Lowell invited me to the dinner of the Saturday Club,—­a monthly gathering of whatever in the sphere of New England thought was most eminent and brilliant,—­and here I came, for the first time, into contact with the true New England.  It may be supposed that I returned to New York a more enthusiastic devotee of that Yankeeland to which I owed everything that was best in me.  In my immediate mission,—­the quest of support for “The Crayon,”—­I had abundant response in contributions, and Lowell himself, Norton, and “Tom” Appleton, as he was called familiarly by all the world, continued to be amongst my most faithful and generous contributors as long as I remained the editor.  Longfellow alone of all that literary world, though promising to contribute, never did send me a word for my columns, not, I am persuaded, from indifference or want of generosity, but because he was diffident of himself, and, in the scrutiny of his work, for which, of course, the demand from the publishers was always urgent, he did not find anything which seemed to him particularly fit for an art journal.  Nor would any of those contributors ever accept the slightest compensation for the poems or articles they sent, though “The Crayon” paid the market price for everything it printed to those who would accept.  The first number of “The Crayon” made a good impression in all the quarters from which praise was most weighty and most desired by its proprietors.  Bryant and Lowell had sent poems for it, but I had to economize my wealth, and could print only one important poem in each number, and to this I gave a page, so that I had to choose between the two.  Bryant had sent me a poem without a title, and when I asked him to give it one he replied, “I give you a poem, give me a name;” and I called it “A Rain Dream,” which name it bears still in the collected edition of his works.  Lowell sent me the first part of “Pictures from Appledore,” one of a series of fragments of a projected poem,—­like so many of his projects, never carried to completion.  The poem was intended to consist of a series of stories told in “The Nooning,” in which a party of young men, gathered in the noon spell in the bowl formed by the branches of a pollard willow,—­one of those which stood, and of which some still stand, by the river Charles,—­were to tell their personal experiences or legends drawn from the sections of New England from which they came.  Bryant’s greater reputation at that time made his contribution more valuable from a publishing point of view, especially in New York, where Lowell had as yet little reputation, while Bryant was, by many, regarded as the first of living American poets.  But my personal feeling insisted on giving Lowell the place at the launch, and to reconcile the claim of seniority of Bryant with my preference of Lowell puzzled me a little, the more that Lowell insisted strongly on my putting Bryant in the forefront as a matter of business.  I determined to leave it to Bryant, whose business tact was very