By
Eben S. Twitchett, B.B.S., F.A.A.P.A., etc.
Itwas Mr. Leslie Stephen, I believe, who remarked, of the repartees of the late Dr. Samuel Johnson, that it was futile to defend them except to those who enjoyed them without defense. Some color of this same good-humored contempt, this faintly superciliouslaissez-faire[or, as the French phrase has it, this spirit of leave it lay], has too long characterized the attitude of antiquers in general toward those who seem, to the esoteric view, at least, Philistine, gentile.
Antiquers have, as a rule, contentedly held themselves above the indignity of proselyting; a little jealous, perhaps, of their relative rarity, they have looked askance, or two, even, at those who strayed,unbidden, into their company. It was, they felt, enough to be an antiquer and to antique; they knew no restless itch for converts; they believed, or affected to believe, that the antiquer is as impossible of post-natal evolution as the ventriloquist or the Ethiopian.
Herein, as Professor Kilgallen has at last made manifest, antiquers have been doubly at fault—at fault in a parochial willingness to conserve for their own behoof an avocation at once innocent, diverting, and, if individual taste so incline, remunerative; at fault again in assuming that the antiquer must needs be born [in the vernacular] that way.
These errors, happily, no longer reproach the confraternity at large. The popularization of antiqueing, under the purposeful leadership of Professor Kilgallen, is, one may assert, almost afait accompli, or, as the clever Gallic dictum puts it, an accomplished fact. And it has been incidentally established, surely, that the antiquer may be made almost as expeditiously and convincingly as the antique itself.
Plate IOLD DUTCH OVENSIDE CHAIR WITH THE RARE PRETZEL BACK; PICKED UP IN A PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN SETTLEMENT BY PROFESSOR KILGALLENSketch by the Professor
Plate I
OLD DUTCH OVENSIDE CHAIR WITH THE RARE PRETZEL BACK; PICKED UP IN A PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN SETTLEMENT BY PROFESSOR KILGALLEN
Sketch by the Professor
The inspiring example of Milton Kilgallen, and the indisputable success of his endeavors, have,together, persuaded me that I have been even more at fault than those esoteric antiquers, if I may, for the last time, so describe them, toward whom, in the pride of my peculiarity, I have felt and spoken very much as they, in turn, have felt and spoken of the Philistine proper. For years, sedulously and vigilantly I have enjoyed a monopoly of the great branch of the art and science of antiqueing which continues to preoccupy my powers. I have made no effort to interest other antiquers in my province; I have thought of them, indeed, as scarcely less pitiable than those to whom an antique is a piece of, in the vulgar idiom, junk.
Too, even had I felt a need of sympathy and envy and applause in my secret ambitions and achievements, I should have been restrained from the essay to share my enthusiasm by my fixed belief that it could be acquired in no way except that accident of inheritance by which it came to me.
Peccavi, or, in the perhaps more pungent idiom of Cicero, I have sinned. I now make confession and, as far as may be, atonement. I reveal my guarded secrets, at last, without reserve.
I am still, I believe, the only antiquer ahead,suigeneris, or, to adopt the scintillating Italian phrase, alone in my class. Rather, now that these lines have seen the light,fui,non sum. I have been, as the Latins put it, not I am. For it will be enough to whisper my revelations; there will be, to-morrow, I realize, more antiquers ahead than one can shake a stick—if the reader will indulge me in the solecism of ending a sentence prepositionally—at.
To this I am resigned. Long enough have I enjoyed the sole entry to an entire tense; long enough have brother and sister antiquers rummaged in the traditional and commonplace haunts of the antique, the past; long enough have they ventured no farther than the abode of the antiquer—the present. To-morrow, forsaking these well-trodden precincts, they will join me in the virgin, but pregnant, future.
Like me, they will stoop no longer to the facile, shameful processes of searching, in cobwebbed bins and attics, for antiques which any novice must recognize, at a glance, as old. Like me, they will even smile at the enthusiasms of those who scratch in the dust and crow, like barnyard fowl, at each inevitable discovery. Like me, they will know the pure joy ofexplorations and discoveries among the boundless stores of to-morrow’s antiques.
I must begin at the beginning, with my birth. My destiny was predetermined by the ancestry of which I sprang. My parents, both of sturdy native stock, were by instinct mated to produce the original antiquer ahead. It was inevitable, I apprehend. It was to be. It was.
