proved his
wisdom.

In the Press Club the pulse of the town can be felt, and scandals that
money and social influence have suppressed are known there. The
characters of public men are correctly estimated; snobs are laughed
at; and the society woman who seeks to bribe the press with she
cajolery of a smile is a familiar joke. Of course this is not wholly a
harmonious body, for keen intelligence is never in smooth accord with
itself. To the "kicker" is given the right to "kick," and keen is the
enjoyment of this privilege. Every directory is the worst; every
officer neglects his duty.

Literary societies know but little of this club, for literary
societies despise the affairs of the real worker--they are interested
in the bladdery essay written by the fashionable ass.

Henry was shown into a large room, brightly carpeted and hung with
portraits. On a leather lounge a man lay asleep; at a round table a
man sat, solemnly playing solitaire; and in one corner of the
apartment sat several men, discussing an outrageous clause in the
constitution that Henry had just signed. The new member was introduced
to them. Among the number were John McGlenn, John Richmond and
a shrewd little Yankee named Whittlesy. Of McGlenn's character
a whole book might be written. An individual almost wholly distinct
from his fellow-men; a castigator of human weakness and yet a
hero-worshiper--not the hero of burning powder and fluttering flags,
but any human being whose brain had blazed and lighted the world. Art
was to him the soul of literature. Had he lived two thousand years
ago, as the founder of a peculiar school of philosophy, he might still
be alive. If frankness be a virtue, he was surely a reward unto
himself. He would calmly look into the eyes of a poet and say, "Yes, I
read your poem. Do you expect to keep on attempting to write poetry?
But you may think better of it after a while. I wrote poems when I was
of your age." He did not hate men because they were wealthy, but he
despised the methods that make them rich. His temperament invited a
few people to a close friendship with him, and gently warned many to
keep a respectful distance. Aggressive and cutting he was, and he
often said that death was the best friend of a man who is compelled to
write for a living. He wrote a subscription book for a mere pittance,
and one of the agents that sold it now lives in a mansion. He regarded
present success as nothing to compare with an immortal n