prohibits the employment of the Jenkins reporter, but establishes the law that no phrase remotely savoring of slang shall ever appear in a newspaper article.

In the office of the New York Evening Post there is an "Index Expurgatorius," to which every assistant editor and reporter engaged in the service of that paper is bound to pay respect. It contains a catalogue of words that are never to be used; and among the number are several phrases which came up in the late War, and were generally adopted by the newspapers. The whole list reads as follows, the head-lines being the work of wags in the office:

INDEX EXPURGATORIUS.

THE DISUSED WORDS OF THE ENGLISH TONGUE.

"No more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me."

"Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?”

"Though lost to sight, to memory dear."

[The words in the subjoined list are ignominiously expelled from good society.]

CHAPTER XXIV.

A DIGRESSION CONCERNING NEWSPAPER BORES.

HOW EDITORS ARE BORED THE DIFFERENT CLASSES OF BORES THE POETS, AND WHAT MR. BRYANT SAID OF THEM - POLITICAL, INQUISITIVE, AND CLERICAL BORES-THE "STRONG-MINDED WOMEN THE PERSONS AFFLICTED

BY BORES.

THE Bores require a classification more in detail than could have been properly given in the preceding chapter of "Anecdotes and Incidents."

There is no living newspaper man who has not been compelled to endure the inflictions of a bore. The variety is large, but the courage and vitality of the race are visible throughout. Byron was not wrong when he wrote:

"Society is now one polished horde,

Formed of two mighty tribes, the bores and bored."

Poetical bores are male and female, and it is difficult to decide which sex is the more persistent, or the greater nuisance. It is true that the snubbing of a man by a man is comparatively an easy task; but what man can snub a woman and retain his self-respect? The manner of approach by the woman-poet is singularly embarrassing to any one but a brute. She floats in gracefully and gently. Editor rises to offer her a chair; his heart like lead, but his face a sunbeam. Poetess begins the

conversation:

"You are the editor of the Daily Thunderer?" madam."

ee I am,

"I have long read your paper, sir, with the greatest pleasure and instruction. Our family have taken it for many years, and we should feel quite lost without it. We always find

something interesting in it, and the literary selections are admirable! I see that you often publish poetry my friends have paid me the compliment of saying that some of my poetical efforts are worthy of being printed-I have-I-have -written something here which I wish to submit to you for your decision I should be very glad if you would accept it —my friends would be gratified to see it published — we have often read your paper with interest — my father, who advertises with you, likes the Thunderer very much-and-and will you be so good, sir, as to look over this — and I shall look for it to-morrow," and then a sweet smile, and a flash from a pair of pretty eyes, and, with an engaging air, Aramintha makes a sweeping salutation and departs.

-

The editor draws a long breath, and prints the poem, which is likely to be of the pattern of Mrs. Leo Hunter's effusion:

"Can I view thee, panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing?
Can I, unmoved, see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog?

"Say, have friends, in shape of boys,
With wild halloo, and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,

With a dog,
Expiring frog?"

Here is another:

That is one type. Enter a wan man, eyes deeply sunken, hair thrown behind the ears in wild confusion, collar crumpled, coat seedy, and hat awry. He produces, defiantly, an epic; hands it, peremptorily, to the occupant of the tripod; insists that it shall be read then and there. He is blandly informed that "it must await its turn." He glares savagely for a moment, lingers, turns upon his heel, and finally goes. The "poem " is cast into the waste-basket, and the next day is sold to a dealer at the rate of five cents a pound. The third day the author returns. Being informed that his manuscript is rejected, he demands its return. "Impossible, sir!" is the reply; we never return

manuscripts; you should keep a copy if you wish to preserve what you write." Poet flames out at this, calls the editor hard names, such as "no gentleman" and "blackguard," and — the upshot is that the disconsolate bard finds himself suddenly excluded from the editorial sanctum.

These are extreme types-strong contrasts. Not all the men are brutal; on the contrary, very many are gentle, lovable, and brilliant, and their contributions are gratefully accepted and often paid for. Nor, on the other hand, are all the poetesses angelic.

Besides these specimens might be mentioned the drunken poet, who borrows "five dollars on account;" the mad poet, who has the lunacies of poor McDonald Clarke, without Clarke's genius; the typographical poet, who continually pesters editors to print his apostrophes to the printing-press, Franklin, and the steam-engine. All these are pure nuisances, usually unmitigated humbugs; but are likely to be personally good-natured fellows, and so comparatively endurable. Nevertheless, they are bores, professionally speaking.

The Nestor of American poets, afflicted beyond endurance by the swarm of rhymesters, who, as he expressed it, "flung themselves in a body" upon his journal, once gave significant expression to his judgment of this class of bores. Of all the editors of New York, William Cullen Bryant is the finest scholar, the best poet, the man most tender of the feelings of the poetaster. But even his patience finally snapped off short, under the peculiarly aggravating circumstances of an avalanche of rhymes which had no reason, and epics without heroes; and some years ago the following address appeared in the columns of the Evening Post:

"TO POETS AND POETESSES.

"We desire it to be understood by those who amuse themselves with writing verses, and who take, as one of them confesses to us, 'a real pleasure at seeing their words in print,' that there is very little we can do to accommodate them. Probably no one among them all has any idea of the number of his competitors for that fame, such as it is, which is acquired through the newspapers. There is nothing more common in our country than a certain facility