My father, worthy fellow, had no clear knowledge of his natural talent. My mother, I sometimes fancy, was remotely, dimly conscious of her gift. I can recall, as yesterday, the exalted look with which she witnessed the removal, from our stately parlor, of the array of commonplace antiques with which it had been furnished, the joy with which she and my father arranged, instead, those potential antiques which only the gropings of their common hunger recognized for what they were.
Even I, then in plaid kilts, did not at once share their delight, their understanding. I found the red plush surface of that priceless varnished oak sofa a harshly ticklesome affair; I was, to be sure, impressed by the new frosted globes adorning the gasolier, the intricate arabesques of the plaster rosette on theceiling, from which it sprouted downwards; I need not say, surely, that these globes, tinted a glorious winey purple, decorated with protuberant knobs and profound depressions, were none other than those very treasures of the Obenchain collection, famous in four hemispheres as the sole surviving set of admitted Roscoe Conkling gas-glass. They were, and I must marvel helplessly before the phenomenon of instinct which urged my father, a simple-minded barber in the town of Yonkers, to choose, unerringly, for the tastes of fifty years beyond!
His taste, untutored by any device of art, was all but infallible. He left me this, and with it the store of masterpieces which have, discreetly vended, placed me beyond the reach of that financial anxiety which, especially after the invention of the safety razor, clouded his declining days. My unhappy father! It was his lot to begin his profession in the full flower of the Whisker Period, and to survive those troubled years only to confront the ignoble age of the tubed cream and the tame, inglorious two-edged blade. It is impossible for me to think of him save with a filial tear, and yet how cheerful he was! How his place of business invited and allured theintellectual society of Yonkers of his day! How the racked, lettered mugs gleamed in the gas-lights! And how the air, of a Saturday night, was gay with innocent mirth and pungent anecdote!
Thus I began, equipped by lavish Nature as if to recompense in me the leanness of my paternal lot. Our house, long before I grew to trouserable age, was filled to flowing with such a collection as not even the indefatigable burrowings of the ineffable Rapp and Heller could, in these degenerate times, assemble. In the parlor—incredible as it may sound—stood, not one, but two Ulysses Grant cuspidors, one nicked a trifle, but the other flawless—the priceless forget-me-notted Grants, I mean, not the relatively common gilt-edged type. They were even then my father’s chiefest pride; I—gratified in other boyish whims—was never suffered to use either of them except by stealth. He treasured them, born antiquer that he was, undreaming that the pair would one day yield his son a thousand-fold their modest cost. I owe him for them; my mother, herself no less percipient in other lines than he, would have discarded them when, after the unforgetable visit of Moody and Sankey, my father forewent his self-indulgencein tobacco; but his taste was true. He clung to them with a dogged, blind attachment for which I bless him still.
PAIR OF WONDERFUL OLD FRENCH STATUETTES NOW THE PROPERTY OF DR. TWITCHETTThe owner has identified them as Sèvres and pronounces them portrait statuettes—No. 1, Victor Hugo in one of his moods; and No. 2, a certain Marquis de St. Quai, probably a patron of Victor Hugo.
PAIR OF WONDERFUL OLD FRENCH STATUETTES NOW THE PROPERTY OF DR. TWITCHETTThe owner has identified them as Sèvres and pronounces them portrait statuettes—No. 1, Victor Hugo in one of his moods; and No. 2, a certain Marquis de St. Quai, probably a patron of Victor Hugo.
PAIR OF WONDERFUL OLD FRENCH STATUETTES NOW THE PROPERTY OF DR. TWITCHETT
The owner has identified them as Sèvres and pronounces them portrait statuettes—No. 1, Victor Hugo in one of his moods; and No. 2, a certain Marquis de St. Quai, probably a patron of Victor Hugo.
It was my mother who provided me with my inheritance ofobjets-d’art, or, as my Parisian friends prefer to say, objects of art. In its way her instinct was as infallible as my father’s own, though possibly more limited in scope. Indefatigably she scrimped and saved to bring together the nucleus of my subsequent collection. It would be cruel, in the present era of inflation, to set forth the catalogue. My estimable colleague Van Loot, forewarned as he is, would not survive the list, even if I omitted the prices, but I owe her memory at least the tribute of some little particularity in the connection. It was she who far-sightedly sacrificed our Thanksgiving turkey to procure the figures of Messrs. Moody and Sankey, obtainable then, in the admirable porcelain work of the period, for the trifling sum of three dollars each, and even urged upon the buyer at that price by the agent of the pious firm which held the monopoly of their production. My mother, I remember, shrewdly beat him down to $2.75, and exacted that ten cents of this sum should be paid in trade atmy father’s shop—the agent happily requiring his professional attention at the moment.
