The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1875-04-20
The Last of the BOhemianS.

Outside of New York the Bohemian has
never fourished in this country. There have
been elsewhere very dirty men with a pas
sion for scribbling, sometimes clever, oftener
only lmpudent, who have called themselves
Bohemians, and whom the public has ac-
cepted as such but who were no more like the
improvident Partisan wits than a spawned
cart-horse is like Pegasus.
But in New York fifteen years ago there
was circle, including some brilliant and
many clever men and women, which met
more frequently in Pfaffs beer saloon on
Broadway than elsewhere. This society,
formed in avowed imitation of Henry Bur-
gers fascinating band CT literary vagabonds,
was sort of ideal Bohemia, with all the bril-
liancy retained and most of the wckedpess
left out. Its members cherished, like their
Partisan models, a measureless contempt for
the conventionalities, but fortunately did not
include the decalogue among those rules of
etiquette only honored in the breach. The
real Bohemia of Paris was guilty of grave
blunder. 1t assumed that society because re-
spectacle was moral; and in consequence of
this nonssequitur the revolt against respecta-
bility became rebellion against morality.
The New York coterie was more logical, and
preferred eccentricity to wickedness.
The society at Pfafrs was of some note in
its day, and is worthy of kindly remembrance
its ranks Mr.. Winter of the Tribune, the lead
ing dramatic critic of the country. There
were others not unknown. Walt Whitman
was one of its shining lights. George Arnold,
whose poems are more suggestive of the
punch bowl than the beer mug, was another.
Thompson, the ''Doestcks' of the antedilu-
vian age, figured prominently in the circle.
Fitz James O'Brien, who supplemented the
inspiration of lager by hasheesh and other
strange drugs, was an original member, and
Henry Clapp, wittiest of them all, was king
of the revels. Of the women, Ada Clare,
fondly called the Queen of Bohemia, was the
most brilliant. Her sad death is too recent
to be forgotten. Mary Fox, the Mrs. Burn
ham of Western journalism, is the best
known among the others. The society gave
us the Saturday Press, a journal too inde-
pendent for its day, and Vanity Fair. best
of all d:stinctively funny papers on this side
of the water. But Bohemianism was an ex-
otic, and could not be made to flourish on
American soil. Its ranks we're thinned by
death and desertion. For many years Hen
ry Clapp, vagabond author to the last, sat
alone at Pfaff S tables, king without sub
jects. Two weeks since, he died, having
long worn the title "The Last of the Bohe-
mians."
It is curious how little lasting work the cir
Gle left behind it. The result demonstrates,
if demonstration is needed, that literature
cannot be based on beer. Still the founders
of the clique were driven to beer. They were
obliged to guard against the national impetu-
osity. The American vagabond is not con-
tent, like his Partisan brother, to daily along
the downward path, plucking the ''reses of
vice. which grow so ranky along the way
he must 60 to the devil with rush. As the
New Workers had no desire to banquet with
Pluto, they were forced to Danish fiery pota-
tions from the Broadway tables, and for lack
of wine to confne themselves to the product
of the brewery. But they soon found how
weak was the ''staying quality" of beer.
Those of them who had the genuine wildness
in their blood betook themselves to destruc-
ton in the hastiest American fashion. Those
who could not rid themselves Of the burden
of civilization deserted Gambrinus, and set
up household gods whom they worshiped,
after an orthodox fashion. The experiment
the best type, cannot be supported on beer, is
killed bv brandy, and can only thrive in
land where wine is both good and cheap.