As　to　his　work　itself；　I　suppose　that　I　do　not　think　it　so　valuable　in
  effect　as　in　intention。　　He　was　a　liberating　force；　a　very　〃imperial
  anarch〃　in　literature；　but　liberty　is　never　anything　but　a　means；　and
  what　Whitman　achieved　was　a　means　and　not　an　end；　in　what　must　be　called
  his　verse。　　I　like　his　prose；　if　there　is　a　difference；　much　better；
  there　he　is　of　a　genial　and　comforting　quality；　very　rich　and　cordial；
  such　as　I　felt　him　to　be　when　I　met　him　in　person。　　His　verse　seems　to　me
  not　poetry；　but　the　materials　of　poetry；　like　one's　emotions；　yet　I　would
  not　misprize　it；　and　I　am　glad　to　own　that　I　have　had　moments　of　great
  pleasure　in　it。　　Some　French　critic　quoted　in　the　Saturday　Press　（I
  cannot　think　of　his　name）　said　the　best　thing　of　him　when　he　said　that　he
  made　you　a　partner　of　the　enterprise；　for　that　is　precisely　what　he　does；
  and　that　is　what　alienates　and　what　endears　in　him；　as　you　like　or
  dislike　the　partnership。　　It　is　still　something　neighborly；　brotherly；
  fatherly；　and　so　I　felt　him　to　be　when　the　benign　old　man　looked　on　me
  and　spoke　to　me。
  III。
  That　night　at　Pfaff's　must　have　been　the　last　of　the　Bohemians　for　me；
  and　it　was　the　last　of　New　York　authorship　too；　for　the　time。　　I　do　not
  know　why　I　should　not　have　imagined　trying　to　see　Curtis；　whom　I　knew　so
  much　by　heart；　and　whom　I　adored；　but　I　may　not　have　had　the　courage；
  or　I　may　have　heard　that　he　was　out　of　town；　Bryant；　I　believe；　was　then
  out　of　the　country；　but　at　any　rate　I　did　not　attempt　him　either。　　The
  Bohemians　were　the　beginning　and　the　end　of　the　story　for　me；　and　to　tell
  the　truth　I　did　not　like　the　story。。　　I　remember　that　as　I　sat　at　that
  table。　　under　the　pavement；　in　Pfaff's　beer…cellar；　and　listened　to　the
  wit　that　did　not　seem　very　funny；　I　thought　of　the　dinner　with　Lowell；
  the　breakfast　with　Fields；　the　supper　at　the　Autocrat's；　and　felt　that　I
  had　fallen　very　far。　　In　fact　it　can　do　no　harm　at　this　distance　of　time
  to　confess　that　it　seemed　to　me　then；　and　for　a　good　while　afterwards；
  that　a　person　who　had　seen　the　men　and　had　the　things　said　before　him
  that　I　had　in　Boston；　could　not　keep　himself　too　carefully　in　cotton；　and
  this　was　what　I　did　all　the　following　winter；　though　of　course　it　was　a
  secret　between　me　and　me。　　I　dare　say　it　was　not　the　worst　thing　I　could
  have　done；　in　some　respects。
  My　sojourn　in　New　York　could　not　have　been　very　long；　and　the　rest　of　it
  was　mainly　given　to　viewing　the　monuments　of　the　city　from　the　windows　of
  omnibuses　and　the　platforms　of　horse…cars。　　The　world　was　so　simple　then
  that　there　were　perhaps　only　a　half…dozen　cities　that　had　horse…cars　in
  them；　and　I　travelled　in　those　conveyances　at　New　York　with　an　unfaded
  zest；　even　after　my　journeys　back　and　forth　between　Boston　and　Cambridge。
  I　have　not　the　least　notion　where　I　went　or　what　I　saw；　but　I　suppose
  that　it　was　up　and　down　the　ugly　east　and　west　avenues；　then　lying　open
  to　the　eye　in　all　the　hideousness　now　partly　concealed　by　the　elevated
  roads；　and　that　I　found　them　very　stately　and　handsome。　　Indeed；　New　York
