sent for insertion. It would have done you good to have witnessed Mr.
BEZZLE'S integrity in this respect, and the noble spirit of
self-sacrifice with which he resolved that none of the public should be
slighted. He used to laugh to scorn the transcendental notion about the
editorial columns not being purchased, "If my opinions are worth
anything," he used to exclaim, "they are worth being paid for; and if I
unsay to-morrow what I said yesterday, the contradiction is only
apparent, and is in accordance with the great spirit of progress and the
breaking up of old institutions." The sequel to this magnanimous career
may be imagined. The enterprise paid so well that old BEZZLE found it to
his interest to employ a man at fifteen dollars a week to do nothing
else but write notes from "Old Subscribers," informing BEZZLE that they
had taken his "valuable paper" for over twenty years, that no family
should be without it, and that they would rather, any morning, go
without their breakfast than go without reading the _Hifalutin'
Harbinger_. One day, when BEZZLE had been an editor for forty years, he
fell asleep and had a dreadful dream. He thought that he rose early one
morning, dressed himself in his best suit of broadcloth, which he had
taken for a bad debt, walked up to the ticket office of a theatre where
he was well known, and asked for a couple of seats. The gentlemanly
treasurer (was there ever a treasurer that wasn't gentlemanly in a
newspaper notice?) handed him two of the best seats in the house--end
seats, middle aisle, six rows from the stage. Mr. BEZZLE slapped down a
five-dollar bill with that air of virtue which had become a second
nature to him. (Second nature, by the by, is no more like nature at
first hand than second childhood is like real childhood.)

"Why, Mr. BEZZLE!" exclaimed the treasurer, "have you taken leave of
your senses, sir? Put that back in your pocket;" and he pointed to the
recumbent bank-note. "Who ever heard of an editor paying for two seats