The greetings of the other cities he had known—theirhomespun kindliness， their human gamut of rough charity，friendly curses， garrulous curiosity and easily estimatedcredulity or indifference. This city of Manhattan gave himno clue； it was walled against him. Like a river of adamantit flowed past him in the streets. Never an eye was turnedupon him； no voice spoke to him. His heart yearned forthe clap of Pittsburg’s sooty hand on his shoulder； forChicago’s menacing but social yawp in his ear； for the paleand eleemosynary stare through the Bostonian eyeglass—even for the precipitate but unmalicious boot-toe ofLouisville or St. Louis.
On Broadway Raggles， successful suitor of many cities，stood， bashful， like any country swain. For the firsttime he experienced the poignant humiliation of beingignored. And when he tried to reduce this brilliant， swiftlychanging， ice-cold city to a formula he failed utterly. Poetthough he was， it offered him no color similes， no pointsof comparison， no flaw in its polished facets， no handleby which he could hold it up and view its shape andstructure， as he familiarly and often contemptuously haddone with other towns. The houses were interminableramparts loopholed for defense； the people were brightbut bloodless spectres passing in sinister and selfish array.
The thing that weighed heaviest on Raggles’s soul andclogged his poet’s fancy was the spirit of absolute egotismthat seemed to saturate the people as toys are saturatedwith paint. Each one that he considered appeared amonster of abominable and insolent conceit. Humanitywas gone from them； they were toddling idols of stone andvarnish， worshipping themselves and greedy for thoughoblivious of worship from their fellow graven images.
Frozen， cruel， implacable， impervious， cut to an identicalpattern， they hurried on their ways like statues broughtby some miracles to motion， while soul and feeling layunaroused in the reluctant marble.
Gradually Raggles became conscious of certain types.
One was an elderly gentleman with a snow-white， shortbeard， pink， unwrinkled face and stony， sharp blue eyes，attired in the fashion of a gilded youth， who seemed topersonify the city’s wealth， ripeness and frigid unconcern.
Another type was a woman， tall， beautiful， clear as a steelengraving， goddess-like， calm， clothed like the princessesof old， with eyes as coldly blue as the reflection of sunlighton a glacier. And another was a by-product of this townof marionettes—a broad， swaggering， grim， threateninglysedate fellow， with a jowl as large as a harvested wheatfield， the complexion of a baptized infant and the knucklesof a prize-fighter. This type leaned against cigar signs andviewed the world with frappéd contumely.
A poet is a sensitive creature， and Raggles soon shrivelledin the bleak embrace of the undecipherable. Thechill， sphinx-like， ironical， illegible， unnatural， ruthlessexpression of the city left him downcast and bewildered.
Had it no heart？ Better the woodpile， the scolding ofvinegar-faced housewives at back doors， the kindly spleenof bartenders behind provincial free-lunch counters， theamiable truculence of rural constables， the kicks， arrestsand happy-go-lucky chances of the other vulgar， loud，crude cities than this freezing heartlessness.
Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms fromthe populace. Unheeding， regardless， they passed onwithout the wink of an eyelash to testify that they wereconscious of his existence. And then he said to himselfthat this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without asoul； that its inhabitants were manikins moved by wiresand springs， and that he was alone in a great wilderness.
Raggles started to cross the street. There was a blast，a roar， a hissing and a crash as something struck him andhurled him over and over six yards from where he hadbeen. As he was coming down like the stick of a rocketthe earth and all the cities thereof turned to a fractureddream.
Raggles opened his eyes. First an odor made itselfknown to him—an odor of the earliest spring flowers ofParadise. And then a hand soft as a falling petal touchedhis brow. Bending over him was the woman clothed likethe princess of old， with blue eyes， now soft and humidwith human sympathy. Under his head on the pavementwere silks and furs. With Raggles’s hat in his hand andwith his face pinker than ever from a vehement burstof oratory against reckless driving， stood the elderlygentleman who personified the city’s wealth and ripeness.
From a nearby café hurried the by-product with the vastjowl and baby complexion， bearing a glass full of a crimsonfluid that suggested delightful possibilities.
“Drink dis， sport，” said the by-product， holding the glassto Raggles’s lips.
Hundreds of people huddled around in a moment， theirfaces wearing the deepest concern. Two flattering andgorgeous policemen got into the circle and pressed backthe overplus of Samaritans. An old lady in a black shawlspoke loudly of camphor； a newsboy slipped one of hispapers beneath Raggles’s elbow， where it lay on the muddypavement. A brisk young man with a notebook was askingfor names.
A bell clanged importantly， and the ambulance cleaneda lane through the crowd. A cool surgeon slipped into themidst of affairs.
“How do you feel， old man？” asked the surgeon， stoopingeasily to his task. The princess of silks and satins wiped a reddrop or two from Raggles’s brow with a fragrant cobweb.
“Me？” said Raggles， with a seraphic smile， “I feel fine.”
He had found the heart of his new city.
In three days they let him leave his cot for the convalescentward in the hospital. He had been in there an hour whenthe attendants heard sounds of conflict. Upon investigationthey found that Raggles had assaulted and damaged abrother convalescent—a glowering transient whom afreight train collision had sent in to be patched up.
“What’s all this about？” inquired the head nurse.
“He was runnin’ down me town，” said Raggles.
“What town？” asked the nurse.
“Noo York，” said Raggles.