  was　really　handsomer　then　than　it　is　now；　when　it　has　so　many　more　pieces
  of　beautiful　architecture；　for　at　that　day　the　skyscrapers　were　not　yet；
  and　there　was　a　fine　regularity　in　the　streets　that　these　brute　bulks
  have　robbed　of　all　shapeliness。　　Dirt　and　squalor　there　were　a　plenty；
  but　there　was　infinitely　more　comfort。　　The　long　succession　of　cross
  streets　was　yet　mostly　secure　from　business；　after　you　passed　Clinton
  Place；　commerce　was　just　beginning　to　show　itself　in　Union　Square；　and
  Madison　Square　was　still　the　home　of　the　McFlimsies；　whose　kin　and　kind
  dwelt　unmolested　in　the　brownstone　stretches　of　Fifth　Avenue。　　I　tried
  hard　to　imagine　them　from　the　acquaintance　Mr。　Butler's　poem　had　given
  me；　and　from　the　knowledge　the　gentle　satire　of　The　'Potiphar　Papers'　had
  spread　broadcast　through　a　community　shocked　by　the　excesses　of　our　best
  society；　it　was　not　half　so　bad　then　as　the　best　now；　probably。　　But　I　do
  not　think　I　made　very　much　of　it；　perhaps　because　most　of　the　people　who
  ought　to　have　been　in　those　fine　mansions　were　away　at　the　seaside　and
  the　mountains。
  The　mountains　I　had　seen　on　my　way　down　from　Canada；　but　the　sea…side
  not；　and　it　would　never　do　to　go　home　without　visiting　some　famous　summer
  resort。　　I　must　have　fixed　upon　Long　Branch　because　I　must　have　heard　of
  it　as　then　the　most　fashionable；　and　one　afternoon　I　took　the　boat　for
  that　place。　　By　this　means　I　not　only　saw　sea…bathing　for　the　first　time；
  but　I　saw　a　storm　at　sea：　a　squall　struck　us　so　suddenly　that　it　blew
  away　all　the　camp…stools　of　the　forward　promenade；　it　was　very　exciting；
  and　I　long　meant　to　use　in　literature　the　black　wall　of　cloud　that
  settled　on　the　water　before　us　like　a　sort　of　portable　midnight；　I　now
  throw　it　away　upon　the　reader；　as　it　were；　it　never　would　come　in
  anywhere。　　I　stayed　all　night　at　Long　Branch；　and　I　had　a　bath　the　next
  morning　before　breakfast：　an　extremely　cold　one；　with　a　life…line　to　keep
  me　against　the　undertow。　　In　this　rite　I　had　the　company　of　a　young　New…
  Yorker；　whom　I　had　met　on　the　boat　coming　down；　and　who　was　of　the　light；
  hopeful；　adventurous　business　type　which　seems　peculiar　to　the　city；　and
  which　has　always　attracted　me。　　He　told　me　much　about　his　life；　and　how
  he　lived；　and　what　it　cost　him　to　live。　　He　had　a　large　room　at　a
  fashionable　boardinghouse；　and　he　paid　fourteen　dollars　a　week。
  In　Columbus　I　had　such　a　room　at　such　a　house；　and　paid　three　and　a　half；
  and　I　thought　it　a　good　deal。　　But　those　were　the　days　before　the　war；
  when　America　was　the　cheapest　country　in　the　world；　and　the　West　was
  incredibly　inexpensive。
  After　a　day　of　lonely　splendor　at　this　scene　of　fashion　and　gaiety；
  I　went　back　to　New　York；　and　took　the　boat　for　Albany　on　my　way　home。
  I　noted　that　I　had　no　longer　the　vivid　interest　in　nature　and　human
  nature　which　I　had　felt　in　setting　out　upon　my　travels；　and　I　said　to
  myself　that　this　was　from　having　a　mind　so　crowded　with　experiences　and
  impressions　that　it　could　receive　no　more；　and　I　really　suppose　that　if
