papers as dining at What Cheer House and picking his tooth at the Grand Hotel
; about the same thing as saying of a man in London
that he boards in Leicester Square and hangs about the door at Long
's. The wit was shot next morning in a public road.
A writer has no easy time; his reader craves excitement, and he has to feed this passion for dramatic scenes.
Each line he writes must tell a tale.
Each wood must be in capitals.
If a writer has no news, he must invent a lie. One journal is advertised as bold and spicy, and is true to the device.
It deals with all, spares none.
Editors are always armed; reporters must be steady shots.
A man who cannot shoot and stab had better not indulge himself with pen and ink. A sufferer burns a pinch of powder in the nostrils of these editors now and then, but such a fact is thought too trivial for report, unless, as in a recent case, a journalist shoots some passer-by instead of winging his brother to the land of souls.
One afternoon a gentleman was standing near me on a terrace, looking at some birds and seals.
Knowing the gentleman by repute, I asked my neighbour:
“ Is not that Mr?”