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[145] upon, as to place the New York Press at the head of the journalism of the world. The Cheap Press, be it observed, had, first of all, to create itself, and, secondly, to create its Public. The papers of the old school have gone on their way prospering. They are read by the class that read them formerly. But—mark that long line of hackmen, each seated on his box waiting for a customer, and each reading his morning paper! Observe the paper that is thrust into the pocket of the omnibus driver. Look into shops and factories at the dinner hour, and note how many of the men are reading their newspaper as they eat their dinner. All this is new. All this has resulted from the Chatham-street cogitations of Horatio David Sheppard.

A distinguished authoress of this city relates the following circumstance, which occurred last summer:

The man who does take the paper.

To the Editor of The N. Y. Tribune.
Sir:—Not long since I read in your paper an article headed ‘the man who never took a newspaper.’ In contrast to this I would relate to you a little incident which came under my own observation:

Having been disappointed the other morning in receiving that part of my breakfast contained in the N. Y. Daily Tribune, I dispatched a messenger to see what could be done in the way of satisfaction. After half an hour's diligent search he returned, much to my chagrin, empty-handed. Recollecting an old copy set me at school after this wise: ‘If you want a thing done do it yourself,’ I seized my bonnet and sallied forth. Not far from my domicil appears each morning, with the rising sun, an old huckster-man, whose stock in trade consists of two empty barrels, across which is thrown a pro tern counter in the shape of a plank, a pint of pea-nuts, six sticks of peppermint candy, half a dozen choleric looking pears and apples, copies of the daily papers, and an old stubby broom, with which the owner carefully brushes up the nut-shells dropped by graceless urchins to the endangerment of his sidewalk lease.

‘Have you this morning's Tribune?’ said I, looking as amiable as I knew how.

‘No Ma'am,’ was the decided reply.

‘Why—yes, you have,’ said I, laying my hand on the desired number.

‘Well, you can't have that, Ma'am,’ said the disconcerted peanut merchant, ‘for I haven't read it myself!’

‘I'll give you three cents for it,’ said I.

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