n he said: "I regret that I have only one
life to give for my country." But some people believed he had suffered
death because he wrote editorial articles.

The art of making the newspaper steadily gained in public appreciation.
To employ the simile chivalric, its young squires were changed into
full-fledged knights by the propagation of a new idea, a new aim--the
rendering of public service! True enough, the motto of the noblest
English princedom, "_Ich dien!_" acknowledges the high duty of service;
but, when proclaimed as a journalistic duty it took the form of a new
tender of fidelity from the best men at court to the people at large. It
was so accepted, and has drawn the people and the press closer together.
It was as if these true knights drew their weapons before the public eye
and offered a new pledge of fidelity in the thrilling old Norman usage
of the word "_Service!_"

A gleam of something higher and nobler than mere swashbuckling was in
every editorial eye. The idea developed, as did the nobility and purity
of Chivalry under Godfrey, the Agamemnon of Tasso. In all truly
representative editorial minds the feeling grew that any power which
their arms or training gave them should be exercised in the defense of
the weak and oppressed. They renewed the old vow: "To maintain the just
rights of such as are unable to defend themselves." It was a great
step--as far-reaching in its results as was the promulgation of that
oath in the age of Chivalry.

At this point rose the reporter. He had been recognized for years as the
coming servitor of the press. But a few of him in the early days had
been dissolute, had written without proper regard to facts, and had
brought discredit not only on himself but the chivalry which others
believed in. He began to brace up, to pull himself together, to be
better educated, to dress in excellent taste, and, above all, to write
better copy. Henry Murger had published a series of sketches under the
title "_Scenes de La Vie de Boheme_." These few pictures described the
Paris life of that period, beyond a doubt; but here in New York a few
bright men sought to revive the spirit and the _couleur de rose_ of the
Quartier Latin. It was a clever idea, but it didn't last.

In one of the bleakest corners of the old graveyard at Nantucket stands
a monument to Henry Clapp, the presiding genius of the Bohemian Club
that sat for so many years in Phaff's cellar on Broadway. Its roll
contained many o