The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1916-1920, 1919-10-10
HENRY MILLS ALDEN.

that ratified and tangled like a loud
voice through strident music, in an old
/ building where an old sign unpublished
and oyerworn bears publishers
name, first met Mr.. Alden.
There were men in leather aprons
about, there was the sound of ham
mers, the rumble of little iron wheels
of trucks; dimness and many desks
with green lights over them and tall
wire work between them. 1 went
through narrow, unswept Railways,
over small iron bridges, up winding
stairs of cement with notches out of
them like worn and aged teeth. And
finally IN corner of big dusky room,
in cubbyhole about four feet by six,
\ boarding Of thin walls enclosing II,
litterings of paper scattered all over
| ii and dusty stacks of books piled
high, 1 found a very old, a very tired
man.
He u.urmured my name; he scarcely
saw me. He dropped again in his
chair. It bent back very far. He
stared toward nothing downward. He
was not interested.
1 had been travelling two days.
| had been waiting many months for
| this meeting. / was agitated with ex-
pectancy and now suddenly l was
petrified with regret: hero was this
great man and my coming wearied
| himi ~
I l murmured something about my
mission. ] waited. He. did not speak.
And then in flash knew! He was
not only very old; he was very sick as
well. and I had come upon him in a
| moment of faintness. Minutes went
| by. We sat in silence facing each
other unmoving. My eyes lowered as
were his, waiting for the passing Of
! the stealthy shadow.
And then a straying beam of sun
light filtered in the window-or MOI
merely, his eyes uncovered Until
now / had not seen his eyes. They
were brown and full of lustre. They
were as lanterns that shine in the
| deep tunnel of a mine. At the end
| of these dim rooms, at the end of
| my cindery journey, at the end OF
his own long journeying OF eighty-on
years they beamed forth eagerly. So
| they must have shone even in his
childhood; always there must have
been this same brilliant softness in
them.
Looking up, he smiled.
MY health" he said slowly, ''is pre-
carious. l was none too we'll last year,
but Il was run into by a truck l
| think the biggest trucks do choose the
narrowest streets! do not come
down town every day now. but have
| sat in this chair for over fifty-one
years. It is slmost a habit with me,
and one l find little hard to relin-
quish. / have not always had this
chair In here" the roar of circum-
tacent noises drifted in and his eyes
| twinklcd. He pointed to the big outer
room. II did not always have this
quiet and scclusion. fused to have
corner out there. It was not any
thing like as fine as this. but for all
| that, in those days I was seeing more
people" q wondered who were the
people" flashing across his mind;
which among the great ones Of Amer
lean letters, and the lesser ones he
had led into greatness)
We talked of my concern. my
fathers book
MIR. Hitchcock has charge OF the
| books. He is down stairs. I will take
you to him." But as he spoke, again
his physical powers seemed to fade. I
slid out my hand in the event that
he should need it.
Some other time" I began. 81
can wait. l can go alone"
mo. no." he treasured me- II will
be happy to go with YOU"
] suppose nothing, not even this
| physical distress could eradicate his
kindness or check his determination
to befriend.
Presently no put on his spectacles
| and with fingers trembling he picked
up pencil-not pen, a pen was too
exacting. too hurried with its dripping
and began to write. He wrote a
long time and with difficulty. one
hand holding the other. helping it,
trying to steady it. I thought he had
| charged his mind, had decided he
could not go and was writing his con-
frere note, a long note. But when
he handed me the paper it had only
two or three words upon it: simply
| his address.
I'VE will go now" he said
He walked carefully but unassisted,
with the steadying, straight, undevi
| ating steps of age that must not bal
ance ever so little to right or left
| He must have known his cane was
| ready to his hand there in the cor
ner. But lie ignored even that prop
There was that in him-his eye pro-
claimed it-that denied recognition of
| any personal insecurity.
His tall shoulders, ever so slightly
stopped, lowered over me. His gray
beard and white hair, his height, his
ardent gaze, gave him the beauty of
a seer, of a patriarch. a guide, a
teacher of men. AS we descended the
stairway that had been his way of
| earth for half century, as the glances
, of workmen and writers at desks
! turned to my lordly escort, felt very
| honored, very triumphant, and also
very humble.
Mr.. Hitchcock looked up as we ap-
preached and, seeing Mr.. Alden, rose
! with sudden surprise, startled that his
elder had come so far. He came for
ward to meet him. The two men shook
| hands as IL they rarely met in this
scattered building that had harbored
them both so long and now was to
| harbor them both so little longer.
I tried TO thank Mr.. Alden. How
| good you are to have come with me
down all those twisted. beautiful
stairs!" He turned his glance from
| me to Mr.. Hitchcock. There were
camaraderie and kind of comforting