
156 The Silver Age 
 
 as if an art-critic's life ought to be quite a happy 
 
 one." 
 
 "Happy as far as the dealer is concerned," 
 laughed Marsh, "but what about the editor?" 
 
 "He'd better pack his grip," snorted Hardy, "if 
 the editor catches him!" 
 
 "Well, isn't the dealer enough?" asked Church. 
 "It looks to me as if a nice little nest might be 
 feathered from the pickings from him alone. What's 
 the difference between a stock-broker and an art- 
 critic? You don't know? Well, I'll tell you. One 
 deals in shares and the other shares in deals." The 
 loud laugh that followed Church's reply was broken 
 into by Finch, who smilingly chided Church for his 
 levity. 
 
 Weaver looked at Church with amused, meditative 
 eyes. He had often met the little man, and had 
 always found him quite the reverse of flippant, and 
 had enjoyed his keen remarks. To-day, mischief 
 played rampant over the mobile, homely face. He 
 preferred the serious side of him, however, and at- 
 tempted to draw it out. 
 
 "Mr. Church," he said, in his soft, melancholy 
 voice, "don't you find that the critics' attitude 
 toward art is but on a plane with the general attitude 
 of the people of this country toward all high 
 ideals?" 
 
 Church turned quickly toward his questioner, and 
 asked shortly, "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that everybody here does things, not for 
 the sake of doing them well, but for the sake of the 
 money they may get." 
 
 "Well, what of it? What are you doing things 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 157 
 
 for? Aren't you hoping to get money for what 
 you do?" 
 
 "In a way, yes; but that's not my prime motive. 
 I paint a picture because I love to paint. I want to 
 re-create what I see and feel so that others may see 
 and feel with me." 
 
 "Well, if what you see and feel is worth seeing 
 and feeling by others, it's worth paying for, isn't it?" 
 
 "That's not an answer to my question." 
 
 "Weaver means, Church," explained Finch, "that 
 he would paint for nothing if he could get appre- 
 ciation. He is not thinking of the money when he 
 is doing his work." 
 
 "I know quite well what Weaver means. But he 
 happens to have approached the subject in a way 
 that irritates me, and I am purposely ignoring his 
 meaning. And besides, what Weaver means is not 1 
 to the point of his original remark. He began by 
 an intended criticism of the public for its un- 
 sympathetic attitude toward art and all high ideals, 
 and he explained that everybody did things for the 
 sake of the money they could get and not for the 
 sake of doing the work. In so far as the artist him- 
 self is concerned, I confess I can't see the difference 
 between working for money and working for fame. 
 In both cases his object is other than the mere 
 doing, and in each case the object is a sufficiently 
 worthy incentive. Some reward, I take it, is neces- 
 sary to him, otherwise he'd soon give up working 
 altogether; and it is indifferent to me whether the 
 object is material in the shape of money, or spiritual 
 in the form of fame. I am somewhat tired of this 
 belittling of money. It's a good thing if you can 
 
158 The Silver Age 
 
 afford to do your work in order to fulfill your 
 genius; but artists are not angels; they are creatures 
 of flesh and blood, like the rest of us, and a good 
 home, a well-filled stomach and pocket-book, a 
 decent suit of clothes, and the bodily comforts that 
 money can buy are, to my mind at any rate, just as 
 necessary and just as helpful to the artist as they are 
 to the ordinary man in the street. I have yet to 
 be convinced that the right-minded artist need be 
 less an artist because he's getting money for his 
 work. If an artist wants to consider himself 
 superior to the common wants of humanity, I can't 
 see why he grumbles at his poverty. Why blame the 
 public? What's the public got to do with your 
 motive? By all means, do your work for the work's 
 sake; but if the public doesn't want your work, don't 
 blame it for not buying it. That's what / mean." 
 
 "Perhaps, Mr. Church, I've not quite made it 
 clear to you what I do mean," gently insisted 
 Weaver, "the people place more importance on the 
 money-value than they do on the art-value of the 
 work. They have no art-sense; they don't under- 
 stand art, and they don't care for it. It doesn't 
 mean anything to them." 
 
 "What other value would you have them place 
 on it? By your own words they are ignorant and 
 uncultured. They don't understand art, you say. 
 How are they going to understand it? And when 
 they do, how are they going to show their apprecia- 
 tion of it other than by translating it into dollars 
 and cents? And, if we come down to it, how do 
 you understand art? How do you distinguish the 
 art-value of a work from its money-value? Have 
 you a secret art-measurer of your own?" 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 159 
 
 "Oh! Oh! Oh!" chorused Cockayne, Hardy, 
 Seaman, and the rest. 
 
 "Say, Church," laughed Cockayne, "isn't that 
 going a bit too far? Surely there is such a thing as 
 Art? And we do know the difference between true 
 Art and false Art!" 
 
 "Very well, then; if you know all about it, what's 
 your test for what you call true Art? Answer me 
 that!" And Church emphasized his question by a 
 thump on the table. 
 
 A short silence followed. It was broken by Finch. 
 
 "That's rather a big question, isn't it, Church, to 
 answer off-hand?" 
 
 "We're discussing a big subject. Have you any 
 standard by which to judge art; by which you are 
 able to say this is good and that is bad; or this is 
 Art with a capital A, and that is art without the 
 capital?" 
 
 "Your question is a silly one, Church," replied 
 Hardy; "there are many things to be taken into con- 
 sideration before one can arrive at a judgment about 
 a work of art. There is technique, first; and there's 
 color, and composition, and form, and, above all, 
 there's the fulness of the impression it is intended 
 to convey." 
 
 "If I might venture to answer your question, 
 Church," said Cockayne, "I should say that a work 
 of art must be judged by its success or failure to 
 realize Beauty." 
 
 "All right, Hardy, you'll find out soon enough 
 how silly my question is. My answer to you, 
 Cockayne, is that what you say does not help me, 
 because I want to know what you mean by Beauty. 
 
160 The Silver Age 
 
 The same difficulty is there as it was before, only 
 youVe moved it from the word Art to the word 
 Beauty. Who is to decide what is Beauty? How 
 are we to measure it? The beauty revealed by a 
 Correggio is not the beauty revealed by a Velasquez. 
 Titian's 'Venus' and Rembrandt's 'Lesson in 
 Anatomy' are both works of art, but the revelation 
 of beauty is altogether different in each. Besides, 
 what was beautiful to the painters of the sixteenth 
 and seventeenth centuries is not beautiful to the 
 painters of the twentieth century just as what was 
 once right morally is now wrong, and vice versa. 
 I used to hear critics belittle Rubens; but only the 
 other day Stecker was dithyrambic in his praise of 
 him. He was the master of them all, Stecker said. 
 If we are to look to beauty to help us we shall find 
 that our standard of beauty keeps changing just as 
 our standards of conduct and fashion change." 
 
 "But we are more eager now to possess Rem- 
 brandts and Titians and Velasquez than ever we 
 were before," remarked Cockayne. "Why do we 
 pay such enormous prices for their pictures if we 
 did not find them beautiful?" 
 
 "I don't think we pay the enormous prices for 
 the sake of their beauty. I think it's the fashion 
 just now to want them. A hundred and fifty years 
 ago you could have bought a car-load of Rembrandts 
 for the price you'd have to pay for one now. Ruskin 
 thought Whistler was a charlatan to-day many of 
 us would scrape our last dollar to own a Whistler. 
 When Benjamin West was President of the Royal 
 Academy of London his pictures brought prices that 
 we laugh at. To-day you could probably buy all 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 161 
 
 the pictures he ever painted, that are not stacked 
 away in stupid galleries, for the price he got for 
 one. And, I suppose people in West's time must 
 have thought them beautiful if that were really 
 the standard by which they then judged them. Did 
 Millet's 'Angelus' have less of beauty in it when he 
 sold it for a few hundred dollars than it has now 
 when it would sell for a hundred thousand?" 
 
 "The fact that the people don't always see the 
 beauty is no reason for concluding that a painting 
 is not great art," answered Cockayne. "Because I 
 am blind is no argument that the sun is not shining." 
 
 "That's true; but how is one to know when one 
 can see? How is one to recognize beauty? One 
 man looks at a Matisse and sees in it nothing but 
 what is ugly and repulsive. Another looks at it and 
 finds it wonderful in its power to suggest the beauty 
 of the human form and the appealing pathos of 
 human life. Who is the seeing man, and who the 
 blind one? Who shall judge? I am asking for a 
 standard by which we all may abide. I am search- 
 ing for a light by which we all, ignorant and edu- 
 cated alike, may walk through the dark mazes of 
 this art-world. It's no use going to the critics and 
 writers on art; I have found these do not agree with 
 each other. They are so busy proving each other 
 foolish that I have come to the conclusion they know 
 little more than the rest of us." 
 
 "Mr. Church," and Weaver's quiet voice sounded 
 an authoritative note, "Art is not for the blind or 
 the ignorant. Art is for the seeing and the knowing. 
 Art is its own standard, its own criterion. It is in- 
 dependent of any judgment. Art is the Idea made 
 manifest as Beauty." 
 
1 62 The Silver Age 
 
 "Ah, a definition at last! Art is the Idea made 
 manifest as Beauty! Excellent, i' faith! If only we 
 knew what the Idea was ! Weaver would have it, 
 I take it, that Art is a Divinity poised there in the 
 high heavens for the worship and the adoration of 
 mankind. And, I suppose, the Idea is the private 
 revelation vouchsafed the artist by this Divinity? 
 And Beauty, the reappearance of this revelation in 
 plastic form, eh?" 
 
 Weaver nodded eagerly as if pleased that he had 
 been so well understood. 
 