It was typical of her, this combination of prodigality and thrift—the distinguishing characteristic, as Professor Kilgallen has so often said, of the true antiquer. Without knowing why she did it, my mother could and did perform prodigies of economy to lavish the slow, niggard savings in which they fruited on the gratification of her driving, dominant passion for that which, she must have realized, would be one day an antique. It was what we learned to expect of her, my father and I; he complained only covertly, when our Thanksgiving dinner revealed itself to be the usual baked beans and pork, and cautioned me with emphasis against repeating in my mother’s hearing the remarks he permitted himself on the subject in the relative privacy of the shop.
As zealously as my father his Grant cuspidors, so did my mother cherish and guard the images of the exhorters. They stood like tutelary saints at either extreme of our mantel-shelf, dusted by no hands but her own, at once the pride and solace of her lot. In spite of breath-stopping offers—among them the blank, signed check tendered me by Cornelius ObenchainVan Loot in person—I have never brought myself to part with them, although, having now become obvious antiques, they possess but a purely sentimental interest for me.
So, too, have I preserved the glass cane which our journeyman barber, a roving, sportive soul, brought with him from the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, during the closing days of the fruitful Grant Period. I cannot forget the intensity with which my mother thirsted for possession of this trophy; she gave the adventurous journeyman no peace until he consented to part with it, taking payment in the laundering of his stiff-bosomed shirt, which, indulging a taste for display perhaps out of harmony with his station, he rarely wore more than a week without having it restarched and ironed.
The cane, affixed with a bow of wide red ribbon to our parlor wall, became, presently, a proof that our family had visited the Centennial. I held my tongue in the presence of impressed visitors, learning swiftly to avoid the unstimulating truth and, no doubt, even then in vague, secret sympathy with my mother’s aspirations. She must invent a reason for buying a thing at once so impractical and so littledecorative; she did not guess that she saw in it an antique beyond price; perforce she explained her purchase on the disingenuous and unworthy ground that folks would be bound to think we’d went there and bought it right off them glass-blowers our own-selves. But I knew. I understood. Even then, I must believe, I was an antiquer ahead.
For, with my own savings, one Christmas in the Arthur Period, I bought, as a gift to both parents in common, no less a treasure than a genuine Garfield toothpick-container—the miniature, in genuine pressed glass, of a silk hat, which, inverted, stood for a decade in the centre of our table on all occasions of state, and which, with its original content of toothpicks, including four showing signs of actual use, I reluctantly disposed of to the buyer for Queen Mary’s collection at a price which both modesty and my gentleman’s agreement forbid me to confess.
It was only natural that I should react to the twin stimuli of inheritance and environment. My early days were spent in the constant and inspiring contemplation of articles ofvertuwhich the most discerning taste of the contemporary moment would not have recognized as even potentially antiques. Icould not, indeed, enter our house without contemplating the statuettes of the Christian Slaves who knelt, one on each side of the steps, mutely supplicating the beholder’s piety and pity. If I would strike a sulphur match in the front hall, to light my way up the stairs to bed, I must do it on nothing less precious than a perfect specimen of the Benjamin Harrison match-holder—the peculiarly rare and exotic type, I mean, wherein a mother hen and a young chick are depicted, the mature fowl’s plumage being formed cunningly of colored sand-paper and the wee chickling being made to say, in a loop issuing from its open beaklet: “Don’t scratch me—scratch Mother.” This, even in those unappreciative days, was held far preferable to the alternative device, wherein a frowzy vagabond is illustrated, his raiment a mosaic of sand-paper fragments, with the legend: “Scratch your matches On my patches.” We possessed a number of these, in addition to the rarer article already described.
