The first time I saw him he cut a sorry figure; an old fellow in far worse plight and even worse down at heel than I was myself. It was in an olive-oil warehouse, at No. 1, Water Street, on the river front. McKay, the owner, whom I had met through some newspaper story or other, had converted me to the wisdom of an occasional glass of olive oil. It was healthful and delicious, but to me its chief value was as food. On this day of broiling heat I had wandered in for a glass of oil, and, while waiting a moment for the owner to appear, I noticed an old tramp seated on a packing-case, gazing at me in penetrating fashion. He was a Jew, he was very small, his feet were tiny, his hands, I took in, were beautiful. I thought of Moses, of Abraham, some Biblical prophet come to life, of some storied being like the Wandering Jew. His atmosphere, that is, at once sent a message of something unusual to my imagination. But it was when McKay came in and, to my surprise, calmly introduced us as fellow Englishmen, that my mind was really startled--not because the old tramp was English, but because when he rose to shake my hand, it seemed to me that some great figure of history rose to address, not me, but the nations of the world. He reached barely to my shoulder, his face upturned to mine, yet the feeling came that it was I who looked up into his eyes. The dignity and power the frail outline conveyed were astonishing. He was a Presence. And his voice the same instant--though in some commonplace about having known Lord Dufferin--increased the air of greatness, almost I had said of majesty, that he wore so naturally. It was not merely cultured, deep and musical, it vibrated with a peculiar resonance that conveyed authority beyond anything I have known in any other human voice. We talked ... _he_ talked, rather ... hunger, thirst, the afflicting moist heat of the day were all forgotten, New York City was forgotten too. His words carried me beyond this world, his language in that astonishing voice wore wings that brought escape. His long frock-coat, green with age and dirt; his broken boots and frayed trousers; his shapeless top hat, brushed the wrong way till it looked like a beehive coated with rough plush; his grimy collar without a tie; the spots upon his grease-stained waistcoat--all vanished completely. It was, above all, I think, the poetry in his voice and words that brought the balm and healing into my whole being. The way his hands moved too. We talked for several hours, for it was McKay’s nasal interruption, saying he must close the warehouse, that brought me back to--Water Street.