 "Well," continued Church, "I know now why 
 we call ourselves Idealists. I am not saying that 
 Weaver hasn't got hold of something. I may come 
 back to what he is trying to say another day. But, 
 if Weaver is right, why cry out against a public that 
 doesn't see the Idea in the manifestation? May 
 there not be something wrong or something wanting 
 in the manifestor? How does the artist himself 
 know he has succeeded in revealing the Idea as 
 Beauty. We Idealists must be very careful to keep 
 our feet on earth if we would have the public know 
 what we are doing or what we are talking about. 
 Aye, and if we would be sure that we ourselves have 
 the revelation aright. For, however we may refine 
 our thinking, as artists we have to deal with the con- 
 crete. Our most entrancing visions have to be trans- 
 lated into visible forms before they can be seen by 
 others, and this limitation of the medium is often 
 lost sight of by artist-dreamers. Keep your feet on 
 earth, I say, and you need not fear how high you 
 stretch your head. The Beauty we talk of must 
 become plastic if it is to be realized at all." 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 163 
 
 "If I have answered your question," interrupted 
 Weaver, "let me hear what you have to say; for it 
 is important to me. What have you to say against 
 my original statement that the people of this coun- 
 try value art not for what it is, in and for itself, but 
 for what it is worth in money. Perhaps you will 
 say that money is the public's way of estimating 
 art?" 
 
 "I am coming to that, Weaver, and you'll know 
 all I mean. For the moment, I will accept your 
 definition, that Art is the Idea made manifest as 
 Beauty. I don't like the definition, because it's sub- 
 jective and not objective; because it assumes a 
 knowledge we haven't got. Beauty, like those other 
 abstract terms, Right, Justice, Truth, is not a self- 
 existing entity, independent of ourselves. From my 
 point of view, I would say that Beauty is a state of 
 consciousness. As a state of consciousness it will 
 vary as we vary. Just as the right, the just, the true 
 of yesterday may not be right, and just, and true 
 to-day, so what we call beauty now may not be the 
 beauty of the future. These words are, after all, 
 but abstract terms for us. They may or they may 
 not stand for absolute realities. I confess I am 
 afraid of these abstractions that lead to absolute 
 realities. I never could make out what an absolute 
 reality meant, if it were not a term to hide our 
 ignorance of what we were talking about. I prefer to 
 be content with the experience; because then I am 
 talking about what I know. And what I know, and 
 what I will stake my life on, does exist, in my own 
 state of consciousness, my own capacity for enjoyment. 
 I dare not deny that or I should deny life itself. 
 
164 The Silver Age 
 
 "Keeping that in mind, I would define art as a 
 particular form of imparting pleasure. And by 
 pleasure I mean not only the evanescent but the 
 permanent enjoyments. This definition includes 
 every mode of art expression, and allows for any 
 and every possibility of delight-giving experience. 
 Under this sky may play the poet, painter, and 
 musician, as well as the actor, novelist, and dancer. 
 Each of their arts is, if you like to say so, a revela- 
 tion of the Idea made manifest as Beauty, but each 
 is better understood, and only really known by us as 
 a means for joy. But I will go further, and say, 
 that each means nothing, and is worth nothing, if it 
 does not mean our joy." 
 
 "But," said Finch, "why quarrel about words 
 if both definitions lead to the same result? Your 
 definition includes but one side of art, and the lesser 
 side; Weaver's is a much more impressive one. 
 What you call experience he raises to the dignity 
 of a divinity." 
 
 "I know it is but one side of it; but I deny it is 
 the lesser side. It is the only side which can possibly 
 concern us as living and working beings. I won't 
 deny Weaver's definition, and I will make you a 
 present of its impressiveness. I won't deny it, be- 
 cause its denial, on .my part, would mean that I 
 knew what he was talking about. I don't know 
 what he means by the idea, or by beauty in the 
 abstract. And I can't deny what I don't know. 
 But I do know my own sensations in front of an 
 idea, if you like, made manifest as beautiful. I do 
 know when a painting delights me, or a poet en- 
 thralls me, or an actor pleases me, or a musician 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 165 
 
 enchants me. And I prefer to trust to these ex- 
 periences rather than to a metaphysical abstraction, 
 even when raised to the dignity of a divinity. I pre- 
 fer to insist on them for Weaver's sake as well as 
 my own. And by Weaver, I mean you all idealists 
 in creating as well as idealists in criticism; idealists 
 in art as well as idealists in life. By apotheosizing 
 your Beauty you are in danger of becoming the 
 creature of the Frankenstein you have thus raised. 
 Art is our servant and not our master. It is less 
 than life. Your art is become to you a veritable 
 autocrat and tyrant. It dominates your minds. It 
 is the result that counts; it is the result that seals 
 the fate of all work. Your art-god won't help you 
 there. You yourself are the creators. And the 
 result is known in terms of pleasure in the ex- 
 periences of joy that the work gives in the delight 
 it imparts even to the common public Weaver so 
 ruthlessly despises." 
 
 Church stopped for a moment to light the 
 cigarette that had gone out. Finch made a move- 
 ment as if to say something, but Church raised his 
 hand. 
 
 "Let me go on, please, Finch. It is this insistence 
 on abstractions which makes bad idealists and bad 
 egoists of us. We think we know it all when we 
 have clothed our naked ignorance in the garment of 
 a fine-sounding word with a capital letter. We are 
 only hiding our ignorance and making it look 
 ridiculous. By all means, let us be egoists, if our 
 egos may thereby be moved to do something that 
 will make the world happier, that will give it joy 
 in the thing done. But our egoism is a vulgar 
 
1 66 The Silver Age 
 
 egotism and a foolish vanity if it makes us despise 
 others because they do not see with us. And our 
 criticism of them for not appreciating what we have 
 done, or what we think we may do, becomes childish 
 petulance." 
 
 "Weaver is not of that kind," remonstrated Finch, 
 warmly. 
 
 "But, Church," interposed Foote, "how does your 
 definition of art touch the original criticism made by 
 Weaver? I thought there was a great deal in what 
 he said." 
 
 "How? In every way. If the artist succeeds in 
 giving pleasure to a public that doesn't know, and, 
 by so doing, makes it aware of beauty, then that 
 public must and will recognize the service he has 
 rendered. It must, because pleasure is its very life. 
 And it will recognize it in the only way it can recog- 
 nize it justly by paying him money. The money 
 it thus gives is its expression of appreciation and 
 the best expression; for it thereby renders the artist 
 independent of caprice and whim. It pays for 
 laughter; it pays for good food, for good comedy, 
 for good music, for good poems, for fine oratory, 
 for amusing and pleasing tales, for any and all forms 
 of art that arouse in it a sweeter, deeper, and more 
 vivid sense of the joy of life. That's what an artist 
 is for. That's what a genius means to be, with 
 the magic of his creative imagination, a joy-giving 
 wizard. And how better can the public appreciate 
 him than by freeing him from sordid necessities, that 
 he may continue to give joy? I am not saying that 
 the public does not make its own mistake about 
 money. It makes the same mistake about Money 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 167 
 
 that we do about Beauty it writes it with a capital 
 letter it apotheosizes it, and so becomes the slave 
 of its home-made divinity. But before you blame 
 the public for this mote in its eye, had you not better 
 first take out the beam from your own eyes? 
 
 u The public may be ignorant and stupid, but it is 
 so only for a time. Sooner or later it wakes up, and 
 when it does, it is very generous too generous, in- 
 deed. It makes mistakes, of course, but these mis- 
 takes are due rather to its eagerness to welcome the 
 slightest effort that is put forth heartily to serve its 
 enormous appetite for pleasure, or that will kindle 
 in its heart the fire of a new hope. The public will 
 give thousands for a wretchard daub, and may not 
 glance at a work of genius. It will lose its head 
 over a facile black-and-white draughtsman, and 
 utterly neglect the fine insight of a caricature artist. 
 It will spend nights listening to a tawdry musical- 
 comedy, and grudge a cent for a great musician. 
 But it is not altogether to blame. Art is long and 
 life is short. Besides, it can afford to make mis- 
 takes. It is very rich. And it has plenty of time 
 its own time and posterity's time, also. Later, 
 the daub will find a forgotten resting-place in the 
 lumber room of some museum; the drawings of the 
 facile draughtsman be jobbed at a junk-shop; the 
 musical-comedy be vanished as the snows of yester- 
 year. Then the genius will come into his own, and 
 his work be crowned with laurels. The half-gods 
 must go before the gods arrive. 
 
 "The true artist, if he really accomplish great 
 work, cannot be denied his fame. It may not come 
 to him in his lifetime; but come it certainly will. 
 
1 68 The Silver Age 
 
 And the true artist must be content to wait. How 
 long has God been painting his glorious sunsets and 
 empurpled hills for his own joy to heedless and in- 
 different men and women? And He still continues 
 to paint them. Now and then there comes a painter 
 or a poet, or a simple man who sees with Him and 
 shares in His joy. Then He is justified. The true 
 artist must also be content to paint for his own joy; 
 he must be to himself his own justification. But if 
 he really accomplish great work, he will not have 
 left out of it this joy-giving power. Let it radiate 
 this influence and it will not be ill with him always." 
 
 "Is he, in the meanwhile, to starve?" asked 
 Weaver. u ls it right, that genius should go hungry, 
 while mediocrity grows fat and sits in the seats of 
 the mighty?" 
 
 "There you go again with your 4 is it right?' For 
 the genius it seems to be, and no doubt is, very 
 wrong. But have you ever asked yourself the 
 question: Why am I a genius? Have you thought 
 what it is to be a genius? It is to be filled with 
 joy that the gods have chosen you to be the instru- 
 ment of their mighty purposes. It is to be pro- 
 foundly and ecstatically grateful in that to you is 
 given the power to paint with the finger of God, 
 and the gift to chant with the everlasting hills. 
 Think of this, and you will not ask: Is it right? I 
 know it is a hard doctrine I am preaching. But 
 creation is impossible without suffering. Every 
 mother knows that. But, oh, the joy when the child 
 is born! To you, the genius, it is very wrong for 
 genius to go hungry; but don't blame the public. 
 The public is ignorant of you. It doesn't yet know 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 169 
 
 that you are a genius that you are necessary to it. 
 It knows that the children of mothers are neces- 
 sary, and, therefore, it builds hospitals in which 
 to tide the mothers over the days of their travail. 
 Some day, perhaps, it may realize that the crea- 
 tures of a genius's brain are also necessary to it, 
 and then, it may be, it will build studios and homes, 
 and provide maintenance for artists and poets until 
 they shall have freed themselves from their travails. 
 Until that time comes the genius, I am afraid, must 
 go hungry, and suffer want for many days. 
 
