moments　of　wild　question　when　I　debated　whether　it　would　be　better　to　go
  back　and　own　my　error；　or　whether　it　would　be　better　to　write　him　a　note；
  and　try　to　set　myself　right　in　that　way。　　But　in　the　end　I　did　neither；
  and　I　have　since　survived　my　mortal　shame　some　forty　years　or　more。　　But
  at　the　time　it　did　not　seem　possible　that　I　should　live　through　the　day
  with　it；　and　I　thought　that　I　ought　at　least　to　go　and　confess　it　to
  Hawthorne；　and　let；　him　disown　the　wretch　who　had　so　poorly　repaid　the
  kindness　of　his　introduction　by　such　misbehavior。　　I　did　indeed　walk　down
  by　the　Wayside；　in　the　cool　of　the　evening；　and　there　I　saw　Hawthorne　for
  the　last　time。　　He　was　sitting　on　one　of　the　timbers　beside　his　cottage；
  and　smoking　with　an　air　of　friendly　calm。　　I　had　got　on　very　well　with
  him；　and　I　longed　to　go　in；　and　tell　him　how　ill　I　had　got　on　with
  Emerson；　I　believed　that　though　he　cast　me　off；　he　would　understand　me；
  and　would　perhaps　see　some　hope　for　me　in　another　world；　though　there
  could　be　none　in　this。
  But　I　had　not　the　courage　to　speak　of　the　affair　to　any　one　but　Fields；
  to　whom　I　unpacked　my　heart　when　I　got　back　to　Boston；　and　he　asked　me
  about　my　adventures　in　Concord。　　By　this　time　I　could　see　it　in　a
  humorous　light；　and　I　did　not　much　mind　his　lying　back　in　his　chair　and
  laughing　and　laughing；　till　I　thought　he　would　roll　out　of　it。　　He
  perfectly　conceived　the　situation；　and　got　an　amusement　from　it　that　I
  could　get　only　through　sympathy　with　him。　　But　I　thought　it　a　favorable
  moment　to　propose　myself　as　the　assistant　editor　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly；
  which　I　had　the　belief　I　could　very　well　become；　with　advantage　to　myself
  if　not　to　the　magazine。　　He　seemed　to　think　so　too；　he　said　that　if　the
  place　had　not　just　been　filled；　I　should　certainly　have　had　it；　and　it
  was　to　his　recollection　of　this　prompt　ambition　of　mine　that　I　suppose
  I　may　have　owed　my　succession　to　a　like　vacancy　some　four　years　later。
  He　was　charmingly　kind；　he　entered　with　the　sweetest　interest　into　the
  story　of　my　economic　life；　which　had　been　full　of　changes　and　chances
  already。　　But　when　I　said　very　seriously　that　now　I　was　tired　of　these
  fortuities；　and　would　like　to　be　settled　in　something；　he　asked；　with
  dancing　eyes；
  〃Why；　how　old　are　you？〃
  〃I　am　twenty…three；〃　I　answered；　and　then　the　laughing　fit　took　him
  again。
  〃Well；〃　he　said；　〃you　begin　young；　out　there！〃
  In　my　heart　I　did　not　think　that　twenty…three　was　so　very　young；　but
  perhaps　it　was；　and　if　any　one　were　to　say　that　I　had　been　portraying
  here　a　youth　whose　aims　were　certainly　beyond　his　achievements；　who　was
  morbidly　sensitive；　and　if　not　conceited　was　intolerably　conscious；　who
  had　met　with　incredible　kindness；　and　had　suffered　no　more　than　was　good
  for　him；　though　he　might　not　have　merited　his　pain　any　more　than　his　joy；
  I　do　not　know　that　I　should　gainsay　him；　for　I　am　not　at　all　sure　that　I
  was　not　just　that　kind　of　youth　when　I　paid　my　first　visit　to　New
  England。
  LITERARY　FRIENDS　AND　ACQUAINTANCESFirst　Impressions　of　Literary　New　York
