Flushed with his Father’s mighty angel-wine?
God make us all divine.
A TEMPLE MADE WITH HANDS
I
The Dwelling-place of Faith, Hope, and Charity
I had walked twelve miles before noon. Then I had eaten four slices of bread and butter on merciful doorsteps. At four-thirty, having completed twenty-one miles, I entered the richest village in the United States, a village that is located in New Jersey. I was so weary I was ready to sleep in the gutter, and did not care if the wagons ran over me. I should have walked through to the green fields before I looked for hospitality. I knew that the well-meant deeds of the city cannot equal the kindness of the most commonplace farm-hand. Yet I lingered.
I purchased a feast of beefsteak and onions at an obscure Jewish restaurant and felt myself once more a man. But it was now too late to leave town. The rule of the country is—one must ask for his night’s lodging before five o’clock. After that, things are growing dark, and people may be afraid of you.
After paying for beefsteak and onions, I had twenty-five cents. This twenty-five cents was all that remained after a winter’s lecturing on art and poetry in Manhattan. I am satisfied that the extra money, over and above all paid debts, brought me some of the ill-luck of the night. As I have before observed, money is a hoodoo on the road. Until a man is penniless he is not stripped for action.
A sign at the lunch-counter advertised: “Furnished rooms, fifty cents.”
I asked the proprietor to cut the price. He dodged the issue. “Say, why don’t you go up there to the mission? They will sell you a good bed cheap.”
“For a quarter?”