 "But, I am forgetting. Didn't I understand 
 you to say you were not working for the approval 
 of the public? Didn't I hear you despise their 
 money? Did I not hear you say something about 
 manifesting the Idea in the form of Beauty? Then 
 why grumble and complain? Why seek his alms 
 and despise the alms-giver? Why, above all, be 
 impatient if it takes the public a long time to see 
 the beauty? Is it not taking you a long time to 
 reveal it? Your power of revealing did not come to 
 you in a night. Be, for a little while, grateful 
 that you have been vouchsafed your revelation. Be 
 delighted in thinking of the joy you are some day 
 going to give. In the meantime, break stones on the 
 highway, if necessary, for a living, and do your real 
 work for your own joy. Let every stroke of your 
 hammer ring the notes of a Marseillaise for your 
 later freedom when you shall have acquitted yourself 
 in the work God sent you to do. In this way you 
 will hasten the time of your deliverance from the 
 fetters of chance; and you will have achieved your- 
 self the more fully just because you have suffered 
 
170 The Silver Age 
 
 your pilgrimage through the valley of humiliation. 
 Then and I am presuming that you have not your- 
 self made any mistake about yourself then, the 
 public, which you now despise, will be only too 
 eager to give you all the time you may need. Per- 
 haps, you will tell me you will not want its help 
 then? Yes, you will. Never make that mistake. 
 You will want it then even more than you do now. 
 Now, your body only is starving then, you will 
 work that your soul may not starve. And the 
 public's appreciation will be your soul's salvation. 
 
 "Do not despise the public neither its money 
 nor its praise. In the last resort the public is the 
 judgment-seat of all and every art. Its praise is 
 precious as its sincere prayer for your generous 
 forgiveness for the unthinking wrong it did you in 
 the past; its money is its acknowledgment of the 
 wrong done, and its encouragement to you to go 
 on fulfilling yourself in the future. Yes, I plead 
 for the public; and I plead especially for the public 
 of these United States which is continually being 
 made the butt of foreign condescension. As if 
 other countries never lost its geniuses! As if this 
 were the only country in which geniuses found no 
 home! You are wrong when you compare the 
 people of this country, as I have often heard you 
 do, with the people of France and other European 
 countries, to its detriment. The people of this 
 country are young and in the making. They are 
 busy making homes, and families, and a nation for 
 themselves. A growing and a working people have 
 less time for enjoyment than have the aged and the 
 idle. In their pleasures they can but ape their elders, 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 171 
 
 and aping, show themselves, perhaps, often ridicu- 
 lous, silly, and gauche. But give them time, and 
 they, too, will learn wisdom, and find a real and liv- 
 ing happiness. The wonder is that they do so well. 
 But let them do well or ill, you will help them better, 
 not by criticizing and decrying, but by offering them 
 the best you have. Help them with your genius, 
 and so advance them to a worthy place among the 
 other civilizations of the world. If you are a true 
 idealist, as well as a true artist, that is the least 
 you can do. There, I've been twaddling so long that 
 I've far out-stayed my luncheon hour, and I'll get a 
 wigging when I get back to my cellar. Waiter, my 
 check, please!" 
 
 Church paid his bill, rose, nodded to all round the 
 table, and made his way to the door. He had barely 
 reached it when he turned round and caught 
 Weaver's eye looking wistfully after him. He beck- 
 oned, and Weaver rose and followed him into the 
 avenue. 
 
 "Walk down with me, Weaver," he said quietly, 
 "as far as the corner of the street where my office 
 is. I want to say a few words to you privately. I'm 
 afraid, my boy, I've just been saying many things 
 that, perhaps, have hurt you. You'll believe me, I 
 am sure, when I tell you I intended no discourtesy. 
 But I was young once myself, and if I had had some 
 one to talk to me then as I have been talking to you 
 to-day, I'd have been a different man now. I'd have 
 done something. I used to think as you are thinking, 
 and all I did was to go on feeling angry and rebel- 
 lious because others didn't see with me what a devil 
 of a fine fellow I was. It ended in my frittering 
 
172 The Silver Age 
 
 away my time and doing nothing. I was so ena- 
 moured of my genius that I thought it wasn't worth 
 while wasting its sweetness on the desert air. Well, 
 I made a big mistake the great mistake of my life. 
 Now, I think so much of you and what you are 
 capable of doing, that I don't want you to make the 
 same mistake. Remember, it's your work and your 
 work only that can justify you. I've heard you 
 long for Paris again; for its sympathy and its help- 
 ful companionship. I say to you, here is your Paris, 
 if youVe got anything in you. If the right stuff is in 
 you, produce it, and you'll be a free man in every 
 sense. As for sympathy and helpful companionship, 
 did you ever get in Paris what you got to-day? Did 
 you ever meet a Finch in Paris? Did you ever know 
 a friend there who energized you without enervating 
 you, as you are finding here, in this Philistia of a 
 New York? No, I am sure you never did. 
 
 "Now, my boy, if you can't afford to do the work 
 you want to do, get a job at anything that will bring 
 you in the price of bread and cheese and a shelter. 
 When you've secured that, do your work in your 
 spare time, in solitude and in silence. It will bring 
 you your happiness in the end, I am certain of it. Do 
 you imagine I am happy grubbing in my hole in 
 the ground? But, 'I still have hopes my latest hours 
 to crown,' and maybe, I'll crown them some day. For 
 the present, I must grub. 
 
 u Look at that Flatiron building! There it is, 
 stuck in the common rock. But, see, it mounts into 
 heaven itself, a thing of beauty its sordid builders 
 never dreamed of realizing. The sky has taken it 
 
Fifth Ave. and the Boulevard Saint-Michel 173 
 
 unto itself as a part of its own pageantry. Let it be 
 the symbol of your life. 
 
 "And look back at this magnificent perspective ! It 
 breathes hopes from every tower and turret, and ends 
 in a cloud of glory. Let that be the symbol of your 
 native land. So long, Weaver, my boy ! Remember, 
 here is your Paris!" 
 
 Church walked rapidly away leaving Weaver 
 standing at the street corner. Weaver followed the 
 little man with his eyes, a soft beautiful smile playing 
 around his lips, and saw him disappear down the 
 steps of a basement. Turning, he slowly made his 
 way northward, thinking, thinking. "C'est un 
 homme!" he whispered to himself. But he was not 
 thinking of Cezanne. He was thinking that, per- 
 haps, it was not too late to find again his youthful 
 joy. He looked up Fifth Avenue with far-seeing 
 eyes and forgot the Boulevard Saint-Michel. 
 
THE FAUBOURG SAINT BRON-NEX 
 
 175 
 
THE FAUBOURG SAINT BRON-NEX 
 
 MICHAEL WEAVER was packing his easel and 
 paint-box preparatory to going to the coun- 
 try. He had worked hard through a winter 
 of more than the usual severity and had managed 
 to scrape through with a surplus. Indeed, he had, 
 for the first time in his life, opened a bank account. 
 He had enough, so he calculated, to tide him over 
 the summer, during which time he intended to make 
 ready for the next winter's exhibition, when, if the 
 fates would be but casually condescending, he might 
 sell a sufficient number of canvases to enable him to 
 visit Paris once again. It was becoming more and 
 more of a necessity that he should see for himself 
 what the newer men were doing there, for there was 
 next to nothing of their work to be seen in New 
 York. He had had recurring thoughts of Paris for 
 this year, and had even made many elaborate cal- 
 culations as to the length of time his money would 
 hold out, but I had dissuaded him strongly from a 
 venture so fraught with risk. He showed me his 
 figures, but they spelt privation. Paris on two francs 
 and a half a day would be Paris no longer. True, 
 he had, once upon a time, managed it on less, but 
 the memory of those days, he agreed with me, was 
 not very pleasant to recall. Yes, he assented, it 
 would perhaps be wiser to postpone the pilgrimage 
 for another year and go into the country this year. 
 So he rented a flat in the Bronx. 
 
 177 
 
178 The Silver Age 
 
 Certainly the Bronx region was not Fontainbleau, 
 nor yet St. Cloud; but the park was beautiful in 
 July and August, and cool breezes from the Sound 
 swept the open spaces. He had always had a senti- 
 mental attachment for the district, ever since his 
 father took him there, some fifteen years ago, for 
 a day's outing. It was the first time he had walked 
 on real country-growing grass and had seen great 
 stretches of blue sky, free of tenement-house roofs. 
 And the air had been so pure and invigorating! 
 
 We Weaver, Black, the photographer, and I 
 were sitting gingerly on a folded truckle-bed encased 
 in sacking, in the dreary attic Weaver had lived in 
 for the past eighteen months. The room, in its dis- 
 membered state, presented a wretched appearance 
 with a gloomy April afternoon's light streaking 
 through the high, narrow window. 
 
 "This is an awful place to sit in, Weaver," I said, 
 after he had pushed his strapped easel beneath the 
 bed. "Let's go to Black's studio and get the girls 
 to give us a cup of tea. Your things are all ready 
 now for the expressman, and he isn't coming until 
 to-morrow. What say you, Black?" 
 
 "By all means. Come along, Weaver, we can't 
 give you any more help. Come and get the cobwebs 
 brushed off you. And you can tell us what you said 
 to Lifter, yesterday." 
 
 "Ha ! ha ! ha ! Lifter ! There's an ass for you, if 
 you like!" and Weaver crowed again, dancing the 
 while recklessly round the few feet of floor space left 
 free of parcels and trunks. "He said he didn't know 
 what I was driving at with my pictures. I told him 
 I didn't care. I wasn't driving at him, anyway. He 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 179 
 
 didn't understand them, he said. I told him I didn't 
 expect he could. I'd have been much astonished, I 
 said, if he had understood them. You should have 
 seen him look at me with his silly, sickly smile. That's 
 why he roasted me in the Morning Blatherer. You've 
 read the stuff? The same old twaddle, the same old 
 meaningless 'arty' jargon. Sometimes I wonder 
 if it doesn't nauseate those fellows who are com- 
 pelled to drag out of their insides the stringy, Welsh- 
 rabbity mess they call a critique." 
 