  by　William　Dean　Howells
  FIRST　IMPRESSIONS　OF　LITERARY　NEW　YORK
  It　was　by　boat　that　I　arrived　from　Boston；　on　an　August　morning　of　1860；
  which　was　probably　of　the　same　quality　as　an　August　morning　of　1900。
  I　used　not　to　mind　the　weather　much　in　those　days；　it　was　hot　or　it　was
  cold；　it　was　wet　or　it　was　dry；　but　it　was　not　my　affair；　and　I　suppose
  that　I　sweltered　about　the　strange　city；　with　no　sense　of　anything　very
  personal　in　the　temperature；　until　nightfall。　　What　I　remember　is　being
  high　up　in　a　hotel　long　since　laid　low；　listening　in　the　summer　dark；
  after　the　long　day　was　done；　to　the　Niagara　roar　of　the　omnibuses　whose
  tide　then　swept　Broadway　from　curb　to　curb；　for　all　the　miles　of　its
  length。　　At　that　hour　the　other　city　noises　were　stilled；　or　lost　in　this
  vaster　volume　of　sound；　which　seemed　to　fill　the　whole　night。　　It　had　a
  solemnity　which　the　modern　comer　to　New　York　will　hardly　imagine；　for
  that　tide　of　omnibuses　has　long　since　ebbed　away；　and　has　left　the　air　to
  the　strident　discords　of　the　elevated　trains　and　the　irregular　alarum　of
  the　grip…car　gongs；　which　blend　to　no　such　harmonious　thunder　as　rose
  from　the　procession　of　those　ponderous　and　innumerable　vans。　　There　was　a
  sort　of　inner　quiet　in　the　sound；　and　when　I　chose　I　slept　off　to　it；　and
  woke　to　it　in　the　morning　refreshed　and　strengthened　to　explore　the
  literary　situation　in　the　metropolis。
  I。
  Not　that　I　think　I　left　this　to　the　second　day。　　Very　probably　I　lost　no
  time　in　going　to　the　office　of　the　Saturday　Press；　as　soon　as　I　had　my
  breakfast　after　arriving；　and　I　have　a　dim　impression　of　anticipating　the
  earliest　of　the　Bohemians；　whose　gay　theory　of　life　obliged　them　to　a
  good　many　hardships　in　lying　down　early　in　the　morning；　and　rising　up
  late　in　the　day。　　If　it　was　the　office…boy　who　bore　me　company　during　the
  first　hour　of　my　visit；　by…and…by　the　editors　and　contributors　actually
  began　to　come　in。　　I　would　not　be　very　specific　about　them　if　I　could；
  for　since　that　Bohemia　has　faded　from　the　map　of　the　republic　of　letters；
  it　has　grown　more　and　more　difficult　to　trace　its　citizenship　to　any
  certain　writer。　　There　are　some　living　who　knew　the　Bohemians　and　even
  loved　them；　but　there　are　increasingly　few　who　were　of　them；　even　in　the
  fond　retrospect　of　youthful　follies　and　errors。　　It　was　in　fact　but　a
  sickly　colony；　transplanted　from　the　mother　asphalt　of　Paris；　and　never
  really　striking　root　in　the　pavements　of　New　York；　it　was　a　colony　of
  ideas；　of　theories；　which　had　perhaps　never　had　any　deep　root　anywhere。
  What　these　ideas；　these　theories；　were　in　art　and　in　life；　it　would　not
  be　very　easy　to　say；　but　in　the　Saturday　Press　they　came　to　violent
  expression；　not　to　say　explosion；　against　all　existing　forms　of
  respectability。　　If　respectability　was　your　'bete　noire'；　then　you　were　a
  Bohemian；　and　if　you　were　in　the　habit　of　rendering　yourself　in　prose；
  then　you　necessarily　shredded　your　prose　into　very　fine　paragraphs　of　a
  sentence　each；　or　of　a　very　few　words；　or　even　of　one　word。　　I　believe
