Saturday　Press　never　paid　in　anything　but　hopes　of　paying；　vaguer　even
  than　promises。　　It　is　not　too　much　to　say　that　it　was　very　nearly　as　well
  for　one　to　be　accepted　by　the　Press　as　to　be　accepted　by　the　Atlantic；
  and　for　the　time　there　was　no　other　literary　comparison。　　To　be　in　it　was
  to　be　in　the　company　of　Fitz　James　O'Brien；　Fitzhugh　Ludlow；　Mr。　Aldrich；
  Mr。　Stedman；　and　whoever　else　was　liveliest　in　prose　or　loveliest　in
  verse　at　that　day　in　New　York。　　It　was　a　power；　and　although　it　is　true
  that；　as　Henry　Giles　said　of　it；　〃Man　cannot　live　by　snapping…turtle
  alone；〃　the　Press　was　very　good　snapping…turtle。　　Or；　it　seemed　so　then；
  I　should　be　almost　afraid　to　test　it　now；　for　I　do　not　like　snapping…
  turtle　so　much　as　I　once　did；　and　I　have　grown　nicer　in　my　taste；　and
  want　my　snapping…turtle　of　the　very　best。　　What　is　certain　is　that　I　went
  to　the　office　of　the　Saturday　Press　in　New　York　with　much　the　same　sort
  of　feeling　I　had　in　going　to　the　office　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly　in
  Boston；　but　I　came　away　with　a　very　different　feeling。　　I　had　found　there
  a　bitterness　against　Boston　as　great　as　the　bitterness　against
  respectability；　and　as　Boston　was　then　rapidly　becoming　my　second
  country；　I　could　not　join　in　the　scorn　thought　of　her　and　said　of　her　by
  the　Bohemians。　　I　fancied　a　conspiracy　among　them　to　shock　the　literary
  pilgrim；　and　to　minify　the　precious　emotions　he　had　experienced　in
  visiting　other　shrines；　but　I　found　no　harm　in　that；　for　I　knew　just　how
  much　to　be　shocked；　and　I　thought　I　knew　better　how　to　value　certain
  things　of　the　soul　than　they。　　Yet　when　their　chief　asked　me　how　I　got　on
  with　Hawthorne；　and　I　began　to　say　that　he　was　very　shy　and　I　was　rather
  shy；　and　the　king　of　Bohemia　took　his　pipe　out　to　break　in　upon　me　with
  〃Oh；　a　couple　of　shysters！〃　and　the　rest　laughed；　I　was　abashed　all　they
  could　have　wished；　and　was　not　restored　to　myself　till　one　of　them　said
  that　the　thought　of　Boston　made　him　as　ugly　as　sin；　then　I　began　to　hope
  again　that　men　who　took　themselves　so　seriously　as　that　need　not　be　taken
  very　seriously　by　me。
  In　fact　I　had　heard　things　almost　as　desperately　cynical　in　other
  newspaper　offices　before　that；　and　I　could　not　see　what　was　so
  distinctively　Bohemian　in　these　'anime　prave'；　these　souls　so　baleful　by
  their　own　showing。　　But　apparently　Bohemia　was　not　a　state　that　you　could
  well　imagine　from　one　encounter；　and　since　my　stay　in　New　York　was　to　be
  very　short；　I　lost　no　time　in　acquainting　myself　further　with　it。　　That
  very　night　I　went　to　the　beer…cellar；　once　very　far　up　Broadway；　where　I
  was　given　to　know　that　the　Bohemian　nights　were　smoked　and　quaffed　away。
  It　was　said；　so　far　West　as　Ohio；　that　the　queen　of　Bohemia　sometimes
  came　to　Pfaff's：　a　young　girl　of　a　sprightly　gift　in　letters；　whose　name
  or　pseudonym　had　made　itself　pretty　well　known　at　that　day；　and　whose
  fate；　pathetic　at　all　times；　out…tragedies　almost　any　other　in　the
  history　of　letters。　　She　was　seized　with　hydrophobia　from　the　bite　of　her