 "Now, Weaver," I put in soothingly, "don't get 
 excited. Lifter's got to earn his living, and nobody 
 cares a tinker's blessing for what he writes. I'm 
 heartily sorry for any poor devil who is chained 
 to such a galley. Let's get out of here, and into 
 some fresh air." 
 
 "You're right," assented Weaver in a changed 
 voice, as we were descending the creaking stairs of 
 the old house. "I am sorry for them, but Lifter's a 
 painter ! You would think he should know better." 
 
 "Have you ever seen his pictures?" I asked, tak- 
 ing in a gulp of Fourteenth-street air, fragrant with 
 the odors of delicatessen shops. 
 
 "No," answered Weaver, "I haven't." 
 
 "Well, if you saw them you wouldn't wonder how 
 it is he writes as he does. Here's our car! Get 
 aboard, boys, and don't forget the transfers." 
 
 Twenty minutes later we were in Black's studio, 
 comfortably ensconced in armchairs and settle. A 
 delightful change from Weaver's dusty attic was this 
 spacious and comfortable roof-room. 
 
 "Now, Weaver," exclaimed Black, "tell us what 
 Lifter really wanted of you." 
 
180 The Silver Age 
 
 "Oh, he came to interview me about Post-Impres- 
 sionism hateful words ! He said the editor of The 
 Blatherer had sent him. Everybody was talking 
 about Post-Impressionism and nobody knew what 
 they were talking about. Knowing that I had been a 
 friend of Cezanne, and had worked with Henry 
 Matisse, he thought I'd be the very man to help 
 him." 
 
 "And did you?" I asked. 
 
 "I told him to read Lewis Hinde's book. I said 
 he'd find there all that Post-Impressionism was not, 
 and if he'd write the very opposite, the public would 
 at once know what it was." 
 
 "What did he say to that?" 
 
 "He took what I said very seriously and told me 
 he had bought the book but could make nothing of 
 it. It was full of general statements that might mean 
 anything and everything. Still, he said, it had been 
 useful, because it had given him the names of the 
 artists fellows he had never heard of in his life." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "I advised him to get Meier-Graefe's study of 
 Paul Cezanne, but he said he couldn't read German." 
 
 "Then you took pity on him, eh? It would be like 
 you to do that." 
 
 Wearer smiled sheepishly. "To tell you the truth, 
 I did. But please remember I hadn't read the stuff 
 he printed this morning, or I'd have kicked him 
 down stairs." 
 
 "That's all right, Weaver," I said, "what I want 
 to know is what you really did say, and what he 
 ought to have written. I'm seeking for light myself." 
 
 Weaver rose from the settle and placed his cup and 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 181 
 
 saucer on a small table near the sloping skylight win- 
 dow. He did not resume his seat, but began walk- 
 ing up and down the room, his hands behind his 
 back, with head bent downward. I knew he was 
 preparing himself for a big effort, for he appreciated 
 nothing so much as a sympathetic audience. Stop- 
 ping suddenly, he looked around at us all, and said : 
 
 "I began by telling him what an artist was. An 
 artist, I said, observes, chooses and records. His 
 record, in the form of a painting or canvas or board, 
 is a plastic presentation of his choice of what he 
 has observed in nature. To choose, for the purpose 
 of a representation, is to perform the initial act in 
 the process of creation. To create is not to make 
 something out of nothing it is to choose and to re- 
 arrange so that in the rearrangement there shall 
 appear, in addition to the objects chosen, something 
 that was not in them before. This something is the 
 vision the artist alone saw; and this something his 
 art must reveal for all to see. 
 
 "Now how does the artist work? To draw an 
 outline of a form and to fill in that outline with 
 colors is to do the work of a decorator. Puvis de 
 Chavannes was such a decorator, and very able. The 
 artist, however, does not proceed after this fashion. 
 He knows that the mere juxtaposition of any two 
 objects alters not only the colors of the objects but 
 their forms also. I place a lemon next to a blue 
 bowl and immediately the yellow of the lemon is 
 diluted with the blue color of the bowl, and the blue 
 of the bowl is, in its turn, affected by the yellow of 
 the lemon. So it is in nature; there are no absolute 
 colors, only gradations towards absolute colors. 
 
1 82 The Silver Age 
 
 Every color is relative to other colors near it. And 
 the same is true of every form. The artist knows 
 this. He realizes that the forms of objects are not 
 fixed, not static, but dynamic. They seem to flow 
 and to change. They actually do change, because 
 forms are color masses and these change with the 
 changing light which falls on them. A series of vari- 
 ously colored objects thus become a gamut of color 
 masses, more or less fluid in their forms. It is a tone 
 series, analogous to a chromatic scale in music, not 
 definite things with definite outlines." 
 
 "Bully!" I exclaimed. "I've never heard it put so 
 clearly. What did Lifter say to that? Did he see 
 where your explanation was leading to?" 
 
 "He said nothing, but looked painfully puzzled. 
 I went on to make myself clearer. The artists of the 
 traditions, I said, by whom, I mean those trained in 
 academies and schools, do not understand this fluid 
 quality in the forms of objects, under the influence of 
 light. They have been taught to treat forms as rigid 
 and definite in outline. The result is their painting is 
 never plastic; it is hard, flat and lifeless, and no 
 amount of shading will make it other than hard, flat 
 and lifeless. Their shading is colorless, being but 
 a mere application of blacks. It is formless, with- 
 out depth, because there is no light in it. The 
 great principle, namely, that light is the creator of 
 forms, is unknown to them. They paint, utterly 
 ignorant of the fact that shadows also are due to 
 the play of light, nay, they are light. They work 
 as if Rembrandt had never lived. Nature knows 
 no absolute black. It abhors black as it does a 
 vacuum. 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 183 
 
 "The artist must, therefore, look on nature as 
 mobile, as being never at rest. No matter how little 
 light there may be, it is never absolutely absent. 
 It varies only in intensity, but it is always present. 
 So that forms are visible in the deepest shadows, or, 
 if not actually visible to the eye, their presence 
 should be felt and suggested. A decorator might 
 shade his flat picture, but his shadings would look 
 like holes. And this is what most artists do; they 
 make holes instead of true shadow color-masses 
 that is to say, forms." 
 
 Weaver stopped for a moment and, looking 
 around, he smilingly remarked: 
 
 "You see, I was purposely technical in my ex- 
 planation, because I was talking to a painter as well 
 as an art critic. But as I saw I was making little 
 headway, I changed my argument. Mr. Lifter, I 
 said, is it not the prime object of an artist to make 
 his pictures what we call 'alive' and meaningful? 
 Well, then, how can a picture be alive, or how can it 
 express any meaning, if the painter fixes his objects 
 on the canvas as if they had never moved? Look 
 at almost any of the works of the academicians, 
 and what do they represent? Either a lifeless hu- 
 man figure or a lifeless landscape of nature. I 
 grant you they are prettily colored, but the coloring 
 is that of flat decoration, even in the best of them. 
 But stand before a painting by Cezanne, and imme- 
 diately you are aware of something strange, some- 
 thing altogether different from the paintings you 
 have been accustomed to see. You are, for a 
 moment, puzzled. Why? Because Cezanne has 
 painted not a fixed, immovable nature, but a plastic, 
 
184 The Silver Age 
 
 mobile nature. It is alive with movement, and it 
 is so alive because his forms almost melt into each 
 other. Study it carefully; give it time to grow 
 on you, and you will realize that the man who did 
 this thing was a profound thinker as well as a 
 loving artist. The man literally lived the thing he 
 painted. You call him a post-impressionist, because 
 you like to label the new and wonderful fact by 
 some commonplace understandable name. But by 
 whatever phrase you ticket him, Cezanne is first 
 and last, an artist. 
 
 "Your so-called impressionist recorded and fixed 
 an impression. He did no more than the others 
 did, only he gave his painting an atmosphere which 
 suggested that the record was that of a fleeting im- 
 pression. But his work was just as rigid and life- 
 less as the rest. We, who are proud to be the fol- 
 lowers of Cezanne, are not concerned with impres- 
 sions or post-impressions; we are only eager for life. 
 It is not the momentary seeming of the fact we de- 
 sire to reproduce, but the living, continuing fact. 
 How wonderful would be that painting which truly 
 expressed it ! How difficult it is to achieve, only 
 those know who have essayed the task. To succeed, 
 is to be a creator, an artist in very truth. Here is 
 a woman's form. Shall the artist make his picture 
 of it a more or less faithful photograph of it, more 
 or less prettily decorated in colors? Not at all. It 
 must be so reproduced on the canvas that it shall 
 repeat and suggest every possible play of its flesh 
 and tissues. Clothe it in a robe and shall you 
 picture a draped model? Surely that would be 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 185 
 
 banal! Shall you not, rather still picture a living 
 form, but now robed and with its robes as an acci- 
 dent, so to speak, or as an adornment over which 
 the body is master and with which it can do what 
 it pleases? It is the living thing, not the dead fact, 
 that must be the artist's inspiration and his goal. Let 
 the artist study his medium so that he understands 
 its utmost limits; then let him forget his medium so 
 that he can show his absolute mastery of it. When 
 he can do this his medium will not obtrude itself 
 on the vision he is revealing. The marble statue 
 is but dead stone if the eye sees only the marble. 
 It will be a work of art when the eye doesn't realize 
 that it is looking at a piece of marble, but is ab- 
 sorbed in the sculptor's creation. So it is with a 
 painter who has succeeded in achieving a plastic pre- 
 sentation in colors of the vision of life nature helped 
 him to see. 
 
 u You have probably seen the work of Eugene 
 Carrere, the man, Whistler said, who must have 
 been smoking in the nursery. Well, Carrere's work 
 is the result of a pre-determined manner. He 
 sought to obtain movement by dissolving the out- 
 lines of his figures into the surrounding atmosphere. 
 Hence the smokiness at which Whistler jeered. 
 Carrere did not understand, or if he did, he 
 did not know how to realize it, that movement 
 is in the figure, that it is the figure's life, and 
 can be expressed only by the figure. Indefiniteness 
 of outline is but a trick, an affectation by means of 
 which to make up for incompetence in technique. 
 Carrere saw what he ought to do; but he did not 
 know how to do it. Twatchmann got nearer to 
 
1 86 The Silver Age 
 
 what we are trying to accomplish, and his work 
 will be highly prized in the future. 
 