  this　fashion　prevailed　till　very　lately　with　some　of　the　dramatic
  critics；　who　thought　that　it　gave　a　quality　of　epigram　to　the　style；　and
  I　suppose　it　was　borrowed　from　the　more　spasmodic　moments　of　Victor　Hugo
  by　the　editor　of　the　Press。　　He　brought　it　back　with　him　when　he　came
  home　from　one　of　those　sojourns　in　Paris　which　possess　one　of　the　French
  accent　rather　than　the　French　language；　I　long　desired　to　write　in　that
  fashion　myself；　but　I　had　not　the　courage。
  This　editor　was　a　man　of　such　open　and　avowed　cynicism　that　he　may　have
  been；　for　all　I　know；　a　kindly　optimist　at　heart；　some　say；　however；　that
  he　had　really　talked　himself　into　being　what　he　seemed。　　I　only　know　that
  his　talk；　the　first　day　I　saw　him；　was　of　such　a　sort　that　if　he　was　half
  as　bad；　he　would　have　been　too　bad　to　be。　　He　walked　up　and　down　his　room
  saying　what　lurid　things　he　would　directly　do　if　any　one　accused　him　of
  respectability；　so　that　he　might　disabuse　the　minds　of　all　witnesses。
  There　were　four　or　five　of　his　assistants　and　contributors　listening　to
  the　dreadful　threats；　which　did　not　deceive　even　so　great　innocence　as
  mine；　but　I　do　not　know　whether　they　found　it　the　sorry　farce　that　I　did。
  They　probably　felt　the　fascination　for　him　which　I　could　not　disown；
  in　spite　of　my　inner　disgust；　and　were　watchful　at　the　same　time　for　the
  effect　of　his　words　with　one　who　was　confessedly　fresh　from　Boston；
  and　was　full　of　delight　in　the　people　he　had　seen　there。　　It　appeared；
  with　him；　to　be　proof　of　the　inferiority　of　Boston　that　if　you　passed
  down　Washington　Street；　half　a　dozen　men　in　the　crowd　would　know　you　were
  Holmes；　or　Lowell；　or　Longfellow；　or　Wendell　Phillips；　but　in　Broadway　no
  one　would　know　who　you　were；　or　care　to　the　measure　of　his　smallest
  blasphemy。　　I　have　since　heard　this　more　than　once　urged　as　a　signal
  advantage　of　New　York　for　the　aesthetic　inhabitant；　but　I　am　not　sure；
  yet；　that　it　is　so。　　The　unrecognized　celebrity　probably　has　his　mind
  quite　as　much　upon　himself　as　if　some　one　pointed　him　out；　and　otherwise
  I　cannot　think　that　the　sense　of　neighborhood　is　such　a　bad　thing　for　the
  artist　in　any　sort。　　It　involves　the　sense　of　responsibility；　which
  cannot　be　too　constant　or　too　keen。　　If　it　narrows；　it　deepens；　and　this
  may　be　the　secret　of　Boston。
  II。
  It　would　not　be　easy　to　say　just　why　the　Bohemian　group　represented　New
  York　literature　to　my　imagination；　for　I　certainly　associated　other　names
  with　its　best　work；　but　perhaps　it　was　because　I　had　written　for　the
  Saturday　Press　myself；　and　had　my　pride　in　it；　and　perhaps　it　was　because
  that　paper　really　embodied　the　new　literary　life　of　the　city。　　It　was
  clever；　and　full　of　the　wit　that　tries　its　teeth　upon　everything。　　It
  attacked　all　literary　shams　but　its　own；　and　it　made　itself　felt　and
  feared。　　The　young　writers　throughout　the　country　were　ambitious　to　be
  seen　in　it；　and　they　gave　their　best　to　it；　they　gave　literally；　for　the
  Saturday　Press　never　paid　in　anything　but　hopes　of　paying；　vaguer　even
  than　promises。　　It　is　not　too　much　to　say