deity P. D.! No martyr could do more. My friend P. wrote political essays. He was decidedly better-read than I. Certainly he took pains with his essays; but how could a young man of less than twenty overtake topics which baffle the grasp of practised veterans? One day, writing, I believe, of the battle of Plevna, P. asked me what was meant by "the Porte." I said "the Porte" was the Sultan of Turkey's principal wife. P. thought it was only the European title of the Khedive of Egypt. We often thought in that curious way, and often wrote ourselves down, in our own paper, a pair of conceited jackanapes. And when, next morning, we found out our mistake, we accused each other of ignorance, obstinacy, and so on.
Editorial Amenities.
This could not last; and one evening P. suggested, in Council, that our capitalist partners should get a few reference-books for the editor's table. Mr. N. refused to pay four our "extravagance." I submitted, as chairman, that we were neither of us "extravagant," and that Mr. N. was wrong. Hereupon he charged us with indulging in soda-water with office money. P.