 "Post-Impressionism, so-called, is not a return to 
 the method of the primitives. It is a return, if 
 you like to say so, to the spirit of the primitives. 
 The primitives had an exquisite love for their art. 
 They felt the lovely spirit of the beauty in nature, 
 and with true childlike simplicity they sought to re- 
 produce that spirit. They couldn't draw, but this 
 inability actually helped them. They were not im- 
 peded by art conventions in their direct attempt to 
 reproduce the things they loved. Their technique 
 was thus subordinate to the expression of their 
 emotions. It is otherwise with the modern accom- 
 plished artist-draughtsman who, if he has an aim, 
 subordinates it to his technique. He is compelled 
 to do this because he is not master of his tech- 
 nique he is a slave to it. In other words, he is, 
 at best, but an able craftsman. But the Post-Im- 
 pressionist knows how to draw and how to paint. 
 He has studied and labored in the schools. But 
 and here's the tremendous difference between him 
 and the academician he of set purpose, compels 
 his craft to serve him in his art. Not that he has 
 as yet accomplished what he is trying to do, but most 
 certainly he has demonstrated what the artist must 
 do if painting is to be art in the only sense in which 
 the word means anything. 
 
 "Art, if it have a value at all, is valuable because 
 it is a reproduction by human effort of the beauty 
 in nature. It is man's embodied presentation in 
 various media of his emotional experiences of life. 
 I maintain that such a result is not only unobtain- 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 187 
 
 able, but is actually made impossible by academic 
 methods. For these methods lay stress on just 
 those elements of art which are but the means and 
 not the end of art. Schools by the thousand send 
 out annually their regiments of prize-winners in 
 drawing, painting and sculpture. What do they do 
 after they leave the schools? Are they not re- 
 peating the formulas they learned by rote under the 
 teachers? What else can they be expected to do 
 when the prize is given, not to the genius who dares 
 to swerve from established rules, but to the accom- 
 plished master of conventions? He has drawn 
 from 'the life' an accurate and dry-as-dust repro- 
 duction so often, and has been kept down to the 
 accuracy and dry-as-dustery of the method by so 
 many maxims and measuring standards that he has 
 lost what individuality of point-of-view he may 
 have possessed. You can't expect him ever to see 
 visions, let alone try to realize them in plastic forms. 
 His forms never are plastic. They are always 
 "models." 
 
 "Now what of beauty and what emotional ex- 
 periences can such a prize-winner know? Why, he 
 sees everything unrelated each object is a thing 
 in itself. That is why his painting is dead. The 
 post-impressionist steps in here and says: 'Yes, it is 
 well that you can draw and that you know how to 
 use your paint and brushes; but these accomplish- 
 ments are but the beginning of your real work. 
 Your real work is to paint pictures that are repro- 
 ductions of your experiences of life pictures that 
 are not flat and colored models, but are the living, 
 palpitating beings pictures that are not hard and 
 
1 88 The Silver Age 
 
 accurately measured designs, but that are tender and 
 lovely and delightful, or strong and impressive and 
 stirring. You are the creator. It is up to you to 
 remelt the crude ore of objective facts, and, in the 
 alembic of your creative imagination, precipitate, by 
 your art, a new vision of beauty that all can appre- 
 ciate and take joy in. 
 
 "You may tell me that you see no beauty and 
 can take no joy in the works of Gauguin, Van 
 Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, Cezanne and the rest. 
 Well, I answer that you do not understand what 
 they are trying to do. You are to-day in the same 
 position with reference to them that the art critics 
 were to Greco, Goya, Manet and Whistler a genera- 
 tion or two back. The work of the more modern 
 men is but the evolution of what these men felt 
 should be done and what they tried to do. You 
 may not see it, but a future Blathercr will, and 
 he'll write the same fulsome twaddle of them that 
 you are now scribbling about the men who are dead 
 and whom it is the fashion to collect." 
 
 Weaver looked up at us with flushed face and 
 brightened eyes. He paused a moment and then 
 smiled as he said: 
 
 "Then I said to him: 'Good morning, Mr. 
 Lifter. You haven't, I know, understood a word 
 of what I have been saying to you but I thank 
 you, all the same, for I've enjoyed myself im- 
 mensely.' ' 
 
 "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Black and I chorused to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Say, Weaver," I said, "do you know that what 
 
The Faubourg Saint Bron-nex 189 
 
 youVe been telling us this afternoon is worth writ- 
 ing down? Will you let me do it?" 
 
 "I shall be delighted. I think you'll do it better 
 than Lifter did." 
 
 That is how I came to write this story. 
 
 The next morning I was at Black's studio to 
 read him my screed. I happened to look out of 
 the window, facing the avenue, when a sight pre- 
 sented itself below me that made me jump back 
 with a roar. 
 
 "Black!" I exclaimed, "quick, come and look at 
 this!" 
 
 Black rushed to the window, his photographer's 
 cloth trailing from his shoulders. I pointed mutely 
 to the street. There below an express wagon was 
 ambling along with a sleepy driver behind the 
 horse. On top of a mass of bundles, parcels and 
 wrapped-up furniture sat Weaver, looking up at the 
 sky, lost to everything, a dreamy smile playing about 
 his placid face. The town-sparrow was migrating 
 to the country to his splendid flat of two rooms and 
 a bath in the Faubourg Saint Bron-nex. 
 
 "He is going to gather the lilacs of Paris," I 
 murmured. 
 
 "And he'll find them," said Black, "even in the 
 Bronx." 
 
AT THE SIGN OF THE 
 GOLDEN DISK 
 
AT THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN DISK 
 
 IT is May in New York, and May in New York is 
 the most alluring month of the year in any city 
 of the world. The short-lived spring is then 
 about to burgeon into summer, and the place is a 
 delight to the eye and an enchantment to the heart. 
 The squares and the Park are brilliant with the 
 green of the tender grass and the young foliage 
 first fruits of the rich harvest to come. The blue of 
 the sky is deep and as if palpable through the clear 
 crystal air. The winds blow cool still, and play 
 wooingly and amorously with the dainty dresses of 
 the girls and women who are taking their afternoon 
 promenades on Fifth Avenue. Sidewalks and road- 
 way are the field of a moving kaleidoscope of colors 
 and forms. The faces of the people wear an alert- 
 ness and a liveliness of expression that tells of an 
 acceleration of vitality. Women put on a carriage 
 in their gait as if inviting admiration and challenging 
 engagement; men square their shoulders and expand 
 as though preparing to accept the challenge. "Yes," 
 they all seem to be saying, "we are still young and 
 willing to share in the gladness of the re-awakening 
 year." 
 
 Michael Weaver had come down from his fourth- 
 story eyrie in Fourteenth Street and found himself 
 in the square of the Plaza, gazing wonderingly 
 about him. He, too, was under the spell of the 
 
 193 
 
194 The Silver Age 
 
 season, and was overcome by a longing unutterable 
 to open his heart to a friend. It seemed to him 
 that he was radiating streams of magnetic force in 
 an aching desire for companionship. Never be- 
 fore, so far as he could remember, had he felt the 
 sense of loneliness he was conscious of now. In 
 Paris there had been Jorn and Gamier, Matisse 
 and Cezanne, to whom he could go for a chat that 
 would help him and enhance him with hope. But 
 in New York the few he knew were too busy, all 
 absorbed in driving the wheels of machines. In 
 Paris, too, there had been Angele, dainty and win- 
 some Angele, with her soft eyes and the voice of a 
 singing-bird. He trembled a little as he thought 
 of her. There was no Angele in New York. 
 
 "O, how the spring of love resembleth 
 
 The uncertain glory of an April day; 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 And, by and by, a cloud takes all away." 
 
 The cloud of failure had taken everything away 
 from him. Since that memorable day when Church 
 had talked to him so earnestly about his career as 
 an artist, he had taken his friend's words to heart, 
 and had managed to eke out a living by doing odd 
 jobs at interior decorating. He had even saved 
 enough money to warrant him in nursing the vision 
 of a studio of his own, not pretentious, of course, 
 but where he could exhibit his work with some ap- 
 proach to dignity. At present, however, he was 
 one of the great army, enforced to take the air with 
 the freedom of an unchartered libertine. He smiled 
 at the self-jeering phrase and looked up at the great 
 white facade of the Hotel Plaza. There dwelt the 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 195 
 
 chartered libertines, he thought, the people who had 
 grown big by means of the possessive instinct, while 
 in him played rampant the impoverishing creative 
 instinct. Well, he would labor and wait, for surely 
 the time would come which would justify him in his 
 ways and faith. 
 
 Stepping briskly across the square, he entered 
 the Park and walked with eager haste to the Mall. 
 He had often found peace there when he had per- 
 mitted the beauty of the framed landscape, seen 
 from the terrace, to pervade his troubled spirit. He 
 sat down on a stone seat, glad to find no one about. 
 Ah! how good it was to be just alive! He looked 
 up at the swaying roof of leaves through the blue 
 openings in which the sunlight came in bars of gold 
 dust. What was the matter with him? Why had 
 he not made good? Church must be right; the 
 trouble was not with the world but with himself. 
 He was asking too much from it. How could it 
 know of him if he did not prove his worth? He 
 must be kind and teach it the message he was bring- 
 ing to it. But what was this message? Truth in 
 the form of Beauty! The world had heard these 
 words too often and had found them to be mere 
 catch phrases in the mouths of charlatans. How 
 could he present them so that it would listen re- 
 freshed? Yet, that was his job, and, come what 
 may, he would stick to it. His art had been his 
 father, mother, and only love. He had left his 
 home for it and had lived alone for it. He would 
 be true to himself in spite of what Church had said. 
 To give up after all his labors and suffering would 
 be to confess himself beaten, another futilitarian. 
 
196 The Silver Age 
 
 Oh, for the magic word to put a new spirit into the 
 hearts of the people! 
 
