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Stories of Reporters.

No people (says the Reporters' Magazine), have such varied experiences as reporters. The detectives may not even be excepted; for the labors of newspaper reporters not only embrace much of the Hawkshaw character, but cover a much wider field. A little story once published is apropos, as showing the estimation in which the reporter is held by the public at large. A reporter was once sent by his editor on an assignment the exact nature of which neither of them knew. Notice had been received at the office that certain parties would like to have a reporter sent to a certain number in a certain street. That was all the information received. The reporter found the house easily enough, and was ushered into the presence of two handsome young ladies. He did not demand at once he reason of his summons; but made himself agreeable, enjoying the novelty of a pleasant chat with two vivacious girls, the pleasure enhanced by beautiful home surroundings, and a basket of delicious fruit. An hour passed away pleasantly, and all too quickly for the reporter, who, seeing no indication of a development, felt obliged to ask why he had been sent for, whereupon one of the young ladies said « Oh, we have no great news to give you, but we have a cousin who is soon going to marry a reporter, and we merely wanted to see what one looked like, and how he acted. »

An incident narrated in the home papers two or three years ago, must have been unpleasant for the party chiefly concerned. A bishop supplied the pulpit of a country church in the depth of a rainy winter. The building was dilapidated, and the prelate suffered so severely from chills that he could scarcely get through the service. At its close, he said to a friend at the vestry door, « I will never preach in this damp cold church again. » An alert newspaper man, partly hearing the remark, reported the bishop as having said that he would not preach in that damned old church again. The scandalized cleric wrote to the local paper indignantly making the necessary correction. His letter was inserted, but the editor added a qualifying footnote: « We publish his Lordship's explanation with pleasure, but at the same time feel bound to add that we have every confidence in the accuracy of our reporter. »

A young shorthand writer was once told to report a speech by the late Sir John Macdonald, the Premier of Canada. Now it happened that the Premier had come on to the house from a dinner party, and his speech, in matter and form, was of a decidedly post-prandial character. The youthful reporter, however, could not believe it possible that Sir John should want editing, and took down every word. His editor, on seeing the copy, told him it would not do, and as it was not wanted for the next morning, he was advised to go and see Sir John and get him to correct it. The reporter, on being shown in, found Sir John, as usual, exceedingly affable. Having explained the object of his visit, the reporter was desired to read his notes aloud. This he did, while Sir John lay on a sofa listening with a face of extreme solemnity to his own incoherencies, and correcting them as occasion required. When the notes were finished, the Premier rose, laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and began in the most fatherly tones: « I see exactly what has happened. Now, my dear young friend, I am an old man and you are a young one, and you will not mind if I give you a word of advice as to the practice of your profession. My advice is this: Never attempt to report a speech unless you are perfectly sober. » With this, Sir John bowed out his astonished visitor.

A home paper says: The office of reporter detailed for special duty in regard to Ministerial changes is that of a dectective. He must hang about the great man's door, note such facts as come under his observation, and draw his own shrewd inferences. Some good stories are current in newspaper circles regarding these vigils. When Lord Beaconsfield was lying ill, there was a journalist found who literally lived upon his doorstep night and day, and was rewarded in the end by getting the first intimation of his death. In 1880, when Mr Gladstone was forming his Ministry, one shrewd observer noted the arrival at the Prime Minister's door of a gentleman for whom Cabinet rank was predicted. The aspirant had held in a previous Liberal Government an office which has been sometimes, and is still, associated with Cabinet rank, and had distinguished himself in it. When he left Mr Gladstone's house, after a brief interview, he was wreathed in smiles, as if he had obtained his heart's desire. But as soon as he had fairly got out of range, as he supposed, of all observers, he dropped his jaunty air for a moment, and struck viciously with his stick at a pebble which lay on the pavement. « He's not in the Cabinet, » the reporter on duty concluded, « he's been shelved. » The journalist made his guess on this authority, and no other, as to the post to which the visitor had been assigned. « And if you believe me, sir, » he added, as he told the story, « I was right. »

