rest; and the editor some morning, generally early in his years, furnishes a paragraph in the obituary of his own paper.
I have selected for illustration a journal of moderate pretensions. The description does not apply to all the country newspapers; but it does to the bulk of them. There are some few country newspapers which have a large staff—editor, sub-editor, writers, and two or three reporters—and these are amongst the able and prosperous. Every man is charged with a department, for which he alone is responsible, and he has plenty of time to do the work well; while, if there should be a push, the extra labour is scarcely felt, being distributed amongst so many persons. There are, again, some other journals—happily for the sake of humanity their name is not legion—of which the editor, sub-editor, and reporter, like Cerberus, are "three single gentlemen rolled into one," or, rather, one single gentleman torn into three. I need scarcely say that the work of these newspapers is done with the scissors and not with the pen, and that the contents are pitchforked together hap-hazard, not compiled. There are other journals, again, which are edited in London—that is, the leading articles are written there, and the news is put together by the printer in the country. These may be easily detected by the want of accord between the articles and the locality. In this they resemble the government steam-ships, the engines of which are built in one place, and the hulls in another, and, in consequence, it generally happens, that either the hulls are too large for the engines, or the engines for the hulls. The greater number of country newspapers are, however, managed as I have described, and the "craft" will, I am sure, admit that mine is an "over-true tale."
THE TRUE HISTORY OF A FOG.
What I—Mrs. Dickson—living in the rural districts, and engrossed with domestic cares, should have to do with getting lost in a fog, is so entirely above even my own comprehension, that I am obliged to write down this my true history, if only to assure myself that my senses have not got mystified. There is Dickson, now—good, comfortable, honest man—with his easy slippers, cozy arm-chair, and pile of newspapers, he does not look like a man likely to suffer by fogs; I should say he was an antidote to them in himself; perhaps that was the reason that the suffering from them has been reserved exclusively for me. I am sure, considering it was November—and she is always such an aguish, influenza-ish sort of lady, that we can never be secure in her—I say, considering it was November, the day wore quite a bright promise. The sun rose through a veil of tears—as a poet would express it—and the earth broke into smiles beneath that glad reflexion. Dickson and I were seated at the breakfast-table; the urn hissed, and the muffins were quite refreshing to look at; but ah! who can say what a post shall bring forth? and, alas! that our brightest days may be bounded by a