 A feeling of great weariness came over him as he 
 sat thus musing. He leaned back to allow the 
 gracious solitude of the wooded place to soothe him. 
 The eye-healing green of the shimmering landscape 
 affected him drowsily, and it seemed as if he were 
 once again in the forest of Fontainebleau with 
 Angele. She was looking very pretty in her dainty 
 frock, and he noted with pleasure her tiny slippered 
 feet as she ran from tree to tree. Then his eyes 
 opened, and for a moment he knew not what to 
 make of it. A young woman stood bending smilingly 
 over him. As though in a dream he saw her face 
 framed in a golden aureole of hair beneath a large 
 broad-brimmed hat. It was a beautiful face, but not 
 that of Angele, and yet it was familiar to him. The 
 next moment he had jumped up from his seat and 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Miss Rankin!" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Weaver. Are you angry that I dis- 
 turbed you?" The girl's blue eyes shone mischiev- 
 ously. 
 
 "I beg a thousand pardons. I must have fallen 
 asleep. I was tired and the place is very restful. 
 It must be late." 
 
 "It is, if you are going to the meeting at the 
 Golden Disk. Are you?" 
 
 "I had forgotten all about it. Church is to 
 speak, isn't he? Are you going?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "Then if I may I will walk with you." 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 197 
 
 The two strolled together along the leafy road- 
 way to the Plaza, Weaver stepping in time to the 
 gait of the graceful girl as if treading on air. He 
 smiled as he felt her silk skirt brushing against 
 him, and his eyes took in the curves of her full- 
 bodied womanhood with pleasing appreciation. In 
 the deepening glow of the afternoon's light the olive 
 green of her dress took on an autumnal tint which 
 gave her an added charm. He had met Miss Ran- 
 kin on several occasions at the Golden Disk meet- 
 ings, but she had always moved him to an inexpli- 
 cable feeling of regret. Her unaffected vivacity 
 and splendid beauty seemed to him to belong to an 
 order of beings far above him. And yet she had 
 expressed herself as. greatly interested in his art, 
 though she confessed she did not understand it. He 
 had tried to explain, but he never spoke to her with- 
 out feeling that he was obtruding. Somehow, her 
 personality made him conscious of his failure in life. 
 He felt her as a challenge, and he could not quite 
 see how he could answer it. He glanced admiringly 
 at the cameo-like profile of the finely chiseled face 
 and the shapely suede-gloved hands. 
 
 "What are you reading?" he asked timidly, point- 
 ing to the book she was carrying. 
 
 "Vachel Lindsay's 'A Handy Guide for Beggars.' 
 Have you read it?" 
 
 "No, he answered quietly, "I am sorry to say I 
 read very little. But what a curious title? What's 
 it about ? I am interested in beggars. I am one my- 
 self," he added with a plaintive smile. 
 
 "I think you'd know better than I could ever tell 
 
198 The Silver Age 
 
 you, if. you read it. But Mr. Church is an admirer 
 of Mr. Lindsay and may refer to it this afternoon." 
 
 "Indeed, I am glad then that you reminded me of 
 the meeting." 
 
 "His talk is to be about distinction in literature." 
 
 "What has literature to do with beggars? I 
 don't see the connection." 
 
 "That's what Mr. Church will explain, I have 
 no doubt. Mr. Lindsay is a poet, and he tramped 
 about the country distributing a little tract on the 
 Gospel of Beauty he had printed, and earning his 
 living as a farm laborer. He also exchanged for 
 meals copies of a booklet he wrote which he calls 
 'Rhymes to Be Traded for Bread.' " 
 
 "What an extraordinary proceeding!" 
 
 "Wasn't it? Here is what the tract says: I come 
 to you penniless and afoot, to bring a message. I 
 am starting a new religious idea. The idea does 
 not say "no" to any creed that you have heard . . . 
 After this, let the denomination to which you now 
 belong be called in your heart "The Church of 
 Beauty" or "The Church of the open sky" . . . The 
 Church of Beauty has two sides: The love of Beauty 
 and the love of God. What do you think of that?" 
 
 "I think it's astonishing. Why, he says what I've 
 been thinking for years but didn't know how to say. 
 What does he mean by beauty?" 
 
 "He's not given to definitions; but he writes 
 poems that are beautiful. That's better, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 "Far better. The man's evidently an artist. I'll 
 be keenly interested in what Church has to say 
 about him." 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 199 
 
 They had arrived by this time at a narrow brown- 
 stone house, and entering the hall-way they stepped 
 into a tiny elevator and were taken up lazily to the 
 fourth floor. A short creaking passage led to a 
 doorway from which came a murmur of many 
 voices. In the room they entered about a dozen 
 men were seated about it, on armchairs, sofas and 
 lounges. By the window stood a quaint desk at 
 which sat a man on a high-backed oak seat, whose 
 shock of grey hair they recognized as Finch's. Near 
 him, in a wide armchair, Church lay curled up. 
 No one took any notice of the newcomers, who 
 found places for themselves where they could, while 
 the conversation went on in the gloaming of the 
 dying day. Suddenly, a voice cried out: "Switch 
 on the lights, Finch; it's time we began." 
 
 In the dim light of a couple of electric table- 
 lamps, Miss Rankin saw that she was sitting be- 
 tween Hardy, the art critic, and Stuyvesant Marsh, 
 the collector. Weaver was occupying a stool near 
 Healey, who wore his usual plaintive smile. Foote, 
 Aiterre and Hewitt lay sprawling on a lounge, while 
 on a settee sat Barca drawing a caricature of Church, 
 who was huddled up in his chair smoking a cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 Without any attempt at formality, Finch called 
 them all to order. "I asked Church to talk to us 
 this evening," he said, "so that we might have the 
 opportunity of discussing his theories with him. He 
 has something to tell us, which, I think, is worth 
 hearing. Now, Church, fire away." 
 
 The figure in the armchair uncurled itself and 
 
200 The Silver Age 
 
 showed a big head with a broad brow. Without 
 rising and taking the cigarette from his mouth, 
 Church began in a soft, even tone of pleasing qual- 
 ity: 
 
 "I have chosen literature as the subject of my 
 talk because, of all the arts, it is the one most easily 
 transmitted and the most direct in its appeal. It is 
 not limited as are architecture, sculpture and paint- 
 ing to the comparatively small place of exhibition. 
 The printing press has given it wings to fly to the 
 farthest countries and visit the loneliest corners of 
 the world. Moreover, it not only reveals the vision 
 of beauty, but is a guide to those who, though 
 gifted with the power of seeing, are unable to re- 
 veal what they see. It helps the artist to become 
 articulate, and tells what it is for our deepest needs 
 to know. It is the most democratic of all the arts, 
 for it speaks to all, without regard to station or 
 creed or birth, who can read and who have a living 
 spirit. 
 
 "It is, therefore, a matter of great importance, 
 that those who take upon themselves the business of 
 writing should be highly mindful of their duties and 
 highly moved in their fulfilment of them. In these 
 days of free education many believe themselves to 
 be called, but the results of their activities prove 
 that few have been really chosen. My purpose is 
 to point out the qualities which must be possessed 
 by those who aim at distinction in literature. 
 
 "The basis of distinction in literature offers two 
 aspects for consideration the matter of literature 
 and the manner in which that matter is presented. 
 I shall deal for the present with the matter, because 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 201 
 
 on the choice of subject depends the value of the 
 literary work as a contribution to life. The man- 
 ner also will be affected by the choice, for if the 
 choice be sincere and inevitable on the part of the 
 writer, its presentation must, necessarily, reflect the 
 man and give his style. So that both matter and 
 manner depend on personal insight and sincerity. 
 
 "If I were to put into a sentence what I consider 
 to be the one essential to distinction in literary ex- 
 pression, I should quote the words of St. Paul to 
 the Corinthians: 'If I speak with the tongues of 
 men and angels, but have not love, I am become 
 sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal.' 
 
 "But what is literature? 
 
 "Literature is the embodiment of the results of 
 the exercise of the creative imagination in language 
 that is revealing, fulfilling, and musical. In other 
 words, it is one of the forms of Art by which we 
 express Truth as Beauty. 
 
 "I use these much-abused words, not in a tran- 
 scendental but in a real sense. 
 
 "Truth is the revelation vouchsafed us when we 
 are in love in love with the things of the universe 
 as well as in love with our fellow beings. We 
 know truth in no other way. Copernicus and New- 
 ton, Buddha and Jesus are types of truth revealers 
 through love. 
 
 "Beauty is that form we give to the revelation 
 which is a permanent possibility for joy. 
 
 "When the Psalmist wrote: 
 
 'The Heavens declare the glory of God; 
 And the firmament showeth His handiwork; 
 Day unto day uttereth speech, 
 And night unto night showeth knowledge.' 
 
2O2 The Silver Age 
 
 the Psalmist was in love with the universe, and the 
 revelation he presents is expressed in language that 
 is fulfilling and musical, and which it is our joy to 
 read. 
 
 "William Blake, when he wrote his 'Cradle Song,' 
 was in love with the children of humanity, and the 
 expression of the workings of his creative imagina- 
 tion is a revelation that is fulfilling^, musical and 
 profoundly affecting. 
 
 'Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 
 Dreaming in the joys of night: 
 Sleep, sleep in thy sleep 
 Little sorrows sit and weep. 
 
 Sweet babe, in thy face 
 Soft desires I can trace, 
 Secret joys and secret smiles, 
 Little pretty infant wiles. 
 
 As thy softest limbs I feel, 
 Smiles as of the mqrning steal 
 O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast 
 When thy little heart doth rest. 
 
 O the cunning wiles that weep 
 In thy little heart asleep! 
 When thy little heart doth wake 
 Then the dreadful night shall break.* 
 
 "This is love's revelation of the truth expressed 
 in language which, despite its sorrow-charged 
 thought, is a permanent possibility for joy. 
 
