We agreed.

“I wonder if there aren’t some clubs around here that would like to hear me talk?” he said.  “You know, I’d like to come back to Philadelphia if I could get some dates of that sort.  Just put me wise, old man, if you hear of anything.  I was telling some of your poets in New York about the lectures I’ve been giving.  Those chaps are fearfully rough with one.  You know, they’ll just ride over one roughshod if you give them a chance.  They hate to see a fellow a success.  Awful tripe some of them are writing.  They don’t seem to be expressing the spirit, the fine exhilaration, of American life at all.  If I had my way, I’d make every one in America read Rabelais and Madame Bovary.  Then they ought to study some of the old English poets, like Marvell, to give them precision.  It’s lots of fun telling them these things.  They respond famously.  Now over in my country we poets are all so reserved, so shy, so taciturn.

“You know Pond, the lecture man in New York, was telling me a quaint story about Masefield.  Great friend of mine, old Jan Masefield.  He turned up in New York to talk at some show Pond was running.  Had on some horrible old trench boots.  There was only about twenty minutes before the show began.  ‘Well,’ says Pond, hoping Jan was going to change his clothes, ‘are you all ready?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Jan.  Pond was graveled; didn’t know just what to do.  So he says, hoping to give Jan a hint, ‘Well, I’ve just got to get my boots polished.’  Of course, they didn’t need it—­Americans’ boots never do—­but Pond sits down on a boot-polishing stand and the boy begins to polish for dear life.  Jan sits down by him, deep in some little book or other, paying no attention.  Pond whispers to the boy, ’Quick, polish his boots while he’s reading.’  Jan was deep in his book, never knew what was going on.  Then they went off to the lecture, Jan in his jolly old sack suit.”

We went up to a private gallery on Walnut Street, where some of the most remarkable literary treasures in the world are stored, such as the original copy of Elia given by Charles Lamb to the lady he wanted to marry, Fanny Kelly.  There we also saw some remarkable first editions of Shelley.

“You know,” he said, “Mrs. L——­ in New York—­I had an introduction to her from Jan—­wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, but I wouldn’t let her.”

“How do you fellows get away with it?” we said again humbly.

“Well, old man,” he said, “I must be going.  Mustn’t keep Vachel waiting.  Is this where I train?  What a ripping station!  Some day I must write a poem about all this.  What a pity you have so few poets ...”

A GOOD HOME IN THE SUBURBS

There are a number of empty apartments in the suburbs of our mind that we shall be glad to rent to any well-behaved ideas.

These apartments (unfurnished) all have southern exposure and are reasonably well lighted.  They have emergency exits.