There was a time when a hierarchy of literary gods reigned over the intellectual elements of the East Side. On Mount Parnassus of the Ghetto sat enthroned the higher and lesser divinities—each in his undisputed place, each enjoying the devotion of hosts of worshippers.
That was in the beginning of things—fifteen, twenty years ago—when Yiddish playwrights peddled newspapers for a living, and Yiddish poets composed their songs while threading needles in the sweat shops. Literature then was a thankless task; and only their mutual encouragement and sympathy kept the Gods from abdicating en masse. In those rainy, chilly April days of Yiddish letters in this country, Morris Rosenfeld was the acknowledged poet of the ghetto. None contested that title, none begrudged it. He bemoaned the Ghetto's sorrows and pains; he ridiculed its pretentions and foibles; he glorified its strivings and ideals.
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