 "Our deepest sorrows spring also from love; they 
 are the passion flowers of love of love unrequited, 
 of love indignant, of love frustrated, of love barren. 
 So that the literature of grief the grief that com- 
 panions our unachieved aspirations is also fulfill- 
 ing and revealing. Of such literature is Shakes- 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 203 
 
 peare's Hamlet, the tragedy of an unstable mind 
 unable to redeem itself from the great burden laid 
 upon it by circumstance. Of such also is King Lear, 
 that revealing poem of love frustrated and love in- 
 dignant. Shakespeare was in love with these men 
 or he could not have given us their revelations. 
 Balzac was in love with Pere Goriot and Cousin 
 Bette, as was Browning with Abt Vogler and Rabbi 
 ben Ezra and the people of 'The Ring and the 
 Book.' Heart-breaking as these writings are, they 
 are transfigured into beauty by the light of love 
 shining from their creator's hearts, and the star of 
 hope gleams guidingly through the dark clouds that 
 rise up from the seas of their embracing thought. 
 
 "A writer who is without the sympathetic insight 
 that is love's magical power, may be amusing and 
 interesting, but he will never achieve distinction in 
 his work. He will have nothing new to tell us, and 
 nothing strangely beautiful to reveal. Nature, as 
 well as human nature, is cold and unresponsive to 
 the merely curious or the dillettante. She will tell 
 us none of her secrets if we do not open our hearts 
 to her; and intimacy of communion with our fel- 
 lows will be dfnied to us if we are not "tender to 
 the spirit touch of man's or maiden's eye." And 
 all our academic cleverness and astuteness will avail 
 us naught, for our stereotyped and barren speech 
 will be tray us, and bear witness against us that we 
 are not of those who have been chosen. 
 
 "The writings of the so-called realists do not con- 
 tribute to our spiritual enjoyment and enhancement 
 because they are loveless. The truth in them is but 
 
204 The Silver Age 
 
 a half-truth; it is not a revelation, nor is its expres- 
 sion either fulfilling or joy-giving, for not a single 
 ray of love's light transfigures the volumes of smoke 
 that rise up from their baleful fires. And they jar 
 on us distressingly. They may speak with the 
 tongues of men and angels, but they have not love, 
 and so they are as sounding brass or a clanging 
 cymbal. 
 
 "Literature is an interpretative revelation of life 
 for the purpose of a truer life. It is the outcome of 
 a looking 'before and after and pining for what is 
 not'; of a yearning for something nobler; of an as- 
 piration for the realization of ideals; of an affirma- 
 tion of fulfilment. We write literature when we 
 begin to experience either great joy or profound 
 sorrow; when we are realizing that our utilitarian- 
 ism is becoming largely futilitarianism. At such 
 times we are aware that the one reality is that of 
 the spirit. In joy we know it, and in sorrow we 
 seek it. These spiritual states are due either to love 
 fulfilled or to love denied. We then find ourselves 
 impelled to expressions of affirmation or aspiration. 
 
 "Now the literature of any age is but the reflex 
 of the spirit of that age. The spirit of America of 
 late years has been one of moods rather than of es- 
 sential being. We are a nation in the making and 
 are, therefore, more concerned with obtaining utili- 
 tarian advantages and guarding ourselves against 
 economic dangers, than we are with realizing 
 dreams. We desire to be assured in our possessions, 
 to be at liberty to enjoy them in comfort, and to be 
 amused. The satisfaction of such wants is not the 
 province of literature, but of journalism; and in 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 205 
 
 this respect we are amply served by our newspapers 
 and magazines. 
 
 "In these forms of literary expression America 
 excels, and they have assisted in developing in us an 
 extraordinary quickness of wit and alertness of men- 
 tality. But we have paid a big price for these 
 qualities. We are remarkably intelligent, but we 
 lack imagination; we see facts clearly, but we have 
 no visions; we are impassioned with things, but we 
 are not in love. 
 
 "Now the peculiar power to see visions is given 
 us when we experience either great joy or profound 
 sorrow. At such times, we are, to use the language 
 of the Bible, either drinking of or thirsting for the 
 waters of life. A people in comfort and compla- 
 cently satisfied with worldly goods can but rarely 
 know these experiences. They are not disturbed 
 either to exaltation or contrition. Life is worth 
 living for them so long as the bodily appetites are 
 fed and taxes are not too burdensome. If a spirit- 
 ual hunger is felt at all, it is of a nature to be easily 
 appeased by such arts as will serve to dissipate 
 ennui. When there is neither exaltation nor con- 
 trition there can be no poetry; when there is no 
 spiritual disturbance, there is no drama; and when 
 people are desirous only of being amused, the nar- 
 rative is sensual and sensational. 
 
 "But a change is..becoming evident a change due, 
 partly, to our participation in the war, and partly 
 to a sense of revolt against a growing industrial 
 feudalism. We are thus becoming conscious that 
 we possess large spiritual assets, and we are begin- 
 ning to express that consciousness in a poetry of ap- 
 
206 The Silver Age 
 
 peal and a prose literature of hope. On both sides 
 I see signs of a fresh affirmation of new revelations. 
 The America that could respond so nobly to the 
 demands made on it by the war, is an America that 
 has a soul to save. Soon we shall realize the neces- 
 sity for saving it, and when we do we shall trans- 
 mute our spiritual worth into the gold of refresh- 
 ing speech and the music of recreating poetry. It 
 has already been exemplified in the prose of Presi- 
 dent Wilson's addresses and the poems of Mr. 
 Vachel Lindsay. 
 
 "We can get no more out of literature than we 
 put into it, and if we are to produce distinguished 
 work, we must steep it in those qualities of the mind 
 and heart which we recognize to be our most 
 precious possessions. This is the function of the 
 creative imagination, the mysterious operations of 
 which are, indeed, to use Shakespeare's revealing 
 phrase, 'a precious seeing,' and the products of 
 which, as art, immortalize the best that we are and 
 hope to be. 
 
 "The best in any of us is precipitated, in any ac- 
 tivity of life, when we are consciously alive to the 
 basic fact of existence, that there is no arbitrary 
 dividing line between man and man or between man 
 and nature; that we are really living in a universe. ^ 
 
 "Wordsworth expressed it with beautiful clarity 
 in his 'Primrose of the Rock' : 
 
 'The flowers still faithful to the stems 
 
 Their fellowship renew; 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 207 
 
 'Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 
 Though threatening still to fall ; 
 The earth is constant to her sphere; 
 
 And God upholds them all ; 
 So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads 
 
 Her annual funeral.' 
 
 "This uniting or religious power we unconsci- 
 ously are expressing in our national life as democ- 
 racy, in our social life as courtesy, and in our 
 personal life as amity; and literature is the creative 
 imagination's revelations of its infinite manifesta- 
 tions, to the end that we may be enhanced through 
 the joy of our faith in it as love. 
 
 "Literature has abiding value for us only in the 
 sense that its art helps us to an accomplishment in 
 the greatest of all arts the art of living and 
 through the joy it gives us to bring us into that 
 sympathetic relation with each other and the world 
 which makes for our happiness. 
 
 "The writer who would achieve distinction in 
 literature must take his stand on this holy ground; 
 but it is we who must prepare a place for him there, 
 for unless we need him he cannot come." 
 
 Church spoke the last words with a slow emphasis 
 and a meaningful smile. In the pause which fol- 
 lowed he lit a fresh cigarette and, turning to Finch, 
 said, "That's all." 
 
 "That's the best sermon I ever heard," exclaimed 
 Finch, amidst the general murmurs of approval; 
 "you missed your vocation, Church, you ought to 
 have been in the ministry." 
 
 "The pay was not sufficiently attractive," laughed 
 Church. 
 
208 The Silver Age 
 
 "Well, I'm not sorry. We're ready now for the 
 discussion, and one at a time, please. You have the 
 floor, Foote," 
 
 "I should like Church to explain," said Foote, his 
 eye-glasses glinting through the half-lights, "what 
 he means by Copernicus and Newton being truth 
 revealers through love. I don't see where they come 
 in as lovers. Indeed I don't follow Church on this 
 point at all. A scientist must be cool and collected 
 or he'd go astray altogether." 
 
 Church looked up smilingly and said in a quiet 
 voice, "Perhaps you think Archimedes was cool when 
 he ran naked through the streets of Syracuse, shout- 
 ing 'Eureka,' or that Galileo was collected when he 
 first saw the moons of Jupiter through his telescope? 
 Is anybody cool and collected when he is passion- 
 ately absorbed? I doubt it. Those men of science 
 who keep their heads 'cool' may be excellent analy- 
 sers and verifiers, but they are not discoverers. At 
 best they are fairly accurate calculating and tab- 
 ulating machines. I think you are laying undue 
 stress on the intellect, which is not a creating power. 
 Creation is the function of the imagination, which 
 operates when we are in that intimate relation with 
 things and ideas which permits of no doubt. It is 
 the work of that faith spoken of as removing moun- 
 tains. That intimacy is possible only through a com- 
 plete giving of the self to the object, and that is the 
 act of the lover. Whether it be realized through en- 
 thusiasm or passion, it is a unfying act, which is 
 love in essence. I believe the great men of science, 
 like Copernicus and Newton, through their passion- 
 ate enthusiasm, experienced this intimacy of relation 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 209 
 
 I call love, and were thus vouchsafed the revela- 
 tions of the truths they gave to the world. That's 
 the best explanation I can give, Foote. As I see it 
 there is a force which binds all things together to 
 produce this that we know as the universe. The 
 poem of Wordsworth I read to you beautifully em- 
 bodies what I feel. I like to think of this unifying 
 force as love, because this human word explains the 
 mystery of the world in a human way. If we are 
 looking for a power as real as gravitation, which is 
 truly religious, and I use the adjective in its etymo- 
 logical as well as its later sense, you will find it in 
 love. Its spiritual laws of action were discovered 
 by Jesus eighteen centuries before Newton formu- 
 lated its mechanical laws of motion. Its Trincipia' 
 is the Sermon on the Mount. 
 
 "I am glad, Church, I asked for the explanation," 
 said Foote. 
 
 "I think we all agree with Foote," exclaimed 
 Aiterre; "we've heard a new interpretation of the 
 teaching of Christianity, an interpretation, which, 
 to my mind, proves it to be on the lines of evolu- 
 tion." 
 
 "I want to express my appreciation," remarked 
 Marsh, "of Church's art of stating his case, and I 
 propose that his address to us be printed and dis- 
 tributed among all our members." 
 
