e red Benedick much literary ink has been
spilled. Until a few years ago there were several studios of artists
along the south side of the Square. One of the artists, highly talented
but quite mad, boasted for a brief period the possession of a slave--a
huge Riff from the mountains of Morocco, acquired in some mysterious
manner. All Bohemia flocked to the studio to witness the anachronism.
For the benefit of those of New York who did not belong to Bohemia the
artist delighted to promenade the streets followed at a respectful
distance by his serf. Absolam--so the chattel was called--bearing his
chains lightly, considered his main duty to be to make love to the
ladies of Bohemia. The artist's real troubles began when he undertook to
rid himself of his slave. Absolam, waxing greasily fatter and fatter,
basking in the warmth of delightful celebrity, refused to be lost.

Long before the days of Absolam and his master there were painter men
about the Square. Morse, according to Helen W. Henderson's "A Loiterer
in New York," was the first artist to work there. He lived in the old
New York University building, and when he was not before his easel, was
experimenting with the telegraph. In that building also Draper wrote,
and perfected his invention of the daguerreotype, and Colt invented the
revolver named after him. The old grey castellated structure, erected in
1837, stood on the east side of the Square until 1894.

Of a restaurant that played a part in one of his stories O. Henry wrote:
"Formerly it was a resort of interesting Bohemians; but now only
writers, painters, actors, and musicians go there." The same
topsy-turvical irony might have been directed with equal happiness at
the cafe of the Brevoort, or the Black Cat on West Broadway, or
Gonfarone's at the corner of Eighth and MacDougal Streets, or at old
Maria's. Whatever else it may be Bohemia is a democracy, and regardless
of condition or occupation any one who so wishes may lay claim to and
enjoy the privileges of immediate citizenship. We have become more
tolerant with the years. He who prates of Philistines is himself a
Philistine.

Formerly it was different. To escape the reproach of the uplifted
eyebrow, the quizzical look, the "_que diable allait il faire dans cette
galere_?" expression, it was necessary to be one of the Mr. Lutes or
Miss Nedra Jennings Nuncheons, of Stephen French Whitman's
"Predestined," who were regular habitues of "Benedetto's," under which