A certain daily, says a Melbourne writer, took it into its head to forecast the report of a railway committee. To some extent it succeeded, but only by the adoption of measures which, half-a-dozen years ago, would have been scouted as being those of Yankee journalism. A persevering reporter was told off to interview every member of the committee and see what would happen. He had not a rosy time. The first person he called on was a member of the Legislative Council, who had made himself rather conspicuous as questioner-general during the sittings of the committee. By this gentleman he was accused of tempting him to dishonor, and was sternly ordered out of the house. The second told a tale of woe as to how he, himself, was ready to reform the railways and the world, but, at the end of of an hour's dissertation, avowed that he differed from his colleagues and would not sign their report, and did not know what would be in it. Finally, at midnight, the reporter reached the house of the last man on his list. It was in darkness, and the M.P. had gone to bed, but he rang, and the master of the house himself, in nightgown and slippers, opened the door to the untimely visitor, who held him in discourse until the legislator's better half screamed out that he ought to come back to his bed. When the reporter reached the office and began to reckon up what he had learned, and to set it down in good order, he found that, in spite of all the rebuffs he had experienced, he had obtained a good idea of what was going on, and he managed to forecast events very fairly. And, oddly enough, the main clue had been given him by the irate M.L.C. who had ordered him out, since that gentleman had replied « I'll see you blanked first, » when asked a leading question, and the reporter had wit enough to see that it was the question itself, and not the fact of being questioned, that was uppermost in the good man's mind at the moment.

Strange (says a contemporary) that a public speaker should be inconsiderate enough of the feelings of the hardworking reporter to complain of a report like this: « The speaker commenced by saying that by birth he was an ecclesiastical deduction; gave a learned description of Satan, and his skill in sawing trees. Among other things, he stated that the patriarch Abraham taught Cecrops arithmetic. We trust the eloquent divine may be induced to repeat the lecture at some future day, » What the lecturer said to the reporter: « Dear sir: In a report of my lecture in your beautiful city, you have made some mistakes which I wish to correct. You made me speak of myself as an 'ecclesiastical deduction.' What I said was, that I was not by birth, but only ecclesiastically, a Dutchman. Instead of speaking of Satan as sawing trees, I spoke of him as sowing tares. I said nothing of Abraham, but spoke of the Arabians as nomads of patriarchal simplicity. I said that Cecrops was the founder of Athens, and instructed the people in agriculture. »

The Rev. Mark Guy Pearse tells a good tale at the expense of a pressman who interviewed him in one of the cities he visited. It seemed that the reporter told off for the duty had carefully listed the questions he proposed asking. Then he passed them over to a brother scribe, asking him if he could suggest anything more. This son of perdition added one other query when his brother-recording angel was not looking, and then handed the paper back with: « No; I think that covers everything. » When the interview commenced, the Rev. Mark, seeing his interrogator was examining a list, said: « Oh! I see you have a schedule. Well, give it to me, and I will fill it in; that will be shorter work. » So he did; but, coming to the last query, he pulled up and enquired, in a voice of thunder; « ؟What do you mean by this, sir? » And there, with growing horror, the unhappy reporter saw the addendum: « ؟Do you happen to have the price of a drink about your clothes? »

A political meeting, « open to the press, » was lately advertised in a North Island town. But the reporter who was expected failed to appear, and the pressman who did come, armed with his note-book, was not « of the right color. » Consternation took possession of the promoters of the meeting; a hasty consultation was held, and the reporter was informed that a mistake had been made in the advertisement—it was only a private committee meeting.

The provision for the press in the Wesleyan conference (says the Christian Leader), was the reverse of complete; and an editor and his shorthand writer were to be seen hard at work at the back of the platform in a kneeling posture. A brother looking on consolingly remarked, « Satan trembles when he sees An editor upon his knees. » [We should suppose that the sight of all sights to make the prince of darkness quake is an editor—of the right sort—at his desk.]