 Loud cries of approbation greeted the suggestion. 
 Finch was about to speak when Weaver rose ex- 
 citedly, and begged to be allowed to say a few 
 words. 
 
 "I want to ask a question of Church," he said, 
 "which is important to me. I know little or noth- 
 
2IO The Silver Age 
 
 ing of literature as an art; the only art about which 
 I can speak is painting, and I try to tell the truth 
 as I know it in such forms of beauty as I see it. 
 How is it that so few people are interested in the 
 truth, or the beauty either? If the message the 
 artist is bringing is not listened to, where does he 
 come in? I endorse all that Church has said, but 
 it leaves me stranded on the shoals of circumstance. 
 Is there any solid ground on which workers like my- 
 self can build their hopes?" 
 
 "That's a practical question, Weaver," remarked 
 Finch, "which scarcely concerns us. We meet here 
 to help each other by sympathy, appreciation and 
 encouragement. That's the best we can do for the 
 present. It may be that our discussions, by enlight- 
 ening us, will enable us to enlighten others. That's 
 our purpose. In the meantime, each of us must 
 work and be true to the best he knows. Perhaps 
 Church can answer you more satisfactorily." 
 
 "Your personal appeal, Weaver," said Church in 
 a tender voice, "touches me deeply. I will respond 
 to it as best I know how, in the spirit in which you 
 make it. Finch is right in what he has just said. 
 We are trying here to formulate a creed that will 
 keep us along the road we must travel in order to 
 fulfil ourselves. All roads are beset with difficulties, 
 but we can help each other over :hem, if we are 
 really in earnest to realize our ideas. There are 
 thousands like us all the world over, who are seek- 
 ing for happy issues out of the afflictions which beset 
 them. But the age in which we are living is about 
 to bring great changes in the line of our endeavors. 
 For two hundred years we have been guided by the 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 211 
 
 truths of science, which we have applied wonderfully 
 for utilitarian purposes. Unfortunately, the ends 
 we sought were personal advantages. We are now 
 beginning to see that we made a terrible mistake. 
 We are finding out that the truth, whether it is re- 
 vealed by the scientist or the artist, must set us all free, 
 if it is to abide as the truth. It cannot be exploited 
 for private or selfish ends without robbing it of its 
 emancipating virtues, and without sowing the seeds 
 of discontent and rebellion. Your appeal for a 
 ground on which to build your hope is really one of the 
 many rebel voices that are everywhere being heard 
 to-day. This war, through which we have passed, 
 has demonstrated the utter futility of selfish ends, 
 and has shown the absurdity of an economic science 
 which leaves the hindmost to the devil. In a world 
 of spirit-endowed beings there can no more be a 
 permanent stability for a system which takes more 
 than it gives, than there can be happiness in a home 
 where love is not. Hitherto, we have measured our 
 well-being in terms of money; but the changes of 
 which I speak will set a new standard of measure- 
 ment, a standard which will indicate true values 
 the progress made. Then will the scientist and the 
 artist come into their own. The business man has 
 sought to be wealthy for himself. The artist and 
 the scientist aim to make all men wealthy. That 
 basic difference explains the whole mystery of our 
 troubles. And we must realize this before we can 
 begin to set our own house of life in order. That 
 was in my mind when I said that the man of dis- 
 tinction in literature cannot come unless we prepare 
 a place for him, unless we need him. We do need 
 
212 The Silver Age 
 
 him, and not alone him, but the men of distinction 
 in every science and in every art, and we shall soon 
 begin to prepare places for them by accepting and 
 working out Burke's ideal of a government 'of a 
 people as a partnership in the arts and sciences, in 
 every virtue and in all perfection.' So much for 
 the larger question involved in your appeal, Weaver. 
 As to you, yourself, I can only add this, that the 
 human soul is so constituted that it must ever seek 
 and never find. It is in the seeking that true happi- 
 ness lies. There are no real goals; there are only 
 stopping-places on the way for refreshment. This 
 uncertainty is the romance of life, and the brave 
 man loves the adventure. Let me repeat what 
 Robert Louis Stevenson said: 4 O, toiling hands of 
 mortals! O, unwearied feet, travelling ye know 
 not whither! Soon, soon it seems to you, you must 
 come forth on some conspicuous hill-top, and but a 
 little further, against the setting sun, descry the 
 spires of El Dorado. Little do ye know your own 
 blessedness, for to travel hopefully is a better thing 
 than to arrive, and the true success is to labor.* I 
 am not quoting these words, Weaver, to cloud the 
 issue before your mind; but they were written by a 
 worker who was also an artist, and who achieved 
 distinction in spite of many obstacles in his way. If 
 the people of whom you complain do not see beauty, 
 it is their misfortune and not their fault. But more 
 see beauty than you think. No really great artist 
 has ever been lost to the world. In the meantime, 
 keep on preaching the Gospel of Beauty. 
 
 "The other day I read a little book called 'A 
 Handy Guide to Beggars,' written by a poet, 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 213 
 
 Vachel Lindsay. He is the man, you will remem- 
 ber, who tramped about the country preaching what 
 he called The Gospel of Beauty. He earned his 
 food and lodging working as a farm laborer, and 
 when he could find no work, he exchanged his book- 
 let for a meal. That required courage to do; but 
 poets always were reckless fellows. Vachel Lind- 
 say, like Columbus, set out on a voyage of discov- 
 ery. He was looking to find Cathay. He found, 
 instead, a universe. The verse he prefixes to his 
 'Guide' embodies the aspiration of the poet as ad- 
 venturer : 
 
 'Would that we had the fortunes of Columbus, 
 Sailing his caravels a trackless way, 
 He found a Universe he sought Cathay. 
 God give such dawns as when, his venture o'er, 
 The Sailor looked upon San Salvador. 
 God lead us past the setting of the Sun 
 To wizard islands of august surprise; 
 God make our blunders wise.' 
 
 "You will find as you read this book, that there 
 are many people to be met with on the road of your 
 adventure, who will understand your profoundest 
 thought, if you have the art to talk to them in their 
 own language. If you want them to see beauty 
 and love it, that is what you must do. And you 
 will find also that the art will come to you if you 
 are not too proud of yourself, if you will be 
 brotherly with those you meet. If you have been 
 highly gifted, you must be kindly moved, for you 
 have been called to serve. Like you, Weaver, the 
 poet is one of those children of Don Quixote who, 
 as Lindsay puts it, sees giants, where most folks see 
 windmills.' That is why they are beggars. I rec- 
 
214 The Silver Age 
 
 ommend you to take this 'Handy Guide' with you 
 along the hard road you are now traveling. It will 
 help you to friendly intercourse with all you meet 
 on the way with the rich man at his gate as well 
 as the laborer by the wayside. We are all beggars 
 in this world; some of us beg for bread, others for 
 station, but we all beg for love. The artist is 
 blessed in that he can express it in himself and his 
 work also." 
 
 "What is the Gospel of Beauty?" asked Miss 
 Rankin. 
 
 "It is the Gospel of the Happy," answered 
 Church; "but Weaver knows and he will tell it to 
 you better than I can," and he laughed pleasantly. 
 
 "What has beauty got to do with happiness?" 
 asked Hardy. 
 
 "Everything. As an art critic you should know. 
 But, perhaps you are thinking of art as a technique. 
 If you are, then, of course you are not seeing beauty. 
 Wait until you 1 re in love and you'll know the happi- 
 ness as well as the beauty. Then you'll no longer 
 be the critic, but the creator; for you'll be seeing 
 visions yourself. That's what beauty is for to 
 make us see visions and to find our happiness in 
 realizing them in our work. Ah, my dear Hardy, 
 nature is a cunning witch. She endows us with the 
 power to love, and then shows us beauty by which she 
 charms that power to work for her. And the mystery 
 of it is that we find our happiness only in doing this 
 unconscious service, for in serving her we are fulfilling 
 ourselves. So, you see, Miss Rankin, beauty is n 
 very precious gift." 
 
At the Sign of the Golden Disk 215 
 
 Church rose and the meeting broke up. In the 
 general confusion of parting, Weaver slipped out 
 quietly. He felt he must be alone to commune with 
 himself over the new ideas which the evening's 
 gathering had stirred him. He stood on the side- 
 walk gratefully drinking in the cool air and the 
 stillness of the Avenue's night. He was vaguely 
 conscious that he had arrived at a critical stage in 
 his life. The time had gone by for thinking; for 
 beating his wings in a vacuum, as it were. He 
 must be up and doing with a heart for any fate. 
 
 "When are you going to explain to me the Gos- 
 pel of Beauty?" 
 
 He started at the sound of the voice and turned 
 to Miss Rankin who was smiling mischievously at him. 
 Her face, in the silver light of the electrolier, seemed 
 to him just at that moment like that of an angel. 
 For a moment he was at a loss, but he recovered 
 himself and said slowly: "When I can speak its 
 language." 
 
 "And when will that be?" 
 
 "When the Society of Independent Artists hold 
 their third exhibition." 
 
 "So you have fixed the very day. Two years 
 from now." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I'll wait until then." 
 
 "Is that a promise?" He asked with eager eyes. 
 
 She turned away and began to walk slowly down 
 the Avenue. Weaver followed by her side. 
 
 "Is that a promise?" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes," she answered quietly, "but is the gospel 
 so hard to express?" 
 
216 The Silver Age 
 
 "It is for me. I have learned to-night what I did 
 not know before. I see now that failure is too 
 often the result of trying to see too much. I must 
 have faith, and I must learn how to translate the 
 Gospel into the language that all speak. That is 
 my task; and if I but work in faith I believe that 
 even my blunders will be made wise." 
 
 "I am sure they will, Mr. Weaver, and I am also 
 sure you will succeed." 
 
 "Thank you, your words of encouragement will 
 help me." 
 
 "Good-night, then, and remember, I will wait." 
 
 "I cannot forget. Good-night." 
 
 Weaver watched the graceful figure fade into the 
 distance. "I wonder," he said to himself, "if it is 
 true, that to travel hopefully is a better thing than 
 to arrive?" 
 
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