of all sorts; ingrained Yankee common sense, checking his vaulting enthusiasm; enormous self-confidence, impatience of failure—­all of these were in him; and he was besides affectionate to a fault, devoted to his country, his family, his craft—­a strong, bluff, tender man.

“Those were the decorous days of the old tradition, and Page’s entrance into the ‘atmosphere’ of Park Street has taken on the dignity of legend.  There were all kinds of signs and portents, as the older denizens will tell you.  Strange breezes floated through the office, electric emanations, and a pervasive scent of tobacco, which—­so the local historian says—­had been unknown in the vicinity since the days of Walter Raleigh, except for the literary aroma of Aldrich’s quarantined sanctum upstairs.  Page’s coming marked the end of small ways.  His first requirement was, in lieu of a desk, a table that might have served a family of twelve for Thanksgiving dinner.  No one could imagine what that vast, polished tableland could serve for until they watched the editor at work.  Then they saw.  Order vanished and chaos reigned.  Huge piles of papers, letters, articles, reports, books, pamphlets, magazines, congregated themselves as if by magic.  To work in such confusion seemed hopeless, but Page eluded the congestion by the simple expedient of moving on.  He would light a fresh cigar, give the editorial chair a hitch, and begin his work in front of a fresh expanse of table, with no clutter of the past to disturb the new day’s litter.

“The motive power of his work was enthusiasm.  Never was more generous welcome given to a newcomer than Page held out to the successful manuscript of an unknown.  I remember, though I heard the news second hand at the time, what a day it was in the office when the first manuscript from the future author of ’To Have and To Hold,’ came in from an untried Southern girl.  He walked up and down, reading paragraphs aloud and slapping the crisp manuscript to enforce his commendation.  To take a humbler instance, I recall the words of over generous praise with which he greeted the first paper I ever sent to an editor quite as clearly as I remember the monstrous effort which had brought it into being.  Sometimes he would do a favoured manuscript the honour of taking it out to lunch in his coat-pocket, and an associate vividly recalls eggs, coffee, and pie in a near-by restaurant, while, in a voice that could be heard by the remotest lunchers, Page read passages which many of them were too startled to appreciate.  He was not given to overrating, but it was not in his nature to understate.  ’I tell you,’ said he, grumbling over some unfortunate proof-sheets from Manhattan, ’there isn’t one man in New York who can write English—­not from the Battery to Harlem Heights.’  And if the faults were moral rather than literary, his disapproval grew in emphasis.  There is more than tradition in the tale of the Negro who, presuming on Page’s deep interest in his