  dog；　on　a　railroad　train；　and　made　a　long　journey　home　in　the　paroxysms
  of　that　agonizing　disease；　which　ended　in　her　death　after　she　reached　New
  York。　　But　this　was　after　her　reign　had　ended；　and　no　such　black　shadow
  was　cast　forward　upon　Pfaff's；　whose　name　often　figured　in　the　verse　and
  the　epigrammatically　paragraphed　prose　of　the　'Saturday　Press'。　　I　felt
  that　as　a　contributor　and　at　least　a　brevet　Bohemian　I　ought　not　to　go
  home　without　visiting　the　famous　place；　and　witnessing　if　I　could　not
  share　the　revels　of　my　comrades。　　As　I　neither　drank　beer　nor　smoked；　my
  part　in　the　carousal　was　limited　to　a　German　pancake；　which　I　found　they
  had　very　good　at　Pfaff's；　and　to　listening　to　the　whirling　words　of　my
  commensals；　at　the　long　board　spread　for　the　Bohemians　in　a　cavernous
  space　under　the　pavement。　There　were　writers　for　the　'Saturday　Press'　and
  for　Vanity　Fair　（a　hopefully　comic　paper　of　that　day）；　and　some　of　the
  artists　who　drew　for　the　illustrated　periodicals。　　Nothing　of　their　talk
  remains　with　me；　but　the　impression　remains　that　it　was　not　so　good　talk
  as　I　had　heard　in　Boston。　　At　one　moment　of　the　orgy；　which　went　but
  slowly　for　an　orgy；　we　were　joined　by　some　belated　Bohemians　whom　the
  others　made　a　great　clamor　over；　I　was　given　to　understand　they　were　just
  recovered　from　a　fearful　debauch；　their　locks　were　still　damp　from　the
  wet　towels　used　to　restore　them；　and　their　eyes　were　very　frenzied。
  I　was　presented　to　these　types；　who　neither　said　nor　did　anything　worthy
  of　their　awful　appearance；　but　dropped　into　seats　at　the　table；　and　ate
  of　the　supper　with　an　appetite　that　seemed　poor。　　I　stayed　hoping　vainly
  for　worse　things　till　eleven　o'clock；　and　then　I　rose　and　took　my　leave
  of　a　literary　condition　that　had　distinctly　disappointed　me。　　I　do　not
  say　that　it　may　not　have　been　wickeder　and　wittier　than　I　found　it；
  I　only　report　what　I　saw　and　heard　in　Bohemia　on　my　first　visit　to　New
  York；　and　I　know　that　my　acquaintance　with　it　was　not　exhaustive。　　When　I
  came　the　next　year　the　Saturday　Press　was　no　more；　and　the　editor　and　his
  contributors　had　no　longer　a　common　centre。　　The　best　of　the　young
  fellows　whom　I　met　there　confessed；　in　a　pleasant　exchange　of　letters
  which　we　had　afterwards；　that　he　thought　the　pose　a　vain　and　unprofitable
  one；　and　when　the　Press　was　revived；　after　the　war；　it　was　without　any　of
  the　old　Bohemian　characteristics　except　that　of　not　paying　for　material。
  It　could　not　last　long　upon　these　terms；　and　again　it　passed　away；　and
  still　waits　its　second　palingenesis。
  The　editor　passed　away　too；　not　long　after；　and　the　thing　that　he　had
  inspired　altogether　ceased　to　be。　　He　was　a　man　of　a　certain　sardonic
  power；　and　used　it　rather　fiercely　and　freely；　with　a　joy　probably　more
  apparent　than　real　in　the　pain　it　gave。　　In　my　last　knowledge　of　him　he
  was　much　milder　than　when　I　first　knew　him；　and　I　have　the　feeling　that
  he　too　came　to　own　before　he　died　that　man　cannot　live　by　snapping…turtle
  alone。　　He　was　kind　to　some　neglected　talents；　and　befriended　them　with
  a　vigor　and　a　zeal　which　he　would　have　been　the　last　to　let　you　call