Our home, simple though it was, and afflicted always with the pressure of harsh poverty, was veritably a treasure-house of potential antiques. It was impossible to enter any room without coming undertheir subtly stimulating influence—even the bathroom contained, from my earliest recollection, the most perfect specimen of the Garfield tin tub I have ever seen, and the incidental plumbing, though hidden, according to the mode of the moment, under a mask of painted pine, was in entire harmony with the spirit of this dominating piece. Our mantel, in addition to the figurines already mentioned and illustrated, was laden with the tokens of my parent’s discernment and discretion. There was an all but priceless decalcomania picture on varnished wood, portraying the glories of Niagara Falls; there was a wealth of companion pieces, illustrating the Natural Bridge, Ausable Chasm, the Town-Hall of Darien, Connecticut, and an especially rare piece [circa’84] purporting to be merely a souvenir of Sulphur Springs Grove, Erie County, New York, and long since unobtainable except at auctioneers’ sales of large and unusually complete collections.
I inherited, among other treasures, my father’s unusually well-preserved file of Police Gazettes, running back to that celebrated issue in which Lillian Russell’s portrait appeared for the first time. The man, simple and unpretentious as he was, possesseda true genius for preserving such memorabilia and discarding items of little or no value. These pink pages were his pride and treasure through dark days of stress and privation; he handled them reverently, even when they were fresh from the press, and insisted that those of his patrons who examined them should treat them with circumspection. Invariably, with the advent of a new issue, the previous one, tenderly smoothed and flattened, was laid away in the closet, to be bound when occasion permitted. Connoisseurs have told me that I erred in parting with this collection when I accepted the proposals of that prince of antiquers, Morton Fitz, in 1913. I realize that the file must inevitably have appreciated heavily in value with the passage of another decade, but I have no regrets. It was too difficult for me to look over those ageing pages without yielding to the weakness of tears.Eheu, fugaces... not even in the recent era of display of certain anatomical details could the eye rest so happily on opulent, artless curves ... the flesh-tones, too, thanks to the happy selection of the paper, were poignantly realistic. I am not sorry that I parted with them all. I am, always, an antiquer ahead, andthese had become antiques of the past.Ave, and farewell.
There must be an end even to the reminiscences of an antiquer. And my purpose, in this paper, has not been to excite a vain envy in the readers of the “Atlantic,”† but rather to invite them to antique, hereafter, in the hereafter, to espouse, if they will, that all-but-maiden fancy which has beguiled my leisured hours for twice two lustrums [forty years]. They, too, if they please, may be antiquers ahead instead of back.
————
† This essay, with others of Mr. Twitchett’s charming papers, inevitably first saw the light in the periodical which, most happily, reflects the spirit of the antiquer.
My great discovery of my own talent for this field of art came to me, seemingly, by chance; but, after all, who dare affirm that such things owe their origin to blind accident, that there is behind events so pregnant no purposeful and actuating Cause? Not I, of all men. I say seemingly. So be it. The way of it was this:
Workmen had demolished a decaying building which stood, in those days, within a few squares of my father’s humble cottage. With other boys of thevicinity I had looked on, fascinated by the appeal which wanton destruction must exert on youth. Like them I had dreams, too, of buried treasure below those venerable timbers, and burrowed hopefully among the litter which the wreckers left behind. One of my playmates after another kicked aside, in these explorings, a metal object. I found it, and, inspired by that inherited passion for the antique which has ruled my days, held it, examined it. A cry of joy escaped me: I detected, along one of its blunt edges, the corrosions of what seemed to me might have been spilled blood. I looked more closely still, crouching, now, shielding my treasure from the glances of the bigger boys, able, if they guessed the nature of my trove, to snatch it from me and make it theirs instead. I slunk away. In safe seclusion I looked again. There could be no doubt. To that sinister rusted edge stout, short hairs still adhered! I thrust the precious relic inside my shirt and sped homeward. In my ingenuous, artless youth I made sure that I had found a token of some ancient deed of blood; that luck had led me to a trophy such as no other youth in all Yonkers—at that day—could hope to possess. I hid it lovingly below my Sabbathgarments in my bureau drawer, and gloated over it, in private, when the thing seemed safe.
Plate IIMAGNIFICENT OLD FLAT-FRONT EARLY NEW JERSEY SIDEBOARD DISCOVERED BY PROFESSOR KILGALLEN IN AN OBSCURE PART OF NEWARK
Plate II
MAGNIFICENT OLD FLAT-FRONT EARLY NEW JERSEY SIDEBOARD DISCOVERED BY PROFESSOR KILGALLEN IN AN OBSCURE PART OF NEWARK
Inevitably, I was taken in the act. My father found me fondling my relic and took it roughly from me.
