It was in the early seventies that Mark Twain dropped into New York, where there was already gathered a congenial group to meet and greet him. John Hay, quoting old Jack Dade’s description of himself, was wont to speak of this group as “of high aspirations and peregrinations.” It radiated between Franklin Square, where Joseph W. Harper—“Joe Brooklyn,” we called him—reigned in place of his uncle, Fletcher Harper, the man of genius among the original Harper Brothers, and the Lotos Club, then in Irving Place, and Delmonico’s, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, with Sutherland’s in Liberty Street for a downtown place of luncheon resort, not to forget Dorlon’s in Fulton Market. [Illustration: General Leonidas Polk—Lieutenant General C.S.A.—Killed in Georgia June 14, 1864—P.E. Bishop of Louisiana] The Harper contingent, beside its chief, embraced Tom Nast and William A. Seaver, whom John Russell Young named “Papa Pendennis,” and pictured as “a man of letters among men of the world and a man of the world among men of letters,” a very apt phrase appropriated from Doctor Johnson, and Major Constable, a giant, who looked like a dragoon and not a bookman, yet had known Sir Walter Scott and was sprung from the family of Edinburgh publishers. Bret Harte had but newly arrived from California. Whitelaw Reid, though still subordinate to Greeley, was beginning to make himself felt in journalism. John Hay played high priest to the revels. Occasionally I made a pious pilgrimage to the delightful shrine. Truth to tell, it emulated rather the gods than the graces, though all of us had literary leanings of one sort and another, especially late at night; and Sam Bowles would come over from Springfield and Murat Halstead from Cincinnati to join us. Howells, always something of a prig, living in Boston, held himself at too high account; but often we had Joseph Jefferson, then in the heyday of his career, with once in a while Edwin Booth, who could not quite trust himself to go our gait. The fine fellows we caught from oversea were innumerable, from the elder Sothern and Sala and Yates to Lord Dufferin and Lord Houghton. Times went very well those days, and whilst some looked on askance, notably Curtis and, rather oddly, Stedman, and thought we were wasting time and convivializing more than was good for us, we were mostly young and hearty, ranging from thirty to five and forty years of age, with amazing capabilities both for work and play, and I cannot recall that any hurt to any of us came of it. Although robustious, our fribbles were harmless enough—ebullitions of animal spirit, sometimes perhaps of gaiety unguarded—though each shade, treading the Celestian way, as most of them do, and recurring to those Noctes Ambrosianæ, might e’en repeat to the other the words on a memorable occasion addressed by Curran to Lord Avonmore: