if the sale is so dull that he is not sent for earlier, turned out of bed, or disturbed at his breakfast, to get more papers printed. During the afternoon, the printers call to receive their wages, and, perhaps, the editor may look in; though nine times out of ten he remains in bed till late in the day, or is too tired to get out of his house, or too much sickened by the week's work to go near the office. For, though Saturday is a day of rest with him, it is scarcely one of pleasure. He is weak with long fasting, yet has no inclination to eat even the most appetising morsels; thick in the head, the mouth, the eyes, chilly and miserable all over; everything is a trouble—to read, to write, think, walk, move; while the light—source and spirit of gladness—becomes painful to bear, so dizzy is his brain. The sight of his own newspaper he abhors; for to him it is merely a record of hard work; he takes no pleasure in reading his own writing, though it may be telling with the public, for, like as the actor is annoyed by the paint and pasteboard of the scene, so he is painfully aware of the efforts it has cost him. Indeed, if he does trouble himself to read his effusions, they have lost their freshness, since he has already read them in the proof; but he seldom ventures to do so, since he is almost certain to discover some fault, some slip of the pen, or some typographical sin—a word left out or put in—which mars the full effect. The editor is rarely seen, therefore, at the office on the publishing day. I have, indeed, caught one or two of the craft roaming under the hedges with the schoolboys on Saturday afternoons, and even walking with their wives; but these are instances of "loose nature," to use the free translation which is sometimes given to a well-known Latin expression.
Sunday is, of course, dies non in the newspaper offices—happily for printers, reporters, editors, as well as horse and ass, and everything that lives to work and works to live. If the Sabbath (so to speak) come after the day of publication, it is a grateful day of rest, restoring the strength of the body, and the elasticity of the mind; if it come before the day of publication, it is a halt in the march of toil, a lull in the political strife, a quiet moment when the partisan spirit may take counsel of conscience, when the chafed feelings are calmed, and bitterness is softened by the healing influence of the day. But when the Sabbath comes close upon the day of publication, it is a curse—I mean, cursed is he who is forced to tug at the oar, a very galley slave, while the whole world is a holiday—stewed up in a den spotted and defiled with ink, while the church-bells are chiming sweetly, and psalms are swelling grandly up to heaven.
On Monday morning the printers come to work, the form is broken up, and the leaden words, separated into their single letters, are "thrown in" the cases, preparatory to being used in getting out the next week's paper. But this, at first, proceeds listlessly, and this men not only reach the office later in the morning than usual, but leave it earlier. Little work is, in truth, done on Monday in the printing-office, and in the editor's-room none at all. Perhaps the editor may drop in to answer a letter, and to clear his table of the débris of last week's work; or, perhaps, to make some arrangements respecting reports—though they are oftener made day by day as things arise. His hand is still stiff, and his head inclined to ache, or, at all events, disinclined to work, and the very look of the place is disagreeable, for reasons to be shown hereafter.
On Tuesday the editor must make a beginning of work, and accord-