“What you got there, Eb?” He held it gingerly, for his profession had, of course, made him fastidious. He was always careful of his hands, my father. He always washed them with soap, before coming home to meals, even after shaving a dozen customers! My treasure displeased his cleanly instinct, I could see.
“A murderer’s knife,” I whispered. “It’s mine! I found it under the McWhorter house. See—there’s some hairs stuck to it!”
My father flung it from him. “You’d ought to know the difference between bristles and hair—and you a barber’s son! That ain’t a knife—’tain’t nothin’ only Dib McWhorter’s old sow-scraper! Seen a hundred jes’ like it! Folks used to keep ’em for hog-killin’ time, when everybody kep’ a pig and done his own butcherin’. Scrape the bristles with.”
I was crestfallen at the sordid truth. For a moment I almost shared my father’s fastidious disgust.But, when he had gone, my instinct reasserted its control of my emotions. I recovered the sow-scraper from the rag-carpet where it lay. I replaced it reverently in its hiding-place. Why? I told myself, then, that my father was wrong; that it was no sow-scraper, but in truth the instrument of some forgotten, gory deed. I clung to it. And, later, when it had lost its first vivid appeal, I fetched it down to exhibit it to that great patron of antiqueing, no less a person than Cornelius Obenchain Van Loot himself.
He had stumbled on our humble dwelling in one of his tireless searches for the antique—quests which, the world knows, have led him even farther afield than Yonkers and Poughkeepsie. He had bought from my mother an excellent set of bedroom enamelware [circa ’88] and his appetite had been whetted by the success. He wanted more. I remembered my relic. This man, to my untutored eye, seemed artless and even a little contemptible—an opinion in which, I perceived, my mother concurred. [He possessed then, as now, that remarkable faculty of the gifted antiquer for convincing vendors of his complete simplicity.] I might persuade him, I reflected, that the bristles were human hair; it seemed unlikely that hecould be expert in such distinctions, unless he had been, like me, a barber’s son. I shall not soon forget his cry of joy as his eye fell on my scraper. It was the one time in my acquaintance with him that he permitted himself to betray satisfaction before a bargain had been closed. It cost him, on this occasion, twenty dollars.
“By all the gods, a sow-scraper—a genuine, unquestionable sow-scraper, with bristles, intact, in excellent condition! Boy, did you come honestly by this? No tricks, now! Is it your own to sell?”
I established, with my mother’s ardent corroboration, my character and my title. The great Van Loot believed, at last.
“Priceless,” I heard him murmur. “Perfect! Superb!” and then aloud, to me: “Little man, I’ll give you twenty dollars for this old piece of iron. Twenty dollars—!”
“I guess you will,” I said, even then actuated by the instinct of the antiquer. “Who wouldn’t? See any green in my eye?” [A phrase since fallen into disuse, but at that date much in favor.] “You gimme fifty and we’ll talk.”
We compromised at forty. It was a triumphrather for my family than for me, for my mother expropriated the cash before I could escape, and subsequently invested it, happily for me, on a mustache-cup dutifully gilt-lettered “Father,” a small bone carved in the crude semblance of a human hand and attached to a long slender rod [an instrument employed, as all antiquers know, in the day of red-flannel underwear, for the comforting purpose of scratching an itching back without the tiresome routine of removing clothes], and a pottery sculpture of a pug-dog, which articles, ripened into antiques by the amiable, intervening years, yielded me some thousands per centum on the investment. But the episode was far more significant than it seemed, in its effect upon my life.
Forty dollars was the price current of a sow-scraper. I consulted my father, cannily. They had been made, it appeared, by the local smith, at a uniform price of twenty-five cents. His memory is accurate. Informed of the transaction he used emphatic speech in regretting his failure to lay in a stock, in the days of plenty. It would have paid better, he averred, than barbering for Jay Gould himself, or curling Ferd Ward’s own whiskers!
From that day I was a blooded antiquer ahead. I have no passion for the merely old; it would be as unexciting, for me, to delve and seek for treasure in dusty corners, after the habit of the commonplace antiquer, as to angle for goldfish in a glass bowl. I play the nobler game. I antique, not in yesterday, but in to-morrow.
