ed in importance in my mind,
so the significance of Whitman, and Tolstoi and George increased, for
they all represented qualities which make for saner, happier and more
equitable conditions in the future. Perhaps I despised idlers and
time-savers unduly, but I was of an age to be extreme.

During the autumn Henry George was announced to speak in Faneuil Hall,
sacred ark of liberty, and with eager feet my brother and I hastened to
the spot to hear this reformer whose fame already resounded throughout
the English-speaking world. Beginning his campaign in California he had
carried it to Ireland, where he had been twice imprisoned for speaking
his mind, and now after having set Bernard Shaw and other English
Fabians aflame with indignant protest, was about to run for mayor of New
York City.

I have an impression that the meeting was a noon-day meeting for men,
at any rate the historical old hall, which had echoed to the voices of
Garrison and Phillips and Webster was filled with an eager expectant
throng. The sanded floor was packed with auditors standing shoulder to
shoulder and the galleries were crowded with these who, like ourselves,
had gone early in order to ensure seats. From our places in the front
row we looked down upon an almost solid mosaic of derby hats, the
majority of which were rusty by exposure to wind and rain.

As I waited I recalled my father's stories of the stern passions of
anti-slavery days. In this hall Wendell Phillips in the pride and power
of his early manhood, had risen to reply to the cowardly apologies of
entrenched conservatism, and here now another voice was about to be
raised in behalf of those whom the law oppressed. My brother had also
read _Progress and Poverty_ and both of us felt that we were taking part
in a distinctly historical event, the beginning of a new abolition
movement.

At last, a stir at the back of the platform announced the approach of
the speaker. Three or four men suddenly appeared from some concealed
door and entered upon the stage. One of them, a short man with a full
red beard, we recognized at once,--"The prophet of San Francisco" as he
was then called (in fine derision) was not a noticeable man till he
removed his hat. Then the fine line of his face from the crown of his
head to the tip of his chin printed itself ineffaceably upon our minds.
The dome-like brow was that of one highly specialized on lines of logic
and sympathy. There was also something in the ten