ition, to its cheapness, and its advertising patronage, which was
considerable. In the fourth place, it early secured the assistance of
William H. Attree, a man of uncommon abilities as a reporter and a
concocter of pithy as well as ludicrous chapters greatly calculated to
captivate many readers. In fact, this clever and talented assistant in
some respects never had his match. He did not, as other reporters do,
take down in short-hand what the speaker or reader said, but sat and
heard the passing discourse like any other casual spectator: when over
he would go home to his room, write out in full all that had been said
on the occasion, and that entirely from memory. On a certain occasion I
hinted to him my incredulity about his ability to report as he had
frequently informed me. To put the matter beyond doubt, he requested me
to accompany him to Clinton Hall to hear some literary magnate let off
his intellectual steam. I accordingly accompanied him as per
arrangement. We were seated together in the same pew. He placed his
hands in his pockets and continued in that position during the delivery
of the discourse, and when it was finished he remarked to me that I
would not only find the substance of this harangue in the _Herald_ the
next day, but that I would find it word for word. On the following
morning I procured the paper, and read the report of what I had heard
the previous evening; and I must say I was struck with astonishment at
its perfect accuracy. Before Mr. Attree's time reporting for the press
in New York was a mere outline or sketch of what had been said or done,
but he infused life and soul into this department of journalism. His
reports were full, accurate, graphic; and, what is more, he frequently
flattered the vanity of the speaker by making a much better speech for
him than he possibly could for himself. Poor Attree died in 1849, and is
entombed at Greenwood."

It is probable that other fragments of this work are in existence, and
if so it is hoped that the publication of these will tend to their
discovery.

C.B.T.

CONCERNING NIGHT-NOISES.

Many a time these summer nights am I startled out of my midnight sleep
by a conversation like the following as two friends pause on the corner
beneath my suburban window:

"Well, good-night."

"_Good_-night."

"Hold on a moment. I want to--"

"Oh yes. Rely on me. Do you think he will--"

"He promised."

"Oh, then he'll do it. Well, then, good--"