on the greater man’s annual visit to the synagogue.  The Beadle’s eye was all over the Shool at once, and he could settle an altercation about seats without missing a single response.  His automatic amens resounded magnificently through the synagogue, at once a stimulus and a rebuke.  It was probably as a concession to him that poor men, who were neither seat-holders nor wearers of chimney-pot hats, were penned within an iron enclosure near the door of the building and ranged on backless benches, and it says much for the authority of the Shammos that not even the Schnorrer contested it.  Prayers were shouted rapidly by the congregation, and elaborately sung by the Chazan.  The minister was Vox et praeterea nihil.  He was the only musical instrument permitted, and on him devolved the whole onus of making the service attractive.  He succeeded.  He was helped by the sociability of the gathering—­for the Synagogue was virtually a Jewish Club, the focus of the sectarian life.

Hard times and bitter had some of the fathers of the Ghetto, but they ate their dry bread with the salt of humor, loved their wives, and praised God for His mercies.  Unwitting of the genealogies that would be found for them by their prosperous grandchildren, old clo’ men plied their trade in ambitious content.  They were meek and timorous outside the Ghetto, walking warily for fear of the Christian.  Sufferance was still the badge of all their tribe.  Yet that there were Jews who held their heads high, let the following legend tell:  Few men could shuffle along more inoffensively or cry “Old Clo’” with a meeker twitter than Sleepy Sol.  The old man crawled one day, bowed with humility and clo’-bag, into a military mews and uttered his tremulous chirp.  To him came one of the hostlers with insolent beetling brow.

“Any gold lace?” faltered Sleepy Sol.

“Get out!” roared the hostler.

“I’ll give you de best prices,” pleaded Sleepy Sol.

“Get out!” repeated the hostler and hustled the old man into the street.  “If I catch you ’ere again, I’ll break your neck.”  Sleepy Sol loved his neck, but the profit on gold lace torn from old uniforms was high.  Next week he crept into the mews again, trusting to meet another hostler.

“Clo’!  Clo’!” he chirped faintly.

Alas! the brawny bully was to the fore again and recognized him.

“You dirty old Jew,” he cried.  “Take that, and that!  The next time I sees you, you’ll go ’ome on a shutter.”

The old man took that, and that, and went on his way.  The next day he came again.

“Clo’!  Clo’!” he whimpered.

“What!” said the ruffian, his coarse cheeks flooded with angry blood.  “Ev yer forgotten what I promised yer?” He seized Sleepy Sol by the scruff of the neck.

“I say, why can’t you leave the old man alone?”

The hostler stared at the protester, whose presence he had not noticed in the pleasurable excitement of the moment.  It was a Jewish young man, indifferently attired in a pepper-and-salt suit.  The muscular hostler measured him scornfully with his eye.