r man than his cultured brother of to-day, who affects to be a
gentleman, and is not unfrequently merely a word-grinding machine, who
has been carefully trained to write, whereas the only true writer, like
the poet, is born, not made. We have now an Institute to improve what
they call the social status of the pressman. We did not want it when I
began my journalistic career. It was enough for me to hear the chimes at
midnight, and to finish off with a good supper at some Fleet Street
tavern, for as jolly old Walter Mapes sang--

Every one by nature hath a mould that he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting.

Let me return to the story of my betters, with whom business relations
brought me into contact. One was Dr. Charles Mackay, whose poetry at one
time was far more popular than now. All the world rejoiced over his
"Good time coming, boys," for which all the world has agreed to wait,
though yearly with less prospect of its realisation, "a little longer."
He was the editor of _The Illustrated News_ till he and the proprietor
differed about Louis Napoleon, whom Mackay held to be an impostor and
destined to a speedy fall. With Mr. Mackay was associated dear old John
Timbs, every one's friend, the kindliest of gossips, and the most
industrious of book-makers. Then there was James Grant, of _The Morning
Advertiser_, always ready to put into print the most monstrous _canard_,
and to fight in the ungenial columns of the licensed victualler's organ
to the bitter end for the faith once delivered to the saints. And then
there was marvellous George Cruikshank, the prince of story-tellers as
well as of caricaturists to his dying day. It is curious to note how
great was the popularity of men whom I knew--such as George Thompson, the
M.P. for the Tower Hamlets and the founder of _The Empire_ newspaper--and
how fleeting that popularity was! Truly the earth has bubbles as the
water hath! Equally unexpected has been the rise of others. Sir Edward
Russell, of _The Liverpool Daily Post_, when I first knew him was a
banker's clerk in the City, which situation he gave up, against my
advice, to become the editor of _The Islington Gazette_. Mr. Passmore
Edwards, of _The Echo_, at one time M.P. for Salisbury, and one of the
wisest and most beneficent of philanthropists, when I first knew him was
a struggling publisher in Horse Shoe Court, Ludgate Hill; Mr. Edward
Miall, M.P. for Bradford, t