  generous。　　The　chief　of　these　was　Walt　Whitman；　who；　when　the　Saturday
  Press　took　it　up；　had　as　hopeless　a　cause　with　the　critics　on　either　side
  of　the　ocean　as　any　man　could　have。　　It　was　not　till　long　afterwards　that
  his　English　admirers　began　to　discover　him；　and　to　make　his　countrymen
  some　noisy　reproaches　for　ignoring　him；　they　were　wholly　in　the　dark
  concerning　him　when　the　Saturday　Press；　which　first　stood　his　friend；
  and　the　young　men　whom　the　Press　gathered　about　it；　made　him　their　cult。
  No　doubt　he　was　more　valued　because　he　was　so　offensive　in　some　ways　than
  he　would　have　been　if　he　had　been　in　no　way　offensive；　but　it　remains　a
  fact　that　they　celebrated　him　quite　as　much　as　was　good　for　them。　　He　was
  often　at　Pfaff's　with　them；　and　the　night　of　my　visit　he　was　the　chief
  fact　of　my　experience。　　I　did　not　know　he　was　there　till　I　was　on　my　way
  out；　for　he　did　not　sit　at　the　table　under　the　pavement；　but　at　the　head
  of　one　farther　into　the　room。　　There；　as　I　passed；　some　friendly　fellow
  stopped　me　and　named　me　to　him；　and　I　remember　how　he　leaned　back　in　his
  chair；　and　reached　out　his　great　hand　to　me；　as　if　he　were　going　to　give
  it　me　for　good　and　all。　　He　had　a　fine　head；　with　a　cloud　of　Jovian　hair
  upon　it；　and　a　branching　beard　and　mustache；　and　gentle　eyes　that　looked
  most　kindly　into　mine；　and　seemed　to　wish　the　liking　which　I　instantly
  gave　him；　though　we　hardly　passed　a　word；　and　our　acquaintance　was　summed
  up　in　that　glance　and　the　grasp　of　his　mighty　fist　upon　my　hand。　　I　doubt
  if　he　had　any　notion　who　or　what　I　was　beyond　the　fact　that　I　was　a　young
  poet　of　some　sort；　but　he　may　possibly　have　remembered　seeing　my　name
  printed　after　some　very　Heinesque　verses　in　the　Press。　　I　did　not　meet
  him　again　for　twenty　years；　and　then　I　had　only　a　moment　with　him　when　he
  was　reading　the　proofs　of　his　poems　in　Boston。　　Some　years　later　I　saw
  him　for　the　last　time；　one　day　after　his　lecture　on　Lincoln；　in　that
  city；　when　he　came　down　from　the　platform　to　speak　with　some　handshaking
  friends　who　gathered　about　him。　　Then　and　always　he　gave　me　the　sense　of
  a　sweet　and　true　soul；　and　I　felt　in　him　a　spiritual　dignity　which　I　will
  not　try　to　reconcile　with　his　printing　in　the　forefront　of　his　book　a
  passage　from　a　private　letter　of　Emerson's；　though　I　believe　he　would　not
  have　seen　such　a　thing　as　most　other　men　would；　or　thought　ill　of　it　in
  another。　　The　spiritual　purity　which　I　felt　in　him　no　less　than　the
  dignity　is　something　that　I　will　no　more　try　to　reconcile　with　what
  denies　it　in　his　page；　but　such　things　we　may　well　leave　to　the
  adjustment　of　finer　balances　than　we　have　at　hand。　　I　will　make　sure　only
  of　the　greatest　benignity　in　the　presence　of　the　man。　　The　apostle　of　the
  rough；　the　uncouth；　was　the　gentlest　person；　his　barbaric　yawp；
  translated　into　the　terms　of　social　encounter；　was　an　address　of　singular
  quiet；　delivered　in　a　voice　of　winning　and　endearing　friendliness。
  As　to　his　work　itself；　I　suppose　that　I　do　not　think　it　so　valuable　in
  effect　as　in　intention。　　He　was　a　libera