  the　happiest　phrase　had　offered　itself　to　me　at　some　moments；　I　should
  scarcely　have　looked　about　me　for　a　landscape　or　a　figure　to　fit　it　to。
  I　was　very　glad　to　get　back　to　my　dear　little　city　in　the　West　（I　found
  it　seething　in　an　August　sun　that　was　hot　enough　to　have　calcined　the
  limestone　State　House）；　and　to　all　the　friends　I　was　so　fond　of。
  IV。
  I　did　what　I　could　to　prove　myself　unworthy　of　them　by　refusing　their
  invitations；　and　giving　myself　wholly　to　literature；　during　the　early
  part　of　the　winter　that　followed；　and　I　did　not　realize　my　error　till　the
  invitations　ceased　to　come；　and　I　found　myself　in　an　unbroken
  intellectual　solitude。　　The　worst　of　it　was　that　an　ungrateful　Muse　did
  little　in　return　for　the　sacrifices　I　made　her；　and　the　things　I　now
  wrote　were　not　liked　by　the　editors　I　sent　them　to。　　The　editorial　taste
  is　not　always　the　test　of　merit；　but　it　is　the　only　one　we　have；　and　I　am
  not　saying　the　editors　were　wrong　in　my　case。　　There　were　then　such　a
  very　few　places　where　you　could　market　your　work：　the　Atlantic　in　Boston
  and　Harper's　in　New　York　were　the　magazines　that　paid；　though　the
  Independent　newspaper　bought　literary　material；　the　Saturday　Press
  printed　it　without　buying；　and　so　did　the　old　Knickerbocker　Magazine；
  though　there　was　pecuniary　good…will　in　both　these　cases。　　I　toiled　much
  that　winter　over　a　story　I　had　long　been　writing；　and　at　last　sent　it　to
  the　Atlantic；　which　had　published　five　poems　for　me　the　year　before。
  After　some　weeks；　or　it　may　have　been　months；　I　got　it　back　with　a　note
  saying　that　the　editors　had　the　less　regret　in　returning　it　because　they
  saw　that　in　the　May　number　of　the　Knickerbocker　the　first　chapter　of　the
  story　had　appeared。　　Then　I　remembered　that；　years　before；　I　had　sent
  this　chapter　to　that　magazine；　as　a　sketch　to　be　printed　by　itself；　and
  afterwards　had　continued　the　story　from　it。　　I　had　never　heard　of　its
  acceptance；　and　supposed　of　course　that　it　was　rejected；　but　on　my　second
  visit　to　New　York　I　called　at　the　Knickerbocker　office；　and　a　new　editor；
  of　those　that　the　magazine　was　always　having　in　the　days　of　its　failing
  fortunes；　told　me　that　he　had　found　my　sketch　in　rummaging　about　in　a
  barrel　of　his　predecessors　　manuscripts；　and　had　liked　it；　and　printed
  it。　　He　said　that　there　were　fifteen　dollars　coming　to　me　for　that
  sketch；　and　might　he　send　the　money　to　me？　　I　said　that　he　might；　though
  I　do　not　see；　to　this　day；　why　he　did　not　give　it　me　on　the　spot；　and　he
  made　a　very　small　minute　in　a　very　large　sheet　of　paper　（really　like　Dick
  Swiveller）；　and　promised　I　should　have　it　that　night；　but　I　sailed　the
  next　day　for　Liverpool　without　it。　　I　sailed　without　the　money　for　some
  verses　that　Vanity　Fair　bought　of　me；　but　I　hardly　expected　that；　for　the
  editor；　who　was　then　Artemus　Ward；　had　frankly　told　me　in　taking　my
  address　that　ducats　were　few　at　that　moment　with　Vanity　Fair。
  I　was　then　on　my　way　to　be　consul　at　Venice；　where　I　spent　the　next　four
  years　in　a　vigilance　for　Confederate　privateers　which　none　of　them　ever
  surprised。　　I