"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not Hannah More.'"
When the southern Union man read this twistification, he put his paper where his wife couldn't see it (she being a very jealous woman), and went out to cowhide the editor. He cowhided him, by frantically placing the cowhide in the editor's hands, and then running his back repeatedly against the weapon. Typographical errors have a unique effect in reports of killed and wounded, my boy; but they knock the Promethean blaze out of eloquence.
Having transacted my business with the editor, and read a dispatch, just received from a Gentleman of Eminence, stating that Beauregard, who was at Okolonna, had a force of 120,000 men; but that Halleck would probably succeed in putting the entire 80,000 to flight before Beauregard could return from Richmond; though it was currently reported that the rebels were sixty thousand strong, and General Pope must be expeditious if he wanted to capture the whole 10,000 before General Beauregard got back from the Shenandoah valley; I turned to the editor, and says I:
"How does newspaper business pay now, my gifted Censor?"
He sighed, as he shoved a demijohn further under his desk, and says he:
"There's only one newspaper in the world that pays now, sonny:
"What's that?" says I.
"The Paris Pays," says he.
I left him immediately, my boy. Ordinary depravity don't affect me, for I have known several Congressmen in my time; but I can't stand abnormal iniquity.