There will be some who frequent Brentano's bookstore in New York who will long remember the quiet little gentleman who held the post nearest the front door, whose face lit with such a gentle and gracious smile when he saw a friend approach, who endured with patience and courtesy the thousand small annoyances4 that every salesman knows. There were encounters with the bourgeois5 customer, there were the exhausting fatigues6 of the rush season, there were the day-long calls on the slender and none too robust7 frame. But through it all he kept the perfect and unassuming grace of the high-born gentleman he was. An old-fashioned courtesy and gallantry moved in his blood.
It was an honour to know Silas Orrin Howes, and some have been fortunate to have disclosed to them[Pg 92] the richness and simple bravery of that lover of truth and beauty. The present writer was one of the least and latest of these. Twice, during the last months of his life, it was my very good fortune to spend an evening with him at his room on Lexington Avenue, to drink the delicious coffee he brewed8 in his percolator given him by William Marion Reedy, to mull with him over the remarkable9 scrap-books he had compiled out of the richness of his varied10 reading, and to hear him talk about books and life.
Silas Orrin Howes was born in Macon, Georgia, October 15, 1867. He attended school in Macon and Atlanta, and then in Franklin, Indiana. He never went to college.
When he was born, a passion for books was born with him. His niece tells me that by the time he was twenty-one he had collected a considerable library. He began life as a newspaper man, on the Macon Telegraph. About the age of twenty-four he went to Galveston where he was first a copy-reader, and then for seven years telegraph editor of the Galveston News.
I do not know all the details of his life in Galveston, where he lived for about twenty years. He told me that at the time of the disastrous11 storm and flood he was working in a drug store near the Gulf12 front. He gave me a thrilling description of the night he spent standing13 on the prescription14 counter with the water swirling15 about his waist. He slept[Pg 93] in a little room at the back of the store, where he had a shelf of books which were particularly dear to him. Among them was a volume of Henley's poems. When the flood subsided16 all the books were gone, but the next day as he was looking over the wreckage17 of neighbouring houses he found his Henley washed up on a doorstep—covered with slime and filth18 but still intact. He sent it to Brentano's in New York to be rebound19 in vellum, instructing them not to clean it in any way. He wrote to Henley about the incident, who sent him a very friendly autographed card which he pasted in the volume. That was one of the books which he held most dear, and rightly.
I do not know just when he came to New York; about 1910, I believe. He took a position as salesman at Brentano's. After a couple of years there he became anxious to try the book business on his own account. He and his nephew opened a shop in San Antonio. Neither of them had much real business experience. Certainly Howes himself was far too devoted20 a book-lover to be a good business man! After a few months the venture ended in failure, and all the personal library which he had collected through patient years was swallowed up in the disaster. After this he returned to Brentano's, where he remained until his death. About a year before his death he was run over by a taxicab, which shook his nerves a great deal.
At some time during his career he came into[Pg 94] intimate friendly contact with Ambrose Bierce, and used to tell many entertaining anecdotes21 about that erratic22 venturer in letters. He edited one of Bierce's volumes, adding a pleasant and scholarly little introduction. He was an occasional contributor to Reedy's Mirror, where he enjoyed indulging in his original vein23 of satire24 and shrewd comment. He was a great lover of quaint25 and exotic restaurants, and was particularly fond of the Turkish café, the Constantinople, just off Madison Square. It was a treat to go there with him, see him summon the waiter by clapping his hands (in the eastern fashion), and enjoy the strangely compounded dishes of that queer menu. He had sampled every Bulgar, Turkish, Balkan, French, and Scandinavian restaurant on Lexington Avenue. His taste in unusual and savoury dishes was as characteristic as his love for the finer flavours of literature. I remember last November I elicited26 from him that he had never tasted gooseberry jam, and had a jolly time hunting for a jar, which I found at last at Park and Tilford's, although the sales-girl protested there was no such thing. I took it to him and made him promise to eat it at his breakfasts.
He had the true passions of the book-lover, which are not allotted27 to many. He had read hungrily, enjoying chiefly those magical draughts28 of prose which linger in the mind: Bacon, Sir Thomas Browne, Pater, Thoreau, Conrad. He was much of[Pg 95] a recluse29, a little saddened and sharpened perhaps by some of his experiences; and he loved, above all, those writers who can present truth with a faint tang of acid flavour, the gooseberry jam of literature as it were. One of my last satisfactions was to convert him (in some measure) to an enthusiasm for Pearsall Smith's “Trivia.”
As one looks back at that quiet, honourable30 life, one is aware of a high, noble spirit shining through it: a spirit that sought but little for itself, welcomed love and comradeship that came its way, and was content with a modest round of routine duty because it afforded inner contact with what was beautiful and true. One remembers an innate31 gentleness, and a loyalty32 to a high and chivalrous33 ideal.
Such a life might be a lesson, if anything could, to the bumptious34 and “efficient” and smug. Time after time I have watched him serving some furred and jewelled customer who was not fit to exchange words with him; I have seen him jostled in a crowded aisle35 by some parvenu36 ignoramus who knew not that this quiet little man was one of the immortal37 spirits of gentleness and breeding who associate in quiet hours with the unburied dead of English letters. That corner of the store, near the front door, can never be the same.
Such a life could only fittingly be described by the gentle, inseeing pen of an E. V. Lucas.
My greatest regret and disappointment, when I[Pg 96] heard of his sudden death, was that he would never know of a little tribute I had paid him in a forthcoming book. I had been saving it as a surprise for him, for I knew it would please him. And now he will never know.
February, 1918.
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1 worthily | |
重要地,可敬地,正当地 | |
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2 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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3 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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4 annoyances | |
n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 );烦恼;打扰;使人烦恼的事 | |
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5 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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6 fatigues | |
n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 );杂役;厌倦;(士兵穿的)工作服 | |
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7 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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8 brewed | |
调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 ); 酝酿; 沏(茶); 煮(咖啡) | |
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9 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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10 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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11 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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12 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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13 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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14 prescription | |
n.处方,开药;指示,规定 | |
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15 swirling | |
v.旋转,打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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16 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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17 wreckage | |
n.(失事飞机等的)残骸,破坏,毁坏 | |
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18 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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19 rebound | |
v.弹回;n.弹回,跳回 | |
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20 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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21 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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22 erratic | |
adj.古怪的,反复无常的,不稳定的 | |
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23 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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24 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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25 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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26 elicited | |
引出,探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 draughts | |
n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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29 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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30 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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31 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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32 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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33 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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34 bumptious | |
adj.傲慢的 | |
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35 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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36 parvenu | |
n.暴发户,新贵 | |
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37 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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