Ah, the fascination of it! The intoxication of tearing the veil from the inscrutable hereafter, the blood-quickening element of risk, as one selects and stores away the antiques of to-morrow-years, against the day of rarity and famine! Ah, the triumph of a well-stocked bin, sealed till the day of reckoning! I have enjoyed these delights alone; I share them, now, with those who have the soul to follow in my steps.
Since the closing days of the first Cleveland Period, I have systematically antiqued ahead, privately, unadvertised, secretly exulting. Even now, those earlier bins and cupboards have begun to justify my penetrating choice. Who, of all the unthinking thousands who beheld the wired bustle in its heyday, thought to preserve a full dozen against to-day? Who, but Eben S. Twitchett, ridiculed as a crank and a fanatic by his neighbors, unhonored andunsung by myopic antiquers, the prey of dealers in alley trash?
Who, but Eben S., had the forethought to store, in ample camphor, a perfect set of Harrison red flannels, and no less than six petticoats of the same material and date? Who, of all the gray-haired collectors who seek and cherish them to-day, but might have laid by as full a stock as mine of lapel-buttons [circa’94] bearing the obsolete argot of the period—quip and jest which have all but lost their significance now? Or the buttons advertising bicycles—The Rambler and the Tribune—built with a truss—the Victor and Columbia and Pierce? Who had the wit and courage to store away the stereoscopes and the twin photographs that in them found perspective—priceless and unattainable to-day? The Chinese Tea Pickers? The Yellowstone? Brooklyn Bridge? Who boasts of these but Eben S. Twitchett, with his mid-ninety bin crammed to overflow with perfect specimens? Who stored the spun-glass trinkets of the Chicago Fair? Who, if he chose, might break the market in cylindrical phonograph records of “Ta-ra-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” and “The Stars and Stripes Forever”? Who, I ask, possesses one grossof American flags of the McKinley Period, each exquisitely inscribed with its “Remember the Maine—to hell with Spain”? Who can supply collectors with uncut, first edition pamphlet copies of the Great Cross of Gold oration, each with its rare Bryan print—that almost unobtainable portrait including hair?
The reader bears with my little pæan of triumph. These things are history, among antiquers of high degree and low and middle. But who, of all those who beat on Eben S. Twitchett’s doors to-day, who plead and supplicate for even a peep into the sealed bins of the Roosevelt Epoch, who, of all these, has the courage to antique, in this year 1923, for the antiquers of to-morrow?
Eben S. Twitchett has. Time, the great revealer, shall one day let in full light on the storerooms where his treasures are laid down, to-day as yesterday. What will Time see there? Ah, that is for each forward-looking antiquer to determine for himself. I cannot bring myself to share too many of my secrets, even now. And the true antiquer would regret a guidance too exact; the allure of the avocation lies, for the select few who find the true spirit of the art,in the very element of doubt. One may lay down the wrong thing; it may never achieve the quality of an antique. Who can tell?
For me, I put away, from time to time, such trifles as commend themselves to my tried instinct. Just now, by way of illustration, I am putting down a complete line of felt pennants such as the travelling public loves to flaunt from burdened Fords—Brick Creek, Iowa—Wappingers’ Falls—Keeseville and Ogunquit. These must, one day, be seen as rare and lovely things; I give the hint for what it may be worth. The pocket-flask, too—the still—the vanity-case—the cigar-lighter—and the flower-holder with which the stately limousine must be equipped—the photographs of screen divinities! It will not be long before I shall unseal my bin of portraits where J. Warren Kerrigan and Francis X. Bushman, autographed, await the questing antiquer’s delighted eye.
Plate IIIFROM PROFESSOR KILGALLEN’s COLLECTION OF BEAUTIFUL OLD WOOD-CARVINGSFigure of Pocahontas; believed to be the work of John Alden
Plate III
FROM PROFESSOR KILGALLEN’s COLLECTION OF BEAUTIFUL OLD WOOD-CARVINGS
Figure of Pocahontas; believed to be the work of John Alden
Only yesterday, I sold the last of my cigarette pictures. Della Fox! I had a hundred of her, once. It seemed impossible for us Yonkers boys, trading acutely in that fresh, delighted loveliness, that it could ever be antique! I must have felt, intuitively,even then, that it must be. Wanting that intuition, too, I would not have stored away the thumbed installments of my nickel weeklies—those precious specimens that one may view, now, under glass, on free days, at the Metropolitan Museum of Antiques.
Time has done it. And time will do it again. Antiquer, antique, but antique ahead!