ffice, at least.
Horace was accordingly—so goes the story—discharged at the end of the week.
He worked, also, for a few days upon the Commercial Advertiser, as a sub, probably.
Then, for two weeks and a half, upon a little paper called The Amulet, a weekly journal of literature and art. The Amulet was discontinued, and our hero had to wait ten years for his wages.
His next step can be given in his own words.
The following is the beginning of a paragraph in the New Yorker of March 2d, 1839:
Seven years ago, on the first of January last—that being a holiday, and the writer being then a stranger with few social greetings to exchange in New York—he inquired his way into the ill-furnished, chilly, forlorn-looking attic printing-office in which William T. Porter, in company with another very young man, who soon after abandoned the enterprise, had just issued the Spirit of the Times, the first weekly journal devoted entirely to sporting intelligence ever attempted in this