state of confusion which every hour seems to render worse confounded. But order gradually comes oat of chaos as the night advances. The editor's work, if it has not been only finished, is stopped abruptly by the arrival of the hour when it is useless to give out more copy; the overseer collects the news together into columns; the columns are arranged in proper sequence; and the "second form" is made up. With a loud hammering, which invades the repose of the neighbours, it is locked up, and lowered bodily on the bed of the printing-machine; and while the machine-man is "making ready," the overseer grins wearily a sickly smile at having once more saved the post.
The printing-machine is soon at work, growling and crushing; the form is shot backward and forward like mad; the great iron cylinder turns round, taking in the white sheets of paper at top, and throwing them out printed at bottom. The editor casts his eye over the pages now printing to see that all is right—that the corrections have been made, that the columns are in their proper places; and as he does this, is perhaps struck by the fact, that there is very little shown on the face of the paper for all his thought, anxiety, and long hours. And then, amidst the noise of the machine, and the shouts of the workmen, he slips into the quiet street, perhaps casting his eyes up to the sky, consoling himself with the idea that they make no newspapers there, and skulks home, watched suspiciously by the police. With fingers, arms, legs, head, aching, now that he has time to feel, he throws himself on his bed, inwardly ejaculating "Blessed is the man that invented sleep!"
Such is the routine of a country newspaper editor's life. It would, however, be incorrect to suppose that the work flows in any given channel week by week. The compilation is not always done at stated times, but often by fits and starts; the leading articles are not always written on certain days, but often as slips and parings of time afford opportunities. Sometimes, too, important events occur on the morning or evening before publication, and comments must be written upon them, although other things are thrown aside. It is this power of writing at any time, almost on any subject, which constitutes an editor's excellence; and it is the necessity he is under of always being up to his work, will-he nill-he, side or well, that tells upon his strength. There is, in truth, no certainty in the work of a country newspaper editor, except, indeed, in its always being sufficiently hard. He leaves home in the morning anticipating a light day, and finds at the office no end of work. Alp rises after Alp, as he proceeds; the horizon extends the farther he sails. It will happen, sometimes, that advertisements and a press of other matter pour in at such a rate as to render it useless to attempt a compilation of news, and thereby reducing the editor's work to the mere filling up of the crevices which are left. But these are rare occasions; and if they were frequent it would be necessary to cure the plethora by enlarging the newspaper, and restoring the balance between the dead matter and the news which creates the circulation. And thus the editor's life goes on, until the irregular hours, the constant exertion in and out of season, the mental excitement, and the ills of a sedentary occupation, tell upon the health, and wear out the enthusiasm, reducing the work to the dull round of the mill. At length a cold, or an extra effort at a time of exhaustion does the
