fagged before he begins to write; and remembering, too, that parliamentary papers, persons in authority, and other sources of information, are not always within his reach.
But besides this in-door work, there is a good deal more to be done out of doors by the editor; or rather, he must waste much time in doing little. He has to attend public meetings to catch their spirit; to assist at the concerts, plays, and other shows, requiring superior criticism, to hear lectures, cum multis aliis. He has to fish for information on the local topics, to chase rumours, to ascertain, it may be, an isolated fact, trifling in itself, but important as the hinge on which a question turns, and, therefore, the very citadel of a cause. And for the benefit of persons given to talk of the mistakes of "stupid editors," I will narrate an anecdote germane to this part of the subject. During the Protestant riots in 1780, Sir George Saville, a Roman Catholic statesman, feared that the mob would attack his house. It was agreed, then, amongst a body of his friends, that whilst some remained within the house, others should sally forth in various directions, to obtain intelligence respecting the rioters. But each of the scouts varied from all the rest in his story. "Here, gentlemen," thereupon observed Saville, "is a fine lesson for an historian. We have a fact of the day before us, reported by men of integrity and ability, and willing to record it with as much minuteness as possible; yet such is the nature of the human mind, that with all its inclination to do right, it is under that operation which in some degree prevents it." In the same way, the newspaper editor, the historian of the day, if he asks, say, seven separate people for information on a given subject, is almost sure of receiving seven different versions of the facts.
There is still another heavy call upon the editor's time. He has to hold a sort of literary levee, and he is sure to find amongst his visitors those who come to correct him, as well as those who can instruct him. He is often sternly taken to task for neglecting the communication of some "Constant Reader"—one of the tribe who constantly write letters to the editor, and borrow the paper of a neighbour—and he is also often impaled on the horns of a dilemma by an admirer of a free press—"Either publish what I have sent you, or stop my paper." Even the least offensive of the editor's visitors seem to have no more idea about his convenience than a Chippeway or an Iroquois, and, like the noble savage, come at all hours, as if it were beyond the bounds of possibility that they could ever be in the way. Yet the picture should not be all cloud and shade. Sometimes the editor is cheered by the cordial greeting and hearty grasp of a real friend, perhaps one who has "done the state some service," ay, and, it may be, our editor; or a country subscriber drops in with a brace of birds or so; or a communication is received in the shape of a vast turnip, or an enormous cabbage, having a hare couched in it, with a jocular request that the editor will put that in his paper; and whilst on the subject of these amenities, let me say that I nave seen a cask of sparkling ale rolled into an editor's room for his critical taste. Despatching these—I mean enduring the bores, getting rid of the critics, lending ear to some, thanking others—will occupy much time, and, what is worse, it distracts the thoughts, while it makes
